available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. a portraiture of quakerism, volume ii taken from a view of the education and discipline, social manners, civil and political economy, religious principles and character, of the society of friends by thomas clarkson, m.a. author of several essays on the slave trade new york: published by samuel stansbury, no , water-street contents of the second volume. peculiar customs. chapter i. sect. i.--marriage--regulation and example of george fox, relative to marriage--present regulations, and manner of the celebration of it among the quakers. sect. ii.--those who marry out of the society, are disowned--various reasons for such a measure--objection to it--reply. sect iii.--but the disowned may be restored to membership--terms of their restoration--these terms censured--reply. sect iv.--more women disowned on this account than men--probable causes of this difference of number. chapter ii. sect i.--funerals--extravagance and pageantry of ancient and modern funerals--these discarded by the quakers--plain manner in which they inter their dead. sect ii.--quakers use no tomb-stones, nor monumental inscriptions --various reasons of their disuse of these. sect. iii.--neither do they use mourning garments--reasons why they thus differ from the world--these reasons farther elucidated by considerations on court-mourning. chapter iii. occupations--agriculture declining among the quakers--causes and disadvantages of this decline. chapter iv. sect. i.--_trade--quakers view trade as a moral question--prohibit a variety of trades and dealings on this account--various other wholesome regulations concerning it._ sect. ii.--_but though the quakers thus prohibit many trades, they are found in some which are considered objectionable by the world--these specified and examined._ chapter v. _settlement of differences--abstain from duels-and also from law--have recourse to arbitration--their rules concerning arbitration--an account of an arbitration society at newcastle upon tyne, on quaker-principles._ chapter vi. sect. i.--_poor--no beggars among the quakers--manner of relieving and providing for the poor._ sect. ii.--_education of the children of the poor provided for--observations on the number of the quaker-poor--and on their character._ religion. introduction. _invitation to a perusal of this part of the work--the necessity of humility and charity in religion on account of the limited powers of the human understanding--object of this invitation._ chapter i. _god has given to all, besides an intellectual, a spiritual understanding--some have had a greater portion of this spirit than others, such as abraham, and moses, and the prophets, and apostles--jesus christ had it without limit or measure._ chapter ii. _except a man has a portion of the same spirit, which jesus, and the prophets, and the apostles had, he cannot know spiritual things--this doctrine confirmed by st. paul--and elucidated by a comparison between the faculties of men and of brutes._ chapter iii. _neither except he has a portion of the same spirit, can he know the scriptures to be of divine origin, nor can he spiritually understand them--objection to this doctrine-reply._ chapter iv. _this spirit, which has been thus given to men in different degrees, has been given them as a teacher or guide in their spiritual concerns--way in which it teaches._ chapter v. _this spirit may be considered as the primary and infallible guide--and the scriptures but a secondary means of instruction--but the quakers do not undervalue the latter on this account--their opinion concerning them._ chapter vi. _this spirit, as a primary and infallible guide, has been given to men universally--from the creation to moses--from moses to christ--from christ to the present day._ chapter vii. sect. i.--_and as it has been universally to men, so it has been given them sufficiently--those who resist it, quench it--those who attend to it, are in the way of redemption._ sect. ii.--_this spirit then besides its office of a spiritual guide, performs that of a redeemer to men--redemption outward and inward--inward effected by this spirit._ sect. iii.--_inward redemption produces a new birth--and leads to perfection--this inward redemption possible to all._ sect. iv--_new birth and perfection more particularly explained-new birth as real from "the spiritual seed of the kingdom" as that of plants and vegetables from their seeds in the natural world--and goes on in the same manner progressively to maturity._ chapter viii. sect. i._--possibility of redemption to all denied by the favours of "election and reprobation"--quaker-refutation of the later doctrine._ sect. ii._--quaker refutation continued._ chapter ix. _recapitulation of all the doctrines advanced--objection that the quakers make every thing of the spirit and but little of jesus christ--attempt to show that christians often differ without a just cause--or that there is no material difference between the creeds of the quakers and that of the objectors on this subject._ chapter x. sect. i._--ministers of the gospel--quakers conceive that the spirit of god alone can qualify for the ministry--women equally qualified with men--way in which ministers are called and acknowledged among the quakers._ sect. ii._--quaker-ministers, when acknowledged, engage in family visits--nature of these--and sometimes in missions through england--and sometimes in foreign parts._ chapter xi. _elders--their origin and their office--these are not to meddle with the discipline of the church._ chapter xii. sect i._--worship--is usually made to consist of prayer and preaching--but neither of these are considered by the quakers to be effectual without the aid of the spirit--hence no liturgy or studied form of words among the quakers--reputed manner and character of quaker-preaching--observations upon these._ sect. ii--_silent worship--manner of it--worship not necessarily connected with words--advantages of this mode of worship._ sect. iii.--_quakers discard every thing formal and superstitious from their worship--no consecrated ground--no priest's garments--no psalmody--no one day esteemed by them holier than another--reasons for these singularities._ chapter xiii. _miscellaneous particularities--quakers seldom use the words "original sin," or "trinity," and never "the word of god" for the scriptures--believe in the manhood and divinity of christ--in the resurrection--their ideas on sanctification and justification._ chapter xiv. _quakers reject baptism and the lord's supper--indulgence solicited for them on account of the difficulties connected with these subjects--these difficulties explained._ chapter xv. sect. i.--_two baptisms, that of john and of christ--that of john was by water--and a jewish ordinance--john the prophet left under the law._ sect. ii.--_baptism of christ was by the spirit--this the baptism of the gospel--authorities on which this distinction between the two is founded._ sect. iii.--_quakers conceive it was not the baptism of john which jesus included in the great commission, when he ordered his disciples to go into all nations, and to teach them, baptizing in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost--this shown from expressions taken from st. peter and st. paul--and from the object and nature of this baptism._ sect. iv.--_but that it was the baptism of christ--this shown from a critical examination of the words in the commission itself--and from the commission, as explained by st. mark, st. luke, and st. paul._ sect. v.--_practice of jesus and the apostles a confirmation of this opinion._ chapter xvi. sect. i.--_two suppers, the one instituted by moses, the other by jesus christ--the first called the passover--ancient and modern manner of its celebration._ sect. ii.--_second, enjoined by jesus at capernaum--this wholly, of a spiritual nature--way in which this may be enjoyed._ sect. iii.--_quakers say that jesus instituted no new supper distinct from that of the passover, and which was to render null and void that enjoined at capernaum, at a rite of the christian church--no such institution to be collected from st. matthew, st. mark, or st. john._ sect. iv.--_nor from st. luke--st. luke only says, that all future passovers of the disciples with christ were to be spiritual--but if, as jews, they could not all at once abdicate the passover to which they had been educated, they were to celebrate it with a new meaning--but no acknowledged permission of it to others._ sect. v.--_nor from st. paul--st. paul only says that the passover, as spiritualized by jesus, was allowed to his disciples, or to the jewish converts, who could not all at once lay aside their prejudices concerning it, but that it was to last only for a time--different opinions about this time--that of the quakers concerning it._ sect. vi.--_had a new supper, distinct from that of the passover, been intended as a ceremonial of the christian church, it would have been commanded to others besides the disciples, and its duration would not have been limited--reasons from st. paul, to show that he himself did not probably consider it as a christian ordinance--whereas the supper enjoined at capernaum, was to be eternal--and universal--and an essential with all christians._ peculiar customs of the _quakers_. (continued) vol. ii b. peculiar customs of the quakers. chap. i. section i. _marriage--quakers differ in many respects from others, on the subject of marriage--george fox introduced regulations concerning it--protested against the usual manner of the celebration of it--gave an example of what he recommended--present regulations of the quakers on this subject._ in the continuation of the customs of the quakers, a subject which i purpose to resume in the present volume, i shall begin with that of marriage. the quakers differ from others in many of their regulations concerning this custom. they differ also in the manner of the celebration of it. and, as they differ in these respects, so they experience generally a different result. the quakers, as a married, may be said to be a happy, people. hence the detailers of scandal, have rarely had it in their power to promulgate a quaker adultery. nor have the lawyers had an opportunity in our public courts of proclaiming a quaker divorce. george fox suggested many regulations on this subject. he advised, among other things, when persons had it in contemplation to marry, that they should lay their intention before the monthly meetings, both of the men and women. he advised also, that the consent of their parents should be previously obtained, and certified to these. thus he laid the foundation for greater harmony in the approaching union. he advised again, that an inquiry should be made, if the parties were clear of engagements or promises of marriage to others, and, if they were not, that they should be hindered from proceeding. thus, he cut off some of the causes of the interruption of connubial happiness, by preventing uneasy reflections, or suits at law, after the union had taken place. he advised also, in the case of second marriages, that any offspring resulting from the former, should have their due rights and a proper provision secured to them, before they were allowed to be solemnized. thus he gave a greater chance for happiness, by preventing mercenary motives from becoming the causes of the union of husbands and wives. but george fox, as he introduced these and other salutary regulations on the subject of marriage, so he introduced a new manner of the celebration of it. he protested against the manner of the world, that is, against the formal prayers and exhortations as they were repeated, and against the formal ceremonies, an they were practised by the parish priest. he considered that it was god, who joined man and woman before the fall; and that in christian times, or where the man was truly renovated in heart, there could be no other right or honourable way of union. consistently with this view of the subject, he observed, that in the ancient scriptural times, persons took each other in marriage in the assemblies of the elders; and there was no record, from the book of genesis to that of revelations, of any marriage by a priest. hence it became his new society, as a religious or renovated people, to abandon apostate usages, and to adopt a manner that was more agreeable to their new state. george fox gave in his own marriage, an example of all that he had thus recommended to the society. having agreed with margaret fell, the widow of judge fell, upon the propriety of their union as husband and wife, he desired her to send for her children. as soon as they were come, he asked them and their respective husbands,[ ] "if they had any thing against it, or for it, desiring them to speak? and they all severally expressed their _satisfaction therein_. then he asked margaret, if she had fulfilled and performed her husband's will to her children? she replied, the _children know that_. whereupon he asked them, whether, if their mother married, they should not lose by it? and he asked margaret, whether she had done any thing in lieu of it, which might answer it to the children? the children said, _she had answered it to them_, and desired him to _speak no more about that_. he told them, that he was plain, and that he would have all things done plainly; for he sought not any outward advantage to himself. so, after he had acquainted the children with it, their intention of marriage was laid before friends, both privately and publicly;" and afterwards a meeting being appointed for the accomplishment of the marriage, in the public meeting-house at broad mead, in bristol, they took each other in marriage, in the plain and simple manner as then practised, and which he himself had originally recommended to his followers. [footnote : g. fox's journal, vol. . p. .] the regulations concerning marriage, and the manner of the celebration of it, which obtained in the time of george fox, nearly obtain among the quakers of the present day. when marriage is agreed upon between two persons, the man and the woman, at one of the monthly meetings, publicly declare their intention, and ask leave to proceed. at this time their parents, if living, must either appear, or send certificates to signify their consent. this being done, two men are appointed by the men's meeting, and two women are appointed by that of the women, to wait upon the man and woman respectively, and to learn from themselves, as well as by other inquiry, if they stand perfectly clear from any marriage-promises and engagements to others. at the next monthly meeting the deputation make their report. if either of the parties is reported to have given expectation of marriage to any other individual, the proceedings are stopped till the matter be satisfactorily explained. but if they are both of them reported to be clear in this respect, they are at liberty to proceed, and one or more persons of respectability of each sex, are deputed to see that the marriage be conducted in an orderly manner. in the case of second marriages, additional instructions are sometimes given; for if any of the parties thus intimating their intentions of marrying should have children alive, the same persons, who were deputed to inquire into their clearness from all other engagements, are to see that the rights of such children be legally secured. when the parties are considered to be free, by the reports of the deputation, to proceed upon their union, they appoint a suitable day for the celebration of it, which is generally one of the week-day meetings for worship. on this day they repair to the meeting-house with their friends. the congregation, when seated, sit in silence. perhaps some minister is induced to speak. after a suitable time has elapsed, the man and the woman rise up together, and, taking each other by the hand, declare publicly, that they thus take each other as husband and wife. this constitutes their marriage. by way, however, of evidence of their union, a paper is signed by the man and woman, in the presence of three witnesses, who sign it also, in which it is stated that they have so taken each other in marriage. and, in addition to this, though, it be not a necessary practice, another paper is generally produced and read, stating concisely the proceedings of the parties in their respective meetings for the purpose of their marriage, and the declaration made by them, as having taken each other as man and wife. this is signed by the parties, their relations, and frequently by many of their friends, and others present. all marriages of other dissenters are celebrated in the established churches, according to the ceremonies of the same. but the marriages of the quakers are valid by law in their own meeting-houses, when solemnised in this simple manner. sect. ii. _quakers, marrying out of the society, to be disowned--that regulation charged with pride and cruelty--reasons for this disownment are--that mixed marriages cannot be celebrated without a violation of same of the great principles of the society--that they are generally productive of disputes and uneasiness to those concerned--and that the discipline cannot be carried on in such families._ among the regulations suggested by george fox, and adopted by his followers, it was determined that persons, belonging to the society, should not intermarry with those of other religious professions. such an heterogeneous union was denominated a _mixed marriage_; and persons, engaging in such mixed marriages, were to be disowned. people of other denominations have charged the quakers with a more than usually censurable pride, on account of their adoption of this law. they consider them as looking down upon the rest of their fellow-creatures, as so inferior or unholy, as not to deign or to dare to mix in alliance with them, or as looking upon them in the same light as the jews considered the heathen, or the greeks the barbarian world. and they have charged them also with as much cruelty as pride, on the same account. "a quaker, they say, feels himself strongly attached to an accomplished woman; but she does not belong to the society. he wishes to marry, but he cannot marry her on account of its laws. having a respect for the society, he looks round it again, but he looks round it in vain. he finds no one equal to this woman; no one, whom he could love so well. to marry one in the society, while he loves another out of it better, would be evidently wrong. if he does not marry her, he makes the greatest of all sacrifices, for he loses that which he supposes would constitute a source of enjoyment to him for the remainder of his life. if he marries her, he is expelled the society; and this, without having been guilty of an immoral offence." one of the reasons, which the quakers give for the adoption of this law of disownment in the case of mixed marriages, is, that those who engage in them violate some of the most important principles of the society, and such indeed as are distinguishing characteristics of quakerism from the religion of the world. it is a religious tenet of the quakers, as will be shown in its proper place, that no appointment of man can make a minister of the gospel, and that no service, consisting of an artificial form of words, to be pronounced on stated occasions, can constitute a religious act; for that the spirit of god is essentially necessary to create the one, and to produce the other. it is also another tenet with them, that no minister of a christian church, ought to be paid for his gospel-labours. this latter tenet is held so sacred by the quakers, that it affords one reason among others, why they refuse payment of tithes, and other demands of the church, preferring to suffer loss by distraints for them, than to comply with them in the usual manner. now these two principles are essentials of quakerism. but no person, who marries out of the society, can be legally married without going through the forms of the established church. those therefore who submit to this ceremony, as performed by a priest, acknowledge, according to the quakers, the validity of an human appointment of the ministry. they acknowledge the validity of an artificial service in religion. they acknowledge the propriety of paying a gospel-minister for the discharge of his office. the quakers, therefore, consider those who marry out of the society, as guilty of such a dereliction of quaker-principles, that they can be no longer considered as sound or consistent members. but independently of the violation of these principles, which the quakers take as the strongest ground for their conduct on such an occasion, they think themselves warranted in disowning, from a contemplation of the consequences, which have been known to result from these marriages. in the first place, disownment is held to be necessary, because it acts as a check upon such marriages, and because, by acting as such a check, it prevents the family-disputes and disagreements which might otherwise arise; for such marriages have been found to be more productive of uneasiness than of enjoyment. when two persons of different religious principles, a quaker for example, and a woman of the church, join in marriage, it is almost impossible that they should not occasionally differ. the subject of religion arises, and perhaps some little altercation with it, as the sunday comes. the one will not go to church, and the other will not go to meeting. these disputes do not always die with time. they arise, however, more or less, according to circumstances. if neither of the parties set any value upon their religious opinions, there will be but little occasion for dispute. if both of them, on the other hand, are of a serious cast, much will depend upon the liberality of their sentiments: but, generally speaking, it falls to the lot of but few to be free from religious prejudices. and here it may be observed, that points in religion also may occasionally be suggested, which may bring with them the seeds of temporary uneasiness. people of other religious denominations generally approach nearer to one another in their respective creeds, than the quakers to either of them. most christians agree, for example, in the use of baptism in some form or other, and also in the celebration of the lord's supper. but the quakers, as will be shown in this volume, consider these ordinances in a spiritual light, admitting no ceremonials in so pure a system as that of the christian religion. but these differences, which may thus soon or late take their rise upon these or other subjects, where the parties set a value on their respective religious opinions, cannot fail of being augmented by new circumstances in time. the parties in question have children. the education of these is now a subject of the most important concern. new disputes are engendered on this head, both adhering to their respective tenets as the best to be embraced by their rising offspring. unable at length to agree on this point, a sort of compromise takes place. the boys are denied, while the girls are permitted, baptism. the boys, again, are brought up to meeting, and the girls to church, or they go to church and meeting alternately. in the latter case, none of the children can have any fixed principles. nor will they be much better off in the former. there will be frequently an opposition of each other's religious opinions, and a constant hesitation and doubt about the consistency of these. there are many points, which the mothers will teach the daughters as right, or essential, but which the fathers will teach the sons as erroneous or unimportant. thus disputes will be conveyed to the children. in their progress through life other circumstances may arise, which may give birth to feelings of an unpleasant nature. the daughters will be probably instructed in the accomplishments of the world. they will be also introduced to the card-room, and to assemblies, and to the theatre, in their turn. the boys will be admitted to neither. the latter will of course feel their pleasures abridged, and consider their case as hard, and their father as morose and cruel. little jealousies may arise upon this difference of their treatment, which may be subversive of filial and fraternal affection. nor can religion be called in to correct them; for while the two opposite examples of father and mother, and of sisters and brothers, are held out to be right, there will be considerable doubts as to what are religious truths. the quakers urge again in behalf of their law against mixed marriages, that if these were not forbidden, it would be impossible to carry on the discipline of the society. the truth of this may be judged by the preceding remarks. for if the family were divided into two parties, as has been just stated, on account of their religion, it would be but in a kind of mongrel-state. if, for instance, it were thought right, that the quaker-part of it should preserve the simplicity of the quaker-dress, and the plainness of the quaker-language, how is this to be done, while the other part daily move in the fashions, and are taught as a right usage, to persist in the phrases of the world? if, again, the quaker-part of it are to be kept from the amusements prohibited by the society, how is this to be effected, while the other part of it speak of them from their own experience, with rapture or delight? it would be impossible, therefore, in the opinion of the quakers, in so mixed a family, to keep up that discipline, which they consider as the corner-stone of their constitutional fabric, and which may be said to have been an instrument in obtaining for them the character of a moral people. sect. iii. _but though persons are thus disowned, they may be restored to membership--generally understood, however, that they must previously express their repentance for their marriages--this confession of repentance censured by the world--but is admissible without the criminality supposed--the word repentance misunderstood by the world._ but though the quakers may disown such as marry out of their society, it does not follow that these may not be reinstated as members. if these should conduct themselves after their disownment in an orderly manner, and, still retaining their attachment to the society, should bring up their children in the principles and customs of it, they may, if they apply for restoration, obtain it, with all their former privileges and rights. the children also of such as marry out of the society, though they are never considered to be members of it, may yet become so in particular cases. the society advises that the monthly meetings, should extend a tender care towards such children, and that they should be admitted into membership at the discretion of the said meetings, either in infancy or in maturer age. but here i must stop to make a few observations, on an opinion which prevails upon this subject. it is generally understood that the quakers, in their restoration of disowned persons to membership, require them previously and publicly to acknowledge, that they have _repented_ of their marriages. this obligation to make this public confession of repentance, has given to many a handle for heavy charges against them. indeed i scarcely know, in any part of the quaker-system, where people are louder in their censures, than upon this point. "a man, they say, cannot express his penitence for his marriage without throwing a stigma upon his wife. to do this is morally wrong, if he has no fault to find with her. to do it, even if she has been in fault, is indelicate. and not to do it, is to forego his restoration to membership. this law therefore of the quakers is considered to be immoral, because it may lead both to hypocrisy and falsehood." i shall not take up much time in correcting the notions that have gone abroad on this subject. of those who marry out of the society, it may be presumed that there are some, who were never considered to be sound in the quaker-principles, and these are generally they who intermarry with the world. now they, who compose this class, generally live after their marriages, as happily out of the society as when they were in it. of course, these do not repent of the change. and if they do not repent, they never sue for restoration to membership. they cannot, therefore, incur any of the charges in question. nor can the society be blamed in this case, who, by never asking them to become members, never entice them to any objectionable repentance. of those again, who marry out of the society, there may be individuals, so attached to its communion, that it was never imagined they would have acted in this manner. now of these, it may in general be said, that they often bitterly repent. they find, soon or late, that the opposite opinions and manners, to be found in their union, do not harmonize. and here it may be observed, that it is very possible, that such persons may say they repent without any crimination of their wives. a man, for instance, may have found in his wife all the agreeableness of temper, all the domestic virtue and knowledge, all the liberality of religious opinion, which he had anticipated; but in consequence of the mixed principles resulting from mixed marriages, or of other unforeseen causes, he may be so alarmed about the unsteady disposition of his children and their future prospects, that the pain which he feels on these accounts may overbalance the pleasure, which he acknowledges in the constant prudence, goodness, solicitude, and affection, of his wife. this may be so much the case, that all her consolatory offices may not be able to get the better of his grief. a man, therefore, in such circumstances, may truly repent of his marriage, or that he was ever the father of such children, though he can never complain as the husband of such a wife. the truth, however, is, that those who make the charge in question, have entirely misapplied the meaning of the word _repent_. people are not called upon to express their sorrow, for _having married the objects of their choice_, but for _having violated those great tenets of the society_, which have been already mentioned, and which form distinguishing characteristics between quakerism and the religion of the world. those, therefore, who say they repent, say no more than what any other persons might be presumed to say, who had violated the religious tenets of any other society to which they might have belonged, or who had flown in the face of what they had imagined to be religious truths. sect. iv. _of persons, disowned for marriage, the greater proportion is said to consist of women--causes assigned for this difference of number in the two sexes._ it will perhaps appear a curious fact to the world, but i am told it is true, that the number of the women, disowned for marrying out of the society, far exceeds the number of the men, who are disowned on the same account. it is not difficult, if the fact be as it is stated, to assign a reason for this difference of number in the two sexes. when men wish to marry, they wish, at least if they are men of sense, to find such women as are virtuous; to find such as are prudent and domestic, and such as have a proper sense of the folly and dissipation of the fashionable world; such in fact as will make good mothers and good wives. now if a quaker looks into his own society, he will generally find the female part of it of this description. female quakers excel in these points. but if he looks into the world at large, he will in general find a contrast in the females there. these, in general, are but badly educated. they are taught to place a portion of their happiness in finery and show: utility is abandoned for fashion: the knowledge of the etiquette of the drawing-room usurps the place of the knowledge of the domestic duties: a kind of false and dangerous taste predominates: scandal and the card-table are preferred to the pleasures of a rural walk: virtue and modesty are seen with only half their energies, being overpowered by the noxiousness of novel-reading principles, and by the moral taint which infects those who engage in the varied rounds of a fashionable life. hence a want of knowledge, a love of trifles, and a dissipated turn of mind, generally characterize those who are considered as having had the education of the world. we see therefore a good reason why quaker-men should confine themselves in their marriages to their own society. but the same reason, which thus operates with quaker-men in the choice of quaker-women, operates with men who are not of the society, in choosing them also for their wives. these are often no strangers to the good education, and to the high character, of the quaker-females. fearful often of marrying among the badly educated women of their own persuasion, they frequently address themselves to this society, and not unfrequently succeed. to this it may be added, that if quaker-men were to attempt to marry out of their own society, they would not in general be well received. their dress and their manners are considered as uncouth in the eyes of the female-world, and would present themselves as so many obstacles in the way of their success. the women of this description generally like a smart and showy exterior. they admire heroism and spirit. but neither such an exterior, nor such spirit, are to be seen in the quaker-men. the dress of the quaker-females, on the other hand, is considered as neat and elegant, and their modesty and demeanor as worthy of admiration. from these circumstances they captivate. hence the difference, both in the inward and outward person, between the men and the women of this society, renders the former not so pleasing, while it renders the latter objects of admiration, and even choice. chap. ii. section i. _funerals--most nations have paid extravagant attention to their dead--the moderns follow their example--this extravagance, or the pageantry of funerals, discarded by the quakers--their reasons for it--plainness of quaker-funerals._ if we look into the history of the world, we shall find, from whatever cause it has arisen, whether from any thing connected with our moral feelings, such as love, gratitude, or respect, or from vanity, or ostentation, that almost all nations, where individuals have been able to afford it, have incurred considerable expense in the interment of their dead. the greeks were often very extravagant in their funerals. many persons, ornamented with garlands, followed the corpse, while others were employed in singing and dancing before it. at the funerals of the great, among the romans, couches were carried, containing the waxen or other images of the family of the deceased, and hundreds joined in the procession. in our own times, we find a difference in the manner of furnishing or decorating funerals, though but little in the intention of making them objects of outward show. a bearer of plumes precedes the procession. the horses employed are dressed in trappings. the hearse follows ornamented with plumes of feathers, and gilded and silvered with gaudy escutcheons, or the armorial bearings of the progenitors of the deceased. a group of hired persons range themselves on each side of the hearse and attendant carriages, while others close the procession. these again are all of them clad in long cloaks, or furnished, in regular order, with scarfs and hat-bands. now all these outward appendages, which may be called the pageantry of funerals, the quakers have discarded, from the time of their institution, in the practice of the burial of their dead. the quakers are of opinion, that funeral processions should be made, if any thing is to be made of them, to excite serious reflections, and to produce lessons of morality in those who see them. this they conceive to be best done by depriving the dead body of all ornaments and outward honours. for, stripped in this manner, they conceive it to approach the nearest to its native worthlessness or dust. such funerals, therefore, may excite in the spectator a deep sense of the low and debased condition of man. and his feelings will be pure on the occasion, because they will be unmixed with the consideration of the artificial distinctions of human life. the spectator too will be more likely, if he sees all go undistinguished to the grave, to deduce for himself the moral lesson, that there is no true elevation of one above another, only as men follow the practical duties of virtue and religion. but what serious reflections, or what lessons of morality, on the other hand, do the funerals of the world produce, if accompanied with pomp and splendour? to those who have sober and serious minds, they produce a kind of pity, that is mingled with disgust. in those of a ludicrous turn, they provoke ludicrous ideas, when they see a dead body attended with such extravagant parade. to the vulgar and the ignorant no one useful lesson is given. their senses are all absorbed in the show; and the thoughts of the worthlessness of man, as well as of death and the grave, which ought naturally to suggest themselves on such occasions, are swallowed up in the grandeur and pageantry of the procession. funerals, therefore, of this kind, are calculated to throw honour upon riches, abstractedly of moral merit; to make the creature of as much importance when dead as when alive; to lessen the humility of man; and to destroy, of course, the moral and religious feelings that should arise upon such occasions. add to which, that such a conduct among christians must be peculiarly improper; for the christian dispensation teaches man, that he is "to work out his salvation with fear and trembling." it seems inconsistent, therefore, to accompany with all the outward signs of honour and greatness the body of a poor wretch, who has had this difficult and awful task to perform, and who is on his last earthly journey, previously to his appearance before the tribunal of the almighty to be judged for the deeds which he has committed in the flesh. actuated by such sentiments as these, the quakers have discarded all parade at their funerals. when they die, they are buried in a manner singularly plain. the corpse is deposited in a plain coffin. when carried to the meeting-house or grave-yard, it is attended by relations and friends. these have nothing different at this time in their external garments from their ordinary dress. neither man nor horse is apparelled for the purpose. all pomp and parade, however rich the deceased may have been, are banished from their funeral processions. the corpse, at length, arrives at the meeting-house[ ]. it is suffered to remain there in the sight of the spectators. the congregation then sit in silence, as at a meeting for worship. if any one feels himself induced to speak, he delivers himself accordingly; if not, no other rite is used at this time. in process of time the coffin is taken out of the meeting-house, and carried to the grave. many of the acquaintances of the deceased, both quakers and others, follow it. it is at length placed by the side of the grave. a solemn, silent pause, immediately takes place. it is then interred. another shorter pause then generally follows. these pauses are made, that the "spectators may be more deeply touched with a sense of their approaching exit, and their future state." if a minister or other person, during these pauses, have any observation or exhortation to make, which is frequently the case, he makes it. if no person should feel himself impressed to speak, the assembled persons depart. the act of seeing the body deposited in the grave, is the last public act of respect which the quakers show to their deceased relations. this is the whole process of a quaker-funeral. [footnote : it is sometimes buried without being carried there.] sect. ii. _quakers use no vaults in their burying-grounds--relations sometimes buried near each other, but oftener otherwise--they use no tomb-stones or monumental inscriptions--reasons for this disuse--but they sometimes record accounts of the lives, deaths, and dying sayings, of their ministers._ the quakers, in the infancy of their institution, were buried in their gardens, or orchards, or in the fields and premises of one another. they had at that time no grave-yards of their own; and they refused to be buried in those of the church, lest they should thus acknowledge the validity of an human appointment of the priesthood, the propriety of payment for gospel-labour, and the peculiar holiness of consecrated ground. this refusal to be buried within the precincts of the church, was considered as the bearing of their testimony for truth. in process of time they raised their own meeting-houses, and had their respective burying places. but these were not always contiguous, but sometimes at a distance from one another, the quakers have no sepulchres or arched vaults under ground for the reception of their dead. there has been here and there a vault, and there is here and there a grave with sides of brick; but the coffins, containing their bodies, are usually committed to the dust. i may observe also, that the quakers are sometimes buried near their relations, but more frequently otherwise. in places where the quaker-population is thin, and the burial ground large, a relation is buried next to a relation, if it be desired. in other places, however, the graves are usually dug in rows, and the bodies deposited in them, not as their relations lie, but as they happen to be opened in succession without any attention to family connexions. when the first grave in the row is opened and filled, the person who dies next, is put into that which is next to it; and the person who dies next, occupies that which is next to the second[ ]. it is to many an endearing thought, that they shall lie after their death, near the remains of those whom they loved in life. but the quakers, in general, have not thought it right or wise to indulge such feelings. they believe that all good men, however their bodies may be separated in their subterraneous houses of clay, will assuredly meet at the resurrection of the just. [footnote : by this process a small piece of ground is longer in filling, no room being lost, and the danger and disagreeable necessity of opening graves before the bodies in them are decayed, is avoided.] the quakers also reject the fashions of the world in the use of tomb-stones and monumental inscriptions. these are generally supposed to be erected out of respect to the memory or character of the deceased. the quakers, however, are of opinion, that this is not the proper manner of honouring the dead. if you wish to honour a good man, who has departed this life, let all his good actions live in your memory; let them live in your grateful love and esteem; so cherish them in your heart, that they may constantly awaken you to imitation. thus you will show, by your adoption of his amiable example, that you really respect his memory. this is also that tribute, which, if he himself could be asked in the other world how he would have his memory respected in this, he would prefer to any description of his virtues, that might be given by the ablest writer, or handed down to posterity by the ablest monument of the sculptor's art. but the quakers have an objection to the use of tomb-stones and monumental inscriptions, for other reasons. for, where pillars of marble, abounding with panegyric, and decorated in a splendid manner, are erected to the ashes of dead men, there is a danger, lest, by making too much of these, a superstitious awe should be produced, and a superstitious veneration should attach to them. the early christians, by making too much of the relics of their saints or pious men, fell into such errors. the quakers believe, again, that if they were to allow the custom of these outward monuments to obtain among them, they might be often led, as the world is, and by the same causes, to a deviation from the truth; for it is in human nature to praise those whom we love, but more particularly when we have lost them. hence, we find often such extravagant encomiums upon the dead, that if it were possible for these to be made acquainted with them, they would show their disapprobation of such records. hence we find also, that "as false as an epitaph," has become a proverbial expression. but even in the case where nothing more is said upon the tomb-stone than what moses said of seth, and of enos, and of cainan, and others, when he reckoned up the genealogy of adam, namely, that "they lived and that they died," the quakers do not approve of such memorials. for these convey no merit of the deceased, by which his example should be followed. they convey no lesson of morality: and in general they are not particularly useful. they may serve perhaps to point out to surviving relations, the place where the body of the deceased was buried, so that they may know where to mark out the line for their own graves. but as the quakers in general have overcome the prejudice of "sleeping with their fathers," such memorials cannot be so useful to them. the quakers, however, have no objection, if a man has conducted himself particularly well in life, that a true statement should be made concerning him, provided such a statement would operate as a lesson of morality to others; but they think that the tomb-stone is not the best medium of conveying it. they are persuaded that very little moral advantage is derived to the cursory readers of epitaphs, or that they can trace their improvement in morals to this source. sensible, however, that the memorials of good men may be made serviceable to the rising generation, ("and there are no ideas, says addison, which strike more forcibly on our imaginations, than those which are raised from reflections upon the exits of great and excellent men,") they are willing to receive accounts of the lives, deaths, and remarkable dying sayings, of those ministers in their own society, who have been eminent for their labours. these are drawn up by individuals, and presented to the monthly meetings, to which the deceased belonged. but here they must undergo an examination before they are passed. the truth of the statement, and the utility of the record, must appear. it then falls to the quarterly meetings to examine them again, and these may alter, or pass, or reject them, as it may appear to be most proper. if these should pass them, they are forwarded to the yearly meeting. many of them, after this, are printed; and, finding their way into the bookcases of the quakers, they become collected essays of morality, and operate as incitements to piety to the rising youth. thus the memorials of men are made useful by the quakers in an unobjectionable manner; for the falsehood and flattery of epitaphs are thus avoided; none but good men having been selected, whose virtues, if they are recorded, can be perpetuated with truth. sect. iii. _they discard also mourning garments--these are only emblems of sorrow--and often make men pretend to be what they are not--this contrary to christianity--thus they may become little better than disguised pomp, or fashionable forms--this instanced in the changes and duration of common mourning--and in the custom also of court-mourning --ramifications of the latter._ as the quakers neither allow of the tomb-stones, nor the monumental inscriptions, so they do not allow of the mourning garments of the world. they believe there can be no true sorrow but in the heart, and that there can be no other true outward way of showing it than by fulfilling the desires, and by imitating the best actions, of those whom men have lost and loved. "the mourning, says william penn, which it is fit for a christian to have on the departure of beloved relations and friends, should be worn in the mind, which is only sensible of the loss. and the love which men have had to these, and their remembrance of them, should be outwardly expressed by a respect to their advice, and care of those they have left behind them, and their love of that which they loved." but mourning garments, the quakers contend, are only emblems of sorrow. they will therefore frequently be used, where no sorrow is. many persons follow their deceased relatives to the grave, whose death, in point of gain, is a matter of real joy; witness young spendthrifts, who have been raising sum after sum on expectation, and calculating with voracious anxiety, the probable duration of their relations' lives. and yet all these follow the corpse to the grave, with white handkerchiefs, mourning habits, slouched hats, and dangling hat-bands. mourning garments, therefore, frequently make men pretend to be what they are not. but no true or consistent christian can exhibit an outward appearance to the world, which his inward feelings do not justify. it is not contended here by the quakers, that because a man becomes occasionally a hypocrite, this is a sufficient objection against any system; for a man may be an atheist even in a quaker's garb. nor is it insinuated, that individuals do not sometimes feel in their hearts, the sorrow which they purpose to signify by their clothing. but it is asserted to be true, that men who use mourning habits as they are generally used, do not wear them for those deceased persons only whom they loved, and abstain from the use of them where they had no esteem, but that they wear them promiscuously on all the occasions which have been dictated by fashion. mourning habits therefore, in consequence of a long system of etiquette, have become, in the opinion of the quakers, but little better than _disguised pomp_, or _fashionable forms_. i shall endeavour to throw some light upon this position of the quakers, by looking into the practice of the world. in the first place, there are seasons there, when full mourning, and seasons when only half mourning, is to be worn. thus the habit is changed, and for no other reason, than that of conformity with the laws of fashion. the length of this time also, or season of mourning, is made to depend upon the scale of men's affinity to the deceased; though nothing can be more obvious, than that men's affection for the living, and that their sorrow for them when dead, cannot be measured by this standard. hence the very time that a man shall mourn, and the very time that he shall only half-mourn, and the very time that he shall cease to mourn, is fixed for him by the world, whatever may be the duration of his own sorrow. in court-mourning also, we have an instance of men being instructed to mourn, where their feelings are neither interested nor concerned. in this case, the _disguised pomp_, spoken of by the quakers, will be more apparent. two princes have perhaps been fighting with each other for a considerable portion of their reigns. the blood of their subjects has been spilled, and their treasures have been exhausted. they have probably had, during all this time, no kind disposition one towards another, each considering the other as the aggressor, or as the author of the war. when both have been wearied out with expense, they have made peace. but they have still mutual jealousies and fears. at length one of them dies. the other, on receiving an express relative to the event, orders mourning for the deceased for a given time. as other potentates receive the intelligence, they follow the example. their several levees or drawing-rooms, or places of public audience, are filled with mourners. every individual of each sex, who is accustomed to attend them, is now habited in black. thus a round of mourning is kept up by the courtiers of europe, not by means of any sympathetic beating of the heart, but at the sound, as it were, of the postman's horn. but let us trace this species of mourning farther, and let us now more particularly look at the example of our own country for the elucidation of the point in question. the same gazette, which gave birth to this black influenza at court, spreads it still farther. the private gentlemen of the land undertake to mourn also. you see them accordingly in the streets, and in private parties, and at public places, in their mourning habits. nor is this all. military officers, who have fought against the armies of the deceased, wear black crapes over their arms in token of the same sorrow. but the fever does not stop even here. it still spreads, and in tracing its progress, we find it to have attacked our merchants. yes, the disorder has actually got upon _change_. but what have i said? mourning habits upon change! where the news of an army cut to pieces, produces the most cheerful countenances in many, if it raises the stocks but an half per cent. mourning habits upon change, where contracts are made for human flesh and blood! where plans that shall consign cargoes of human beings to misery and untimely death, and their posterity to bondage, are deliberately formed and agreed upon! o sorrow, sorrow! what hast thou to do upon change, except in the case of commercial losses, or disappointed speculation! but to add to this _disguised pomp_, as the quakers call it, not one of ten thousand of the mourners, ever saw the deceased prince; and perhaps ninety nine in the hundred, of all who heard of him, reprobated his character when alive. chap. iii. _occupations of the quakers--agriculture declining among them--probable reasons of this decline--country congenial to the quietude of mind required by their religion--sentiments of cowper--congenial also to the improvement of their moral feelings--sentiments of william penn--particularly suited to them as lovers of the animal creation._ the quakers generally bring up their children to some employment. they believe that these, by having an occupation, may avoid evils, into which they might otherwise fall, if they had upon their hands an undue proportion of vacant time. "friends of all degrees, says the book of extracts, are advised to take due care to breed up their children in some useful and necessary employment, that they may not spend their precious time in idleness, which is of evil example, and tends much to their hurt." the quakers have been described to be a domestic people, and as peculiarly cherishing domestic happiness. upon this principle it is, combined with the ties of their discipline and peculiar customs, that we scarcely find any of this society quitting their country, except for america, to reside in foreign parts. if it be a charge against the quakers, that they are eager in the pursuit of wealth, let it at least be mentioned in their favour, that, in their accumulation of it, they have been careful not to suffer their knowledge to take advantage of the ignorance of others, and to keep their hands clear of the oppression, and of the blood of their fellow-creatures. in looking among the occupations of the quakers, we shall find some, who are brought up as manufacturers and mechanics; but the number of these is small. others, but these are few, follow the sea. there may be here and there a mate or captain in the coasting employ. in america, where they have great local and other advantages, there may be more in the seafaring line. but, in general, the quakers are domestic characters, and prefer home. there are but few also, who follow the professions. their education and their religion exclude them from some of these. some, however, are to be found in the department of medicine: and others, as conveyancers, in the law. several of the quakers follow agriculture. but these are few, compared with the rest of the society, or compared with the number of those who formerly followed a rural life. almost all the quakers were originally in the country, and but few of them in the towns. but this order of things is reversing fast. they are flocking into the towns, and are abandoning agricultural pursuits. the reasons, which may be given for this change, may be the following. it is not at all unlikely but that tithes may have had some influence in producing it. i am aware, however, it will be said, that a quaker, living in the country, and strongly principled against these, would think it a dereliction of his duty to leave it on this account, and would remain upon the principle, that an abode there, under the annual exercise of his testimony, would, in a religions point of view, add strength to his strength. but it must be observed; on the other hand, that where men are not obliged to remain under grievous evils, and can get rid of them, merely by changing their occupation in life, and this honourably, it is in human nature to do it. and so far tithes, i believe, have had an influence, in driving the quakers into the towns. of later years, as the society has grown thinner in the country, i believe new reasons have sprung up; for the quakers have had less opportunity of society with one another. they have been subjected, also to greater inconvenience in attending their religious meetings. their children also have been more exposed to improper connexions in marriage. to which it may be added, that the large and rapid profits frequently made in trade, compared with the generally small and slow returns from agricultural concerns, may probably have operated with many, as an inducement to such a change. but whatever reasons may have induced them to quit the country, and to settle in the towns, no temporal advantages can make up to them, as a society, the measure of their loss. for when we consider that the quakers never partake of the amusements of the world; that their worldly pleasures are chiefly of a domestic nature; that calmness, and quietude, and abstraction from worldly thoughts, to which rural retirement is peculiarly favourable, is the state of mind which they themselves acknowledge to be required by their religion, it would seem that the country was peculiarly the place for their habitations. it would seem, also as if, by this forsaking of the country, they had deprived themselves of many opportunities of the highest enjoyment of which they are capable as quakers. the objects in the country are peculiarly favourable to the improvement of morality in the exercise of the spiritual feelings. the bud and the blossom, the rising and the falling leaf, the blade of corn and the ear, the seed time and the harvest, the sun that warms and ripens, the cloud that cools and emits the fruitful shower; these, and an hundred objects, afford daily food for the religious growth of the mind. even the natural man is pleased with these. they excite in him natural ideas, and produce in him a natural kind of pleasure. but the spiritual man experiences a sublimer joy. he sees none of these without feeling both spiritual improvement and delight. it is here that he converses with the deity in his works: it is here that he finds himself grateful for his goodness--that he acknowledges his wisdom--that he expresses his admiration of his power. the poet cowper, in his contemplation of a country life, speaks forcibly on this subject. "o friendly to the best pursuits of man, friendly to _thought_, to _virtue_, and to _peace_, domestic life, in rural leisure pass'd! few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets; though many boast thy favours, and affect to understand and choose these for their own but foolish man _forgoes his proper bliss_, ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits, though plac'd in paradise, (for earth has still some traces of her youthful beauty left,) _substantial happiness_ for _transient joy_. scenes form'd for _contemplation_, and to _nurse_ the _growing seeds of wisdom_, that suggest by every pleasing image they present, reflections, _such as meliorate the heart, compose the passions, and exalt the mind."_ william penn, in the beautiful letter which he left his wife and children before his first voyage to america, speaks also in strong terms upon the point in question. "but agriculture, says he, is especially in my eye. let my children be husbandmen and housewives. this occupation is industrious, healthy, honest, and of good example. like abraham and the holy ancients, who pleased god, and obtained a good report, this leads to consider the _works of god_, and _nature of things that are good_, and diverts the mind from _being taken up_ with the _vain arts and inventions of a luxurious world_." and a little farther on he says, "_of cities and towns, of concourse beware_. the _world is apt to stick close_ to those, who have _lived and got wealth there_. a _country life and estate_, i like best for my children. i prefer a decent mansion of a hundred pounds a year, to ten thousand pounds in london, or such like place, _in the way of trade_." to these observations it may he added, that the country, independently of the opportunity it affords for calmness and quietude of mind, and the moral improvement of it in the exercise of the spiritual feelings, is peculiarly fitted for the habitation of the quakers, on account of their peculiar love for the animal creation. it would afford them a wide range for the exercise of this love, and the improvement of the benevolent affections. for tenderness, if encouraged, like a plant that is duly watered, still grows. what man has ever shown a proper affection for the brute creation, who has been backward in his love of the human race? chap. iv. sect. i. _trade--trade seldom considered as a question of morals--but quakers view it in this light--prohibit the slave-trade--privateering --manufactories of weapons of war--also trade where the revenue is defrauded--hazardous enterprises--fictitious paper--insist upon punctuality to words and engagements--advise an annual inspection of their own affairs--regulations in case of bankruptcy._ i stated in the last chapter, that some of the quakers, though these were few in number, were manufacturers and mechanics; that others followed the sea; that, others were to be found in the medical profession, and in the law; and that others were occupied in the concerns of a rural life. i believe with these few exceptions, that the rest of the society may be considered as engaged in trade. trade is a subject, which seldom comes under the discussion of mankind as a moral question. if men who follow it, are honest and punctual in their dealings, little is thought of the nature of their occupations, or of the influence of these upon their minds. it will hardly, however, be denied by moralists, that the buying and selling of commodities for profit, is surrounded with temptation, and is injurious to pure, benevolent, or disinterested feelings; or that where the mind is constantly intent upon the gaining of wealth, by traffic, it is dangerously employed. much less will it be denied, that trade is an evil, if any of the branches of it through which men acquire their wealth, are productive of mischief either to themselves or others. if they are destructive to the health of the inferior agents, or to the morality of any of the persons concerned in them, they can never be sanctioned by christianity. the quakers have thought it their duty, as a religious body, to make several regulations on this subject. in the first place they have made it a rule, that no person, acknowledged to be in profession with them, shall have any concern in the slave-trade. the quakers began to consider this subject, as a christian body, so early as in the beginning of the last century. in the year , they passed a public censure upon this trade. in the year , and afterwards in the year , they warned and exhorted all in profession with them "to keep their hands clear of this unrighteous gain of oppression." in the yearly meeting of , they renewed their exhortation in the following words: "we renew our exhortation, that friends every where be especially careful to keep their hands clear of giving encouragement in any shape to the slave-trade; it being evidently destructive of the natural rights of mankind, who are all ransomed by one saviour, and visited by one divine light in order to salvation; a traffic calculated to enrich and aggrandize some upon the miseries of others; in its nature abhorrent to every just and tender sentiment, and contrary to the whole tenour of the gospel." in the same manner, from the year , they have publicly manifested a tender concern for the happiness of the injured africans, and they have not only been vigilant to see that none of their own members were concerned in this impious traffic, but they have lent their assistance with other christians in promoting its discontinuance. they have forbidden also the trade of privateering in war. the quakers consider the capture of private vessels by private persons, as a robbery committed on the property of others, which no human authority can make reconcileable to the consciences of honest individuals. and upon this motive they forbid it, as well as upon that of their known profession against war. they forbid also the trade of the manufacturing of gun-powder, and of arms or weapons of war, such as swords, guns, pistols, bayonets, and the like, that they may stand clear of the charge of having made any instrument, the avowed use of which is the destruction of human life. they have forbidden also all trade, that has for its object the defrauding of the king either of his customs or his excise. they are not only not to smuggle themselves, but they are not to deal in such goods as they know, or such as they even suspect, to be smuggled; nor to buy any article of this description, even for their private use. this prohibition is enjoined, because all christians ought "to render to caesar the things that are caesars," in all cases where their consciences do not suffer by doing it: because those, who are accessory to smuggling, give encouragement to perjury and bloodshed, these being frequently the attendants of such unlawful practices; and because they do considerable injury to the honest trader. they discourage also concerns in "hazardous enterprises," in the way of trade. such enterprisses are apt to disturb the tranquillity of the mind, and to unfit if for religious exercise. they may involve also the parties concerned, and their families, in ruin. they may deprive them again of the means of paying their just debts, and thus render them injurious to their creditors. members, therefore, are advised to be rather content with callings which may produce small but certain profits, than to hazard the tranquillity of their minds, and the property of themselves and others. in the exercise of those callings which are deemed lawful by the society, two things are insisted upon: first, that their members "never raise and circulate any fictitious kind of paper credit, with endorsements and acceptances, to give it an appearance of value without an intrinsic reality:" secondly, that they should be particularly attentive to their words, and to the punctual performance of their engagements, and on no account delay their payments beyond the time they have promised. the society have very much at heart the enforcement of the latter injunction, not only because all christians are under an obligation to do these things, but because they wish to see the high reputation of their ancestors, in these respects, preserved among those of their own day. the early quakers were noted for a scrupulous attention to their duty, as christians, in their commercial concerns. one of the great clamours against them, in the infancy of their institution, was, that they would get all the trade. it was nothing but their great honour in their dealings, arising from religious principle, that gave birth to this uproar, or secured them a more than ordinary portion of the custom of the world in the line of their respective trades. among other regulations made by the quakers on the subject of trade, it is advised publicly to the members of the society, to inspect the state of their affairs once a year. and lest this advice should be disregarded, the monthly meetings are directed to make annual appointments of suitable friends to communicate it to the members individually. but independently of this public recommendation, they are earnestly advised by their book of extracts, to examine their situations frequently. this is done with a view, that they may see how they stand with respect to themselves and the world at large; that they may not launch out into commercial concerns beyond their strength, nor live beyond their income, nor go on longer in their business than they can pay their debts. if a quaker, after this inspection of his affairs, should find himself unable to pay his just debts, he is immediately to disclose his affairs to some judicious members of the society, or to his principal creditors, and to take their advice how he is to act; but to be particularly careful not to pay one creditor in preference to another. when a person of the society becomes a bankrupt, a committee is appointed by his own monthly meeting, to confer with him on his affairs. if the bankruptcy should appear, by their report, to have been the result of misconduct, he is disowned. he may, however, on a full repentance, (for it is a maxim with the society, that "true repentance washes put all stains,") and by a full payment of every man his own, be admitted into membership again; or if he has begun to pay his creditors, and has made arrangements satisfactory to the society for paying them, he may be received as a member, even before the whole of the debt is settled. if it should appear, on the other hand, that the bankruptcy was the unavoidable result of misfortune, and not of imprudence, he is allowed to continue in the society. but in either of these cases, that is, where a man is disowned and restored, or where he has not been disowned at all, he is never considered as a member, entitled to every privilege of the society, till he has paid the whole of the debts. and the quakers are so strict upon this point, that if a person has paid ten shillings in the pound, and his creditors have accepted the composition, and the law has given him his discharge, it is insisted upon that he pays the remaining ten as soon as he is able. no distance of time will be any excuse to the society for his refusal to comply with this honourable law. nor will he be considered as a full member, as i observed before, till he has paid the uttermost farthing; for no collection for the poor, nor any legacy for the poor, or for other services of the society, will be received from his purse, while any thing remains of the former debt. this rule of refusing charitable contributions on such occasions, is founded on the principle that money, taken from a man in such a situation, is taken from his lawful creditors; and that such a man can have nothing to give, while he owes any thing to another. it may be observed of this rule or custom, that as it is founded in moral principle, so it tends to promote a moral end. when persons of this description see their own donations dispensed with, but those of the rest of the meeting taken, they are reminded of their own situation, and of the desirableness of making the full satisfaction required. the custom, therefore, operates as a constant memento, that their debts are still hanging over them, and prompts to new industry and anxious exertion for their discharge. there are many instances of quakers, who have paid their composition as others do, but who, after a lapse of many years, have surprised their former creditors by bringing them the remaining amount of their former debts. hence the quakers are often enabled to say, what few others can say on the same subject, that they are not ultimately hurtful to mankind, either by their errors, or by their misfortunes. sect. ii. _but though the quakers have made these regulations, the world find fault with many of their trades or callings--several of these specified--standard proposed by which to examine them--some of these censurable by this standard--and given up by many quakers on this account, though individuals may still follow them._ but though the quakers have made these beautiful regulations concerning trade, it is manifest that the world are not wholly satisfied with their conduct on this subject. people charge them with the exercise of improper callings, or of occupations inconsistent with the principles they profess. it is well known that the quakers consider themselves as a highly professing people; that they declaim against the follies and vanities of the world; and that they bear their testimony against civil customs and institutions, even to personal suffering. hence, professing more than others, more is expected from them. george fox endeavoured to inculcate this idea into his new society. in his letter to the yearly meeting in , he expresses himself as follows: "the world also does expect more from friends than from other people, because they profess more. therefore you should be more just than others in your words and dealings, and more righteous, holy, and pure, in your lives and conversations; so that your lives and conversations may preach. for the world's tongues and mouths have preached long enough; but their lives and conversations have denied what their tongues have professed and declared." i may observe, therefore, that the circumstance of a more than ordinary profession of consistency, and not any supposed immorality on the part of the quakers, has brought them, in the instances alluded to, under the censure of the world. other people, found in the same trades or occupations, are seldom noticed as doing wrong. but when men are set as lights upon a hill, blemishes will be discovered in them, which will be overlooked among those who walk in the vale below. the trades or occupations which are usually condemned as improper for quakers to follow, are numerous. i shall not therefore specify them all. those, however, which i purpose to select for mention, i shall accompany with all the distinctions which equity demands on the occasion. the trade of a distiller, or of a spirit-merchant, is considered as objectionable if in the hands of a quaker. that of a cotton manufacturer, who employs a number of poor children in the usual way, or in a way which is destructive to their morals and to their health, is considered as equally deserving of censured.[ ] [footnote : poor children are frequently sent by parishes to cotton-mills. little or no care is taken of their morals. the men, when grown up, frequently become drunken, and the girls debauched. but the evil does not stop here. the progeny of these, vitiated by the drunkenness and debauchery of their parents, have generally diseased and crippled constitutions, which they perpetuate to a new generation; after which the whole race, i am told, generally becomes extinct. what christian can gain wealth at the expense of the health, morals, and happiness of his fellow-creatures?] there is a calling which is seldom followed by itself: i mean the furnishing of funerals, or the serving of the pall. this is generally in the hands of cabinet-makers, or of upholsterers, or of woollen-drapers. now if any quaker should be found in any of these occupations, and if he should unite with these that of serving the pall, he would be considered by such an union, as following an objectionable trade. for the quakers having discarded all the pomp, and parade, and dress, connected with funerals, from their own practice, and this upon moral principles, it is insisted upon, that they ought not to be accessary to the promotion of such ceremonials among others. the trade of a printer, or bookseller, when exercised by a quaker, has not escaped the animadversions of the world. a distinction, however, must be made here. they who condemn this calling, can never do it justly, but in supposed cases. they must suppose, for example, that the persons in question follow these callings generally, or that they do not make an exception with respect to the printing or selling of such books as may convey poison to the morals of those who read them. a quaker-tailor is considered as a character, which cannot consistently exist. but a similar distinction must be made here as in a former case. the world cannot mean that if a quaker confines himself to the making of clothes for his own society, he is reproachable for so doing; but only if he makes clothes for every one without distinction, following, as he is ordered, all the varying fashions of the world. a quaker-hatter is looked upon in the same light as a quaker-tailor. but here a distinction suggests itself again. if he make only plain and useful hats for the community and for other quakers, it cannot be understood that he is acting inconsistently with his religious profession. the charge can only lie against him, where he furnishes the hat with the gold and the silver-lace, or the lady's riding-hat with its ornaments, or the military hat with its lace, cockade, and plumes. in this case he will be considered as censurable by many, because he will be looked upon as a dealer in the superfluities condemned by his own religion. the last occupation i shall notice is that of a silversmith. and here the censure will depend upon a contingency also. if a quaker confines himself to the selling of plain silver articles for use, little objection can be raised against his employ. but if, in addition to this, he sells goldheaded canes, trinkets, rings, ear-rings, bracelets, jewels, and other ornaments of the person, he will be considered as chargeable with the same inconsistency as the follower of the former trade. in examining these and other occupations of the quakers, with a view of seeing how far the objections which have been advanced against them are valid, i own i have a difficult task to perform. for what standard shall i fix upon, or what limits shall i draw upon this occasion? the objections are founded in part upon the principle, that quakers ought not to sell those things, of which their own practice shows that they disapprove. but shall i admit this principle without any limitation or reserve? shall i say without any reserve, that a quaker-woman, who discards the use of a simple ribbon from her dress, shall not sell it to another female, who has been constantly in the habit of using it, and this without any detriment to her mind? shall i say again, without any reserve, that a quaker-man who discards the use of black cloth, shall not sell a yard of it to another? and, if i should say so, where am i to stop? shall i not be obliged to go over all the colours in his shop, and object to all but the brown and the drab? shall i say again, without any reserve, that a quaker cannot sell any thing which is innocent in itself, without inquiring of the buyer its application or its use? and if i should say so, might i not as well say, that no quaker can be in trade? i fear that to say this, would be to get into a labyrinth, out of which there would be no clew to guide us. difficult, however, as the task may seem, i think i may lay down three positions, which will probably not be denied, and which, if admitted, will assist us in the determination of the question before us. the first of these is, that no quaker can be concerned in the sale of a thing, which is evil in itself. secondly, that he cannot encourage the sale of an article, which he knows to be essentially, or very generally, that is, in seven cases out of ten, productive of evil. and, thirdly, that he cannot sell things which he has discarded from his own use, if he has discarded them on a belief that they are specifically forbidden by christianity, or that they are morally injurious to the human mind. if these positions be acknowledged, they will give ample latitude for the condemnation of many branches of trade. a quaker-bookseller, according to these positions, cannot sell a profane or improper book. a quaker spirit-merchant cannot sell his liquor but to those whom he believes will use it in moderation, or medicinally, or on proper occasions. a quaker, who is a manufacturer of cotton, cannot exercise his occupation but upon an amended plan. a quaker-silversmith cannot deal in any splendid ornaments of the person. the latter cannot do this for the following reasons. the quakers reject all such ornaments, because they believe them to be specifically condemned by christianity. the words of the apostles paul and peter, have been quoted both by fox, penn, barclay, and others, upon this subject. but surely, if the christian religion positively condemns the use of them in one, it condemns the use of them in another. and how can any one, professing this religion, sell that, the use of which he believes it to have forbidden? the quakers also have rejected all ornaments of the person, as we find by their own writers, on account of their immoral tendency; or because they are supposed to be instrumental in puffing up the creature, or in the generation of vanity and pride. but if they have rejected the use of them upon this principle, they are bound, as christians, to refuse to sell them to others. christian love, and the christian obligation to do as we would wish to be done by, positively enjoin this conduct. for no man, consistently with this divine law and obligation, can sow the seeds of moral disease in his neighbour's mind. and here i may observe, that though there are trades, which may be innocent in themselves, yet quakers may make them objectionable by the manner in which they may conduct themselves in disposing of the articles which belong to them. they can never pass them off, as other people do, by the declaration that they are the fashionable articles of the day. such words ought never to come out of quakers' mouths; not so much because their own lives are a living protest against the fashions of the world, as because they cannot knowingly be instrumental in doing a moral injury to others. for it is undoubtedly the belief of the quakers, as i had occasion to observe in a former volume, that the following of such fashions, begets a worldly spirit, and that in proportion as men indulge this spirit, they are found to follow the loose and changeable morality of the world, instead of the strict and steady morality of the gospel. that some such positions as these may be fixed upon for the farther regulation of commercial concerns among the quakers, is evident, when we consider the example of many estimable persons in this society. the quakers, in the early times of their institution, were very circumspect about the nature of their occupations, and particularly as to dealing in superfluities and ornaments of the person. gilbert latey was one of those who bore his public testimony against them. though he was only a tailor, he was known and highly respected by king james the second. he would not allow his servants to put any corruptive finery upon the clothes which he had been ordered to make for others. from gilbert latey i may pass to john woolman. in examining the journal of the latter i find him speaking thus: "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." and from john woolman i might mention the names of many, and, if delicacy did not forbid me, those of quakers now living, who relinquished or regulated their callings, on an idea, that they could not consistently follow them at all, or that they could not follow them according to the usual manner of the world. i knew the relation of a quaker-distiller, who left off his business upon principle. i was intimate with a quaker-bookseller. he did not give up his occupation, for this was unnecessary; but he was scrupulous about the selling of an improper book. another friend of mine, in the society, succeeded but a few years ago to a draper's shop. the furnishing of funerals had been a profitable part of the employ. but he refused to be concerned in this branch of it, wholly owing to his scruples about it. another had been established as a silversmith for many years, and had traded in the ornamental part of the business, but he left it wholly, though advantageously situated, for the same reason, and betook himself to another trade. i know other quakers, who have held other occupations, not usually objectionable by the world, who have become uneasy about them, and have relinquished them in their turn. these noble instances of the dereliction of gain, where it has interfered with principle, i feel it only justice to mention in this place. it is an homage due to quakerism; for genuine quakerism will always produce such instances. no true quaker will remain in any occupation, which he believes it improper to pursue. and i hope, if there are quakers, who mix the sale of objectionable with that of the other articles of their trade, it is because they have entered into this mixed business, without their usual portion of thought, or that the occupation itself has never come as an improper occupation before their minds. upon the whole, it must be stated that it is wholly owing to the more than ordinary professions of the quakers, as a religious body, that the charges in question have been exhibited against such individuals among them, as have been found in particular trades. if other people had been found in the same callings, the same blemishes would not have been so apparent. and if others had been found in the same, callings, and it had been observed of these, that they had made all the beautiful regulations which i have shown the quakers to have done on the subject of trade, these blemishes would have been removed from the usual range of the human vision. they would have been like the spots in the sun's disk, which are hid from the observation of the human eye, because they are lost in the superior beauty of its blaze. but when the quakers have been looked at solely as quakers, or as men of high religious profession, these blemishes have become conspicuous. the moon, when it eclipses the sun, appears as a blemish in the body of that luminary. so a public departure from publicly professed principles will always be noticed, because it will be an excrescence or blemish, too large and protuberant, to be overlooked in the moral character. chap. v. _settlement of differences--quakers, when they differ, abstain from violence--no instance of a duel--george for protested against going to law, and recommended arbitration-laws relative to arbitration--account of an arbitration-society, at newcastle upon tyne, on quaker-principles --its dissolution--such societies might be usefully promoted._ men are so constituted by nature, and their mutual intercourse is such, that circumstances must unavoidably arise, which will occasion differences. these differences will occasionally rouse the passions; and, after all, they will still be to be settled. the quakers, like other men, have their differences. but you rarely see any disturbance of the temper on this account. you rarely hear intemperate invectives. you are witness to no blows. if in the courts of law you have never seen their characters stained by convictions for a breach of the marriage-contract, or the crime of adultery; so neither have you seen them disgraced by convictions for brutal violence, or that most barbarous of all gothic customs, the duel. it is a lamentable fact, when we consider that we live in an age, removed above eighteen hundred years from the first promulgation of christianity, one of the great objects of which was to insist upon the subjugation of the passions, that our children should not have been better instructed, than that we should now have to behold men, of apparently good education, settling their disputes by an appeal to arms. it is difficult to conceive what preposterous principles can actuate men, to induce them to such a mode of decision. justice is the ultimate wish of every reasonable man in the termination of his casual differences with others, but, in the determination of cases by the sword, the injured man not unfrequently falls, while the aggressor sometimes adds to his offence, by making a widow or an orphan, and by the murder of of a fellow-creature. but it is possible the duellist may conceive that he adds to his reputation by decisions of this sanguinary nature. but surely he has no other reputation with good men, than that of a weak, or a savage, or an infatuated creature; and, if he fells, he is pitied by these on no other motive than that of his folly and of his crime. what philosopher can extol his courage, who, knowing the bondage of the mind while under the dominion of fashion, believes that more courage is necessary in refusing a challenge, than in going into the field? what legislator can applaud his patriotism, when he sees him violate the laws of his country? what christian his religion, when he reflects on the relative duties of man, on the law of lore and benevolence that should have guided him, on the principle that it is more noble to suffer than to resist, and on the circumstance, that he may put himself into the doubly criminal situation of a murderer and a suicide by the same act? george fox, in his doctrine of the influence of the spirit as a divine teacher, and in that of the necessity of the subjugation of the passions in order that the inward man might be in a fit state to receive its admonitions, left to the society a system of education, which, if acted upon, could not fail of producing peaceable and quiet characters; but foreseeing that among the best men differences would unavoidably arise from their intercourse in business and other causes, it, was his desire that these should be settled in a christian manner. he advised therefore that no member should appeal to law; but that he should refer his difference to arbitration, by persons of exemplary character in the society. this mode of decision appeared to him to be consistent with the spirit of christianity, and with the advice of the apostle paul, who recommended that all the differences among the christians of his own time should be referred to the decision of the saints, or of such other christians, as were eminent for their lives and conversation. this mode of decision, which began to take place among the quakers in the time of george fox, has been continued by them to the present day. cases, where property is concerned to the amount of many thousands, are determined in no other manner. by this process the quakers obtain their verdicts in a way peculiarly satisfactory. for law-suits are at best tedious. they often destroy brotherly love in the individuals, while they continue. they excite also, during this time, not unfrequently, a vindictive spirit, and lead to family-feuds and quarrels. they agitate the mind also, hurt the temper, and disqualify a man for the proper exercise of his devotion. add to this, that the expenses of law are frequently so great, that burthens are imposed upon men for matters of little consequence, which they feel as evils and incumbrances for a portion of their lives; burthens which guilt alone, and which no indiscretion, could have merited. hence the quakers experience advantages in the settlement of their differences, which are known but to few others. the quakers, when any difference arises about things that are not of serious moment, generally settle it amicably between themselves; but in matters that are intricate and of weighty concern, they have recourse to arbitration. if it should happen, that they are slow in proceeding to arbitration, overseers, or any others of the society, who may come to the knowledge of the circumstance, are to step in and to offer their advice. if their advice is rejected, complaint is to be made to their own monthly meeting concerning them; after which they will come under the discipline of the society, and if they still persist in refusing to settle their differences or to proceed to arbitration, they may be disowned. i may mention here, that any member going to law with another, without having previously tried, to accommodate matters between them according to the rules of the society, comes under the discipline in like manner. when arbitration is determined on, the quakers are enjoined to apply to persons of their own society to decide the case. it is considered, however, as desirable, that they should not trouble their ministers, if they can help it, on these occasions, as the minds of these ought to be drawn out as little as possible into worldly concerns. if quakers, however, should not find among quakers such as they would choose to employ for these purposes, or such as may not possess skill in regard to the matter in dispute, they may apply to others out of the society, sooner than go to law. the following is a concise statement of the rules recommended by the society, in the case of arbitrations. each party is to choose one or two friends as arbitrators, and all the persons, so chosen, are to agree upon a third or a fifth. the arbitrators are not to consider themselves as advocates for the party by whom they were chosen, but as men, whose duty it is to judge righteously, fearing the lord. the parties are to enter into engagements to abide by the award of the arbitrators. every meeting of the arbitrators is to be made known to the parties concerned, till they have been fully heard. no private meetings are allowed between some of the arbitrators, or with one party separate from the other, on the business referred to them. no representation of the case of one party, either by writing or otherwise, is to be admitted, without its being fully made known to the other; and, if required, a copy of such representation is to be delivered to the other party. the arbitrators are to hear both parties fully, in the presence of each other, whilst either has any fresh matter to offer, for a time mutually limited. in the case of any doubtful point of law, the arbitrators are jointly to agree upon a case, and consult counsel. it is recommended to arbitrators to propose to the parties, that they should give an acknowledgment in writing, before the award is made; that they have been candidly and fully heard. in the same manner as a quaker proceeds with a quaker in the case of any difference, he is led by his education and habits to proceed with others, who are not members of the same society. a quaker seldom goes to law with a person of another denomination, till he has proposed arbitration. if the proposal be not accepted, the quaker has then no remedy but the law. for a person, who is out of the society, cannot be obliged upon pain of disownment, as a quaker may, to submit to such a mode of decision, being out of the reach of the quaker-discipline. i shall close my observations upon this subject, by giving an account of an institution for the accommodation of differences, which took place in the year , upon quaker principles. in the town of newcastle upon tyne, a number of disputes were continually arising on the subject of shipping concerns, which were referred to the decision of the laws. these decisions were often grievously expensive. they were, besides, frequently different from what seafaring persons conceived to be just. the latter circumstance was attributed to the ignorance of lawyers in maritime affairs. much money was therefore often expended, and no one satisfied. some quakers, in the neighbourhood, in conjunction with others, came forward with a view of obviating these evils. they proposed arbitration as a remedy. they met with some opposition at first, but principally from the gentlemen of the law. after having, however, shown the impropriety of many of the legal verdicts that had been given, they had the pleasure of seeing their plan publicly introduced and sanctioned. for in the month of june, , a number of gentlemen, respectable for their knowledge in mercantile and maritime affairs, met at the trinity-hall in newcastle, and associated themselves for these and other purposes, calling themselves "the newcastle upon tyne association for general arbitration." this association was to have four general meetings in the year, one in each quarter, at which they were to receive cases. for any urgent matter, however, which might occur, the clerk was to have the power of calling a special meeting. each person, on delivering a case, was to pay a small fee. out of these fees the clerk's salary and incidental expenses were to be paid. but the surplus was to be given to the poor. the parties were to enter into arbitration-bonds, as is usual upon such occasions. each party was to choose out of this association or standing committee, one arbitrator for himself, and the association were to choose or to ballot for a third. and here it will be proper to observe, that this standing association appeared to be capable of affording arbitrators equal to the determination of every case. for, if the matter in dispute between the two parties were to happen to be a mercantile question, there were merchants in the association: if a question relative to shipping, there were ship-owners in it: if a question of insurance, there were insurance-brokers also. a man could hardly fail of having his case determined by persons who were competent to the task. though this beautiful institution was thus publicly introduced, and introduced with considerable expectations and applause, cases came in but slowly. custom and prejudice are not to be rooted out in a moment. in process of time, however, several were offered, considered, and decided, and the presumption was, that the institution would have grown with time. of those cases which were determined, some, relating to ships, were found to be particularly intricate, and cost the arbitrators considerable time and trouble. the verdicts, however, which were given, were in all of them satisfactory. the institution, at length became so popular, that, incredible to relate, its own popularity destroyed it! so many persons were ambitious of the honour of becoming members of the committee, that some of inferior knowledge, and judgment, and character, were too hastily admitted into it. the consequence was, that people dared not trust their affairs to the abilities of every member: and the institution expired, after having rendered important services to numerous individuals who had tried it. when we consider that this institution has been tried, and that the scheme of it has been found practicable, it is a pity that its benefits should have been confined, and this for so short a period, to a single town. would it not be desirable, if, in every district, a number of farmers were to give in their names to form a standing committee, for the settlement of disputes between farmer and farmer? or that there should be a similar institution among manufacturers, who should decide between one manufacturer and another? would it not also be desirable, if, in every parish, a number of gentlemen, or other respectable persons, were to associate for the purpose of accommodating the differences of each other? for this beautiful system is capable of being carried to any extent, and of being adapted to all stations and conditions of life. by these means numerous little funds might be established in numerous districts, from the surplus of which an opportunity would be afforded of adding to the comforts of such of the poor, as were to distinguish themselves by their good behaviour, whether as labourers for farmers, manufacturers, or others. by these means also many of the quarrels in parishes might be settled to the mutual satisfaction of the parties concerned, and, in so short a space of time, as to prevent them from contracting a rancorous and a wounding edge. those, on the other hand, who were to assist in these arbitrations, would be amply repaid; for they would be thus giving an opportunity of growth to the benevolence of their affections, and they would have the pleasing reflection, that the tendency of their labours would be to produce peace and good will amongst men. chap. vi. sect. i. _management of the poor--quakers never seen as beggars--george fox began the provision for the quaker-poor--monthly meetings appoint overseers--persons passed over are to apply for relief and the disorderly may receive it in certain cases--manner of collecting for the poor--if burthensome in one monthly meeting, the burthen shared by the quarterly--quakers gain settlements by monthly meetings, as the other poor of the kingdom, by parishes._ there are few parts of the quaker-constitution, that are more worthy of commendation, than that which relates to the poor. all the members of this society are considered as brethren, and as entitled to support from one another. if our streets and our roads are infested by miserable objects, imploring our pity, no quaker will be found among them. a quaker-beggar would be a phenomenon in the world. it does not, however, follow from this account, that there are no poor quakers, or that members of this society are not born in a dependent state. the truth is, that there are poor as well as rich, but the wants of the former are so well provided for, that they are not publicly seen, like the wants of others. george fox, as he was the founder of the religion of the quakers, i mean of a system of renovated christianity, so he was the author of the beautiful system by which they make a provision for their poor. as a christian, he considered the poor of every description, as members of the same family, but particularly those, who were of the household of faith. consistently with this opinion, he advised the establishment of general meetings in his own time, a special part of whose business it was to take due care of the poor. these meetings excited at first the vigilance and anger of the magistrates; but when they came to see the regulations made by the quakers, in order that none of their poor might become burthensome to their parishes, they went away--whatever they might think of some of their new tenets of religion--in admiration of their benevolence. the quakers of the present day consider their poor in the same light as their venerable elder, namely, as members of the same family, whose wants it is their duty to relieve; and they provide for them nearly in the same manner. they intrust this important concern to the monthly meetings, which are the executive branches of the quaker constitution. the monthly meetings generally appoint four overseers, two men and two women, over each particular meeting within their own jurisdiction, if their number will admit of it. it is the duty of these, to visit such of the poor as are in membership, of the men to visit the men, but of the women sometimes to visit both. the reason, why this double burthen is laid upon the women-overseers, is, that women know more of domestic concerns, more of the wants of families, more of the manner of providing for them, and are better advisers, and better nurses in sickness, than the men. whatever these overseers find wanting in the course of their visits, whether money, clothes, medicine, or medical advice and attention, they order them, and the treasurer of the monthly meetings settles the different accounts. i may observe here, that it is not easy for overseers to neglect their duty; for an inquiry is made three times in the year, of the monthly meetings by the quarterly, whether the necessities of the poor are properly inspected and relieved[ ]. i may observe also that the poor, who may stand in need of relief, are always relieved privately, i mean, at their respective homes. [footnote : in london a committee is appointed for each poor person. thus, for example, two women are appointed to attend to the wants and comfort of one poor old woman.] it is however possible, that there may be persons, who, from a variety of unlocked for causes, may be brought into distress, and whose case, never having been suspected, may be passed over. but persons, in this situation, are desired to apply, for assistance. it is also a rule in the society, that even persons whose conduct is disorderly, are to be relieved, if such conduct has not been objected to by their own monthly meeting. "the want of due care, says the book of extracts, in watching diligently over the flock, and in dealing in due time with such as walk disorderly, hath, brought great difficulties on some meetings; for we think it both unreasonable and dishonourable, when persons apply to monthly meetings for relief in cases of necessity, then to object to them such offences as the meeting, through neglect of its own duty, hath suffered long to pass by, unreproved and unnoticed." the poor are supported by charitable collections from the body at large; or, in other words, every monthly meeting supports its own poor. the collections for them are usually made once a month, but in some places once a quarter, and in others at no stated times but when the treasurer declares them necessary, and the monthly meeting approves. members are expected to contribute in proportion to their circumstances; but persons in a low situation, and servants, are generally excused upon these occasions. it happens in the districts of some monthly meetings, that there are found only few persons of property, but a numerous poor, so that the former are unable to do justice in their provision for the latter. the society have therefore resolved, when the poor are too numerous to be supported by their own monthly meetings, that the collection for them shall be made up out of the quarterly meeting, to which the said monthly meeting belongs. this is the same thing as if any particular parish were unable to pay the rates for the poor, and as if all the other parishes in the county were made to contribute towards the same. on this subject i may observe, that the quaker-poor are attached to their monthly meetings, as the common poor of the kingdom are attached to their parishes, and that they gain settlements in these nearly in the same manner. sect. ii. _education of the children of the poor particularly insisted upon and provided for by the quakers--the bays usually pat out to apprenticeship--the girls to service--the latter not sufficiently numerous for the quaker-families, who want them--the rich have not their proper proportion of these in their service--reasons of it--character of the quaker poor._ as the quakers are particularly attentive to the wants of the poor, so they are no less attentive to the education of their offspring. these are all of them to receive their education at the public expense. the same overseers, as in the former case, are to take care of it, and the same funds to support it. an inquiry is therefore made three times in the year into this subject. "the children of the poor, says the book of extracts, are to have due help of education, instruction, and necessary learning. the families also of the poor are to be provided with bibles, and books of the society, at the expense of the monthly meetings. and as spine members may be straitened in their circumstances, and may refuse, out of delicacy, to apply for aid towards the education of their children, it is earnestly recommended to friends in every monthly meeting, to look out for persons who may be thus straitened, and to take care that their children shall receive instruction: and it is recommended to the parents of such, not to refuse this salutary aid, but to receive it with a willing mind, and with thankfulness to the great author of all good." when the boys have received their necessary learning, they are usually put out as apprentices to husbandry or trade. domestic service is generally considered by their parents as unmanly, and as a nursery for idleness. boys too, who can read and write, ought to expect, with the accustomed diligence and sobriety of quakers, to arrive at a better situation in life. the girls, however, are destined in general for service: for it must be obvious, whatever their education may be, that the same number of employments is not open to women as to men. of those again, which are open, some are objectionable. a quaker-girl, for example, could not consistently be put an apprentice to a milliner. neither if a cotton-manufactory were in the neighbourhood, could her parents send her to such a nursery of debauchery and vice. from these and other considerations, and because domestic employments belong to women, their parents generally think it advisable to bring them up to service, and to place them in the families of friends. it is a remarkable circumstance, when we consider it to be recommended that quaker-masters of families should take quaker-servants, that persons of the latter description are not to be found sufficiently numerous for those who want them. this is probably a proof of the thriving situation of this society. it is remarkable again, that the rich have by no means their proportion of such servants. those of the wealthy, who are exemplary, get them if they can. others decline their services. of these, some do it from good motives; for, knowing that it would be difficult to make up their complement of servants from the society, they do not wish to break in upon the customs and morals of those belonging to it, by mixing them with others. the rest, who mix more with the world, are, as i have been informed, fearful of having them, lest they should be overseers of their words and manners. for it is in the essence of the quaker-discipline, as i observed upon that subject, that every member should watch over another for his good. there are no exceptions as to persons. the servant has as much right to watch over his master with respect to his religions conduct and conversation, as the master over his servant; and he has also a right, if his master violates the discipline, to speak to him, in a respectful manner, for so doing. nor would a quaker-servant, if he were well grounded in the principles of the society, and felt it to be his duty, want the courage to speak his mind upon such occasions. there have been instances, where this has happened, and where the master, in the true spirit of his religion, has not felt himself insulted by such interference, but has looked upon his servant afterwards as more worthy of his confidence and esteem. such a right, however, of remonstrance, is, i presume, but rarely exercised. i cannot conclude this subject without saying a few words on the character of the quaker-poor. in the first place i may observe, that one of the great traits in their character is independence of mind. when you converse with them, you find them attentive, civil, and obliging, but you see no marks of servility about them, and you hear no flattery from their lips. it is not the custom in this society, even for the poorest member to bow or pull off his hat, or to observe any outward obeisance to another, who may happen to be rich. such customs are forbidden to all on religious principle. in consequence, therefore, of the omission of such ceremonious practices, his mind has never been made to bend on the approach of superior rank. nor has he seen, in his own society, any thing that could lessen his own importance or dignity as a man. he is admitted into the meetings of discipline equally with the rich. he has a voice equally with them in all matters that are agitated there. from these causes a manliness of mind is produced, which is not seen among any other of the poor in the inland in which we live. it may also be mentioned as a second trait, that they possess extraordinary knowledge. every quaker-boy or girl, who comes into the world, must, however poor, if the discipline of the society be kept up, receive an education. all, therefore, who are born in the society, must be able to read and write. thus the keys of knowledge are put into their hands. hence we find them attaining a superior literal and historical knowledge of the scriptures, a superior knowledge of human nature, and a knowledge that sets them above many of the superstitions of those in their own rank in life. another trait conspicuous in the character of the quaker-poor, is the morality of their lives. this circumstance may easily be accounted for. for, in the first place, they are hindered in common with other quakers, by means of their discipline, from doing many things, that are morally injurious to themselves. the poor of the world are addicted to profane swearing. but no person can bring the name of the creator of the universe into frequent and ordinary use, without losing a sense of the veneration that is due to him. the poor of the world, again, frequently spend their time in public houses. they fight and quarrel with one another. they run after horse-racings, bull-baitings, cock-fightings, and the still more unnatural battles between man and man. but, by encouraging such habits, they cannot but obstruct in time, the natural risings of benevolence both towards their fellow-creatures and to those of the animal creation. nor can they do otherwise than lose a sense of the dignity of their own minds, and weaken the moral principle. but the quaker-poor, who are principled against such customs, can of course suffer no moral injury on these accounts. to which it may be added, that their superior knowledge both leads and attaches them to a superior conduct. it is a false, as well as a barbarous maxim, and a maxim very injurious both to the interests of the rich and poor, as well as of the states to which they belong, that knowledge is unpropitious to virtue. religion of the quakers. vol. ii. religion of the quakers. introduction. _religion of the quakers--invitation to a patient perusal of this part of the work--no design, by this invitation, to proselyte to quakerism--all systems of religion, that are founded on the principles of christianity, are capable, if heartily embraced, of producing present and future happiness to man--no censure of another's creed warrantable, inasmuch as the human understanding is finite--object of this invitation._ having explained very diffusively the great subjects, the moral education, discipline, and peculiar customs, of the quakers, i purpose to allot the remaining part of this volume to the consideration of their religion. i know that persons, who are religiously disposed will follow me patiently through this division of my work, not only because religion is the most important of all subjects that can be agitated, but because, in the explanation of the religious systems of others, some light may arise, which, though it be not new to all, may yet be new and acceptable to many. i am aware, however, that there are some who direct their reading to light subjects, and to whom such as are serious may appear burthensome. if any such should have been induced, by any particular motive, to take this book into their hands, and to accompany me thus far, i entreat a continuation of their patience, till i have carried them through the different parts and divisions of the present subject. i have no view, in thus soliciting the attention of those who are more, or of those who are less religiously disposed, to attempt to proselyte to quakerism. if men do but fear god, and work righteousness, whatever their christian denomination may be, it is sufficient. every system of religion which is founded on the principles of christianity, must be capable, if heartily embraced, of producing temporal and eternal happiness to man. at least, man with his limited understanding, cannot pronounce with any absolute certainty, that his own system is so far preferable to that of his neighbour, that it is positively the best, or that there will be any material difference in the future happiness of those who follow the one or the other; or that the pure professors of each shall not have their peculiar rewards. the truth is, that each system has its own merits. each embraces great and sublime objects. and if good men have existed, as none can reasonably deny, before christianity was known, it would be a libel on christianity, to suppose either that good men had not existed since, or that good christians would not be ultimately happy, though following systems differing from those of one another. indeed, every christian community has a great deal to say in the defence of its own tenets. almost all christian churches have produced great characters; and there are none, i should hope, that had not been the authors of religious good. the church of england, in attempting to purify herself at the reformation, effected a great work. since that time she has produced at different periods, and continues to produce, both great and good men. by means of her universities, she has given forth, and keeps up and disseminates, a considerable portion of knowledge; and though this, in the opinion of the quakers, is not necessary for those who are to become ministers of the gospel, it cannot be denied that it is a source of temporary happiness to man; that it enlarges the scope of his rational and moral understanding, and that it leads to great and sublime discoveries, which become eminently beneficial to mankind. since that time she has also been an instrument of spreading over this kingdom a great portion of religious light, which has had its influence in the production of moral character. but though i bestow this encomium upon the established church, i should be chargeable with partiality and injustice, if i were not to allow, that among the dissenters of various descriptions, learned, pious, and great men, had been regularly and successively produced. and it must be confessed, and reflected upon with pleasure, that these, in proportion to their numbers, have been no less instrumental in the dissemination of religions knowledge, and in the production of religious conduct. i might go to large and populous towns and villages in the kingdom, and fully prove my assertion in the reformed manners of the poor, many of whom, before these pious visitations, had been remarkable for the profaneness of their lives. let us then not talk but with great deference and humility; with great tenderness and charity; with great thankfulness to the author of every good gift,--when we speak of the different systems that actuate the christian world. why should we consider our neighbour as an alien, and load him with reproaches, because he happens to differ from us in opinion about an article of faith? as long as there are men, so long will there be different measures of talents and understanding; and so long will they view things in a different light, and come to different conclusions concerning them. the eye of one man can see farther than that of another: so can the human mind, on the subject of speculative truths. this consideration should teach us humility and forbearance in judging of the religion of others. for who is he, who can say that he sees the farthest, or that his own system is the best? if such men as milton, whiston, boyle, locke, and newton, all agreeing in the profession of christianity, did not all think precisely alike concerning it, who art thou, with thy inferior capacity, who settest up the standard of thine own judgment as infallible? if thou sendest thy neighbour to perdition in the other world, because he does not agree in his creed with thee, know that he judges according to the best of his abilities, and that no more will be required of him. know also that thou thyself judgest like a worm of the earth; that thou dishonourest the almighty by thy reptile notions of him; and that in making him accord with thee in condemning one of his creatures for what thou conceivest to be the misunderstanding of a speculative proposition, thou treatest him like a man, as thou thyself art, with corporeal organs; with irritable passions, and with a limited intelligence. but if, besides this, thou condemnest thy neighbour in this world also, and feelest the spirit of persecution towards him, know that, whatever thy pretensions may be to religion, thou art not a christian. thou art not possessed of that charity or love, without which thou art but as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. having therefore no religious prejudices[ ] myself, except in favour of christianity, and holding no communion with the quakers, as a religions society, it cannot be likely that i should attempt to proselyte to quakerism. i wish only, as i stated in my introduction to this work, to make the quakers better known to their countrymen than they are at present. in this i think i have already succeeded, for i believe i have communicated many facts concerning them, which have never been related by others. but no people can be thoroughly known, or at least the character of a people cannot be thoroughly understood, except we are acquainted with their religion; much less can that of the quakers, who differ so materially, both in their appearance and practice, from the rest of their fellow-citizens. [footnote : though i conceive a charitable allowance ought to be made for the diversity of religious opinions among christians, i by no means intend to say, that it is not our duty to value the system of opinion which we think most consonant to the gospel, and to be wisely zealous for its support.] having thought it right to make these prefatory observations, i proceed to the prosecution of my work. chap. i. _the almighty created the universe by means of his spirit--and also man--he gave man, besides his intellect, an emanation from his own spirit, thus making him in his own image--but this image he lost--a portion, however, of the same spirit was continued to his posterity--these possessed it in different degrees--abraham, moses, and the prophets, had more of it than some others--jesus possessed it immeasurably, and without limit--evangelists and apostles possessed it, but in a limited manner, and in different degrees._ the quakers believe, that when the almighty created the universe, he effected it by means of the life, or vital or vivifying energy that was in his own spirit. "and the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the spirit of god moved upon the face of the waters." this life of the spirit has been differently named, but is concisely stiled by st. john the evangelist "the word" for he says, "in the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god. all things were made by him, and without him was not any thing made, that was made." the almighty also, by means of the same divine energy or life of the spirit which had thus created the universe, became the cause also of material life, and of vital functions. he called forth all animated nature into existence; for he "made the living creature after his kind." he created man also by the same power. he made his corporeal and organic nature. he furnished him also with intellect, or a mental understanding. by this latter gift he gave to man, what he had not given to other animated nature, the power of reason, by which he had the superiority over it, and by means of which he was enabled to guide himself in his temporal concerns. thus when he made the natural man, he made him a rational agent also. but he gave to man, at the same time, independently of this intellect or understanding, a spiritual faculty, or a portion of the life of his own spirit, to reside in him. this gift occasioned man to become more immediately, as it is expressed, the image of the almighty. it set him above the animal and rational part of his nature. it made him know things not intelligible solely by his reason. it made him spiritually minded. it enabled him to know his duty to god, and to hold a heavenly intercourse with his maker. adam then, the first man, independently of his rational faculties, received from the almighty into his own breast such an emanation from the life of his own spirit, as was sufficient to have enabled him both to hold, and to have continued, a spiritual intercourse with his maker, and to have preserved him in the state of innocence in which he had been created. as long as he lived in this divine light of the spirit, he remained in the image of god, and was perfectly happy; but, not attending faithfully and perseveringly to this his spiritual monitor, he fell into the snares of satan, or gave way to the temptations of sin. from this moment his condition became changed. for in the same manner as distemper occasions animal life to droop, and to lose its powers, and finally to cease, so unrighteousness, or his rebellion against the divine light of the spirit that was within him, occasioned a dissolution of his spiritual feelings and perceptions; for he became dead as it were, in consequence, as to any knowledge of god, or enjoyment of his presence[ ]. [footnote : it was said that, in the day in which adam should eat forbidden fruit, he should die; but he did not lose his animal life, or his rational nature. his loss therefore is usually considered by the quakers to have been a divine spiritual principle, which had been originally superadded to the animal and rational faculties.] it pleased the almighty, however, not wholly to abandon him in this wretched state, but he comforted him with the cheering promise that the seed of the woman should some time or other completely subdue sin, or to use the scriptural language, "should bruise the serpent's head;" or, in other words, as sin was of a spiritual nature, so it could only be overcome by a spiritual conqueror; and therefore that the same holy spirit, or word, or divine principle of light and life, which had appeared in creation, should dwell so entirely and without limit or measure, in the person or body of some one of his descendants, that sin should by him be entirely subdued. as god then poured into adam, the first man, a certain portion of his own spirit, or gave him a certain portion of the divine light, for the regulation of his spiritual conduct and the power of heavenly intercourse with himself, so he did not entirely cease from bestowing his spirit upon his posterity; or, in other words, he gave them a portion of that light which enlighteneth every man that cometh into the world. of the individuals therefore who succeeded adam, all received a portion of this light. some, however, enjoyed larger portions of it than others, according as they attended to its influences, or according to the measure given them. of those who possessed the greatest share of it, some were the ancient patriarchs, such as noah and abraham, and others were the ancient scriptural writers, such as moses and the prophets. the latter again experienced it in different measures or degrees; and in proportion as they had it, they delivered more or less those prophecies which are usually considered as inspired truths, from a belief that many of them have been circumstantially completed. at length, in the fulness of time, that is, when all things had been fulfilled which were previously to take place, this divine spirit, which had appeared in creation, this divine word, or light, took flesh, (for, as st. john the evangelist says, "the word was made flesh, and dwelled among us,") and inhabited "the body which had been prepared for it;" or, in other words, it inhabited the body of the person jesus; but with this difference, that whereas only a portion of this divine light or spirit had been given to adam, and afterwards to the prophets, it was given without limit or measure to the man jesus[ ]. "for he whom god hath sent, says st. john, speaketh the words of god, _for god giveth not the spirit by measure unto him."_ and st. paul says, [ ] "in him _the fulness of the godhead_ dwelled bodily." in him, therefore, the promise given to adam was accomplished, "that the seed of the woman should bruise the serpent's head;" for we see in this case a human body, weak and infirm, and subject to passions, possessed or occupied, without limit or measure, by the spirit of god. but if the man jesus had the full spirit of god within him, he could not be otherwise than, perfectly holy. and if so, sin never could have entered, and must therefore, as for as relates to him, have been entirely repelled. thus he answered the prophetic character which had been given of him, independently of his victory over sin by the sacrifice of himself, or by becoming afterwards a comforter to those in bondage, who should be willing to receive him. [footnote : john : ] [footnote : col. : ] after jesus christ came the evangelists and apostles. of the same spirit which he had possessed _immeasurably_, these had their several portions; and though these were[ ] limited, and differed in degree front one another, they were sufficient to enable them to do their duty to god and men, to enjoy the presence of the almighty, and to promote the purposes designed by him in the propagation of his gospel. [footnote : cor. . .] chap. ii. _except a man has a portion of the same spirit, which jesus and the prophets and the apostles had, he can have no knowledge of god or spiritual things--doctrine of st. paul on this subject--this confirms the history of the human and divine spirit in man--these spirits distinct in their kind--this distinction farther elucidated by a comparison between the faculties of men and brutes--sentiments of augustin--luther--calvin--smith--taylor--cudworth._ the quakers believe, that there can be no spiritual knowledge of god, but through the medium of his holy spirit; or, in other words, that if men have not a portion of the same spirit which the holy men of old, and which the evangelists and apostles, and which jesus himself had, they can have no true or vital religion. in favour of this proposition, they usually quote those remarkable words of the apostle paul;[ ] "for what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of a man which is in him? even so the things of god knoweth no man, but the spirit of god. now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the spirit which is of god, that we might know the things that are freely given to us of god." and again--"but the natural man receiveth not the things of the spirit of god, for they are foolishness to him; neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned." [footnote : cor. . , &c.] by these expressions the quakers conceive that the history of man, as explained in the last chapter, is confirmed; or that the almighty not only gave to man reason, which was to assist him in his temporal, but also superadded a portion of his own spirit, which was to assist him in his spiritual concerns. they conceive it also to be still farther confirmed by other expressions of the same apostle. in his first letter to the corinthians, he says,[ ] "know ye not that your body is the _temple of the holy ghost_, which _is in you_, which ye have of god;" and in his letter to timothy he desires him[ ] "to hold fast that good thing which was committed to him by means of the _holy_ ghost, which _dwelled in him_" now these expressions can only be accurate on a supposition of the truth of the history of man, as explained in the former chapter. if this history be true, then they are considered as words of course: for if there be a communication between the supreme being and his creature man, or if the almighty has afforded to man an emanation of his own spirit, which is to act for a time in his mortal body, and then to return to him that gave it, we may say, with great consistency, that the divinity resides in him, or that his body is the temple of the holy spirit. [footnote : cor. . .] [footnote : tim. . .] the quakers conceive again from these expressions of the apostle, that these two principles in man are different from each other; they are mentioned under the distinct names of the spirit of man, and of the spirit of god. the former they suppose to relate to the understanding: the latter conjointly to the understanding and to the heart. the former can be brought into use at all times, if the body of a man be in health. the latter is not at his own disposal. man must wait for its inspirations. like the wind, it bloweth when it listeth. man also, when he feels this divine influence, feels that it is distinct from his reason. when it is gone, he feels the loss of it, though all his rational faculties be alive. "those, says alexander arscott, who have this experience, certainly know that as at times, in their silent retirements and humble waitings upon god, they receive an understanding of his will, relating to their present duty, in such a clear light as leaves no doubt or hesitation, so at other times, when this is withdrawn from them, they are at a loss again, and see themselves, as they really are, ignorant and destitute." the quakers again understand by these expressions of the apostle, which is the point insisted upon in this chapter, that human reason, or the spirit of man which is within him, and the divine principle of life and light which is the spirit of god residing in his body or temple, are so different in their powers, that the former cannot enter into the province of the latter. as water cannot penetrate the same bodies, which fire can, so neither can reason the same subjects as the spiritual faculty. the quakers, however, do not deny, that human reason is powerful within its own province. it may discover in the beautiful structure of the universe, and in the harmony and fitness of all its parts, the hand of a great contriver. it may conclude upon attributes, as belonging to the same. it may see the fitness of virtue, and deduce from thence a speculative morality. they only say that it, is incompetent to spiritual discernment. but though they believe the two spirits to be thus distinct in their powers, they believe them, i apprehend, to be so far connected in religion that the spirit of god can only act upon a reasonable being. thus light and the power of sight are distinct things. yet the power of sight is nothing without light, nor can light operate upon any other organ than the eye to produce vision. this proposition may be farther elucidated by making a comparison between the powers of men, and those of the brute-creation. an animal is compounded of body and instinct. if we were to endeavour to cultivate this instinct, we might make the animal tame and obedient. we might impress his sensitive powers, so that he might stop or go forward at our voice. we might bring him in some instances, to an imitation of outward gestures and sounds. bat all the years of his life, and centuries of life in his progeny would pass away, and we should never be able so to improve his instinct into intellect, as to make him comprehend the affairs of a man. he would never understand the meaning of his goings in, or of his goings out, or of his pursuits in life, or of his progress in science. so neither could any education so improve the reason of man into the divine principle of light within him, as that he should understand spiritual things; for the things of god are only discernible by the spirit of god. this doctrine, that there is no understanding of divine things except through the medium of the divine principle, which dwells in the temple of man, was no particular notion of george fox, or of the succeeding quakers, though undoubtedly they have founded more upon it than other christians. those, who had the earliest access to the writings of the evangelists and apostles, believed the proposition. all the ancient fathers of the church considered it as the corner stone of the christian fabric. the most celebrated of the reformers held it in the same light. the divines, who followed these, adopted it as their creed also; and by these it has been handed down to other christian communities, and is retained as an essential doctrine by the church of england, at the present day. the quakers adduce many authorities in behalf of this proposition, but the following may suffice. "it is the inward master, says st. augustine, that teacheth. where this inspiration is wanting, it is in vain that words from without are beaten in." luther says, "no man can rightly know god, unless he immediately receives it from his holy spirit, except he finds it by experience in himself; and in this experience the holy spirit teacheth as in his proper school, out of which school nothing is taught but mere talk." calvin, on luke . . says, "here the natural wisdom of man is so puzzled, and is at such a loss, that the first step of profiting in the school of christ is to give it up or renounce it. for by this natural wisdom, as by a veil before our eyes, we are hindered from attaining the mysteries of god, which are not revealed but unto babes and little ones. for neither do flesh and blood reveal, nor doth the natural man perceive, the things that are of the spirit. but the doctrine of god is rather foolishness to him, because it can only be spiritually judged. the assistance therefore of the holy spirit is in this case necessary, or rather, his power alone is efficacious." dr. smith observes, in his select discourses, "besides the outward revelation of god's will to men, there is also an inward impression of it in their minds and spirits, which is in a more especial manner attributed to god. we cannot see divine things but in a divine light. god only, who is the true light, and in whom there is no darkness at all, can so shine out of himself upon our glossy understandings, as to beget in them a picture of himself, his own will and pleasure, and turn the soul (as the phrase is in job) like wax or clay to the seal of his own light and love. he that made our souls in his own image and likeness, can easily find a way into them. the word that god speaks, having found a way into the soul, imprints itself there, as with the point of a diamond, and becomes (to borrow plato's expression) 'a word written in the soul of the learner.' men may teach the grammar and rhetoric; but god teaches the divinity. thus it is god alone that acquaints the soul with the truths of revelation." the learned jeremy taylor, bishop of down and connor, speaks in a similar manner in his sermon de viâ intelligentiae. "now in this inquiry, says he, i must take one thing for granted, which is, that every good man is taught of god. and indeed, unless he teach us, we shall make but ill scholars ourselves, and worse guides to others. no man can know god, says irenaeus, except he be taught of god. if god teaches us, then all is well; but if we do not learn wisdom at his feet, from whence should we have it? it can come from no other spring." again--"those who perfect holiness in the fear of god, have a degree of divine knowledge more than we can discourse of, and more certain than the demonstration of geometry; brighter than the sun, and indeficient as the light of heaven--a good man is united to god--as flame touches flame, and combines into splendour and into glory, so is the spirit of a man united to christ by the spirit of god. our light, on the other hand, is like a candle; every word of doctrine blows it out, or spends the wax, and makes the light tremulous. but the lights of heaven are fixed and bright and shine for ever." cudworth, in his intellectual system, is wholly of the same opinion: "all the books and writings which we converse with, they can but represent spiritual objects to our understanding, which yet we can never see in their own true figure, colour, and proportion, until we have a divine light within to irradiate and shine upon them. though there be never such excellent truths concerning christ and his gospel, set down in words and letters, yet they will be but unknown characters to us, until we have a living spirit within us, that can decypher them, until the same spirit, by secret whispers in our hearts, do comment upon them, which did at first indite them. there be many that understand the greek and hebrew of the scripture, the original languages in which the text was written, that never understood the language of the spirit." chap. iii. _neither can a man, except he has a portion of the same spirit which jesus and the apostles and the prophets had, know spiritualty that the scriptures are of divine authority, or spiritually understand them--explanation of these tenets--objection, that these tenets set aside human reason--reply of the quakers--observations of luther--calvin--owen--archbishop usher--archbishop sandys--milton --bishop taylor._ as a man cannot know spiritual things but through the medium of the spirit of god; or except he has a portion of the same spirit, which jesus and the prophets and the apostles had, so neither can he, except he has a portion of the same spirit, either spiritually know that the writings or sayings of these holy persons are of divine authority, or read or understand them, to the promotion of his spiritual interests. these two tenets are but deductions from that in the former chapter, and may be thus explained. a man, the quakers say, may examine the holy scriptures, and may deduce their divine origin from the prophecies they contain, of which many have been since accomplished; from the superiority of their doctrines beyond those in any other book which is the work of man; from the miraculous preservation of them for so many ages; from the harmony of all their parts, and from many other circumstances which might be mentioned. but this, after all, will be but an historical, literal, or outward proof of their origin, resulting from his reason or his judgment. it will be no spiritual proof, having a spiritual influence on his heart; for this proof of the divine origin of the scriptures can only be had from the spirit of god. thus, when the apostle paul preached to several women by the river side near philippi, it is said of lydia only,[ ] "the lord opened her heart, that she attended to the things that were spoken by paul." the other women undoubtedly heard the gospel of paul with their outward ears, but it does not appear that their hearts were in such a spiritual state, that they felt its divine authority; for it is not said of them, as of lydia, that their hearts were opened to understand spiritually that this gospel was of god. again,[ ] when jesus christ preached to the jews in the temple, many believed on him, but others believed not, but were so enraged that they took up stones to cast at him. it appears that they all heard his doctrine with their outward ears, in which he particularly stated that he was from above; but they did not receive the truth of his origin in their hearts, because they were not in a state to receive that faith which cometh from the spirit of god. in the same manner persons hear sermon after sermon at the present day, but find no spiritual benefit in their hearts. [footnote : acts . ] [footnote : john . . . .] again--a man, by comparing passages of scripture with other passages, and by considering the use and acceptation of words in these, may arrive at a knowledge of their literal meaning. he may obtain also, by perusing the scriptures, a knowledge of some of the attributes of god. he may discover a part of the plan of his providence. he may collect purer moral truths than from any other source. but no literal reading of the scriptures can give him that spiritual knowledge of divine things, which leads to eternal life. the scriptures, if literally read, will give him a literal or corresponding knowledge, but it is only the spiritual monitor within, who can apply them to his feelings; who can tell him "thou art the man; this is thy state: this is that which thou oughtest or oughtest not to have done;" so that he sees spiritually, (the spirit of god bearing witness with his own spirit) that his own situation has been described. indeed, if the scriptures were sufficient of themselves for this latter purpose, the quakers say that the knowledge of spiritual things would consist in the knowledge of words. they, who were to get most of the divine writings by heart, would know spiritually the most of divine truths. the man of the best understanding, or of the most cultivated mind, would be the best proficient in vital religion. but this is contrary to fact. for men of deep learning know frequently less of spiritual christianity, than those of the poor, who are scarcely able to read the scriptures. they contend also, that if the scriptures were the most vitally understood by those of the most learning, then the dispensations of god would be partial, inasmuch as he would have excluded the poor from the highest enjoyments of which the nature of man is susceptible, and from the means of their eternal salvation. these tenets, which are thus adopted by the quakers, are considered by many of the moderns as objectionable, inasmuch as they make reason, at least in theology, a useless gift. the quakers, however, contend that they consider reason as one of the inestimable gifts of god. they value it highly in its proper province. they do not exclude it from religion. men, by means of it, may correct literal errors in the scriptures; may restore texts, may refute doctrines inconsistent with the attributes of the almighty. the apology of robert barclay, which is a chain of reasoning of this kind from the begining to the end, is a proof that they do not undervalue the powers of the mind. but they dare not ascribe to human reason that power, which they believe to be exclusively vested in the spirit of god. they say, moreover, that these tenets are neither new nor peculiar to themselves as a society. they were the doctrines of the primitive fathers. they. were the doctrines also of the protestant reformers. and though many at the present day consider that scripture, interpreted by reason, is the religion of protestants, yet it was the general belief of these reformers, that the teaching of the holy spirit was necessary to the spiritual understanding of the scriptures, as well as to the spiritual establishment of their divine origin. luther observes--"it is not human reason, or wisdom, nor the law of god, but the work of divine grace freely bestowed upon me, that teacheth me and showeth me the gospel: and this gift of god i receive by faith alone." "the scriptures are not to be understood but by the same spirit by which they were written." "no man sees one jot or tittle in the scriptures, unless he has the spirit of god." "profane men, says calvin, desire to have it proved to them by reason, that moses and the prophets spoke from god. and to such i answer, that the testimony of the spirit exceeds all reason. for as god alone is a sufficient witness of himself in his word, so will his word not find credit in the hearts of men, until it is sealed by the inward testimony of his spirit. it is therefore necessary, that the same spirit which spake by the mouth of the prophets, enter into our hearts to persuade us, that they faithfully declared what was commanded them by god." again--"unless we have the assurance which is better and more valid than any judgment of man, it will be in vain to go about to establish the authority of scripture, either by argument or the consent of the church; for except the foundation be laid, namely, that the certainty of its divine authority depends entirely upon the testimony of the spirit, it remains in perpetual suspense." again--"the spirit of god, from whom the doctrine of the gospel proceeds, is the only true interpreter to open it to us." "divines, says the learned owen, at the first reformation, did generally resolve our faith of the divine authority of the scriptures, into the testimony of the holy spirit;" in which belief he joins himself, by stating that "it is the work of the holy spirit to enable us to believe the scripture to be the word of god." in another place he says, "our divines have long since laid it down, that the only public, authentic, and infallible interpreter of the holy scriptures, is the author of them, from whose inspiration they receive all their truth, clearness, and authority. this author is the holy spirit." archbishop sandys, in one of his sermons, preached before queen elizabeth, has the following observations: "the outward reading of the word, without the inward working of the spirit, is nothing. the precise pharisees, and the learned scribes, read the scriptures over and over again. they not only read them in books, but wore them on their garments. they were not only taught, but were able themselves to teach others. but because this heavenly teacher had not instructed them, their understanding was darkened, and their knowledge was but vanity. they were ignorant altogether in that saving truth, which the prophet david was so desirous to learn. the mysteries of salvation were so hard to be conceived by the very apostles of christ jesus, that he was forced many times to rebuke them for their dulness, which unless he had removed by opening the eyes of their minds, they could never have attained to the knowledge of salvation in christ jesus. the ears of that woman lydia would have been as close shut against the preaching of paul, as any others, if the finger of god had not touched and opened her heart. as many as learn, they are taught of god." archbishop usher, in his sum and substance of the christian religion, observes, "that it is required that we have the spirit of god, as well to open our eyes to see the light, as to seal up fully in our hearts that truth, which we can see with our eyes: for the same holy spirit that inspired the scripture, inclineth the hearts of god's children to believe what is revealed in them, and inwardly assureth them, above all reasons and arguments, that these are the scriptures of god." and farther on in the same work, he says, "the spirit of god alone is the certain interpreter of his word written by his spirit; for no man knoweth the things pertaining to god, but the spirit of god." our great milton also gives us a similar opinion in the following words, which are taken from his paradise lost: ----"but in their room---- wolves shall succeed for teachers, grievous wolves, who all the sacred mysteries of heaven to their own vile advantages shall turn of lucre and ambition, and the truth with superstition's and tradition's taint, left only in those written records pure, though not but by the spirit understood." of the same mind was the learned bishop taylor, as we collect from his sermon de viâ intelligentiae. "for although the scriptures, says he, are written by the spirit of god, yet they are written within and without. and besides the light that shines upon the face of them, unless there be a light shining within our hearts, unfolding the leaves, and interpreting the mysterious sense of the spirit, convincing our consciences, and preaching to our hearts; to look for christ in the leaves of the gospel, is to look for the living among the dead. there is a life in them; but that life is, according to st. paul's expression, 'hid with christ in god;' and unless the spirit of god first draw it, we shall never draw it forth." "human learning brings excellent ministeries towards this. it is admirably useful for the reproof of heresies, for the detection of fallacies, for the letter of the scripture, for collateral testimonies, for exterior advantages; but there is something beyond this that human learning, without the addition of divine, can never reach. moses was learned in all the learning of the egyptians; and the holy men of god contemplated the glories of god in the admirable order, motion, and influences of the heaven; but, besides all this, they were taught something far beyond these prettinesses. pythagoras read moses' books, and so did plato, and yet they became not proselytes of the religion, though they were the learned scholars of such a master." chap. iv. _the spirit of god which has been thus given to man in different degrees, was given him as a spiritual teacher, or guide, in his spiritual concerns--it performs this office, the quakers say, by internal monitions--sentiments of taylor--and of monro--and, if encouraged, it teaches even by the external objects of the creation--william wordsworth._ the quakers believe that the spirit of god, which has been thus given to man in different degrees or measures, and without which it is impossible to know spiritual things, or even to understand the divine writings spiritually, or to be assured of their divine origin, was given to him, among other purposes, as a teacher of good and evil, or to serve him as a guide in his spiritual concerns. by this the quakers mean, that if any man will give himself up to the directions of the spiritual principle that resides within him, he will attain a knowledge sufficient to enable him to discover the path of his duty both to god and his fellow-man. that the spirit of god was given to man as a spiritual instructor, the quakers conceive to be plain, from a number of passages, which are to be found in the sacred writings. they say, in the first place, that it was the language of the holy men of old. [ ] "i said, says elihu, days should speak, and multitude of years should teach wisdom. but there is a spirit (or the spirit itself is) in man, and the inspiration of the almighty giveth him understanding." the levites are found also making an acknowledgment to god; [ ] "that he gave also their forefathers his good spirit to instruct them." the psalms of david are also full of the same language, such as of [ ] "shew me thy ways, o lord; lead me in the truth." [ ] "i know, says jeremiah, that the way of man is not in himself. it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps." the martyr stephen acknowledges the teachings of the spirit, both in his own time and in that of his ancestors. [ ] "ye stiff-necked, and uncircumcised in heart and ears, ye do always resist the holy spirit. as your fathers did, so do ye." the quakers also conceive it to be a doctrine of the gospel. jesus himself said, [ ] "no man can come to me except the father, which sent me, draw him--it is written in the prophets, they shall all be taught of god." [ ]st. john says, "that was the true light, (namely, the word or spirit) which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." st. paul, in his first letter to the corinthians, asserts, [ ]that "the manifestation of the spirit is given to every man to profit withal." and, in his letter to titus, he asserts the same thing, though in different words: [ ] "for the grace of god, says he, which bringeth salvation, hath appeared unto all men." [footnote : job . .] [footnote : nehemiah . .] [footnote : psalm . .] [footnote : jeremiah . .] [footnote : acts . .] [footnote : john . . ] [footnote : john . .] [footnote : i cor. . .] [footnote : titus . .] the spirit of god, which has been thus given to man as a spiritual guide, is considered by the quakers as teaching him in various ways. it inspires him with good thoughts. it prompts him to good offices. it checks him in his way to evil. it reproves him while in the act of committing it. the learned jeremy taylor was of the same opinion. "the spirit of grace, says he, is the spirit of wisdom, and teaches us by secret inspirations, by proper arguments, by actual persuasions, by personal applications, by effects and energies." this office of the spirit is beautifully described by monro, a divine of the established church, in his just measures of the pious institutions of youth, "the holy spirit, says he, speaks inwardly and immediately to the soul. for god is a spirit. the soul is a spirit; and they converse with one another in spirit, not by words, but by spiritual notices; which, however, are more intelligible than the most eloquent strains in the world. god makes himself to be heard by the soul by inward motions, which it perceives and comprehends proportionably as it is voided and emptied of earthly ideas. and the more the faculties of the soul cease their own operations, so much the more sensible and intelligible are the motions of god to it. these immediate communications from god with the souls of men are denied and derided by a great many. but that the father of spirits should have no converse with our spirits, but by the intervention only of outward and foreign objects, may justly seem strange, especially when we are so often told in holy scripture, that we are the temples of the holy ghost, and that god dwelleth in all good men." but this spirit is considered by the quakers not only as teaching by inward breathings, as it were, made immediately and directly upon the heart without the intervention of outward circumstances, but as making the material objects of the universe, and many of the occurrences of life, if it be properly attended to, subservient to the instruction of man; and that it enlarges the sphere of his instruction in this manner, in proportion as it is received and encouraged. thus the man, who is attentive to these divine notices, sees the animal, the vegetable, and the planetary world, with spiritual eyes. he cannot stir abroad, but he is taught in his own feelings, without any motion of his will, some lesson for his spiritual advantage; or he perceives so vitally some of the attributes of the divine being, that he is called upon to offer some spiritual incense to his maker. if the lamb frolics and gambols in his presence as he walks along, he may be made spiritually to see the beauty and happiness of innocence. if he finds the stately oak laid prostrate by the wind, he may be spiritually taught to discern the emptiness of human power; while the same spirit may teach him inwardly the advantage of humility, when he looks at the little hawthorn which has survived the storm. when he sees the change and the fall of the autumnal leaf, he may be spiritually admonished of his own change and dissolution, and of the necessity of a holy life. thus the spirit of god may teach men by outward objects and occurrences in the world; but where this spirit is away, or rather where it is not attended to, no such lesson can be taught. natural objects of themselves can excite only natural ideas: and the natural man, looking at them, can derive only natural pleasure, or draw natural conclusions from them. in looking at the sun, he may be pleased with its warmth, and anticipate its advantages to the vegetable world. in plucking and examining a flower, he may be struck with its beauty, its mechanism, and its fragrant smell. in observing the butterfly, as it wings its way before him, he may smile at its short journeys from place to place, and admire the splendour upon its wings. but the beauty of creation is dead to him, as far as it depends upon connecting it spiritually with the character of god. for no spiritual impression can arise from any natural objects, but through the intervention of the spirit of god. william wordsworth, in his instructive poems, has described this teaching by external objects in consequence of impressions from a higher power, as differing from any teaching by books or the human understanding, and as arising without any motion of the will of man, in so beautiful and simple a manner, that i cannot do otherwise than make an extract from them in this place. lively as the poem is, to which i allude, i conceive it will not lower the dignity of the subject. it is called expostulation and reply, and is as follows:[ ] why, william, on that old gray stone, thus for the length of half a day, why, william, sit you thus alone, and dream your time away? where are your books? that light bequeath'd to beings, else forlorn and blind, up! up! and drink the spirit breath'd from dead men to their kind. you look round on your mother earth, as if she for no purpose bore you, as if you were her first-born birth, and none had liv'd before you! one morning thus by esthwaite lake, when life was sweet, i knew not why, to me my good friend matthew spake, and that i made reply: the eye it cannot choose but see. we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel where'er they be, against or with our will. nor less i deem that there are powers, which of themselves our minds impress, that we can feed this mind of ours in a wise passiveness. think you,'mid all this mighty sum of things for ever speaking, that nothing of itself will come, but we must still be seeking? then ask not wherefore, here, alone, conversing as i may, i sit upon this old gray stone, and dream my time away? [footnote : see lyrical ballads, vol. . p. .] chap. v _this spirit was not only given to man as a teacher, but as a primary and infallible guide--hence the scriptures are a subordinate or secondary guide--quakers, however, do not undervalue them on this account--their opinion concerning them._ the spirit of god, which we have seen to be thus given to men as a spiritual teacher, and to act in the ways described, the quakers usually distinguish by the epithets of primary and infallible. but they have made another distinction with respect to the character of this spirit; for they have pronounced it to be the only infallible guide to men in their spiritual concerns. from this latter declaration the reader will naturally conclude, that the scriptures, which are the outward teachers of men, must be viewed by the quakers in a secondary light. this conclusion has indeed been adopted as a proposition in the quaker theology; or, in other words, it is a doctrine of the society, that the spirit of god is the primary and only infallible, and the scriptures but a subordinate or secondary guide. this proposition the quakers usually make out in the following manner: it is, in the first place, admitted by all christians, that the scriptures were given by inspiration, or that those who originally delivered or wrote the several parts of them, gave them forth by means of that spirit, which was given to them by god. now in the same manner as streams, or rivulets of water, are subordinate to the fountains which produce them; so those streams or rivulets of light must be subordinate to the great light from whence they originally sprung. "we cannot, says barclay, call the scriptures the principal fountain of all truth and knowledge, nor yet the first adequate rule of faith and manners; because the principal fountain of truth must be the truth itself, that is, whose certainty and authority depend not upon another." the scriptures are subordinate or secondary, again, in other points of view. first, because, though they are placed before us, we can only know or understand them by the testimony of the spirit. secondly, because there is no virtue or power in them of themselves, but in the spirit from whence they came. they are, again, but a secondary guide; because "that, says barclay, cannot be the only and principal guide, which doth not universally reach every individual that needeth it." but the scriptures do not teach deaf persons, nor children, nor idiots, nor an immense number of people, more than half the globe, who never yet saw or heard of them. these, therefore, if they are to be saved like others, must have a different or a more universal rule to guide them, or be taught from another source. they are only a secondary guide, again, for another reason. it is an acknowledged axiom among christians, that the spirit of god is a perfect spirit, and that it can never err. but the scriptures are neither perfect of themselves as a collection, nor are they perfect in their verbal parts. many of them have been lost. concerning those which have survived, there have been great disputes. certain parts of these, which one christian council received in the early times of the church, were rejected as not canonical by another. add to this, that none of the originals are extant. and of the copies, some have suffered by transcription, others by translation, and others by wilful mutilation, to support human notions of religion; so that there are various readings of the same passage, and various views of the same thing. "now what, says barclay, would become of christians, if they had not received that spirit and those spiritual senses, by which they know how to discover the true from the false? it is the privilege of christ's sheep, indeed, that they hear his voice, and refuse that of the stranger; which, privilege being taken away, we are left a prey to all manner of wolves." the scriptures, therefore, in consequence of the state in which they have come down to us, cannot, the quakers say, be considered to be a guide as entirely perfect as the internal testimony of their great author, the spirit of god. but though the quakers have thought it right, in submitting their religious creed to the world on this subject, to be so guarded in the wording of it as to make the distinction described, they are far from undervaluing the scriptures on that account. they believe, on the other hand, whatever mutilations they may have suffered, that they contain sufficient to guide men in belief and practice; and that all internal emotions, which are contrary to the declaration of these, are wholly inadmissible. "moreover, says barclay, because the scriptures are commonly acknowledged by all to have been written by the dictates of the holy spirit, and that the errors, which may be supposed by the injury of time to have slipt in, are not such but there is a sufficient clear testimony left to all the essentials of the christian faith, we do look upon them as the only fit outward judge of controversies among christians, and that whatsoever doctrine is contrary to their testimony, may therefore justly be rejected as false." the quakers believe also, that as god gave a portion of his spirit to man to assist him inwardly, so he gave the holy scriptures to assist him outwardly in his spiritual concerns. hence the latter, coming by inspiration, are the most precious of all books that ever were written, and the best outward guide. and hence the things contained in them, ought to be read, and, as far as possible, fulfilled. they believe, with the apostle paul, that the scriptures are highly useful, "so that, through patience and comfort of them, they may have hope; and also that they are profitable for reproof, for correction, and for instruction in righteousness:" that in the same manner as land, highly prepared and dressed by the husbandman, becomes fit for the reception and for the promotion of the growth of the seed that is to be placed in it, so the scriptures turn the attention of man towards god, and by means of the exhortations, reproofs, promises, and threatenings, contained in them, prepare the mind for the reception and growth of the seed of the holy spirit. they believe, again, that the same scriptures show more of the particulars of god's will with respect to man, and of the scheme of the gospel-dispensation, than any ordinary portion of his spirit, as usually given to man, would have enabled him to discover. they discover that [ ] "the wages of sin is death, but the gift of god is eternal life through jesus christ:" [ ] "that jesus christ was set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past through the forbearance of god;" [ ]that "he tasted death for every man;" that he [ ]was "delivered for our offences, and raised again for our justification;" [ ]that "he is set down at the right hand of the throne of god;" [ ] "and ever liveth to make intercession for us; and, that he is the substance of all the types and figures under the levitical priesthood, [ ] being the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth." [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : heb. . .] [footnote : . .] [footnote : heb. . .] [footnote : heb. . .] [footnote : rom. . .] they believe, again, that, in consequence of these various revelations, as contained in the scriptures, they have inestimable advantages over the heathen nations, or over those, where the gospel-sun has never yet shone; and that, as their advantages are greater, so more will be required of them, or their condemnation will be greater, if they fail to attend to those things which are clearly revealed. they maintain, again, that their discipline is founded on the rules of the gospel; and that in consequence of giving an interpretation different from that of many others, to some of the expressions of jesus christ, by which they conceive they make his kingdom more pure and heavenly, they undergo persecution from the world--so that they confirm their attachment to the scriptures by the best of all credible testimonies, the seal of their own sufferings. chap. vi. _this spirit of god, which has been thus given to men as an infallible guide in their spiritual concerns, has been given them universally--to the patriarchs and israelites, from the creation to the time of moses--to the israelites or jews, from moses to jesus christ--to the gentile world from all antiquity to modern times--to all those who have ever heard the gospel--and it continues its office to the latter even at the present day._ the quakers are of opinion that the spirit of god, of which a portion has been given to men as a primary and infallible guide in their spiritual concerns, has been given them universally; or has been given to all of the human race, without any exceptions, for the same purpose. this proposition of the quakers i shall divide, in order that the reader may see it more clearly, into four cases. the first of these will comprehend the patriarchs and the israelites from the creation to the time of moses. the second, the israelites or jews from the time of moses to the coming of jesus christ. the third, the gentiles or heathens. and the fourth, all those who have heard of the gospel of jesus christ, from the time of his own ministry to the present day. the first case includes a portion of time of above two thousand years. now the quakers believe, that during all this time men were generally enlightened as to their duty by the spirit of god; for there was no scripture or written law of god during all this period. "it was about two thousand four hundred years, says thomas beaven, an approved writer among the quakers, after the creation of the world, before mankind had any external written law for the rule and conduct of their lives, so far as appears by either sacred or profane history; in all which time mankind, generally speaking, had only for their rule of faith and manners the external creation as a monitor to their outward senses, for evidence of the reality and certainty of the existence of the supreme being; and the internal impressions god by his divine spirit made upon the capacities and powers of their souls or inward man, and perhaps some of them oral traditions delivered from father to son." to the same point thomas beaven quotes the ever memorable john hales, who, in his golden remains, writes in the following manner: "the love and favour, which it pleased god to bear our fathers before the law', so far prevailed with him, as that without any books and writings, by familiar and friendly conversing with them, and communicating himself unto them, he made them receive and understand his laws, their inward conceits and intellectuals being, after a wonderful manner, figured as it were and charactered by his spirit, so that they could not but see and consent unto, and confess the truth of them. which way of manifesting his will unto many other gracious privileges it had, above that which in after ages came in place of it, had this added, that it brought with it unto the man to whom it was made, a preservation against all doubt and hesitancy, and a full assurance both who the author was, and how far his intent and meaning reached. we who are their offspring ought, as st. chrysostom tells us, so to have demeaned ourselves, that it might have been with us as it was with them, that we might have had no need of writing, no other teacher but the spirit, no other books but our hearts, no other means to have been taught the things of god." that the spirit of god, as described by thomas beaven and the venerable john hales, was the great instructor or enlightener of man during the period we are speaking of, the quakers believe, from what they conceive to be the sense of the holy scriptures on this subject. for in the first place, they consider it as a position, deducible from the expressions of moses[ ], that the spirit of god had striven with those of the antediluvian world. they believe, therefore, that it was this spirit (and because the means were adequate, and none more satisfactory to them can be assigned) which informed cain, before any written law existed, and this even before the murder of his brother, that[ ] "if he did well, he should be accepted; but if not, sin should lie at his door." the same spirit they conceive to have illuminated the mind of seth, but in a higher degree than ordinarily the mind of enoch; for he is the first, of whom it is recorded, that[ ] "he walked with god." it is also considered by the quakers as having afforded a rule of conduct to those who lived after the flood. thus joseph is described as saying, when there is no record of any verbal instruction from the almighty on this subject, and at a time when there was no scripture or written law of god, [ ] "how then can i do this great wickedness, and sin against god?" it illuminated others also, but in a greater or less degree, as before. thus noah became a preacher of righteousness. thus abraham, isaac, and jacob, were favoured with a greater measure of it than others who lived in their own times. [footnote : gen. . ] [footnote : ib . ] [footnote : gen. . .] [footnote : ib. . .--the traditionary laws of noah were in force at this time; but they only specified three offences between man and man.] from these times to the coming of jesus christ, which is the second of the cases in question, the same spirit, according to the quakers, still continued its teachings, and this notwithstanding the introduction of the mosaic law; for this, which was engraven on tables of stone, did not set aside the law that was engraven on the heart. it assisted, first, outwardly, in turning mens' minds to god; and secondly, in fitting them as a schoolmaster for attention to the internal impressions by his spirit. that the spirit of god was still the great teacher, the quakers conceive to be plain; for the sacred writings from moses to malachi affirm it for a part of the period now assigned; and for the rest we have as evidence the reproof of the martyr stephen, and the sentences from the new testament quoted in the fourth chapter. and in the same manner as this spirit had been given to some in a greater measure than to others, both before and after the deluge, so the quakers believe it to have been given more abundantly to moses and the prophets, than to others of the same nation; for they believe that the law in particular, and that the general writings of moses, and those of the prophets also, were of divine inspiration, or the productions of the spirit of god. with respect to the heathens or gentiles, which is the third case, the quakers believe that god's holy spirit became a guide also to them, and furnished them, as it had done the patriarchs and the jews, with a rule of practice. for even these, who had none of the advantages of scripture or of a written divine law, believed, many of them, in god, such as orpheus, hesiod, thales, pythagoras, socrates, plato, cicero, and others. and of these it may be observed, that it was their general belief, as well as it was the belief of many others in those days, that there was a divine light or spirit in man, to enable him to direct himself aright. among the remnants that have been preserved of the sayings, of pythagoras, are the following which relate to this subject: "those things which are agreeable to god, cannot be known, except a man hear god himself." again--"but having overcome these things, thou shalt know the cohabitation or dwelling together of the immortal god and mortal man. his work is life--the work of god is immortality, eternal life." "the most excellent thing, says timoeus, that the soul is awakened to, is her guide or good genius; but if she be rebellious to it, it will prove her daemon, or tormentor." "it was frequently said of socrates, he had the guide of his life within him, which, it was told his father sophroniscus, would be of more worth to him than five hundred masters. he called it his good angel, or spirit; that it suggested to his mind what was good and virtuous, and inclined and disposed him to a strict and pious life; that it furnished him with divine knowledge, and impelled him very often to speak publicly to the people, sometimes in a way of severe reproof, at other times to information." plato says, "the light and spirit of god are as wings to the soul, or as that which raiseth up the soul into, a sensible communion with god above the world." "i have, says seneca, a more clear and certain light, by which i may judge the truth from falsehood: that which belongs to the happiness of the soul, the eternal mind will direct to." again--"it is a foolish thing for thee to wish for that which thou canst not obtain. god is near thee, and he is in thee. the good spirit sits or resides within as, the observer of our good and evil actions. as he is dealt with by us, he dealeth with us." the quakers produce these, and a multitude of other quotations, which it is not necessary to repeat, to show that the same spirit, which taught the patriarchs before the law, and the jews after it, taught the gentiles also. but this revelation, or manifestation of the spirit, was not confined, in the opinion of the quakers, to the roman or greek philosophers, or to those who had greater pretensions than common to human wisdom. they believe that no nation was ever discovered, among those of antiquity, to have been so wild or ignorant as not to have acknowledged a divinity, or as not to have known and established a difference between good and evil. cicero says, "there is no country so barbarous, no one of all men so savage, as that some apprehension of the gods hath not tinctured his mind. that many indeed, says he, think corruptly of them, must be admitted; but this is the effect of vicious custom. for all do believe that there is a divine power and nature." maximus tyriensis, a platonic philosopher, and a man of considerable knowledge, observes, that "notwithstanding the great contention and variety of opinions which have existed concerning the nature and essence of god, yet the law and reason of every country are harmonious in these respects, namely, that there is one god, the king and father of all--and that the many are but servants and co-rulers unto god: that in this the greek and the barbarian, the islander and the inhabitant of the continent, the wise and the foolish, speak the same language. go, says he, to the utmost bounds of the ocean, and you find god there. but if there hath been, says he, since the existence of time, two or three atheistical, vile, senseless individuals, whose eyes and ears deceive them, and who are maimed in their very soul, an irrational and barren species, as monstrous as a lion without courage, an ox without horns, or a bird without wings, yet out of these you will be able to understand something of god. for they know and confess him whether they will or not." plutarch says again, "that if a man were to travel through the world, he might possibly find cities without walls, without letters, without kings, without wealth, without schools, and without theatres. but a city without a temple, or that useth no worship, or no prayers, no one ever saw. and he believes a city may more easily be built without a foundation, or ground to set it on, than a community of men have or keep a consistency without religion." of those nations which were reputed wild and ignorant in ancient times, the scythians may be brought, next, to the greeks and romans, as an instance to elucidate the opinion of the quakers still farther on this subject. the speech of the scythian ambassadors to alexander the great, as handed down to us by quintus curtius, has been often cited by writers, not only on account of its beauty and simplicity, but to show us the moral sentiments of the scythians in those times. i shall make a few extracts from it on this occasion. "had the gods given thee, says one of the ambassadors to alexander, a body proportionable to thy ambition, the whole universe would have been too little for thee. with one hand thou wouldest touch the east, and with the other the west; and not satisfied with this, thou wouldest follow the sun, and know where he hides himself."---- "but what have we to do with thee? we never set foot in thy country. may not those who inhabit woods be allowed to live without knowing who thou art, and whence thou comest? we will neither command nor submit to any man."---- "but thou, who boastest thy coming to extirpate robbers, thou thyself art the greatest robber upon earth."---- "thou hast possessed thyself of lydia, invaded syria, persia, and bactriana. thou art forming a design to march as far as india, and thou now contest hither, to seize upon our herds of cattle. the great possessions which thou hast, only make thee covet more eagerly what thou hast not."---- "we are informed that the greeks speak jestingly of our scythian deserts, and that they are even become a proverb; but we are fonder of our solitudes, than of thy great cities."---- "if thou art a god, thou oughtest to do good to mortals, and not to deprive them of their possessions. if thou art a mere man, reflect on what thou art."---- "do not fancy that the scythians will take an oath in their concluding of an alliance with thee. the only oath among them is to keep their word without swearing. such cautions as these do indeed become greeks, who sign their treaties, and call upon the gods to witness them. but, with regard to us, our religion consists in being sincere, and in keeping the promises we have made. that man, who is not ashamed to break his word with men, is not ashamed of deceiving the gods." to the account contained in these extracts, it may be added, that the scythians are described by herodotus, justin, horace, and others, as a moral people. they had the character of maintaining justice. theft or robbery was severely punished among them. they believed infidelity after the marriage-engagement to be deserving of death. they coveted neither silver nor gold. they refused to give the name of goods or riches to any but estimable things, such as health, courage, liberty, strength, sincerity, innocence, and the like. they received friends as relations, or considered friendship as so sacred an alliance, that it differed but little from alliance by blood. these principles of the scythians, as far as they are well founded, the quakers believe to have originated in their more than ordinary attention to that divine principle which was given to them, equally with the rest of mankind, for their instruction in moral good; to that same principle, which socrates describes as having suggested to his mind that which was good and virtuous, or which seneca describes to reside in men as an observer of good and evil. for the scythians, living in solitary and desert places, had but little communication for many ages with the rest of mankind, and did not obtain their system of morality from other quarters. from the greeks and romans, who were the most enlightened, they derived no moral benefit. for strabo informs us, that their morals had been wholly corrupted in his time, and that this wretched change had taken place in consequence of their intercourse with these nations. that they had no scripture or written law of god is equally evident. neither did they collect their morality from the perusal or observance of any particular laws that had been left them by their ancestors; for the same author, who gives them the high character just mentioned, says that they were found in the practice of justice,[ ] not on account of any laws, but on account of their own _natural genius or disposition_. neither were they found in this practice, because they had exerted their reason in discovering that virtue was so much more desirable than vice; for the same author declares, that nature, and not reason, had made them a moral people: for[ ] "it seems surprising, says he, that nature should have given to them what the greeks have never been able to attain either in consequence of the long succession of doctrines of their wise men, or of the precepts of their philosophers; and that the manners of a barbarous, should be preferable to those of a refined people." [footnote : justitia gentis ingeniis culta, non legibus.] [footnote : prorsus ut admirabile videatur, hoc illis naturam dare, quod graeci longá sapientium doctriná praeceptisque philosophorum consequi nequeunt, cultosque mores incultae barbariae collatione soperari.] this opinion, that the spirit of god was afforded as a light to lighten the gentiles of the ancient world, the quakers derive from the authorities which i have now mentioned; that is, from the evidence which history has afforded, and from the sentiments which the gentiles have discovered themselves upon this subject. but they conceive that the question is put out of all doubt by these remarkable words of the apostle paul. "for when the gentiles, which have not the law, do by _nature_ the things contained in the law, these, having not the law, are a law unto themselves: which shew the work of the law _written on their hearts_, their conscience also bearing witness, and their thoughts the mean while accusing, or else excusing one another." and here it may be observed, that the quakers believe also, that in the same manner as the spirit of god enlightened the different gentile nations previously to the time of the apostle, so it continues to enlighten those, which have been discovered since; for no nation has been found so ignorant, as not to make an acknowledgment of superior spirit, and to know the difference between good and evil. hence it may be considered as illuminating those nations, where the scriptures have never reached, even at the present day. with respect to the last case, which includes those who have heard with their outward ears the gospel of jesus christ, the quakers believe, that the spirit of god has continued its office of a spiritual instructor as well to these as to any of the persons who have been described. for the gospel is no where said to supersede, any more than the law of moses did, the assistance of this spirit. on the other hand, this spirit was deemed necessary, and this by the apostles themselves, even after churches had been established, or men had become christians. st. paul declares,[ ] that whatever spiritual gifts some of his followers might then have, and however these gifts might then differ from one another, the spirit of god was given universally to man, and this to profit withal. he declares again that [ ] "as many as were led by this spirit, these, and these only, possessed the knowledge that was requisite to enable them to become the sons of god." and in his letter to the thessalonians, who had become a christian church, he gave them many particular injunctions, among which one was, that [ ] they would not quench or extinguish the spirit. [footnote : cor. . .] [footnote : rom. , .] [footnote : thess. . .] and in the same manner as this spirit was deemed necessary in the days of the apostles, and this to every man individually, and even after he had become a christian, so the quakers consider it to have been necessary since, and to continue so, wherever christianity is professed. for many persons may read the holy scriptures, and hear them read in churches, and yet not feel the necessary conviction for sin. here then the quakers conceive the spirit of god to be still necessary. it comes in with its inward monitions and reproofs, where the scripture has been neglected or forgotten. it attempts to stay the arm of him who is going to offend, and frequently averts the blow. neither is this spirit unnecessary, even where men profess an attention to the literal precepts of the gospel. for in proportion as men are in the way of attending to the outward scriptures, they are in the way of being inwardly taught of god. but without this inward teaching no outward teaching can be effectual; for though persons may read the scriptures, yet they cannot spiritually understand them; and though they may admire the christian religion, yet they cannot enjoy it, according to the opinion of the quakers, but through the medium of the spirit of god. chap. vii. sect. i. _this spirit, as it has been given universally, so it has been given sufficiently--hence god is exonerated of injustice, and men are left without excuse--those who resist this spirit, are said to quench it, and may become so hardened in time, as to be insensible of its impressions--those who attend to it, may be said to be in the way of redemption--similar sentiments of monro--this visitation, treatment, and influence of the spirit, usually explained by the quakers by the parable of the sower._ as the spirit of god has been thus afforded to every man, since the foundation of the world, to profit withal, so the quakers say, that it has been given to him in a sufficient measure for this purpose. by the word "sufficient" we are not to understand that this divine monitor calls upon men every day or hour, but that it is within every man, and that it awakens him seasonably, and so often during the term of his natural life, as to exonerate god from the charge of condemning him unjustly, if he fails in his duty, and as to leave himself without excuse. and in proportion as a greater or less measure of this spirit has been afforded him, so he is more or less guilty in the sight of his maker. if any should resist these salutary operations of the holy spirit, they resist it to their own condemnation. of such it may he observed, that they are said to quench or grieve the spirit, and, not unfrequently, to resist god, and to crucify christ afresh; for god and christ and the spirit are considered to be inseparably united in the scriptures. of such also it may be again observed, that if they continue to resist god's holy spirit, their feelings may become so callous or hardened in time, that they may never be able to perceive its notices again, and thus the day of their visitation may be over: for [ ] "my people, saith god, would not hearken to my voice, and israel would none of me; so i gave them up to their own hearts' lusts, and they walked in their own counsels." to the same import was the saying of jesus christ, when he wept over jerusalem. [ ] "if thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes." as if he had said, there was a day, in which ye, the inhabitants of jerusalem, might have known those things which belonged to your peace. i was then willing to gather you, as a hen gathereth her chickens, but as ye would not suffer me, the things belonging to your peace are now hid from your eyes. ye would not attend to the impressions by god's holy spirit, when your feelings were tender and penetrable, and therefore now, the day having passed over, ye have lost the power of discerning them. [footnote : psalm . , ] [footnote : luke , .] those, on the other hand, who, during this visitation of the holy spirit, attend to its suggestions or warnings, are said to be in the way of their redemption or salvation. these sentiments of the quakers on this subject are beautifully described by monro, in his just measures of the pious institutions of youth. "the holy spirit," says he, "solicits and importunes those who are in a state of sin, to return, by inward motions and impressions, by suggesting good thoughts and prompting to pious resolutions, by checks and controls, by conviction of sin and duty; sometimes by frights and terrors, and other whiles by love and endearments: but if men, notwithstanding all his loving solicitations, do still cherish and cleave to their lusts, and persevere in a state of sin, they are then said to resist the holy ghost, whereby their condition becomes very deplorable, and their conversion very difficult; for the more men resist the importunities, and stifle the motions of the holy spirit, the stronger do the chains of their corruption and servitude become. every new act of sin gives these a degree of strength, and consequently puts a new obstacle in the way of conversion; and when sin is turned into an inveterate and rooted habit, (which by reiterated commissions and long continuance it is) then it becomes a nature, and is with as much difficulty altered as nature is. can the ethiopian change his colour, or the leopard his spots? then may you also do good, who are accustomed to do evil." "the holy spirit again," says he, "inspires the prayers of those who, in consequence of his powerful operations, have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts, with devout and filial affections, and makes intercession for them with sighs and groans that cannot be uttered. he guides and manages them. the sons of god are led by the spirit of god. he makes, his blessed fruits, righteousness, peace, joy, and divine love, more and more to abound in them; he confirms them in goodness, persuades them to perseverance, and seals them to the day of redemption." the quakers usually elucidate this visitation, treatment, and influence of the holy spirit, by the parable of the sower, as recorded by three of the evangelists. "now the seed is the word of god." but as the word of god and the spirit, according to st. john the evangelist, are the same, the parable is considered by the quakers as relating to that divine light or spirit which is given to man for his spiritual instruction and salvation. as the seed was sown in all sorts of ground, good, bad, and indifferent, so this light or spirit is afforded, without exception, to all. as thorns choked this seed, and hindered it from coming to perfection, so bad customs, or the pleasures and cares of the world, hinder men from attending to this divine principle within them, and render it unfruitful in their hearts. and as the seed in the good ground was not interrupted, and therefore produced fruit in abundance, so this spiritual principle, where it is not checked, but received and cherished, produces also abundance of spiritual fruit in the inward man, by putting him into the way of redemption from sin, or of holiness of life. sect. ii. _the spirit of god, therefore, besides its office of a teacher, performs that of a redeemer of men--redemption outward and inward--outward is by the sufferings of jesus christ--these produce forgiveness of past sins, and put men into a capacity of salvation--inward, or the office now alluded to, is by the operation of the spirit--this converts men, and preserves them from sins to come--outward and inward connected with each other._ the spirit of god, which we have seen to be given to men, and to be given them universally, to enable them to distinguish between 'good and evil, was given them also, the quakers believe, for another purpose, namely, to redeem or save them. redemption and salvation, in this sense,' are the same, in the language of the quakers, and mean a purification from the sins or pollutions of the world, so that a new birth may be produced, and maintained in the inward man. as the doctrine of the quakers, with respect to redemption, differs from that which generally obtains, i shall allot this chapter to an explanation of the distinctions, which the quakers usually make upon this subject. the quakers never make use of the words "original sin," because these are never to be found in the sacred writings. they consider man, however, as in a fallen or degraded state, and as inclined and liable to sin. they consider him, in short, as having the seed of sin within him, which he inherited from his parent adam. but though they acknowledge this, they dare not say, that sin is imputed to him on account of adam's transgression, or that he is chargeable with sin, until he actually commits it. as every descendant, however, of adam, has this seed within him, which, amidst the numerous temptations that beset him, he allows sometime or other to germinate, so he stands in need of a redeemer; that is, of some power that shall be able to procure pardon for past offences, and of some power that shall be able to preserve him in the way of holiness for the future. to expiate himself, in a manner satisfactory to the almighty, for so foot a stain upon his nature as that of sin, is utterly beyond his abilities; for no good action, that he can do, can do away that which has been once done. and to preserve himself in a state of virtue for the future, is equally out of his own power, because this cannot be done by any effort of his reason, but only by the conversion of his heart. it has therefore pleased the almighty to find a remedy for him in each of these cases. jesus christ, by the sacrifice of his own body, expiates for sins that are past, and the spirit of god, which has been afforded to him, as a spiritual teacher, has the power of cleansing and purifying the heart so thoroughly, that he may be preserved from sins to come. that forgiveness of past sins is procured by the sacrifice of jesus christ, is obvious from various passages in the holy scriptures. thus the apostle paul says, that jesus christ [ ] "was set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past through the forbearance of god." and in his epistle to the colossians he says, [ ] "in whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins." this redemption may be called outward, because it has been effected by outward means, or by the outward sufferings of jesus christ; and it is considered as putting men, in consequence of this forgiveness, into the capacity of salvation. the quakers, however, attribute this redemption wholly to the love of god, and not to the impossibility of his forgiveness without a plenary satisfaction, or to the motive of heaping all his vengeance on the head of jesus christ, that he might appease his own wrath. [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : coloss. . .] the other redemption, on the other hand, is called inward, because it is considered by the quakers to be an inward redemption from the power of sin, or a cleansing the heart from the pollutions of the world. this inward redemption is produced by the spirit of god, as before stated, operating on the hearts of men, and so cleansing and purifying them, as to produce a new birth in the inward man; so that the same spirit of god, which has been given to men in various degrees since the foundation of the world, as a teacher in their spiritual concerns, which hath visited every man in his day, and which hath exhorted and reproved him for his spiritual welfare[ ], has the power of preserving him from future sin, and of leading him to salvation. [footnote : the quakers believe, however, that this spirit was more plentifully diffused, and that greater gifts were given to man, after jews was glorified, than before. ephes. . .] that this inward redemption is performed by the spirit of god, the quakers show from various passages in the sacred writings. thus st. paul says, [ ] "according to his mercy he hath saved us by the washing of regeneration, and the renewing of the holy ghost." the same apostle says, again, [ ] "it is the law of the spirit that maketh free from the law of sin and death." and again--[ ] "as many as are led by the spirit of god, they are the sons of god." [footnote : titus . .] [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : rom. . .] the quakers say, that this inward redemption or salvation as effected by the spirit, is obvious also from the experience of all good men, or from the manner in which many have experienced a total conversion or change of heart. for though there are undoubtedly some who have gone on so gradually in their reformation from vice to virtue, that it may have been considered to be the effect of reason, which has previously determined on the necessity of a holy life, yet the change from vice to holiness has often been so rapid and decisive, as to leave no doubt whatever, that it could not have been produced by any effort of reason, but only by some divine operation, which could only have been that of the spirit of god. of these two kinds of redemption, the outward and the inward, of which the latter will be the subject of our consideration, it may be observed, that they go hand in hand together[ ]. st. paul has coupled them in these words: "for if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to god by the death of his son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life;" that is, by the life of his spirit working inwardly in us.--and as they go together in the mind of the apostle, so they go together as to the benefit of their effects. for, in the first place, the outward redemption takes place, when the inward has begun. and, secondly, the outward redemption, or the sufferings of jesus christ, which redeem from past sins, cannot have any efficacy till the inward has begun, or while men remain in their sins; or, in other words, no man can be entitled to the forgiveness of sins that have been committed, till there has been a change in the inward man; for st. john intimates, that [ ]the blood of christ does not cleanse from sin, except men walk in the light, or, to use an expression synonymous with the quakers, except men walk in the spirit. [footnote : rom, . .] [footnote : john i. . .] sect. iii. _inward redemption, which thus goes on by the operation of the holy spirit, has the power of producing a new birth in men--this office of the spirit acknowledged by other christians--monro--hammond--locke--it has the power also of leading to perfection--sentiments of the quakers as to perfection--and of the ever memorable john hales--gell--monro --this power of inward redemption bestowed upon all._ the sufferings then of jesus christ, having by means of the forgiveness of past sins, put men into a capacity for salvation, the remaining part of salvation, or the inward redemption of man, is performed by the operation of the holy spirit; of which, however, it must be remembered, that a more plentiful diffusion is considered by the quakers to have been given to men after the ascension of jesus christ, than at any former period. the nature of this inward redemption, or the nature of this new office, which it performs in addition to that of a religious teacher, may be seen in the following account. it has the power, the quakers believe, of checking and preventing bad inclinations and passions; of cleansing and purifying the heart; of destroying the carnal mind; of making all old things pass away; of introducing new; of raising our spiritual senses, so as to make us delight in the things of god, and to put us above the enjoyment of earthly pleasures. redeeming thus from the pollutions of the world, and leading to spiritual purity, it forms a new creature. it produces the new man in the heart. it occasions a man by its quickening power to be born again, and thus puts him into the way of salvation. [ ] "for verily i say unto thee, says jesus christ to nicodemus, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of god." [footnote : john . .] this office and power of the spirit of god is acknowledged by other christians. monro, who has been before quoted, observes, "that the soul, being thus raised from the death of sin and born again, is divinely animated, and discovers that it is alive by the vital operations which it performs." "again, says he, this blissful presence, the regenerate who are delivered from the dominion, and cleansed from the impurities of sin, have recovered, and it is on the account of it, that they are said to be an habitation of god through the spirit and the temples of the holy ghost. for that good spirit takes possession of them, resides in their hearts, becomes the mover, enlightener, and director of all their faculties and powers, gives a new and heavenly tincture and tendency to all their inclinations and desires, and, in one word, is the great spring of all they think, or do, or say; and hence it is that they are said to walk no more after the flesh, but after the spirit, and to be led by the spirit of god." dr. hammond, in his paraphrase and annotations on the new testament, observes, that "he who hath been born of god, is literally he who hath had such a blessed change wrought in him by the operation of god's spirit in his heart, as to be translated from the power of darkness into the kingdom of his dear son." "as christ in the flesh, says the great and venerable locke, was wholly exempt from all taint and sin, so we, by that spirit which was in him, shall be exempt from the dominion of carnal lusts, if we make it our choice, and endeavour to live after the spirit." "here the apostle, says locke, shows that christians are delivered from the dominion of their carnal lusts by the spirit of god that is given to them, and dwells in them, as a new quickening principle and power, by which they are put into the state of a spiritual life, wherein their members are made capable of becoming the instruments of righteousness." and this spirit of god, which thus redeems from the pollutions of the world, and puts a new heart as it were into man, is considered by the quakers as so powerful in its operations, as to be able to lead him to perfection. by this the quakers do not mean to say, that the perfection of man is at all like the perfection of god; because the perfection of the former is capable of growth. they believe, however, that, in his renewed state, he may be brought to be so perfect, as to be able to keep those commandments of god which are enjoined him. in this sense they believe it is, that noah is called by moses [ ]a just and perfect man in his generation; and that job is described [ ]as a perfect and an upright man; and that the evangelist luke speaks of zacharias and elizabeth in these words--[ ] "they were both righteous before god, and walked in all the commandments and ordinances of the lord blameless." [footnote : gen. . .] [footnote : job . .] [footnote : luke . .] that man, who is renewed in heart, can attain this degree of perfection, the quakers think it but reasonable to suppose. for to think that god has given man any law to keep, which it is impossible for him, when aided by his holy spirit, to keep, or to think that the power of satan can be stronger in man than the power of christ, is to think very inadequately of the almighty, and to cast a dishonourable reflection on his goodness, his justice, and his power. add to which, that there would not have been such expressions in the new testament, as those of jesus christ--"be ye therefore perfect, even as your father which is in heaven is perfect"--nor would there have been other expressions of the apostles of a similar meaning, if the renewed man had not possessed the power of doing the will of god. this doctrine of perfection brought the quakers into disputes with persons of other religions denominations, at the time of their establishment. but, however it might be disapproved of, it was not new in these times; nor was it originally introduced by them. some of the fathers of the church, and many estimable divines of different countries, had adopted it. and here it may be noticed, that the doctrine had been received also by several of the religious in our own. in the golden remains of the ever memorable john hales, we find, that "through the grace of him that doth enable as, we are stronger than satan, and the policy of christian warfare hath as many means to keep back and defend, as the deepest reach of satan hath to give the onset." "st. augustine, says this amiable writer, was of opinion, that it was possible for us even in this natural life, seconded by the grace of god, perfectly to accomplish what the law requires at our hands." in the golden remains, many sentiments are to be found of the same tenour. bacon, who collected and published dr. robert gell's remains, says in his preface, that dr. gell preached before king charles the first on ephesians . . at new-market, in the year , a bold discourse, yet becoming him, testifying before the king that doctrine he taught to his life's end, "the possibility, through grace, of keeping the law of god in this life." whoever reads these venerable remains, will find this doctrine inculcated in them. monro, who lived some time after dr. gell, continued the same doctrine: so great, says he, in his just measures, is the goodness and benignity of god, and so perfect is the justice of his nature, that he will not, cannot command impossibilities. whatever he requires of mankind by way of duty, he enables them to perform it--his grace goes before and assists their endeavours; so that when they do not comply with his injunctions, it is because they will not employ the power that he has given them, and which he is ready to increase and heighten, upon their dutiful improvement of what they have already received, and their serious application to him for more. again--"though of ourselves, and without christ, we can do nothing; yet with him we can do all things: and then, he adds a little lower, why should any duties frighten us, or seem impossible to us?" having now stated it to be the belief of the quakers, that the spirit of god acts as an inward redeemer to man, and that its powers are such that it may lead him to perfection in the way explained, it remains for me to observe, that it is their belief also, that this spirit has been given for these purposes, without any exception, to all of the human race: or in the same manner as it was given as an universal teacher, so it has been given as an universal redeemer to man, and that it acts in this capacity, and fulfils its office to all those who attend to its inward strivings, and encourage its influence on their hearts. that it was given to all for this purpose, they believe to be manifest from the apostle paul:[ ] "for the grace of god, says he, which bringeth salvation, hath appeared unto all men." he says again,[ ] that "the gospel was preached unto every creature which is under heaven." he defines the gospel to be[ ] "the power of god unto salvation to every one that believeth." he means therefore that this power of inward redemption was afforded to all. for the outward gospel had not been preached to all in the time of the apostle; nor has it been preached to all even at the present day. but these passages are of universal import. they imply no exception. they comprehend every individual of the human race. [footnote : titus . .] [footnote : coloss. . .] [footnote : rom. . .] that this spirit was also given to all for these purposes, the quakers believe, when they consider other passages in the scriptures, which appear to them to belong to this subject. for they consider this spirit to have begun its office as an inward redeemer[ ] with the fall of the first man, and to have continued it through the patriarchal ages to the time of the outward gospel, when there was to be no other inward redemption but by the same means. thus by the promise which was given to adam, there was to be perpetual enmity between the seed of the serpent and the seed of the woman, though the latter was to vanquish, or as, the quakers interpret it, between the spirit of sin and the spirit of god, that was placed in man. this promise was fully accomplished by jesus, (who came from the woman) after he had received immeasurably the spirit of god, or after he had become the christ. but the quakers consider it to have bean partially accomplished by many from the time of adam; for they believe that many, who have attended to the seed of god, or, which is the same thing,[ ] to the portion of the spirit of god within them, have witnessed the enmity alluded to, and have bruised, in a great degree, the power of sin within their own hearts, or have experienced in these early times the redeeming power of the spirit of god. and except this be the case, the quakers conceive some of the passages, which they suppose to relate to this subject, not to be so satisfactorily explicable as they might be rendered. for it is said of abraham, that he saw christ's day. but as abraham died long before the visible appearance of christ in the flesh, he could neither have seen christ outwardly, nor his day. it is still affirmed that he saw christ's day. and the quakers say they believe he saw him inwardly, for he witnessed in his own spirit, which is the same thing, the redeeming power of the spirit of god. for as the world was made by the spirit, or by the word, which is frequently interpreted to be christ, so these terms are synonimous, and often used the one for the other. the quakers therefore believe abraham to have experienced in a very high degree the power[ ] of this inward redemption. they believe also that job experienced it in an extraordinary manner. for he asserted that he knew "that his redeemer lived." but job could never have said this, except be had alluded to the powerful influence within him, which had purified his heart from the pollutions of sin. for being as early as the time of moses, he could never have seen any of the sacred writings which mentioned jesus christ as a redeemer, or the person of jesus christ. [footnote : in the same manner jesus christ having tasted death for every man, the sacrifice, or outward redemption, looks backwards and forwards, as well to adam as to those who lived after the gospel times.] [footnote : john. . . whosoever is born of god does not commit sin, for his seed remaineth in him, and he cannot sin, because he is born of god.] [footnote : the quakers do not deny, that abraham might have seen christ prophetically, but they believe he saw him particularly in the way described.] the quakers also consider david, from the numerous expressions to be found in the psalms, as having experienced this inward redemption also, and in the same manner as they conceive this spirit to have striven with abraham, and job, and david, so they conceive it to have striven with others of the same nation for their inward redemption to the time of jesus christ. they believe again, that it has striven with all the heathen nations, from the foundation of the world to the same period. and they believe also, that it has continued its office of a redeemer to all people, whether jews, heathens, or christians, from the time of jesus christ to the present day. sect. iv. _proposition of the new birth and perfection, as hitherto explained in the ordinary way--new view of the subject from a more particular detail of the views and expressions of the quakers concerning it--a new spiritual birth as real from the spiritual seed of the kingdom, as that of plants or vegetables from their seeds in the natural world--and the new birth proceeds really in the same progressive manner, to maturity or perfection--result of this new view the same as that in the former section._ i stated in the last section that the spirit of god is considered by the quakers as an inward redeemer to men, and that, in this office, it has the power of producing a new birth in them, and of leading them to perfection in the way described. this proposition, however, i explained only in the ordinary way. but as the quakers have a particular way of viewing and expressing it, and as they deem it one of the most important of their religious propositions, i trust i shall, be excused by the reader, if i allot one other section to this subject. jesus christ states, as was said before, in the most clear and positive terms, that [ ] "except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of heaven." [footnote : john . .] now the great work of religion is salvation or redemption. without this no man can see god; and therefore the meaning of the words of jesus christ will be this, that, except a man be born again, he cannot experience that inward redemption which shall enable him to see the kingdom of heaven. redemption then is necessary to qualify for a participation of the heavenly joys, and it is stated to take place by means of the new birth. the particular ideas then, which the quakers have relative to the new birth and perfection, are the following. in the same manner as the divine being has scattered the seeds of plants and vegetables in the body of the earth, so he has implanted a portion of his own incorruptible seed, or of that which, in scripture language, is called the "seed of the kingdom," in the soul of every individual of the human race. as the sun by its genial influence quickens the vegetable seed, so it is the office of the holy spirit, in whom is life, and who resides in the temple of man, to quicken that which is heavenly. and in the same manner as the vegetable seed conceives and brings forth a plant, or a tree with stem and branches; so if the soul, in which the seed of the kingdom is placed, be willing to receive the influence of the holy spirit upon it, this seed is quickened and a spiritual offspring is produced. now this offspring is as real a birth from the seed in the soul by means of the spirit, as the plant from its own seed by means of the influence of the sun. "the seed of the kingdom, says isaac pennington, consists not in words or notions of mind, but is an inward thing, an inward spiritual substance in the heart, as real inwardly in its kind, as other seeds are outwardly in their kind. and being received by faith, and taking root in man, (his heart, his earth, being ploughed up and prepared for it,) it groweth up inwardly, as truly and really, as any outward seed doth outwardly." with respect to the offspring thus produced in the soul of man, it maybe variously named. as it comes from the incorruptible seed of god, it may be called a birth of the divine nature or life. as it comes by the agency of the spirit, it may be called the life of the spirit. as it is new, it may be called the new man or creature: or it may have the appellation of a child of god: or it is that spiritual life and light, or that spiritual, principle and power within us, which may be called the anointed, or christ within. "as this seed, says barclay, is received in the heart and suffered to bring forth its natural and proper effect, christ comes to be formed and raised, called in scripture the new man, christ within us, the hope of glory. yet herein they (the quakers) do not equal themselves with the holy man, the lord jesus christ, in whom the fulness of the godhead dwelt bodily, neither destroy his present existence. for though they affirm christ dwells in them, yet not immediately, but mediately, as he is in that seed which is in them." of the same opinion was the learned cudworth. "we all, says he, receive of his fulness grace for grace, as all the stars in heaven are said to light their candles at the sun's flame. for though his body be withdrawn from us, yet by the lively and virtual contact of his spirit, he is always kindling, cheering, quickening, warming, and enlivening hearts. nay, this divine life begun and kindled in any heart, wheresoever it be, is something of god in flesh, and in a sober and qualified sense, divinity incarnate; and all particular christians, that are really possessed of it, are so many mystical christs." again--"never was any tender infant so dear to those bowels that begat it, as an infant newborn christ, formed in the heart of any true believer, to god the father of it." this account relative to the new birth the quakers conceive to be strictly deducible from the holy scriptures. it is true, they conceive, as far as the new birth relates to god and to the seed, and to the spirit, from the following passages: [ ] "whosoever is born of god doth not commit sin, for his seed remaineth in him." [ ] "being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of god." [ ] "of his own will begat he us with the word of truth." it is considered to be true again, as far as the new birth relates to the creature born and to the name which it may bear, from these different expressions: [ ] "of whom i travail in birth again, till christ be formed in you." [ ] "nevertheless i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me." [ ] "but ye have received the spirit of adoption, whereby we cry abba, father." [ ] "but as many as received him, that is, the spirit or word, to them gave he power to become the sons of god." [ ] "for as many as are led by the spirit of god, they are the sons of god." and as parents and children resemble one another, so believers are made [ ] "conformable to the image of his son," "who is the image of the invisible god." [footnote : john . .] [footnote : peter . .] [footnote : james . .] [footnote : gal. . .] [footnote : gal. . .] [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : john . .] [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : rom. . .] [footnote : coloss. . .] having explained in what the new birth consists, or having shown, according to barclay, [ ] "that the seed is a real spiritual substance, which the soul of man is capable of feeling and apprehending, from which that real spiritual inward birth arises, called the new creature or the new man in the heart," it remains to show how believers, or those in whose souls christ is thus produced, may be said to grow up to perfection; for by this real birth or geniture in them they come to have those spiritual senses raised, by which they are made capable of tasting, smelling, seeing, and handling, the things of god. [footnote : p. . ed. .] it may be observed then, that in the new birth a progress is experienced from infancy to youth, and from youth to manhood. as it is only by submission to the operation of the spirit that this birth can take place, so it is only by a like submission, that any progress or growth from one stature to another will be experienced in it; neither can the regenerated become instrumental in the redemption of others, any farther or otherwise than as christ or the anointing dwells and operates in them, teaching them all truths necessary to be known, and strengthening them to perform every act necessary to be done for this purpose. he must be their only means and [ ] "hope of glory." it will then be that the [ ] "creature which waiteth in earnest expectation for the manifestation of the sons of god, will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of god." for [ ] "if any man be in christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new, and all things of god." [footnote : coloss. . .] [footnote : rom. . , .] [footnote : cor. . , .] they who are the babes of the regeneration begin to see spiritual things. the natural man, the mere creature, never saw god. but the babes, who cry abba, father, begin to see and to know him. though as yet unskilful in the word of righteousness, [ ] "they desire the sincere milk of the word, that they may grow thereby." and [ ] "their sins are forgiven them." [footnote : pet . .] [footnote : john . .] they, who are considered as the young men in this state, are said to be [ ] "spiritually strong, and the word of god abiding in them, to have overcome the wicked one." [footnote : john . .] they, who have attained a state of manhood, are called fathers, or are said to be of full age, and to be capable of taking strong meat. [ ] "they come, in the unity of faith, and of the knowledge of the son of god, unto perfect men, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of christ. they arrive at such a state of stability, that they are no more children tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine; but speaking the truth in love, grow up unto him in all things, which is the head, even christ." [ ] "the old man with his deeds being put off, they have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him." [ ] "they are washed, they are sanctified, they are justified in the name of the lord jesus, and in the spirit of our god." the new creation is thus completed, and the sabbath wherein man ceases from his own works, commences; so that every believer can then say with the apostle, [ ] "i am crucified with christ. nevertheless i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me. and the life, which i now live in the flesh, i live by the faith of the son of god, who loved me, and gave himself for me." [footnote : eph. . . . .] [footnote : col. . . .] [footnote : cor. . .] [footnote : gal. . .] but this state of manhood, [ ] "by which the man of god may be made perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works, does not take place, until christ be fully formed in the souls of believers, or till they are brought wholly under his rule and government. he must be substantially formed in them. he must actually be their life, and their hope of glory. he must be their head and governor. as the head, and the body, and the members are one, according to the apostle, but the head directs; so christ, and, believers in whom christ is born and formed, are one spiritual body, which he himself must direct also. thus christ, where he is fully formed in man, or where believers are grown up to the measure of the stature and fulness of sonship, is the head of every man, and god is the head of christ. thus christ the begotten entirely governs the whole man, as the head directs and governs all the members of the body; and god the father, as the head of christ, entirely guides and governs the begotten. hence, believers [ ] 'are christ's, and christ is god's;' so that ultimately god is all in all." [footnote : tim. . .] [footnote : cor. . .] having given this new view of the subject, i shall only observe farther upon it, that the substance of this chapter turns out to be the same as that of the preceding, or according to the notions of the quakers, that inward redemption cannot be effected but through the medium of the spirit of god. for christ, according to the ideas now held out, must be formed in man, and he must rule them before they can experience full inward redemption; or, in other words, they cannot experience this inward redemption, except they can truly say that he governs them, or except they can truly call him governor, or lord. but no person can say that christ rules in him, except he undergoes the spiritual process of regeneration which has been described, or to use the words of the apostle, [ ] "no man can say that jesus is the lord, but by the holy spirit.[ ]" [footnote : cor. . ] [footnote : the reader will easily discern from this new view of the new birth, how men, according to the quakers, become partakers of the divine nature, and how the quakers make it out, that abraham and others saw christ's day, as i mentioned in a former chapter.] chap. viii. sect. i. _quakers believe from the foregoing accounts, that redemption is possible to all--hence they deny the doctrine of election and reprobation--do not deny the texts on which it is founded, but the interpretation of them--as contrary to the doctrines of jesus christ and the apostles--as making his mission unnecessary--as rendering many precepts useless--and as casting a stain on the character and attributes of god._ it will appear from the foregoing observations, that it is the belief of the quakers, that every man has the power of inward redemption within himself, who attends to the strivings of the holy spirit, and that as outward redemption by the sufferings of jesus christ extends to all, where the inward has taken place, so redemption or salvation, in its full extent, is possible to every individual of the human race. this position, however, is denied by those christians, who have pronounced in favour of the doctrine of election and reprobation; because, if they believe some predestined from all eternity to eternal happiness, and the rest to eternal misery, they must then believe that salvation is not possible to all, and that it was not intended to be universal. the quakers have attempted to answer the objections, which have been thus made to their theory of redemption; and as the reader will probably expect that i should notice what they have said upon this subject, i have reserved the answers they have given for the present place. the quakers do not deny the genuineness of any of those texts, which are usually advanced against them. of all people, they fly the least to the cover of interpolation or mutilation of scripture to shield themselves from the strokes of their opponents. they believe, however, that there are passages in the sacred writings, which will admit of an interpretation different from that which has been assigned them by many, and upon this they principally rely in the present case. if there are passages, to which two meanings may be annexed, and if for one there is equal authority as for the other, yet if one meaning should destroy all the most glorious attributes of the supreme being, and the other should preserve them as recognized in the other parts of the scripture, they think they are bound to receive that which favours the justice, mercy, and wisdom of god, rather than that which makes him appear both unjust and cruel. the quakers believe, that some christians have misunderstood the texts which they quote in favour of the doctrine of election and reprobation, for the following reasons:-- first, because if god had from all eternity predestinated some to eternal happiness, and the rest to eternal misery, the mission of jesus christ upon earth became unnecessary, and his mediation ineffectual. if this again had been a fundamental doctrine of christianity, it never could have been overlooked, (considering that it is of more importance to men than any other) by the founder of that religion. but he never delivered any words in the course of his ministry, from whence any reasonable conclusion could be drawn, that such a doctrine formed any part of the creed which he intended to establish among men. his doctrine was that of mercy, tenderness, and love; in which he inculcated the power and efficacy of repentance, and declared there was more joy in heaven over one sinner that repented, than over ninety-nine just persons who needed no repentance. by the parable of the sower, which the quakers consider to relate wholly to the word or spirit of god, it appears that persons of all description were visited equally for their salvation; and that their salvation depended much upon themselves; and that where obstacles arose, they arose from themselves also, by allowing temptations, persecutions, and the cares of the world, to overcome them. in short, the quakers believe, that the doctrine of election and reprobation is contrary to the whole tenour of the doctrines promulgated by jesus christ. they conceive also, that this doctrine is contrary to the doctrines promulgated by the evangelists and apostles, and particularly contrary to those of st. paul himself, from whom it is principally taken. to make this apostle contradict himself, they dare not. and they must therefore conclude, either that no person has rightly understood it, and that it has been hitherto kept in mystery; or, if it be intelligible to the human understanding, it must be explained by comparing it with other texts of the same apostle, as well as with those of others, and always in connexion with the general doctrines of christianity, and the character and attributes of god. now the apostle paul, who is considered to [ ] intimate, that god predestined some to eternal salvation, and the rest to eternal misery, says, [ ]that "god made of one blood all nations of men to dwell on all the face of the earth;" that, in the gospel dispensation, [ ] "there is neither greek nor jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, barbarian nor scythian, bond nor free." [ ]he desires also timothy "to make prayers and supplications and intercessions for all men;" which the quakers conceive he could not have done, if he had not believed it to be possible, that all might be saved. "for this is acceptable, says he, in the sight of our saviour, who will have all men to be saved; for there is one god and one mediator between god and man, the man christ jesus, who gave himself a ransom for all." again, he says,[ ] that "jesus christ tasted death for every man." and in another place he says, [ ] "the grace of god, which bringeth salvation, has appeared unto all men." but if this grace has appeared to all, none can have been without it. and if its object be salvation, then all must have had sufficient of it to save them, if obedient to its saving operations. [footnote : romans, chap. .] [footnote : acts . .] [footnote : coloss. . .] [footnote : tim. . . . . . .] [footnote : hebrews . .] [footnote : titus . .] again, if the doctrine of election and reprobation be true, then the recommendations of jesus christ and his apostles, and particularly of paul himself, can be of no avail, and ought never to have been given. prayer is inculcated by these as an acceptable duty. but why should men pray, if they are condemned before-hand, and if their destiny is inevitable? if the doctrine again be true, then all the exhortations to repentance, which are to be found in the scriptures, must be unnecessary. for why should men repent, except for a little temporary happiness in this world, if they cannot be saved in a future? this doctrine is considered by the quakers as making the precepts of the apostles unnecessary; as setting aside the hopes and encouragements of the gospel; and as standing in the way of repentance or holiness of life. this doctrine again they consider as objectionable, in as much as it obliges men to sin, and charges them with the commission of it. it makes also the fountain of all purity the fountain of all sin; and the author of all good the dispenser of all evil. it gives to the supreme being a malevolence that is not to be found in the character of the most malevolent of his creatures. it makes him more cruel than the most cruel oppressor ever recorded of the human race. it makes him to have deliberately made millions of men, for no other purpose than to stand by and delight in their misery and destruction. but is it possible, the quakers say, for this to be true of him, who is thus described by st. john--"god is love?" sect. ii. _quakers' interpretation of the texts which relate to this doctrine--these texts of public and private import--election, as of public import, relates to offices of usefulness, and not to salvation--as of private, it relates to the jews--these had been elected, but were passed over for the gentiles--nothing more unreasonable in this than in the case of ishmael and esau--or that pharaoh's crimes should receive pharaoh's punishment--but though the gentiles were chosen, they could stand in favour no longer than while they were obedient and faithful_. the quakers conceive that, in their interpretation of the passages which are usually quoted in support of the doctrine of election and reprobation, and which i shall now give to the reader, they do no violence to the attributes of the almighty; but, on the other hand, confirm his wisdom, justice, and mercy, as displayed in the sacred writings, in his religious government of the world. these passaged may be considered both as of public and of private import; of public, as they relate to the world at large; of private, as they relate to the jews, to whom they were addressed by the apostle. the quakers, in viewing the doctrine as of public import, use the words "called," "predestinated," and "chosen," in the ordinary way in which they are used in the scriptures, or in the way in which christians generally understand them. they believe that the almighty intended, from the beginning, to make both individuals and nations subservient to the end which he had proposed to himself in the creation of the world. for this purpose he gave men different measures of his holy spirit; and in proportion as they have used these gifts more extensively than others, they, have been more useful among mankind. now all these may be truly said to have been instruments in the hands of providence, for the good works which they have severally performed; but, if instruments in his hands, then they may not improperly be stiled chosen vessels. in this sense the quakers view the words "chosen," or "called." in the same sense they view also the word "preordained;" but with this difference, that the instruments were foreknown; and that god should have known these instruments before-hand is not wonderful; for he who created the world, and who, to use an human expression, must see at one glance all that ever has been, and that is, and that is to come, must have known the means to be employed, and the characters who were to move, in the execution of his different dispensations to the world. in this sense the quakers conceive god may be said to have foreknown, called, chosen, and preordained noah, and also abraham, and also moses, and aaron, and his sons, and all the prophets, and all the evangelists, and apostles, and all the good men, who have been useful in spiritual services in their own generation or day. in this sense also many may be said to have been chosen or called in the days of the apostle paul; for they are described as having had various gifts bestowed upon them by the spirit of god. [ ] "to one was given the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge; to another the 'discerning of spirits;' to another prophecy; and to others other kinds of gifts. but the self-same spirit worked all these, dividing to every man severally as he chose." that is, particular persons were 'called by the spirit of god, in the days of the apostle, to particular offices for the perfecting of his church. [footnote : cor. . . .] in the same sense the quakers consider all true ministers of the gospel to be chosen. they believe that no imposition of hands or human ordination can qualify for this office. god, by means of his holy spirit alone, prepares such as are to be the vessels in his house. those therefore, who, in obedience to this spirit, come forth from the multitude to perform spiritual offices, may be said to be called or chosen. in this sense, nations may be said to be chosen also. such were the israelites, who by means of their peculiar laws and institutions, were kept apart from the other inhabitants of the world. now the dispute is, if any persons should be said to have been chosen in the scripture language, for what purpose they were so chosen. the favourers of the doctrine of election and reprobation, say for their salvation. but the quakers say, this is no where manifest; for the term salvation is not annexed to any of the passages from which the doctrine is drawn. nor do they believe it can be made to appear from any of the scriptural writings, that one man is called or chosen, or predestined to salvation, more than another. they believe, on the other hand, that these words relate wholly to the usefulness of individuals, and that if god has chosen any particular persons, he has chosen them that they might be the ministers of good to others; that they might be spiritual lights in the universe; or that they might become, in different times and circumstances, instruments of increasing the happiness of their fellow-creatures. thus the almighty may be said to have chosen noah, to perpetuate the memory of the deluge; to promulgate the origin and history of mankind; and to become, as st. peter calls him, "a preacher of righteousness" to those who were to be the ancestors of men. thus he may be said to have chosen moses to give the law, and to lead out the israelites, and to preserve them as a distinct people, who should carry with them notions of his existence, his providence, and his power. thus he may be said to have chosen the prophets, that men, in after ages, seeing their prophecies accomplished, might believe that christianity was of divine origin. thus also he may be said to have chosen paul,([ ] and indeed paul is described as a chosen vessel) to diffuse the gospel among the gentile world. [footnote : acts . .] that the words, called or chosen, relate to the usefulness of individuals in the world, and not to their salvation, the quakers believe from examining the comparison or simile, which st. paul has introduced of the potter and of his clay, upon this very occasion. [ ] "shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, why hast thou made me thus? hath not the potter power over the clay of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?" this simile, they say, relates obviously to the uses of these vessels. the potter makes some for splendid or extraordinary uses and purposes, and others for those which are mean and ordinary. so god has chosen individuals to great and glorious uses, while others remain in the mean or common mass, undistinguished by any very active part in the promotion of the ends of the world. nor have the latter any more reason to complain that god has given to others greater spiritual gifts, than that he has given to one man a better intellectual capacity than to another. [footnote : rom. . . .] they argue again, that the words "called or chosen," relate to usefulness, and not to salvation; because, if men were predestined from all eternity to salvation, they could not do any thing to deprive themselves of that salvation; that is, they could never do any wrong in this life, or fall from a state of purity: whereas it appears that many of those whom the scriptures consider to have been chosen, have failed in their duty to god; that these have had no better ground to stand upon than their neighbours; that election has not secured them from the displeasure of the almighty, but that they have been made to stand or fall, notwithstanding their election, as they acted well or ill, god having conducted himself no otherwise to them, than he has done to others in his moral government of the world. that persons so chosen have failed in their duty to god, or that their election has not preserved them from sin, is apparent, it is presumed, from the scriptures. for, in the first place, the israelites were a chosen people. they were the people to whom the apostle addressed himself, in the chapter which has given rise to the doctrine of election and reprobation, as the elected, or as having had the preference over the descendants of esau and others. and yet this election did not secure to them a state of perpetual obedience, or the continual favour of god. in the wilderness they were frequently rebellious, and they were often punished. in the time of malachi, to which the apostle directs their attention, they were grown so wicked, [ ]that "god is said to have no pleasure in them, and that he would not receive an offering at their hands." and in subsequent times, or in the time of the apostle, he tells them, that they were then passed over, notwithstanding their election, [ ]on account of their want of righteousness and faith, and that the gentiles were chosen in their place. in the second place, jesus christ is said in the new testament to have called or chosen his disciples. but this call or election did not secure the good behaviour of judas, or protect him from the displeasure of his master. [footnote : malachi . .] [footnote : rom, . . .] in the third place, it may be observed, that the apostle paul considers the churches under his care as called or chosen; as consisting of people who came out of the great body of the heathen world to become a select community under the christian name. he endeavours to inculcate in them a belief, that they were the lord's people; that they were under his immediate or particular care; that god knew and loved them, before they knew and loved him; and yet this election, it appears, did not secure them from falling off; for many of them became apostates in the time of the apostle, so "that he was grieved, fearing he had bestowed upon them his labour in vain." neither did this election secure even to those who then remained in the church, any certainty of salvation; otherwise the apostle would not have exhorted them so earnestly "to continue in goodness, lest they should be cut off." the quakers believe again, that the apostle paul never included salvation in the words "called or chosen," for another reason. for if these words had implied salvation, then non-election might have implied the destruction annexed to it by the favourers of the doctrine of reprobation. but no person, who knows whom the apostle meant, when he mentions those who had received and those who had lost the preference, entertains any such notion or idea. for who believes that because isaac is said to have had the preference of ishmael, and jacob of esau, that therefore ishmael and esau, who were quite as great princes in their times as isaac and jacob, were to be doomed to eternal misery? who believes that this preference, and the apostle alludes to no other, ever related to the salvation of souls? or rather, that it did not wholly relate to the circumstance, that the descendants of isaac and jacob were to preserve the church of god in the midst of the heathen nations, and that the messiah was to come from their own line, instead of that of their elder brethren. rejection or reprobation too, in the sense in which it is generally used by the advocates for the doctrine, is contrary, in a second point of view, in the opinion of the quakers, to the sense of the comparison or simile made by the apostle on this occasion. for when a potter makes two sorts of vessels, or such as are mean and such as are fine and splendid, he makes them for their respective uses. but he never makes the meaner sort for the purpose of dashing them to pieces. the doctrine therefore in dispute, if viewed as a doctrine of general import, only means, in the opinion of the quakers, that the almighty has a right to dispose of his spiritual favours as he pleases, and that he has given accordingly different measures of his spirit to different people: but that, in doing this, he does not exclude others from an opportunity of salvation or a right to life. on the other hand, they believe that he is no respecter of persons, only as far as obedience is concerned: that election neither secures of itself good behaviour, nor protects from punishment: that every man who standeth, must take heed lest he fall: that no man can boast of his election, so as to look down with contempt upon his meaner brethren: and that there is no other foundation for an expectation of the continuance of divine favour than a religions life. in viewing the passages in question as of private import, which is the next view the quakers take of them, the same lesson, and no other, is inculcated. the apostle, in the ninth chapter of the romans, addresses himself to the jews, who had been a chosen people, and rescues the character of god from the imputation of injustice, in having passed over them, and in having admitted the gentiles to a participation of his favours. the jews had depended so much upon their privileges as the children of abraham, and so much upon their ceremonial observances of the law, that they conceived themselves to have a right to continue to be the peculiar people of god. the apostle, however, teaches them, in the ninth and the eleventh chapters of the romans, a different lesson, and may be said to address them in the following manner:-- "i am truly sorry, my kinsmen in the flesh, that you, who have always considered yourselves the elder and chosen branches of the family of the world, should have been passed over; and that the gentiles, whom you have always looked upon as the younger, should be now preferred. but god is just--he will not sanction unrighteousness in any. nor will he allow any choice of his to continue persons in favour, longer than, after much long suffering, he finds them deserving his support. you are acquainted with your own history. the almighty, as you know, undoubtedly distinguished the posterity of abraham, but he was not partial to them alike. did he not reject ishmael the scoffer, though he was the eldest son of abraham, and countenance isaac, who was the younger? did he not pass over esau the eldest son of isaac, who had sold his birth-right, and prefer jacob? did he not set aside reuben, simeon, and levi, the three eldest sons of jacob, who were guilty of incest, treachery, and murder, and choose that the messiah should come from judah, who was but the fourth? but if, in these instances, he did not respect eldership, why do you expect that he will not pass you over for the gentiles, if ye continue in unbelief?" "but so true it is, that he will not support any whom he may have chosen, longer than they continue to deserve it, that he will not even continue his countenance to the gentiles, though he has now preferred them, if by any misconduct they should become insensible of his favours. [ ] for i may compare both you and them to an olive-tree. if some of you, who are the elder, or natural branches, should be broken off, and the gentiles, being a wild olive-tree, should be grafted in among you, and with you partake of the root and fatness of the olive-tree, it would not become them to boast against you the branches: for if they boast, they do not bear the root, but the root them. perhaps, however, they might say, that you, the branches, were broken off, that they might be grafted in. well, but it was wholly on account of unbelief that you were broken off, and it was wholly by faith that they themselves were taken in. but it becomes them not to be high-minded, but to fear. for if god spared not you, the natural branches, let them take heed, lest he also spare not them." [footnote : rom. . . . . . .] "moreover, my kinsmen in the flesh, i must tell you, that you have not only no right to complain, because the gentiles have been preferred, but that you would have no right to complain, even if you were to become the objects of god's vengeance. you cannot forget, in the history of your own nation, the example of pharaoh: you are acquainted with his obstinacy and disobedience. you know that he stifled his convictions from day to day. you know that, by stifling these, or by resisting god's holy spirit, he became daily more hardened; and that by allowing himself to become daily more hardened, he fitted himself for a vessel of wrath, or prepared the way for his own destruction. you know at length that god's judgments, but not till after much long suffering, came upon him, so that the power of god became thus manifested to many. but if you know all these things, and continue in unrighteousness and unbelief, which were the crimes of pharaoh also, why do you imagine that your hearts will not become hardened like the heart of pharaoh; or that if you are guilty of pharaoh's crimes, you are not deserving of pharaoh's punishment?" chap. ix. _recapitulation of all the doctrines hitherto laid down with respect to the influence of the spirit--objection to this, that the quakers make every thing of this spirit, and but little of jesus christ--objection only noticed to show, that christians have not always a right apprehension of scriptural terms, and therefore often quarrel with one another about trifles--or that there is, in this particular case, no difference between the doctrine of the quakers and that of the objectors on this subject._ i shall now recapitulate in few words, or in one general proposition, all the doctrines which have been advanced relative to the power of the spirit, and shall just notice an argument, which will probably arise on such a recapitulation, before i proceed to a new subject. the quakers then believe that the spirit of god formed or created the world. they believe that it was given to men, after the formation of it, as a guide to them in their spiritual concerns. they believe that it was continued to them after the deluge, in the same manner, and for the same purposes, to the time of christ. it was given, however, in this interval, to different persons in different degrees. thus the prophets received a greater portion of it than ordinary persons in their own times. thus moses was more illuminated by it than his contemporaries, for it became through him the author of the law. in the time of christ it continued the same office, but it was then given more diffusively than before, and also more diffusively to some than to others. thus the evangelists and apostles received it in an extraordinary degree, and it became, through them and jesus christ their head, the author of the gospel. but, besides its office of a spiritual light and guide to men in their spiritual concerns, during all the period now assigned, it became to them, as they attended to its influence, an inward redeemer, producing in them a new birth, and leading them to perfection. and as it was thus both a guide and an inward redeemer, so it has continued these offices to the present day. from hence it will be apparent that the acknowledgment of god's holy spirit, in its various operations, as given in different portions before and after the sacrifice of christ, is the acknowledgment of a principle, which is the great corner stone of the religion of the quakers. without this there can be no knowledge, in their opinion, of spiritual things. without this there can be no spiritual interpretation of the scriptures themselves. without this there can be no redemption by inward, though there may be redemption by outward means. without this there can be no enjoyment of the knowledge of divine things. take therefore this principle away from them, and you take away their religion at once. take away this spirit, and christianity remains with them no more christianity, than the dead carcass of a man, when the spirit is departed, remains a man. whatsoever is excellent, whatsoever is noble, whatsoever is worthy, whatsoever is desirable in the christian faith, they ascribe to this spirit, and they believe that true christianity can no more subsist without it, than the outward world could go on without the vital influence of the sun. now an objection will be made to the proposition, as i have just stated it, by some christians, and even by those who do not wish to derogate from the spirit of god, (for i have frequently heard it started by such) that the quakers, by means of these doctrines, make every thing of the spirit, and [ ]but little of jesus christ. i shall therefore notice this objection in this place, not so much with a view of answering it, as of attempting to show, that christiana have not always a right apprehension of scriptural terms; and therefore that they sometimes quarrel with one another about trifles, or rather, that when they have disputes with each other, there is sometimes scarcely a shade of difference between them. [footnote : the quakers make much of the advantages of christ's coming in the flesh. among these are considered the sacrifice of his own body, a more plentiful diffusion of the spirit, and a dearer revelation relative to god and man.] to those who make the objection, i shall describe the proposition which has been stated above, in different terms. i shall leave out the words "spirit of god," and i shall wholly substitute the term "christ." this i shall do upon the authority of some of our best divines.... the proposition then will run thus: god, by means of christ, created the world, "for without him was not any thing made, that was made." he made, by means of the same christ, the terrestrial globe on which we live. he made the whole host of heaven. he made, therefore, besides our own, other planets and other worlds. he caused also, by means of the same christ, the generation of all animated nature, and of course of the life and vital powers of man. he occasioned also by the same means, the generation of reason or intellect, and of a spiritual faculty, to man. man, however, had not been long created, before he fell into sin. it pleased god, therefore, that the same christ, which had thus appeared in creation, should strive inwardly with man, and awaken his spiritual faculties, by which he might be able to know good from evil, and to obtain inward redemption from the pollutions of sin. and this inward striving of christ was to be with every man, in after times, so that all would be inexcusable and subjected to condemnation, if they sinned. it pleased god also, in process of time, as the attention of man was led astray by bad customs, by pleasures, by the cares of the world, and other causes, that the same christ, in addition to this his inward striving with him, should afford him outward help, accommodated to his outward senses, by which his thoughts might be oftener turned towards god, and his soul be the better preserved in the way of salvation. christ accordingly, through moses and the prophets, became the author of a dispensation to the jews, that is, of their laws, types, and customs, of their prophecies, and of their scriptures. but as in the education of man things must be gradually unfolded, so it pleased god, in the scheme of his redemption, that the same christ, in fulness of time, should take flesh, and become personally upon earth the author of another outward, but of a more pure and glorious dispensation, than the former, which was to be more extensive also; and which was not to be confined to the jews, but to extend in time to the uttermost corners of the earth. christ therefore became the author of the inspired delivery of the outward scriptures of the new testament. by these, as by outward and secondary means, he acted upon men's senses. he informed them of their corrupt nature, of their awful and perilous situation, of another life, of a day of judgment, of rewards and punishments. these scriptures therefore, of which christ was the author, were outward instruments at the time, and continue so to posterity, to second his inward aid. that is, they produce thought, give birth to anxiety, excite fear, promote seriousness, turn the eye towards god, and thus prepare the heart for a sense of those inward strivings of christ, which produce inward redemption from the power and guilt of sin. where, however, this outward aid of the holy scriptures has not reached, christ continues to purify and redeem by his inward power. but as men, who are acted upon solely by his inward strivings, have not the same advantages as those who are also acted upon by his outward word, so less is expected in the one than in the other case. less is expected from the gentile than from the jew: less from the barbarian than from the christian. and this latter doctrine of the universality of the striving of christ with man, in a spiritually instructive and redemptive capacity, as it is merciful and just, so it is worthy of the wise and beneficent creator. christ, in short, has been filling, from the foundation of the world, the office of an inward redeemer, and this, without any exception, to all of the human race. and there is even [ ] "now no salvation in any other. for there is no other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved." [footnote : acts . .] from this new statement of the proposition, which statement is consistent with the language of divines, it will appear, that, if the quakers have made every thing of the spirit, and but little of christ, i have made, to suit the objectors, every thing of christ, and but little of the spirit. now i would ask, where lies the difference between the two statements? which is the more accurate; or whether, when i say these things were done by the spirit, and when i say they were done by christ, i do not state precisely the same proposition, or express the same thing? that christ, in all the offices stated by the proposition, is neither more nor less than the spirit of god, there can surely be no doubt. in looking at christ, we are generally apt to view him with carnal eyes. we can seldom divest ourselves of the idea of a body belonging to him, though this was confessedly human, and can seldom consider him as a pure principle or fountain of divine life and light to men. and yet it is obvious, that we must view him in this light in the present case; for if he was at the creation of the world, or with moses at the delivery of the law, (which the proposition supposes) he could not have been there in his carnal body; because this was not produced till centuries afterwards by the virgin mary. in this abstracted light, the apostles frequently view christ themselves. thus st. paul:[ ] "i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me." and again,[ ] "know ye not your own selves, how that jesus christ is in you, except ye be reprobates?" [footnote : gal. . .] [footnote : cor. . ]. now no person imagines that st. paul had any idea, either that the body of christ was in himself, or in others, on the occasions on which he has thus spoken. that christ therefore, as he held the offices contained in the proposition, was the spirit of god, we may pronounce from various views, which we may take of him, all of which seem to lead us to the same conclusion. and first let us look at christ in the scriptural light in which he has been held forth to us in the fourth section of the seventh chapter, where i have explained the particular notions of the quakers relative to the new birth. god maybe considered here as having produced, by means of his holy spirit, a birth of divine life in the soul of the "body which had been prepared;" and this birth was christ. [ ] "but that which is born of the spirit, says st. john, is spirit." the only question then will be as to the magnitude of the spirit thus produced. in answer to this st. john says,[ ] "that god gave him not the spirit by measure." and st. paul says the same thing: [ ] "for in him all the fulness of the godhead dwelt bodily." now we can have no idea of a spirit without measure, or containing the fullness of the godhead, but the spirit of god. [footnote : john . .] [footnote : john . .] [footnote : coloss. . ] let us now look at christ in another point of view, or as st. paul seems to have viewed him. he defines christ [ ] "to be the wisdom of god, and the power of god." but what are the wisdom of god, and the power of god, but the great characteristics and the great constituent parts of his spirit? [footnote : cor. . .] but if these views of christ should not be deemed satisfactory, we will contemplate him as st. john the evangelist has held him forth to our notice. moses says, that the spirit of god created the world. but st. john says that the word created it. the spirit therefore and the word must be the same. but this word he tells us afterwards, and this positively, was jesus christ. it appears therefore from these observations, that it makes no material difference, whether we use the words "spirit of god" or "christ," in the proposition that has been before us, or that there will be no difference in the meaning of the proposition, either in the one or the other case; and also if the quakers only allow, when the spirit took flesh, that the body was given as a sacrifice for sin, or that part of the redemption of man, as far as his sins are forgiven, is effected by this sacrifice, there will be little or no difference between the religion of the quakers and that of the objectors, as far as it relates to christ[ ]. [footnote : the quakers have frequently said in their theological writings, that every man has a portion of the holy spirit within him; and this assertion has not been censured. but they have also said, that every man has a portion of christ or of the light of christ, within him. now this assertion has been considered as extravagant and wild. the reader will therefore see, that if he admits the one, he cannot very consistently censure the other.] chap. x. sect. i. _ministers--the spirit of god alone can made a minister of the gospel--hence no imposition of hands nor human knowledge can be effectual--this proposition not peculiarly adopted by george fox, but by justin the martyr, luther, calvin, wickliffe, tyndal, milton, and others--way in which this call, by the spirit, qualifies for the ministry--women equally qualified with men--how a quaker becomes acknowledged to be a minister of the gospel._ having now detailed fully the operations of the spirit of god, as far as the quakers believe it to be concerned in the instruction and redemption of man, i shall consider its operations, as far as they believe it to be concerned in the services of the church. upon this spirit they make both their worship and their ministry to depend. i shall therefore consider these subjects, before i proceed to any new order of tenets, which they may hold. it is a doctrine of the quakers that none can spiritually exercise, and that none ought to be allowed to exercise, the office of ministers, but such as the spirit of god has worked upon and called forth to discharge it, as well as that the same spirit will never fail to raise up persons in succession for this end. conformably with this idea, no person, in the opinion of the quakers, ought to be designed by his parents in early youth for the priesthood: for as the wind bloweth where it listeth, so no one can say which is the vessel that is to be made to honour. conformably with the same idea, no imposition of hands, or ordination, can avail any thing, in their opinion, in the formation of a minister of the gospel; for no human power can communicate to the internal man the spiritual gifts of god. neither, in conformity with the same idea, can the acquisition of human learning, or the obtaining academical degrees and honours, be essential qualifications for this office; for though the human intellect is so great, that it can dive as it were into the ocean and discover the laws of fluids, and rise again up to heaven, and measure the celestial motions, yet it is incapable of itself of penetrating into divine things, so as spiritually to know them; while, on the other hand, illiterate men appear often to have more knowledge on these subjects than the most learned. indeed the quakers have no notion of a human qualification for a divine calling. they reject all school divinity, as necessarily connected with the ministry. they believe that if a knowledge of christianity had been attainable by the acquisition of the greek and roman languages, and through the medium of the greek and roman philosophers, then the greeks and romans themselves had been the best proficients in it; whereas, the gospel was only foolishness to many of these. they say with st. paul to the colossians,[ ] "beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after christ." and they say with the same apostle to timothy,[ ] "o timothy! keep that which is committed to thy trust, avoid profane and vain babblings, and oppositions of science falsely so called, which some professing have erred concerning the faith." [footnote : coloss. . .] [footnote : tim. , , ] this notion of the quakers, that human learning and academical honours are not necessary for the priesthood, is very ancient. though george fox introduced it into his new society, and this without any previous reading upon the subject, yet it had existed long before his time. in short, it was connected with the tenet, early disseminated in the church, that no person could know spiritual things but through the medium of the spirit of god, from whence it is not difficult to pass to the doctrine, that none could teach spiritually except they had been taught spiritually themselves. hence we find justin the martyr, a platonic philosopher, but who was afterwards one of the earliest christian writers after the apostles, and other learned men after him down to chrysostom, laying aside their learning and their philosophy for the school of christ. the first authors also of the reformation, contended for this doctrine. luther and calvin, both of them, supported it. wickliffe, the first reformer of the english church, and tyndal the martyr, the first translator of the bible into the english language, supported it also. in , sydrach simpson, master of pembroke-hall in cambridge, preached a sermon before the university, contending that the universities corresponded with the schools of the prophets, and that human learning was an essential qualification for the priesthood. this sermon, however, was answered by william dell, master of caius college in the same university, in which he stated, after having argued the points in question, that the universities did not correspond with the schools of the prophets, but with those of heathen men; that plato, aristotle, and pythagoras, were more honoured there, than moses or christ; that grammar, rhetoric, logic, ethics, physics, metaphysics, and the mathematics, were not the instruments to be used in the promotion or the defence of the gospel; that christian schools had originally brought men from heathenism to christianity, but that the university schools were likely to carry men from christianity to heathenism again. this language of william dell was indeed the general language of the divines and pious men in those times in which george fox lived, though unquestionably the opposite doctrine had been started, and had been received by many. thus the great john milton, who lived in these very times, may be cited as speaking in a similar manner on the same subject. "next, says he, it is a fond error, though too much believed among us, to think that the university makes a minister of the gospel. what it may conduce to other arts and sciences, i dispute not now. but that, which makes fit a minister, the scripture can best inform us to be only from above; whence also we are bid to seek them. [ ]thus st. matthew says, 'pray ye therefore the lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest.' thus st. luke: [ ] 'the flock, over which the holy ghost hath made you overseers.' thus st. paul: [ ] 'how shall they preach, unless they be sent?' but by whom sent? by the university, or by the magistrate? no, surely. but sent by god, and by him only." [footnote : mat. . .] [footnote : acts . .] [footnote : rom. . .] the quakers then, rejecting school divinity, continue to think with justin, luther, dell, milton, and indeed with those of the church of england and others, that those only can be proper ministers of the church, who have witnessed within themselves a call from the spirit of god. if men would teach religion, they must, in the opinion of the quakers, be first taught of god. they must go first to the school of christ; must come under his discipline in their hearts; must mortify the deeds of the body; must crucify the flesh with the affections and lusts thereof; must put off the old man which is corrupt; must put on the new man, "which after god is created in righteousness and true holiness;" must be in fact, "ministers of the sanctuary and true tabernacle, which the lord hath pitched, and not man." and whether those who come forward as ministers are really acted upon by this spirit, or by their own imagination only, so that they mistake the one for the other, the quakers consider it to be essentially necessary, that they should experience such a call in their own feelings, and that purification of heart, which they can only judge of by their outward lives, should be perceived by themselves, before they presume to enter upon such an office. the quakers believe that men, qualified in this manner, are really fit for the ministry, and are likely to be useful instruments in it. for first, it becomes men to be changed themselves, before they can change others. those again, who have been thus changed, have the advantage of being able to state from living experience what god has done for them; [ ] "what they have seen with their eyes; what they have looked upon; and what their hands have handled of the word of life." men also, who, by means of god's holy spirit, have escaped the pollutions of the world, are in a fit state to understand the mysteries of god, and to carry with them the seal of their own commission. thus men under sin can never discern spiritual things. but "to the disciples of christ," and to the doers of his will, "it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven." thus, when the jews marvelled at christ, saying [ ] "how knoweth this man letters, (or the scriptures) having never learned? jesus answered them, and said, my doctrine is not mine, but his who sent me. if any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of god, or whether i speak of myself." such ministers also are considered as better qualified to reach the inward state of the people, and to "preach liberty to the captives" of sin, than those who have merely the advantage of school divinity, or of academical learning. it is believed also of these, that they are capable of giving more solid and lasting instruction, when they deliver themselves at large: for those, who preach rather from intellectual abilities and from the suggestions of human learning, than from the spiritual life and power which they find within themselves, may be said to forsake christ, who is the "living fountain, and to hew out broken cisterns which hold no water," either for themselves or for others. [footnote : coloss. . .] [footnote : tim. . . .] this qualification for the ministry being allowed to be the true one, it will follow, the quakers believe, and it was luther's belief also, that women may be equally qualified to become ministers of the gospel, as the men. for they believe that god has given his holy spirit, without exception, to all. they dare not therefore limit its operations in the office of the ministry, more than in any other of the sacred offices which it may hold. they dare not again say, that women cannot mortify the deeds of the flesh, or that they cannot be regenerated, and walk in newness of life. if women therefore believe they have a call to the ministry, and undergo the purification necessarily connected with it, and preach in consequence, and preach effectively, they dare not, under these circumstances, refuse to accept their preaching, as the fruits of the spirit, merely because it comes through the medium of the female sex. against this doctrine of the quakers, that a female ministry is allowable under the gospel dispensation, an objection has been started from the following words of the apostle paul: [ ] "let your women keep silence in the churches, for it is not permitted unto them to speak"--"and if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands at home." but the quakers conceive, that this charge of the apostle has no allusion to preaching. in these early times, when the gospel doctrines were new, and people were eager to understand them, some of the women, in the warmth of their feelings, interrupted the service of the church, by asking such questions as occurred to them on the subject of this new religion. these are they whom the apostle desires to be silent, and to reserve their questions till they should return home. and that this was the case is evident, they conceive, from the meaning of the words, which the apostle uses upon this occasion. for the word in the greek tongue, which is translated "speak," does not mean to preach or to pray, but to speak as in common discourse. and the words, which immediately follow this, do not relate to any evangelical instruction, which these women were desirous of communicating publicly, but which they were desirous of receiving themselves from others. [footnote : cor. . . .] that the words quoted do not relate to praying or preaching is also equally obvious, in the opinion of the quakers; for if they had related to these offices of the church, the word "prophesy" had been used instead of the word "speak." add to which that the apostle, in the same epistle in which the preaching of women is considered to be forbidden, gives them a rule to which he expects them to conform, when they should either prophesy or pray: but to give women a rule to be observed during their preaching, and to forbid them to preach at the some time, is an absurdity too great to be fixed upon the most ordinary person, and much more upon an inspired apostle. that the objection has no foundation, the quakers believe again, from the consideration that the ministry of women, in the days of the apostles, is recognized in the new testament, and is recognized also, in some instances, as an acceptable service. of the hundred and twenty persons who were assembled on the day of pentecost, it is said by st. luke that [ ] some were women. that these received the holy spirit as well as the men, and that they received it also for the purpose of prophesying or preaching, is obvious from the same evangelist. for first, he says, that "all were filled with the holy ghost." and secondly, he says, that peter stood up, and observed concerning the circumstance of inspiration having been given to the women upon this occasion, that joel's prophecy was then fulfilled, in which were to be found these words: "and it shall come to pass in the hist days, that your sons and your daughters shall prophesy--and on my servants and handmaidens i will pour out in those days of my spirit; and they shall prophesy." [footnote : acts, chap. .] that women preached afterwards, or in times subsequent to the day of pentecost, they collect from the same evangelist. [ ]for he mentions philip, who had four daughters, all of whom prophesied at cæsarea. now by prophesying, if we accept [ ]st. paul's interpretation of it, is meant a speaking to edification, and exhortation, and comfort, under the influence of the holy spirit. it was also a speaking to the church: it was also the speaking of one person to the church, while the others remained silent. [footnote : acts . .] [footnote : cor. .] that women also preached or prophesied in the church of corinth, the quakers show from the testimony of st. paul: for he states the manner in which they did it, or that [ ]they prayed and prophesied with their heads uncovered. [footnote : cor. . .] that women also were ministers of the gospel in other places; and that they were highly serviceable to the church, st. paul confesses with great satisfaction, in his epistle to the romans, in which he sends his salutation to different persons, for whom he professed an affection or an esteem: [ ]thus--"i commend unto you phoebe our sister, who is a servant of the church, which is at cenchrea." upon this passage the quakers usually make two observations. the first is, that the [ ]greek word, which is translated servant, should have been rendered minister. it is translated minister, when applied by st. paul to [ ]timothy, to denote his office. it is also translated minister, when applied to [ ]st. paul and apollos. and there is no reason why a change should have been made in its meaning in the present case. the second is, that history has handed down phoebe as a woman eminent for her gospel labours. "she was celebrated, says [ ]theodoret, throughout the world; for not only the greeks and the romans, but the barbarians, knew her likewise." [footnote : romans . .] [footnote : [greek: diokogos.]] [footnote : thess. . .] [footnote : cor. . .] [footnote : in universa terra celebris facta est; nec eam soli romani, &c,] st. paul also greets priscilla and aquila. he greets them under the title of fellow-helpers or fellow-labourers in jesus christ. but this is the same title which he bestows upon timothy, to denote his usefulness in the church. add to which, that priscilla and aquila were the persons of whom st. luke [ ]says, "that they assisted apollos in expounding to him the way of god more perfectly." [footnote : acts . . .] in the same epistle he recognizes also other women, as having been useful to him in gospel-labours. thus--"salute tryphena, and tryphosa, who labour in the lord." "salute the beloved persis, who laboured much in the lord." from these, and from other observations, which might be made upon this subject, the quakers are of opinion that the ministry of the women was as acceptable, in the time of the apostles, as the ministry of the men. and as there is no prohibition against the preaching of women in the new testament, they see no reason why they should not be equally admissible and equally useful as ministers at the present day. sect. ii. _way in which quakers are admitted into the ministry--when acknowledged, they preach, like other pastors, to their different congregations or meetings--they visit occasionally the different families in their own counties or quarterly meetings--manner of these family-visits--sometimes travel as ministers through particular counties or the kingdom at large--sometimes into foreign parts--women share in these labours--expense of voyages on such occasions defrayed out of the national stock._ the way in which quakers, whether men or women, who conceive themselves to be called to the office of the ministry, are admitted into it, so as to be acknowledged by the society to be ministers of the quaker-church, is simply as follows. any member has a right to rise up in the meetings for worship, and to speak publicly. if any one therefore should rise up and preach, who has never done so before, he is heard. the congregation are all witnesses of his doctrine. the elders, however, who may be present, and to whose province it more immediately belongs to judge of the fitness of ministers, observe the tenour of his discourse. they watch over it for its authority; that is, they judge by its spiritual influence on the mind, whether it be such as corresponds with that which may be presumed to come from the spirit of god. if the new preacher delivers any thing that appears exceptionable, and continues to do so, it is the duty of the elders to speak to him in private, and to desire him to discontinue his services to the church. but if nothing exceptionable occurs, nothing is said to him, and he is allowed to deliver himself publicly at future meetings. in process of time, if, after repeated attempts in the office of the ministry, the new preacher should have given satisfactory proof of his gifts, he is reported to the monthly meeting to which he belongs. and this meeting, if satisfied with his ministry, acknowledges him as a minister, and then recommends him to the meeting of ministers and elders belonging to the same. no other act than this is requisite. he receives no verbal or written appointment or power for the execution of the sacerdotal office. it may be observed also, that he neither gains any authority, nor loses any privilege, by thus becoming a minister of the gospel. except, while in the immediate exercise of his calling, he is only a common member. he receives no elevation by the assumption of any nominal title, to distinguish him from the rest. nor is he elevated by the prospect of any increase to his wordly goods in consequence of his new office; for no minister in this society receives any pecuniary emolument for his spiritual labours. when ministers are thus approved and acknowledged, they exercise the sacred office in public assemblies, as they immediately feel themselves influenced to that work. they may engage also, with the approbation of their own monthly meeting, in the work of visiting such quaker families as reside in the county, or quarterly meeting to which they belong. in this case they are sometimes accompanied by one of the elders of the church. these visits have the name of family visits, and are conducted in the following manner:-- when a quaker minister, after having commenced his journey, has entered the house of the first family, the individual members are collected to receive him. they then sit in silence for a time. as he believes himself concerned to speak, he delivers that which arises in his mind with religions freedom. the master, the wife, and the other branches of the family, are sometimes severally addressed. does the minister feel that there is a departure in any of the persons present, from the principles or practice of the society, he speaks, if he believes it required of him, to these points. is there any well disposed person under any inward discouragement; this person may be addressed in the language of consolation. all in fact are exhorted and advised as their several circumstances may seem to require. when the religious visit is over, the minister, if there be occasion, takes some little refreshment with the family, and converses with them; but no light or trifling subject is ever entered upon on these occasions. from one family he passes on to another, till he has visited all the families in the district, for which he had felt a concern. though quaker ministers frequently confine their spiritual labours to the county or quarterly meeting in which they reside, yet some of them feel an engagement to go beyond these boundaries, and to visit the society in particular counties, or in the kingdom at large. they who feel a concern of this kind, must lay it before their own monthly meetings. these meetings, if they feel it right to countenance it, grant them certificates for the purpose. these certificates are necessary; first, because ministers might not he personally known as ministers out of their own district; and secondly, because quakers, who were not ministers, and other persons who might counterfeit the dress of quakers, might otherwise impose upon the society, as they travelled along. such persons, as thus travel in the work of the ministry, or public friends as they are called, seldom or never go to an inn at any town or village, where quakers live. they go to the houses of the latter. while at these, they attend the weekly, monthly, and quarterly meetings of the district, as they happen on their route. they call also extraordinary meetings of worship. at these houses they are visited by many of the members of the place and neighbourhood, who call upon and converse with them. during these times they appear to have their minds bent on the object of their mission, so that it would be difficult to divert their attention from the work in hand. when they have staid a sufficient time at a town or village, they depart. one or more guides are appointed by the particular meeting, belonging to it, to show them the way to the next place, where they propose to labour, and to convey them free of expense, and to conduct them to the house of some member there. from this house, when their work is finished, they are conveyed and conducted by new guides to another, and so on, till they return to their respective homes. but the religious views of the quaker ministers are not always confined even within the boundaries of the kingdom. many of them believe it to be their duty to travel into foreign parts. these, as their journey is now extensive, must lay their concern not only before their own monthly meeting, but before their own quarterly meeting, and before the meeting of ministers and elders in london also. on receiving their certificates, they depart. some of them visit the continent of europe, but most of them the churches in america, where they diligently labour in the vineyard, probably for a year or two, at a distance from their families and friends. and here it may be observed, that, while quaker ministers from england are thus visiting america on a religious errand, ministers from america, impelled by the same influence, are engaging in apostolical missions to england. these foreign visits, on both sides, are not undertaken by such ministers only as are men. women engage in them also. they cross the atlantic, and labour in the vineyard in the same manner. it may be mentioned here, that though it be a principle in the quaker society, that no minister of the gospel ought to be paid for his religious labours, yet the expense of the voyage, on such occasions, is allowed to be defrayed out of the fund, which is denominated by the quakers their national stock. chap. xi. _elders--their appointment--one part of their office to watch over the doctrines and conduct of ministers--another part of their office to meet the ministers of the church, and to confer and exhort for religious good--none to meddle at these conferences with the government of the church._ i mentioned in the preceding chapter, as the reader must have observed, that certain persons, called elders, watched over those who came forward in the ministry, with a view of ascertaining if they had received a proper qualification or call. i shall now state who the elders are, as well as more particularly the nature of their office. to every particular meeting four elders, two men and two women, but sometimes more and sometimes less, according as persons can be found qualified, are appointed. these are nominated by a committee appointed by the monthly meeting, in conjunction with a committee appointed by the quarterly meeting. and as the office annexed to the name of elder is considered peculiarly important by the quakers, particular care is taken, that persons of clear discernment, and such as excel in the spiritual ear, and such as are blameless in their lives, are appointed to it. it is recommended that neither wealth nor age be allowed to operate as inducements in the choice of them. indeed, so much care is required to be taken with respect to the filling up this office, that if persons perfectly suitable are not to be found, the meetings are to be left without them. it is one part of the duty of the elders, when appointed, to watch over the doctrine of young ministers, and also to watch over the doctrine and conduct of ministers generally, and tenderly to advise with such as appear to them to be deficient in any of the qualifications which belong to their high calling. when we consider that every religious society attaches a more than common respectability to the person who performs the sacerdotal office, there will be no difficulty in supposing, whenever a minister may be thought to err, that many of those who are aware of his error, will want the courage to point it out to him, and that others will excuse themselves from doing it, by saying that interference on this occasion does not belong more immediately to them than to others. this institution therefore of elders fixes the offices on individuals. it makes it their duty to watch and advise--it makes them responsible for the unsound doctrine, or the bad conduct of their ministers. and this responsibility is considered as likely to give persons that courage in watching over the ministry, which they might otherwise want. hence, if a minister in the quaker church were to preach unsoundly, or to act inconsistently with his calling, he would be generally sure of being privately spoken to by one or another elder. this office of elders, as far as it is concerned in advising ministers of the gospel, had its foundation laid by george fox. many persons, who engaged in the ministry in his time, are described by him as "having run into imaginations," or as "having gone beyond their measure;" and in these cases, whenever they should happen, he recommended that one or two friends, if they saw fit, should advise with them in love and wisdom. in process of time, however, this evil seems to have increased; for as the society spread, numbers pressed forward to become gospel ministers; many supposed they had a call from the spirit, and rose up, and preached, and in the heat of their imaginations, delivered themselves unprofitably. two or three persons also, in the frenzy of their enthusiasm, frequently rose up, and spoke at the same time. now this was easily to be done in a religious society, where all were allowed to speak, and where the qualifications of ministers were to be judged of in part by the truths delivered, or rather, where ordination was no mark of the ministry, or where an human appointment of it was unknown. for these reasons, that mode of superintendence which had only been suggested by george fox, and left to the discretion of individuals, was perfected into an establishment, out of imperious necessity, in after times. men were appointed to determine between the effects of divine inspiration and human imagination; to judge between the cool and the sound; and the enthusiastic and the defective; and to put a bridle as it were upon those who were not likely to become profitable labourers in the harvest of the gospel. and as this office was rendered necessary on account of the principle that no ordination or human appointment could make a minister of the gospel; so the same principle continuing among the quakers, the office has been continued to the present day. it devolves upon the elders again, as a second branch of their duty, to meet the ministers of the church at stated seasons, generally once in three months, and to spend some time with them in religious retirement. it is supposed that opportunities may be afforded here, of encouraging and strengthening young ministers, of confirming the old, and of giving religious advice and assistance in various ways: and it must be supposed at any rate, that religious men cannot meet in religious conference, without some edification to each other. at these meetings, queries are proposed relative to the conduct both of ministers and elders, which they answer in writing to the quarterly meetings of ministers and elders to which they belong. of the ministers and elders thus assembled, it may be observed, that it is their duty to confine themselves wholly to the exhortation of one another for good. they can make no laws, like the ancient synods and other convocations of the clergy, nor dictate any article of faith. neither can they meddle with the government of the church. the quakers allow neither ministers nor elders, by virtue of their office, to interfere with their discipline. every proposition of this sort must be determined upon by the yearly meeting, or by the body at large. chap. xii. sect. i. _worship--consists of prayer and preaching--neither of these effectual but by the spirit--hence no liturgy or form of words, or studied sermons, in the quaker-church--singular manner of delivering sermons--tone of the voice usually censured--this may arise from the difference between nature and art--objected, that there is little variety of subject in these sermons--variety not so necessary to quakers--other objections--replies--observations of francis lambert, of avignon._ as no person, in the opinion of the quakers, can be a true minister of the gospel, unless he feel himself called or appointed by the spirit of god, so there can be no true or effectual worship, except it come through the aid of the same spirit. the public worship of god is usually made to consist of prayer and preaching. prayer is a solemn address of the soul to god. it is a solemn confession of some weakness, or thanksgiving for some benefit, or petition for some favour. but the quakers consider such an address as deprived of its life and power, except it be spiritually conceived. [ ] "for the spirit 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 which cannot be uttered." [footnote : rom. . .] preaching, on the other hand, is an address of man to men, that their attention may be turned towards god, and their minds be prepared for the secret and heavenly touches of his spirit. but this preaching, again, cannot be effectually performed, except the spirit of god accompany it. thus st. paul, in speaking of himself, says, [ ] "and my speech and my preaching was not with enticing words of man's wisdom, but in demonstration of the spirit and with power, that your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of god." so the quakers believe that no words, however excellent, which men may deliver now, will avail, or will produce that faith which is to stand, except they be accompanied by that power which shall demonstrate them to be of god. [footnote : cor. . .] from hence it appears to be the opinion of the quakers, that the whole worship of god, whether it consist of prayer or of preaching, must be spiritual. jesus christ has also, they say, left this declaration upon record,[ ]that "god is a spirit, and that they that worship him, must worship him in spirit and in truth." by worshipping him in truth, they mean, that men are to worship him only when they feel a right disposition to do it, and in such a manner as they judge, from their own internal feelings, to be the manner which the spirit of god then signifies. [footnote : john . .] for these reasons, when the quakers enter into their meetings, they use no liturgy or form of prayer. such a form would be made up of the words of man's wisdom. neither do they deliver any sermons that have been previously conceived or written down. neither do they begin their service immediately after they are seated. but when they sit down, they wait in silence,[ ] as the apostles were commanded to do. they endeavour to be calm and composed. they take no thought as to what they shall say. they avoid, on the other hand, all activity of the imagination, and every thing that arises from the will of man. the creature is thus brought to be passive, and the spiritual faculty to be disencumbered, so that it can receive and attend to the spiritual language of the creator. [ ]if, during this vacation from all mental activity, no impressions should be given to them, they say nothing. if impressions should be afforded to them, but no impulse to oral delivery, they remain equally silent. but if, on the other hand, impressions are given them, with an impulse to utterance, they deliver to the congregation as faithfully as they can, the copies of the several images, which they conceive to be painted upon their minds. [footnote : mat. . . acts . .] [footnote : they believe it their duty, (to speak in the quaker language,) to maintain the watch, by preserving the imagination from being carried away by thoughts originating in man; and, in such watch, patiently to await for the arising of that life, which, by subduing the thoughts of man, produces an inward silence, and therein bestows a true sight of his condition upon him.] this utterance, when it manifests itself, is resolvable into prayer or preaching. if the minister engages in prayer, the whole company rise up, and the men with the minister take off their hats, that is, [ ]uncover their heads. if he preaches only, they do not rise, but remain upon their seats as before, with their heads covered. the preacher, however, uncovers his own head upon this occasion. [footnote : cor. ch. .] there is something singular in the manner in which the quakers deliver themselves when they preach. in the beginning of their discourses, they generally utter their words with slowness; indeed, with a slowness, which sometimes renders their meaning almost unintelligible to persons unaccustomed to such a mode of delivery; for seconds sometimes elapse between the sounding of short sentences or single words, so that the mind cannot always easily carry the first words, and join them to the intermediate, and connect them with the last. as they proceed, they communicate their impressions in a brisker manner; till, at length, getting beyond the quickness of ordinary delivery, they may be said to utter them rapidly. at this time, some of them appear to be much affected, and even agitated by their subject. this method of a very slow and deliberate pronunciation at first, and of an accelerated one afterwards, appears to me, as far as i have seen or heard, to be universal: for though undoubtedly some may make less pauses between the introductory words and sentences than others, yet all begin slower than they afterwards proceed. this singular custom may be probably accounted for in the following manner. the quakers certainly believe that the spirit of god furnishes them with impressions on these occasions, but that the description of these is left to themselves hence a faithful watch must be kept, that these may be delivered to their hearers conformably to what is delivered to them. but if so, it may perhaps be necessary to be more watchful, at the outset, in order to ascertain the dimensions as it were of these impressions, and of their several tendencies and bearings, than afterwards, when such a knowledge of them has been obtained. or it may be that ministers, who go wholly unprepared to preach, have but a small view of the subject at first. hence they speak slowly. but as their views are enlarged, their speech becomes quickened, and their feelings become interested with it. these, for any thing i know, may be solutions, upon quaker principles, of this extraordinary practice. against the preaching of the quakers, an objection is usually made by the world, namely, that their ministers generally deliver their doctrines with an unpleasant tone. but it may be observed that this, which is considered to be a defect, is by no means confined to the quakers. persons of other religious denominations, who exert themselves in the ministry, are liable to the same charge. it may be observed also, that the difference between the accent of the quakers, and that of the speakers of the world, may arise in the difference between art and nature. the person who prepares his lecture for the lecture-room, or his sermon for the pulpit, studies the formation of his sentences, which are to be accompanied by a modulation of the voice. this modulation is artificial, for it is usually taught. the quakers, on, the other hand, neither prepare their discourses, nor vary their voices purposely, according to the rules of art. the tone which comes out, and which appears disagreeable to those who are not used to it, is nevertheless not unnatural. it is rather the mode of speaking which nature imposes, in any violent exertion of the voice, to save the lungs. hence persons who have their wares to cry, and this almost every other minute, in the streets, are obliged to adopt a tone. hence persons with disordered lungs, can sing words with more ease to themselves than they can utter them, with a similar pitch of the voice. hence quaker women, when they preach, have generally more of this tone than the quaker men, for the lungs of the female are generally weaker than those of the other sex. against the sermons of the quakers two objections are usually made; the first of which is, that they contain but little variety of subject. among dissenters, it is said, but more particularly in the establishment, that you may hear fifty sermons following each other, where the subject of each is different. hence a man, ignorant of letters, may collect all his moral and religious duties from the pulpit in the course of the year. but this variety, it is contended, is not to be found in the quaker church. that there is less variety in the quaker sermons than in those of others, there can be no doubt. but such variety is not so necessary to quakers, on account of their peculiar tenets, and the universality of their education, as to others. for it is believed, as i have explained before, that the spirit of god, if duly attended to, is a spiritual guide to man, and that it leads him into all truth; that it redeems him; and that it qualifies him therefore for happiness in a future state. thus an injunction to attend to the teachings of the spirit, supersedes, in some measure, the necessity of detailing the moral and religious obligations of individuals. and this necessity is still farther superseded by the consideration, that, as all the members of the quaker society can read, they can collect their christian duty from the scriptures, independently of their own ministers; or that they can collect those duties for themselves, which others, who are illiterate, are obliged to collect from the church. the second objection is, that the quaker discourses have generally less in them, and are occasionally less connected or more confused than those of others. it must be obvious, when we consider that the quaker ministers are often persons of but little erudition, and that their principles forbid them to premeditate on these occasions, that we can hardly expect to find the same logical division of the subject, or the same logical provings of given points, as in the sermons of those who spend hours, or even days together, in composing them. with respect to the apparent barrenness, or the little matter sometimes discoverable in their sermons, they would reply, that god has not given to every man a similar or equal gift. to some he has given largely; to others in a less degree. upon some he has bestowed gifts, that may edify the learned; upon others such as may edify the illiterate. men are not to limit his spirit by their own notions of qualification. like the wind, it bloweth not only where it listeth, but as it listeth. thus preaching, which may appear to a scholar as below the ordinary standard, may be more edifying to the simple hearted, than a discourse better delivered, or more eruditely expressed. thus again, preaching, which may be made up of high sounding words, and of a mechanical manner and an affected tone, and which may, on these accounts, please the man of learning and taste, may be looked upon as dross by a man of moderate abilities or acquirements. and thus it has happened, that many have left the orators of the world and joined the quaker society, on account of the barrenness of the discourses which they have heard among them. with respect to quaker sermons being sometimes less connected or more confused than those of others, they would admit that this might apparently happen; and they would explain it in the following manner. their ministers, they would say, when they sit among the congregation, are often given to feel and discern the spiritual states of individuals then present, and sometimes to believe it necessary to describe such states, and to add such advice as these may seem to require. now these states being frequently different from each other, the description of them, in consequence of an abrupt transition from one to the other, may sometimes occasion an apparent inconsistency in their discourses on such occasions. the quakers, however, consider all such discourses, or those in which states are described, as among the most efficacious and useful of those delivered. but whatever may be the merits of the quaker sermons, there are circumstances worthy of notice with respect to the quaker preachers. in the first place, they always deliver their discourses with great seriousness. they are also singularly bold and honest, when they feel it to be their duty, in the censure of the vices of individuals, whatever may be the riches they enjoy. they are reported also from unquestionable authority, to have extraordinary skill in discerning the internal condition of those who attend their ministry, so that many, feeling the advice to be addressed to themselves, have resolved upon their amendment in the several cases to which their preaching seemed to have been applied. as i am speaking of the subject of ministers, i will answer one or two questions, which i have often heard asked concerning it. the first of these is, do the quakers believe that their ministers are uniformly moved, when they preach, by the spirit of god? i answer--the quakers believe they may be so moved, and that they ought to be so moved. they believe also that they are often so moved. but they believe again, that except their ministers are peculiarly cautious, and keep particularly on their watch, they may mistake their own imaginations for the agency of this spirit. and upon this latter belief it is, in part, that the office of elders is founded, as before described. the second is, as there are no defined boundaries between the reason of man and the revelation of god, how do the quakers know that they are favoured at any particular time, either when they preach or when they do not preach, with the visitation of this spirit, or that it is, at any particular time, resident within them? richard claridge, a learned and pious clergyman of the church of england in the last century, but who gave up his benefices and joined the society of the quakers, has said a few words in his tractatus hierographicus, upon this subject, a part of which i shall transcribe as an answer to this latter question. "men, says he, may certainly know, that they do believe on the son of god, with that faith that is unfeigned, and by which the heart is purified: for this faith is evidential and assuring, and consequently the knowledge of it is certain. now they, who certainly know that they have this knowledge, may be certain also of the spirit of christ dwelling in them; for [ ] 'he that _believeth_ _on the son of god, hath the witness in himself;'_ and this witness is the spirit; for it is [ ] 'the spirit that beareth witness,' of whose testimony they may be as certain, as of that faith the spirit beareth witness to." [footnote : john . .] [footnote : john . .] again--"they may certainly know that they love the lord above all, and their neighbour as themselves. for the command implies not only a possibility of knowing it in general, but also of such a knowledge as respects their own immediate concernment therein, and personal benefit arising from a sense of their conformity and obedience thereunto. and seeing they may certainly know this, they may also as certainly know, that the spirit of christ dwelleth in them;[ ] for 'god is love, and he that dwelleth in love, dwelleth in god, and god in him.' and [ ] 'if we love one another, god dwelleth in us, and his love is perfected in us.'" in the same manner he goes on to enumerate many other marks from texts of scripture, by which he conceives this question may be determined[ ]. [footnote : john . .] [footnote : john . .] [footnote : the quakers conceive it to be no more difficult for them to distinguish the motions of the holy spirit, than for those of the church of england, who are candidates for holy orders. every such candidate is asked, "do you trust that you are inwardly moved by the holy ghost to take upon you this office and ministration?" the answer is, "i trust so."] i shall conclude this chapter on the subject of the quaker preaching, by an extract from francis lambert of avignon, whose book was published in the year , long before the society of the quakers took its rise in the world. "beware, says he, that thou determine not precisely to speak what before thou hast meditated, whatsoever it be; for though it be lawful to determine the text which thou art to expound, yet not at all the interpretation; lest, if thou doest so, thou takest from the holy spirit that which is his, namely, to direct thy speech that thou mayest preach in the name of the lord, void of all learning, meditation, and experience; and as if thou hadst studied nothing at all, committing thy heart, thy tongue, and thyself, wholly unto his spirit; and trusting nothing to thy former studying or meditation, but saying to thyself in great confidence of the divine promise, the lord will give a word with much power unto those that preach the gospel." sect. ii. _but besides oral or vocal, there is silent worship among the quakers--many meetings where not a word is said, and yet worship is considered to have begun, and to be proceeding--worship not necessarily connected with words--this the opinion of other pious men besides quakers--of howe--hales--gell--smaldridge, bishop of bristol--monro --advantages which the quakers attach to their silent worship._ i have hitherto confined myself to those meetings of the quakers, where the minister is said to have received impressions from the spirit of god, with a desire of expressing them, and where, if he expresses them, he ought to deliver them to the congregation as the pictures of his will; and this, as accurately as the mirror represents the object that is set before it. there are times, however, as i mentioned in the last section, when either no impressions may be said to be felt, or, if any are felt, there is no concomitant impulse to utter them. in this case no person attempts to speak: for to speak or to pray, where the heart feels no impulse to do it, would be, in the opinion of the quakers, to mock god, and not to worship him in spirit and in truth. they sit therefore in silence, and worship in silence; and they not only remain silent the whole time of their meetings, but many meetings take place, and these sometimes in succession, when not a word is uttered. michael de molinos, who was chief of the sect of the quietists, and whose "spiritual guide" was printed at venice in , speaks thus: "there are three kinds of silence; the first is of words, the second of desires, and the third of thoughts. the first is perfect; the second is more perfect; and the third is most perfect. in the first, that is, of words, virtue is acquired. in the second, namely, of desires, quietness is attained. in the third, of thoughts, internal recollection is gained. by not speaking, not desiring, and not thinking, one arrives at the true and perfect mystical silence, where god speaks with the soul, communicates himself to it, and in the abyss of its own depth, teaches it the most perfect and exalted wisdom." many people of other religious societies, if they were to visit the meetings of the quakers while under their silent worship, would be apt to consider the congregation as little better than stocks or stones, or at any rate as destitute of that life and animation which constitute the essence of religion. they would have no idea that a people were worshipping god, whom they observed to deliver nothing from their lips. it does not follow, however, because nothing is said, that god is not worshipped. the quakers, on the other hand, contend, that these silent meetings form the sublimest part of their worship. the soul, they say, can have intercourse with god. it can feel refreshment, joy, and comfort, in him. it can praise and adore him; and all this, without the intervention of a word. this power of the soul is owing to its constitution or nature. "it follows, says the learned howe, in his 'living temple,' that having formed this his more excellent creature according to his own more express likeness; stampt it with the more glorious characters of his living image; given it a nature suitable to his own, and thereby made it capable of rational and intelligent converse with him, he hath it even in his power to maintain a continual converse with this creature, by agreeable communications, by letting in upon it the vital beams and influences of his own light and love, and receiving back the return of its grateful acknowledgments and praises: wherein it is manifest he should do no greater thing than he hath done. for who sees not that it is a matter of no greater difficulty to converse with, than to make a reasonable creature? or who would not be ashamed to deny, that he who hath been the only author of the soul of man, and of the excellent powers and faculties belonging to it, can more easily sustain that which he hath made, and converse with his creature suitably to the way, wherein he hath made it capable of his converse?" that worship may exist without the intervention of words, on account of this constitution of the soul, is a sentiment which has been espoused by many pious persons who were not quakers. thus, the ever memorable john hales, in his golden remains, expresses himself: "nay, one thing i know more, that the prayer which is the most forcible, transcends, and far exceeds, all power of words. for st. paul, speaking unto us of the most effectual kind of prayer, calls it sighs and groans, that cannot be expressed. nothing cries so loud in the ears of god, as the sighing of a contrite and earnest heart." "it requires not the voice, but the mind; not the stretching of the hands, but the intention of the heart; not any outward shape or carriage of the body, but the inward behaviour of the understanding. how then can it slacken your worldly business and occasions, to mix them with sighs and groans, which are the most effectual prayer?" dr. gell, before quoted, says--"words conceived only in an earthly mind, and uttered out of the memory by man's voice, which make a noise in the ears of flesh and blood, are not, nor can be accounted a prayer, before our father which is in heaven." dr. smaldridge, bishop of bristol, has the following expressions in his sermons: "prayer doth not consist either in the bending of our knees, or the service of our lips, or the lifting up of our hands or eyes to heaven, but in the elevation of our souls towards god. these outward expressions of our inward thoughts are necessary in our public, and often expedient in our private devotions; but they do not make up the essence of prayer, which may truly and acceptably be performed, where these are wanting." and he says afterwards, in other parts of his work--"devotion of mind is itself a silent prayer, which wants not to be clothed in words, that god may better know our desires. he regards not the service of our lips, but the inward disposition of our hearts." monro, before quoted, speaks to the same effect, in his just measures of the pious institutions of youth. "the breathings of a recollected soul are not noise or clamour. the language in which devotion loves to vent itself, is that of the inward man, which is secret and silent, but yet god hears it, and makes gracious returns unto it. sometimes the pious ardours and sensations of good souls are such as they cannot clothe with words. they feel what they cannot express. i would not, however, be thought to insinuate, that the voice and words are not to be used at all. it is certain that public and common devotions cannot be performed without them; and that even in private, they are not only very profitable, but sometimes necessary. what i here aim at is, that the youth should be made sensible, that words are not otherwise valuable than as they are images and copies of what passes in the hidden man of the heart; especially considering that a great many, who appear very angelical in their devotions, if we take our measures of them from their voice and tone, do soon, after these intervals of seeming seriousness are over, return with the dog to the vomit, and give palpable evidences of their earthliness and sensuality; their passion and their pride." again--"i am persuaded, says he, that it would be vastly advantageous for the youth, if care were taken to train them up to this method of prayer; that is, if they were taught frequently to place themselves in the divine presence, and there silently to adore their creator, redeemer, and sanctifier. for hereby they would become habitually recollected. devotion would be their element; and they would know, by experience, what our blessed savour and his great apostle meant, when they enjoin us to pray without ceasing. it was, i suppose, by some such method of devotion as i am now speaking of, that enoch walked with god; that moses saw him that is invisible; that the royal psalmist set the lord always before him; and that our lord jesus himself continued whole nights in prayer to god. no man, i believe, will imagine that his prayer, during all the space in which it is said to have continued, was altogether vocal. when he was in his agony in the garden, he used but a few words. his vocal prayer then consisted only of one petition, and an act of pure resignation thrice repeated. but i hope all will allow, that his devotion lasted longer than while he was employed in the uttering a few sentences." these meetings then, which are usually denominated silent, and in which, though not a word be spoken, it appears from the testimony of others that god may be truly worshipped, the quakers consider as an important and sublime part of their church service, and as possessing advantages which are not to be found in the worship which proceeds solely through the medium of the mouth. for in the first place it must be obvious that, in these silent meetings, men cannot become chargeable before god, either with hypocrisy or falsehood, by pretending to worship him with their lips, when their affections are far from him, or by uttering a language that is inconsistent with the feelings of the heart. it must be obvious, again, that every man's devotion, in these silent meetings, is made, as it ought to be, to depend upon himself; for no man can work out the salvation of another for him. a man does not depend at these times on the words of a minister, or of any other person present; but his own soul, worked upon by the divine influence, pleads in silence with the almighty its own cause. and thus, by extending this idea to the congregation at large, we shall find a number of individuals offering up at the same time their own several confessions; pouring out their own several petitions; giving their own thanks severally, or praising and adoring; all of them in different languages, adapted to their several conditions, and yet not interrupting one another. nor is it the least recommendation of this worship, in the opinion of the quakers, that, being thus wholly spiritual, it is out of the power of the natural man to obstruct it. no man can break the chains that thus binds the spirit of man to the spirit of god; for this chain, which is spiritual, is invisible. but this is not the case, the quakers say, with any oral worship. "for how, says barclay, alluding to his own times, can the papists say their mass, if there be any there to disturb and interrupt them? do but take away the mass-book, the chalice, the host, or the priest's garments; yea, do but spill the water, or the wine, or blow out the candles, (a thing quickly to be done,) and the whole business is marred, and no sacrifice can be offered. take from the lutherans and episcopalians their liturgy or common prayer-book, and no service can be said. remove from the calvinists, arminians, socinians, independents, or anabaptists, the pulpit, the bible, and the hourglass, or make but such a noise as the voice of the preacher cannot be heard, or disturb him but so before he come, or strip him of his bible or his books, and he must be dumb: for they all think it an heresy to wait to speak, as the spirit of god giveth utterance; and thus easily their whole worship may be marred." sect. iii. _quakers reject every thing formal, ostentatious, and spiritless, from their worship--ground on which their meeting-houses stand, not consecrated--the latter plain--women sit apart from the men--no pews--nor priest's garments--nor psalmody--no one day thought more holy than another--but as public worship is necessary, days have been fixed upon for that purpose._ jesus christ, as he was sitting at jacob's well, and talking with the woman of samaria, made use of the following, among other expressions, in his discourse: "woman, believe me, the hour cometh when ye shall neither, in this mountain, nor yet at jerusalem, worship the father. but the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the father in spirit and in truth." these expressions the quakers generally render thus: i tell you that a new dispensation is at hand. men will no longer worship at jerusalem more acceptably than in any other place. neither will it be expected of them, that they shall worship in temples, like the temple there. neither the glory, nor the ornaments of gold and silver and precious stones, nor the splendid garments of the high priest, will be any parts of the new worship that is approaching. all ceremonies will be done away, and men's religion will be reduced simply to the worshipping of god in spirit and in truth. in short, the quakers believe, that, when jesus came, he ended the temple, its ornaments, its music, its levitical priesthood, its tithes, its new moons, and sabbaths, and the various ceremonial ordinances that had been engrafted into the religion of the jews. the quakers reject every thing that appears to them to be superstitious, or formal, or ceremonious, or ostentatious, or spiritless, from their worship. they believe that no ground can be made holy; and therefore they do not allow the places on which their meeting-houses are built to be consecrated by the use of any human forms. their meeting-houses are singularly plain. there is nothing of decoration in the interior of them. they consist of a number of plain long benches with backs to them; there is one elevated seat at the end of these. this is for their ministers. it is elevated for no other reason, than that their ministers may be the better heard. the women occupy one half of these benches, and sit apart from the men. these benches are not intersected by partitions. hence there are no distinct pews for the families of the rich, or of such as can afford to pay for them: for in the first place, the quakers pay nothing for their seats in their meeting-houses; and, in the second, they pay no respect to the outward condition of one another. if they consider themselves, when out of doors, as all equal to one another in point of privileges, much more do they abolish all distinctions, when professedly assembled in a place of worship. they sit therefore in their meeting-houses undistinguished with respect to their outward circumstances, [ ]as the children of the same great parent, who stand equally in need of his assistance; and as in the sight of him who is no respecter of persons, but who made of one blood all the nations of men who dwell on all the face of the earth. [footnote : spiritual officers, such as elders and overseers, sit at the upper part of the meeting-house.] the quaker ministers are not distinguishable, when in their places of worship, by their dress. they wear neither black clothes, nor surplices, nor gowns, nor bands. jesus christ, when he preached to the multitude, is not recorded to have put on a dress different from that which he wore on other occasions. neither do the quakers believe that ministers of the church ought, under the new dispensation, to be a separate people, as the levites were, or to be distinguished on account of their office from other men. the quakers differ from other christians in the rejection of psalmody, as a service of the church. if persons feel themselves so influenced in their private devotions, [ ]that they can sing, as the apostle says, "with the spirit and the understanding," or "can sing[ ] and make melody in their hearts to the lord," the quakers have no objection to this as an act of worship. but they conceive that music and psalmody, though they might have been adapted to the ceremonial religion of the jews, are not congenial with the new dispensation that has followed; because this dispensation requires, that all worship should be performed in spirit and in truth. it requires that no act of religion should take place, unless the spirit influences an utterance, and that no words should be used, except they are in unison with the heart. now this coincidence of spiritual impulse and feeling with this act, is not likely to happen, in the opinion of the quakers, with public psalmody. it is not likely that all in the congregation will be impelled, in the same moment, to a spiritual song, or that all will be in the state of mind or spirit which the words of the psalm describe. thus how few will be able to sing truly with david, if the following verse should be brought before them: "as the hart panteth after the water-brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, o god." to this it may be added, that where men think about musical harmony or vocal tunes in their worship, the amusement of the creature will be so mixed with it, that it cannot be a pure oblation of the spirit, and that those who think they can please the divine being by musical instruments, or the varied modulations of their own voices, must look upon him as a being with corporeal organs, sensible, like a man, of fleshly delights, and not as a spirit, who can only be pleased with the worship that is in spirit and in truth. [footnote : cor. . .] [footnote : ephes. . .] the quakers reject also the consecration and solemnization of particular days and times. as the jews, when they became christians, were enjoined by the apostle paul, not to put too great a value upon "days,[ ] and months, and times, and years;" so the quakers think it their duty as christians to attend to the same injunction. they never meet upon saints days, as such, that is, as days demanding the religious assemblings of men, more than others; first, because they conceive this would be giving into popish superstition; and secondly, because these days were originally the appointment of men and not of god, and no human appointment, they believe, can make one day holier than another. [footnote : gal. . .] for the latter reason also they do not assemble for worship on those days which their own government, though they are greatly attached to it, appoint as fasts. they are influenced also by another reason in this latter case. they conceive as religion is of a spiritual nature, and must depend upon the spirit of god, that true devotion cannot be excited for given purposes or at a given time. they are influenced again by the consideration, that the real fast is of a different nature from that required. [ ] "is not this the fast, says isaiah, that i have chosen, to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out, to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him, and that thou hide not thyself from thy own flesh?" this the quakers believe to be the true fast, and not the work of a particular day, but to be the daily work of every real christian. [footnote : isaiah . . .] indeed no one day, in the estimation of the quakers, can be made by human appointment either more holy or more proper for worship than another. they do not even believe that the jewish sabbath, which was by the appointment of god, continues in gospel times, or that it has been handed down by divine authority as the true sabbath for christians. all days with the quakers are equally holy, and all equally proper for the worship of god. in this opinion they coincide with the ever memorable john hales. "for prayer, indeed, says this venerable man, was the sabbath ordained: yet prayer itself is sabbathless, and admits of no rest, no intermission at all. if our hands be clean, we must, as our apostle commands us, lift them up every where, at all times, and make every place a church, every day a sabbath-day, every hour canonical. as you go to the market; as you stand in the streets; as you walk in the fields--in all these places, you may pray as well, and with as good acceptance, as in the church: for you yourselves are temples of the holy ghost, if the grace of god be in you, more precious than any of those which are made with hands." though, however, the quakers believe no one day in the sight of god to be holier than another, and no one capable of being rendered so by human authority, yet they think that christians ought to assemble for the public worship of god. they think they ought to bear an outward and public testimony for god; and this can only be done by becoming members of a visible church, where they may be seen to acknowledge him publicly in the face of men. they think also, that the public worship of god increases, as it were, the fire of devotion, and enlarges the sphere of spiritual life in the souls of men. "god causes the inward life, says barclay, the more to abound when his children assemble themselves diligently together, to wait upon him; so that as iron sharpeneth iron, the seeing the faces of one another, when both are inwardly gathered unto the life, giveth occasion for the life secretly to rise, and to pass from vessel to vessel: and as many candles lighted and put in one place, do greatly augment the light and make it more to shine forth, so when many are gathered together into the same life, there is more of the glory of god, and his power appears to the refreshment of each individual; for that he partakes not only of the light and life raised in himself, but in all the rest. and therefore christ hath particularly promised a blessing to such as assemble in his name, seeing he will be in the midst of them." for these and other reasons, the quakers think it proper, that men should be drawn together to the public worship of god: but if so, they must be drawn together at certain times. now as one day has never been, in the eyes of the quakers, more desirable for such an object than another, their ancestors chose the first day in the week, because the apostles had chosen it for the religious assembling of themselves and their followers. and in addition to this, that more frequent opportunities might be afforded them of bearing their outward testimony publicly for god, and of enlarging the sphere of their spiritual life, they appointed a meeting on one other day in the week in most places, and two in some others, for the same purpose. chap. xiii. _miscellaneous particularities--quakers careful about the use of such words as relate to religion--never use the words "original sin"--nor "word of god," for the scriptures--nor the word "trinity"--never pry into the latter mystery--believe in the manhood and divinity of jesus christ--also in a resurrection, but sever attempt to fathom that subject--make little difference between sanctification and justification--- their ideas concerning the latter_. the quakers are remarkably careful, both in their conversation and their writings, on religious subjects, as to the terms which they use. they express scriptural images or ideas, as much as may be, by scriptural terms. by means of this particular caution, they avoid much of the perplexity and many of the difficulties which arise to others, and escape the theological disputes which disturb the rest of the christian world. the quakers scarcely ever utter the words "original sin," because they never find them in use in the sacred writings. the scriptures are usually denominated by christians "the word of god." though the quakers believe them to have been given by divine inspiration, yet they reject this term. they apprehend that christ is the word of god. they cannot therefore consistently give to the scriptures, however they reverence them, that name which st. john the evangelist gives exclusively to the son of god. neither do they often make use of the word "trinity." this expression they can no where find in the sacred writings. this to them is a sufficient warrant for rejecting it. they consider it as a term of mere human invention, and of too late a date to claim a place among the expressions of primitive christianity. for they find it neither in justin martyr, nor in irenaeus, nor in tertullian, nor in origen, nor in the fathers of the three first centuries of the church. and as they seldom use the term, so they seldom or never try, when it offers itself to them, either in conversation or in books, to fathom its meaning. they judge that a curious inquiry into such high and speculative things, though ever so great truths in themselves, tends little to godliness, and less to peace; and that their principal concern is with that only which is clearly revealed, and which leads practically to holiness of life. consistently with this judgment, we find but little said respecting the trinity by the quaker writers. it is remarkable that barclay in the course of his apology, takes no notice of this subject. william penn seems to have satisfied himself with refuting what he considered to be a gross notion, namely, that of three persons in the trinity. for after having shown what the trinity was not, he no where attempts to explain what he conceived it to be. he says only, that he acknowledges a father, a word, and a holy spirit, according to the scriptures, but not according to the notions of men; and that these three are truly and properly one, of one nature as well as will. isaac pennington, an ancient quaker, speaks thus: "that the three are distinct, as three several beings or persons, the quakers no where read in the scriptures; but they read in them that they are one. and thus they believe their being to be one, their life one, their light one, their wisdom one, their power one. and he that knoweth and seeth any one of them, knoweth and seeth them, all, according to that saying of christ to philip, 'he that hath seen me, hath seen the father.'" john crook, another ancient writer of this society, in speaking of the trinity, says, that the quakers "acknowledge one god, the father of jesus christ, witnessed within man only by the spirit of truth; and these three are one, and agree in one; and he that honours the father, honours the son that proceeds from him; and he that denies the spirit, denies both the father and the son." but nothing farther can be obtained from this author on this subject. henry tuke, a modern writer among the quakers, and who published an account of the principles of the society only last year, says also little upon the point before us. "this belief, says he, in the divinity of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, induced some of the teachers in the christian church, about three hundred years after christ, to form a doctrine, to which they gave the name of trinity; but, in our writings we seldom make use of this term, thinking it best, on such a subject, to keep to scriptural expressions, and to avoid those disputes which have since perplexed the christian world, and led into speculations beyond the power of human abilities to decide. if we consider that we ourselves are composed of a union of body, soul, and spirit, and yet cannot determine how even these are united; how much less may we expect perfect clearness on a subject, so far above our finite comprehension, as that of the divine nature?" the quakers believe, that jesus christ was man, because he took flesh, and inhabited the body prepared for him, and was subject to human infirmities; but they believe also in his divinity, because he was the word. they believe also in the doctrine of the resurrection of the dead, as connected with the christian religion. in explaining our belief of this doctrine, says henry tuke, we refer to the fifteenth chapter of the first epistle to the corinthians. in this chapter is clearly laid down the resurrection of a body, though not of the same body that dies. "there are celestial bodies, and there are bodies terrestrial; but the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another. so also is the resurrection of the dead: it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body: there is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body. now this i say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of god; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption." here we rest our belief in this mystery, without desiring to pry into it beyond what is revealed to us; remembering "that secret things belong unto the lord our god; but those things which are revealed, belong unto us and to our children." the quakers make but little difference, and not such as many other christians do, between sanctification and justification. "faith and works, says richard claridge, are both concerned in our complete justification."--"whosoever is justified, he is also in measure sanctified; and as far as he is sanctified, so far is he justified, and no farther. but the justification i now speak of, is the making of us just or righteous by the continual help, work, and operation of the holy spirit."--"and as we wait for the continual help and assistance of his holy spirit, and come to witness the effectual working of the same in ourselves, so we shall experimentally find, that our justification is proportionable to our sanctification; for as our sanctification goes forward, which is always commensurate to our faithful obedience to the manifestation, influence, and assistance, of the grace, light, and spirit of christ, so shall we also feel and perceive the progress of our justification." the ideas of the quakers, as to justification itself, cannot be better explained than in the words of henry tuke before quoted: so far as remissions of sins, and a capacity to receive salvation, are parts of justification, we attribute it to the sacrifice of christ; "in whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace." but when we consider justification as a state of divine favour and acceptance, we ascribe it, not simply either to faith or works, but to the sanctifying operation of the spirit of christ, from which living faith and acceptable works alone proceed; and by which we may come to know, that "the spirit itself beareth witness with our spirits, that we are the children of god." in attributing our justification, through the grace of god in christ jesus, to the operation of the holy spirit, which sanctifies the heart and produces the work of regeneration, we are supported by the testimony of the apostle paul, who says, "not by works of righteousness which we have done, but of his mercy he saved us, by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the holy ghost." again--"but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified, in the name of the lord jesus, and by the spirit of our god." "by this view of the doctrine of justification, we conceive the apparently different sentiments of the apostles paul and james are reconciled. neither of them say that faith alone, or works alone, are the cause of our being justified; but as one of them asserts the necessity of faith, and the other of works, for effecting this great object, a clear and convincing proof is afforded, that both contribute to our justification; and that faith without works, and works without faith, are equally dead." chap. xiv. _quakers reject baptism and the lord's supper--much censured far it--indulgence solicited for them on account of the difficulties connected with these subjects--christian religion spiritual--jewish types to be abolished--different meanings of the word "baptise"--disputes concerning the mode of baptism--concerning also the nature and constitution of the supper--concerning also the time and manner of its celebration --this indulgence also proper, because the quakers give it to others, who differ from them as a body on the subject of religion_. the quakers, among other particularities, reject the application of water-baptism, and the administration of the sacrament of the supper, as christian rites. these ordinances have been considered by many as so essentially interwoven with christianity, that the quakers, by rejecting the use of them, have been denied to be christians. but whatever may be the difference of opinion between the world and the quakers, upon these subjects, great indulgence is due to the latter on this occasion. people have received the ordinances in question from their ancestors. they have been brought up to the use of them. they have seen them sanctioned by the world. finding their authority disputed by a body of men, who are insignificant as to numbers, when compared with others, they have let loose their censure upon them, and this without any inquiry concerning the grounds of their dissent. they know perhaps nothing of the obstinate contentious; nothing of the difficulties which have occurred; and nothing of those which may still be started on these subjects. i shall state therefore a few considerations by way of preface, during which the reader will see, that objections both fair and forcible may be raised by the best disposed christians, on the other side of the question; that the path is not so plain and easy as he may have imagined it to be; and that if the quakers have taken a road different from himself on this occasion, they are entitled to a fair hearing of all they have to say in their defence, and to expect the same candour and indulgence which he himself would have claimed, if, with the best intentions, he had not been able to come to the same conclusion, on any given point of importance, as had been adopted by others. let me then ask, in the first place, what is the great characteristic of the religion we profess? if we look to divines for an answer to this question, we may easily obtain it. we shall find some of them in their sermons speaking of circumcision, baptismal washings and purifications, new moons, feasts of the passover and unleavened bread, sacrifices, and other rites. we shall find them dwelling on these as constituent parts of the religion of the jews. we shall find them immediately passing from thence to the religion of jesus christ. here all is considered by them to be spiritual. devotion of the heart is insisted upon as that alone which is acceptable to god. if god is to be worshipped, it is laid down as a position, that he is to be worshipped in spirit and in truth. we shall find them also, in other of their sermons, but particularly in those preached after the reformation, stating the advantages obtained by that event. the roman catholic system is here considered by them to be as ceremonial as that of the jews. the protestant is held out as of a more spiritual nature, and as more congenial therefore with the spirit of the gospel. but what is this but a confession, in each case, that in proportion as men give up ceremonies and become spiritual in their worship, their religion is the best, or that spirituality is the grand characteristic of the religion of jesus christ? now there immediately arises a presumption, if spirituality of feeling had been intended as the characteristic of any religion, that no ceremonious ordinances would have been introduced into it. if, again, i were to make an assertion to divines, that jesus christ came to put an end to the ceremonial parts of the jewish law, and to the types and shadows belonging to the jewish dispensation, they would not deny it. but baptism and the supper were both of them outward jewish ceremonies, connected with the jewish religion. they were both of them types and shadows, of which the antetypes and substances had been realized at the death of christ. and therefore a presumption arises again, that these were not intended to be continued. and that they were not intended to be continued, may be presumed from another consideration. for what was baptism to any but a jew? what could a gentile have understood by it? what notion could he have formed, by means of it, of the necessity of the baptism of christ? unacquainted with purifications by water as symbols of purification of heart, he could never have entered, like a jew, into the spiritual life of such an ordinance. and similar observations may be made with respect to the passover-supper. a gentile could have known nothing, like a jew, of the meaning of this ceremony. he could never have seen in the paschal lamb any type of christ, or in the deliverance of the israelites from egyptian bondage, any type of his own deliverance from sin, so clearly or so feelingly as if the facts and customs had related to his own history, or as if he had been trained to the connexion by a long series of prophecies. in short, the passover could have had but little meaning to him. from these circumstances, therefore, there would be reason to conclude, that these ceremonies were not to be continued, at least to any but jews; because they were not fitted to the knowledge, the genius, or the condition of the gentile world. but, independently of these difficulties, which arise from a general view of these ordinances as annexed to a religion which is confessed to be spiritual, others arise from a particular view of each. on the subject of baptism, there is ground for argument, as to the meaning of the word "baptize." this word, in consequence of its representation of a watery ceremony, is usually connected with water in our minds. but it may also, very consistently, be connected even with fire. its general meaning is to purify. in this sense many understand it. and those who do, and who apply it to the great command of jesus to his disciples, think they give a better interpretation of it, than those who connect it with water. for they think it more reasonable that the apostles should have been enjoined to go into all nations, and to endeavour to purify the hearts of individuals by the spirit and power of their preaching, from the dross of heathen notions, and to lead them to spirituality of mind by the inculcation of gospel principles, than to dip them under water, as an essential part of their new religion. but on a supposition that the word baptize should signify to immerse, and not to purify, another difficulty occurs; for, if it was thought proper or necessary that persons should be initiated into christianity by water-baptism, in order to distinguish their new state from that of the jews or heathens, who then surrounded them, it seems unnecessary for the children of christian parents, who were born in a christian community, and whose ancestors for centuries have professed the christian name. nor is it to be considered as any other than a difficulty that the christian world have known so little about water-baptism, that they have been divided as to the right manner of performing it. the eastern and western churches differed early upon this point, and christians continue to differ upon it to the present day; some thinking that none but adults; others, that none but infants should be baptised: some, that the faces only of the baptized should be sprinkled with water; others, that their bodies should be immersed. on the subject of the sacrament of supper, similar difficulties have occurred. jesus christ unquestionably permitted his disciples to meet together in remembrance of their last supper with him. but it is not clear, that this was any other than a permission to those who were present, and who had known and loved him. the disciples were not ordered to go into all nations, and to enjoin it to their converts to observe the same ceremony. neither did the apostles leave any command by which it was enjoined as an ordinance of the christian church. another difficulty which has arisen on the subject of the supper, is, that christians seem so little to have understood the nature of it, or in what it consisted, that they have had, in different ages, different views, and encouraged different doctrines concerning it. one has placed it in one thing, and another in another. most of them, again, have attempted in their explanation of it, to blend the enjoyment of the spiritual essence with that of the corporeal substance of the body and blood of christ, and thus to unite a spiritual with a ceremonial exercise of religion. grasping, therefore, at things apparently irreconcilable, they have conceived the strangest notions; and, by giving these to the world, they have only afforded fuel for contention among themselves and others. in the time of the apostles, it was the custom of converted persons, grounded on the circumstances that passed at the supper of the passover, to meet in religious communion. they used, on these occasions, to break their bread, and take their refreshment and converse together. the object of these meetings was to imitate the last friendly supper of jesus with his disciples, to bear a public memorial of his sufferings and his death, and to promote their love for one another. but this custom was nothing more, as far as evidence can be had, than that of a brotherly breaking of bread together. it was no sacramental eating. neither was the body of jesus supposed to be enjoyed, nor the spiritual enjoyment, of it to consist in the partaking of this outward feast. in process of time, after the days of the apostles, when this simple custom had declined, we find another meeting of christians, in imitation of that at the passover supper, at which both bread and wine were introduced. this different commemoration of the same event had a new name given to it; for it was distinguished from the other by the name of eucharist. alexander, the seventh bishop of rome, who introduced holy water both into houses and churches for spiritual purposes, made some alterations in the ingredients of the eucharist, by mixing water with the wine, and by substituting unleavened for common bread. in the time of irenaeus and justin the martyr, we find an account of the eucharist as it was then thought of and celebrated. great stress was then laid upon the bread and wine as a holy and sacramental repast: prayers were made that the holy ghost would descend into each of these substances. it was believed that it did so descend; and that as soon as the bread and wine perceived it, the former operated virtually as the body, and the latter as the blood of jesus christ. from this time the bread was considered to have great virtues; and on this latter account, not only children, but sucking infants, were admitted to this sacrament. it was also given to persons on the approach of death. and many afterwards, who had great voyages to make at sea, carried it with them to preserve them both from temporal and spiritual dangers. in the twelfth century, another notion, a little modified from the former, prevailed on this subject; which was, that consecration by a priest had the power of abolishing the substance of the bread, and of substituting the very body of jesus christ. this was called the doctrine of transubstantiation. this doctrine appeared to luther, at the dawn of the reformation, to be absurd; and he was of opinion that the sacrament consisted of the substance of christ's body and blood, together with the substance of the bread and wine; or, in other words, that the substance of the bread remained, but the body of christ was inherent in it, so that both the substance of the bread and of the body and blood of christ was there also. this was called the doctrine of consubstantiation, in contradiction to the former. calvin again considered the latter opinion erroneous: he gave it out that the bread was not actually the body of jesus christ, nor the wine his blood; but that both his body and blood were sacramentally received by the faithful, in the use of the bread and wine. calvin, however, confessed himself unable to explain even this his own doctrine. for he says, "if it be asked me how it is, that is, how believers sacramentally receive christ's body and blood? i shall not be ashamed to confess, that it is a secret too high for me to comprehend in my spirit, or explain in words." but independently of the difficulties which have arisen from these different notions concerning the nature and constitution of the lord's supper, others have arisen concerning the time and the manner of the celebration of it. the christian churches of the east, in the early times, justifying themselves by tradition and the custom of the passover, maintained that the fourteenth day of the month nissan ought to be observed as the day of the celebration of this feast, because the jews were commanded to kill the paschal lamb on that day. the western, on the other hand, maintained the authority of tradition and the primitive practice, that it ought to be kept on no other day than that of the resurrection of jesus christ. disputes again of a different complexion agitated the christian world upon the same subject. one church contended that the leavened, another that unleavened bread only should be used upon this occasion: others contended, whether the administration of this sacrament should be by the hands of the clergy only: others, whether it should not be confined to the sick: others, whether it should be given to the young and mature promiscuously: others, whether it should be received by the communicant standing, sitting, or kneeling, or as the apostles received it: and others, whether it should be administered in the night time as by our saviour, or whether in the day, or whether only once, as at the passover, or whether oftener in the year. another difficulty, but of a different nature, has occurred with respect to the lord's supper. this has arisen from the circumstance, that other ceremonies were enjoined by our saviour in terms equally positive as this, but which most christians, notwithstanding, have thought themselves at liberty to reject. among these the washing of feet is particularly to be noticed. this custom was of an emblematic nature. it was enjoined at the same time as that of the lord's supper, and on the same occasion. but it was enjoined in a more forcible and striking manner. the sandimanians, when they rose into a society, considered the injunction for this ordinance to be so obligatory, that they dared not dispense with it; and therefore, when they determined to celebrate the supper, they determined that the washing of feet should be an ordinance of their church. most other christians, however, have dismissed the washing of feet from their religious observance. the reason given has principally been, that it was an eastern custom, and therefore local. to this the answer has been, that the passover, from whence the lord's supper is taken, was an eastern custom also, but that it was much more local. travellers of different nations had their feet washed for them in the east. but none but those of the circumcision were admitted to the passover-supper. if, therefore, the injunction relative to the washing of feet, be equally strong with that relative to the celebration of the supper, it has been presumed, that both ought to have been retained; and, if one has been dispensed with on account of its locality, that both ought to have been discarded. that the washing of feet was enjoined much more emphatically than the supper, we may collect from barclay, whose observations upon it i shall transcribe on this occasion. "but to give a farther evidence, says he, how these consequences have not any bottom from the practice of that ceremony, nor from the words following, 'do this in remembrance of me,' let us consider another of the like nature, as it is at length expressed by john. [ ] 'jesus riseth from supper and laid aside his garments, and took a towel, and girded himself: after that, he poureth water into a bason, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded. peter said unto him, thou shalt never wash my feet. jesus answered him. if i wash thee not, thou hast no part with me. so after he had washed their feet, he said, know ye what i have done to you? 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 to you.' as to which let it be observed, continues barclay, that john relates this passage to have been done at the same time with the other of breaking bread; both being done the night of the passover, after supper. if we regard the narration of this, and the circumstances attending it, it was done with far more solemnity, and prescribed far more punctually and particularly, than the former. it is said only, 'as he was eating he took bread;' so that this would seem to be but an occasional business: but here 'he rose up, he laid by his garments, he girded himself, he poured out the water, he washed their feet, he wiped them with a towel.' he did this to all of them; which are circumstances surely far more observable than those noted in the other. the former was a practice common among the jews, used by all masters of families, upon that occasion; but this, as to the manner, and person acting it, to wit, for the master to rise up, and wash the feet of his servants and disciples, was more singular and observable. in the breaking of bread and giving of wine, it is not pleaded by our adversaries, nor yet mentioned in the text, that he particularly put them into the hands of all; but breaking it, and blessing it, gave it the nearest, and so they from hand to hand. but here it is mentioned, that he washed not the feet of one or two, but of many. he saith not in the former, that if they do not eat of that bread, and drink of that wine, that they shall be prejudiced by it; but here he says expressly to peter, that 'if he wash him not, he hath no part with him;' which being spoken upon peter's refusing to let him wash his feet, would seem to import no less, than not the continuance only, but even the necessity of this ceremony. in the former, he saith as it were passingly, 'do this in remembrance of me:' but here he sitteth down again; he desires them to consider what he hath done; tells them positively 'that as he hath done to them, so ought they to do to one another:' and yet again he redoubles that precept, by telling them, 'that he has given them an example, that they should do so likewise.' if we respect the nature of the thing, it hath as much in it as either baptism or the breaking of the bread; seeing it is an outward element of a cleansing nature, applied to the outward man, by the command and the example of christ, to signify an inward purifying. i would willingly propose this seriously to men, that will be pleased to make use of that reason and understanding that god hath given them, and not be imposed upon, nor abused by the custom or tradition of others, whether this ceremony, if we respect either the time that it was appointed in, or the circumstances wherewith it was performed, or the command enjoining the use of it, hath not as much to recommend it for a standing ordinance of the gospel, as either water-baptism, or bread and wine, or any other of that kind? i wonder then, what reason the papists can give, why they have not numbered it among their sacraments, except merely voluntas ecclesiae et traditio patrum, that is, the tradition of the fathers, and the will of the church." [footnote : john . . &c.] the reader will see by this time, that, on subjects which have given rise to such controversies as baptism and the lord's supper have now been described to have done, people may be readily excused, if they should entertain their own opinions about them, though these may be different from those which are generally received by the world. the difficulties indeed, which have occurred with respect to these ordinances, should make us tender of casting reproach upon others, who should differ from ourselves concerning them. for when we consider, that there is no one point connected with these ordinances, about which there has not been some dispute; that those who have engaged in these disputes, have been men of equal learning and piety; that all of them have pleaded primitive usage, in almost all cases, in behalf of their own opinions; and that these disputes are not even now, all of them, settled; who will take upon him to censure his brother either for the omission or the observance of one or the other rite? and let the quakers, among others, find indulgence from their countrymen for their opinions on these subjects. this indulgence they have a right to claim from the consideration, that they themselves never censure others of other denominations on account of their religion. with respect to those who belong to the society, as the rejection of these ceremonies is one of the fundamentals of quakerism, it is expected that they should be consistent with what they are considered to profess. but with respect to others, they have no unpleasant feelings towards those who observe them. if a man believes that baptism is an essential rite of the christian church, the quakers would not judge him if he were to go himself, or if he were to carry his children, to receive it. and if, at the communion table, he should find his devotion to be so spiritualized, that, in the taking of the bread and wine, he really and spiritually discerned the body and blood of christ, and was sure that his own conduct would he influenced morally by it, they would not censure him for becoming an attendant at the altar. in short, the quakers do not condemn others for their attendances on these occasions. they only hope, that as they do not see these ordinances in the same light as others, they may escape censure, if they should refuse to admit them among themselves. chap. xv. sect. i. _baptism--two baptisms--that of john and of christ--that of john was by water, a jewish ordinance, and used preparatory to religious conversion and worship--hence john used it as preparatory to conversion to christianity--jesus submitted to it to fulfil all righteousness--others as to a baptism to repentance--but it was not initiative into the christian church, but belonged to the old testament--nor was john under the gospel, but under the law_. i come now to the arguments which the quakers have to offer for the rejection of the use of baptism and of the sacrament of the supper; and first for that of the use of the former rite. two baptisms are recorded in scripture--the baptism of john, and the baptism of christ. the baptism of john was by water, and a jewish ordinance. the washing of garments and of the body, which were called baptisms by the ellenistic jews, were enjoined to the jewish nation, as modes of purification from legal pollutions, symbolical of that inward cleansing of the heart, which was necessary to persons before they could hold sacred offices, or pay their religions homage in the temple, or become the true worshippers of god. the jews, therefore, in after times, when they made proselytes from the heathen nations, enjoined these the same customs as they observed themselves. they generally circumcised, at least the proselytes of the covenant, as a mark of their incorporation into the jewish church, and they afterwards washed them with water or baptized them, which was to be a sign to them of their having been cleansed from the filth of idolatry, and an emblem of their fitness, in case of a real cleansing, to receive the purer precepts of the jewish religion, and to walk in newness of life. baptism therefore was a jewish ordinance, used on religious occasions: and therefore john, when he endeavoured by means of his preaching to prepare the jews for the coming of the messiah, and their minds for the reception of the new religion, used it as a symbol of the purification of heart, that was necessary for the dispensation which was then at hand. he knew that his hearers would understand the meaning of the ceremony. he had reason also to believe, that on account of the nature of his mission, they would expect it. hence the sanhedrim, to whom the cognizance of the legal cleansings belonged, when they were informed of the baptism of john, never expressed any surprise at it, as a now, or unusual, or improper custom. they only found fault with him for the administration of it, when he denied himself to be either elias or christ. it was partly upon one of the principles that have been mentioned, that jesus received the baptism of john. he received it as it is recorded, because "thus it became him to fulfil all righteousness." by the fulfilling of righteousness is meant the fulfilling of the ordinances of the law, or the customs required by the mosaic dispensation in particular cases. he had already undergone circumcision as a jewish ordinance, and he now submitted to baptism. for as aaron and his sons were baptized previously to the taking upon them of the office of the jewish priesthood, so jesus was baptized by john previously to his entering upon his own ministry, or becoming the high priest of the christian dispensation. but though jesus christ received the baptism of john, that he might fulfil all righteousness, others received it as the baptism of repentance from sins, that they might be able to enter the kingdom that was at hand. this baptism, however, was not initiative into the christian church. for the apostles rebaptized some who had been baptized by john. those, again, who received the baptism of john, did not profess faith in christ, john again, as well as his doctrines, belonged to the old testament. he was no minister under the new dispensation, but the last prophet under the law. hence jesus said, that though none of the prophets "were greater than john the baptist, yet he that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he." neither did he ever hear the gospel preached; for jesus did not begin his ministry till john had been put into prison, where he was beheaded by the orders of herod. john, in short, was with respect to jesus, what moses was with respect to joshua. moses, though he conducted to the promised land, and was permitted to see it from mount nebo, yet never entered it, but gave place to joshua, whose name, like that of jesus, signifies a saviour. in the same manner john conducted to jesus christ. he saw him once with his own eyes, but he was never permitted, while alive, to enter into his spiritual kingdom. sect. ii. _second baptism, or that of christ--this the baptism of the gospel--this distinct from the former in point of time; and in nature and essence--as that of john was outward, so this was to be inward and spiritual--it was to cleanse the heart--and was to be capable of making even the gentiles the seed of abraham--this distinction of watery and spiritual baptism pointed out by jesus christ--by st. peter--and by st. paul._ the second baptism, recorded in the scriptures, is that of christ. this may be called the baptism of the gospel, in contradistinction to the former, which was that of the law. this baptism is totally distinct from the former. john himself said,[ ] "i indeed baptize you with water unto repentance; but he that cometh after me, is mightier than i, whose shoes i am not worthy to bear. he shall baptize you with the holy ghost, and with fire." [footnote : matth. . .] from these words it appears, that this baptism is distinct, in point of time, from the former; for it was to follow the baptism of john: and secondly, in nature and essence; for whereas that of john was by water, this was to be by the spirit. this latter distinction is insisted upon by john in other places. for when he was questioned by the pharisees [ ] "why he baptized, if he was not that christ, nor ellas, nor that prophet," he thought it a sufficient excuse to say, "i baptize with water;" that is, i baptize with water only; i use only an ancient jewish custom; i do not intrude upon the office of christ, who is coming after me, or pretend to his baptism of the spirit. we find also, that no less than three times in eight verses, when he speaks of his own baptism, he takes care to add to it the word [ ] "water," to distinguish it from the baptism of christ. [footnote : john . ] [footnote : john from to .] as the baptism of john cleansed the body from the filth of the flesh, so that of christ was really to cleanse the soul from the filth of sin. thus john, speaking of jesus christ, in allusion to this baptism, says,[ ] "whose fan is in his hand, and he will thoroughly purge his floor, and gather his wheat into his garner, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire." by this he insinuated, that in the same manner as the farmer, with the fan in his hand, winnows the corn, and separates the light and bad grains from the heavy and the good, and in the same manner as the fire afterwards destroys the chaff, so the baptism of christ, for which he was preparing them, was of an inward and spiritual nature, and would effectually destroy the light and corrupt affections, and thoroughly cleanse the floor of the human heart. [footnote : mat. . ] this baptism, too, was to be so searching as to be able to penetrate the hardest heart, and to make even the gentiles the real children of abraham.[ ] "for think not, says john, in allusion to the same baptism, to say within yourselves, we have abraham to our father; for i say unto, you, that god is able of these stones to raise up children unto abraham." as if he had said, i acknowledge that you pharisees can, many of you, boast of relationship to abraham by a strict and scrupulous attention to shadowy and figurative ordinances; that many of you can boast of relationship to him by blood; and all of you by circumcision. but it does not follow, therefore, that you are the children of abraham. those only will be able to boast of being his seed, to whom the fan and fire of christ's baptism shall be applied. the baptism of him, who is to come after me, and whose kingdom is at hand, is of that spiritual and purifying nature, that it will produce effects very different from those of an observance of outward ordinances. it can so cleanse and purify the hearts of men, that if there are gentiles in the most distant lands, ever so far removed from abraham, and possessing hearts of the hardness of stones, it can make them the real children of abraham in the sight of god. [footnote : math. . .] this distinction between the watery baptism of john, and the fiery and spiritual baptism of christ, was pointed out by jesus christ himself; for, he is reported to have appeared to his disciples after his resurrection, and to have commanded them [ ] "that they should not depart from jerusalem, but wait for the promise of the father, which, says he, ye have heard from me. for john truly baptized with water, but ye shall be baptized with the holy ghost not many days hence." [footnote : acts . .] saint luke also records a transaction which took place, in which peter was concerned, and on which occasion he first discerned the baptism of christ, as thus distinguished in the words which have been just given. [ ] "and as i began to speak, says he, the holy ghost fell on them, as on us at the beginning. then remembered i the word of the lord, how that he said, john, indeed, baptised with water, but ye shall be baptized by the holy spirit." [footnote : acts ii, , .] a similar distinction is made also by st. paul; for when he found that certain disciples had been baptized only with the baptism of john,[ ] he laid his hand upon them, and baptized them again; but this was with the baptism of the spirit. in his epistle also, to the corinthians, we find the following expression:[ ] "for by one spirit are we all baptized unto one body." [footnote : acts .] [footnote : i cor. , ]. sect. iii. _question is, which of these turn baptisms is included in the great commission given by jesus to his apostles, "of baptizing in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost?"--quakers deny it to be that of john, because contrary to the ideas of st. peter and st. paul--because the object of john's baptism had been completed--because it was a type under the law, and such types were to cease._ it appears then that there are two baptisms recorded in scripture; the one, the baptism of john, the other that of christ; that these are distinct from one another; and that the one does not include the other, except he who baptizes with water, can baptize at the same time with the holy ghost. now st. paul speaks only of[ ] one baptism as effectual; and st. peter must mean the same, when he speaks of the baptism that saveth. the question therefore is, which of the two baptisms that have been mentioned, is the one effectual, or saving baptism? or, which of these it is, that jesus christ included in his great commission to the apostles, when he commanded them "to go and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost." [footnote : eph. . .] the quakers say, that the baptism, included in this commission, was not the baptism of john. in the first place, st. peter says it was not, in these words: [ ] "which sometimes were disobedient, when once the long suffering of god waited in the days of noah while the ark was preparing, wherein few, that is, eight souls, were saved by water;[ ] whose antetype baptism doth also now save us, (not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience towards god,) by the resurrection of jesus christ." [footnote : peter . . ] [footnote : antetype is the proper translation, and not "the figure whereunto."] the apostle states here concerning the baptism that is effectual and saving; first, that it is not the putting away of the filth of the flesh, which is effected by water. he carefully puts those upon their guard, to whom he writes, lest they should consider john's baptism, or that of water, to be the saving one, to which he alludes; for, having made a beautiful comparison between an outward salvation in an outward ark, by the outward water, with this inward salvation by inward and spiritual water, in the inward ark of the testament, he is fearful that his reader should connect these images, and fancy that water had any thing to do with this baptism. hence he puts his caution in a parenthesis, thus guarding his meaning in an extraordinary manner. he then shows what this baptism is, and calls it the answer of a good conscience towards god by the resurrection of jesus christ. in fact, he states it to be the baptism of christ, which is by the spirit. for he maintains, that he only is truly baptized, whose conscience is made clear by the resurrection of christ in his heart. but who can make the answer of such a conscience, except the holy spirit shall have first purified the floor of the heart; except the spiritual fan of christ shall have first separated the wheat from the chaff, and except his spiritual fire shall have consumed the latter? st. paul makes a similar declaration: "for as many of you as have been baptized into christ, have put on christ."[ ] but no man, the quakers say, merely by being dipped under water, can put on christ, that is, his life, his nature, his disposition, his love, meekness, and temperance, and all those virtues which should characterise a christian. [footnote : galat . .] to the same purport are those other words by the same apostle:[ ] "know ye not, that so many of us as were baptized unto jesus christ, were baptized into his death; that like as christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the father, even so we also should walk in newness of life." and again--[ ] "buried with him in baptism, wherein also ye are risen with him, through the faith of the co-operation of god, who hath raised him from the dead." by these passages the apostle paul testifies that he alone is truly baptized, who first dies unto sin, and is raised up afterwards from sin unto righteousness, or who is raised up into life with christ, or who so feels the inward resurrection and glory of christ in his soul, that he walks in newness of life. [footnote : rom. . . ] [footnote : colos. . ] the quakers show again, that the baptism of john could not have been included in the great commission, because the object of john's baptism had been completed even before the preaching of jesus christ. the great object of john's baptism, was to make jesus known to the jews. john himself declared this to be the object of it. [ ] "but that he should be made manifest unto israel, _therefore_ am i come baptizing with water." this object he accomplished two ways; first, by telling all whom he baptized that jesus was coming, and these were the israel of that time; for he is reported to have baptized all jerusalem, which was the metropolis, and all judea, and all the country round about jordan. secondly, by pointing him out personally.[ ] this he did to andrew, so that andrew left john and followed jesus. andrew, again, made him known to simon, and these to philip, and philip to nathaniel; so that by means of john, an assurance was given that jesus of nazareth was the christ. [footnote : john . .] [footnote : john . .] the quakers believe again, that the baptism of john was not included in the great commission, because it was a type under the law, and all types and shadows under the law were to cease under the gospel dispensation, or the law of christ. the salvation of the eight by water, and the baptism of john, were both types of the baptism of christ. john was sent expressly before jesus, baptizing the bodies of men with water, as a lively image, as he himself explains it, of the latter baptizing their souls with the holy ghost and with fire. the baptism of john, therefore, was both preparative and typical of that of christ. and it is remarked by the quakers, that no sooner was jesus baptized by john with water in the type, than he was, according to all the evangelists, baptized by the [ ] holy ghost in the antetype. no sooner did he go up out of the water, than john saw the heavens opened, and the spirit of god descending like a dove, and lighting upon him. it was this baptism of jesus in the antetype which occasioned john to know him personally, and enabled him to discover him to others. the baptism of john, therefore, being a type or figure under the law, was to give way, when the antetype or substance became apparent. and that it was to give way in its due time, is evident from the confession of john himself. for on a question which arose between some of john's disciples and the jews about purifying, and on a report spread abroad, that jesus had begun to baptize, john says, [ ] "he (jesus) must increase, but i must decrease."--this confession of john accords also with the following expressions of st. paul: [ ] "the holy ghost this signifying, that the way into the holiest of all was not yet made manifest, while as the first tabernacle was yet standing, which was a figure for the time then present,"--which stood only in meats and drinks, and divers washings, and carnal ordinances imposed on them until the time of reformation. [footnote : mat. . .--mark . .] [footnote : john . .] [footnote : heb. . . . .] sect. iv. _quakers show that the baptism, included in the great commission, which appears not to be the baptism of john, is the baptism of christ, from a critical examination of the words in that commission--way in which the quakers interpret these words--this interpretation confirmed by citations from st. mark, st. luke, and st. paul_. having attempted to show, according to the method of the quakers, that the baptism of john is not the baptism included in the great commission, i shall now produce those arguments, by which they maintain that that baptism, which is included in it, is the baptism of christ. these arguments will be found chiefly in a critical examination of the words of that commission. to enable the reader to judge of the propriety of their observations upon these words, i shall transcribe from st. matthew the three verses that relate to this subject. [ ] "and jesus came and spake unto them, saying, all power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. go ye, therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever i have commanded you. and lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." [footnote : mat. . , , .] the first observation, which the quakers make, is upon the word "therefore." as all power is given unto _me_ both in heaven and in earth; and as i can on that account, and as i will qualify you, go ye therefore, that is, having previously received from me the qualification necessary for your task, go ye. the next observation is, that the commission does not imply that the apostles were to teach and to baptize as two separate acts, but, as the words intimate, that they were to teach baptizing. the quakers say again, that the word "teach" is an improper translation of the original [ ]greek. the greek word should have been rendered "make disciples or proselytes." in several editions of our own bibles, the word "teach" is explained in the margin opposite to it, "make disciples or christians of all nations," or in the same manner as the quakers explain it. [footnote : [greek: didasko] is the usual word for teach, but [greek: word] is used in the commission; which latter word occurs but seldom in the new testament, and always signifies to "disciple."] on the word "baptize," they observe, that because its first meaning is to wash all over, and because baptism with christians is always with water, people cannot easily separate the image of water from the word, when it is read or pronounced. but if this image is never to be separated from it, how will persons understand the words of st. paul, "for by one spirit are we all baptized into one body?" or those of jesus, "can ye drink of the cup that i drink of, or be baptized with the baptism that i am baptized with?" or, if this image is not to be separated from it, how will they understand the evangelists, who represent jesus christ as about to baptize, or wash all over, with fire? to baptize, in short, signifies to dip under water, but, in its more general meaning, to purify. fire and water have equally power in this respect, but on different objects. water purifies surfaces. fire purifies by actual and total separation, bringing those bodies into one mass which are homogeneous, or which have strong affinities to each other, and leaving the dross and incombustible parts by themselves. the word "in" they also look upon as improperly translated. this word should have been rendered [ ] "into." if the word "in" were the right translation, the words "in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost," might be construed into a form of words to be used at the time of baptism. [footnote : the word in the original greek is [greek word] and not [greek word]] but we have no evidence that such a formula was ever used, when any of the apostles baptized. indeed, the plain meaning of the word is "into," and therefore all such formula is groundless.[ ] "jesus christ did not, says zuinglius, by these words institute a form of baptism, which we should use, as divines have falsely taught." [footnote : lib. de bapt. p. , tom. . oper.] on the word "name," the quakers observe, that, when it relates to the lord, it frequently signifies in scripture, his life, or his spirit, or his power. thus, [ ] "in my name, shall they cast out devils." and, [ ] "by what power, or by what name have ye done this?" [footnote : mark . .] [footnote : acts . .] from the interpretation, which has now been given of the meaning of several of the words in the verses, that have been quoted from st. matthew, the sense of the commission, according to the quakers, will stand thus: "all power is given to me in heaven and in earth. in virtue of the power which i have, i will give you power also. i will confer upon you the gift of the holy spirit. when you have received it, go into different and distant lands; go to the gentiles who live in ignorance, darkness, and idolatry, and make them proselytes to my new dispensation; so purifying their hearts, or burning the chaff of their corrupt affections by the active fire of the holy spirit, which shall accompany your preaching, that they may be made partakers of the divine nature, and walk in newness of life. and lest this should appear to be too great a work for your faith, i, who have the power, promise to be with you with this my spirit in the work, till the end of the world." the quakers contend, that this is the true interpretation of this commission, because it exactly coincides with the meaning of the same commission as described by st. luke and st. mark, and of that also which was given to st. paul. st. luke states the commission given to the apostles to have been [ ] "that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at jerusalem." the meaning therefore of the commission, as stated by st. luke, is precisely the same as that stated by st. matthew. for first, all nations are included in it. secondly, purification of heart, or conversion from sin, is insisted upon to be the object of it. and thirdly, this object is to be effected, not by the baptism of water, (for baptism is no where mentioned,) but by preaching, in which is included the idea of the baptism of the spirit. [footnote : luke . ] st. mark also states the commission to be the same, in the following words: [ ] "and he said unto them, go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. he that believeth and is baptized, shall be saved." here all nations, and the preaching of the gospel, are mentioned again; but baptism is now added. but the baptism that was to go with this preaching, the quakers contend to be the baptism of the spirit. for first, the baptism here mentioned is connected with salvation. but the baptism, according to st. peter, which doth also now save us, "is not the putting away the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience towards god by the resurrection of jesus christ;" or the baptism of the spirit. secondly, the nature of the baptism here mentioned is explained by the verse that follows it. thus, "he that believeth, and is baptized, shall be saved. and these signs shall follow them that believe: they shall speak with new tongues." this therefore is the same baptism as that which st. paul conferred upon some of his disciples by the laying on of his hands. [ ] "and when paul had laid his hands upon them, the holy ghost came upon them, and they spake with tongues and prophesied." thus, again, it is demonstrated to be the baptism of the spirit. [footnote : mark . .] [footnote : acts . .] the commission also, which has been handed down to us by st. matthew, will be found, as it has been now explained, to coincide in its object with that which was given to paul, as we find by his confession to agrippa. for he declared[ ] he was sent as a minister to the gentiles "to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of satan unto god, that they might receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith in christ." but what was this, the quakers say, but to baptize them into the life and spirit of a new and divine nature, or with the baptism of christ? [footnote : acts . . .] and as we have thus obtained a knowledge from st. paul of what his own commission contained, so we have, from the same authority, a knowledge of what it did not contain; for he positively declares, in his first epistle to the corinthians, that "christ sent him not to baptize (evidently alluding to the baptism by water) but to preach the gospel." it is clear therefore that st. paul did not understand his commission to refer to water. and who was better qualified to understand it than himself? it is also stated by the quakers, as another argument to the same point, that if the baptism in the commission had been that of water only, the apostles could easily have administered it of themselves, or without any supernatural assistance; but, in order that they might be enabled to execute that baptism which the commission pointed to, they were desired to wait for divine help. jesus christ said,[ ] "i send the promise of my father upon you; but tarry ye in the city of jerusalem until ye be endued with the power from on high; for john truly baptized with water, but ye shall be baptized with the holy ghost not many days hence." now, the quakers ask, if baptism by water had been the baptism contained in the great commission, why could not the apostles have performed it of themselves? what should have hindered them more than john from going with people into the rivers, and immersing them? why were they first to receive themselves the baptism of the spirit? but if it be allowed, on the other hand, that when they executed the great commission, they were to perform the baptism of christ, the case is altered. it became them then to wait for the divine help. for it required more than human power to give that baptism, which should change the disposition and affections of men, and should be able to bring them from darkness unto light, and from the power of satan unto god. and here the quakers observe, that the apostles never attempted to execute the great commission, till the time fixed upon by our saviour, in these words: "but tarry ye in the city of jerusalem, until ye be endued with power from on high." this was the day of pentecost. after this "they preached, as st. peter says, with the holy ghost sent down from heaven," and with such efficacy, that "the holy ghost fell upon many of them, who heard their words." [footnote : luke . .] sect. v. _objection to the foregoing arguments of the quakers--namely, "if it be not the baptism of john that is included in the great commission, how came the apostles to baptize with water?"--practice and opinions of peter considered--also of paul--also of jesus christ--this practice, as explained by these opinions, considered by the quakers to turn out in favour of their own doctrine on this subject._ i have now stated the arguments by which the quakers have been induced to believe that the baptism by the spirit, and not the baptism by water, was included by jesus christ in the great commission which he gave to his apostles, when he requested them "to go into all nations, and to teach them, baptizing in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost." against these arguments the following question has been usually started, as an objection: "if it be not included in the great commission, how came the apostles to baptize; or would they have baptised, if baptism had not been considered by them as a christian ordinance?" the quakers, in answering this objection, have confined themselves to the consideration of the conduct of the apostles peter and paul. for though philip is said to have baptized also, yet he left no writings behind him like the former; nor are so many circumstances recorded of him, by which they may be enabled to judge of his character, or to know what his opinions ultimately were, upon that subject. the quakers consider the apostles as men of the like passions with themselves. they find the ambition of james and john; the apostacy and dissimulation of peter; the incredulity of thomas; the dissention between paul and barnabas; and the jealousies which some of them entertained towards one another, recorded in holy writ. they believe them also to have been mostly men of limited information, and to have had their prejudices, like other people. hence it was not to be expected that they should come all at once into the knowledge of christ's kingdom; that, educated in a religion of types and ceremonials, they should all at once abandon these; that, expecting a temporal messiah, they should lay aside at once temporal views; and that they should come immediately into the full purity of the gospel practice. with respect to the apostle peter, he gave early signs of the dulness of his comprehension with respect to the nature of the character and kingdom of the messiah. [ ]for when jesus had given forth but a simple parable, he was obliged to ask him the meaning of it. this occasioned jesus to say to him, "are ye also yet without understanding?" [footnote : matt. . .] in a short time afterwards, when our saviour told him, [ ] "that he himself must go to jerusalem and suffer many things, and be killed, and be raised again the third day, peter took him and rebuked him, saying, be it far from thee, lord. this shall not be unto thee." [footnote : matt. l . . .] at a subsequent time, namely, just after the transfiguration of christ, he seems to have known so little about spiritual things, that he expressed a wish to raise three earthly tabernacles, one to moses, another to elias, and a third to jesus, for the retention of signs and shadows as a gospel labour, at the very time when jesus christ was opening the dismission of all but one, namely, "the tabernacle of god, that is with men." nor did he seem, at a more remote period, to have gained more large or spiritual ideas. he did not even know that the gospel of jesus christ was to be universal. he considered it as limited; to the jews, though the words in the great commission, which he and the other apostles had heard, ordered them to teach all nations. he was unwilling to go and preach to cornelius on this very account, merely because he was a roman centurion, or in other words, a gentile; so that a vision was necessary to remove his scruples in this particular. it was not till after this vision, and his conversation with cornelius, that his mind began to be opened; and then he exclaimed, "of a truth, i perceive that god is no respecter of persons; but in every nation, he that feareth him and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him." the mind of peter now began to be opened and to see things in a clearer light, when a new occurrence that took place nearly at the same time, seems to have taken the film still more from his eyes: for while he preached to cornelius, and the others present, he perceived that "the holy ghost fell upon all of them that heard his words, as on himself and the other apostles at the beginning." then remembered peter the words of the lord, how that he said, "john indeed baptised with water, but ye shall be baptized with the holy ghost:" that is, peter finding that cornelius and his friends had received, by means of his own powerful preaching, the holy ghost, perceived then for the first time, to his great surprise, that he had been executing the great commission of jesus christ; or that he had taught a gentile, and baptized him with the holy spirit. here it was that he first made the discrimination between the baptism of john, and the baptism of christ. from this time there is reason to think that his eyes became fully open; for in a few years afterwards, when we have an opportunity of viewing his conduct again, we find him an altered man as to his knowledge of spiritual things. being called upon at the council of jerusalem to deliberate on the propriety of circumcision to gentile converts, he maintains that god gives his holy spirit as well to the gentiles as to the jews. he maintains again, that god _purifies_ by _faith_; and he delivers it as his opinion, that circumcision is to be looked upon as a yoke. and here it may be remarked, that circumcision and baptism uniformly went together, when proselytes of the covenant were made, or when any of the heathens were desirous of conforming to the whole of the jewish law. at a time, again, subsequent to this, or when he wrote his epistles which were to go to the strangers all over pontus, galatia, cappadocia, asia, and bithynia, he discovers himself to be the same full grown man in spiritual things on the subject of baptism itself, in these remarkable words, which have been quoted: "whose antitype baptism doth also now save us, (not the putting away the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience towards god,) by the resurrection of jesus christ." so that the last opinion of peter on the subject of water-baptism contradicted his practice, when he was but a noviciate in christ's kingdom. with respect to the apostle paul, whose practice i am to consider next, it is said of him, as of st. peter, that he baptized. that paul baptized is to be collected from his own writings. for it appears, by his own account, that there had been divisions among the corinthians. of those who had been converted to christianity, some called themselves after the name of cephas; others after the name of apollos; others after the name of paul; thus dividing themselves nominally into sects, according to the name of him who had either baptized or converted them. st. paul mentions these circumstances, by which it comes to light, that he used water-baptism, and he regrets that the persons in question should have made such a bad use of this rite, as to call themselves after him who baptized them, instead of calling themselves after christ, and dwelling on him alone. [ ] "i thank god, says he, that i baptized none of you but crispus and gaius; lest any should say that i baptized in my own name. and i baptized also the house of stephanas. besides i know not whether i baptized any other, for christ sent me not to baptize, but to preach the gospel." now this confession of the apostle, which is usually brought against the quakers, they consider to be entirely in their favour, and indeed decisive of the point in question. for they collect from hence, that st. paul never considered baptism by water as any gospel ordinance, or as any rite indispensably necessary, when men were admitted as members into the christian church. for if he had considered it in this light, he would never have said that christ sent him not to baptize, but to preach the gospel. neither would he have thanked god, on account of the mere abuse of it, that he had baptized so few, for doubtless there were many among the learned greeks, who abused his preaching, and who called it _foolishness_, but yet he nowhere says, that he was sorry on that account that he ever preached to them; for preaching was a gospel ordinance enjoined him, by which many were to be converted to the christian faith. again--if he had considered water baptism, as a necessary mark of initiation into christianity, he would uniformly have adopted it, as men became proselytes to his doctrines. but among the thousands, whom in all probability he baptized with the holy spirit among the corinthians, it does not appear, that there were more than the members of the three families of crispus, gaius, and stephanus, whom be baptized with water. [footnote : cor. i. , , .] but still it is contended, that paul says of himself, that the baptized. the quakers agree to this, but they say that he must have done it, in these instances, on motives very different from those of an indispensable christian rite. in endeavouring to account for these motives, the quakers consider the apostle paul as not in the situation of peter and others, who were a long time in acquiring their spiritual knowledge, during which they might be in doubt as to the propriety of many customs; but as coming, on the other hand, quickly and powerfully into the knowledge of christ's kingdom. hence, when he baptized, they impute no ignorance to him. they believe he rejected water-baptism as a gospel ordinance, but that he considered it in itself as an harmless ceremony, and that, viewing it in this light, he used it out of condescension to those ellenistic jews, whose prejudices, on account of the washings of moses and their customs relative to proselytes, were so strong, that they could not separate purification by water from conversion to a new religion. for st. paul confesses himself that "to the weak he became as weak, that he might gain the weak, and was made all things to all men, that he might by all means save some." of this his condescension many instances are recorded in the new testament, though it may be only necessary to advert to one. at the great council at jerusalem, where paul, barnabas, peter, james, and others, were present, it was[ ] determined that circumcision was not necessary to the gentiles. st. paul himself with some others carried the very letter of the council, containing their determination upon this subject, to antioch to the brethren there. this letter was addressed to the brethren of antioch, syria, and cilicia. after having left antioch, he went to derbe and lystra, where, notwithstanding the determination of himself and the rest of the council, that circumcision was not a christian rite, he[ ] circumcised timotheus, in condescension to the weakness of the jews, who were in those quarters. [footnote : acts .] [footnote : acts . .] in addition to these observations on the practice and opinions of the apostles, in the course of which the quakers presume it will be found that the baptism of john is not an ordinance of the gospel, they presume the same conclusion will be adopted, if they take into consideration the practice and opinions of jesus christ. that jesus christ never forbad water-baptism, the quakers readily allow. but they conceive his silence on this subject to have arisen from his knowledge of the internal state of the jews. he knew how carnal their minds were; how much they were attached to outward ordinances; and how difficult it was to bring them all at once into his spiritual kingdom. hence, he permitted many things for a time, on account of the weakness of their spiritual vision. that jesus submitted also to baptism himself, they allow. but he submitted to it, not because he intended to make it an ordinance under the new dispensation, but to use his own words, "that he might fulfil all righteousness." hence, also he was circumcised. hence he celebrated the passover. and hence, he was enabled to use these remarkable words upon the cross: "it is fulfilled." but though jesus christ never forbad water-baptism, and, though he was baptized with water by john, yet he never baptized any one himself. a rumour had gone abroad among the pharisees, that the jesus had baptized more disciples than john the baptist. but john, the beloved disciple of jesus, who had leaned on his bosom, and who knew more of his sentiments and practice than any other person is very careful, in correcting this hear-say report, as if unworthy of the spiritual mind of his master, and states positively; [ ] "that jesus-baptized not." [footnote : john . .] the quakers, lay a great stress upon this circumstance: for they say, that if jesus never baptized with water himself, it is a proof that he never intended to erect water-baptism into a gospel-rite. it is difficult to conceive, they say, that he should have established a sacrament, and that he should never have administered it. would he not, on the other hand, if his own baptism had been that of water, have begun his ministry by baptizing his own disciples, notwithstanding they had previously been, baptized by john? but he not only never baptized, _but it is no where_ recorded of him, that he ordered his disciples to baptize "with water."[ ] he once ordered a leper to go to the priest, and to offer the gift for his cleansings. at another time[ ], he ordered a blind man to go and wash in the pool of siloam; but he never ordered any one to go and be baptized with water. on the other hand, it is said by the quakers, that he dearly intimated to three of his disciples, at the transfiguration, that the dispensations of moses and john were to pass away; and that he taught himself, "that the kingdom of god cometh not with observation;" or, that it consisted not in those outward and lifeless ordinances, in which many of those to whom he addressed himself placed the essence of their religion. [footnote : mat. . .] [footnote : john . ] chap. xvi. sect. i. _supper of the lord--two such suppers, one enjoined by moses, the other by jesus christ--the former called the passover--original manner of its celebration--the use of bread and wine added to it--those long in use when jews christ celebrated it--since his time, alterations made in this supper by the jews--but bread and wine still continued to be component parts of it, and continue so to the present day--modern manner of the celebration of it._ there are two suppers of the lord recorded in the scriptures; the first enjoined by moses, and the second by jesus christ. the first is called the supper of the lord, because it was the last supper which jesus christ participated with his disciples, or which the lord and master celebrated with them in commemoration of the passover. and it may not improperly be called the supper of the lord on another account, because it was the supper which the lord and master of every jewish family celebrated, on the same festival, in his own house. this supper was distinguished, at the time alluded to, by the name of the passover supper. the object of the institution of it was to commemorate the event of the lord passing over the houses of the israelites in egypt, when he smote the egyptians, and delivered the former from their hard and oppressive bondage. the directions of moses concerning this festival were short, but precise. on the fourteenth day of the first month, called nissan, the jews were to kill a lamb in the evening. it was to be eaten in the same evening, roasted with fire, and the whole of it was to be eaten, or the remains of it to be consumed with fire before morning. they were to eat it with loins girded, with their shoes on their feet, and with their staves in their hands, and to eat it in haste. the bread which they were to eat, was to be unleavened, all of it, and for seven days. there was to be no leaven in their houses during that time. bitter herbs also were to be used at this feast. and none who were uncircumcised were allowed to partake of it. this was the simple manner in which the passover, and the feast of unleavened bread, which was included in it, were first celebrated. but as the passover, in the age following its institution, was not to be killed and eaten in any other place than where the lord chose to fix his name, which was afterwards at jerusalem, it was suspended for a time. the jews, however, retained the festival of unleavened bread, wherever they dwelt. at this last feast, in process of time, they added the use of wine to the use of bread. the introduction of the wine was followed by the introduction of new customs. the lord or master of the feast used to break the bread, and to bless it, saying, "blessed be thou, o lord, who givest us the fruits of the earth." he used to take the cup, which contained the wine, and bless it also: "blessed be thou, o lord, who givest us the fruit of the vine." the bread was twice blessed upon this occasion, and given once to every individual at the feast. but the cup was handed round three times to the guests. during the intervals between the blessing and the taking of the bread and of the wine, the company acknowledged the deliverance of their ancestors from the egyptian bondage; they lamented their present state; they confessed their sense of the justice of god in their punishment; and they expressed their hope of his mercy from his former kind dealings and gracious promises. in process of time, when the jews were fixed at jerusalem, they revived the celebration of the passover, and as the feast of unleavened bread was connected with it, they added the customs of the latter, and blended the eating of the lamb and the use of the bread and wine, and several accompaniments of consecration, into one ceremony. the bread therefore and the wine had been long in use as constituent parts of the passover-supper, and indeed of all the solemn feasts of the jews, when jesus christ took upon himself, as master of his own family of disciples, to celebrate it. when he celebrated it, he did as the master of every jewish family did at that time. he took bread, and blessed, and broke, and gave to his disciples. he took the cup of wine, and gave it to them also. but he conducted himself differently from others in one respect, for he compared the bread of the passover to his own body, and the wine to his own blood, and led the attention of his disciples from the old object of the passover, or deliverance from egyptian bondage, to a new one, or deliverance from sin. since the time of our saviour, we find that the jews, who have been dispersed in various parts of the world, have made alterations in this supper: but all of them have concurred in retaining the bread and wine as component parts of it. this will be seen by describing the manner in which it is celebrated at the present day. on the fourteenth day of the month nissan, the first-born son of every family fasts, because the first-born in egypt were smitten on that night. a table is then set out, and covered with a cloth. on the middle of it is placed a large dish, which is covered with a napkin. a large passover cake of unleavened bread, distinguished by marks, and denominated "_israelite_," is then laid upon this napkin. another, with different marks, but denominated "_levite_," is laid upon the first: and a third, differently marked, and denominated "_priest_," is laid upon the second. upon this again a large dish is placed, and in this dish is a shank bone of a shoulder of lamb, with a small matter of meat on it, which is burnt quite brown on the fire. this is instead of the lamb roasted with fire. near this is an egg, roasted hard in hot ashes, that it may not be broken, to express the totality of the lamb. there is also placed on the table a small quantity of raw charvil instead of the bitter herbs ordered; also a cup with salt water, in remembrance of the sea crossed over after that repast; also a stick of horse radish with its green top to it, to represent the bitter labour that made the eyes of their ancestors water in slavery; and a couple of round balls, made of bitter almonds pounded with apples, to represent their labour in lime and brinks. the seat or couch of the master is prepared at the head of the table, and raised with pillows, to represent the masterly authority of which the jews were deprived in bondage. the meanest of the servants are seated at the table for two nights with their masters, mistresses, and superiors, to denote that they were all equally slaves in egypt, and that all ought to give the same ceremonial thanks for their redemption. cups also are prepared for the wine, of which each person must drink four in the course of the ceremony. one cup extraordinary is set on the table for elias, which is drank by the youngest in his stead. all things having been thus prepared, the guests wash their hands, and seat themselves at table. the master of the family, soon after this, _takes his cup of wine in his right hand_, and the rest at the table doing the same, he says, together with all the others, "blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who hast created the fruit of the vine." this is followed by a. thanksgiving for the institution of the passover. _then the cup of wine is drank by all_. afterwards the master of the family says, "blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who hast sanctified us with thy commandments, and commanded us to cleanse our hands." then the master of the family desires the guests to partake of the charvil dipped in salt water, which he gives them with an appropriate blessing. he makes them touch also the dish, containing the egg and shank bone of the lamb, and repeat with him a formula of words suited to the subject. he then takes _the second cup of wine_, and uses words in conjunction with the rest, expressive of the great difference between this and any other night. after this, copious remarks follow on the institution of the passover. then follow queries and answers of the rabbis on this subject: then historical accounts of the jews: then the fifteen acts of the goodness of god to the jewish nation, which they make out thus:--he led the jews out of egypt: he punished the egyptians: he executed judgment on their gods: he slew their first-born: he gave the jews wealth: he divided the sea for them: he made them pass through it as on dry land: he drowned the egyptians in the same: he gave food to the jews for forty years in the wilderness; he fed them with manna: he gave them the sabbath: he brought them to mount sinai: he gave them the law: he brought them to the laud of promise: he built the temple. when these acts of the goodness of god, with additional remarks on the passover out of rabbi gamaliel, have been recited, all the guests touch the dish which contains the three cakes of bread before mentioned, and say: "this sort of unleavened bread, which we eat, is because there was not sufficient time for the dough of our ancestors to rise, until the blessed lord, the king of kings, did reveal himself to redeem them, as it is written. and they baked unleavened cakes of the dough, which they brought forth out of egypt; for it was not leavened, because they were thrust out of egypt, and could not tarry; neither had they prepared for themselves any victuals." after this they touch the horse-radish and join in a narration on the subject of their bondage. then they take _their third cup of wine_, and pronounce a formula of adoration and praise, accompanied with blessings and thanksgivings, in allusion to the historical part of the passover. after this the master of the family washes his hands and says, "blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who hast sanctified us with thy commandments, and commanded us to cleanse our hands." he then breaks the _uppermost cake of bread_ in the dish, and says, "blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who hast brought forth bread from the earth." then he takes _half of another cake of bread, and breaks it_, and says, "blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe, who hast sanctified us with thy commandments, and commanded us to eat the unleavened bread." _then he gives every one at the table of each of the two cakes of bread that are broken_, and every one repeats audibly the two last blessings. he then takes the green top from the horse-radish, and puts on the balls before mentioned, and pronounces a blessing. he then puts these into the hands of the guests, and they pronounce the same. after this, he cuts the bottom cake, and puts a piece of it upon a piece of horse-radish, and pronounces a formula of words, in allusion to an historical fact. these ceremonies having been thus completed, the guests sup. after supper, a long grace is said. then the _fourth cup_ is filled. a long prayer follows, on the subject of creation. this is again followed by a hymn, enumerating and specifying the twelve wonders which god did at midnight. another hymn succeeds, specifying the fifteen great works which god did at different times, both on the night, and on the day, of the passover. then follows a prayer in praise of god, in which a desire is expressed, that they may again he brought to jerusalem. then follows a blessing on the fourth cup which is taken; after which another hymn is sung, in which the assistance of the almighty is invoked for the rebuilding of the temple. this hymn is followed by thirteen canticles, enumerating thirteen remarkable things belonging to the jews, soon after which the ceremony ends. this is the manner, or nearly the manner, in which the passover is now celebrated by the jews. the bread is still continued to be blessed, and broken, and divided, and the cup to be blessed and handed round among the guests. and this is done, whether they live in asia, or in europe, or in any other part of the known world. sect. ii. _second supper is that enjoined by jesus at capernaum--it consists of bread from heaven--or of the flesh and blood of christ--but these not of a material nature, like the passover-bread, or corporeal part of jesus--but wholly of a spiritual--those who receive it, are spiritually nourished by it, and may be said to sup with christ--this supper supported the patriarchs--and must be taken by all christians--various ways in which this supper may be enjoyed_. the second supper recorded in the scriptures, in which bread, and the body, and blood of christ, are mentioned, is that which was enjoined by jesus, when he addressed the multitude at capernaum. of this supper, the following account may be given: [ ] "labour not, says he to the multitude, for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life, which the son of man shall give unto you." [footnote : john . .] a little farther on, in the same chapter, when the jews required a sign from heaven, (such as when moses gave their ancestors manna in the wilderness,) in order that they might believe on him, he addressed them thus: "verily, verily, i say unto you, moses gave you not that bread from heaven: but my father giveth you the true bread from heaven. for the bread of god is he that cometh down from heaven, and giveth light unto the world." then said they unto him, "lord, evermore give us this bread." and jesus said unto them, "i am the bread of life. he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth in me, shall never thirst." it appears, that in the course of these and other words that were spoken upon this occasion, the jews took offence at jesus christ, because he said, he was the bread that came down from heaven; for they knew he was the son of joseph, and they knew both his father and his mother. jesus therefore directed to them the following observations: "i am the bread of life. your fathers did eat manna in the wilderness, and are dead. this is the bread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and not die. i am the living bread, which came down from heaven. if any man eat of this bread, he shall live for ever. and the bread that i will give is my flesh, which i will give for the life of the world." the jews, therefore, strove among themselves, saying, how can this man give us his flesh to eat? then jesus said unto them, "verily, verily, i say unto you, except ye eat the flesh of the son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. whosoever eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and i will raise him up at the last day. for my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. he that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me, and i in him. as the living father hath sent me, and i live by the father, so he that eateth me, even he shall live by me. this is that bread that came down from heaven. not as your fathers did eat manna, and are dead. he that eateth of this bread, shall live forever." as the jews were still unable to comprehend the meaning of his words, which they discovered by murmuring and pronouncing them to be hard sayings, jesus christ closes his address to them in the following words: "it is the spirit that quickeneth. the flesh profiteth nothing: the words that i speak unto you, they are spirit, and they are life." it appears from hence, according to the quakers, that jesus christ, in mentioning the loaves, took occasion to spiritualize, as he did on all other fit occasions, and to direct the attention of his followers from natural to spiritual food, or from the food that perisheth, to that which giveth eternal life. jesus christ calls himself upon this occasion the living bread. he says that this bread is his flesh, and that this flesh is meat indeed. the first conclusion which the quakers deduce on this subject, is, that this bread, or this flesh and blood, or this meat, which he recommends to his followers, and which he also declares to be himself, is not of a material nature. it is not, as he himself says, like the ordinary meat that perisheth, nor like the outward manna, which the jews ate in the wilderness for their bodily refreshment. it cannot therefore be common bread, nor such bread as the jews ate at their passover, nor any bread or meat ordered to be eaten on any public occasion. neither can this flesh or this bread be, as some have imagined, the material flesh or body of jesus. for first, this latter body was born of the virgin mary; whereas the other is described as having come down from heaven. secondly, because, when the jews said, "how can this man give us his flesh?" jesus replied, "it is the spirit that quickeneth. the flesh profiteth nothing;" that is, material flesh and blood, such as mine is, cannot profit any thing in the way of quickening; or cannot so profit as to give life eternal. this is only the work of the spirit. and he adds, "the words i have spoken to you, they are spirit, and they are life." this bread then, or this body, is of a spiritual nature. it is of a spiritual nature, because it not only giveth life, but preserveth from death. manna, on the other hand, supported the israelites only for a time, and they died. common bread and flesh nourish the body for a time, when it dies and perishes; but it is said of those who feed upon this food, that they shall never die. this bread, or body, must be spiritual again, because the bodies of men, according to their present organization, cannot be kept for ever alive; but their souls may. but the souls of men can receive no nourishment from ordinary meat and drink, that they should be kept alive, but from that which is spiritual only. it must be spiritual again, because jesus christ describes it as having come down from heaven. the last conclusion which the quakers draw from the words of our saviour on this occasion, is, that a spiritual participation of the body and blood of christ is such an essential of christianity, that no person who does not partake of them, can be considered to be a christian; "for except a man eat the flesh of the son of man and drink his blood, he has no life in him." the quakers therefore believe, that this address of jesus christ to his followers near capernaum, relates wholly to the necessity of the souls of men being fed and nourished by that food, which it is alone capable of receiving, namely, that which is of a spiritual nature, and which comes from above. this food is the spirit of god; or, in the language of the quakers, it is christ. it is that celestial principle, which gives life and light to as many as receive it and believe in it. it is that spiritual principle, which was in the beginning of the world, and which afterwards took flesh. and those who receive it, are spiritually nourished by it, and may be said to sup with christ; for he himself says, [ ] "behold, i stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, i will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me." [footnote : rev. . .] this supper which jesus christ enjoins, is that heavenly manna on which the patriarchs feasted, before his appearance in the flesh, and by which their inward man became nourished; so that some of them were said to have walked with god; for those, according to st. paul, [ ] "did all eat the same spiritual meat, and did all drink the same spiritual drink; for they drank of that spiritual rock that followed them, and that rock was christ." [footnote : cor. . . .] this supper is also that "daily bread," since his appearance in the flesh; or, as the old latin translation has it, it is that supersubstantial bread, which christians are desired to pray for in the lord's prayer; that bread, which, according to good commentators, is above all substance, and above all created things. for this bread fills and satisfies. by extinguishing all carnal desires, it leaves neither hunger nor thirst after worldly things. it redeems from the pollutions of sin. it so quickens as to raise from death to life, and it gives therefore to man a sort of new and divine nature, so that he can dwell in christ and christ in him. this supper, which consists of this manna, or bread, or of this flesh and blood, may be enjoyed by christians in various ways. it may be enjoyed by them in pious meditations on the divine being, in which the soul of man may have communion with the spirit of god, so that every meditation may afford it a salutary supper, or a celestial feast. it may be enjoyed by them when they wait upon god in silence, or retire into the light of the lord, and receive those divine impressions which quicken and spiritualize the internal man. it may be enjoyed by them in all their several acts of obedience to the words and doctrines of our saviour. thus may men everyday, nay, every hour, keep a communion at the lord's table, or communicate, or sup, with christ. sect. iii. _the question then is, whether jesus christ instituted any new supper, distinct from that of the passover, (and which was to render null and void that enjoined at capernaum) to be observed as a ceremonial by christians--quakers say, that no such institution can be collected from the accounts of matthew, or of mark, or of john--the silence of the latter peculiarly impressive in the present case._ it appears then, that there are two suppers recorded in the scriptures, the one enjoined by moses, and the other by jesus christ. the first of these was of a ceremonial nature, and was confined exclusively to the jews: for to gentile converts who knew nothing of moses, or whose ancestors were not concerned in the deliverance from egyptian bondage, it could have had no meaning. the latter was of a spiritual nature. it was not limited to any nation. it had been enjoyed by many of the patriarchs. many of the gentiles had enjoyed it also. but it was essentially necessary for all christians. now the question is, whether jesus christ, when he celebrated the passover, instituted any new supper, distinct from that of the passover, and which was to render null, and void, (as it is the tendency of ceremonies to do) that which he enjoined at capernaum, to be observed as an ordinance by the christian world. the quakers are of opinion that no institution of this kind can be collected from matthew, mark, or john. [ ]st. matthew mentions the celebration of the passover supper in the following manner: "and as they were eating, jesus took bread and blessed it, and brake it, and gave to his disciples, and said, take, eat, this is my body." [footnote : mat. . .] "and he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, drink ye all of it." "for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins." "but i say unto you, i will not drink henceforth of the fruit of the vine, until that day when i drink it new with you in my father's kingdom." st. mark gives an account so similar to the former, that it is unnecessary to transcribe it. both mention the administration of the cup; both the breaking and giving of the bread; both the allusion of jesus to his own body and blood; both the idea of his not drinking wine any more but in a new kingdom; but neither of them mention any command, nor even any insinuation by jesus christ to his disciples, that they should do as he did at the passover supper. st. john, who relates the circumstance of jesus christ washing the feet of his disciples on the passover night, mentions nothing even of the breaking of bread, or of the drinking of the wine upon that occasion. as far therefore as the evangelists matthew, mark, and john, are concerned, it is obvious, in the opinion of the quakers, that christians have not the least pretence, either for the celebration of the passover, or of that which they usually call the lord's supper; for the command for such a supper is usually grounded on the words, "do this in remembrance of me." but no such words occur in the accounts of any of the evangelists now cited. this silence with respect to any command for any new institution is considered by the quakers as a proof, as far as these evangelists are concerned, that none was ever intended. for if the sacrament of the supper was to be such a great and essential rite as christians make it, they would have been deficient in their duty, if they had failed to record it. st. matthew, who was at the supper, and st. mark, who heard of what had passed there, both agree that jesus used the ceremony of the bread and the wine, and also that he made an allusion from thence to his own body and blood; but it is clear, the quakers say, whatever they might have heard as spoken by him, they did not understand him as enjoining a new thing. but the silence of john, upon this occasion, the quakers consider as the most impressive in the present case. for st. john was the disciple, who leaned upon the bosom of jesus at this festival, and who of course must have heard all that he said. he was the disciple again, whom jesus loved, and who would have been anxious to have perpetuated all that he required to be done. he was the disciple again, who so particularly related the spiritual supper which jesus enjoined at capernaum, and in this strong language, that, "except a man eat his flesh, and drink his blood, he has no life in him." notwithstanding this, st. john does not even mention what took place on the passover night, believing, as the quakers suppose, that it was not necessary to record the particulars of a jewish ceremony, which, being a type, was to end when its antitype was realized, and which he considered to be unnecessary for those of the christian name. sect. iv. _account of st. luke examined--according to him jesus celebrated only the old jewish passover--signified all future passovers with him were to be spiritual--hence he turned the attention of those present from the type to the antitype--he recommended them to take their meals occasionally together in remembrance of their last supper with him; or if, as jews, they could not relinquish the passover, to celebrate it with a new meaning._ st. luke, who speaks of the transactions which took place at the passover-supper, is the only one of the evangelists who records the remarkable words, "do this in remembrance of me." st. luke, however, was not himself at this supper. whatever he has related concerning it, was from the report of others. but though the quakers are aware of this circumstance, and that neither matthew, mark, nor john, give an account of such words, yet they do not question the authority of st. luke concerning them. they admit them, on the other hand, to have been spoken; they believe however, on an examination of the whole of the narrative of st. luke upon this occasion, that no new institution of a religious nature was intended. they believe that jesus christ did nothing more than celebrate the old passover; that he intimated to his disciples, at the time he celebrated it, that it was to cease; that he advised them, however, to take their meals occasionally, in a friendly manner, together, in remembrance of him; or if, as jews, they could not all at once relinquish the passover, he permitted them to celebrate it with a new meaning. in the first place st. luke, and he is joined by all the other evangelists, calls the feast now spoken of the passover. jesus christ also gives it the same name; for he says, "with desire i have desired to eat this passover with you before i suffer." jesus christ, according to st. luke, took bread and broke it, and divided it among his disciples. he also took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it among them. but this, the quakers say, is no more than what the master of every jewish family did on the passover night: nor, is it any more, as will have already appeared, than what the jews of london, or of paris, or of amsterdam, or of any other place, where bread and wine are to be had, do on the same feast at the present day. but though jesus christ conducted himself so far as other masters of families did, yet he departed from the formula of words that was generally used upon these occasions. for in the first place, he is described to have said to his disciples, that "he would no more eat of the passover, until it should be fulfilled in the kingdom of god;" and a little farther on, that "he would not drink of the fruit of the vine, till the kingdom of god should come; or, as st. matthew has it, till he should drink it new with them in his father's kingdom." by these words the quakers understand, that it was the intention of jesus christ to turn the attention of his disciples from the type to the antitype, or from the paschal lamb to the lamb of god, which was soon to be offered for them. he declared, that all his passover suppers with them were in future to be spiritual. such spiritual passovers, the quakers say, he afterwards ate with them on the day of pentecost, when the spirit of god came upon them; when their minds were opened, and when they discovered, for the first time, the nature of his kingdom. and these spiritual passovers he has since eaten, and continues to eat with all those whose minds, detached from worldly pursuits and connexions, are so purified and spiritualized, as to be able to hold communion with god. it is reported of him next, that "he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave to his disciples, saying, this is my body which is given for you." on these words the quakers make the following observations:--the word "this" does not belong to the word "bread," that is, it does not mean that this bread is my body. for the word "bread" in the original greek is of the masculine, and the word "this" is of the neuter gender. but it alludes to the action of the breaking of the bread, from which the following new meaning will result. "this breaking of the bread, which you now see me perform, is a symbol or representation of the giving, or as st. paul has it, of the breaking of my body for you." in the same manner, the quakers say, that the giving of the wine in the cup is to be understood as a symbol or representation of the giving of his blood for them. the quakers therefore are of opinion, when they consider the meaning of the sayings of jesus christ both with respect to the bread and to the wine, that he endeavoured again to turn the attention of his disciples from the type to the antitype; from the bread and wine to his own body and blood; from the paschal lamb that had been slain and eaten, to the lamb that was going to be sacrificed; and as the blood of the latter was, according to st. matthew, for the remission of sins, to turn their attention from the ancient object of the celebration of the passover, or salvation from egyptian bondage, to a new object, or the salvation of themselves and others by this new sacrifice of himself. it is reported of him again by st. luke, after he had distributed the bread and said, "this is my body which is given for you," that he added, "this do in remembrance of me." these words the quakers believe to have no reference to any new institution; but they contain a recommendation to his disciples to meet in a friendly manner, and break their bread together, in remembrance of their last supper with him, or if as jews, they could not all at once leave off the custom of the passover, in which they had been born and educated as a religious ceremony, to celebrate it, as he had then modified and spiritualized it, with a new meaning. if they relate to the breaking of their bread together, then they do not relate to any passover or sacramental eating, but only to that of their common meals; for all the passovers of jesus christ with his disciples were in future to be spiritual. and in this sense the primitive christians seem to have understood the words in question. for in their religious zeal they sold all their goods, and, by means of the produce of their joint stock, they kept a common table, and lived together. but in process of time, as this custom from various causes declined, they met at each other's houses, or at their appointed places, to break their bread together, in memorial of the passover-supper. this custom, it is remarkable, was denominated the custom of _breaking of bread_. nor could it have had any other name so proper, if the narration of st. luke be true. for the words "do this in remembrance of me," relate solely, as he has placed them, to the breaking of the bread. they were used after the distribution of the bread, but were not repeated after the giving of the cup. if they relate, on the other hand, to the celebration of the passover, as it had been modified and spiritualized with a new meaning, then the interpretation of them will stand thus: "as some of you, my disciples, for ye are all jews, may not be able to get over all your prejudices at once, but may celebrate the passover again, and as it is the last time that i shall celebrate it with you, as a ceremonial, i desire you to do it in remembrance, or as a memorial of me. i wish the celebration of it always to bring to your recollection this our last public meeting, the love i bear to you, and my sufferings and my death. i wish your minds to be turned from carnal to spiritual benefits, and to be raised to more important themes than the mere escape of your ancestors from egyptian bondage. if it has been hitherto the object of the passover to preserve in your memories the bodily salvation of your ancestors, let it be used in future, if you cannot forsake it, as a memorial of your own spiritual salvation; for my body, of which the bread is a representation, is to be broken, and my blood, of which the wine is an emblem, is to be shed for the remission of your sins." but in whatever sense the words "do this in remembrance of me" are to be taken, the quakers are of opinion, as far as st. luke states the circumstances, that they related solely to the disciples themselves. jesus christ recommends it to those who were present, and to those only, to do this in remembrance of him. but he no where tells them to order or cause it to be done by the whole christian world, as he told them to "preach the gospel to every creature." to sum up the whole of what has been said in this chapter:--if we consult st. luke, and st. luke only, all that we can collect on this subject will be, that the future passover-suppers of christ with his disciples were to be spiritual; that his disciples were desired to break their bread together in remembrance of him; or if, as jews, they could not relinquish the passover, to celebrate it with a new meaning; but that this permission extended to those only who were present on that occasion. sect. v. _account of st. paul--he states that the words "do this in remembrance of me" were used at the passover-supper--that they contained a permission for a custom, in which both the bread and the wine were included--that this custom was the passover, spiritualised by jesus christ--but that it was to last but for a time--some conjecture this time to be the destruction of jerusalem--but the quakers, till the disciples had attained such a spiritual growth, that they felt christ's kingdom substantially in their hearts--and as it was thus limited to them, so it was limited to such jewish converts as might have adopted it in their times._ the last of the sacred writers, who mentions the celebration of the passover-supper, is st. paul, whose account is now to be examined. st. paul, in his first epistle to the corinthians, reproves[ ] the latter for some irregularities committed by them in the course of their religious meetings. what these meetings were is uncertain. they might have been for the celebration of the passover-supper, for there was a synagogue of jews at corinth, of whom some had been converted. or they might have been for the celebration of the passover as spiritualized by jesus christ, or for the breaking of bread, which customs both the jewish and gentile converts might have adopted. the custom, however, at which these irregularities took place, is called by st. paul, the lord's supper. and this title was not inapplicable to it in either of the cases supposed, because it must have been, in either of them, in commemoration of the last supper, which jesus christ, or the lord and master, ate with his disciples before he suffered. [footnote : chap. .] but whichever ceremonial it was that st. paul alluded to, the circumstances of the irregularities of the corinthians, obliged him to advert to and explain what was said and done by jesus on the night of the passover-supper. this explanation of the apostle has thrown new light upon the subject, and has induced the quakers to believe, that no new institution was intended to take place as a ceremonial to be observed by the christian world. st. paul, in his account of what occurred at the original passover, reports that jesus christ made use of the words "this do in remembrance of me." by this the quakers understand that he permitted something to be done by those who were present at this supper. he reports also, that jesus christ used these words, not only after the breaking of the bread, but after the giving of the cup: from whence they conclude, that st. paul considered both the bread and the wine, as belonging to that which had been permitted. st. paul also says, "for as often as ye eat this bread and drink this cup, ye do show the lord's death till he come." by these words they believe they discover two things; first, the nature of the thing permitted; and, secondly, that the thing permitted, whatever it was, was to last but for a time. the thing then, which was permitted to those who were present at the passover-supper, was to show or declare his death. the words "show or declare," prove, in the first place, the connexion of the thing permitted with the jewish passover. for after certain ceremonies had been performed on the passover night, "the showing forth or declaration," as it was called, followed; or the object of the meeting was declared aloud to the persons present, or it was declared to them publicly in what particulars the passover feast differed from all the other feasts of the jews. secondly, the word "death" proves the thing permitted to have been the passover, as spiritualized by jesus christ; for by the new modification of it, his disciples, if they were unable to overcome their prejudices, were to turn their attention from the type to the antitype, or from the sacrifice of the paschal lamb to the sacrifice of himself, or to his own sufferings and death. in short, jesus christ always attempted to reform by spiritualizing. when the jews followed him for the loaves, and mentioned manna, he tried to turn their attention from material to spiritual bread. when he sat upon jacob's well, and discoursed with the woman of samaria, he directed her attention from ordinary, or elementary to spiritual and living water. so he did upon this occasion. he gave life to the dead letter of an old ceremony by a new meaning. his disciples were from henceforth to turn their attention, if they chose to celebrate the passover, from the paschal lamb to himself, and from the deliverance of their ancestors out of egyptian bondage to the deliverance of themselves and others, by the giving up of his own body and the shedding of his own blood for the remission of sins. and as the thing permitted was the passover, spiritualized in this manner, so it was only permitted for a time, or "until he come." by the words "until he come," it is usually understood, until christ come. but though christians have agreed upon this, they have disagreed as to the length of time which the words may mean. some have understood that jesus christ intended this spiritualized passover to continue for ever as an ordinance of his church, for that "till he come" must refer to his coming to judge the world. but it has been replied to these, that in this case no limitation had been necessary, or it would have been said at once, that it was to be a perpetual ordinance, or expressed in plainer terms, than in the words in question. others have understood the words to mean the end of the typical world, which happened on the destruction of jerusalem, when the jews were dispersed, and their church, as a national one, done away. for the coming of christ and the end of the world have been considered as taking place at the same time. thus the early christians believed, that jesus christ, even after his death and resurrection, would come again, even in their own life time, and that the end of the world would then be. these events they coupled in their minds; "for[ ] they asked him privately, saying, tell us when these things shall be, and what shall be the sign of thy coming and of the end of the world?" jesus told them in reply, that the end of the world and his coming would be, when there were wars, and rumours of wars, and earthquakes, and famine, and pestilence, and tribulations on the earth; and that these calamities would happen even before the generation, then alive, would pass away. now all these things actually happened in the same generation; for they happened at the destruction of jerusalem. jesus christ therefore meant by the end of the world, the end of the jewish world, or of the world of types, figures, and ordinances: and he coupled naturally his own coming with this event, because he could not come fully into the hearts of any, till these externals were done away. he alluded, in short, to the end of the jewish dispensation and the beginning of his own spiritual kingdom, or to the end of the ceremonial and the beginning of the gospel world. [footnote : matt. .] those therefore who interpret the words "till he come" to mean the end of the typical world, are of opinion that the passover, as spiritualized by jesus christ, was allowed to the disciples, while they lived among a people, so wedded to religious ceremonies as the jews, with whom it would have been a stumbling block in the way of their conversion, if they had seen the apostles, who were their countrymen, rejecting it all at once; but that it was permitted, them, till the destruction of jerusalem, after which event the jews being annihilated as a nation, and being dispersed and mixed among the infinitely greater body of the gentiles, the custom was to be laid aside, as the disuse of it could not be then prejudicial to the propagation of the gospel among the community at large. the quakers, however, understand the words "till he come," to mean simply the coming of christ substantially in the heart. giving the words this meaning, they limit the duration of the spiritualized passover, but do not specify the time. it might have ceased with some of them, they say, on the day of pentecost, when they began to discover the nature of christ's kingdom; and they think it probable, that it ceased with all of them, when they found this kingdom realized in their hearts. for it is remarkable that those, who became gospel writers, and it is to be presumed that they had attained great spiritual growth when they wrote their respective works, give no instructions to others, whether jews or gentiles, to observe the ceremonial permitted to the disciples by jesus, as any ordinance of the christian church. and in the same manner as the quakers conceive the duration of the spiritualized passover to have been limited to the disciples, they conceive it to have been limited to all other jewish converts, who might have adopted it in those times, that is, till they should find by the substantial enjoyment of christ in their hearts, that ceremonial ordinances belonged to the old, but that they were not constituent parts of the new kingdom. sect. vi. _quakers believe, from the preceding evidence, that jesus christ intended no ceremonial for the christian church--for if the custom enjoined was the passover spiritualized, it was more suitable for jews than gentiles--if intended as a ceremonial, it would have been commanded by jesus to others besides his disciples, and by these to the christian world--and its duration would not have been limited--quakers believe st. paul thought it no christian ordinance--three reasons taken from his own writings on this subject._ the quakers then, on an examination of the preceding evidence, are of opinion that jesus christ, at the passover-supper, never intended to institute any new supper, distinct from that of the passover, or from that enjoined at capernaum, to be observed as a ceremonial by christians. for, in the first place, st. matthew, who was at the supper, makes no mention of the words "do this in remembrance of me." neither are these words, nor any of a similar import, recorded by st. mark. it is true indeed that st. mark was not at this supper. but it is clear he never understood from those who were, either that they were spoken, or that they bore this meaning, or he would have inserted them in his gospel. nor is any mention made of such words by st. john. this was the beloved disciple who was more intimate with jesus, and who knew more of the mind of his master, than any of the others. this was he who leaned upon his bosom at the passover-supper, and who must have been so near him as to have heard all that passed there. and. yet this disciple did not think it worth his while, except manuscripts have been mutilated, to mention even the bread and wine that were used upon this occasion. neither does st. luke, who mentions the words "do this in remembrance of me," establish any thing, in the opinion of the quakers, material on this point. for it appears from him that jesus, to make the most of his words, only spiritualized the old passover for his disciples, all of whom were jews, but that he gave no command with respect to the observance of it by others. neither does st. luke himself enjoin or call upon others to observe it. st. paul speaks nearly the same language as st. luke, but with this difference, that the supper, as thus spiritualised by jesus, was to last but for a time. now the quakers are of opinion, that they have not sufficient ground to believe from these authorities, that jesus intended to establish any ceremonial as an universal ordinance for the christian church. for if the custom enjoined was the spiritualized passover, it was better calculated for jews than for gentiles, who were neither interested in the motives nor acquainted with the customs of that feast. but it is of little importance, they contend, whether it was the spiritualized passover or not; for if jesus christ had intended it, whatever it was, as an essential of his new religion, he would have commanded his disciples to enjoin it as a christian duty, and the disciples themselves would have handed it down to their several converts in the same light. but no injunction to this effect, either of jesus to others, or of themselves to others, is to be found in any of their writings. add to this, that the limitation of its duration for a time, seems a sufficient argument against it as a christian ordinance, because whatever is once, most be for ever, an essential in the christian church. the quakers believe, as a farther argument in their favour, that there is reason to presume that st. paul never looked upon the spiritualised passover as any permanent and essential rite, which christians were enjoined to follow. for nothing can be more clear than that, when speaking of the guilt and hazard of judging one another by meats and drinks, he states it as a general and fundamental doctrine of christianity, that [ ] "the kingdom of god is not meat and drink, but righteousness, peace, and joy in the holy ghost." [footnote : romans . .] it seems also by the mode of reasoning which the apostle adopts in his epistle to the corinthians on this subject, that he had no other idea of the observance of this rite, than he had of the observance of particular days, namely, that if men thought they were bound in conscience to keep them, they ought to keep them religiously. "he that regardeth a day, says the apostle, regardeth it to the lord." that is, "as he that esteemed a day, says barclay, and placed conscience in keeping it, was to regard it to the lord, (and so it was to him, in so far as he regarded it to the lord, the lord's day,) he was to do it worthily: and if he were to do it unworthily, he would be guilty of the lord's day, and so keep it to his own condemnation." just in the same manner st. paul tells the corinthian jews, that if they observed the ceremonial of the passover, or rather, "as often as they observed it," they were to observe it worthily, and make it a religious act. they were not then come together to make merry on the anniversary of the deliverance of their ancestors from egyptian bondage, but to meet in memorial of christ's sufferings and death. and therefore, if they ate and drank the passover, under its new and high allusions, unworthily, they profaned the ceremony, and were guilty of the body and blood of christ. it appears also from the syriac, and other oriental versions of the new testament, such as the arabic and ethiopic, as if he only permitted the celebration of the spiritualized passover for a time in condescension to the weakness of some of his converts, who were probably from the jewish synagogue at corinth. for in the seventeenth verse of the eleventh chapter of his first epistle to the corinthians, the syriac runs thus: [ ] "as to that, concerning which i am now instructing you, i commend you not, because you have not gone forward, but you have gone down into matters of less importance." "it appears from hence, says barclay, that, the apostle was grieved, that such was their condition that he was forced to give them instruction concerning these outward things, and doting upon which they showed that they were not gone forward in the life of christianity, but rather sticking in the beggarly elements; and therefore the twentieth verse of the same version has it thus: [ ]'when then ye meet together, ye do not do it as it is just ye should in the day of the lord; ye eat and drink.' therefore showing to them, that to meet together to eat and drink outward bread and wine, was not the labour and work of that day of the lord." [footnote : the syriac is a very ancient version, and as respectable or of as high authority as any. leusden and schaaf translate the syriac thus: "hoc autem, quod praecipio, non tanquam laudo vos, quia non progressi estis, sed ad id, quod minus est, descendistis." compare this with the english edition.] [footnote : quum igitur congregamini, non sicut justum est die domini nostri, comeditis et bibites. leusden et schaaf lordoni butavorum.] upon the whole, in whatever light the quakers view the subject before us, they cannot _persuade_ themselves that jesus christ intended to establish any new _ceremonial_, distinct from the passover-supper, or which should render null and void, (as it would be the tendency of all ceremonials to do) the supper which he had before commanded at capernaum. the only supper which he ever enjoined to christians, was the latter. this spiritual supper was to be eternal and universal. for he was always to be present with those "who would let him in, and they were to sup with him, and he with them." it was also to be obligatory, or an essential, with all christians. "for except a man were to eat his flesh, and to drink his blood, he was to have no life in him." the supper, on the other hand, which our saviour is supposed to have instituted on the celebration of the passover, was not enjoined by him to any but the disciples present. and it was, according to the confession of st. paul, to last only for a time. this time is universally agreed upon to be that of the coming of christ. that is, the duration of the spiritualized passover was to be only till those to whom it had been recommended, had arrived at a state of religious manhood, or till they could enjoy the supper which jesus christ had commanded at capernaum; after which repast, the quakers believe they would consider all others as empty, and as not having the proper life and nourishment in them, and as of a kind not to harmonize with the spiritual nature of the christian religion. end of the second volume available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. a portraiture of quakerism, volume i taken from a view of the education and discipline, social manners, civil and political economy, religious principles and character, of the society of friends by thomas clarkson, m.a. . [illustration: thomas clarkson, a.m.] contents of the first volume. introduction prefatory arrangements and remarks moral education. chapter i. _amusements distinguishable into useful and hurtful--the latter specified and forbidden_. chapter ii. sect. i.--_games of chance forbidden--history of the origin of some of these_. sect. ii.--_forbidden as below the dignity of the intellect of man, and of his christian character_. sect. iii.--_as producing an excitement of the passions, unfavourable to religious impressions--historical anecdotes of this excitement_. sect. iv.--_as tending to produce, by the introduction of habits of gaming, an alteration in the moral character_. chapter iii. sect. i.--_music forbidden--instrumental innocent in itself, but greatly abused--the use of it almost inseparable from its abuse at the present day_. sect. ii.--_quakers cannot learn instrumental on the usual motives of the world--nor consider it as a source of moral improvement, or of solid comfort to the mind--but are fearful that, if indulged in, it would interfere with the christian duty of religious retirement_. sect iii.--_quakers cannot learn vocal, because, on account of its articulative powers, it is capable of becoming detrimental to morals--its tendency to this, as discoverable by an analysis of different classes of songs_. sect iv.--_the preceding the arguments of the early quaker--but the new state of music has produced others--these explained_. sect v.--_an objection stated to the different arguments of the quakers on this subject--their reply_. chapter iv. sect i.--_the theatre forbidden--short history of its origin--and of its state and progress_. sect ii.--_manner of the drama objected to by the quakers--as it personates the characters of others--and it professes to reform vice_. sect iii.--_contents of the drama objected to--as they hold our false sentiments--and weaken the sinews of morality_. sect iv.--_theater considered by the quakers to be injurious to the happiness of man, as it disqualifies him for the pleasure of religion_. sect v.--_to be injurious to the happiness of man, as it disqualifies him for domestic enjoyments_. sect vi.--_opinions of the early christians on this subject_. chapter v. sect. i.--_dancing forbidden--light in which this subject has been viewed both by the ancients and the moderns--quakers principally object to it, where it is connected with public assemblies--they conceive it productive, in this case, of a frivolous levity, and of an excitement of many of the evil passions_. sect. ii--_these arguments of the quakers, on dancing, examined in three supposed cases put to a moral philosopher_. sect. iii.--_these arguments further elucidated by a display of the ball-room_. chapter vi. _novels forbidden--considered by the quakers as producing an affectation of knowledge--a romantic spirit--and a perverted morality_. chapter vii. sect. i--_diversions of the field forbidden--general thoughtlessness upon this subject--sentiments of some of our best poets--law of the quakers concerning it_. sect. ii.--_consistency of this law examined by the morality, which is inculcated by the old testament_. sect. iii.--_examined by the morality of the new--these employments, if resorted to as diversions, pronounced, in both cases, to be a breach of a moral law_. chapter viii. _objections to the preceding system, which includes these different prohibitions, as a system of moral education_. chapter ix. sect. i.--_reply of the quakers to these objections_. sect. ii.--_further reply of the quakers on the same subject_. * * * * * discipline. chapter i. sect. i.--_outlines of the discipline of the quakers_. sect. ii.--_manner of the administration of this discipline_. sect. iii.--_charges usually brought against the administration of it--observations in answer in these charges_. sect. iv.--_the principles of this discipline applicable to the discipline of larger societies, or to the criminal codes of states--beautiful example in pennsylvania_. chapter ii. _monthly court or meeting of the quakers for the purposes of their discipline--nature and manner of the business transacted there_. chapter iii. _quarterly court or meeting for the same purposes--nature and manner of the business there_. chapter iv. _annual court or meeting for the same purposes--nature and manner of the business there--striking peculiarities in this manner--character of this discipline or government_. chapter v. _excommunication or disowning--nature of disowning as a punishment_. peculiar customs. chapter i. sect. i.--_dress--extravagance of the dress of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries--plain manner in which the grave and religious were then habited--the quakers sprang out of these_. sect. ii.--_quakers carried with them their plain dresses into their new society--extravagance of the world continuing, they defined the objects of dress as a christian people--at length incorporated it into their discipline--hence their present dress is only a less deviation from that of their ancestors, than that of other people_. sect. iii.--_objections of the world to the quaker dress--those examined--a comparison between the language of quakerism and of christianity on this subject--opinion of the early christians upon it._ chapter ii. _furniture--the quakers use plain furniture--reasons for their singularities in this respect._ chapter iii. sect. i.--_language--quakers have altered the common language--substitution of thou for you--reasons for this change--opinions of many learned men concerning it._ sect. ii.--_various other alterations made--as in titled of address--and of honour--reasons for these changes._ sect. iii.--_another alteration--as in the names of the days and the months--reasons for this change--various new phrases also introduced._ sect. iv.--_objections by the world against the alteration of thou for you._ sect. v.--_against that of titles of address and honour._ sect. vi.--_against that of the names of the days and months._ sect. viii.--_advantages and disadvantages of these alterations by the quaker language._ chapter iv. _address--common personal gestures or worldly ceremonies of address forbidden--no exception in favour of royalty--reasons against the disuse of these._ chapter v. _manners and conversation--hospitality and freedom in quakers' houses--their conversation more limited than that of others--subjects of conversation examined in our towns--and in the metropolis--extraordinary circumstance that takes place occasionally in the company of the quakers._ chapter vi. _customs before meals--ancients made an oblation to vesta--moderns have substituted grace--account of a quaker-grace._ chapter vii. _customs at and after meals--quakers never drink healths or toasts--various reasons for their disuse of these customs--and seldom allow women to retire after dinner and leave the men drinking--quakers a sober people._ introduction. motives for the undertaking--origin of the name of quakers--george fox, the founder of the society-short history of his life. from the year , when i began to devote my labours to the abolition of the slave trade, i was thrown frequently into the company of the people, called quakers, these people had been then long unanimous upon this subject. indeed they had placed it among the articles of their religious discipline. their houses were of course open to me in all parts of the kingdom. hence i came to a knowledge of their living manners, which no other person, who was not a quaker, could have easily obtained. as soon as i became possessed of this knowledge, or at least of so much of it, as to feel that it was considerable, i conceived a desire of writing their moral history. i believed i should be able to exhibit to the rest of the world many excellent customs, of which they were ignorant, but which it might be useful to them to know. i believed too, that i should be affording to the quakers themselves, some lessons of utility, by letting them see, as it were in a glass, the reflection of their own images. i felt also a great desire, amidst these considerations, to do them justice; for ignorance and prejudice had invented many expressions concerning them, to the detriment of their character, which their conduct never gave me reason to suppose, during all my intercourse with them, to be true. nor was i without the belief, that such a history might afford entertainment to many. the quakers, as every body knows, differ more than even many foreigners do, from their own countrymen. they adopt a singular mode of language. their domestic customs are peculiar. they have renounced religious ceremonies, which all other christians, in some form or other, have retained. they are distinguished from all the other islanders by their dress. these differences are great and striking. and i thought therefore that those, who were curious in the development of character, might be gratified in knowing the principles, which produced such numerous exceptions from the general practices of the world. but though i had conceived from the operation of these sentiments upon my mind, as long ago as i have stated, a strong desire to write the moral history of the quakers, yet my incessant occupations on the subject of the slave-trade, and indisposition of body afterwards, in consequence of the great mental exertions necessary in such a cause, prevented me from attempting my design. at length these causes of prevention ceased. but when, after this, the subject recurred, i did not seem to have the industry and perseverance, though i had still the inclination left, for the undertaking. time, however, continued to steal on, till at length i began to be apprehensive, but more particularly within the last two years, that, if i were to delay my work much longer, i might not live to begin it at all. this consideration operated upon me. but i was forcibly struck by another, namely, that, if i were not to put my hand to the task, the quakers would probably continue to be as little known to their fellow-citizens, as they are at present. for i did not see who was ever to give a full and satisfactory account of them. it is true indeed, that there are works, written by quakers, from which a certain portion of their history, and an abstract of their religious principles, might be collected; but none, from whence their living manners could be taken. it is true also that others, of other religious denominations, have written concerning them; but of those authors, who have mentioned them in the course of their respective writings, not one, to my knowledge, has given a correct account of them. it would be tedious to dwell on the errors of mosheim, or of formey, or of hume, or on those to be found in many of the modern periodical[ ] publications. it seemed, therefore, from the circumstance of my familiar intercourse with the quakers, that it devolved upon me particularly to write their history. and i was the more confirmed in my opinion, because, in looking forward, i was never able to foresee the time when any other cause would equally, with that of the slave-trade, bring any other person, who was not of the society, into such habits of friendship with the quakers, as that he should obtain an equal degree of knowledge concerning them with myself. by this new consideration i was more than ordinarily stimulated, and i began my work. [footnote : i must except dr. toulmin's revision of neal's history of the puritans. one or two publications have appeared since, written, in a liberal spirit, but they are confined principally to the religious principles of the quakers.] it is not improbable but some may imagine from the account already given, that this work will be a partial one, or that it will lean, more than it ought to do, in favour of the quakers. i do not pretend to say, that i shall be utterly able to divest myself of all undue influence, which their attention towards me may have produced, or that i shall be utterly unbiased, when i consider them as fellow-labourers in the work of the abolition of the slave-trade; for if others had put their shoulders to the wheel equally with them on the occasion, one of the greatest causes of human misery, and moral evil, that was ever known in the world, had been long ago annihilated, nor can i conceal, that i have a regard for men, of whom it is a just feature in their character, that, whenever they can be brought to argue upon political subjects, they reason upon principle, and not upon consequences; for if this mode of reasoning had been adopted by others, but particularly by men in exalted stations, policy had given way to moral justice, and there had been but little public wickedness in the world. but though i am confessedly partial to the quakers on account of their hospitality to me, and on account of the good traits in their moral character, i am not so much so, as to be blind to their imperfections. quakerism is of itself a pure system, and, if followed closely, will lead towards purity and perfection; but i know well that all, who profess it, are not quakers. the deviation therefore of their practice from their profession, and their frailties and imperfections, i shall uniformly lay open to them, wherever i believe them to exist. and this i shall do, not because i wish to avoid the charge of partiality, but from a belief, that it is my duty to do it. the society, of which i am to speak, are called[ ] quakers by the world, but are known to each other by the name of friends, a beautiful appellation, and characteristic of the relation, which man, under the christian dispensation, ought uniformly to bear to man. [footnote : justice bennet of derby gave the society the name of quakers in the year , because the founder of it ordered him, and those present with him, to tremble at the word of the lord.] the founder of the society was george fox he was born of "honest and sufficient parents," at drayton in leicestershire, in the year . he was put out, when young, according to his own account, to a man, who was a shoe-maker by trade, and who dealt in wool, and followed grazing, and sold cattle. but it appears from william penn, who became a member of the society, and was acquainted with him that he principally followed the country-part of his master's business. he took a great delight in sheep, "an employment," says penn, "that very well suited his mind in some respects, both for its innocency and its solitude, and was a just figure of his after ministry and service." in his youth he manifested a seriousness of spirit, not usual in persons of his age. this seriousness grew upon him, and as it encreased he encouraged it, so that in the year , or in the twentieth year of his age, he conceived himself, in consequence of the awful impression he had received, to be called upon to separate himself from the world, and to devote himself to religion. at this time the church of england, as a protestant church, had been established; and many, who were not satisfied with the settlement of it, had formed themselves into different religious sects. there was a great number of persons also in the kingdom, who approving neither of the religion of the establishment, nor of that of the different denominations alluded to, withdrew from the communion of every visible church. these were ready to follow any teacher, who might inculcate doctrines that coincided with their own apprehensions. thus for a way lay open among many for a cordial reception of george fox. but of those, who had formed different visible churches of their own, it may be observed, that though they were prejudiced, the reformation had not taken place so long, but that they were still alive to religious advancement. nor had it taken place so long, but that thousands were still very ignorant, and stood in need of light and information on that subject. it does not appear, however, that george fox, for the first three years from the time, when he conceived it to be his duty to withdraw from the world, had done any thing as a public minister of the gospel. he had travelled from the year to , through the counties of warwick, leicester, northampton, and bedford, and as far as london. in this interval he appears to have given himself up to solemn impressions, and to have endeavoured to find out as many serious people as he could, with a view of conversing with them on the subject of religion. in he extended his travels to derbyshire, and from thence into lancashire, but returned to his native county. he met with many friendly people in the course of this journey, and had many serious conversations with them, but he never joined in profession with any. at duckenfield, however, and at manchester, he went among those, whom he termed "the professors of religion," and according to his own expressions, "he staid a while and declared truth among them." of these some were convinced but others were enraged, being startled at his doctrine of perfection. at broughton in leicestershire, we find him attending a meeting of the baptists, at which many of other denominations were present. here he spoke publicly, and convinced many. after this he went back to the county of nottingham. and here a report having gone abroad, that he was an extraordinary young man, many, both priests and people, came far and near to see him. in he confined his movements to a few counties. in this year we find him becoming a public character. in nottinghamshire he delivered himself in public at three different meetings, consisting either of priests and professors, as he calls them, or professors and people. in warwickshire he met with a great company of professors, who were praying and expounding the scriptures, in the fields. here he discoursed largely, and the hearers fell into contention, and so parted. in leicestershire he attended another meeting, consisting of church people, presbyterians, independents, and baptists, where he spoke publicly again. this meeting was held in a church. the persons present discoursed and reasoned. questions were propounded, and answers followed. an answer given by george fox, in which he stated that "the church was the pillar and ground of truth, and that it did not consist of a mixed multitude, or of an old house, made up of lime, stones, and wood, but of living stones, living members, and a spiritual household, of which christ was the head," set them all on fire. the clergyman left the pulpit, the people their pews, and the meeting separated. george fox, however, went afterwards to an inn, where he argued with priests and professors of all sorts. departing from thence, he took up his abode for some time in the vale of beevor, where he preached repentance, and convinced many. he then returned into nottinghamshire, and passed from thence into derbyshire, in both which counties his doctrines spread. and, after this, warning justices of the peace, as he travelled along, to do justice, and notoriously wicked men to amend their lives, he came into the vale of beevor again. in this vale it was that he received, according to his own account, his commission from divine authority, by means of impressions on his mind, in consequence of which he conceived it to be discovered to him, among other things, that he was "to turn the people from darkness to the light." by this time he had converted many hundreds to his opinions, and divers meetings of friends, to use his own expression, "had been then gathered." the year was ushered in by new labours. he was employed occasionally in writing to judges and justices to do justice, and in warning persons to fulfil the duties of their respective stations in life. this year was the first of all his years of suffering. for it happened on a sunday morning, that, coming in sight of the town of nottingham, and seeing the great church, he felt an impression on his mind to go there. on hearing a part of the sermon, he was so struck with what he supposed to be the erroneous doctrine it contained, that he could not help publicly contradicting it. for this interruption of the service he was seized, and afterwards confined in prison. at mansfield again, as he was declaring his own religious opinions in the church, the people fell upon him and beat and bruised him, and put him afterwards in the stocks. at market bosworth he was stoned and driven out of the place. at chesterfield he addressed both the clergyman and the people, but they carried him before the mayor, who detained him till late at night, at which unseasonable time the officers and watchmen put him out of the town. and here i would observe, before i proceed to the occurrences of another year, that there is reason to believe that george fox disapproved of his own conduct in having interrupted the service of the church at nottingham, which i have stated to have been the first occasion of his imprisonment. for if he believed any one of his actions, with which the world had been offended, to have been right, he repeated it, as circumstances called it forth, though he was sure of suffering for it either from the magistrates or the people. but he never repeated this, but he always afterwards, when any occasion of religious controversy occurred in any of the churches, where his travels lay, uniformly suspended his observations, till the service was over. george fox spent almost the whole of the next year, that is, of the year , in confinement in derby prison. in , when he was set at liberty, he seems not to have been in the least disheartened by the treatment he had received there, or at the different places before mentioned, but to have resumed his travels, and to have held religious meetings, as he went along. he had even the boldness to go into litchfield, because he imagined it to be his duty, and, with his shoes off to pronounce with an audible voice in the streets, and this on the market-day, a woe against that city. he continued also to visit the churches, as he journeyed, in the time of divine service, and to address the priests and the people publicly, as he saw occasion, but not, as i observed before, till he believed the service to be over. it does not appear, however, that he suffered any interruption upon these occasions, in the course of the present year, except at york-minster; where, as he was beginning to preach after the sermon, he was hurried out of it, and thrown down the steps by the congregation, which was then breaking up. it appears that he had been generally well received in the county of york, and that he had convinced many. in the year , after having passed through the shires of nottingham and lincoln, he came again into yorkshire. here, in the course of his journey, he ascended pendle-hill. at the top of this he apprehended it was opened to him, whither he was to direct his future steps, and that he saw a great host of people, who were to be converted by him in the course of his ministry. from this time we may consider him as having received his commission full and complete in his own mind. for in the vale of beevor he conceived himself to have been informed of the various doctrines, which it became his duty to teach, and, on this occasion, to have had an insight of the places where he was to spread them. to go over his life, even in the concise way, in which i have hitherto attempted it, would be to swell this introduction into a volume. i shall therefore, from this great period of his ministry, make only the following simple statement concerning it. he continued his labours, as a minister of the gospel, and even preached, within two days of his death. during this time he had settled meetings in most parts of the kingdom, and had given to these the foundation of that beautiful system of discipline, which i shall explain in this volume, and which exists among the quakers at the present day. he had travelled over england, scotland, and wales. he had been in ireland. he had visited the british west-indies, and america. he had extended his travels to holland, and part of germany. he had written, in this interval, several religious books, and had addressed letters to kings, princes, magistrates, and people, as he felt impressions on his mind, which convinced him, that it become his duty to do it. he had experienced also, during this interval, great bodily sufferings. he had been long and repeatedly confined in different gaols of the kingdom. the state of the gaols, in these times, is not easily to be conceived. that of doomsdale at launceston in cornwall, has never been exceeded for filth and pestilential noisomeness, nor those of lancaster and scarborough-castles for exposure to the inclemency of the elements. in the two latter he was scarcely ever dry for two years; for the rain used to beat into them, and to run down upon the floor. this exposure to the severity of the weather occasioned his body and limbs to be benumbed, and to swell to a painful size, and laid the foundation, by injuring his health, for future occasional sufferings during the remainder of his life. with respect to the religious doctrines, which george fox inculcated during his ministry, it is not necessary to speak of them here, as they will be detailed in their proper places. i must observe, however, that he laid a stress upon many things, which the world considered to be of little moment, but which his followers thought to be entirely worthy of his spiritual calling. he forbade all the modes and gestures, which are used as tokens of obeisance, or flattery, or honour, among men. he insisted on the necessity of plain speech or language. he declaimed against all sorts of music. he protested against the exhibitions of the theatre, and many of the accustomary diversions of the times. the early quakers, who followed him in all these points, were considered by some as turning the world upside down; but they contended in reply, that they were only restoring it to its pure and primitive state; and that they had more weighty arguments for acting up to their principles in these respects, than others had for condemning them for so doing. but whatever were the doctrines, whether civil, or moral, or religious, which george fox promulgated, he believed that he had a divine commission for teaching them, and that he was to be the restorer of christianity; that is, that he was to bring people from jewish ceremonies and pagan-fables, with which it had been intermixed, and also from worldly customs, to a religion which was to consist of spiritual feeling. i know not how the world will receive the idea, that he conceived himself to have had a revelation for these purposes. but nothing is more usual than for pious people, who have succeeded in any ordinary work of goodness, to say, that they were providentially led to it, and this expression is usually considered among christians to be accurate. but i cannot always find the difference between a man being providentially led into a course of virtues and successful action, and his having an internal revelation for it. for if we admit that men may be providentially led upon such occasions, they must be led by the impressions upon their minds. but what are these internal impressions, but the dictates of an internal voice to those who follow them? but if pious men would believe themselves to have been thus providentially led, or acted upon, in any ordinary case of virtue, if it had been crowned with success, george fox would have had equal reason to believe, from the success that attended his own particular undertaking, that he had been called upon to engage in it. for at a very early age he had confuted many of the professors of religion in public disputations. he had converted magistrates, priests, and people. of the clergymen of those times some had left valuable livings, and followed him. in his thirtieth year he had seen no less than sixty persons, spreading, as ministers, his own doctrines. these, and other circumstances which might be related, would doubtless operate powerfully upon him to make him believe, that he was a chosen vessel. now, if to these considerations it be added, that george fox was not engaged in any particular or partial cause of benevolence, or mercy, or justice, but wholly and exclusively in a religious and spiritual work, and that it was the first of all his religious doctrines, that the spirit of god, _where men were obedient to it, guided them in their spiritual concerns_, he must have believed himself, on the consideration of his unparalleled success, to have been _providentially led_, or to have had an internal or spiritual commission for the cause, which he had undertaken. but this belief was not confined to himself. his followers believed in his commission also. they had seen, like himself, the extraordinary success of his ministry. they acknowledged the same internal admonitions, or revelations of the same spirit, in spiritual concerns. they had been witnesses of his innocent and blameless life. there were individuals in the kingdom, who had publicly professed sights and prophecies concerning him. at an early age he had been reported, in some parts of the country, as a youth, who had a _discerning spirit_. it had gone abroad, that he had healed many persons, who had been sick of various diseases. some of his prophecies had come true in the lifetime of those, who had heard them delivered. his followers too had seen many, who had come purposely to molest and apprehend him, depart quietly, as if their anger and their power had been providentially broken. they had seen others, who had been his chief persecutors, either falling into misfortunes, or dying a miserable or an untimely death. they had seen him frequently cast into prison, but always getting out again by means of his innocence. from these causes the belief was universal among them, that his commission was of divine authority; and they looked upon him therefore in no other light, than that of a teacher, who had been sent to them from heaven. george fox was in his person above the ordinary size. he is described by william penn as a "lusty person." he was graceful in his countenance. his eye was particularly piercing, so that some of those, who were disputing with him, were unable to bear it. he was, in short, manly, dignified, and commanding in his aspect and appearance. in his manner of living he was temperate. he ate sparingly. he avoided, except medicinally, all strong drink. notwithstanding the great exercise he was accustomed to take, he allowed himself but little sleep. in his outward demeanour he was modest, and without affectation. he possessed a certain gravity of manners, but he was nevertheless affable, and courteous, and civil beyond the usual forms of breeding. in his disposition he was meek, and tender, and compassionate. he was kind to the poor, without any exception, and, in his own society, laid the foundation of that attention towards them, which the world remarks as an honour to the quaker-character at the present day. but the poor were not the only persons, for whom, he manifested an affectionate concern. he felt and sympathized wherever humanity could be interested. he wrote to the judges on the subject of capital punishments, warning them not to take away the lives of persons for theft. on the coast of cornwall he was deeply distressed at finding the inhabitants, more intent upon plundering the wrecks of vessels that were driven upon their shores, than upon saving the poor and miserable mariners, who were clinging to them; and he bore his public testimony against this practice, by sending letters to all the clergymen and magistrates in the parishes, bordering upon the sea, and reproving them for their unchristian conduct in the west-indies also he exhorted those, who attended his meetings to be merciful to their slaves, and to give them their freedom in due time. he considered these as belonging to their families, and that religious instruction was due to these, as the branches of them, for whom one day or other they would be required to give a solemn account. happy had it been, if these christian exhortations had been attended to, or if those families only, whom he thus seriously addressed, had continued to be true quakers; for they would have set an example, which would have proved to the rest of the islanders, and the world at large, that the impolicy is not less than the wickedness of oppression. thus was george fox probably the first person, who publicly declared against this species of slavery. nothing in short, that could be deplored by humanity, seems to have escaped his eye; and his benevolence, when excited, appears to have suffered no interruption in its progress by the obstacles, which bigotry would have thrown in the way of many, on account of the difference of a persons country, or of his colour, or of his sect. he was patient under his own sufferings. to those, who smote his right cheek, he offered his left; and, in the true spirit of christianity, he indulged no rancour against the worst of his oppressors. he made use occasionally of a rough expression towards them; but he would never have hurt any of them, if he had had them in his power. he possessed the most undaunted courage; for he was afraid of no earthly power. he was never deterred from going to meetings for worship, though he knew the officers would be there, who were to seize his person. in his personal conversations with oliver cromwell, or in his letters to him as protector, or in his letters to the parliament, or to king charles the second, or to any other personage, he discovered his usual boldness of character, and never lost, by means of any degrading flattery, his dignity as a man. but his perseverance was equal to his courage; for he was no sooner out of gaol, than he repeated the very acts, believing them to be right, for which he had been confined. when he was forced also out of the meeting-houses by the officers of justice, he preached at the very doors. in short, he was never hindered but by sickness, or imprisonments, from persevering in his religious pursuits. with respect to his word, he was known to have held it so sacred, that the judges frequently dismissed him without bail, on his bare promise that he would be forth coming on a given day. on these occasions, he used always to qualify his promise by the expression, _"if the lord permit."_ of the integrity of his own character, as a christian, he was so scrupulously tenacious, that, when he might have been sometimes set at liberty by making trifling acknowledgements, he would make none, least it should imply a conviction, that he had been confined for that which was wrong; and, at one time in particular, king charles the second was so touched with the hardship of his case, that he offered to discharge him from prison by a pardon. but george fox declined it on the idea, that, as pardon implied guilt, his innocence would be called in question by his acceptance of it. the king, however, replied, that "he need not scruple being released by a pardon, for many a man who was as innocent as a child, had had a pardon granted him." but still he chose to decline it. and he lay in gaol, till, upon a trial of the errors in his indictment, he was discharged in an honourable way. as a minister of the gospel, he was singularly eminent. he had a wonderful gift in expounding the scriptures. he was particularly impressive in his preaching; but he excelled most in prayer. here it was, that he is described by william penn, as possessing the most awful and reverend frame he ever beheld. his presence, says the same author, expressed "a religious majesty." that there must have been something more than usually striking either in his manner, or in his language, or in his arguments, or in all of them combined, or that he spoke "in the _demonstration_ of the spirit and with power," we are warranted in pronouncing from the general and powerful effects produced. in the year , when he had but once before spoken in public, it was observed of him at mansfield, at the end of his prayer, _"that it was then, as in the days of the apostles, when the house was shaken where they were."_ in the same manner he appears to have gone on, making a deep impression upon his hearers, whenever he was fully and fairly heard. many clergymen, as i observed before, in consequence of his powerful preaching, gave up their livings; and constables, who attended the meetings, in order to apprehend him, felt themselves disarmed, so that they went away without attempting to secure his person. as to his life, it was innocent. it is true indeed, that there were persons, high in civil offices, who, because he addressed the people in public, considered him as a disturber of the peace. but none of these ever pretended to cast a stain on his moral character. he was considered both by friends and enemies, as irreproachable in his life. such was the character of the founder of quakerism, he was born in july , and died on the thirteenth of november , in the sixty-seventh year of his age. he had separated himself from the word in order to attend to serious things, as i observed before, at the age of nineteen, so that he had devoted himself to the exercises and services of religion for no less a period than forty-eight years. a few hours before his death, upon some friends asking him how he found himself, he replied "never heed. all is well. the seed or power of god reigns over all, and over death itself, blessed be the lord." this answer was full of courage, and corresponded with that courage, which had been conspicuous in him during life. it contained on evidence, as manifested in his own feelings, of the tranquillity and happiness of his mind, and that the power and terrors of death had been vanquished in himself. it shewed also the ground of his courage and of his confidence. "he was full of assurance," says william penn, "that he had triumphed over death, and so much so, even to the last, that death appeared to him hardly worth notice or mention." thus he departed this life, affording an instance of the truth of those words of the psalmist, "behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace." prefatory arrangements and remarks. prefatory arrangements and remarks. quakerism, a high profession--quakers generally allowed to be a moral people--various causes of this morality of character--their moral education, which is one of them, the first subject for consideration --this education universal among them--its origin--the prohibitions belonging to it chiefly to be considered. * * * * * george fox never gave, while living, nor left after his death, any definition of quakerism. he left, however, his journal behind him, and he left what is of equal importance, his example. combining these with the sentiments and practice of the early quakers, i may state, in a few words, what quakerism is, or at least what we may suppose george fox intended it to be. quakerism may be defined to be an attempt, under the divine influence, at practical christianity as far as it can be carried. those, who profess it, consider themselves bound to regulate their opinions, words, actions, and even outward demeanour, by christianity, and by christianity alone. they consider themselves bound to give up such of the customs, or fashions of men, however general, or generally approved, as militate, in any manner, against the letter or the spirit of the gospel. hence they mix but little with the world, that they may be less liable to imbibe its spirit. hence george fox made a distinction between the members of his own society and others, by the different appellations of _friends_, and _people of the world_. they consider themselves also under an obligation to follow virtue, not ordinarily, _but even to the death_. for they profess never to make a sacrifice of conscience, and therefore, if any ordinances of man are enjoined them, which they think to be contrary to the divine will, they believe right not to submit to them, but rather, after the example of the apostles and primitive christians, to suffer any loss, penalty, or inconvenience, which may result to them for so doing. this then, in a few words, is a general definition of [ ]quakerism. it is, as we see, a most strict profession of practical virtue under the direction of christianity, and such as, when we consider the infirmities of human nature, and the temptations that daily surround it, it must be exceedingly difficult to fulfil. but, whatever difficulties may have lain in the way, or however, on account of the necessary weakness of human nature, the best individuals among the quakers may have fallen below the pattern of excellence, which they have copied, nothing is more true, than that the result has been, that the whole society, as a body, have obtained from their countrymen, the character of a moral people. [footnote : i wish to be understood, in writing this work, that i can give no account that will be applicable to all under the name of quakers. my account will comprehend the general practice, or that which ought to be the practice of those, who profess quakerism.] if the reader be a lover of virtue, and anxious for the moral improvement of mankind, he will be desirous of knowing what means the quakers have used to have preserved, for a hundred and fifty years, this desirable reputation in the world. if we were to put the question to the quakers themselves for their own opinion upon it, i believe i can anticipate their reply. they would attribute any morality, they might be supposed to have, _to the supreme being_, whose will having been discovered by means of the scriptures, and of religious impressions upon the mind, when it has been calm, and still, and abstracted from the world, they have endeavoured to obey. but there is no doubt, that we may add, _auxiliary causes_ of this morality, and such as the quakers themselves would allow to have had their share in producing it, under the same influence. the first of these may be called their moral education. the second their discipline. the third may be said to consist of those domestic, or other customs, which are peculiar to them, as a society of christians. the fourth of their _peculiar tenets of religion_. in fact, there are many circumstances interwoven into the constitution of the society of the quakers, each of which has a separate effect, and all of which have a combined tendency, towards the production of moral character. these auxiliary causes i shall consider and explain in their turn. in the course of this explanation the reader will see, that, if other people were to resort to the same means as the quakers, they would obtain the same reputation, or that human nature is not so stubborn, but that it will yield to a given force. but as it is usual, in examining the life of an individual, to begin with his youth, or, if it has been eminent, to begin with the education he has received, so i shall fix upon the first of the auxiliary causes i have mentioned, or the _moral education_ of the quakers, as the subject for the first division of my work. of this moral education i may observe here, that it is universal among the society, or that it obtains where the individuals are considered to be true quakers. it matters not, how various the tempers of young persons may be, who come under it, they must submit to it. nor does it signify what may be the disposition, or the whim, and caprice of their parents, they must submit to it alike. the quakers believe that they have discovered that system of morality, which christianity prescribes; and therefore that they can give no dispensation to their members, under any circumstances whatever, to deviate from it. the origin of this system, as a standard of education in the society, is as follows. when the first quakers met in union, they consisted of religious or spiritually minded men. from that time to the present, there has always been, as we may imagine, a succession of such in the society. many of these, at their great meetings, which have been annual since those days, have delivered their sentiments on various interesting points. these sentiments were regularly printed, in the form of yearly epistles, and distributed among quaker families. extracts, in process of time, were made from them, and arranged under different heads, and published in one book, under the name of [ ]advices. now these advices comprehend important subjects. they relate to customs, manners, fashions, conversation, conduct. they contain of course _recommendations_, and suggest _prohibitions_, to the society, as _rules of guidance:_ and as they came from spiritually _minded_ men on _solemn occasions_, they are supposed to have had a _spiritual origin_. hence quaker parents manage their youth according to these _recommendations_ and _prohibitions_, and hence this book of extracts (for so it is usually called) from which i have obtained a considerable portion of my knowledge on this subject, forms the basis of the moral education of the society. [footnote : the book is intitled "extracts from the minutes made, and from the advices given, at the yearly meeting of the quakers in london, since its first institution."] of the contents of this book, i shall notice, while i am treating upon this subject, not those rules which are of a recommendatory, but those, which are of a _prohibitory nature_. education is regulated either by recommendations, or by prohibitions, or by both conjoined. the former relate to things, where there is a wish that youth should conform to them, but where a trifling deviation from them would not be considered as an act of delinquency publicly reprehensible. the latter to things, where any compliance with them becomes a positive offence. the quakers, in consequence of the vast power they have over their members by means of their discipline, lay a great stress upon the latter. they consider their prohibitions, when duly watched and enforced, as so many _barriers against vice_ or _preservatives of virtue_. hence they are the grand component parts of their moral education, and hence i shall chiefly consider them in the chapters, which are now to follow upon this subject. moral education of the quakers. chap.i. _moral education of the quakers--amusements necessary for youth--quakers distinguish between the useful and the hurtful--the latter specified and forbidden._ when the blooming spring sheds abroad its benign influence, man feels it equally with the rest of created nature. the blood circulates more freely, and a new current of life seems to be diffused, in his veins. the aged man is enlivened, and the sick man feels himself refreshed. good spirits and cheerful countenances succeed. but as the year changes in its seasons, and rolls round to its end, the tide seems to slacken, and the current of feeling to return to its former level. but this is not the case with the young. the whole year to them is a kind of perpetual spring. their blood runs briskly throughout. their spirits are kept almost constantly alive; and as the cares of the world occasion no drawback, they feel a perpetual disposition to cheerfulness and to mirth. this disposition seems to be universal in them. it seems too to be felt by us all; that is, the spring, enjoyed by youth, seems to operate as spring to maturer age. the sprightly and smiling looks of children, their shrill, lively, and cheerful voices, their varied and exhilarating sports, all these are interwoven with the other objects of our senses, and have an imperceptible, though an undoubted influence, in adding to the cheerfulness of our minds. take away the beautiful choristers from the woods, and those, who live in the country, would but half enjoy the spring. so, if by means of any unparalleled pestilence, the children of a certain growth were to be swept away, and we were to lose this infantile link in the chain of age, those, who were left behind, would find the creation dull, or experience an interruption in the cheerfulness of their feelings, till the former were successively restored. the bodies, as well as the minds of children, require exercise for their growth: and as their disposition is thus lively and sportive, such exercises, as are amusing, are necessary, and such amusements, on account of the length of the spring which they enjoy, must be expected to be long. the quakers, though they are esteemed an austere people, are sensible of these wants or necessities of youth. they allow their children most of the sports or exercises of the body, and most of the amusements or exercises of the mind, which other children of the island enjoy; but as children are to become _men_, and men are to become _moral characters_, they believe that bounds should be drawn, or that an unlimited permission to follow every recreation would be hurtful. the quakers therefore have thought it proper to interfere on this subject, and to draw the line between those amusements, which they consider to be salutary, and those, which they consider to be hurtful. they have accordingly struck out of the general list of these such, and such only, as, by being likely to endanger their morality, would be likely to interrupt the usefulness, and the happiness, of their lives. among the bodily exercises, _dancing_, and the _diversions of the field_, have been proscribed; among the mental, _music_, _novels_, the _theatre_, and all games of _chance_, of every description, have been forbidden. these are the principal prohibitions, which the quakers have made on the subject of their moral education. they were suggested, most of them, by george fox, but were brought into the discipline, at different times, by his successors. i shall now consider each of these prohibitions separately, and i shall give all the reasons, which the quakers themselves give, why, as a society of christians, they have, thought it right to issue and enforce them. chap. ii ...sect. i. _games of chance--quakers forbid cards, dice, and other similar amusements--also, concerns in lotteries--and certain transactions in the stocks--they forbid also all wagers, and speculations by a monied stake--the peculiar wisdom of the latter prohibition, as collected from the history of the origin of some of the amusements of the times_. when we consider the depravity of heart, and the misery and ruin, that are frequently connected with gaming, it would be strange indeed, if the quakers, as highly professing christians, had not endeavoured to extirpate it from their own body. no people, in fact, have taken more or more effectual measures for its suppression. they have proscribed the use of all games of chance, and of all games of skill, that are connected with chance in any manner. hence _cards_, _dice_, _horse-racing_, _cock-fighting_, and all the amusements, which come under this definition, are forbidden. but as there are certain transactions, independently of these amusements, which are equally connected with hazard, and which individuals might convert into the means of moral depravity and temporal ruin, they have forbidden these also, by including them under the appellation of gaming. of this description are concerns in the lottery, from which all quakers are advised to refrain. these include the purchase of tickets, and all insurance upon the same. in transactions of this kind there is always a monied stake, and the issue is dependent upon chance. there is of course the same fascinating stimulus as in cards, or dice, arising from the hope of gain. the mind also must be equally agitated between hope and fear; and the same state of desperation may be produced, with other fatal consequences, in the event of loss. buying and selling in the public stocks of the kingdom is, under particular circumstances, discouraged also. where any of the members of the society buy into the stocks, under the idea, that they are likely to obtain better security, or more permanent advantages, such a transfer of their property is allowable. but if any were to make a practice of buying or selling, week after week, upon speculation only, such a practice would come under the denomination of gaming. in this case, like the preceding, it is evident, that money would be the object in view; that the issue would be hazardous; and, if the stake or deposit were of great importance, the tranquillity of the mind might be equally disturbed, and many temporal sufferings might follow. the quakers have thought it right, upon the same principle, to forbid the custom of laying wagers upon any occasion whatever, or of reaping advantage from any doubtful event, by a previous agreement upon a monied stake. this prohibition, however, is not on record, like the former, but is observed as a traditional law. no quaker-parent would suffer his child, nor quaker-schoolmaster the children entrusted to his care, nor any member another, to be concerned in amusements of this kind, without a suitable reproof. by means of these prohibitions, which are enforced, in a great measure, by the discipline, the quakers have put a stop to gaming more effectually than others, but particularly by means of the latter. for history has shewn us, that we cannot always place a reliance on a mere prohibition of any particular amusement or employment, as a cure for gaming, because any pastime or employment, however innocent in itself, may be made an instrument for its designs. there are few customs, however harmless, which avarice cannot convert into the means of rapine on the one hand, and of distress on the other. many of the games, which are now in use with such pernicious effects to individuals, were not formerly the instruments of private ruin. horse-racing was originally instituted with a view of promoting a better breed of horses for the services of man. upon this principle it was continued. it afforded no private emolument to any individual. the by-standers were only spectators. they were not interested in the victory. the victor himself was remunerated not with money, but with crowns and garlands, the testimonies of public applause. but the spirit of gaming got hold of the custom, and turned it into a private diversion, which was to afford the opportunity of a private prize. cock-fighting, as we learn from Ælian, was instituted by the athenians, immediately after their victory over the persians, to perpetuate the memory of the event, and to stimulate the courage of the youth of greece in the defence of their own freedom; and it was continued upon the same principle, or as a public institution for a public good. but the spirit of avarice seized it, as it has done the custom of horse-racing, and continued it for a private gain. cards, that is, european cards, were, as all are agreed, of an harmless origin. charles the sixth, of france, was particularly afflicted with the hypochondriasis. while in this disordered state, one of his subjects invented them, to give variety of amusement to his mind. from the court they passed into private families. and here the same avaricious spirit fastened upon them, and, with its cruel talons, clawed them, as it were, to its own purposes, not caring how much these little instruments of cheerfulness in human disease were converted into instruments for the extension of human pain. in the same manner as the spirit of gaming has seized upon these different institutions and amusements of antiquity, and turned them from their original to new and destructive uses, so there is no certainty, that it will not seize upon others, which may have been innocently resorted to, and prostitute them equally with the former. the mere prohibition of particular amusements, even if it could be enforced, would be no cure for the evil. the brain of man is fertile enough, as fast as one custom is prohibited, to fix upon another. and if all the games, now in use, were forbidden, it would be still fertile enough to invent others for the same purposes. the bird that flies in the air, and the snail, that crawls upon the ground, have not escaped the notice of the gamester, but have been made, each of them, subservient to his pursuits. the wisdom, therefore, of the quakers, in making it to be considered as a law of the society, that no member is to lay wagers, or reap advantage from any doubtful event, by a previous agreement upon a monied stake, is particularly conspicuous. for, whenever it can be enforced, it must be an effectual cure for gaming. for we have no idea, how a man can gratify his desire of gain by means of any of the amusements of chance, if he can make no monied arrangements about their issue. sect. ii. _the first argument for the prohibition of cards, and of similar amusements, by the quakers, is--that they are below the dignity of the intellect of man, and of his moral and christian character--sentiments of addison on this subject_. the reasons, which the quakers give for the prohibition of cards, and of amusements of a similar nature, to the members of their own society, are generally such as are given by other christians, though they make use of one, which is peculiar to themselves. it has been often observed, that the word amusement is proper to characterize the employments of children, but that the word utility is the only one proper to characterize the employment of men. the first argument of the quakers, on this subject, is of a complexion, similar to that of the observation just mentioned. for when they consider man, as a reasonable being, they are of opinion, that his occupations should be rational. and when they consider him as making a profession of the christian religion, they expect that his conduct should be manly, serious, and dignified. but all such amusements, as those in question, if resorted to for the filling up of his vacant hours, they conceive to be unworthy of his intellect, and to be below the dignity of his christian character. they believe also, when they consider man as a moral being, that it is his duty, as it is unquestionably his interest, to aim at the improvement of his moral character. now one of the foundations, on which this improvement must be raised, is knowledge. but knowledge is only slowly acquired. and human life, or the time for the acquisition of it, is but short. it does not appear, therefore, in the judgment of the quakers, that a person can have much time for amusements of this sort, if he be bent upon obtaining that object, which will be most conducive to his true happiness, or to the end of his existence here. upon this first argument of the quakers i shall only observe, lest it should be thought singular, that sentiments of a similar import are to be found in authors, of a different religious denomination, and of acknowledged judgment and merit. addison, in one of his excellent chapters on the proper employment of life, has the following observation: "the next method, says he, that i would propose to fill up our time should be innocent and useful diversions. i must confess i think it is below reasonable creatures, to be altogether conversant in such diversions, as are merely innocent, and have nothing else to recommend them, but that there is no hurt in them. whether any kind of gaming has even thus much to say for itself i shall not determine: but i think it is very wonderful to see persons of the best sense passing a dozen hours together in shuffling and dividing a pack of cards, with no other conversation, but what is made up of a few game-phrases, and no other ideas, but those of red or black spots ranged together in different figures. would not a man laugh to hear any one of this species complaining that life is short?" sect. iii. _cards on account of the manner in which they are generally used, produce an excitement of the passions--historical anecdotes of this excitement--this excitement another cause of their prohibition by the quakers, because it unfits the mind, according to their notions, for the reception of religious impressions_. the quakers are not so superstitious as to imagine that there can be any evil in cards, considered abstractedly as cards, or in some of the other amusements, that have been mentioned. the red or the black images on their surfaces can neither pollute the fingers, nor the minds, of those who handle them. they may be moved about, and dealt in various ways, and no objectionable consequences may follow. they nay be used, and this innocently, to construct the similitudes of things. they may be arranged, so as to exhibit devices, which may be productive of harmless mirth. the evil, connected with them, will depend solely upon the manner of their use. if they are used for a trial of skill, and for this purpose only, they will be less dangerous, than where they are used for a similar trial, with a monied stake. in the former case, however, they may be made to ruffle the temper, for, in the very midst of victory, the combatant may experience defeat. in the latter case, the loss of victory will be accompanied by a pecuniary loss, and two causes, instead of one, of the excitement of the passions, will operate at once upon the mind. it seldom happens, and it is much to be lamented, either that children, or that more mature persons, are satisfied with amusements of this kind, so as to use them simply as trials of skill. a monied stake is usually proposed, as the object to be obtained. this general attachment of a monied victory to cards is productive frequently of evil. it generates often improper feelings. it gives birth to uneasiness and impatience, while the contest is in doubt, and not unfrequently to anger and resentment, when it is over. but the passions, which are thus excited among youth, are excited also, but worked up to greater mischief, where grown up persons follow these amusements imprudently, than where children are concerned. for though avarice, and impatience, and anger, are called forth among children, they subside sooner. a boy, though he loses his all when he loses his stake, suffers nothing from the idea of having impaired the means of his future comfort, and independence. his next week's allowance, or the next little gift, will set him right again. but when a grown up person, who is settled in the world, is led on by these fascinating amusements, so as to lose that which would be of importance to his present comfort, but more particularly to the happiness of his future life, the case is materially altered. the same passions, which harass the one, will harass the other, but the effects will be widely different. i have been told that persons have been so agitated before the playing of the card, that was to decide their destiny, that large drops of sweat have fallen from their faces, though they were under no bodily exertions. now, what must have been the state of their minds, when the card in question proved decisive of their loss? reason must unquestionably have fled. and it must have been succeeded instantly either by fury or despair. it would not have been at all wonderful, if persons in such a state were to have lost their senses, or, if unable to contain themselves, they were immediately to have vented their enraged feelings either upon themselves, or upon others, who were the authors, or the spectators, of their loss. it is not necessary to have recourse to the theory of the human mind, to anticipate the consequences, that would be likely to result to grown up persons from such an extreme excitement of the passions. history has given a melancholy picture of these, as they have been observable among different nations of the world. the ancient germans, according to tacitus, played to such desperation, that, when they had lost every thing else, they staked their personal liberty, and, in the event of bad fortune, became the slaves of the winners. d'israeli, in his curiosities of literature, has given us the following account. "dice, says he, and that little pugnacious animal, the cock, are the chief instruments employed by the numerous nations of the east, to agitate their minds, and ruin their fortunes, to which the chinese, who are desperate gamesters, add the use of cards. when all other property is played away, the asiatic gambler does not scruple to stake his wife, or his child, on the cast of a dye, or on the strength and courage of a martial bird. if still unsuccessful, the last venture is himself." "in the island of ceylon, cock-fighting is carried to a great height. the sumatrans are addicted to the use of dice. a strong spirit of play characterizes the malayan. after having resigned every thing to the good fortune of the winner, he is reduced to a horrid state of desperation. he then loosens a certain lock of hair, which indicates war and destruction to all he meets. he intoxicates himself with opium, and working himself to a fit of frenzy, he bites and kills every one, who comes in his way. but as soon as ever this lock is seen flowing, it is lawful to fire at the person, and to destroy him as soon as possible." "to discharge their gambling debts, the siamese sell their possessions, their families, and at length themselves. the chinese play night and day, till they have lost all they are worth, and then they usually go and hang themselves. in the newly discovered islands of the pacific ocean, they venture even their hatchets, which they hold as invaluable acquisitions, on running matches. we saw a man, says cooke, in his last voyage, beating his breast and tearing his hair in the violence of rage, for having lost three hatchets at one of these races, and which he had purchased with nearly half of his property." but it is not necessary to go beyond our own country for a confirmation of these evils. civilized as we are beyond all the people who have been mentioned, and living where the christian religion is professed, we have the misfortune to see our own countrymen engaged in similar pursuits, and equally to the disturbance of the tranquillity of their minds, and equally to their own ruin. they cannot, it is true, stake their personal liberty, because they can neither sell themselves, nor be held as slaves. but we see them staking their comfort, and all their prospects in life. we see them driven into a multitude of crimes. we see them suffering in a variety of ways. how often has duelling, with all its horrible effects, been the legitimate offspring of gaming! how many suicides have proceeded from the same source! how many persons in consequence of a violation of the laws, occasioned solely by gaming, have come to ignominious and untimely ends! thus it appears that gaming, wherever it has been practised to excess, whether by cards, or by dice, or by other instruments, or whether among nations civilized or barbarous, or whether in ancient or modern times, has been accompanied with the most violent excitement of the passions, so as to have driven its votaries to desperation, and to have ruined their morality and their happiness. it is upon the excitement of the passions, which must have risen to a furious height, before such desperate actions as those, which have been specified, could have commenced, that the quakers have founded their second argument for the prohibition of games of chance, or of any amusements or transactions, connected with a monied stake. it is one of their principal tenets, as will be diffusively shewn in a future volume, that the supreme creator of the universe affords a certain portion of his own spirit, or a certain emanation of the pure principle, to all his rational creatures, for the regulation of their spiritual concerns. they believe, therefore, that stillness and quietness, both of spirit and of body, are necessary for them, as far as these can be obtained. for how can a man, whose earthly passions are uppermost, be in a fit state to receive, or a man of noisy and turbulent habits be in a fit state to attend to, the spiritual admonitions of this pure influence? hence one of the first points in the education of the quakers is to attend to the subjugation of the will; to take care that every perverse passion be checked; and that the creature be rendered calm and passive. hence quaker children are rebuked for all expressions of anger, as tending to raise those feelings, which ought to be suppressed. a raising even of their voices beyond due bounds is discouraged, as leading to the disturbance of their minds. they are taught to rise in the morning in quietness, to go about their ordinary occupations with quietness, and to retire in quietness to their beds. educated in this manner, we seldom see a noisy or an irascible quaker. this kind of education is universal among the quakers. it is adopted at home. it is adopted in their schools. the great and practical philanthropist, john howard, when he was at ackworth, which is the great public school of the quakers, was so struck with the quiet deportment of the children there, that he mentioned it with approbation in his work on lazarettos, and gave to the public some of its rules, as models for imitation in other seminaries. but if the quakers believe that this pure principle, when attended to, is an infallible guide to them in their religious or spiritual concerns; if they believe that its influences are best discovered in the quietness and silence of their senses; if, moreover, they educate with a view of producing such a calm and tranquil state; it must be obvious, that they can never allow either to their children, or to those of maturer years, the use of any of the games of chance, because these, on account of their peculiar nature, are so productive of sudden fluctuations of hope, and fear, and joy, and disappointment, that they are calculated, more than any other, to promote a turbulence of the human passions. sect. iv. _another cause of their prohibition is, that, if indulged in, they may produce habits of gaming--these habits after the moral character-they occasion men to become avaricious--dishonest--cruel--and disturbers of the order of nature--observations by hartley from his essay on man._ another reason, why the quakers do not allow their members the use of cards, and of similar amusements, is, that, if indulged in, they may produce habits of gaming, which, if once formed, generally ruin the moral character. it is in the nature of cards, that chance should have the greatest share in the production of victory, and there is, as i have observed before, usually a monied stake. but where chance is concerned, neither victory nor defeat can be equally distributed among the combatants. if a person wins, he feels himself urged to proceed. the amusement also points out to him the possibility of a sudden acquisition of fortune without the application of industry. if he loses, he does not despair. he still perseveres in the contest, for the amusement points out to him the possibility of repairing his loss. in short, there is no end of hope upon these occasions. it is always hovering about during the contest. cards, therefore, and amusements of the same nature, by holding up prospects of pecuniary acquisitions on the one hand, and of repairing losses, that may arise on any occasion, on the other, have a direct tendency to produce habits of gaming. now the quakers consider these habits as, of all others, the most pernicious; for they usually change the disposition of a man, and ruin his moral character. from generous-hearted they make him avaricious. the covetousness too, which they introduce as it were into his nature, is of a kind, that is more than ordinarily injurious. it brings disease upon the body, as it brings corruption upon the mind. habitual gamesters regard neither their own health, nor their own personal convenience, but will sit up night after night, though under bodily indisposition, at play, if they can only grasp the object of their pursuit. from a just and equitable they often render him a dishonest person. professed gamesters, it is well known, lie in wait for the young, the ignorant, and the unwary: and they do not hesitate to adopt fraudulent practices to secure them as their prey. in toxication has been also frequently resorted to for the same purpose. from humane and merciful they change him into hard hearted and barbarous. habitual gamesters have compassion foe neither men nor brutes. the former they can ruin and leave destitute, without the sympathy of a tear. the latter they can oppress to death, calculating the various powers of their declining strength, and their capability of enduring pain. they convert him from an orderly to a disorderly being, and to a disturber of the order of the universe. professed gamesters sacrifice every thing, without distinction, to their wants, not caring if the order of nature, or if the very ends of creation, be reversed. they turn day into night, and night into day. they force animated nature into situations for which it was never destined. they lay their hands upon things innocent and useful, and make them noxious. they by hold of things barbarous, and render them still more barbarous by their pollutions. hartley, in his essay upon man, has the following observation upon gaming. "the practice of playing at games of chance and skill is one of the principal amusements of life. and it may be thought hard to condemn it as absolutely unlawful, since there are particular cases of persons, infirm in body and mind, where it seems requisite to draw them out of themselves by a variety of ideas and ends in view, which gently engage the attention.--but the reason takes place in very few instances.--the general motives to play are avarice, joined with a fraudulent intention explicit or implicit, ostentation of skill, and spleen, through the want of some serious, useful occupation. and as this practice arises from such corrupt sources, so it has a tendency to increase them; and indeed may be considered as an express method of begetting and inculcating self-interest, ill will, envy, and the like. for by gaming a man learns to pursue his own interest solely and explicitly, and to rejoice at the loss of others, as his own gain, grieve at their gain, as his own loss, thus entirely reversing the order established by providence for social creatures." chap. iii.....sect. i. _music forbidden--general apology for the quakers on account of their prohibition of so delightful a science--music particularly abused at the present day--wherein this abuse consists--present use of it almost inseparable from the abuse._ plato, when he formed what he called his pure republic, would not allow music to have any place in it. george fox and his followers were of opinion, that it could not be admitted in a system of pure christianity. the modern quakers have not differed from their predecessors on this subject; and therefore music is understood to be prohibited throughout the society at the present day. it will doubtless appear strange that there should be found people, to object to an art, which is capable of being made productive of so much pleasurable feeling, and which, if it be estimated either by the extent or the rapidity of its progress, is gaining in the reputation of the world. but it may be observed that "all that glitters is not gold." so neither is all, that pleases the ear, perfectly salubrious to the mind. there are few customs, against which some argument or other may not be advanced: few in short, which man has not perverted, and where the use has not become, in an undue measure, connected with the abuse. providence gave originally to man a beautiful and a perfect world. he filled it with things necessary and things delightful. and yet man has often turned these from their true and original design. the very wood on the surface of the earth he has cut down, and the very stone and metal in its bowels he has hewn and cast, and converted into a graven image, and worshipped in the place of his beneficent creator. the food, which has been given him for his nourishment, he has frequently converted by his intemperance into the means of injuring his health. the wine that was designed to make his heart glad on reasonable and necessary occasions, he has used often to the stupefaction of his senses, and the degradation of his moral character. the very raiment, which has been afforded him for his body, he has abused also, so that it has frequently become a source for the excitement of his pride. just so it has been, and so it is, with music at the present day. music acts upon our senses, and may be made productive of a kind of natural delight, for in the same manner as we receive, through the organ of the eye, a kind of involuntary pleasure, when we look at beautiful arrangements, or combinations, or proportions, in nature, and the pleasure may be said to be natural, so the pleasure is neither less, nor less involuntary, nor less natural, which we receive, through the organ of the ear, from a combination of sounds flowing in musical progression. the latter pleasure, as it seems natural, so, under certain limitations, it seems innocent. the first tendency of music, i mean of instrumental, is to calm and tranquillize the passions. the ideas, which it excites, are of the social, benevolent, and pleasant kind. it leads occasionally to joy, to grief, to tenderness, to sympathy, but never to malevolence, ingratitude, anger, cruelty, or revenge. for no combination of musical sounds can be invented, by which the latter passions can be excited in the mind, without the intervention of the human voice. but notwithstanding that music may be thus made the means both of innocent and pleasurable feeling, yet it has been the misfortune of man, as mother cases, to abuse it, and never probably more than in the present age. for the use of it, as it is at present taught, is almost inseparable from its abuse. music has been so generally cultivated, and to such perfection, that it now ceases to delight the ear, unless it comes from the fingers of the proficient. but great proficiency cannot be obtained in this science, without great sacrifices of time. if young females are to be brought up to it, rather as to a profession, than introduced to it as a source of occasional innocent recreation, or if their education is thought most perfect, where their musical attainments are the highest, not only hours, but even years, must be devoted to the pursuit. such a devotion to this one object must, it is obvious, leave less time than is proper for others, that are more important. the knowledge of domestic occupations, and the various sorts of knowledge, that are acquired by reading, must be abridged, in proportion as this science is cultivated to professional precision. and hence, independently of any arguments, which the quakers may advance against it, it must be acknowledged by the sober world to be chargeable with a criminal waste of time. and this waste of time is the more to be deprecated, because it frequently happens, that, when young females marry, music is thrown aside, after all the years that have been spent in its acquisition, as an employment, either then unnecessary, or as an employment, which, amidst the new cares of a family, they have not leisure to follow. another serious charge may be advanced against music, as it is practised at the present day. great proficiency, without which music now ceases to be delightful, cannot, as i have just observed, be made without great application, or the application of some years. now all this long application is of a sedentary nature. but all occupations of a sedentary nature are injurious to the human constitution, and weaken and disorder it in time. but in proportion as the body is thus weakened by the sedentary nature of the employment, it is weakened again by the enervating powers of the art. thus the nervous system is acted upon by two enemies at once, and in the course of the long education necessary for this science, the different disorders of hysteria are produced. hence the females of the present age, amongst whom this art has been cultivated to excess, are generally found to have a weak and languid constitution, and to be disqualified, more than others, from becoming healthy wives, or healthy mothers, or the parents of a healthy progeny. sect. ii. _instrumental forbidden--quakers cannot learn it on the motives of the world--it is not conducive to the improvement of the moral character--affords no solid ground of comfort--nor of true elevation of mind--a sensual gratification--remarks of cowper--and, if encouraged, would interfere with the duty recommended by the quakers, of frequent religious retirement._ the reader must always bear it in his mind, if the quakers should differ from him on any particular subject, that they set themselves apart as a christian community, aiming at christian perfection: that it is their wish to educate their children, not as moralists or as philosophers, but as christians; and that therefore, in determining the propriety of a practice, they will frequently judge of it by an estimate, very different from that of the world. the quakers do not deny that instrumental music is capable of exciting delight. they are not insensible either of its power or of its charms. they throw no imputation on its innocence, when viewed abstractly by itself; but they do not see anything in it sufficiently useful, to make it an object of education, or so useful, as to counterbalance other considerations, which make for its disuse. the quakers would think it wrong to indulge in their families the usual motives for the acquisition of this science. self-gratification, which is one of them, and reputation in the world, which is the other, are not allowable in the christian system. add to which that where there is a desire for such reputation, an emulative disposition is generally cherished, and envy and vain glory are often excited in the pursuit. they are of opinion also, that the learning of this art does not tend to promote the most important object of education, the improvement of the mind. when a person is taught the use of letters, he is put into the way of acquiring natural, historical, religious, and other branches of knowledge, and of course of improving his intellectual and moral character. but music has no pretensions, in the opinion of the quakers, to the production of such an end. polybius, indeed relates, that he could give no solid reason, why one tribe of the arcadians should have been so civilized, and the others so barbarous, but that the former were fond, and the latter were ignorant of music. but the quakers would argue, that if music had any effect in the civilization, this effect would be seen in the manners, and not in the morals of mankind. musical italians are esteemed a soft and effeminate, but they are generally reputed a depraved people. music, in short, though it breathes soft influences, cannot yet breathe morality into the mind. it may do to soften savages, but a christian community, in the opinion of the quakers, can admit of no better civilization, than that which the spirit of the supreme being, and an observance of the pure precepts of christianity, can produce. music, again, does not appear to the quakers to be the foundation of any solid comfort in life. it may give spirits for the moment as strong liquor does, but when the effect of the liquor is over, the spirits flag, and the mind is again torpid. it can give no solid encouragement nor hope, nor prospects. it can afford no anchorage ground, which shall hold the mind in a storm. the early christians, imprisoned, beaten and persecuted even to death, would have had but poor consolation, if they had not had a better friend than music to have relied upon in the hour of their distress. and here i think the quakers would particularly condemn music, if they thought it could be resorted to in the hour of affliction, in as much as it would then have a tendency to divert the mind from its true and only support. music, again, does not appear to them to be productive of elevated thoughts, that is, of such thoughts as raise the mind to sublime and spiritual things, abstracted from the inclinations, the temper, and the prejudices of the world. the most melodious sounds that human instruments can make, are from the earth earthly. but nothing can rise higher than its own origin. all true elevation therefore can only come, in the opinion of the quakers, from the divine source. the quakers therefore, seeing no moral utility in music, cannot make it a part of their education. but there are other considerations, of a different nature, which influence them in the same way. music, in the first place, is a sensual gratification. even those who run after sacred music, never consider themselves as going to a place of devotion, but where, in full concert, they may hear the performance of the master pieces of the art. this attention to religious compositions, for the sake of the music, has been noticed by one of our best poets. "and ten thousand sit, patiently present at a sacred song, commemoration-mad, content to hear, o wonderful effect of music's power, messiah's eulogy for handal's sake!" cowper. but the quakers believe, that all sensual desires should be held in due subordination to the pure principle, or that sensual pleasures should be discouraged, to much as possible, as being opposed to those spiritual feeling, which constitute the only perfect enjoyment of a christian. music, again, if it were encouraged in the society, would be considered as depriving those of maturer years of hours of comfort, which they now frequently enjoy, in the service of religion. retirement is considered by the quakers as a christian duty. the members therefore of this society are expected to wait in silence, not only in their places of worship, but occasionally in their families, or in their private chambers, in the intervals of their daily occupations, that, in stillness of heart, and in freedom from the active contrivance of their own wills, they may acquire both directions and strength for the performance of the duties of life. the quakers therefore are of opinion, that, if instrumental music were admitted as a gratification in leisure hours, it would take the place of many of these serious retirements, and become very injurious to their interests and their character as christians. sect. iii _vocal music forbidden--singing in itself no more immoral than reading --but as vocal music articulates ideas, it may convey poison to the mind --some ideas in songs contrary to quaker notions of morality--as in hunting songs--or in baccanalian--or in martial--youth make no selection --but learn off that fall in their way._ it is an observation of lactantius, that the "pleasures we receive through the organ of the ears, may be as injurious as those we receive, through the organ of the eyes." he does not, however, consider the effect of instrumental music as much to be regarded, "because sounds, which proceed from air, are soon gone, and they give birth to no sentiments that can be recorded. songs, on the other hand, or sounds from the voice, may have an injurious influence on the mind." the quakers, in their view of this subject, make the same distinction as this ancient father of the church. they have a stronger objection, if it be possible, to vocal, than to instrumental music. instrumental music, though it is considered to be productive of sensual delight, is yet considered as incapable, on account of its inability to articulate, or its inability to express complex ideas, of conveying either unjust or impure sentiments to the mind. vocal, on the other hand, is capable of conveying to it poison of this sort. for vocal music consists of songs, or of words musically expressed by the human voice. but words are the representatives of ideas, and, as for as these ideas are pure or otherwise, so far may vocal music be rendered innocent or immoral. the mere singing, it must be obvious, can be no more immoral than the reading, of the same song, singing is but another mode of expressing it. the morality of the action will depend upon the words which it may contain. if the words in a song are pure, if the sentiments in it are just, and if it be the tendency of these to awaken generous and virtuous sympathies, the song will operate no otherwise than a lesson of morality. and will a lesson of morality be less serviceable to us, because it is dressed up in poetry and musically expressed by the human voice, than when it is conveyed to us in prose? but if, on the other hand, the words in a song are in themselves unchaste, if they inculcate false honour, if they lead to false opinions, if they suggest sentiments, that have a tendency to produce depraved feelings, then vocal music, by which these are conveyed in pleasing accents to the ear, becomes a destroyer of morals, and cannot therefore be encouraged by any, who consider parity of heart, as required by the christian religion. now the quakers are of opinion, that the songs of the world contain a great deal of objectionable matter in these respects; and that if they were to be promiscuously taken up by children, who have no powers of discriminating between the good and the bad, and who generally lay hold of all that fall in their way, they would form a system of sentimental maxims, very injurious in their tendency to their moral character. if we were to take a collection of songs as published in books, and were to examine these, we should find that such a system might easily be formed. and if, again, we were to examine the sentiments contained in many of these, by the known sentiments of the quakers on the several subjects of each, we should find that, as a highly professing people, more objections would arise against vocal music among them, than among other people. let us, for example, just glance at that class of songs, which in the collection would be called hunting songs. in these men are invited to the pleasures of the chase, as to pleasures of a superior kind. the triumphs over the timid hare are celebrated in these with a kind of enthusiastic joy, and celebrated too as triumphs, worthy of the character of men. glory is even attached to these pursuits. but the quakers, as it will appear in a future chapter, endeavour to prevent their youth from following any of the diversions of the field. they consider pleasures as placed on a false foundation, and triumphs as unmanly and inglorious, which are founded on circumstances, connected with the sufferings of the brute creation. they cannot therefore approve of songs of this order, because they consider them as disseminating sentiments that are both unreasonable and cruel. let us now go to another class, which may be found in the same collection; i mean the bacchanalian. men are invited here to sacrifice frequently at the shrine of bacchus. joy, good humour, and fine spirits, are promised to those, who pour out their libations in a liberal manner. an excessive use of wine, which injures the constitution, and stupifies the faculties, instead of being censured in these songs is sometimes recommended in them, as giving to nature that occasional stimulus, which is deemed necessary to health. poets too, in their songs, have considered the day as made only for vulgar souls, but the night for the better sort of people, that they may the better pursue the pleasures of the bottle. others have gone so far in their songs, as to promise long life as a consequence of drinking; while others, who confess that human life may be shortened by such means, take care to throw out, that, as a man's life thus becomes proportionably abridged, it is rendered proportionably a merry one. now the quakers are so particularly careful with respect to the use of wine and spirituous liquors, that the society are annually and publicly admonished to beware of excess. quakers are discouraged from going even to inns but for the purposes of business and refreshment, and are admonished to take care, that they stay there no longer than is necessary for such purposes. the quakers therefore, cannot be supposed to approve of any of the songs of this class, as far as they recommend or promote drunkenness. and they cannot but consider them as containing sentiments injurious to the morals of their children. but let us examine another class of songs, that may be found in the same collection. these may be denominated martial. now what is generally the tenor of these songs? the authors celebrate victories. they endeavour, regardless of the question, whether their own cause be a right or a wrong one, to excite joy at the events, it is their aim frequently to rouse the soul to the performance of martial exploits, as to exploits the fullest of human glory. they frequently threaten enemies with new chastisements, and new victories, and breathe the spirit of revenge. but the quakers consider all wars, whether offensive or defensive, as against the spirit of the christian religion. they cannot contemplate scenes of victory but with the eye of pity, and the tear of compassion, for the sufferings of their fellow-creatures, whether countrymen or enemies, and for the devastation of the human race. they allow no glory to attach, nor do they give any thing like an honourable reputation, to the alexanders, the caesars, or the heroes either of ancient or modern date. they cannot therefore approve of songs of this class, because they conceive them to inculcate sentiments, totally contrary to the mild and peaceful spirit of the christian religion. if we were to examine the collection farther, we might pick out other songs, which might be reckoned of the class of the impure. among these will be found ideas, so indelicate, that notwithstanding the gloss, which wit and humour had put over them, the chaste ear could not but be offended by their recital. it must be obvious, in this case also, that not only the quakers, but all persons filling the stations of parents, would be sorry if their children were to come to the knowledge of some of these. it is unnecessary to proceed farther upon this subject. for the reader must be aware that, while the quakers hold such sentiments, they can never patronise such songs; and that if those who are taught or allowed to sing, generally lay hold of all the songs that come into their way, that is, promiscuously and without selection. the quakers will have a strong ground as a christian society, or as a society, who hold it necessary to be watchful over their words as well as their actions, for the rejection of vocal music. sect. iv. _the preceding are the arguments of the early quakers--new state of music has produced new ones--instrumental now censurable for a waste of time--for leading into company--for its connection with vocal_. the arguments which have hitherto appeared against the admission of music into education, are those which were nearly coeval with the society itself. the incapability of music to answer moral ends, the sensuality of the gratification, the impediments it might throw in the way of religious retirement, the impurity it might convey to the mind, were in the mouths of the early quakers. music at that time was principally in the hands of those, who made a livelihood of the art. those who followed it as an accomplishment, or a recreation, were few and these followed it with moderation. but since those days, its progress has been immense. it has traversed the whole kingdom. it has got into almost all the families of rank and fortune. many of the middle classes, in imitation of the higher, have received it; and, as it has undergone a revolution in the extent, so it has undergone another in the object of its practice. it is learned now, not as a source of occasional recreation, but as a complicated science, where perfection is insisted upon to make it worthy of pursuit. in this new state therefore of music new arguments have arisen on the part of the quakers, which i shall now concisely detail. the quakers, in the first place, are of opinion, that the learning of music, as it is now learned, cannot be admitted by them as a christian society, because, proficiency being now the object of it, as has been before observed, it would keep them longer employed, than is consistent with people, who are commanded to redeem their time. they believe also that music in its present state, has an immediate tendency to leading into the company of the world. in former tunes, when music was followed with moderation, it was esteemed as a companion, or as a friend: it afforded relaxation after fatigue, and amusement in solitary hours. it drew a young person to his home, and hindered him from following many of the idle diversions of the times. but now, or since it has been practised with a new object, it produces a different effect. it leads into company. it leads to trials of skill. it leads to the making up of festive parties. it leads, for its own gratification, to the various places of public resort. now this tendency of leading into public is considered by the quakers as a tendency big with the dissolution of their society. for they have many customs to keep up, which are quite at variance with those of the world. the former appear to be steep and difficult as common paths. those of the world to be smooth and easy. the natural inclination of youth, more prone to self-gratification than to self-denial, would prefer to walk in the latter. and the influence of fashion would point to the same choice. the liberty too, which is allowed in the one case, seems more agreeable than the discipline imposed in the other. hence it has been found, that in proportion as young quakers mix with the world, they generally imbibe its spirit, and weaken themselves as members of their own body. the quakers again, have an objection to the learning of instrumental music on account of its almost inseparable connection with vocal, in consequence of which, it leads often to the impurity, which the latter has been shewn to be capable of conveying to the mind. this connection does not arise so much from the circumstance, that those, who learn to play, generally learn to sing, as from another consideration. musical people, who have acquired skill and taste, are desirous of obtaining every new musical publication, as it comes out. this desire is produced where there is an aim at perfection in this science. the professed novel reader, we know, waits with impatience for a new novel. the politician discovers anxiety for his morning paper. just so it is with the musical amateur with respect to a new tune. now, though many of the new compositions come out for instrumental music only, yet others come out entirely as vocal. these consist of songs sung at our theatres, or at our public gardens, or at our other places of public resort, and are afterwards printed with their music, and exposed to sale. the words therefore, of these songs, as well as the music that is attached to them, fall into the hands of the young amateur. now as such songs are not always chaste, or delicate, and as they frequently contain such sentiments, as i have shewn the quakers to disapprove, the young musician, if a quaker, might have his modestey frequently put to the blush, or his delicacy frequently wounded, or his morality often broken in upon, by their perusal. hence, though instrumental music might have no immoral tendency in itself, the quakers have rejected it, among other reasons, on account of its almost inseparable connection with vocal. sect. v. _objection anticipated, that though the arguments, used by the quakers in the preceding chapters, are generally fair and positive, yet an exceptionable one seems to have been introduced, by which it appears to be inculcated, that the use of a thing ought to be abandoned on account of its abuse--explanation of the distinction, made by the quakers, in the use of this argument_. i purpose to stop for a while, and to make a distinction, which may now become necessary, with respect to the use of what may appear to be a quaker principle of argument, before i proceed to a new subject. it may have been observed by some of my readers, that though the quakers have adduced arguments, which may be considered as fair and positive on the subjects, which have come before us, yet they appear to have adduced one, which is no other, than that of condemning the use of a thing on account of its abuse. now this mode of reasoning, it will be said has been exploded by logicians, and for this, among other reasons, that if we were bound to relinquish customs in consequence of it, we should be obliged to give up many things that are connected with the comforts, and even with the existence of our lives. to this observation i must reply, that the quakers never recommend an abstinence from any custom, merely because the use of it may lead to its abuse. where a custom is simply liable to abuse, they satisfy themselves with recommending moderation in the use of it. but where the abuse of a custom is either, in the first place, necessarily, or, in the second very generally connected with the use of it, they generally consider the omission of it as morally wise and prudent. it is in these two cases only that they apply, or that they lay any stress upon the species of argument described. this species of argument, under these two limitations, they believe to be tenable in christian morals, and they entertain this belief upon the following grounds. it may be laid down as a position, that the abuse of any custom which is innocent in itself, is an evil, and that it may become a moral evil. and they conceive it to become a moral evil in the eye of christianity, when it occasions either the destruction of the health of individuals, or the misapplication of their time, or the excitement of their worst passions, or the loss of their moral character. if therefore the use of any custom be necessarily (which is the first of the two cases) connected with its abuse, and the abuse of it be the moral evil described, the user or practiser cannot but incur a certain degree of guilt. this first case will comprehend all those uses of things, which go under the denomination of gaming. if again, the use of a custom be either through the influence of fashion, or its own seductive nature, or any other cause, very generally (which is the second case) connected with its abuse, and the abuse be also of the nature supposed, then the user or practiser, if the custom be unnecessary, throws himself wantonly into danger of evil, contrary to the watchfulness which christianity enjoins in morals; and, if he falls, falls by his own fault. this watchfulness against moral danger the quakers conceive to be equally incumbent upon christians, as watchfulness upon persons against the common dangers of life. if two thirds of all the children, who had ever gone to the edge of a precipice to play, had fallen down and been injured, it would be a necessary prudence in parents to prohibit all such goings in future. so they conceive it to be only a necessary prudence in morals, to prohibit customs, where the use of them is very generally connected with a censurable abuse. this case will comprehend music, as practised at the present day, because they believe it to be injurious to health, to occasion a waste of time, to create an emulative disposition, and to give an undue indulgence to sensual feeling. and as the quakers conceive this species of argument to be tenable in christian morals, so they hold it to be absolutely necessary to be adopted in the education of youth. for grown up persons may have sufficient judgment to distinguish between the use of a thing and its abuse. they may discern the boundaries of each, and enjoy the one, while they avoid the other. but youth have no such power of discrimination. like inexperienced mariners, they know not where to look for the deep and the shallow water, and, allured by enchanting circumstances, they may, like those who are reported to have been enticed by the voices of the fabulous syrens, easily overlook the danger, that assuredly awaits them in their course. chap. iv. sect. i. _the theatre--the theatre as well as music abused--plays respectable in their origin--but degenerated--solon, plato, and the ancient moralists against them--particularly immoral in england in the time of charles the second--forbidden by george fox--sentiments of archbishop tillotson--of william law--english plays better than formerly, but still objectionable--prohibition of george fox continued by the quakers._ it is much to be lamented that customs, which originated in respectable motives, and which might have been made productive of innocent pleasure, should have been so perverted in time, that the continuation of them should be considered as a grievance by moral men. as we have seen this to be the case, in some measure, with respect to music, so it is the care with respect to plays. dramatic compositions appear to have had no reprehensible origin. it certainly was an object with the authors of some of the earliest plays to combine the entertainment with the moral improvement of the mind. tragedy was at first simply a monody to bacohus. but the tragedy of the ancients, from which the modern is derived, did not arise in the world, till the dialogue and the chorus were introduced. now the chorus, as every scholar knows, was a moral office. they who filled it, were loud in their recommendations of justice and temperance. they inculcated a religious observance of the laws. they implored punishment on the abandoned. they were strenuous in their discouragement of vice, and in the promotion of virtue. this office therefore, being coeval with tragedy itself, preserves it from the charge of an immoral origin. nor was comedy, which took its rise afterwards, the result of corrupt motives. in the most ancient comedies, we find it to have been the great object of the writers to attack vice. if a chief citizen had acted inconsistently with his character, he was ridiculed upon the stage. his very name was not concealed on the occasion. in the course of time however, the writers of dramatic pieces were forbidden to use the names of the persons, whom they proposed to censure. but we find them still adhering to the same great object, the exposure of vice; and they painted the vicious character frequently so well, that the person was soon discovered by the audience, though disguised by a fictitious name. when new restrictions, were afterwards imposed upon the writers of such pieces, they produced a new species of comedy. this is that which obtains at the present day. it consisted of an imitation of the manners of common life. the subject, the names, and the characters, belonging to it, were now all of them feigned. writers, however, retained their old object of laughing at folly and of exposing vice. thus it appears that the theatre, as far as tragedy was employed, inculcated frequently as good lessons of morality, as heathenism could produce, and as far as comedy was concerned, that it became often the next remedy, after the more grave and moral lectures of the ancient philosophers, against the prevailing excesses of the times. but though the theatre professed to encourage virtue, and to censure vice, yet such a combination of injurious effects was interwoven with the representations there, arising either from the influence of fiction upon morals, or from the sight of the degradation of the rational character by buffoonery, or from the tendency of such representations to produce levity and dissipation, or from various other causes, that they, who were the greatest lovers of virtue in those days, and the most solicitous of improving the moral condition of man, began to consider them as productive of much more evil than of good. solon forewarned thespis, that the effects of such plays, as he saw him act, would become in time injurious to the morals of mankind, and he forbade him to act again. the athenians, though such performances were afterwards allowed, would never permit any of their judges to compose a comedy. the spartans under lycurgus, who were the most virtuous of all the people of greece, would not suffer either tragedies or comedies to be acted at all. plato, as he had banished music, so he banished theatrical exhibitions from his pure republic. seneca considered, that vice made insensible approaches by means of the stage, and that it stole on the people in the disguise of pleasure. the romans, in their purer times, considered the stage to be so disgraceful, that every roman was to be degraded, who became an actor, and so pernicious to morals, that they put it under the power of a censor, to control its effects. but the stage, in the time of charles the second, when the quakers first appeared in the world, was in a worse state than even in the grecian or roman times. if there was ever a period in any country, when it was noted as the school of profligate and corrupt morals, it was in this reign. george fox therefore, as a christian reformer, could not be supposed to be behind the heathen philosophers, in a case where morality was concerned. accordingly we find him protesting publicly against all such spectacles. in this protest, he was joined by robert barclay and william penn, two of the greatest men of those times, who in their respective publications attacked them with great spirit. these publications shewed the sentiments of the quakers, as a religious body, upon this subject. it was understood that no quaker could be present at amusements of this sort. and this idea was confirmed by the sentiments and advices of several of the most religious members, which were delivered on public occasions. by means of these publications and advices the subject was kept alive, till it became at length incorporated into the religious discipline of the quakers. the theatre was then specifically forbidden; and an inquiry was annually to be made from thenceforward, whether any of the members of the society had been found violating the prohibition. since the time of charles the second, when george fox entered his protest against exhibitions of this sort, it must certainly be confessed, that an alteration has taken place for the better in the constitution of our plays, and that poison is not diffused into morals, by means of them, to an equal extent, as at that period. the mischief has been considerably circumscribed by legal inspection, and, it is to be hoped, by the improved civilization of the times. but it does not appear by any historical testimony we have, that a change has been made, which is at all proportioned to the quantity of moral light, which has been diffused among us since that reign. archbishop tillotson was of opinion, "that plays might be so framed, and they might be governed by such rules, as not only to be innocently diverting, but instructive and useful to put some follies and vices out of countenance, which could not perhaps be so decently reproved, nor so effectually exposed or corrected any other way." and yet he confesses, that, "they were so full of profaneness, and that they instilled such bad principles into the mind, in his own day, that they ought not to have been tolerated in any civilized, and much less in a christian nation." william law, an eminent divine of the establishment, who lived after tillitson, declared in one of his publications on the subject of the stage, that "you could not then see a play in either house, but what abounded with thoughts, passages, and language contrary to the christian religion." from the time of william law to the present about forty years have elapsed, and we do not see, if we consult the controversial writers on the subject, who live among us, that the theatre has become much less objectionable since those days. indeed if the names only of our modern plays were to be collected and published, they would teach us to augur very unfavourably as to the morality of their contents. the quakers therefore, as a religions body, have seen no reason, why they should differ in opinion from their ancestors on this subject: and hence the prohibition which began in former times with respect to the theatre, is continued by them at the present day. sect. ii. _theatre forbidden by the quakers on account of the manner of the drama--first, as it personates the character of others--secondly, as it professes to reform vice_. the quakers have many reasons to give, why, as a society of christians they cannot encourage the theatre, by being present at any of its exhibitions. i shall not detail all of them for the reader, but shall select such only, as i think most material to the point. the first class of arguments comprehends such as relate, to what may be called the manner of the drama. the quakers object to the manner of the drama, or to its fictitious nature, in consequence of which men personate characters, that are not their own. this personification they hold to be injurious to the man, who is compelled to practise it. not that he will partake of the bad passions, which he personates, but that the trick and trade of representing what he does not feel, must make him at all times an actor; and his looks, and words, and actions, will be all sophisticated. and this evil will be likely to continue with him in the various changes of his life. they hold it also to be contrary to the spirit of christianity. for men who personate characters in this way, express joy and grief, when in reality there may be none of these feelings in their hearts. they express noble sentiments, when their whole lives may have been remarkable for their meanness, and go often afterwards and wallow in sensual delights. they personate the virtuous character to day, and perhaps to-morrow that of the rake, and, in the latter case, they utter his profligate sentiments, and speak his profane language. now christianity requires simplicity and truth. it allows no man to pretend to be what he is not. and it requires great circumspection of its followers with respect to what they may utter, because it makes every man accountable for his idle words. the quakers therefore are of opinion, that they cannot as men, either professing christian tenets, or christian love, encourage others to assume false characters, or to [ ] personate those which are not their own. [footnote : rousseau condemns the stage upon the same principle. "it is, says he, the art of dissimulation--of assuming a foreign character, and of appearing differently from what a man really is--of flying into a passion without a cause, and of saying what he does not think, as naturally as if he really did--in a word of forgetting himself to personate others."] they object also to the manner of the drama, even where it professes to be a school for morals. for where it teaches morality, it inculcates rather the refined virtue of heathenism, than the strict, though mild discipline of the gospel. and where it attempts to extirpate vice, it does it rather by making it ridiculous, than by making men shun it for the love of virtue. it no where fixes the deep christian principle, by which men are bound to avoid it as sin, but places the propriety of the dereliction of it rather upon the loss of reputation among the world, than upon any sense of religious duty. sect. iii. _theatre forbidden an account of the internal contents of the drama--both of those of tragedy--and of comedy--these contents hold out false morals and prospects--and weaken the sinews of morality --observations of lord kaimes upon the subject._ the next class of arguments is taken from the internal contents of the drama. the quakers mean that dramatic compositions generally contain false sentiments, that is, such as christianity would disapprove; that, of course they hold out false prospects; that they inculcate false morals; and that they have a tendency from these, and other of their internal contents, to promote dissipation, and to weaken the sinews of morality in those who see them represented upon the stage. tragedy is considered by the quakers, as a part of the drama, where the hero is generally a warrior, and where a portion of human happiness is made to consist of martial glory. hence it is considered as frequently inculcating proud and lofty sentiments, as cherishing a fierce and romantic spirit, as encouraging rival enmities, as holding of no importance the bond of love and union between man and man. now as christianity enjoins humility, peace, quietness, brotherly affection, and charity, which latter is not to be bounded by the limits of any country, the quakers hold as a christian body, that they cannot admit their children to spectacles, which have a tendency to engender a disposition opposite to these. comedy is considered as holding out prospects, and inculcating morals, equally false and hurtful. in such compositions, for example, a bad impression is not uniformly given of a bad character. knavery frequently accomplishes its ends without the merited punishment. indeed treachery and intrigue are often considered but as jocose occurrences. the laws of modern honour are frequently held out to the spectator, as laws that are to influence in life. vulgar expressions, and even swearing are admitted upon the stage. neither is chastity nor delicacy always consulted there. impure allusions are frequently interwoven into the dialogue, so that innocence cannot but often blush. incidents not very favourable to morals, are sometimes introduced. new dissipated characters are produced to view, by the knowledge of which, the novice in dissipation is not diverted from his new and baneful career, but finds only his scope of dissipation enlarged, and a wider field to range in. to these hurtful views of things, as arising from the internal structure, are to be added those, which arise from the extravagant love-tales, the ridiculous intrigues, and the silly buffoonery of the compositions of the stage. now it is impossible, the quakers contend, that these ingredients, which are the component parts of comic amusements, should not have an injurious influence upon the mind that is young and tender and susceptible of impressions. if the blush which first started upon the cheek of a young person on the first hearing of an indecorous or profane sentiment, and continued for some time to be excited at repetitions of the same, should at length be so effectually laid asleep, that the impudent language of ribaldry can awaken it no more, it is clear, that a victory will have been gained over his moral feelings: and if he should remember (and what is to hinder him, when the occurrences of the stage are marked with strong action, and accompanied with impressive scenery) the language, the sentiments, the incidents, the prospects, which dramatic pieces have brought before him, he may combine these, as they rise to memory, with his own feelings, and incorporate them imperceptibly into the habits and manners of his own life. thus, if vice be not represented as odious, he may lose his love of virtue. if buffoonery should be made to please him, he may lose the dignity of his mind. love-tales may produce in him a romantic imagination. low characters may teach him low cunning. if the laws of honour strike him as the laws of refined life, he may become a fashionable moralist. if modes of dissipation strike him us modes of pleasure in the estimation of the world, he may abandon himself to these, and become a rake. thus may such representations, in a variety of ways, act upon the moral principle, and make an innovation there, detrimental to his moral character. lord kaimes, in his elements of criticism, has the following observations. "the licentious court of charles the second, among its many disorders, engendered a pest, the virulence of which subsists to this day. the english comedy, copying the manners of the court, became abominably licentious; and continues so with very little softening. it is there an established rule to deck out the chief characters with every vice in fashion however gross; but as such characters, if viewed in a true light, would be disgustful, care is taken to disguise their deformity under the embellishments of wit, sprightliness and good humour, which, in mixed company makes a capital figure. it requires not much thought to discover the poisonous influence of such plays. a young man of figure, emancipated at last from the severity and restraint of a college education, repairs to the capital disposed to every sort of excess. the play-house becomes his favourite amusement, and he is enchanted with the gaiety and splendour of the chief personages. the disgust which vice gives him at first, soon wears off to make way for new notions, more liberal in his opinion, by which a sovereign contempt of religion, and a declared war upon the chastity of wives, maids and widows, are converted from being infamous vices to be fashionable virtues. the infection spreads gradually through all ranks and becomes universal. how gladly would i listen to any one, who should undertake to prove, that what i have been describing is chimerical! but the dissoluteness of our young men of birth will not suffer me to doubt its reality. sir harry wildair has completed many a rake; and in the suspicious husband, ranger, the humble imitator of sir harry, has had no slight influence in spreading that character. what woman, tinctured with the play-house morals, would not be the sprightly, the witty, though dissolute lady townley, rather than the cold, the sober, though virtuous lady grace? how odious ought writers to be who thus employ the talents they have from their maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to corrupt and disfigure his creatures! if the comedies of congreve did not rack him with remorse in his last moments, he must have been lost to all sense of virtue." sect. iv. _the theatre forbidden--because injurious to the happiness of man by disqualifying him for the pleasures of religion--this effect arises from its tendency to accustom individuals to light thoughts--to injure their moral feelings--to occasion an extraordinary excitement of the mind--and from the very nature of the enjoyments which it produces._ as the quakers consider the theatre to have an injurious effect on the morality of man, so they consider it to have an injurious effect on his happiness. they believe that amusements of this sort, but particularly the comic, unfit the mind for the practical performance of the christian duties, and that as the most pure and substantial happiness, that man can experience, is derived from a fulfilment of these, so they deprive him of the highest enjoyment of which his nature is capable, that is, of the pleasures of religion. if a man were asked, on entering the door of the theatre, if he went there to learn the moral duties, he would laugh at the absurdity of the question; and if he would consent to give a fair and direct answer, he would either reply, that he went there for amusement, or to dissipate gloom, or to be made merry. some one of these expressions would probably characterise his errand there. now this answer would comprise the effect, which the quakers attach to the comic performances of the stage. they consider them as drawing the mind from serious reflection, and disposing it to levity. but they believe that a mind, gradually accustomed to light thoughts, and placing its best gratification in light objects, must be disqualified in time for the gravity of religious exercise, and be thus hindered from partaking of the pleasures which such an exercise must produce. they are of opinion also, that such exhibitions, having, as was lately mentioned, a tendency to weaken the moral character, must have a similarly injurious effect. for what innovations can be made on the human heart, so as to seduce it from innocence, that will not successively wean it both from the love and the enjoyment of the christian virtues? the quakers also believe, that dramatic exhibitions have a power of vast excitement of the mind. if they have no such power, they are insipid. if they have, they are injurious. a person is all the evening at a play in an excited state. he goes home, and goes to bed with his imagination heated, and his passions roused. the next morning he rises. he remembers what he has seen and heard, the scenery, the language, the sentiments, the action. he continues in the same excited state for the remainder of the day. the extravagant passions of distracted lovers, the wanton addresses of actors, are still fresh upon his mind. now it is contended by the quakers, that a person in such an excited state, but particularly if the excitement pleases, must be in a very unfavourable state for the reception of the pure principle, or for the promotion of the practical duties of religion. it is supposed that if any religious book, or if any part of the sacred writings, were handed to him in these moments, he would be incapable of enjoying them; and of course, that religious retirement, which implies an abstraction from the tilings of the world, would be impracticable at such a season. the quakers believe also, that the exhibitions of the drama must, from their own nature, without any other consideration, disqualify for the pleasures of religion. it was a frequent saying of george fox, taken from the apostle peter, that those who indulged in such pleasures were dead, while they were alive; that is, they were active in their bodies; they ran about briskly after their business or their pleasures; they shewed the life of their bodily powers; but they were extinct as to spiritual feeling. by this he meant that the pleasures of the theatre, and others of a similar nature, were in direct opposition to the pleasures of religion. the former were from the world worldly. they were invented according to the dispositions and appetites of men. but the latter were from the spirit spiritual. hence there was no greater difference between life and death, than between these pleasures. hence the human mind was made incapable of receiving both at the same time; and hence the deeper it were to get into the enjoyment of the former, the less qualified it must become of course for the enjoyment of the latter. sect. v. _theatre forbidden--because injurious to the happiness of man by disqualifying him for domestic enjoyments--quakers value these next to the pleasures of religion--sentiments of cowper--theatre has this tendency, by weaning gradually from a love of home--and has it in a greater degree than any other of the amusements of the world._ the quakers, ever since the institution of their society, have abandoned the diversions of the world. they have obtained their pleasures from other quarters. some of these they have found in one species of enjoyment, and others in another. but those, which they particularly prize, they have found in the enjoyment of domestic happiness; and these pleasures they value next to the pleasures of religion. [ ] "domestic happiness, thou only bliss of paradise, that has survived the fall! thou art the nurse of virtue--in thine arms she smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, heav'n-born, and destin'd to the skies again. thou art not known, where pleasure is ador'd, that reeling goddess, with a zoneless waist and wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm of novelty, her fickle, frail support; for thou art meek and constant, hating change, and finding, in the calm of truth-tried love, joys, that her stormy raptures never yield. forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made of honour, dignity, and fair renown!" [footnote : cowper.] but if the quakers have been accustomed to place one of the sources of their pleasures in domestic happiness, they may be supposed to be jealous of every thing that appears to them to be likely to interrupt it. but they consider dramatic exhibitions, as having this tendency. these exhibitions, under the influence of plot, dialogue, dress, music, action, and scenery, particularly fascinate. they excite the person, who has once seen them, to desire them again. but in proportion as this desire is gratified, or in proportion as people leave their homes for the amusements of the stage, they lose their relish, and weaken their powers, of the enjoyment of domestic society: that is, the quakers mean to say, that domestic enjoyments, and those of the theatre, may become, in time, incompatible in the same persons; and that the theatre ought, therefore, to be particularly avoided, as an enemy, that may steal them, and rob them of those pleasures, which experience has taught them to value, as i have observed before, next to the pleasures of religion. they are of opinion also, that dramatic exhibitions not only tend, of themselves, to make home less agreeable, but that they excite a craving for stimulants, and, above all, teach a dependence upon external objects for amusement. hence the attention of people is taken off again to new objects of pleasure, which lie out of their own families, and out of the circle of their friends. it will not take much time to shew, that the quakers have not been mistaken in this point. it is not unusual in fashionable circles, where the theatre is regularly brought into the rounds of pleasure, for the father and the mother of a family to go to a play once, or occasionally twice, a week. but it seldom happens, that they either go to the same theatre, or that they sit together. their children are at this time left at home, under, what is considered to be, proper care, but they are probably never seen again by them till the next noon; and perhaps once afterwards in the same day, when it is more than an even chance, that they must be again left for the gratification of some new pleasure. now this separation of fathers from mothers, and of parents from children, does not augur well of domestic enjoyments or of a love of home. but we will trace the conduct of the parents still farther. we will get into their company at their own houses; and here we shall very soon discover, how wearisome they consider every hour, that is spent in the bosom of their families, when deprived of their accustomed amusements; and with what anxiety they count the time, when they are to be restored to their favourite rounds of pleasure. we shall find no difficulty in judging also from their conversation, the measure of their thought or their solicitude about their children. a new play is sure to claim the earliest attention or discussion. the capital style, in which an actor performed his part on a certain night, furnishes conversation for an hour. observations on a new actress perhaps follow. such subjects appear more interesting to such persons, than the innocent conversation, or playful pranks, of their children. if the latter are noisy, they are often sent out of the room as troublesome, though the same parents can bear the stunning plaudits, or the discordant groans and hissings of the audience at the theatre. in the mean time their children grow up, and in their turn, are introduced by their parents to these amusements, as to places, proper for the dissipation of vacant hours; till, by frequent attendances, they themselves lose an affection for home and the domestic duties, and have in time as little regard for their parents, as their parents appear to have had for them. marrying at length, not for the enjoyment of domestic society, they and their children perpetuate the same rounds of pleasure, and the same sentiments and notions. to these instances many indeed might be added, by looking into the family-histories of those, who are in the habit of frequenting theatres in search of pleasure, by which it would appear, that such amusements are not friendly to the cherishing of the domestic duties and affections, but that, on the other hand, in proportion as they are followed, they tend to sap the enjoyments of domestic life. and here it may be observed, that of all the amusements, which go to the making up of the round of pleasures, the theatre has the greatest share in diverting from the pleasures of home. for it particularly attracts and fascinates, both from the nature, and the diversity, of the amusements it contains. it is also always open, in the season, for resort. so that if private invitations to pleasure should not come in sufficiently numerous, or should be broken off by the indisposition of the parties, who give them, the theatre is always ready to supply any vacancy, that may be occasioned in the round. sect. vi. _quakers conceive they can sanction no amusements, but such as could have originated in christian minds--exhibitions of the drama could have had, they believe, no such origin--early christians abandoned them in their conversion--arguments of the latter on this subject, as taken from tertullian, minucius felix, cyprian, lactantius and others._ the quakers conceive, as a christian society, that they ought to have nothing to do with any amusements, but such as christians could have invented themselves, or such as christians could have sanctioned, by becoming partakers of them. but they believe that dramatic exhibitions are of such a nature as men of a christian spirit could never have invented or encouraged, and that, if the world were to begin again, and were to be peopled by pure christians, these exhibitions could never be called into existence there. this inference, the quakers judge to be deducible from the nature of a christian mind. a man, who is in the habit, at his leisure hours, of looking into the vast and stupendous works of creation, of contemplating the wisdom, goodness, and power of the creator, of trying to fathom the great and magnificent plans of his providence, who is in the habit of surveying all mankind with the philosophy of revealed religion, of tracing, through the same unerring channel, the uses and objects of their existence, the design of their different ranks and situations, the nature of their relative duties and the like, could never, in the opinion of the quakers, have either any enjoyment, or be concerned in the invention, of dramatic exhibitions. to a mind, in the habit of taking such an elevated flight, it is supposed that every thing on the stage must look little, and childish, and out of place. how could a person of such a mind be delighted with the musical note of a fiddler, the attitude of a dancer, the impassioned grimace of an actor? how could the intrigue, or the love-sick tale of the composition please him? or how could he have imagined, that these could be the component parts of a christian's joys? but this inference is considered by the quakers to be confirmed by the practice of the early christians. these generally had been pagans. they had of course pagan dispositions. they followed pagan amusements, and, among these, the exhibitions of the stage. but soon after their conversion, that is, when they had received new minds, and when they had exercised these on new and sublime subjects, or, on subjects similar to those described, or, in other words, when they had received the regenerated spirit of christians, they left the amusements of the stage, notwithstanding that, by this act of singularity in a sensual age, they were likely to bring upon themselves the odium and the reproaches of the world. but when the early christians abandoned the theatre, they abandoned it, as the quakers contend, not because, leaving paganism they were to relinquish all customs that were pagan, but because they saw in their new religion, or because they saw in this newness of their minds, reasons, which held out such amusements to be inadmissible, while they considered themselves in the light of christians. these reasons are sufficiently displayed by the writers of the second, third, and fourth centuries; and as they are alluded to by the quakers, though never quoted, i shall give them to the reader. he will judge by these, how far the ancient coincide with the modern christians upon this subject; and how for these arguments of antiquity are applicable to modern times. the early christians, according to tertullian, menucius felix, cyprian, lactantius, and others, believed, that the "motives for going to these amusements were not of the purest sort. people went to them without any view of the improvement of their minds. the motive was either to see or to be seen." they considered the manner of the drama as objectionable. they believed "that he who was the author of truth, could never approve of that which was false, and that he, who condemned hypocrisy, could never approve of him, who personated the character of others; and that those therefore, who pretended to be in love, or to be angry, or to grieve, when none of those passions existed in their minds, were guilty of a kind of adultery in the eyes of the supreme being." they considered their contents to be noxious. they "looked upon them as consistories of immorality. they affirmed that things were spoken there which it did not become christians to hear, and that things were shewn there, which it did not become christians to see; and that, while these things polluted those from whom they come, they polluted those in time, in whose sight and hearing they were shewn or spoken." they believed also, "that these things not only polluted the spectators, but that the representations of certain characters upon the stage pointed out to them the various roads to vice, and inclined them to become the persons, whom they had seen represented, or to be actors in reality of what they had seen feigned upon the stage." they believed again, "that dramatic exhibitions produced a frame of mind contrary to that, which should exist in a christian's breast; that there was nothing to be seen upon the stage, that could lead or encourage him to devotion; but, on the other hand, that the noise and fury of the play-house, and the representations there, produced a state of excitement, that disturbed the internal man. whereas the spirit of a christian ought to be calm, and quiet, and composed, to fit it for the duties of religion." they believed also, "that such promiscuous assemblages of men and women were not favourable to virtue; for that the sparks of the passions were there blown into a flame." tertullian, from whom some of the above opinions are taken, gives an invitation to those who were fond of public spectacles, in nearly the following terms. are you fond, says he, of the scenic doctrine, or of theatrical sights and compositions? we have plenty of books for you to read. we can give you works in prose and in verse. we can give you apothegms and hymns. we cannot to besure, give you fictitious plots or fables, but we can give you truths. we cannot give you strophies, or the winding dances of the chorus, but we can give you simplicities, or plain and straightforward paths. are you fond of seeing contests or trials for victory? you shall see these also, and such as are not trivial, but important. you may see, in our christian example, chastity overcoming immodesty. you may see faithfulness giving a death-wound to perfidy. you may see mercy getting the better of cruelty. you may see modesty and delicacy of sentiment overcoming impurity and impudence. these are the contests in which it becomes us christians to be concerned, and where we ought to endeavour to receive the prize. chap. v.... sect. i. _dancing forbidden--greeks and romans differed on this subject--motive on which the greeks encouraged dancing--motive on which the moderns encouraged it--way in which the quakers view it--the arguments which they use against it._ as the quakers have thought it right to prohibit music, and stage-entertainments, to the society, so they have thought it proper to prohibit dancing, none of their children being allowed any instruction in the latter art. it is remarkable that two of the most civilized nations, as well as two of the wisest men of antiquity, should have differed in their opinions with respect to dancing. the greeks considered it as a wise and an honourable employment; and most of the nations therefore under that appellation inserted it into their system of education. the name of dancer was so honourable, as to be given to some of their gods. statues are recorded to have been erected to good dancers. socrates is said to have admired dancing so much, as to have learnt it in his old age. dancing, on the other hand, was but little regarded at rome. it was not admitted even within the pale of accomplishments. it was considered at best as a sorry and trivial employment. cicero says, "nemo, fere saltat sobrius, nisi forte insanit, neque in solitudine, neque in convivio honesto." that is, "no man dances, in private, or at any respectable entertainment, except he be drunk or mad." we collect at least from the above statement, that people of old, who were celebrated for their wisdom, came to very different conclusions with respect to the propriety of the encouragement of this art. those nations among the ancients, which encouraged dancing, did it upon the principle, that it led to an agility of body, and a quickness of motion, that would be useful in military evolutions and exploits. hence swiftness of foot was considered to be an epithet, as honourable as any that could be given to a warrior. the moderns, on the other hand, encourage dancing, or at least defend it upon different principles. they consider it as producing a handsome carriage of the body; as leading to a graceful and harmonious use of the limbs; and as begetting an erectness of position, not more favourable to the look of a person than to his health. that dancing produces dispositions of this sort cannot be denied, though certainly not to the extent which many have imagined. painters, who study nature the most, and are the best judges of the appearance of the human frame, are of opinion, that modern dancing does not produce natural figures or at least such as they would choose for their respective compositions. the military exercise has quite as great a share as dancing in the production of these dispositions. and there are certainly men, who were never taught either the military exercise or dancing, whose deportment is harmonious and graceful. the quakers think it unnecessary to teach their children dancing, as an accomplishment, because they can walk, and carry their persons with sufficient ease and propriety without it. they think it unnecessary also, because, however the practice of it may be consistent with the sprightliness of youth, they could never sanction it in maturer age. they expect of the members of their society, that they should abandon amusements, and substitute useful and dignified pursuits, when they become men. but they cannot consider dancing but as an employment that is useless, and below the dignity of the christian-character in persons, who have come to years of discretion. to initiate therefore a youth of twelve or thirteen years of age into dancing, when he must relinquish it at twenty, would, in their opinion, be a culpable waste of his time. the quakers, again, cannot view dancing abstractedly, for no person teaches or practises it abstractedly; but they are obliged to view it, in connection with other things. if they view it with its usual accompaniment of music, it would be inconsistent, they think, to encourage it, when they have banished music from their republic. if they view it as connected with an assemblage of persons, they must, they conceive, equally condemn it. and here it is in fact, that they principally level their arguments against it. they prohibit all members of their society from being present at balls, and assemblies; and they think, if their youth are brought up in ignorance of the art of dancing, that this ignorance will operate as one preventative at least against attendances at amusements of this nature. the quakers are as strict in their inquiry with respect to the attendances of any of their members at balls, as at theatrical amusements. they consider balls and assemblies among the vain amusements of the world. they use arguments against these nearly similar to those which have been enumerated on the preceding subjects. they consider them in the first place, as productive of a kind of frivolous levity, and of thoughtlessness with respect to the important duties of life. they consider them, in the second place, as giving birth to vanity and pride. they consider them, again, as powerful in the excitement of some of the malevolent passions. hence they believe them to be injurious to the religious interests of man; for, by depriving him of complacency of mind, and by increasing the growth of his bad feelings, they become impediments in the way of his improvement as a moral being. sect. ii. _arguments of the quakers examined--three cases made out for the determination of a moral philosopher--case the first--case the second--case the third._ i purpose to look into these arguments of the quakers, and to see how far they can be supported. i will suppose therefore a few cases to be made out, and to be handed, one by one, to some moral philosopher for his decision. i will suppose this philosopher (that all prejudice of education may be excluded) to have been ignorant of the nature of dancing, but that he had been made acquainted with it, in order that he might be enabled to decide the point in question. suppose then it was reported to this philosopher that, on a certain day, a number of young persons of both sexes, who had casually met at a friends house, instead of confining themselves to the room on a summers afternoon, had walked out upon the green; that a person present had invited them suddenly to dance; that they had danced to the sound of musical vibrations for an hour, and that after this they had returned to the room, or that they had returned home. would the philosopher be able to say in this case, that there was any thing in it, that incurred any of the culpable imputations, fixed upon dancing by the quakers? he could hardly; i think, make it out, that there could have been, in any part of the business, any opening for the charges in question. there appears to have been no previous preparations of extravagant dressing; no premeditated design of setting off the person; no previous methods of procuring admiration; no circumstance, in short, by which he could reasonably suppose, that either pride or vanity could have been called into existence. the time also would appear to him to have been too short, and the circumstances too limited, to have given birth to improper feelings. he would certainly see that a sort of levity would have unavoidably arisen on the occasion, but his impartiality and justice would oblige him to make a distraction between the levity, that only exhilarates, and the levity that corrupts, the heart. nor could he conceive that the dancing for an hour only, and this totally unlooked for, could stand much in the way of serious reflection for the future. if he were desired to class this sudden dancing for an hour upon the green with any of the known pleasures of life, he would probably class it with an hours exercise in the fields, or with an hours game at play, or with an hours employment in some innocent recreation. but suppose now, that a new case were opened to the philosopher. suppose it were told him, that the same party had been so delighted with their dance upon the green, that they had resolved to meet once a month for the purpose of dancing, and that they might not be prevented by bad weather, to meet in a public room; that they had met according to their resolution; that they had danced at their first meeting but for a short time; but that at their meetings after, wards, they had got into the habit of dancing from eight or nine at night till twelve or one in the morning; that many of them now began to be unduly heated in the course of this long exercise; that some of them in consequence of the heat in this crowded room, were now occasionally ready to faint; that it was now usual for some of them to complain the next morning of colds, others of head-achs, others of relaxed nerves, and almost all of them of a general lassitude or weariness--what could the philosopher say in the present case? the philosopher would now probably think, that they acted unreasonably as human beings; that they turned night into day; and that, as if the evils of life were not sufficient in number, they converted hours, which might have been spent calmly and comfortably at home, into hours of indisposition and of unpleasant feelings to themselves. but this is not to the point. would he or would he not say, that the arguments of the quakers applied in the present case? it certainly does not appear, from any thing that has yet transpired on this subject, that he could, with any shadow of reason, accuse the persons, meeting on this occasion, of vanity or pride, or that he could see from any of the occurrences, that have been mentioned, how these evils could be produced. neither has any thing yet come out, from which he could even imagine the sources of any improper passions. he might think perhaps, that they might be vexed for having brought fatigue and lassitude upon themselves, but he could see no opening for serious anger to others, or for any of the feelings of malevolence. neither could he tell what occurrence to fix upon for the production of a frivolous levity. he would almost question, judging only from what has appeared in the last case, whether there might not be upon the whole more pain than pleasure from these meetings, and whether those, who on the day subsequent to these meetings felt themselves indisposed, and their whole nervous system unbraced, were not so near the door of repentance, that serious thoughts would be more natural to them than those of a lighter kind. but let us suppose one other case to be opened to the philosopher. let us now suppose it to be stated to him, that those who frequented these monthly meetings, but particularly the females, had become habituated to talk, for a day or two beforehand, of nothing but of how they should dress themselves, or of what they should wear on the occasion: that some time had been spent in examining and canvassing the fashions; that the milliner had been called in for this purpose; that the imagination had been racked in the study of the decoration of the person; that both on the morning and the afternoon of the evening, on which they had publicly met to dance, they had been solely employed in preparations for decking themselves out; that they had been nearly two hours under one dresser only, namely the hair-dresser; that frequently at intervals they had looked at their own persons in the glass; that they had walked up and down parading before it in admiration of their own appearance, and the critical detection of any little fold in their dress, which might appear to be out of place, and in the adjustment of the same--what would the philosopher say in this new case? he certainly could not view the case with the same complacent countenance as before. he would feel some symptoms of alarm. he would begin to think that the truth of the quaker-arguments was unfolding itself, and that what appeared to him to have been an innocent amusement, at the first, might possibly be capable of being carried out of the bounds of innocence by such and similar accompaniments. he could not conceive, if he had any accurate knowledge of the human heart, that such an extraordinary attention to dress and the decoration of the person, or such a critical examination of these with a view of procuring admiration, could produce any other fruits than conceit and affectation, or vanity and pride. nor could he conceive that all these preparations, all this previous talk, all this previous consultation, about the fashions, added to the employment itself of the decoration of the person, could tend to any thing else than to degrade the mind, and to render it light and frivolous. he would be obliged to acknowledge also, that minds, accustomed to take so deep an interest in the fashions and vanities of the world, would not only loath, but be disqualified for serious reflection. but if he were to acknowledge, that these preparations and accompaniments had on any one occasion a natural tendency to produce these effects, he could not but consider these preparations, if made once a month, as likely to become in time systematic nurseries for frivolous and affected characters. having traced the subject up to a point, where it appears, that some of the quaker-arguments begin to bear, let us take leave of our philosopher, and as we have advanced nearly to the ball-room door, let us enter into the room itself, and see if any circumstances occur there, which shall enable us to form a better judgment upon it. sect. iii. _arguments of the quakers still further examined--interior of the ball-room displayed--view of the rise of many of the malevolent passions--these rise higher and are more painful, than they are generally imagined--hence it is probable that the spectators are better pleased than those interested in these dances--conclusion of the arguments of the quakers on this subject._ i am afraid i shall be thought more cynical than just, more prejudiced than impartial, more given to censure than to praise, if in temples, apparently dedicated to good humour, cheerfulness and mirth, i should say that sources were to be found, from whence we could trace the rise of immoral passions. but human nature is alike in all places, and, if circumstances should arise in the ball-room, which touch as it were the strings of the passions, they will as naturally throw out their tone there as in other places. why should envy, jealousy, pride, malice, anger, or revenge, shut themselves out exclusively from these resorts, as if these were more than ordinarily sacred, or more than ordinary repositories of human worth. in examining the interior of a ball-room it must be confessed, that we shall certainly find circumstances occasionally arising, that give birth to feelings neither of a pleasant nor of a moral nature. it is not unusual, for instance, to discover among the females one that excels in the beauty of her person, and another that excels in the elegance of her dress. the eyes of all are more than proportionally turned upon these for the whole night. this little circumstance soon generates a variety of improper passions. it calls up vanity and conceit in the breasts of these objects of admiration. it raises up envy and jealousy, and even anger in some of the rest. these become envious of the beauty of the former, envious of their taste, envious of their cloathing, and, above all, jealous of the admiration bestowed upon them. in this evil state of mind one passion begets another; and instances have occurred, where some of these have felt displeased at the apparent coldness and indifference of their own partners, because they have appeared to turn their eyes more upon the favourites of the night, than upon themselves. in the same room, when the parties begin to take their places to dance; other little circumstances not infrequently occur, which give rise to other passions. many aiming to be as near the top of the dance as possible, are disappointed of their places by others, who have just slept into them, dissatisfaction, and sometimes murmurs, follow. each in his own mind, supposes his claims and pretensions to the higher place to be stronger on account of his money, his connections, his profession, or his rank. thus his own dispositions to pride are only the more nursed and fostered. malice too is often engendered on the occasion; and though the parties would not be allowed by the master of the ceremonies to disturb the tranquillity of the room, animosities have sometimes sprung up between them, which have not been healed in a little time. i am aware that in some large towns of the kingdom regulations are made with a view to the prevention of these evils, but it is in some only; and even where they are made, though they prevent outward rude behaviour, they do not prevent inward dissatisfaction. monied influence still feels itself often debased by a lower place. if we were to examine the ball-room further, we should find new circumstances arising to call out new and degrading passions. we should find disappointment and discontent often throwing irritable matter upon the mind. men, fond of dancing, frequently find an over proportion of men, and but few females in the room, and women, wishing to dance, sometimes find an over proportion of women, and but few men; so that partners are not to be had for all, and a number of each class must make up their minds to sit quietly, and to loose their diversion for the night. partners too are frequently dissatisfied with each other. one thinks his partner too old, another too ugly, another below him. matched often in this unequal manner, they go down the dance in a sort of dudgeon, having no cordial disposition towards each other, and having persons before their eyes in the same room with whom they could have cordially danced. nor are instances wanting where the pride of some has fixed upon the mediocrity of others, as a reason, why they should reluctantly lend them their hands, when falling in with them in the dance. the slight is soon perceived, and disgust arises in both parties. various other instances might be mentioned, where very improper passions are excited. i shall only observe, however, that these passions are generally stronger and give more uneasiness, and are called up to a greater height, than might generally be imagined from such apparently slight causes. in many instances indeed they have led to such serious misunderstandings, that they were only terminated by the duel. from this statement i may remark here, though my observation be not immediately to the point, that there is not probably that portion of entertainment, or that substantial pleasure, winch people expected to find at these monthly meetings. the little jealousies arising about precedency, or about the admiration of one more than of another; the falling in occasionally with disagreeable partners; the slights and omissions that are often thought to be purposely made; the head-achs, colds, sicknesses, and lassitude afterwards, must all of them operate as so many drawbacks from this pleasure: and it is not unusual to hear persons, fond of such amusements, complaining afterwards that they had not answered. there is therefore probably more pleasure in the preparations for such amusements, and in the previous talk about them, than in the amusements themselves. it is also probable that the greatest pleasure felt in the ball-room, is felt by those, who get into it as spectators only. these receive pleasure from the music, from the beat of the steps in unison with it, but particularly from the idea that all, who join in the dance, are happy. these considerations produce in the spectator cheerfulness and mirth; and these are continued to him more pure and unalloyed than in the former case, because he can have no drawbacks from the admission into his own breast of any of those uneasy, immoral passions, above described. but to return to the point in question. the reader has now had the different cases laid before him as determined by the moral philosopher. he has been conducted also through the interior of the ball-room. he will have perceived therefore that the arguments of the quakers have gradually unfolded themselves, and that they are more or less conspicuous, or more or less true, as dancing is viewed abstractedly, or in connection with the preparations and accompaniments, that may be interwoven with it. if it be viewed in connection with these preparations and accompaniments, and if these should be found to be so inseparably connected with it, that they must invariably go together, which is supposed to be the case where it is introduced into the ball-room, he will have no difficulty in pronouncing that, in this case, it is objectionable as a christian recreation. for it cannot be doubted that it has an immediate tendency, in this case, to produce a frivolous levity, to generate vanity and pride, and to call up passions of the malevolent kind. now in this point of view it is, that the quakers generally consider dancing. they never view it, as i observed before, abstractedly, or solely by itself. they have therefore forbidden it to their society, believing it to be the duty of a christian to be serious in his conversation and deportment; to afford an example of humility; and to be watchful and diligent in the subjugation of his evil passions. chap. vi. _novels--novels forbidden--their fictitious nature no argument against them--arguments of the quakers are, that they produce an affectation knowledge--a romantic spirit--and a perverted morality--and that by creating an indisposition towards other kinds of reading, they prevent moral improvement and real delight of mind--hence novel-reading more pernicious than many other amusements_. among the prohibitions, which the quakers have adopted in their moral education, as barriers against vice, or as preservatives of virtue, i shall consider that next, which relates to the perusal of improper books. george fox seems to have forgotten nothing, that was connected with the morals of the society. he was anxious for the purity of its character, he seemed afraid of every wind that blew, lest it should bring some noxious vapour to defile it. and as those things which were spoken or represented, might corrupt the mind, so those which were written and printed, might equally corrupt it also. he recommended therefore, that the youth of his newly formed society should abstain from the reading of romances. william penn and others, expressed the same sentiments on this subject. and the same opinion has been held by the quakers, as a body of christians, down to the present day. hence novels, as a particular species of romance, and as that which is considered as of the worst tendency, have been particularly marked for prohibition. some quakers have been inclined to think, that novels ought to be rejected on account of the fictitious nature of their contents. but this consideration is, by no means, generally adopted by the society, as an argument against them. nor would it be a sound argument, if it were. if novels contain no evil within themselves, or have no evil tendency, the mere circumstance of the subject, names or characters being feigned, will not stamp them as censurable. such fiction will not be like the fiction of the drama, where men act and personate characters that are not their own. different men, in different ages of the world, have had recourse to different modes of writing, for the promotion of virtue. some have had recourse to allegories, others to fables. the fables of aesop, though a fiction from the beginning to the end, have been useful to many. but we have a peculiar instance of the use and innocence of fictitious descriptions in the sacred writings. for the author of the christian religion made use of parables on many and weighty occasions. we cannot therefore condemn fictitious biography, unless it condemn itself by becoming a destroyer of morals. the arguments against novels, in which the quakers agree as a body, are taken from the pernicious influence they have upon the minds of those, who read them. the quakers do not say, that all novels have this influence, but that they have it generally. the great demand for novels, inconsequence of the taste, which the world has shewn for this species of writing, has induced persons of all descriptions, and of course many who have been but ill qualified to write them. hence, though some novels have appeared of considerable merit, the worthless have been greatly preponderant. the demand also has occasioned foreign novels, of a complexion by no means suited to the good sense and character of our country, to be translated into our language. hence a fresh weight has only been thrown into the preponderating scale. from these two causes it has happened, that the contents of a great majority of our novels have been unfavourable to the improvement of the moral character. now when we consider this circumstance, and when we consider likewise, that professed novel-readers generally read all the compositions of this sort that come into their way, that they wait for no selection, but that they devour the good, the bad, and the indifferent alike, we shall see the reasons, which have induced the quakers to believe, that the effect of this species of writing upon the mind has been generally pernicious. one of the effects, which the quakers consider to be produced by novels upon those who read them, is an affectation of knowledge, which leads them to become forward and presumptuous. this effect is highly injurious, for while it raises them unduly in their own estimation, it lowers them in that of the world. nothing can be more disgusting, in the opinion of the quakers, than to see persons assuming the authoritative appearance of men and women before their age or their talents can have given them any pretensions to do it. another effect is the following. the quakers conceive that there is among professed novel readers a peculiar cast of mind. they observe in them a romantic spirit, a sort of wonder-loving imagination, and a disposition towards enthusiastic flights of the fancy, which to sober persons has the appearance of a temporary derangement. as the former effect must become injurious by producing forwardness, so this must become so by producing unsteadiness, of character. a third effect, which the quakers find to be produced among this description of readers, is conspicuous in a perverted morality. they place almost every value in feeling, and in the affectation of benevolence. they consider these as the true and only sources of good. they make these equivalent, to moral principle. and actions flowing from feeling, though feeling itself is not always well founded, and sometimes runs into compassion even against justice, they class as moral duties arising from moral principles. they consider also too frequently the laws of religion as barbarous restraints, and which their new notions of civilized refinement may relax at will. and they do not hesitate, in consequence, to give a colour to some fashionable vices, which no christian painter would admit into any composition, which was his own. to this it may be added, that, believing their own knowledge to be supreme, and their own system of morality to be the only enlightened one, they fall often into scepticism, and pass easily from thence to infidelity. foreign novels, however, more than our own, have probably contributed to the production of this latter effect. these then are frequently the evils, and those which the quakers insist upon, where persons devote their spare-time to the reading of novels, but more particularly among females, who, on account of the greater delicacy of their constitutions, are the more susceptible of such impressions. these effects the quakers consider as particularly frightful, when they fall upon this sex. for an affectation of knowledge, or a forwardness of character, seems to be much more disgusting among women than among men. it may be observed also, that an unsteady or romantic spirit or a wonder-loving or flighty imagination, can never qualify a woman for domestic duties, or make her a sedate and prudent wife. nor can a relaxed morality qualify her for the discharge of her duty as a parent in the religious education of her children. but, independently of these, there is another evil, which the quakers attach to novel-reading, of a nature too serious to be omitted in this account. it is that those who are attached to this species of reading, become indisposed towards any other. this indisposition arises from the peculiar construction of novels. their structure is similar to that of dramatic compositions. they exhibit characters to view. they have their heroes and heroines in the same manner. they lay open the checkered incidents in the lives of these. they interweave into their histories the powerful passion of love. by animated language, and descriptions which glow with sympathy, they rouse the sensibility of the reader, and fill his soul with interest in the tale. they fascinate therefore in the same manner as plays. they produce also the same kind of [ ] mental stimulus, or the same powerful excitement of the mind. hence it is that this indisposition is generated. for if other books contain neither characters, nor incidents, nor any of the high seasoning, or gross stimulants, which belong to novels they become insipid. [footnote : i have been told by a physician of the first eminence, that music and novels have done more to produce the sickly countenances and nervous habits of our highly educated females, than any other causes that can be assigned. the excess of stimulus on the mind from the interesting and melting tales, that are peculiar to novels, affects the organs of the body, and relaxes the tone of the nerves, in the same manner as the melting tones of music have been described to act upon the constitution, after the sedentary employment, necessary for skill in that science, has injured it.] it is difficult to estimate the injury which is done to persons, by this last mentioned effect of novel-reading upon the mind. for the contents of our best books consist usually of plain and sober narrative. works of this description give no extravagant representations of things, because their object is truth. they are found often without characters or catastrophies, because these would be often unsuitable to the nature of the subject of which they treat. they contain repellants rather than stimulants, because their design is the promotion of virtue. the novel-reader therefore, by becoming indisposed towards these, excludes himself from moral improvement, and deprives himself of the most substantial pleasure, which reading can produce. in vain do books on the study of nature unfold to him the treasures of the mineral or the vegetable world. he foregoes this addition to his knowledge, and this innocent food for his mind. in vain do books on science lay open to him the constitution and the laws of the motion of bodies. this constitution and these laws are still mysteries to him. in vain do books on religion discover to him the true path to happiness. he has still this path to seek. neither, if he were to dip into works like these, but particularly into those of the latter discription, could he enjoy them. this latter consideration makes the reading of novels a more pernicious employment than many others. for though there may be amusements, which may sometimes produce injurious effects to those, who partake of them, yet these may be counteracted by the perusal of works of a moral tendency. the effects, on the other hand, which are produced by the reading of novels, seem to admit of no corrective or cure; for how, for instance, shall a perverted morality, which is considered to be one of them, be rectified, if the book which is to contain the advice for this purpose, be so uninteresting, or insipid, that the persons in question have no disposition to peruse it? chap. vii-sect. i. _diversions of the field--diversions of the field forbidden--general thoughtlessness on this subject--sentiments of thomson--sentiments of george fox--of edward burroughs--similar sentiments of cowper--law of the society on the subject._ the diversions of the field are usually followed by people, without any consideration, whether they are justifiable, either in the eye of morality or of reason. men receive them as the customs of their ancestors, and they are therefore not likely to entertain doubts concerning their propriety. the laws of the country also sanction them; for we find regulations and qualifications on the subject. those also who attend these diversions, are so numerous, and their rank, and station, and character, are often such, that they sanction them again by their example, so that few people think of making any inquiry, how far they are allowable as pursuits. but though this general thoughtlessness prevails upon this subject, and though many have fallen into these diversions as into the common customs of the world, yet benevolent and religious individuals have not allowed them to pass unnoticed, nor been backward in their censures and reproofs. it has been matter of astonishment to some, how men, who have the powers of reason, can waste their time in galloping after dogs, in a wild and tumultuous manner, to the detriment often of their neighbours, and to the hazard of their own lives; or how men, who are capable of high intellectual enjoyments, can derive pleasure, so as to join in shouts of triumph, on account of the death of an harmless animal; or how men, who have organic feelings, and who know that other living creatures have the same, can make an amusement of that, which puts brute-animals to pain. good poets have spoken the language of enlightened nature upon this subject. thomson in his seasons, introduces the diversions of the field in the following manner. "here the rude clamour of the sportsman's joy, the gun fast-thund'ring, and the winded horn, would tempt the muse to sing the rural game." but further on he observes, "these are not subjects for the peaceful muse; nor will she stain with such her spotless song; then most delighted, when she social sees the whole mix'd animal-creation round. alive and happy; 'tis not joy to her this falsely cheerful barbarous game of death." cowper, in his task, in speaking in praise of the country, takes occasion to express his disapprobation of one of the diversions in question. "they love the country, and none else, who seek for their own sake its silence and its shade, delights, which who would leave, that has a heart susceptible of pity, or a mind, cultur'd, and capable of sober thought, for all the savage din of the swift pack and clamours of the field? detested sport that owes its pleasures to another's pain, that feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued with eloquence, that agonies inspire of silent tears, and heart-distending sighs! vain tears alas! and sighs, that never find a corresponding tone in jovial souls!" in these sentiments of the poets the quakers, as a religious body, have long joined. george fox specifically reprobated hunting and hawking, which were the field diversions of his own time. he had always shewn, as i stated in the introduction, a tender disposition to brute-animals, by reproving those, who had treated them improperly in his presence. he considered these diversions, as unworthy of the time and attention of men, who ought to have much higher objects of pursuit. he believed also, that real christians could never follow them; for a christian was a renovated man, and a renovated man could not but know the works of creation better, than to subject them to his abuse. edward burroughs, who lived at the same time, and was an able minister of the society, joined george fox in his sentiments with respect to the treatment of animals. he considered that man in the fall, or the apostate man, had a vision so indistinct and vitiated that he could not see the animals of the creation, as he ought, but that the man, who was restored, or the spiritual christian, had a new and clear discernment concerning them, which would oblige him to consider and treat them in a proper manner. this idea of george fox and of edward burroughs seems to have been adopted or patronized by the poet cowper. "thus harmony, and family accord, were driven from paradise; and in that hour the seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd to such gigantic and enormous growth, were sown in human natures fruitful soil. hence date the persecution and the pain, that man inflicts on all inferior kinds, regardless of their plaints. to make him sport, to gratify the frenzy of his wrath, or his base gluttony, are causes good, and just, in his account, why bird and beast should suffer torture--" thus the quakers censured these diversions from the first formation of their society, and laid down such moral principles with respect to the treatment of animals, as were subversive of their continuance. these principles continued to actuate all true quakers, who were their successors; and they gave a proof, in their own conduct, that they were influenced by them, not only in treating the different animals under their care with tenderness, but in abstaining from all diversions in which their feelings could be hurt. the diversions however, of the field, notwithstanding that this principle of the brute-creation had been long recognized, and that no person of approved character in the society followed them, began in time to be resorted to occasionally by the young and thoughtless members, either out of curiosity, or with a view of trying them, as means of producing pleasure. these deviations, however from the true spirit of quakerism became at length known. and the quakers, that no excuse might be left to any for engaging in such pursuits again, came to a resolution in one of their yearly meetings, giving advice upon the subject in the following words. [ ]"we clearly rank the practice of hunting and shooting for diversion with vain sports; and we believe the awakened mind may see, that even the leisure of those whom providence hath permitted to have a competence of worldly goods, is but ill filled up with these amusements. therefore, being not only accountable for our substance, but also for our time, let our leisure be employed in serving our neighbour, and not in distressing the creatures of god for our amusement." [footnote : book of extracts.] i shall not take upon me to examine the different reasons upon which we find the foundation of this law. i shall not enquire how far a man's substance, or rather his talent, is wasted or misapplied, in feeding a number of dogs in a costly manner, while the poor of the neighbourhood may be starving, or how far the galloping after these is in the eye of christianity a misapplication of a person's time. i shall adhere only to that part of the argument, how far a person has a right to make a [ ]pleasure of that, which occasions pain and death to the animal-creation: and i shall shew in what manner the quakers argue upon this subject, and how they persuade themselves, that they have no right to pursue such diversions, but particularly when they consider themselves as a body of professing christians. [footnote : the quakers and the poet cowper likewise, in their laudable zeal for the happiness of the brute-creation, have given an improper description of the nature of the crime of these diversions. they have made it to consist in a man's deriving pleasure from the sufferings of the animals in question, whereas it should have been made to consist in his making a pleasure of a pursuit which puts them to pain. the most abandoned sportsman, it is to be presumed, never hunts them because he enjoys their sufferings. his pleasure arises from considerations of another nature.] sect. ii. _diversions of the field judged first by the morality of the old testament--original charter to kill animals--condition annexed to it--sentiments of cowper--rights and duties springing from this charter--violation of it the violation of a moral law--diversions in question not allowable by this standard._ the quakers usually try the lawfulness of field-diversions, which include hunting and shooting, by two standards, and first by the morality of the old testament. they believe in common with other christians, that men have a right to take away the lives of animals for their food. the great creator of the universe, to whom every thing that is in it belongs, gave to noah and his descendants a grant or charter for this purpose. in this charter no exception is made. hence wild animals are included in it equally with the tame. and hence a hare may as well be killed, if people have occasion for food, as a chicken or a lamb. they believe also that, when the creator of the universe gave men dominion over the whole brute-creation, or delivered this creation into their hands, he intended them the right of destroying such animals, as circumstances warranted them in supposing would become injurious to themselves. the preservation of themselves, which is the first law of nature, and the preservation of other animals under their care, created this new privilege. but though men have the power given them over the lives of animals, there is a condition in the same charter, that they shall take them with as little pain as possible to the creatures. if the death of animals is to be made serviceable to men, the least they can do in return is to mitigate their sufferings, while they expire. this obligation the supreme being imposed upon those, to whom he originally gave the charter, by the command of not eating their flesh, while the life's blood was in it. the jews obliged all their converts to religion, even the proselytes of the gate, who were not considered to be so religious as the proselytes of the covenant, to observe what they called the seventh commandment of noah, or that "they should[ ] not eat the member of any beast that was taken from it, while it was alive." this law therefore of blood, whatever other objects it might have in view, enjoined that, while men were engaged in the distresing task of taking away the life of an animal, they should respect its feelings, by abstaining from torture, or all unnecessary pain. [footnote : it seems almost impossible, that men could be so depraved, as to take flesh to eat from a poor animal, while alive, and yet from the law enjoined to proselytes of the gate it is probable, that it was the case. bruce, whose travels into abyssynia are gaining in credit, asserts that such customs obtained there. and the harleian miscellany, vol. . p. , in which is a modern account of scotland, written in , states the same practice as having existed in our own island.] [ ]on noah, and in him on all mankind the charter was conferr'd, by which we hold the flesh of animals in fee, and claim o'er all we feed on pow'r of life and death. but read the instrument, and mark it well. the oppression of a tyrannous control can find no warrant there. feed then, and yield thanks for thy food. carnivorous, through sin, feed on the slain; but spare the living brute. [footnote : cowper.] from this charter, and from the great condition annexed to it, the quakers are of opinion that rights and duties have sprung up; rights on behalf of animals, and duties on the part of men; and that a breach of these duties, however often, or however thoughtlessly it may take place, is a breach of a moral law. for this charter did not relate to those animals only, which lived in the particular country of the jews, but to those in all countries wherever jews might exist. nor was the observance of it confined to the jews only, but it was to extend to the proselytes of the covenant and the gate. nor was the observance of it confined to these proselytes, but it was to extend to all nations; because all animals of the same species are in all countries organized alike, and have all similar feelings; and because all animals of every kind are susceptible of pain. in trying the lawfulness of the diversions of the field, as the quakers do by this charter, and the great condition that is annexed to it, i purpose, in order to save time, to confine myself to hunting, for this will appear to be the most objectionable, if examined in this manner. it must be obvious then, that hunting, even in the case of hares, is seldom followed for the purposes of food. it is uncertain in the first place, whether in the course of the chase they can be preserved whole when they are taken, so as to be fit to be eaten. and, in the second, it may be observed, that we may see fifty horsemen after a pack of hounds, no one of whom has any property in the pack, nor of course any right to the prey. these cannot even pretend, that their object is food, either for themselves or others. neither is hunting, where foxes are the objects in view, pursued upon the principle of the destruction of noxious animals. for it may be observed, that rewards are frequently offered to those, who will procure them for the chase: that large woods or covers are frequently allotted them, that they may breed, and perpetuate their species for the same purposes, and that a poor man in the neighbourhood of a foxhunter, would be sure to experience his displeasure, if he were caught in the destruction of any of these animals. with respect to the mode of destroying them in either of these cases, it is not as expeditious, as it might be made by other means. it is on the other hand, peculiarly cruel. a poor animal is followed, not for minutes, but frequently for an hour, and sometimes for hours, in pain and agony. its sufferings begin with its first fear. under this fear, perpetually accompanying it, it flies from the noise of horses, and horsemen, and the cries of dogs. it pants for breath, till the panting becomes difficult and painful. it becomes wearied even to misery, yet dares not rest. and under a complication of these sufferings, it is at length overtaken, and often literally torn to pieces by its pursuers. hunting therefore does not appear, in the opinion of the quakers, to be followed for any of those purposes, which alone, according to the original charter, give mankind a right over the lives of brutes. it is neither followed for food, nor for prevention of injury to man, or to the creatures belonging to him. neither is life taken away by means of it, as mercifully as it ought to be, according to the meaning of the[ ] great condition. but if hunting be not justifiable, when examined upon these principles, it can never be justifiable in the opinion of the quakers, when it is followed on the principle of pleasure, all destruction of animal-life upon this last principle, must come within the charge of wanton cruelty, and be considered as a violation of a moral law. [footnote : the netting of animals for food, is perfectly unobjectionable upon these principles.] sect. iii. _diversions of the field judged by the morality of the new-testament--the renovated man or christian has a clearer knowledge of creation and of its uses--he views animals as the creatures of god--hence he finds animals to have rights independently of any written law--he collects again new rights from the benevolence of his new feelings--and new rights again from the written word of revelation._ the quakers try the lawfulness of these diversions again by the morality of the new-testament they adopt, in the first place, upon this occasion, the idea of george fox and of edward burroughs, which has been already stated; and they follow it up in the manner which i shall now explain. they believe that a man under the new covenant, or one who is really a christian, is a renovated man. as long as adam preserved his primeval innocence, or continued in the image of his maker, his spiritual vision was clear. when he lost this image, it became dim, short, and confused. this is the case, the quakers believe, with every apostate or wicked man. he sees through a vitiated medium. he sees of course nothing of the harmony of the creation. he has but a confused knowledge of the natures and ends of things. these natures and these ends he never examines as he ought, but in the confusion of his moral vision, he abuses and perverts them. hence it generally happens, that an apostate man is cruel to his brute. but in proportion as he is restored to the divine image, or becomes as adam was before he fell, or in proportion as he exchanges earthly for spiritual views, he sees all things through a clearer medium. it is then, the quakers believe, that the creation is open to him, and that he finds his creator has made nothing in vain. it is then that he knows the natures of things; that he estimates their uses and their ends, and that he will never stretch these beyond their proper bounds. beholding animals in this sublime light, he will appreciate their strength, their capacities, and their feelings; and he will never use them but for the purposes intended by providence. it is then that the creation will delight him. it is then that he will find a growing love to the animated objects of it. and this knowledge of their natures, and this love of them, will oblige him to treat them with tenderness and respect. hence all animals will have a security in the breast of every christian or renovated man against oppression or abuse. he will never destroy them wantonly, nor put them to unnecessary pain. now the quakers are of opinion, that every person, who professes christianity, ought to view things as the man, who is renovated, would view them, and that it becomes them therefore in particular, as a body of highly professing christians, to view them in the same manner. hence they uniformly look upon animals, not as brute-machines, to be used at discretion, but as the creatures of god, of whose existence the use and intention ought always to be considered, and to whom duties arise out of this spiritual feeling, independently of any written law in the old-testament, or any grant or charter, by which their happiness might be secured. the quakers therefore, viewing animals in this light, believe that they are bound to treat them accordingly. hence the instigation of two horses by whips and spurs for a trial of speed, in consequence of a monied stake, is considered by the quakers to be criminal. the horse was made for the use of man, to carry his body and to transport his burdens; but he was never made to engage in painful conflicts with other horses on account of the avarice of his owner. hence the pitting together of two cocks for a trial of victory is considered as equally criminal. for the cock, whatever may be his destined object among the winged creation, has been long useful to man in awakening him from unseasonable slumber, and in sounding to him the approach of day. but it was never intended, that he should be employed to the injury and destruction of himself, or to the injury and destruction of his own species. in the same manner the quakers condemn the hunting of animals, except on the plea of necessity, or that they cannot be destroyed, if their death be required, in any other way. for whatever may be their several uses, or the several ends of their existence in creation, they were never created to be so used by man, that they should suffer, and this entirely for his sport. whoever puts animals to cruel and unnatural uses, disturbs, in the opinion of the quakers, the harmony of the creation, and offends god. the quakers in the second place, are of opinion that the renovated man must have, in his own benevolent spirit, such an exalted sense of the benevolent spirit of the creator, as to believe, that he never constituted any part of animated nature, without assigning it its proper share of happiness during the natural time of its existence, or that it was to have its moment, its hour, its day, or its year of pleasure. and, if this be the case, he must believe also, that any interruption of its tranquillity, without the plea of necessity, must be an innovation of its rights as a living being. the quakers believe also, that the renovated man, who loves all the works of the creator, will carry every divine law, which has been revealed to him, as far as it is possible to be carried on account of a similarity of natures through all animated creation, and particularly that law, which forbids him to do to another, what he would dislike to be done unto himself. now this law is founded on the sense of bodily, and on the sense of the mental feelings. the mental feelings of men and brutes, or the reason of man and the instinct of animals, are different. but their bodily feelings are alike; and they are in their due proportions, susceptible of pain. the nature therefore of man and of animals is alike in this particular. he can anticipate and know their feelings by his own. he cannot therefore subject them to any action unnecessarily, if on account of a similar construction of his own organs, such an action would produce pain to himself. his own power of feeling strongly commands sympathy to all that can feel: and that general sympathy, which arises to a man, when he sees pain inflicted on the person of any individual of his own species, will arise, in the opinion of the quakers, to the renovated man, when he sees it inflicted on the body of a brute. chap. viii. _objections started by philosophical moralists to the preceding system of education--this system a prohibitory one--prohibitions sometimes the cause of greater evil than they prevent--they may confuse morality--and break the spirit--they render the vicious more vicious--and are not to be relied upon as effectual, because built on a fake foundation--ignorance no guardian of virtue--causes, not sub-causes, are to be contended against --no certain security but in knowledge and a love of virtue--prohibitions, where effectual, produce but a sluggish virtue._ i have now stated the principal prohibitions, that are to be found in the moral education of the quakers, and i have annexed to these the various reasons, which the quakers themselves give, why they were introduced into their society. i have therefore finished this part of my task, and the reader will expect me to proceed to the next subject. but as i am certain that many objections will be started here, i shall stop for a few minutes to state, and to consider them. the quakers differ on the subject of moral education, very materially from the world, and indeed from those of the world, who having had a more than ordinarily liberal education, may be supposed to have, in most cases, a more than ordinarily correct judgment. the quaker system, as we have seen, consists principally of specific prohibitions. these prohibitions again, are extended occasionally to things, which are not in themselves vicious. they are extended, again, to these, because it is possible that they may be made productive, of evil. and they are founded apparently on the principle, that ignorance of such things secures innocence, or that ignorance, in such cases, has the operation of a preventive of vice, or a preservative of virtue. philosophical moralists on the other hand, are friends to occasional indulgences. they see nothing inherently or necessarily mischievous, either in the theatre or in the concert-room, or in the ball-room, or in the circulating library, or in many other places of resort. if a young female, say they, situated in a provincial town, were to see a play annually, would it not give her animation, and afford a spring to her heart? or if a youth were to see a play two or three times in the year, might not his parents, if they were to accompany him, make it each time, by their judicious and moral remarks, subservient to the improvement of his morals? neither do these moralists anticipate any danger by looking to distant prospects, where the things are innocent in themselves. and they are of opinion, that all danger may be counteracted effectually, not by prohibitory checks and guards, but by storing the mind with knowledge, and filling it with a love of virtue. the arguments therefore, which these will advance against the system of the moral education of the quakers, may be seen in the following words. "all prohibitions, they contend, should be avoided, as much as possible, in moral education; for prohibitions may often become the cause of greater immorality, than they were intended to prevent. the fable of the hen, whose very prohibition led her chickens to the fatal well, has often been realized in life, there is a certain curiosity in human nature to look into things forbidden. if quaker youth should have the same desires in this respect as others, they cannot gratify them but at the expence of their virtue. if they wish for novels, for example, they must get them clandestinely. if to go to the theatre, they must go in secret. but they must do more than this in the latter case, for as they would be known by their dress, they must change it for that of another person. hence they may be made capable of intrigue, hypocrisy, and deceit." "prohibitions, again, they believe, except they be well founded, may confound the notions of children on the subject of morality; for if they are forbidden to do what they see worthy and enlightened persons do, they may never know where to fix the boundaries between vice and virtue." "prohibitions, again, they consider, if made without an allowance of exceptions, as having a tendency to break the spirit of youth. break a horse in the usual way, and teach him to stop with the check of the reins, and you break him, and preserve his courage. but put him in a mill to break him, and you break his life and animation. prohibitions therefore may hinder elevated feeling, and may lead to poverty and sordidness of spirit." "prohibitions, again, they believe, if youth once depart from the right way, render them more vicious characters than common. this arises from the abruptness or suddenness of transition. for having been shut up within narrow boundaries for a part of their lives, they go greater lengths, when once let loose, than others, who have not been equally curbed and confined." "but while they are of opinion, that prohibitions are likely to be thus injurious to quaker-youth, they are of opinion, that they are never to be relied upon as effectual guardians of morality, because they consider them as built upon false principles." "they are founded, they conceive, on the principle, that ignorance is a security for innocence, or that vice is so attractive, that we cannot resist it but by being kept out of the way. in the first case, they contend that the position is false; for ignorant persons are of all others the most likely, when they fall into temptations, to be seduced, and in the second, they contend that there is a distrust of divine providence in his moral government of the world." "they are founded, again, they conceive, on false principles, inasmuch as the quakers confound causes with sub-causes, or causes with occasions. if a person, for example, were to get over a hedge, and receive a thorn in his hand, and die of the wound, this thorn would be only the occasion, and not the cause of his death. the bad state in which his body must have been, to have made this wound fatal, would have been the original cause. in like manner neither the theatre, nor the ball-room are the causes of the bad passions, that are to be found there. all these passions must have existed in persons previously to their entrance into these places. plays therefore, or novels, or public dances, are only the sub-causes, or the occasions of calling forth the passions in question. the real cause is in the infected state of the mind, or in the want of knowledge, or in the want of a love of virtue." "prohibitions therefore, though they may become partial checks of vice, can never, they believe, be relied upon as effectual guardians of virtue. bars and bolts seldom prevent thieves from robbing a house. but if armed men should be in it, who would venture to enter in? in the same manner the mind of man should be armed or prepared. it should be so furnished, that men should be able to wander through a vicious world, amidst all its foibles and its follies, and pass uncontaminated by them. it should have that tone given to it, which should hinder all circumstances from becoming occasions. but this can never be done by locking up the heart to keep vice out of it, but by filling it with knowledge and with a love of virtue." "that this is the only method to be relied upon in moral education, they conceive may be shewn by considering upon whom the pernicious effects of the theatre, or of the ball-room, or of the circulating library, principally fall. do they not fall principally upon those, who have never had a dignified education. 'empty noddles, it is said, are fond of playhouses,' and the converse, is true, that persons, whose understandings have been enriched, and whose tastes have been corrected, find all such recreations tiresome. at least they find so much to disgust them, that what they approve does not make them adequate amends. this is the case also with respect to novels. these do harm principally to barren minds. they do harm to those who have no proper employment for their time, or to those, who in the manners, conversation, and conduct, of their parents, or others with whom they associate, have no examples of pure thinking, or of pure living, or of a pure taste. those, on the other hand, who have been taught to love good books, will never run after, or be affected by, bad ones. and the same mode of reasoning, they conceive, is applicable to other cases. for if people are taught to love virtue for virtue's sake, and, in like manner, to hate what is unworthy, because they have a genuine and living knowledge of its unworthiness, neither the ball, nor concert-room, nor the theatre, nor the circulating library, nor the diversions of the field, will have charms enough to seduce them, or to injure the morality of their minds." to sum up the whole. the prohibitions of the quakers, in the first place, may become injurious, in the opinion of these philosophical moralists, by occasioning greater evils, than they were intended to prevent. they can never, in the second place, be relied upon as effectual guardians of virtue, because they consider them to be founded on false principles. and if at any time they can believe them to be effectual in the office assigned them, they believe them to to be productive only of a cold or a sluggish virtue. moral education. chap. ix.... sect. i. _reply of the quakers to these objections--they say first, that they are to be guided by revelation in the education of their children--and that the education, which they adopt, is sanctioned by revelation, and by the practice of the early christians--they maintain again, that the objections are not applicable to them, for they pre-suppose circumstances concerning them, which are not true--they allow the system of filling the mind with virtue to be the most desirable--but they maintain that it cannot be acted upon abstractedly--and, that if it could, it would be as dangerous, as the philosophical moralists make their system of the prohibitions._ to these objections the quakers would make the following reply. they do not look up either to their own imaginations, or to the imaginations of others, for any rule in the education of their children. as a christian society, they conceive themselves bound to be guided by revelation, and by revelation only, while it has any injunctions to offer, which relate to this subject. in adverting to the old testament, they find that no less than nine, out of the ten commandments of moses, are of a prohibitory nature, and, in adverting to the new, that many of the doctrines of jesus christ and the apostles are delivered in the form of prohibitions. they believe that revealed religion prohibits them from following all those pursuits, which the objections notice; for though there is no specific prohibition of each, yet there is an implied one in the spirit of christianity, violent excitements of the passions on sensual subjects must be unfavourable to religious advancement. worldly pleasures must hinder those, which are spiritual. impure words and spectacles must affect morals. not only evil is to be avoided, but even the appearance of evil. while therefore these sentiments are acknowledged by christianity, it is to be presumed that the customs, which the objections notice, are to be avoided in christian education. and as the quakers consider these to be forbidden to themselves, they feel themselves obliged to forbid them to others. and, in these parcticular prohibitions, they consider themselves as sanctioned both by the writings and the practice of the early christians. in looking at the objections, which have been made with a view of replying to them, they would observe first, that these objections do not seem to apply to them as a society, because they presuppose circumstances concerning them, which are not true. they presuppose first, that their moral education is founded on prohibitions solely, whereas they endeavour both by the communication of positive precepts, and by their example, to fill the minds of their children with a love of virtue. they presuppose again, that they are to mix with the world, and to follow the fashions of the world, in which case a moderate knowledge of the latter, with suitable advice when they are followed, is considered as enabling them to pass through life with less danger than the prohibition of the same, whereas they mix but little with others of other denominations. they abjure the world, that they may not imbibe its spirit. and here they would observe, that the knowledge, which is recommended to be obtained, by going through perilous customs is not necessary for them as a society. for living much at home, and mixing almost solely with one another, they consider their education as sufficient for their wants. if the quakers could view the two different systems abstractedly, that of filling the heart with virtue, and that of shutting it out from a knowledge of vice, so that they could be acted upon separately, and so that the first of the two were practicable, and practicable without having to go through scenes that were dangerous to virtue, they would have no hesitation in giving the preference to the former; because if men could be taught to love virtue for virtue's sake, all the trouble of prohibitions would be unnecessary. but the quakers would conceive that the system of filling the mind with virtue, if acted upon abstractedly, or by itself, would be impracticable with respect to youth. to make it practicable children must be born with the full grown intellect and experience of men. they must have an innate knowledge of all the tendencies, the bearings, the relations, and the effects of virtue and vice. they must be also strong enough to look temptation in the face; whereas youth have no such knowledge, or experience, or strength, or power. they would consider also the system of filling the mind with virtue, as impossible, if attempted abstractedly or alone, because it is not in human wisdom to devise a method of inspiring it with this essence, without first teaching it to abstain from vice. it is impossible, they would say, for a man to be virtuous, or to be in love with virtue, except he were to lay aside his vicious practices. the first step to virtue, according both to the heathen and the christian philosophy, is to abstain from vice. we are to cease to do evil, and to learn to do well. this is the process recommended. hence prohibitions are necessary. hence sub-causes as well as causes are to be attacked. hence abstinence from vice is a christian, though it may be a sluggish, virtue. hence innocence is to be aimed at by an ignorance of vice. and hence we must prohibit all evil, if we wish for the assistance of the moral governor of the world. but if the system of filling the heart with virtue were ever practicable of itself, that is, without the aid of prohibitions, yet if it be to be followed by allowing young persons to pass through the various amusements of the world which the quakers prohibit, and by giving them moral advice at the same time, they would be of opinion, that more danger would accrue to their morality, than any, which the prohibitions could produce. the prohibitions, as far as they have a tendency to curb the spirit, would not be injurious, in the opinion of the quakers, because it is their plan in education to produce humble, and passive, and obedient characters; and because spirit, or highmindedness, or high feeling, is no trait in the christian character. as far as the curiosity, which is natural to man, would instigate him to look into things forbidden, which he could not always do in the particular situation of the quakers, without the admission of intrigue, or hypocrisy, or deceit, prohibitions would be to be considered as evils, though they would always be necessary evils. but the quakers would apprehend that the same number of youth would not be lost by passing through the ordeal of prohibitory education, as through the ordeal of the system, which attempts to fill the mind with virtue, by inuring it to scenes, which may be dangerous to its morality; for if tastes are to be cultivated, and knowledge to be had, by adopting the amusements prohibited by the quakers, many would be lost, though some might be advanced to virtue. for parents cannot always accompany their children to such places, nor, if they could, can they prevent these from fascinating. if these should fascinate, they will suggest repetitions. but frequent repetitions, where you accustom youth to see, to hear, and to think, what ought never to be heard, seen, or thought of by christians, cannot but have the effect of tinging the character in time. this mode of education would be considered by the quakers as answering to that of "dear bought experience." a person may come to see the beauty of virtue, when his constitution has been shattered by vice. but many will perish in the midst of so hazardous a trial.[ ] [footnote : though no attempt is to be made to obtain knowledge, according to the christian system, through the medium of customs which may be of immoral tendency, yet it does not follow that knowledge, properly obtained, is not a powerful guardian of virtue. this important subject may probably be resumed in a future volume.] sect. ii. _quakers contend, by may of farther reply to the objections, that their education has been practically or experimentally beneficial--two facts in behalf of this assertion--the first is that young quakers get earlier into the wisdom of life than many others--the second, that there are few disorderly persons in the society--error corrected, that the quakers turn persons out of the society, as soon as they begin to be vicious, that it may be rescued from the disgrace of a bad character._ the answers, which have hitherto been given to the reader, may be considered as the statement of theory against theory. but the quakers, would say farther upon this subject, that they have educated upon these principles for a hundred and fifty years, and that, where they have been attended to, their effects have been uniformly beneficial. they would be fearful therefore of departing from a path, which they conceive their own experience and that of their ancestors has shewn them to be safe, and which after all their inquiries, they believe to be that which is pointed out to them by the christian religion. i shall not attempt to follow up this practical argument by any history of the lives of the quakers, but shall content myself with one or two simple facts, which appear to me to be materially to the point. in the first place i may observe that it is an old saying, that it is difficult to put old heads on young shoulders. the quakers, however, do this more effectually than any other people. it has often been observed that a quaker boy has an unnatural appearance. this idea has arisen from his dress and his sedateness, which together have produced an appearance of age above the youth in his countenance, or the stature of his person. this, however, is confessing, in some degree, in the case before us, that the discretion of age has appeared upon youthful shoulders. it is certainly an undeniable fact, that the youth of this society, generally speaking, get earlier into a knowledge of just sentiments, or into a knowledge of human nature, or into a knowledge of the true wisdom of life, than those of the world at large. i have often been surprised to hear young quakers talk of the folly and vanity of pursuits, in which persons older than themselves were then embarking for the purposes of pleasure, and which the same persons have afterwards found to have been the pursuits of uneasiness and pain. let us stop for a while, just to look at the situation of some of those young persons, who, in consequence of a different education, are introduced to the pleasures of the world, as to those, which are to constitute their happiness. we see them running eagerly first after this object, then after that. one man says to himself "this will constitute my pleasure." he follows it. he finds it vanity and vexation of spirit. he says again "i have found my self deceived. i now see my happiness in other pleasures, and not in those where i fancied it." he follows these. he becomes sickened. he finds the result different from his expectations. he pursues pleasure, but pleasure is not there. [ ]"they are lost in chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd, and never won. dream after dream ensues; and still they dream, that they shall still succeed and still are disappointed." [footnote : cowper.] thus after having wasted a considerable portion of his time, he is driven at last by positive experience into the truth of those maxims, which philosophy and religion have established, and in the pursuit of which alone he now sees that true happiness is to be found. thus, in consequence of his education, he looses two thirds of his time in tedious and unprofitable, if not in baneful pursuits. the young quaker, on the other hand, comes, by means of his education, to the same maxims of philosophy and religion, as the foundation of his happiness, at a very early period of life, and therefore saves the time, and preserves the constitution which the other has been wasting for want of this early knowledge. i know of no fact more striking, or more true in the quaker-history, than this, namely, that the young quaker, who is educated as a quaker, gets such a knowledge of human nature, and of the paths to wisdom and happiness, at an early age, that, though he is known to be a young mariner by the youth displayed in his countenance, he is enabled to conduct his bark through the dangerous rocks and shoals of life, with greater safety than many others, who have been longer on the ocean of this probationary world. i may observe again, as the second fact, that it is not unusual to hear persons say, that you seldom see a disorderly quaker, or, that a quaker-prostitute or a quaker criminal is unknown. these declarations, frequently and openly made, shew at least that there is an opinion among the world at large, that the quakers are a moral people. the mention of this last fact leads me to the notice, and the correction, of an error, which i have found to have been taken up by individuals. it is said by these that the quakers are very wary with respect to their disorderly members, for that when any of them behave ill, they are expelled the society in order to rescue it from the disgrace of a bad character. thus if a quaker woman were discovered to be a prostitute, or a quaker man to be taken up for a criminal offence, no disgrace could attach to this society as it would to others; for if, in the course of a week, after a discovery had been made of their several offences, any person were to state that two quaker members had become infamous, it would be retorted upon him, that they were not members of the society. it will be proper to observe upon the subject of this error, that it is not so probable that the quakers would disown these, after the discovery of their infamy, to get rid of any stain upon the character of the society, as it is that these persons, long before the facts could be known, had been both admonished and disowned. for there is great truth in the old maxim "nemo fecit repente 'turpissimus;" or "no man was ever all at once a rogue." so in the case of these persons, as of all others, they must have been vicious by degrees: they must have shewn symptoms of some deviations from rectitude, before the measure of their iniquity could have been completed. but by the constitution of quakerism, as will appear soon, no person of the society can be found erring even for the first time, without being liable to be privately admonished. these admonitions may be repeated for weeks, or for months, or even for years, before the subjects of them are pronounced so incorrigible as to be disowned. there is great reason therefore to presume, in the case before us, though the offenders in question would have undoubtedly been disowned by the quakers, after they were known to be such, yet that they had been disowned long before their offences had been made public. upon the whole it may be allowed, that young quakers arrive at the knowledge of just sentiments, or at the true wisdom of life earlier than those, who are inured to the fashions of the world; and it may be allowed also that the quakers, as a body, are a moral people. now these effects will generally be considered as the result of education; and though the prohibitions of the quakers may not be considered as the only instruments of producing these effects, yet they must be allowed to be component parts of the system, which produces them. discipline of the quakers. chap. i.... sect. i. _discipline of two kinds--as it relates to the regulation of the internal affairs of the society--or to the cognizance of immoral conduct--difficulty of procuring obedience to moral precepts--this attempted to be obviated by george fox--outlines of his system for this purpose--additions made to his system since his time--objections to the system considered--this system, or the discipline of the quakers, as far as this branch of it is concerned, the great foundation-stone on which their moral education is supported._ the discipline of the quakers is divisible into two parts. the first may comprehend the regulation of the internal affairs of the society, such as the management of the poor belonging to it, the granting of certificates of removal to its members, the hearing of their appeals upon various occasions, the taking cognizance of their proposals of marriage, and the like. the second may comprehend the notice or observance of the moral conduct of individuals, with a view of preserving the rules, which the quakers have thought it their duty to make, and the testimonies which they have thought it their duty to bear, as a christian people. it is to the latter part of the discipline that i shall principally confine myself in the ensuing part of my work. nothing is more true than that, when men err in their moral practice, it is not for want of good precepts or of wholesome advice. there are few books from which we cannot collect some moral truths; and few men so blind, as not to be able to point out to us the boundaries of moral good. the pages of revelation have been long unfolded to our view, and diffusively spread among us. we have had the advantage too of having their contents frequently and publicly repeated into our ears. and yet, knowing what is right, we cannot pursue it. we go off, on the other hand, against our better knowledge, into the road to evil. now, it was the opinion of george fox, that something might be done to counteract this infirmity of human nature, or to make a man keep up to the precepts which he believed to have been divinely inspired, or, in other words, that a system of discipline might be devised, for regulating, exciting, and preserving the conduct of a christian. this system he at length completed, and, as he believed, with the divine aid, and introduced it into the society with the approbation of those who belonged to it. the great principle, upon which he founded it, was, that every christian was bound to watch over another for his good. this principle included two ideas. first, that vigilance over the moral conduct of individuals was a christian duty. secondly, that any interference with persons, who might err, was solely for their good. their reformation was to be the only object in view. hence religious advice was necessary. hence it was to be administered with tenderness and patience. hence nothing was to be left undone, while there was a hope that any thing could be done, for their spiritual welfare. from this view of the subject he enjoined it to all the members of his newly formed society, to be watchful over the conduct of one another, and not to hesitate to step in for the recovery of those, whom they might discover to be overtaken with a fault. he enjoined it to them again, that they should follow the order recommended by jesus christ upon such occasions.[ ] "if thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone. if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother. but if he will not hear thee, then take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established. and if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church; but, if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as a heathen-man or a publican." [footnote : matt. . , , .] for the carrying of this system into execution in the order thus recommended, he appointed courts, or meetings for dicipline, as the quakers call them, with the approbation of the society, where the case of the disorderly should be considered, if it should be brought to the cognizance of the church; and where a record should be kept of the proceedings of the society respecting it. in these courts or meetings the poor were to have an equal voice with the rich.--there was to be no distinction but in favour of religious worth; and here it is to be remarked, that he was so desirous, that the most righteous judgment should be pronounced upon any offender, that he abandoned the usual mode of decision, in general so highly valued, by a majority, of voices, and recommended the decision to be made according to the apparent will of the virtuous, who might be present.--and as expulsion from membership with the church was to be considered as the heaviest punishment, which the quakers, as a religious body, could inflict, he gave the offender an opportunity of appealing to meetings, different from those in which the sentence had been pronounced against him, and where the decisive voices were again to be collected from the preponderant weight of religious character. he introduced also into his system of dicipline privileges in favour of women, which marked his sense of justice, and the strength and liberality of his mind. the men he considered undoubtedly as the heads of the church, and from whom all laws concerning it ought to issue. but he did not deny women on that account any power, which he thought it would be proper for them to hold. he believed them to be capable of great usefulness, and therefore admitted them to the honour of being, in his own society, of nearly equal importance with the men.--in the general duty, imposed upon members, of watching over one another, he laid it upon the women, to be particularly careful in observing the morals of those of then own sex. he gave them also meetings for dicipline of their own, with the power, of recording their own transactions, so that women were to act among courts or meetings of women, as men among those of men. there was also to be no office in the society belonging to the men, but he advised there should be a corresponding one belonging to the women. by this new and impartial step he raised the women of his own community beyond the level of women in others, and laid the foundation of that improved strength of intellect, dignity of mind, capability of business, and habit of humane offices, which are so conspicuous among female-quakers at the present day. with respect to the numerous offices, belonging to the discipline, he laid it down as a principle, that the persons, who were to fill them, were to have no other emolument or reward, than that, which a faithful discharge of them would bring to their own consciences. these are the general outlines of the system of discipline, as introduced by george fox. this system was carried into execution, as he himself had formed it, in his own time. additions, however, have been made to it since, as it seemed proper, by the society at large. in the time of george fox, it was laid upon every member, as we have seen, to watch over his neighbour for his spiritual welfare. but in , the society conceiving, that what was the business of every one might eventually become the business of no one, appointed officers, whose particular duty it should be to be overseers of the morals of individuals; thus hoping, that by the general vigilance enjoined by george fox, which was still to continue, and by the particular vigilance then appointed, sufficient care would be taken of the morals of the whole body. in the time, again, of george fox, women had, only their monthly and quarterly meetings for discipline, but it has since been determined, that they should have their yearly meetings equally with the men. in the time, again, of george fox, none but the grave members were admitted into the meetings for discipline, but it has been since agreed, that young persons should have the privilege of attending them, and this, i believe, upon the notion, that. while these meetings would quality them for transacting the business of the society, they might operate as schools far virtue. this system of discipline, as thus introduced by george fox, and as thus enlarged by the society afterwards, has not escaped, notwithstanding the loveliness of its theory, the censure of the world. it has been considered in the first place, as a system of espionage, by which one member is made a spy upon, or becomes an informer against another. but against this charge it would be observed by the quakers, that vigilance over morals is unquestionably a christian duty. it would be observed again that the vigilance which is exercised in this case, is not with the intention of mischief, as in the case of spies and informers, but with the intention of good. it is not to obtain money, but to preserve reputation and virtue. it is not to persecute but to reclaim. it is not to make a man odious, but to make him more respectable. it is never an interference with innocence. the watchfulness begins to be offensive only, where delinquency is begun. the discipline, again, has been considered as too great an infringement, of the liberty of those, who are brought under it. against this the quakers would contend, that all persona who live in civil society, must give up a portion of their freedom, that more happiness and security may be enjoyed. so, when men enter into christian societies, they must part with a little of their liberty for their moral good. but whatever may be the light in which persons, not of the society, may view this institution, the quakers submit to, and respect it. it is possible there may be some, who may feel it a restraint upon their conduct. and there is no doubt, that it is a restraint upon those, who have irregular desires to gratify, or destructive pleasures to pursue. but generally speaking, the youth of the society, who receive a consistent education, approve of it. genuine quaker parents, as i have had occasion to observe, insist upon the subjugation of the will. it is their object to make their children lowly, patient and submissive. those therefore, who are born in the society, are born under the system, and are in general educated for it. those who become converted to the religion of the society, know beforehand the terms of their admission. and it will appear to all to be at least an equitable institution, because in the administration of it, there is no exception of persons. the officers themselves, who are appointed to watch over, fall under the inspection of the discipline. the poor may admonish the rich, and the rich the poor. there, is no exception, in short, either for age, or sex, or station. it is not necessary, at least in the present place, that i should go farther, and rake up all the objections, that may be urged upon this subject. i shall therefore only observe here, that the discipline of the quakers, notwithstanding all its supposed imperfections, whatever, they may be, is the grand foundation-stone, upon which their moral education is supported. it is the grand partition wall between them and vice. if this part of the fabric were ever allowed to, be undermined, the building would fall to pieces; though the quakers might still be known by their apparel and their language, they would no longer be so remarkable as they are now generally confessed to, be, for their moral character. sect. ii. _manner of the administration of the discipline of the quakers--overseers appointed to every particular meeting--manner of reclaiming an individual--first by admonition--this sometimes successful--secondly by dealing--this sometimes successful--but if unsuccessful, the offender is disowned--but he may appeal afterwards to two different courts or meetings for redress.--_ having now given the general outlines of the discipline of the quakers, i shall proceed to explain the particular manner of the administration of it. to administer it effectually all individuals of the society, as i have just stated, whether men or women, are allowed the power of watching over the conduct of one another for their good, and of interfering if they should see occasion. but besides this general care two or more persons of age and experience, and of moral lives and character, and two or more women of a similar description, are directed to be appointed, to have the oversight of every congregation or particular meeting in the kingdom. these persons are called overseers, because it is their duty to oversee their respective flocks. if any of the members should violate the prohibitions mentioned in the former part of the work, or should become chargeable with injustice, drunkenness, or profane swearing, or neglect of their public worship, or should act in any way inconsistently with his character as a christian, it becomes the particular duty of these overseers, though it is also the duty of the members at large, to visit him in private, to set before him the error and consequences of his conduct, and to endeavour by all the means in their power to reclaim him. this act on the part of the overseer is termed by the society admonishing. the circumstances of admonishing and of being admonished are known only to the parties, except the case should have become of itself notorious; for secrecy is held sacred on the part of the persons who admonish. hence it may happen, that several of the society may admonish the same person, though no one of them knows that any other has been visiting him at all. the offender may be thus admonished by overseers and other individuals for weeks and months together, for no time is fixed by the society, and no pains are supposed to be spared for his reformation. it is expected, however, in all such admonitions, that no austerity of language or manner should be used, but that he should be admonished in tenderness and love. if an overseer, or any other individual, after having thus laboured to reclaim another for a considerable length of time, finds that he has not succeeded in his work, and feels also that he despairs of succeeding by his own efforts, he opens the matter to some other overseer, or to one or more serious members, and requests their aid. these persons now wait upon the offender together, and unite their efforts in endeavouring to persuade him to amend his life. this act, which now becomes more public by the junction of two or three in the work of his reformation, is still kept a secret from other individuals of the society, and still retains the name of admonishing. it frequently happens that, during these different admonitions, the offender sees his error, and corrects his conduct. the visitations of course cease, and he goes on in the estimation of the society as a regular or unoffending member, no one knowing but the admonishing persons, that he has been under the discipline of the society. i may observe here, that what is done by men to men is done by women to women, the women admonishing and trying to reclaim those of their own sex, in the same manner. should, however, the overseers, and other persons before mentioned, find after a proper length of time that all their united efforts have been ineffectual, and that they have no hope of success with respect to his amendment, they lay the case, if it should be of a serious nature, before a [ ]court, which has the name of the monthly meeting. this court, or meeting, make a minute of the case, and appoint a committee to visit him. the committee in consequence, of their appointment wait upon him. this act is now considered as a public act, or as an act of the church. it is not now termed admonishing, but changes its name to [ ]dealing. the offender too, while the committee are dealing with him, though he may attend the meetings of the society for worship, does not attend those of their discipline. [footnote : certain acts of delinquency are reported to the monthly meeting, as soon as the truth of the facts can be ascertained, such as a violation of the rules of the society, with respect to marriage, payment of tythes, etc.] [footnote : women, though they may admonish, cannot deal with women, this being an act of the church, till they have consulted the meetings of the men. men are generally joined with women in the commission for this purpose.] if the committee, after having dealt with the offender according to their appointment, should be satisfied that he is sensible of his error, they make a report to the monthly court or meeting concerning him. a minute is then drawn up, in which it is stated, that he has made satisfaction for the offence. it sometimes happens, that he himself sends to the same meeting a written acknowledgement of his error. from this time he attends the meetings for discipline again, and is continued in the society, as if nothing improper had taken place. nor is any one allowed to reproach him for his former faults. should, however, all endeavours prove ineffectual, and should the committee, after having duly laboured with the offender, consider him at last as incorrigible, they report their proceedings to the monthly meeting. he is then publicly excluded from membership, or, as it is called, [ ]disowned. this is done by a distinct document, called a testimony of disownment, in which the nature of the offence, and the means that have been used to reclaim him, are described. a wish is also generally expressed in this document, that he may repent, and be taken into membership again. a copy of this minute is always required to be given to him. [footnote : women cannot disown, the power of disowning, is an act of the church, being vested in the meetings of the men.] if the offender should consider this act of disowning him as an unjust proceeding, he may appeal to a higher tribunal, or to the quarterly court, or meeting. this quarterly court or meeting, then appoint a committee, of which no one of the monthly meeting that condemned him can be a member, to reconsider his ease. should this committee report, and the quarterly meeting in consequence decide against him, he may appeal to the yearly. this latter meeting is held in london, and consists of deputies and others from all parts of the kingdom. the yearly meeting then appoint a committee of twelve deputies, taken from twelve quarterly meetings, none of whom can be from the quarterly meeting that passed sentence against him, to examine his case again. if this committee should confirm the former decisions, he may appeal to the yearly meeting at large; but beyond this there is no appeal. but if he should even be disowned by the voice of the yearly meeting at large, he may, if he lives to give satisfactory proof of his amendment, and sues for readmission into the society, be received into membership again; but he can only be received through the medium of the monthly meeting, by which he was first disowned. sect. iii _two charges usually brought against this administration of the discipline--that it is managed with an authoritative spirit--and that it is managed partially--these charges are considered._ as two charges are usually brought against the administration of that part of the discipline, which has been just explained, i shall consider them in this place. the first usually is, that, though the quakers abhor what they call the authority of priest craft, yet some overseers possess a portion of the spirit of ecclesiastical dominion; that they are austere, authoritative, and over bearing in the course of the exercise of their office, and that, though the institution may be of christian origin, it is not always conducted by these with a christian spirit. to this first charge i shall make the following reply. that there may be individual instances, where this charge may be founded, i am neither disposed, nor qualified, to deny. overseers have their different tempers, like other people; and the exercise of dominion has unquestionably a tendency to spoil the heart. so far there is an opening for the admission of this charge. but it must be observed, on the other hand, that the persons, to be chosen overseers, are to be by the laws of the society[ ] "as upright and unblameable in their conversation, as they can be found, in order that the advice, which they shall occasionally administer to other friends, may be the better received, and carry with it the greater weight and force on the minds of those, whom they shall be concerned to admonish." it must be observed again that it is expressly enjoined them, that "they are to exercise their functions in a meek, calm, and peaceable spirit, in order that the admonished may see that their interference with their conduct proceeds from a principle of love and a regard for their good, and preservation in the truth." [footnote : book of extracts.] and it must be observed again, that any violation of this injunction would render them liable to be admonished by others, and to come under the discipline themselves. the second charge is, that the discipline is administered partially; or that more favour is shewn to the rich than to the poor, and that the latter are sooner disowned than the former for the same faults. this latter charge has probably arisen from a vulgar notion, that, as the poor are supported by the society, there is a general wish to get rid of them.--but this notion is not true. there is more than ordinary caution in disowning those who are objects of support, add to which, that, as some of the most orderly members of the body are to be found among the poor, an expulsion of these, in a hasty manner, would be a diminution of the quantum of respectability, or of the quantum of moral character, of the society at large. in examining this charge, it must certainly be allowed, that though the principle "of no respect of persons" is no where carried to a greater length than in the quaker society, yet we may reasonably expect to find a drawback from the full operation of it in a variety of causes. we are all of us too apt, in the first place, to look up to the rich, but to look down upon the poor. we are apt to court the good will of the former, when we seem to care very little even whether we offend the latter. the rich themselves and the middle classes of men respect the rich more than the poor; and the poor show more respect to the rich than to one another. hence it is possible; that a poor man may find more reluctance in entering the doors of a rich man to admonish him, than one who is rich to enter the doors of the poor for the same purpose, men, again, though they may be equally good, may not have all the same strength of character. some overseers may be more timid than others, and this timidity may operate upon them more in the execution of their duty upon one class of individuals, than upon another. hence a rich man may escape for a longer time without admonition, than a poorer member. but when the ice is once broken; when admonition is once begun; when respectable persons have been called in by overseers or others, those causes, which might be preventive of justice, will decrease; and, if the matter should be carried to a monthly or a quarterly meeting, they will wholly vanish. for in these courts it is a truth, that those, who are the most irreproachable for their lives, and the most likely of course to decide justly on any occasion, are the most attended to, or carry the most weight, when they speak publicly. now these are to be found principally in the low and middle classes, and these, in all societies, contain the greatest number of individuals. as to the very rich, these are few indeed compared with the rest, and these may be subdivided into two classes for the farther elucidation of the point. the first will consist of men, who rigidly follow the rules of the society, and are as exemplary as the very best of the members. the second will consist of those, who we members according to the letter, but not according to the spirit, and who are content with walking in the shadow, that follows the substance of the body. those of the first class will do justice, and they will have on equal influence with any. those of the second, whatever may be their riches, or whatever they may say, are seldom if ever attended to in the administration of the discipline. from hence it will appear, that if there be any partiality in the administration of this institution, it will consist principally in this, that a rich man may be suffered in particular cases, to go longer without admonition than a poorer member; but that after admonition has been begun, justice will be impartially administered; and that the charges of a preference, where disowning is concerned, has no solid foundation for its support. sect. iv. _three great principles discoverable in the discipline, as hitherto explained--these applicable to the discipline of larger societies, or to the criminal codes of states--lamentable, that as christian principles, they have not been admitted into our own--quakers, as far as they have had influence in legislation, have adopted them--exertions of william penn--legislature of pennsylvania as example to other countries in this particular._ i find it almost impossible to proceed to the great courts or meetings of the quakers, which i had allotted for my next subject, without stopping a while to make a few observations on the principles of that part of the discipline, which i have now explained. it may be observed, first, that the great object of this part of the discipline is the reformation of the offending person: secondly, that the means of effecting this object consists of religious instruction or advice: and thirdly, that no pains are to be spared, and no time to be limited, for the trial of these means, or, in other words, that nothing is to be left undone, while there is a hope that the offender may be reclaimed. now these principles the quakers adopt in the exercise of their discipline, because, as a christian community, they believe they ought to be guided only by christian principles, and they know of no other, which the letter, or the spirit of christianity, can warrant. i shall trespass upon the patience of the reader in this place, only till i have made an application of these principles, or till i have shewn him how far these might be extended, and extended with advantage to morals, beyond the limits of the quaker-society, by being received as the basis, upon which a system, of penal laws might be founded, among larger societies, or states. it is much to be lamented, that nations, professing christianity, should have lost sight, in their various acts of legislation, of christian principles: or that they should not have interwoven some such beautiful principles as those, which we have seen adopted by the quakers, into the system of their penal laws. but if this negligence or omission would appear worthy of regret, if reported of any christian nation, it would appear most so, if reported of our own, where one would have supposed, that the advantages of civil and religious liberty, and those of a reformed religion, would have had their influence is the correction of our judgments, and in the benevolent dispositions of our will. and yet nothing is more true, than that these good influences have either never been produced, or, if produced, that they have never been attended to, upon this subject. there seems to be no provision for religions instruction in our numerous prisons. we seem to make no patient trials of those, who are confined in them, for their reformation. but, on the other hand, we seem to hurry them off the stage of life, by means of a code, which annexes death to two hundred different offences, as if we had allowed our laws to be written by the bloody pen of the pagan draco. and it seems remarkable, that this system should be persevered in, when we consider that death, as far as the experiment has been made in our own country, has little or no effect as a punishment for crimes. forgery, and the circulation of forged paper, and the counterfeiting of the money of the realm, are capital offences, and are never pardoned. and yet no offences are more frequently committed than these. and it seems still more remarkable, when we consider, in addition to this, that in consequence of the experiments, made in other countries, it seems to be approaching fast to an axiom, that crimes are less frequent, in proportion as mercy takes place of severity, or as there are judicious substitutes for the punishment of death. i shall not inquire, in this place, how far the right of taking away life on many occasions, which is sanctioned by the law of the land, can be supported on the ground of justice, or how for a greater injury is done by it, than the injury the criminal has himself done. as christians, it seems that we should be influenced by christian principles. now nothing can be more true, than that christianity commands us to be tender hearted one to another, to have a tender forbearance one with another, and to regard one another as brethren. we are taught also that men, independently of their accountableness to their own governments, are accountable for their actions in a future state, and that punishments are unquestionably to follow. but where are our forbearance and our love, where is our regard for the temporal and eternal interests of man, where is our respect for the principles of the gospel, if we make the reformation of a criminal a less object than his punishment, or if we consign him to death, in the midst of his sins, without having tried all the means in our power for his recovery? had the quakers been the legislators of the world, they had long ago interwoven the principles of their discipline into their penal codes, and death had been long ago abolished as a punishment for crimes. as far as they have had any power with legislatures, they have procured an attention to these principles. george fox remonstrated with the judges in his time on the subject of capital punishments. but the quakers having been few in number, compared with the rest of their countrymen, and having had no seats in the legislature, and no predominant interest with the members of it, they have been unable to effect any change in england on this subject. in pennsylvania, however, where they were the original colonists, they have had influence with their own government, and they have contributed to set up a model of jurisprudence, worthy of the imitation of the world. william penn, on his arrival in america, formed a code of laws chiefly on quaker principles, in which, however, death was inscribed as a punishment, but it was confined to murder. queen anne set this code aside, and substituted the statute and common law of the mother country. it was, however, resumed in time, and acted upon for some years, when it was set aside by the mother country again. from this time it continued dormant till the separation of america from england. but no sooner had this event taken place, which rendered the american states their own legislators, than the pennsylvanian quakers began to aim at obtaining an alteration of the penal laws. in this they were joined by worthy individuals of other denominations; and these, acting in union, procured from the legislature of pennsylvania, in the year , a reform of the criminal code. this reform, however, was not carried, in the opinion of the quakers, to a sufficient length. accordingly, they took the lead again, and exerted themselves afresh upon this subject. many of them formed themselves into a society "for alleviating the miseries of public prisons." other persons co-operated with them in this undertaking also. at length, after great perseverance, they prevailed upon the same legislature, in the year , to try an ameliorated system. this trial answered so well, that the same legislature again, in the year , established an act, in which several quaker principles were incorporated, and in which only the crime of premeditated murder was punishable with death. as there is now but one capital offence in pennsylvania, punishments for other offences are made up of fine, imprisonment, and labour; and these are awarded separately or conjointly, according to the magnitude of the crime. when criminals have been convicted, and sent to the great gaol of philadelphia to undergo their punishment, it is expected of them that they should maintain themselves out of their daily labour; that they should pay for their board and washing, and also for the use of their different implements of labour; and that they should defray the expences of their commitment, and of their prosecutions and their trials. an account therefore is regularly kept against them, and if at the expiration of the term of their punishment, there should be a surplus of money in their favour, arising out of the produce of their work, it is given to them on their discharge. an agreement is usually made about the price of prison-labour between the inspector of the gaol and the employers of the criminals. as reformation is now the great object in pennsylvania, where offences have been committed, it is of the first importance that the gaoler and the different inspectors should be persons of moral character. good example, religious advice, and humane treatment on the part of these, will have a tendency to produce attention, respect, and love on the part of the prisoners, and to influence their moral conduct. hence it is a rule never to be departed from, that none are to be chosen as successors to these different officers, but such, as shall be found on inquiry to have been exemplary in their lives. as reformation, again, is now the great object, no corporal punishment is allowed in the prison. no keeper can strike a criminal. nor can any criminal be put into irons. all such punishments are considered as doing harm. they tend to extirpate a sense of shame. they tend to degrade a man and to make him consider himself as degraded in his own eyes; whereas it is the design of this change in the penal system, that he should be constantly looking up to the restoration of his dignity as a man, and to the recovery of his moral character. as reformation, again, is now the great object, the following[ ] system is adopted. no intercourse is allowed between the males and the females, nor any between the untried and the convicted prisoners. while they are engaged in their labour, they are allowed to talk only upon the subject, which immediately relates to their work. all unnecessary conversation is forbidden. profane swearing is never overlooked. a strict watch is kept, that no spirituous liquors may be introduced. care is taken that all the prisoners have the benefit of religious instruction. the prison is accordingly open, at stated times, to the pastors of the different religious denominations of the place. and as the mind of man may be worked upon by rewards as well as by punishments, a hope is held out to the prisoners, that the time of their confinement may be shortened by their good behaviour. for the inspectors, if they have reason to believe that a solid reformation has taken place in any individual, have a power of interceding for his enlargement, and the executive government of granting it, if they think it proper. in the case, where the prisoners are refractory, they are usually put into solitary confinement, and deprived of the opportunity of working. during this time the expences of their board and washing are going on, so that they are glad to get into employment again, that they may liquidate the debt, which, since the suspension of their labour, has been accruing to the gaol. [footnote : as cleanliness is connected with health, and health with morals, the prisoner are obliged to wash and clean themselves every morning before their work, and to bathe in the summer-season, in a large reservoir of water, which is provided in the court yard of the prison for this purpose.] in consequence of these regulations, those who visit the criminals in philadelphia in the hours of their labour, have more the idea of a large manufactory, than of a prison. they see nail-makers, sawyers, carpenters, joiners, weavers, and others, all busily employed. they see regularity and order among these. and as no chains are to be seen in the prison, they seem to forget their situation as criminals, and to look upon them as the free and honest labourers of a community following their respective trades. in consequence of these regulations, great advantages have arisen both to the criminals, and to the state. the state has experienced a diminution of crimes to the amount of one half since the change of the penal system, and the criminals have been restored, in a great proportion, from the gaol to the community, as reformed persons. for few have been known to stay the whole term of their confinement. but no person could have had any of his time remitted him, except he had been considered both by the inspectors and the executive government as deserving it. this circumstance of permission to leave the prison before the time expressed in the sentence, is of great importance to the prisoners. for it operates as a certificate for them of their amendment to the world at large. hence no stigma is attached to them for having been the inhabitants of a prison. it may be observed also, that some of the most orderly and industrious, and such as have worked at the most profitable trades, have had sums of money to take on their discharge, by which they have been able to maintain themselves honestly, till they could get into employ. such is the state, and such the manner of the execution of the penal laws of pennsylvania, as founded upon quaker-principles, so happy have the effects of this new system already been, that it is supposed it will be adopted by the other american states. may the example be universally followed! may it be universally received as a truth, that true policy is inseparable from virtue; that in proportion as principles become lovely on account of their morality, they will become beneficial, when acted upon, both to individual and to states; or that legislators cannot raise a constitution upon so fair and firm a foundation, as upon the gospel of jesus christ! chap. ii. _monthly court or meeting--constitution of this meeting--each county is usually divided into parts--in each of these parts or divisions are several meeting-houses, which have their several congregations attached to them--one meeting-house in each division is fixed upon for transacting the business of all the congregations in that division--deputies appointed from every particular meeting or congregation in each division to the place fixed upon for transacting the business within it--nature of the business to be transacted--women become deputies, and transact business, equally with the men._ i come, after this long digression, to the courts of the quakers. and here i shall immediately premise, that i profess to do little more than to give a general outline of these. i do not intend to explain the proceedings, preparatory to the meetings there, or to state all the exceptions from general rules, or to trouble the memory of the reader with more circumstances than will be sufficient to enable him to have a general idea of this part of the discipline of the quakers. the quakers manage their discipline by means of monthly, quarterly, and yearly courts, to which, however they themselves uniformly give the name of meetings. to explain the nature and business of the monthly or first of these meetings, i shall fix upon some county in my own mind, and describe the business, that is usually done in this in the course of the month. for as the business, which is usually transacted in any one county, is done by the quakers in the same manner and in the same month in another, the reader, by supposing an aggregate of counties, may easily imagine, how the whole business of the society is done for the whole kingdom. the quakers[ ] usually divide a county into a number of parts, according to the quaker-population of it. in each of these divisions there are usually several meeting-houses, and these have their several congregations attached to them. one meeting-house, however, in each division, is usually fixed upon for transacting the business of all the congregations that are within it, or for the holding of these monthly courts. the different congregations of the quakers, or the members of the different particular meetings, which are settled in the northern part of the county, are attached of course to the meeting-house, which has been fixed upon in the northern division of it because it gives them the least trouble to repair to it on this occasion. the numbers of those again, which are settled in the southern, or central, or other parts of the county, are attached to that, which has been fixed upon in the southern, or central, or other divisions of it, for the same reason. the different congregations in the northern division of the county appoint, each of them, a set of deputies once a month, which deputies are of both sexes, to repair to the meeting-house, which has been thus assigned them. the different congregations in the southern, central, or other divisions, appoint also, each of them, others, to repair to that, which has been assigned them in like manner. these deputies are all of them previously instructed in the matters, belonging to the congregations, which they respectively represent. [footnote : this was the ancient method, when the society was numerous in every county of the kingdom, and the principle is still followed according to existing circumstances.] at length the day arrives for the monthly meeting. the deputies make ready to execute the duties committed to their trust. they repair, each sett of them, to their respective places of meeting. here a number of quakers, of different ages and of both sexes, from their different divisions, repair also. it is expected that[ ] all, who can conveniently attend, should be present on this occasion. [footnote : there may be persons, who on account of immoral conduct cannot attend.] when they are collected at the meeting-house, which was said to have been fixed upon in each division, a meeting for worship takes place. all persons, both men and women, attend together. but when this meeting is over, they separate into different apartments for the purposes of the discipline; the men to transact by themselves the business of the men, and of their own district, the women to transact that, which is more limited, namely such as belongs to their own sex. in the men's meeting, and it is the same in the women's, the names of the deputies beforementioned, are first entered in a book, for, until this act takes place, the meeting for discipline is not considered to be constituted. the minutes of the last monthly meeting are then generally read, by which it is seen if any business of the society was left unfinished. should any thing occur of this sort, it becomes the [ ]first object to be considered and dispatched. [footnote : the london monthly meetings begin differently from those in the country.] the new business, in which the deputies were said to have been previously instructed by the congregations which they represented comes on. this business may be of various sorts. one part of it uniformly relates to the poor. the wants of these are provided for, and the education of their children taken care of, at this meeting. presentations of marriages are received, and births, marriages, and funerals are registered. if disorderly members, after long and repeated admonitions, should have given no hopes of amendment, their case is first publicly cognizable in this court. committees are appointed to visit, advise, and try to reclaim them. persons, reclaimed by these visitations, are restored to membership, after having been well reported of by the parties deputed to visit them. the fitness of persons, applying for membership, from other societies, is examined here. answers also are prepared to the [ ]queries at the proper time. instructions also are given, if necessary, to particular meetings, suited to the exigencies of their cases; and certificates are granted to members on various occasions. [footnote : these queries will be explained in the next chapter.] in transacting this, and other business of the society, all members present we allowed to speak. the poorest man in the meeting-house, though he may be receiving charitable contributions at the time, is entitled to deliver his sentiments upon any point. he may bring forward new matter. he may approve or object to what others have proposed before him. no person may interrupt him, while he speaks. the youth, who are sitting by, are gaining a knowledge of the affairs and discipline of the society, and are gradually acquiring sentiments and habits, that are to mark their character in life. they learn, in the first place, the duty of a benevolent and respectful consideration for the poor. in hearing the different cases argued and discussed, they learn, in some measure, the rudiments of justice, and imbibe opinions of the necessity of moral conduct. in these courts they learn to reason. they learn also to hear others patiently, and without interruption, and to transact business, that may come before them in maturer years with regularity and order. i cannot omit to mention here the orderly manner in which, the quakers, conduct their business on these occasions. when a subject is brought before them, it is canvassed to the exclusion of all extraneous matter, till some conclusion results. the clerk of the monthly meeting then draws up a minute, containing, as nearly as he can collect, the substance of this conclusion. this minute is then read aloud to the auditory, and either stands or undergoes an alteration, as appears, by the silence or discussion upon it, to be the sense of the meeting. when fully agreed upon, it stands ready to be recorded. when a second subject comes on, it is canvassed, and a minute is made of it, to be recorded in the same manner, before a third is allowed to be introduced. thus each point is settled, till the whole business of the meeting is concluded. i may now mention that in the same manner as the men proceed in their apartment on this occasion, the women proceed in their own apartment or meeting also. there are women-deputies, and women-clerks. they enter down the names of these deputies, read the minutes, of the last monthly meeting, bring forward the new matter, and deliberate and argue on the affairs of their own sex. they record their proceedings equally. the young females also, are present, and have similar opportunities of gaining knowledge, and of improving their judgments, and of acquiring useful and moral habits, as the young men. it is usual, when the women have finished the business of their own meeting, to send one of their members to the apartments of the men, to know if they have any thing to communicate. this messenger having returned, and every thing having been settled and recorded in both meetings, the monthly meeting is over, and men, women, and youth of both sexes, return to their respective homes. in the same manner as the different congregations, or members of the different meetings, in any one division of the county, meet together, and transact their monthly business, so other different congregations, belonging to other divisions of the same county, meet at other appointed places, and dispatch their business also. and in the same manner as the business is thus done in one county, it is done in every other county of the kingdom once a month. chap. iii. _quarterly court or meeting--constitution of this meeting--one place in each county is now fixed upon for the transaction of business-this place may be different in the different quarters of the year--deputies from the various monthly meetings are appointed to repair to this place--nature of the business to be transacted--certain queries proposed--written answers carried to these by the deputies just mentioned--queries proposed in the womens meeting also, and answered in the same manner_.-- the quarterly meeting of the quakers, which comes next in order, is much more numerously attended than the monthly. the monthly, as we have just seen, superintend the concerns of a few congregations or particular meetings which were contained in a small division of the county. the quarterly meeting, on the other hand, superintends the concerns of all the monthly meetings in the county at large. it takes cognizance of course of the concerns of a greater portion of population, and, as the name implies, for a greater extent of time. the quaker population of a [ ] whole county is now to assemble in one place. this place, however, is not always the same. it may be different, to accommodate the members in their turn, in the different quarters of the year. [footnote : i still adhere, to give the reader a clearer idea of the discipline, and to prevent confusion, to the division by county, though the district in question may not always comprehend a complete county.] in the same manner as the different congregations in a small division of a county have been shewn to have sent deputies to the respective monthly meetings within it, so the different monthly meetings in the same county send each of them, deputies to the quarterly. two or more of each sex are generally deputed from each monthly meeting. these deputies are supposed to have understood, at the monthly meeting, where they were chosen, all the matters which the discipline required them to know relative to the state and condition of their constituents. furnished with this knowledge, and instructed moreover by written documents on a variety of subjects, they repair at a proper time to the place of meeting. all the quakers in the district in question, who are expected to go, bend their direction hither. any person travelling in the county at this time, would see an unusual number of quakers upon the road directing their journey to the same point. those who live farthest from the place where the meeting is held, have often a long journey to perform. the quakers are frequently out two or three whole days, and sometimes longer upon this occasion. but as this sort of meeting takes place but once in the quarter, the loss of their time, and the fatigue of their journey, and the expences attending it, are borne cheerfully. when all of them are assembled, nearly the same custom obtains at the quarterly, as has been described at the monthly meeting. a meeting for worship is first held. the men and women, when this is over, separate into their different apartments, after which the meeting for discipline begins in each. i shall not detail the different kinds of business, which come on at this meeting. i shall explain the principal subject only. the society at large have agreed upon a number of questions, or queries as they call them, which they have committed to print, and which they expect to be read and answered in the course of these quarterly meetings the following is a list of them. i. are meetings for worship and discipline kept up, and do friends attend them duly, and at the time appointed; and do they avoid all unbecoming behavieur therein? ii. is there among you any growth in the truth; and hath any convincement appeared since last year? iii. are friends preserved in love towards each other; if differences arise, is due care taken speedily to end them; and are friends careful to avoid and discourage tale-bearing and detraction? iv. do friends endeavour by example and precept to train up their children, servants, and all under their core, in a religions life and conversation, consistent with our christian profession, in the frequent reading of the holy scriptures, and in plainness of speech, behaviour and apparel? v. are friends just in their dealings and punctual in fulfilling their engagements; and are they annually advised carefully to inspect the state of their affairs once in the year? vi. are friends careful to avoid all vain sports and places of diversion, gaming, all unnecessary frequenting of taverns, and other public houses, excess in drinking, and other intemperance? vii. do friends bear a faithful and christian testimony against receiving and paying tythes, priests demands, and those called church-rates? viii. are friends faithful in our testimony against bearing arms, and being in any manner concerned in the militia, in privateers, letters of marque, or armed vessels, or dealing in prize-goods? ix. are friends clear of defrauding the king of his customs, duties and excise, and of using, or dealing in goods suspected to be run? x. are the necessities of the poor among you properly inspected and relieved; and is good care taken of the education of their offspring? xi. have any meetings been settled, discontinued, or united since last year? xii. are there any friends prisoners for our testimonies; and if any one hath died a prisoner, or been discharged since last year, when and how? xiii. is early care taken to admonish such as appear inclinable to marry in a manner contrary to the rules of our society; and to deal with such as persist in refusing to take counsel? xiv. have you two or more faithful friends, appointed by the monthly meeting, as overseers in each particular meeting; are the rules respecting removals duly observed; and is due care taken, when any thing appears amiss, that the rules of our discipline be timely and impartially put in practice? xv. do you keep a record of the prosecutions and sufferings of your members; is due care taken to register all marriages, births, and burials; are the titles of your meeting houses, burial grounds, &c. duly preserved and recorded; and are all legacies and donations properly secured, and recorded, and duly applied? these are the questions, which the society expect should be publicly asked and answered in their quarterly courts or meetings. some of these are to be answered in one quarterly meeting, and [ ] others in another; and all of them in the course of the year. [footnote : the quakers consider the punctual attendance of their religious meetings, the preservation of love among them, and the care of the poor, of such particular importance, that they require the first, third, and tenth to be answered every quarter.] the clerk of the quarterly meeting, when they come to this part of the business, reads the first of the appointed queries to the members present, and is then silent. soon after this a deputy from one of the monthly meetings comes forward, and producing the written documents, or answers to the queries, all of which were prepared at the meeting where he was chosen, reads that document, which contains a reply to the first query in behalf of the meeting he represents. a deputy from a second monthly meeting then comes forward, and produces his written documents also, and answers the same query in behalf of his own meeting in the same manner. a deputy from a third where there are more than two meetings then produces his documents in his turn, and replies to it also, and this mode is observed, till all the deputies from each of the monthly meetings in the county have answered the first query. when the first query has been thus fully answered, silence is observed through the whole court. members present have now an opportunity of making any observations they may think proper. if it should appear by any of the answers to the first query, that there is any departure from principles on the subject it contains in any of the monthly meetings which the deputies represent, it is noticed by any one present. the observations made by one frequently give rise to observations from another. advice is sometimes ordered to be given, adapted to the nature of this departure from principles; and this advice is occasionally circulated, through the medium of the different monthly meetings, to the particular congregation, where the deviation has taken place. when the first query has been thus read by the clerk, and answered by the deputies, and when observations have been made upon it, and instructions given as now described, a second query is read audibly, and the same process takes place, and similar observations are sometimes made, and instructions given. in the same manner a third query is read by the clerk, and answered by all the deputies, and observed upon by the meeting at large; and so on a fourth, and a fifth, till all the queries, set apart for the day are answered. it may be proper now to observe, that while the men in their own meeting-house are thus transacting the quarterly business for themselves, the women, in a different apartment or meeting-house, are conducting it also for their own sex. they read, answer, and observe upon, the queries in the same manner. when they nave settled their own business, they send one or two of their members, as they did in the case of the monthly meeting, to the apartment of the men, to know if they have any thing to communicate to them. when the business is finished in both meetings, they break up, and prepare for their respective homes. chap. iv. _great yearly court or meeting--constitution of this meeting--one place only of meeting fixed upon for the whole kingdom--this the metropolis--deputies appointed to it from the quarterly meetings--business transacted at this meeting--matters decided, not by the influence of numbers, but by the weight of religious character--no head or chairman of this meeting--character of this discipline or government of the quakers--the laws, relating to it better obeyed than those under any other discipline or government--reasons of this obedience_. in the order, in which i have hitherto mentioned the meetings for the discipline of the quakers, we have seen them rising by regular ascent, both in importance and power. we have seen each in due progression comprizing the actions of a greater population than the foregoing, and for a greater period of time. i come now to the yearly meeting, which is possessed of a higher and wider jurisdiction than any that have been yet described. this meeting does not take cognizance of the conduct of particular or of monthly meetings, but, at one general view, of the state and conduct of the members of each quarterly meeting, in order to form a judgment of the general state of the society for the whole kingdom. we have seen, on a former occasion, the quakers with their several deputies repairing to different places in a county; and we have seen them lately with their deputies again repairing to one great town in the different counties at large. we are now to see them repairing to the metropolis of the kingdom. as deputies were chosen by each monthly meeting to represent it in the quarterly meeting, so the quarterly meetings choose deputies to represent them in the yearly meeting. these deputies are commissioned to be the bearers of certain documents to london, which contain answers in writing to a [ ]number of the queries mentioned in the last chapter. these answers are made up from the answers received by the several quarterly meetings from their respective monthly meetings. besides these they are to carry with them other documents, among which are accounts of sufferings in consequence of a refusal of military service, and of the payment of the demands of the church. [footnote : viz. numbers , , , , , , , , , ] the deputies who are now generally four in number for each quarterly meeting, that is, four of each sex (except for the quarterly meetings of york and london, the former of which generally sends eight men and the [ ] latter twelve, and each of them the like number of females) having received their different documents, set forward on their journey. besides these many members of the society repair to the metropolis. the distance of three or four hundred miles forms no impediment to the journey. a man cannot travel at this time, but he sees the quakers in motion from all parts, shaping their course to london, there to exercise, as will appear shortly, the power of deputies, judges, and legislators in turn, and to investigate and settle the affairs of the society for the preceding year. [footnote : the quarterly meeting of london includes middlesex.] it may not be amiss to mention a circumstance, which has not unfrequently occurred upon these occasions. a quaker in low circumstances, but of unblemished life, has been occasionally chosen as one of the deputies to the metropolis even for a county, where the quaker-population has been considered to be rich. this deputy has scarcely been able, on account of the low state of his finances, to accomplish his journey, and has been known to travel on foot from distant parts. i mention this circumstance to shew that the society in its choice of representatives, shews no respect to persons, but that it pays, even in the persons of the poor, the respect that is due to virtue. the day of the yearly meeting at length arrives. whole days are now devoted to business, for which various committees are obliged to be appointed. the men, as before, retire to a meeting-house allotted to them, to settle the business for the men and the society at large, and the women retire to another, to settle that, which belongs to their own sex. there are nevertheless, at intervals, meetings for worship at the several meeting houses in the metropolis. one great part of the business of the yearly meeting is to know the state of the society in all its branches of discipline for the preceding year. this is known by hearing the answers brought to the queries from the several quarterly meetings, which are audibly read by the clerk or his assistant, and are taken in rotation alphabetically. if any deficiency in the discipline should appear by means of these documents, in any of the quarterly meetings, remarks follow on the part of the auditory, and written advices are ordered to be sent, if it should appear necessary, which are either of a general nature, or particularly directed to those where the deficiency has been observed. another part of the business of the yearly meeting is to ascertain the amount of the money, called "friends sufferings," that is of the money, or the value of the goods, that have been taken from the quakers for [ ] tithes and church dues; for the society are principled against the maintenance of any religious ministry, and of course cannot conscientiously pay toward the support of the established church. in consequence of their refusal of payment in the latter case, their goods are seized by a law-process, and sold to the best bidder. those, who have the charge of these executions, behave differently. some wantonly take such goods, as will not sell for a quarter of their value, and others much more than is necessary, and others again kindly select those, which in the sale will be attended with the least loss. this amount, arising from this confiscation of their property, is easily ascertained from the written answers of the deputies. the sum for each county is observed, and noted down. the different sums are then added together, and the amount for the whole kingdom within the year is discovered. [footnote : distraints or imprisonment for refusing to serve in the militia are included also under the head "sufferings."] in speaking of tithes and church-dues i must correct an error, that is prevalent. it is usually understood, when quakers suffer on these accounts, that their losses are made up by the society at large. nothing can be more false than this idea. were their losses made up on such occasions, there would be no suffering. the fact is, that whatever a person loses in this way is his own total loss; nor is it ever refunded, though, in consequence of expensive prosecutions at law, it has amounted to the whole of the property of those, who have refused the payment of these demands. if a man were to come to poverty on this account, he would undoubtedly be supported, but he would only be supported as belonging to the poor of the society. among the subjects, introduced at this meeting, may be that of any new regulations for the government of the society. the quakers are not so blindly attached to antiquity, as to keep to customs, merely because they are of an ancient date. but they are ready, on conviction, to change, alter, and improve. when, however, such regulations or alterations are proposed, they must come not through the medium of an individual, but through the medium of one of the quarterly meetings. there is also a variety of other business at the yearly meeting. reports are received and considered on the subject of ackworth school, which was mentioned in a former part of the work as a public seminary of the society. letters are also read from the branches of the society in foreign parts, and answers prepared to them. appeals also are heard in various instances, and determined in this court. i may mention here two circumstances, that are worthy of notice on these occasions. it may be observed that whether such business as that, which i have just detailed or any of any other sort comes before the yearly meeting at large, it is decided, not by the influence of numbers, but by the weight of religious character. as most subjects afford cause for a difference of opinion, so the quakers at this meeting are found taking their different sides of the argument, as they believe it right. those however, who are in opposition to any measure, if they perceive by the turn the debate takes, either that they are going against the general will, or that they are opposing the sentiments of members of high moral reputation in the society, give way. and so far do the quakers carry their condescension on these occasions, that if a few ancient and respectable individuals seem to be dissatisfied with any measure that may have been proposed, though otherwise respectably supported, the measure is frequently postponed, out of tenderness to the feelings of such members, and from a desire of gaining them in time by forbearance. but, in whatever way the question before them is settled, no division is ever called for. no counting of numbers is allowed. no protest is suffered to be entered. in such a case there can be no ostensible leader of any party; no ostensible minority or majority. the quakers are of opinion that such things, if allowed, would be inconsistent with their profession. they would lead also to broils and divisions, and ultimately to the detriment of the society. every measure therefore is settled by the quakers at this meeting in the way i have mentioned, in brotherly love, and as the name of the society signifies, as friends. the other remarkable circumstance is, that there is no ostensible president or [ ] head of this great assembly, nor any ostensible president or head of any one of its committees; and yet the business of the society is conducted in as orderly a manner, as it is possible to be among any body of men, where the number is so great, and where every individual has a right to speak. [footnote : christ is supposed by the quakers to be the head, under whose guidance all their deliberations ought to take place.] the state of the society having, by this time been ascertained, both in the meetings of the women and of the men, from the written answers of the different deputies, and from the reports of different committees, and the [ ]other business of the meeting having been nearly finished, a committee, which had been previously chosen, meet to draw up a public letter. [footnote : this may relate to the printing of books, to testimonies concerning deceased ministers, addresses to the king, if thought necessary, and the like.] this letter usually comprehends three subjects: first, the state of the society, in which the sufferings for tithes and other demands of the church are included. this state, in all its different branches, the committee ascertain by inspecting the answers, as brought by the deputies before mentioned. a second subject, comprehended in the letter, is advice to the society for the regulation of their moral and civil conduct. this advice is suggested partly from the same written answers, and partly by the circumstances of the times. are there, for instance, any vicious customs creeping into the society, or any new dispositions among its members contrary to the quaker principles? the answers brought by the deputies shew it, and advice is contained in the letter adapted to the case. are the times, seasons of difficulty and embarrassment in the commercial world? is the aspect of the political horizon gloomy, and does it appear big with convulsions? new admonition and, advices follow. a third subject, comprehended in the letter, and which i believe since the year has frequently formed a standing article in it, is the slave-trade. the quakers consider this trade as so extensively big with misery to their fellow creatures, that their members ought to have a deep and awful feeling, and a religious care and concern about it. this and occasionally other subjects having been duly weighed by the committee, they begin to compose the letter. when the letter is ready, it is brought into the public meeting, and the whole of it, without interruption, is first read audibly. it is then read over again, and canvassed, sentence by sentence. every sentence, nay every word, is liable to alteration; for any one may make his remarks, and nothing can stand but by the sense of the meeting. when finally settled and approved, it is printed and dispersed among the members throughout the nation. this letter may be considered as informing the society of certain matters, that occurred in the preceding year, and as conveying to them admonitions on various subjects. this letter is emphatically stiled "the general epistle." the yearly meeting, having now lasted about ten days, is dissolved after a solemn pause, and the different deputies are at liberty to return home. this important institution of the yearly meeting brings with it, on every return, its pains and pleasures. to persons of maturer years, who sit at this time on committee after committee, and have various offices to perform, it is certainly an aniversary of care and anxiety, fatigue and trouble. but it affords them, on the other hand, occasions of innocent delight. some, educated in the same school, and others, united by the ties of blood and youthful friendship, but separated from one another by following in distant situations the various concerns of life, meet together in the intervals of the disciplinary business, and feel, in the warm recognition of their ancient intercourse, a pleasure, which might have been delayed for years, but for the intervention of this occasion. to the youth it affords an opportunity, amidst this concourse of members, of seeing those who are reputed to be of the most exemplary character in the society, and whom they would not have had the same chance of seeing at any other time. they are introduced also at this season to their relations and family friends. they visit about, and form new connections in the society, and are permitted the enjoyment of other reasonable pleasures. such is the organization of the discipline or government of the quakers. nor may it improperly be called a government, when we consider that, besides all matters relating to the church, it takes cognizance of the actions of quakers to quakers, and of these to their fellow-citizens, and of these again to the state; in fact of all actions of quakers, if immoral in the eye of the society, us soon at they we known. it gives out its prohibitions. it marks its crimes. it imposes offices on its subjects. it culls them to disciplinary duties.[ ]this government however, notwithstanding its power, has, as i observed before, no president or head, either permanent or temporary. there is no first man through the whole society. neither has it any badge of office, or mace, or constables staff or sword. it may be observed also, that it has no office of emolument, by which its hands can be strengthened, neither minister, elder, [ ]clerk, overseer, nor deputy, being paid; and yet its administration is firmly conducted, and its laws better obeyed, than laws by persons, under any other denomination or government. the constant assemblage of the quakers at their places of worship, and their unwearied attendances at the monthly and quarterly meetings, which they must often frequent at a great distance, to their own personal inconvenience, and to the hindrance of their worldly concerns, must be admitted, in part, as proofs of the last remark. but when we consider them as a distinct people, differing in their manner of speech and in their dress and customs from others, rebelling against fashion and the fashionable world, and likely therefore to become rather the objects of ridicule than of praise; when we consider these things, and their steady and rigid perseverance in the peculiar rules and customs of the society, we cannot but consider their obedience to their own discipline, which makes a point of the observance of these singularities, as extraordinary. [footnote : the government or discipline is considered as a theocracy.] [footnote : the clerk, who keeps the records of the society in london, is the only person who has a salary.] this singular obedience, however, to the laws of the society may be accounted for on three principles. in the first place in no society is there so much vigilance over the conduct of its members, as in that of the quakers, as this history of their discipline must have already manifested. this vigilance of course, cannot miss of its effect. but a second cause is the following. the quaker-laws and regulations are not made by any one person, nor by any number even of deputies. they are made by themselves, that is by the society in yearly meeting assembled. if a bad law, or the repeal of a good one, be proposed, every one present, without distinction, has a right to speak against the motion. the proposition cannot pass against the sense of the meeting. if persons are not present, it is their own fault. thus it happens that every law, passed at the yearly meeting, may be considered, in some measure, as the law of every quaker's own will, and people are much more likely to follow regulations made by their own consent, than those which are made against it. this therefore has unquestionably an operation as a second cause. a third may be traced in the peculiar sentiments, which the quakers hold as a religious body. they believe that many of their members, when they deliver themselves publicly on any subject at the yearly meeting, are influenced by the dictates of the pure principle, or by the spirit of truth. hence the laws of the society, which are considered to be the result of such influences, have with them the sanction of spiritual authority. they pay them therefore a greater deference on this account, than they would to laws, which they conceive to have been the production of the mere imagination, or will, of man. chap. v. _disowning--foundation of the right of disowning--disowning no slight punishment--wherein the hardship or suffering consists_. i shall conclude the discipline of the quakers by making a few remarks on the subject of disowning. the quakers conceive they have a right to excommunicate or disown; because persons, entering into any society, have a right to make their own reasonable rules of membership, and so early as the year , this practice had been adopted by george fox, and those who were in religious union with him. those, who are born in the society, are bound of course, to abide by these rules, while they continue to be the rules of the general will, or to leave it. those who come into it by convincement, are bound to follow them, or not to sue for admission into membership. this right of disowning, which arises from the reasonableness of the thing, the quakers consider to have been pointed out and established by the author of the christian religion, who determined that [ ]if a disorderly person, after having received repeated admonitions, should still continue disorderly, he should be considered as an alien by the church. [footnote : matt. .v. .] the observations, which i shall make on the subject of disowning, will be wholly confined to it as it must operate as a source of suffering to those, who are sentenced to undergo it. people are apt to say, "where is the hardship of being disowned? a man, though disowned by the quakers, may still go to their meetings for worship, or he may worship if he chooses, with other dissenters, or with those of the church of england, for the doors of all places of worship are open to those, who desire to enter them." i shall state therefore in what this hardship consists, and i should have done it sooner, but that i could never have made it so well understood as after an explanation had been given of the discipline of the quakers, or as in the present place. there is no doubt that a person, who is disowned, will be differently affected by different considerations. something will depend upon the circumstance, whether he considers himself as disowned for a moral or a political offence. something, again, whether he has been in the habit of attending the meetings for discipline, and what estimation he may put upon these. but whether he has been regular or not in these attendances, it is certain that he has a power and a consequence, while he remains in his own society, which he loses when he leaves it, or when he becomes a member of the world. the reader will have already observed, that in no society is a man, if i may use the expression, so much of a man, as in that of the quakers, or in no society is there such an equality of rank and privileges. a quaker is called, as we have seen, to the exercise of important and honourable functions. he sits in his monthly meeting, as it were in council, with the rest of the members. he sees all equal but he sees none superior, to himself. he may give his advice on any question. he may propose new matter. he may argue and reply. in the quarterly meetings he is called to the exercise of the same privileges, but on a larger scale. and at the yearly meeting he may, if he pleases, unite in his own person the offices of council, judge, and legislator. but when he leaves the society, and goes out into the world, he has no such station or power. he sees there every body equal to himself in privileges, and thousands above him. it is in this loss of his former consequence that he must feel a punishment in having been disowned. for he can never be to his own feelings what he was before. it is almost impossible that he should not feel a diminution of his dignity and importance as a man. neither can he restore himself to these privileges by going to a distant part of the kingdom and residing among quakers there, on a supposition that his disownment may be concealed. for a quaker, going to a new abode among quakers, must carry with him a certificate of his conduct from the last monthly meeting which he left, or he cannot be received as a member. but besides losing these privileges, which confer consequence upon him, he looses others of another kind. he cannot marry in the society. his affirmation will be no longer taken instead of his oath. if a poor man, he is no longer exempt from the militia, if drawn by submitting to three months imprisonment; nor is he entitled to that comfortable maintenance, in case of necessity, which the society provide for their own poor. to these considerations it may not perhaps be superfluous to add, that if he continues to mix with the members of his own society, he will occasionally find circumstances arising, which will remind him of his former state: and if he transfers his friendship to others, he will feel awkward and uneasy, and out of his element, till he has made his temper, his opinions, and his manners, harmonize with those of his new associates of the world. peculiar customs of the quakers. chap. i. sect. i. _dress--quakers distinguished by their dress from others--great extravagance in dress in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries--this extravagance had reached the clergy--but religious individuals kept to their antient dresses--the dress which the men of this description wore in those days--dress of the women of this description also--george fox and the quakers springing out of these, carried their plain habits with them into their new society._ i have now explained, in a very ample manner, the moral education and discipline of the quakers. i shall proceed to the explanation of such customs, as seem peculiar to them as a society of christians. the dress of the quakers is the first custom of this nature, that i purpose to notice. they stand distinguished be means of it from all other religious bodies the men wear neither lace, frills, ruffles, swords, nor any of the ornaments used by the fashionable world. the women wear neither lace, flounces, lappets, rings, bracelets, necklaces, ear-rings, nor any thing belonging to this class. both sexes are also particular in the choice of the colour of their clothes. all gay colours such as red, blue, green, and yellow, are exploded. dressing in this manner, a quaker is known by his apparel through the whole kingdom. this is not the case with any other individuals of the island, except the clergy; and these, in consequence of the black garments worn by persons on account of the death of their relations, are not always distinguished from others. i know of no custom among the quakers, which has more excited the curiosity of the world, than this of their dress, and none, in which they have been more mistaken in their conjectures concerning it. [ ]in the early times of the english history, dress had been frequently restricted by the government.--persons of a certain rank and fortune were permitted to wear only cloathing of a certain kind. but these restrictions and distinctions were gradually broken down, and people, as they were able and willing, launched out into unlimited extravagance in their dress. the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and down from thence to the time when the quakers first appeared, were periods, particularly noticed for prodigality in the use of apparel, there was nothing too expensive or too preposterous to be worn. our ancestors also, to use an ancient quotation, "were never constant to one colour or fashion two months to an end." we can have no idea by the present generation, of the folly in such respects, of these early ages. but these follies were not confined to the laiety. affectation of parade, and gaudy cloathing, were admitted among many of the clergy, who incurred the severest invectives of the poets on that account. the ploughman, in chaucer's canterbury tales, is full upon this point. he gives us the following description of a priest "that hye on horse wylleth to ride, in glytter ande gold of great araye, 'i painted and pertred all in pryde, no common knyght may go so gaye; chaunge of clothyng every daye, with golden gyrdles great and small, as boysterous as is here at baye; all suche falshed mote nede fell." [footnote : see strut's antiquities.] to this he adds, that many of them had more than one or two mitres, embellished with pearls, like the head of a queen, and a staff of gold set with jewels, as heavy as lead. he then speaks of their appearing out of doors with broad bucklers and long swords, or with baldrics about their necks, instead of stoles, to which their basellards were attached. "bucklers brode and sweardes longe, baudryke with baselards kene." he then accuses them with wearing gay gowns of scarlet and green colours, ornamented with cut-work, and for the long pykes upon their shoes. but so late as the year we have the following anecdote of the whimsical dress of a clergyman. john owen, dean of christ church, and vice-chancellor of oxford, is represented an wearing a lawn-band, as having his hair powdered and his hat curiously cocked. he is described also as wearing spanish leather-boots with lawn-tops, and snake-bone band-strings with large tassels, and a large set of ribbands pointed at his knees with points or tags at the end. and much about the same time, when charles the second was at newmarket, nathaniel vincent, doctor of divinity, fellow of clare-hall, and chaplain in ordinary to his majesty, preached before him. but the king was so displeased with the foppery of this preacher's, dress, that he commanded the duke of monmouth, then chancellor of the university, to cause the statutes concerning decency of apparel among the clergy to be put into execution, which was accordingly done. these instances are sufficient to shew, that the taste for preposterous and extravagant dress must have operated like a contagion in those times, or the clergy would scarcely have dressed themselves in this ridiculous and censurable manner. but although this extravagance was found among many orders of society at the time of the appearance of george fox, yet many individuals had set their faces against the fashions of the world. these consisted principally of religious people of different denominations, most of whom were in the middle classes of life. such persons were found in plain and simple habits notwithstanding the contagion of the example of their superiors in rank. the men of this description generally wore plain round hats with common crowns. they had discarded the sugar-loaf hat, and the hat turned up with a silver clasp on one side, as well as all ornaments belonging to it, such as pictures, feathers, and bands of various colours. they had adopted a plain suit of clothes. they wore cloaks, when necessary, over these. but both the clothes and the cloaks were of the same colour. the colour of each of them was either drab or grey. other people who followed the fashions, wore white, red, green, yellow, violet, scarlet, and other colours, which were expensive, because they were principally dyed in foreign parts. the drab consisted of the white wool undyed, and the grey of the white wool mixed with the black, which was undyed also. these colours were then the colours of the clothes, because they were the least expensive, of the peasants of england, as they are now of those of portugal and spain. they had discarded also, all ornaments, such as of lace, or bunches of ribbands at the knees, and their buttons were generally of alchymy, as this composition was then termed, or of the same colour as their clothes. the grave and religious women also, like the men, had avoided the fashions of their times. these had adopted the cap, and the black hood for their headdress. the black hood had been long the distinguishing mark of a grave matron. all prostitutes, so early as edward the third, had been forbidden to wear it. in after-times it was celebrated by the epithet of venerable by the poets, and had been introduced by painters as the representative of virtue. when fashionable women had discarded it, which was the case in george fox's time, the more sober, on account of these ancient marks of its sanctity, had retained it, and it was then common among them. with respect to the hair of grave and sober women in those days, it was worn plain, and covered occasionally by a plain hat or bonnet. they had avoided by this choice those preposterous head-dresses and bonnets, which none but those, who have seen paintings of them, could believe ever to have been worn. they admitted none of the large ruffs, that were then in use, but chose the plain handkerchief for their necks, differing from those of others, which had rich point, and curious lace. they rejected the crimson sattin doublet with black velvet skirts, and contented themselves with a plain gown, generally of stuff, and of a drab, or grey, or buff, or buffin colour, as it was called, and faced with buckram. these colours, as i observed before, were the colours worn by country people; and were not expensive, because they were not dyed. to this gown was added a green apron. green aprons had been long worn in england, yet, at the time i allude to, they were out of fashion, so as to be ridiculed by the gay. but old fashioned people still retained them. thus an idea of gravity was connected with them; and therefore religious and steady women adopted them, as the grave and sober garments of ancient times. it may now be observed that from these religious persons, habited in this manner, in opposition to the fashions of the world, the primitive quakers generally sprung. george fox himself wore the plain grey coat that has been noticed, with alchymy buttons, and a plain leather girdle about his waist. when the quakers therefore first met in religious union, they met in these simple clothes. they made no alteration in their dress on account of their new religion. they prescribed no form or colour as distinguishing marks of their sect, but they carried with them the plain habits of their ancestors into the new society, as the habits of the grave and sober people of their own times. sect. ii. _but though george fox introduced no new dress into the society, he was not indifferent on the subject--he recommended simplicity and plainness--and declaimed against the fashions of the times--supported by barclay and penn--these explained the objects of dress--the influence of these explanations--dress at length incorporated into the discipline--but no standard fixed either of shape or colour--the objects of dress only recognized, and simplicity recommended--a new era--great variety allowable by the discipline--quakers have deviated less from the dress of their ancestors than other people._ though george fox never introduced any new or particular garments, when he formed the society, as models worthy of the imitation of those who joined him, yet, as a religious man, he was not indifferent upon the subject of dress. nor could he, as a reformer, see those extravagant fashions, which i have shewn to have existed in his time, without publicly noticing them. we find him accordingly recommending to his followers simplicity and plainness of apparel, and bearing his testimony against the preposterous and fluctuating apparel of the world. in the various papers, which he wrote or gave forth upon this subject, he bid it down as a position, that all ornaments, superfluities, and unreasonable changes in dress, manifested an earthly or worldly spirit. he laid it down again, that such things, being adopted principally for the lust of the eye, were productive of vanity and pride, and that, in proportion as men paid attention to these outward decorations and changes, they suffered some loss in the value and dignity of their minds. he considered also all such decorations and changes, as contrary both to the letter and the spirit of the scriptures. isaiah, one of the greatest prophets under the law, had severely reproved the daughters of israel on account of their tinkling ornaments, cauls, round tires, chains, bracelets, rings, and ear-rings. st. paul also and st. peter had both of them cautioned the women of their own times, to adorn themselves in modest apparel, and not with broidered hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array. and the former had spoken to both sexes indiscriminately not to conform to the world, in which latter expression he evidently included all those customs of the world, of whatsoever nature, that were in any manner injurious to the morality of the minds of those who followed them. by the publication of these sentiments, george fox shewed to the world, that it was his opinion, that religion, though it prescribed no particular form of apparel, was not indifferent as to the general subject of dress. these sentiments became the sentiments of his followers. but the society was coming fast into a new situation. when the members of it first met in union, they consisted of grown up persons; of such, as had had their minds spiritually exercised, and their judgments convinced in religious matters; of such in fact as had been quakers in spirit, before they had become quakers by name. all admonitions therefore on the subject of dress were unnecessary for such persons. but many of those, who had joined the society, had brought with them children into it, and from the marriages of others, children were daily springing up. to the latter, in a profligate age, where the fashions were still raging from without, and making an inroad upon the minds and morals of individuals, some cautions were necessary for the preservation of their innocence in such a storm. for these were the reverse of their parents. young, in point of age, they were quakers by name, before they could become quakers in spirit. robert barclay therefore, and william penn, kept alive the subject of dress, which george fox had been the first to notice in the society. they followed him on his scriptural ground. they repeated the arguments, that extravagant dress manifested an earthly spirit, and that it was productive of vanity and pride. but they strengthened the case by adding arguments of their own. among these i may notice, that they considered what were the objects of dress. they reduced these to two, to decency, and comfort, in which latter idea was included protection from the varied inclemencies of the weather. every thing therefore beyond these they considered as superfluous. of course all ornaments would become censurable, and all unreasonable changes indefensible, upon such a system. these discussions, however, on this subject never occasioned the more ancient quakers to make any alteration in their dress, for they continued as when they had come into the society, to be a plain people. but they occasioned parents to be more vigilant over their children in this respect, and they taught the society to look upon dress, as a subject connected with the christian religion, in any case, where it could become injurious to the morality of the mind. in process of time therefore as the fashions continued to spread, and the youth of the society began to come under their dominion, the quakers incorporated dress among other subjects of their discipline. hence no member, after this period, could dress himself preposterously, or follow the fleeting fashions of the world, without coming under the authority of friendly and wholesome admonition. hence an annual inquiry began to be made, if parents brought up their children to dress consistently with their christian profession. the society, however, recommended only simplicity and plainness to be attended to on this occasion. they prescribed no standard, no form, no colour, for the apparel of their members. they acknowledged the two great objects of decency and comfort, and left their members to clothe themselves consistently with these, as it was agreeable to their convenience or their disposition. a new æra commenced from this period. persons already in the society, continued of course in their ancient dresses: if others had come into it by convincement, who had led gay lives, they laid aside their gaudy garments, and took those that were more plain. and the children of both, from this time, began to be habited from their youth as their parents were. but though the quakers had thus brought apparel under the disciplinary cognizance of the society, yet the dress of individuals was not always alike, nor did it continue always one and the same even with the primitive quakers. nor has it continued one and the same with their descendants. for decency and comfort having been declared to be the true and only objects of dress, such a latitude was given, as to admit of great variety in apparel. hence if we were to see a groupe of modern quakers before us, we should probably not find any two of them dressed alike. health, we all know, may require alteration in dress. simplicity may suggest others. convenience again may point out others; and yet all these various alterations may be consistent with the objects before specified. and here it may be observed that the society, during its existence for a century and a half, has without doubt, in some degree, imperceptibly followed the world, though not in its fashions, yet in its improvements of cloathing. it must be obvious again, that some people are of a grave, and that others are of a lively disposition, and that these will probably never dress alike. other members again, but particularly the rich, have a larger intercourse than the rest of them, or mix more with the world. these again will probably dress a little differently from others, and yet, regarding the two great objects of dress, their cloathing may come within the limits which these allow. indeed if there be any, whose apparel would be thought exceptionable by the society, these would be found among the rich. money, in all societies, generally takes the liberty of introducing exceptions. nothing, however is more true, than that, even among the richest of the quakers, there is frequently as much plainness and simplicity in their outward dress, as among the poor; and where the exceptions exist, they are seldom carried to an extravagant, and never to a preposterous extent. from this account it will be seen, that the ideas of the world are erroneous on the subject of the dress of the quakers; for it has always been imagined, that, when the early quakers first met in religious union, they met to deliberate and fix upon some standard, which should operate as a political institution, by which the members should be distinguished by their apparel from the rest of the world. the whole history, however, of the shape and colour of the garments of the quakers is, as has been related, namely, that the primitive quakers dressed like the sober, steady, and religious people of the age, in which the society sprung up, and that their descendants have departed less in a course of time, than others, from the dress of their ancestors. the mens hats are nearly the same now, except that they have stays and loops, and many of their clothes are nearly of the same shape and colour, as in the days of george fox. the dress of the women also is nearly similar. the black hoods indeed have gone, in a certain degree, out of use. but many of such women, as are ministers and elders, and indeed many others of age and gravity of manners, still retain them. the green apron also has been nearly, if not wholly laid aside. there was here and there an ancient woman, who used it within the last ten years, but i am told that the last of these died lately. no other reasons can be given, than those which have been assigned, why quaker-women should have been found in the use of a colour, which is so unlike any other which they now use in their dress. upon the whole, if the females were still to retain the use of the black hood and the green apron, and the men were to discard the stays and loops for their hats, we should find that persons of both sexes in the society, but particularly such as are antiquated, or as may be deemed old fashioned in it, would approach very near to the first or primitive quakers in their appearance, both as to the sort and to the shape, and to the colour of their clothes. thus has george fox, by means of the advice he gave upon this subject, and the general discipline which he introduced into the society, kept up for a hundred and fifty years, against the powerful attacks of the varying fashions of the world, one steady, and uniform, external appearance among his descendants; an event, which neither the clergy by means of their sermons, nor other writers, whether grave or gay, were able to accomplish during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and which none of their successors have been able to accomplish from that time to the present. sect iii. _the world usually make objections to the quaker-dress--the charge is that there is a preciseness in it which is equivalent to the worshipping of forms--the truth of this charge not to be ascertained but by a knowledge of the heart--but outward facts mate against it-such as the origin of the quaker-dress--and the quaker-doctrine on dress--doctrine of christianity on this subject--opinion of the early christians upon it--reputed advantages of the quaker-dress._ i should have been glad to have dismissed the subject of the quaker-dress in the last section, but so many objections are usually made against it, that i thought it right to stop for a while to consider them in the present place. indeed, if i were to choose a subject, upon which the world had been more than ordinarily severe on the quakers, i should select that of their dress. almost every body has something to say upon this point. and as in almost all cases, where arguments are numerous, many of them are generally frivolous, so it has happened in this also. there is one, however, which it is impossible not to notice upon this subject. the quakers, it is confessed by their adversaries, are not chargeable with the same sort of pride and vanity, which attach to the characters of other people, who dress in a gay manner, and who follow the fashions of the world, but it is contended, on the other hand, that they are justly chargeable with a preciseness, that is disgusting, in the little particularities of their cloathing. this precise attention to particularities is considered as little better than the worshipping of lifeless forms, and is usually called by the world the idolatry of the quaker-dress. this charge, if it were true, would be serious indeed. it would be serious, because it would take away from the religion of the quakers one of its greatest and best characters. for how could any people be spiritually minded, who were the worshippers of lifeless forms? it would be serious again, because it would shew their religion, like the box of pandora, to be pregnant with evils within itself. for people, who place religion in particular forms, must unavoidably become superstitious. it would be serious again, because if parents were to carry such notions into their families, they would produce mischief. the young would be dissatisfied, if forced to cultivate particularities, for which they see no just or substantial reason. dissentions would arise among them. their morality too would be confounded, if they were to see these minutiae idolized at home, but disregarded by persons of known religious character in the world. add to which, that they might adopt erroneous notions of religion. for they might be induced to lay too much stress upon the payment of the anise and cummin, and too little upon the observance of the weightier matters of the law. as the charge therefore is unquestionably a serious one, i shall not allow it to pass without some comments. and in the first place it maybe observed that, whether this preciseness, which has been imputed to some quakers, amounts to an idolizing of forms, can never be positively determined, except we had the power of looking into the hearts of those, who have incurred the charge. we may form, however, a reasonable conjecture, whether it does or not by presumptive evidence, taken from incontrovertible outward facts. the first outward fact that presents itself to us, is the fact of the origin of the quaker-dress, if the early quakers, when they met in religious union, had met to deliberate and fix upon a form or standard of apparel for the society, in vain could any person have expected to repel this charge. but no such standard was ever fixed. the dress of the quakers has descended from father to son in the way that has been described. there is reason therefore to suppose, that the quakers as a religious body, have deviated less than others front the primitive habits of their ancestors, rather from a fear of the effects of unreasonable changes of dress upon the mind, than from an attachment to lifeless forms. the second outward fact, which may be resorted to as furnishing a ground for reasonable conjecture, is the doctrine of the quakers upon this subject. the quakers profess to follow christianity in all cases, where its doctrines can be clearly ascertained. i shall state therefore what christianity says upon this point. i shall shew that what quakerism says is in unison with it. and i shall explain more at large the principle, that has given birth to the discipline of the quakers relative to their dress. had christianity approved of the make or colour of any particular garment, it would have approved of those of its founder and of his apostles. we do not, however, know, what any of these illustrious personages wore. they were probably dressed in the habits of judean peasants, and not with any marked difference from those of the same rank in life. and that they were dressed plainly, we have every reason to believe, from the censures, which some of them passed on the superfluities of apparel. but christianity has no where recorded these habits as a pattern, nor has it prescribed to any man any form or colour for his clothes. but christianity, though it no where places religion in particular forms, is yet not indifferent on the general subject of dress. for in the first place it discards all ornaments, as appears by the testimonies of st. paul and st. peter before quoted, and this it does evidently on the ground of morality, lest these, by puffing up the creature, should be made to give birth to the censurable passions of vanity and lust. in the second place it forbids all unreasonable changes on the plea of conformity with the fashions of the world: and it sets its face against these also upon moral grounds; because the following of the fashions of the world begets a worldly spirit, and because, in proportion as men indulge this spirit, they are found to follow the loose and changeable morality of the world, instead of the strict and steady morality of the gospel. that the early christians understood these to be the doctrines of christianity, there can be no doubt. the presbyters and the asceticks, i believe, changed the palluim for the toga in the infancy of the christian world; but all other christians were left undistinguished by their dress. these were generally clad in the sober manner of their own times. they observed a medium between costliness and sordidness. that they had no particular form for their dress beyond that of other grave people, we team from justin martyr. "they affected nothing fantastic, says he, but, living among greeks and barbarians, they followed the customs of the country, and in clothes, and in diet, and in all other affairs of outward life, they shewed the excellent and admirable constitution of their discipline and conversation." that they discarded superfluities and ornaments we may collect from various authors of those times. basil reduced the objects of cloathing to two, namely, "honesty and necessity," that is, to decency and protection. tertullian laid it down as a doctrine that a christian should not only be chaste, but that he should appear so outwardly. "the garments which we should wear, says clemens of alexandria, should be modest and frugal, and not wrought of divers colours, but plain." crysastum commends olympias, a lady of birth and fortune, for having in her garment nothing that was wrought or gaudy. jerome praises paula, another lady of quality, for the same reason. we find also that an unreasonable change of cloathing, or a change to please the eye of the world, was held improper. cyril says, "we should not strive for variety, having clothes for home, and others for ostentation abroad." in short the ancient fathers frequently complained of the abuse of apparel in the ways described. exactly in the same manner, and in no other, have the quakers considered the doctrines of christianity on the subject of dress. they have never adopted any particular model either as to form or colour for their clothes. they have regarded the two objects of decency and comfort. but they have allowed of various deviations consistently with these. they have in fact fluctuated in their dress. the english quaker wore formerly a round hat. he wears it now with stays and loops. but even this fashion is not universal, and seems rather now on the decline. the american quaker, on the other hand, has generally kept to the round hat. black hoods were uniformly worn by the quaker-women, but the use of these is much less than it was, and is still decreasing. the green aprons also were worn by the females, but they are now wholly out of use. but these changes could never have taken place, had there been any fixed standard for the quaker dress. but though the quakers have no particular model for their clothing, yet they are not indifferent to dress where it may be morally injurious. they have discarded all superfluities and ornaments, because they may be hurtful to the mind. they have set their faces also against all unreasonable changes of forms for the same reasons. they have allowed other reasons to weigh with them in the latter case. they have received from, their ancestors a plain suit of apparel, which has in some little degree followed the improvements of the world, and they see no good reason why they should change it; at least they see in the fashions of the world none but a censurable reason for a change. and here it may be observed, that it is not an attachment to forms, but an unreasonable change or deviation from them, that the quakers regard. upon the latter idea it is, that their discipline is in a great measure founded, or, in other words, the quakers, as a religious body, think it right to watch in their youth any unreasonable deviation from the plain apparel of the society. this they do first, because any change beyond usefulness must be made upon the plea of conformity to the fashions of the world. secondly, because any such deviation in their youth is considered to shew, in some measure, a deviation from simplicity of heart. it bespeaks the beginning of an unstable mind. it shews there must have been some improper motive for the change. hence it argues a weakness in the deviating persons, and points them out as objects to be strengthened by wholesome admonition. thirdly, because changes, made without reasonable motives, would lead, if not watched and checked, to other still greater changes, and because an uninterrupted succession of such changes would bring the minds of their youth under the most imperious despotisms, the despotism of fashion; in consequence of which they would cleave to the morality of the world instead of the morality of the gospel. and fourthly, because in proportion as young persons deviate from the plainness and simplicity of the apparel as worn by the society, they approach in appearance to the world; they mix with it, and imbibe its spirit and admit its customs, and come into a situation which subjects them to be disowned. and this is so generally true, that of those persons, whom the society has been obliged to disown, the commencement of a long progress in irregularity may often be traced to a deviation from the simplicity of their dress. and here it may be observed, that an effect has been produced by this care concerning dress, so beneficial to the moral interests of the society, that they have found in it a new reason for new vigilance on this subject. the effect produced is a general similarity of outward appearance, in all the members, though there is a difference both in the form and colour of their clothing; and this general appearance is such, as to make a quaker still known to the world. the dress therefore of the quakers, by distinguishing the members of the society, and making them known as such to the world, makes the world overseers as it were of their moral conduct. and that it operates in this way, or that it becomes a partial check in favour of morality, there can be no question. for a quaker could not be seen either at public races, or at cock fightings, or at assemblies, or in public houses, but the fact would be noticed as singular, and probably soon known among his friends. his clothes would betray him. neither could be, if at a great distance from home, and if quite out of the eye and observation of persons of the same religious persuasion, do what many others do. for a quaker knows, that many of the customs of the society are known to the world at large, and that a certain conduct is expected from a person in a quakers habit. the fear therefore of being detected, and at any rate of bringing infamy on his cloth, if i may use the expression, would operate so as to keep him out of many of the vicious customs of the world. from hence it will be obvious that there cannot be any solid foundation for the charge, which has been made against the quakers on the subject of dress. they are found in their present dress, not on the principle of an attachment to any particular form, or because any one form is more sacred than another, but on the principle, that an unreasonable deviation from any simple and useful clothing is both censurable and hurtful, if made in conformity with the fashions of the world. these two principles, though they may produce, if acted upon, a similar outward appearance in persons, are yet widely distinct as to their foundation, from one another. the former is the principle of idolatry. the latter that of religion. if therefore there are persons in the society, who adopt the former, they will come within the reach of the charge described. but the latter only can be adopted by true quakers. chap. ii. _quakers are in the use of plain furniture--this usage founded on principles, similar to those on dress--this usage general--quakers have seldom paintings, prints, or portraits in their houses, as, articles of furniture--reasons for their disuse of such articles._ as the quakers are found in the use of garments, differing from those of others in their shape and fashion, and in the graveness of their colour, and in the general plainness of their appearance, so they are found in the use of plain and frugal furniture in their houses. the custom of using plain furniture has not arisen from the circumstance, that any particular persons in the society, estimable for their lives and characters, have set the example in their families, but from the, principles of the quaker-constitution itself. it has arisen from principles similar to those, which dictated the continuance of the ancient quaker-dress. the choice of furniture, like the choice of clothes, is left to be adjudged by the rules of decency and usefulness, but never by the suggestions of shew. the adoption of taste, instead of utility, in this case, would be considered as a conscious conformity with the fashions of the world. splendid furniture also would be considered as pernicious as splendid clothes. it would be classed with external ornaments, and would be reckoned equally productive of pride, with these. the custom therefore of plainness in the articles of domestic use is pressed upon all quakers: and that the subject may not be forgotten, it is incorporated in their religious discipline; in consequence of which, it is held forth to their notice, in a public manner, in all the monthly and quarterly meetings of the kingdom, and in all the preparative meetings, at least once in the year. it may be admitted as a truth, that the society practice, with few exceptions, what is considered to be the proper usage on such occasions. the poor, we know, cannot use any but homely-furniture. the middle clashes are universally in such habits. as to the rich, there is a difference in the practice of these. some, and indeed many of them, use as plain and frugal furniture, as those in moderate circumstances. others again step beyond the practice of the middle classes, and buy what is more costly, not with a view of shew, so much as to accommodate their furniture to the size and goodness of their houses. in the houses of others again, who have more than ordinary intercourse with the world, we now and then see what is elegant, but seldom what would be considered to be extravagant furniture. we see no chairs with satin bottoms and gilded frames, no magnificent pier-glasses, no superb chandeliers, no curtains with extravagant trimmings. at least, in all my intercourse with the quakers, i have never observed such things. if there are persons in the society, who use them, they must be few in number, and these must be conscious that, by the introduction of such finery[ ] into their houses, they are going against the advices annually given them in their meetings on this subject, and that they are therefore violating the written law, as well as departing from the spirit of quakerism. [footnote : turkey carpets are in use, though generally gaudy, on account of their wearing better than others.] but if these or similar principles are adopted by the society on this subject, it must be obvious, that in walking through the rooms of the quakers, we shall look in vain for some articles that are classed among the furniture of other people. we shall often be disappointed, for instance, if we expect to find either paintings or prints in frame. i seldom remember to have seen above three or four articles of this description in all my intercourse with the quakers. some families had one of these, others a second, and others a third, but none had them all. and in many families neither the one nor the other was to be seen. one of the prints, to which i allude, contained a representation of the conclusion of the famous treaty between william penn and the indians of america. this transaction every body knows, afforded, in all its circumstances, a proof to the world, of the singular honour and uprightness of those ancestors of the quakers who were concerned in it. the indians too entertained an opinion no less favourable of their character, for they handed down the memory of the event under such [ ]impressive circumstances, that their descendants have a particular love for the character, and a particular reliance on the word, of a quaker at the present day. the print alluded to was therefore probably hung up as the pleasing record of a transaction, so highly honourable to the principles of the society; where knowledge took no advantage of ignorance, but where she associated herself with justice, that she might preserve the balance equal. "this is the only treaty," says a celebrated writer, "between the indians and the christians, that was never ratified by an oath, and was never broken." [footnote : the indians denominated penn, brother onas, which means in their language a pen, and respect the quakers as his descendants.] the second was a print of a slave-ship, published a few years ago, when the circumstances of the slave-trade became a subject of national inquiry. in this the oppressed africans are represented, as stowed in different parts according to the number transported and to the scale of the dimensions of the vessel. this subject could not be indifferent to those, who had exerted themselves as a body for the annihilation of this inhuman traffic. the print, however, was not hung up by the quakers, either as a monument of what they had done themselves, or as a stimulus to farther exertion on the same subject, but, i believe, from the pure motive of exciting benevolence; of exciting the attention of those, who should come into their houses, to the case of the injured africans, and of procuring sympathy in their favour. the third contained a plan of the building of ackworth-school. this was hung up as a descriptive view of a public seminary, instituted and kept up by the subscription and care of the society at large. but though all the prints, that have been mentioned, were hung up in frames on the motives severally assigned to them, no others were to be seen as their companions. it is in short not the practice[ ] of the society to decorate their houses in this manner. [footnote : there are still individual exceptions. some quakers have come accidentally into possession of printings and engravings in frame, which, being innocent in their subject and their lesson, they would have thought it superstitious to discard.] prints in frames, if hung up promiscuously in a room, would be considered as ornamental furniture, or as furniture for shew. they would therefore come under the denomination of superfluities; and the admission of such, in the way that other people admit them would be considered as an adoption of the empty customs or fashions of the world. but though the quakers are not in the practice of hanging up prints in frames, yet there are amateurs among them, who have a number and variety of prints in their possession. but these appear chiefly in collections, bound together in books, or preserved in book covers, and not in frames as ornamental furniture for their rooms. these amateurs, however, are but few in number. the quakers have in general only a plain and useful education. they are not brought up to admire such things, and they have therefore in general but little taste for the fine and masterly productions of the painters' art. neither would a person, in going through the houses of the quakers, find any portraits either of themselves, or of any of their families, or ancestors, except, to the latter case, they had been taken before they became quakers. the first quakers never had their portraits taken with their own knowledge and consent. considering themselves as poor and helpless creatures, and little better than dust and ashes, they had but a mean idea of their own images. they were of opinion also, that pride and self-conceit would be likely to arise to men from the view, and ostentatious parade, of their own persons. they considered also, that it became them, as the founders of the society, to bear their testimony against the vain and superfluous fashions of the world. they believed also, if there were those whom they loved, that the best method of shewing their regard to these would be not by having their fleshly images before their eyes, but by preserving their best actions in their thoughts, as worthy of imitation; and that their own memory, in the same manner, should be perpetuated rather in the loving hearts, and kept alive in the edifying conversation of their descendants, than in the perishing tablets of canvas, fixed upon the walls of their habitations. hence no portraits are to be seen of many of those great and eminent men in the society, who are now mingled with the dust. these ideas, which thus actuated the first quakers on this subject, are those of the quakers as a body at the present day. there may be here and there an individual, who has had a portrait of some of his family taken. but such instances may be considered as rare exceptions from the general rule. in no society is it possible to establish maxims, which shall influence an universal practice. chap. iii.....sect. i. _language--quakers differ in their language from others--the first alteration made by george fox of thou for you--this change had been suggested by erasmus and luther--sufferings of the quakers in consequence of adapting this change--a work published in their defence--this presented to king charles and others--other works on the subject by barclay and penn--in these the word thou shewn to be proper in all languages--you to be a mark of flattery--the latter idea corroborated by harwell, maresius, godeau, erasmus._ as the quakers are distinguishable from their fellow-citizens by their dress, as was amply shewn in a former chapter, so they are no less distinguishable from them by the peculiarities of their language. george fox seemed to look at every custom with the eye of a reformer. the language of the country, as used in his own times, struck him as having many censurable defects. many of the expressions, then in use, appeared to him to contain gross flattery, others to be idolatrous, others to be false representatives of the ideas they were intended to convey. now he considered that christianity required truth, and he believed therefore that he and his followers, who professed to be christians in word and deed, and to follow the christian pattern in all things, as far as it could be found, were called upon to depart from all the censurable modes of speech, as much as they were from any of the customs of the world, which christianity had deemed objectionable. and so weightily did these improprieties in his own language lie upon his mind, that he conceived himself to have had an especial commission to correct them. the first alteration, which he adopted, was in the use of the pronoun thou. the pronoun you, which grammarians had fixed to be of the plural number, was then occasionally used, but less than it is now, in addressing an individual. george fox therefore adopted thou in its place on this occasion, leaving the word you to be used only where two or more individuals were addressed. george fox however was not the first of the religious writers, who had noticed the improper use of the pronoun you. erasmus employed a treatise in shewing the propriety of thou when addressed to a single person, and in ridiculing the use of you on the same occasion. martin luther also took great pains to expunge the word you from the station which it occupied, and to put thou in its place. in his ludus, he ridicules the use of the former by the, following invented sentence, "magister, vosestis iratus?" this is as absurd, as if he had said in english "gentlemen art thou angry"? but though george fox was not the first to recommend the substitution of thou for you, he was the first to reduce this amended use of it to practice. this he did in his own person, wherever he went, and in all the works which he published. all his followers did the same. and, from his time to the present, the pronoun thou has come down so prominent in the speech of the society, that a quaker is generally known by it at the present day. the reader would hardly believe, if historical facts did not prove it, how much noise the introduction or rather the amended use of this little particle, as reduced to practice by george fox, made in the world, and how much ill usage it occasioned the early quakers. many magistrates, before whom they were carried in the early times of their institution occasioned their sufferings to be greater merely on this account. they were often abused and beaten by others, and sometimes put in danger of their lives. it was a common question put to a quaker in those days, who addressed a great man in this new and simple manner, "why you ill bred clown do you thou me?" the rich and mighty of those times thought themselves degraded by this mode of address, as reducing them from a plural magnitude to a singular, or individual, or simple station in life. "the use of thou, says george fox, was a sore cut to proud flesh, and those who sought self-honour." george fox, finding that both he and his followers were thus subject to much persecution on this account, thought it right the world should know, that, in using this little particle which had given so much offence, the quakers were only doing what every grammarian ought to do, if he followed his own rules. accordingly a quaker-work was produced, which was written to shew that in all languages thou was the proper and usual form of speech to a single person, and you to more than one. this was exemplified by instances, taken out of the scriptures, and out of books of teaching in about thirty languages. two quakers of the names of john stubbs and benjamin furley, took great pains in compiling it: and some additions were made to it by george fox himself, who was then a prisoner in lancaster castle. this work, as soon as it was published, was presented to king charles the second, and to his council. copies of it were also sent to the archbishop of canterbury, the bishop of london, and to each of the universities. the king delivered his sentiments upon it so far as to say, that thou was undoubtedly the proper language of all nations. the archbishop of canterbury, when he was asked what he thought of it, is described to have been so much at a stand, that he could not tell what to say. the book was afterwards bought by many. it is said to have spread conviction, wherever it went. hence it had the effect of lessening the prejudices of some, so that the quakers were never afterwards treated, on this account, in the same rugged manner as they had been before. but though this book procured the quakers an amelioration of treatment on the amended use of the expression thou, there were individuals in the society, who thought they ought to put their defence on a better foundation, by stating all the reasons, for there were many besides those in this book, which had induced them to differ from their fellow citizens on this subject. this was done both by robert barclay and william penn in works, which defended other principles of the quakers, and other peculiarities in their language. one of the arguments, by which the use of the pronoun thou was defended, was the same as that, on which it had been defended by stubbs and furley, that is, its strict conformity with grammar. the translators of the bible had invariably used it. the liturgy had been compiled on the same principle. all addresses made by english christians in their private prayers to the supreme being, were made in the language of thou, and not of you. and this was done, because the rules of the english grammar warranted the expression, and because any other mode of expression would have been a violation of these rules. but the great argument (to omit all others) which penn and barclay insisted upon for the change of you, was that the pronoun thou, in addressing an individual, had been anciently in use, but that it had been deserted for you for no other purpose, than that of flattery to men; and that this dereliction of it was growing greater and greater, upon the same principle, in their own times. hence as christians, who were not to puff up the fleshly creature, it became them to return to the ancient and grammatical use of the pronoun thou, and to reject this growing fashion of the world. "the word you, says william penn, was first ascribed in the way of flattery, to proud popes and emperors, imitating the heathens vain homage to their gods, thereby ascribing a plural honour to a single person; as if one pope had been made up of many gods, and one emperor of many men; for which reason you, only to be addressed to many, became first spoken to one. it seemed the word thou looked like too lean and thin a respect; and therefore some, bigger than they should be, would have a style suitable to their own ambition." it will be difficult for those, who now use the word you constantly to a single person, and who, in such use of it, never attach any idea of flattery to it, to conceive how it ever could have had the origin ascribed to it, or, what is more extraordinary, how men could believe themselves to be exalted, when others applied to them the word you instead of thou. but history affords abundant evidence of the fact. it is well known that caligula ordered himself to be worshipped as a god. domitian, after him, gave similar orders with respect to himself. in process of time the very statues of the emperors began to be worshipped. one blasphemous innovation prepared the way for another. the title of pontifex maximus gave way at length for those of eternity, divinity, and the like. coeval with these appellations was the change of the word thou for you, and upon the same principles. these changes, however, were not so disagreeable, as they might be expected to have been, to the proud romans; for while they gratified the pride of their emperors by these appellations, they made their despotism, in their own conceit, more tolerable to themselves. that one man should be lord ever many thousand romans, who were the masters of the world was in itself a degrading thought. but they consoled themselves by the haughty consideration, that they were yielding obedience, not to man, but to an incarnate demon or good genius, or especial envoy from heaven. they considered also the emperor as an office, and as an office, including and representing many other offices, and hence considering him as a man in the plural number, they had less objection to address him in a plural manner. the quakers, in behalf of their assertions on this subject, quote the opinions of several learned men, and of those in particular, who, from the nature of their respective writings, had occasion to look into the origin and construction of the words and expressions of language. howell, in his epistle to the nobility of england before his french and english dictionary, takes notice, "that both in france, and in other nations, the word thou was used in speaking of one, but by succession of time, when the roman commonwealth grew into an empire, the courtiers began to magnify the emperor, as being furnished with power to confer dignities and offices, using the word you, yea, and deifying him with more remarkable titles, concerning which matter we read in the epistles of symmachus to the emperors theodosius and valentinian, where he useth these forms of speaking, vestra Æternitas, vestrum numen, vestra serenitas, vestra clementia, that is, your, and not thy eternity, godhead, serenity, clemency. so that the word you in the plural number, together with the other titles and compellations of honour, seem to have taken their rise from despotic government, which afterwards, by degrees, came to be derived to private persons." he says also in his history of france, that "in ancient times, the peasants addressed their kings by the appellation of thou, but that pride and flattery first put inferiors upon paying a plural respect to the single person of every superior, and superiors upon receiving it." john maresius, of the french academy, in the preface to his clovis, speaks much to the same effect. "let none wonder, says he, that the word thou is used in this work to princes and princesses, for we use the same to god, and of old the same was used to alexanders, caesars, queens, and empresses. the use of the word you, when only base flatteries of men of later ages, to whom it seemed good to use the plural number to one person, that he may imagine himself alone to be equal to many others in dignity and worth, from whence it came at last to persons of lower quality." godeau, in his preface to the translation of the new testament, makes an apology for differing from the customs of the times in the use of thou, and intimates that you was substituted for it, as a word of superior respect. "i had rather, says he, faithfully keep to the express words of paul, than exactly follow the polished style of our tongue. therefore i always use that form of calling god in the singular number not in the plural, and therefore i say rather thou than you. i confess indeed, that the civility and custom of this word, requires him to be honored after that manner. but it is likewise on the contrary true, that the original tongue of the new testament hath nothing common with such manners and civility, so that not one of these many old versions we have doth observe it. let not men believe, that we give not respect enough to god, in that we call him by the word thou, which is nevertheless far otherwise. for i seem to myself (may be by the effect of custom) more to honor his divine majesty, in calling him after this manner, than if i should call him after the manner of men, who are so delicate in their forms of speech." erasmus also in the treatise, which he wrote on the impropriety of substituting you for thou, when a person addresses an individual, states that this strange substitution originated wholly in the flattery of men. sect. ii. _other alterations in the language of the quakers--they address one another by the title of friends--and others by the title of friends and neigbours, or by their common names--the use of sir and madam abolished--also of master or mister--and of humble servant--also of titles of honor--reasons of this abolition--example of jesus christ._ another alteration, that took place in the language of the quakers, was the expunging of all expressions from their vocabulary, which were either superfluous, or of the same flattering tendency as the former. in addressing one another, either personally or by letter, they made use of the word friend, to signify the bond of their own union, and the character, which man, under the christian dispensation, was bound to exhibit in his dealings with his fellow-man. they addressed each other also, and spoke of each other, by their real names. if a man's name was john, they called him john; they talked to him as john, and added only his sir-name to distinguish him from others. in their intercourse with the world they adopted the same mode of speech: for they addressed individuals either by their plain names, or they made use of the appellations of friends or neighbours. they rejected the words sir or madam, as then in use. this they did, because they considered them like the word you, as remnants of ancient flattery, derived from the papal and anti-christian ages; and because these words still continued to be considered as tides of flattery, that puffed up people in their own times. howell, who was before quoted on the pronoun thou, is usually quoted by the quakers on this occasion also. he states in his history, that "sir and madam were originally names given to none, but the king, his brother, and their wives, both in france and england. yet now the ploughman in france is called sir and his wife madam; and men of ordinary trades in england sir, and their wives dame, which is the legal title of a lady, and is the same as madam in french. so prevalent hath pride and flattery been in all ages, the one to give, and the other to receive respect" the quakers banished also the word master, or mister as it is now pronounced, from their language, either when they spoke concerning any one, or addressed any one by letter. to have used the word master to a person, who was no master over them, would have been, they considered, to have indicated a needless servility, and to have given a false picture of their own situation, as well as of those addressed. upon the same or similar principles they hesitated to subscribe themselves as the humble or obedient servants of any one, as is now usual, at the bottom of their letters. "horrid apostacy, says barclay, for it is notorious that the use of these compliments implies not any design of service." this expression in particular they reprobated for another reason. it was one of those, which had followed the last degree of impious services and expressions, which had poured in after the statues of the emperors had been worshipped, after the titles of eternity and divinity had been ushered in, and after thou had been exchanged for you, and it had taken a certain station, and flourished among these. good christians, however, had endeavoured to keep themselves clear of such inconsistencies casaubon has preserved a letter of paulinus, bishop of nola, in which he rebukes sulpicius severus for having subscribed himself "his humble servant." a part of the letter runs thus.[ ] "take heed hereafter, how thou, being from a servant called unto liberty, dost subscribe thyself servant to one, who is thy brother and fellow servant: for it is a sinful flattery, not a testament of humility, to pay those honours to a man and to a sinner, which are due to the one lord, one master, and one god." [footnote : paulinus flourished in the year . he is reported by paulus diacenus to have been an exemplary christian. among other acts he is stated to have expended all his revenues in the redemption of christian captives; and, at last, when he had nothing left in his purse, to have pawned his own person in favour of a widow's son. the barbarians, says the same author, struck with this act of unparralleled devotion to the cause of the unfortunate, released him, and many prisoners with him without ransom.] the quakers also banished from the use of their society all those modes of expression, which were considered as marks or designations of honour among men. hence, in addressing any peer of the realm, they never used the common formula of "my lord," for though the peer in question might justly be the lord over many possessions, and tenants, and servants, yet he was no lord over their heritages or persons. neither did they ever use the terms excellency, or grace, or honour, upon similar occasions. they considered that the bestowing of these titles might bring them under the necessity of uttering what might be occasionally false. "for the persons, says barclay, obtaining these titles, either by election or hereditarily, may frequently be found to have nothing really in them deserving them, or answering to them, as some, to whom it is said your excellency may have nothing of excellency in them, and he, who is called your grace, may be an enemy to grace, and he, who is called your honour, may be base and ignoble." they considered also, that they might be setting up the creature, by giving him the titles of the creator, so that he might think more highly of himself than he ought, and more degradingly than he ought, of the rest of the human race. but, independently of these moral considerations, they rejected these titles, because they believed, that jesus christ had set them an example by his own declarations and conduct on a certain occasion. when a person addressed him by the name of good master, he was rebuked as having done an improper thing. [ ] "why, says our saviour, callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is god." this censure they believe to have been passed upon him, because jesus christ knew, that when he addressed him by this title, he addressed him, not in his divine nature or capacity, but only as a man. [footnote : matt. xix. .] but jesus christ not only refused to receive such titles of distinction himself in his human nature, but on another occasion exhorted his followers to shun them also. they were not to be like the scribes and pharisees, who wished for high and eminent distinctions, that is, to be called rabbi rabbi of men; but says he, "be[ ] ye not called rabbi, for one is your master, even christ, and all ye are brethren;" and he makes the desire which he discovered in the jews, of seeking after worldly instead of heavenly honours, to be one cause of their infidelity towards christ,[ ] for that such could not believe, as received honour from one another, and sought not the honour, which cometh from god only; that is, that those persons, who courted earthly honours, could not have that humility of mind, that spirit that was to be of no reputation in the world, which was essential to those, who wished to become the followers of christ. [footnote : matt xxiii. .] [footnote : john. v. .] these considerations, both those of a moral nature, and those of the example of jesus christ, weighed so much with the early quakers, that they made no exceptions even in favour of those of royal dignity, or of the rulers of their own land. george fox wrote several letters to great men. he wrote twice to the king of poland, three or four tunes to oliver cromwell, and several times to charles the second; but he addressed them in no other manner man by their plain names, or by simple titles, expressive of their situations as rulers or kings.[ ] [footnote : the quakers never refuse the legal titles in the superscription or direction of their letter. they would direct to the king, as king: to a peer according to his rank, either as a duke, marquis, earl, viscount, or baron: to a clergyman, not as reverend, but as clerk.] these several alterations, which took place in the language of the early quakers, were adopted by their several successors, and are in force in the society at the present day. sect. iii. _other alterations in the language--the names of the days and months altered--reasons for this change--the word saint disused--various new phrases introduced_. another alteration, which took place in the language of the quakers was the disuse of the common names of the days of the week, and of those of the months of the year. the names of the days were considered to be of heathen origin. sunday had been so called by the saxons, because it was the day, on which they sacrificed to the sun. monday on which they sacrificed to the moon. tuesday to the god tuisco. wednesday to the god woden. thursday to the god thor, and so on. now when the quakers considered that jehovah had forbidden the israelites to make mention even of the names of other gods, they thought it inconsistent in christians to continue to use the names of heathen idols for the common divisions of their time, so that these names must be almost always in their mouths. they thought too, that they were paying a homage, in continuing the use of them, that bordered on idolatry. they considered also as neither monday, nor tuesday, nor any other of these days, were days, in which these sacrifices were now offered, they were using words, which conveyed false notions of things. hence they determined upon the disuse of these words, and to put other names in their stead. the numerical way of naming the days seemed to them to be the most rational, and the most innocent. they called therefore sunday the first day, monday the second, tuesday the third, and soon to saturday, which was of course the seventh. they used no other names but these, either in their conversation, or in their letters. upon the same principles they altered the names of the months also. these, such as march and june, which had been so named by the ancient romans, because they were sacred to mars and juno, were exploded, because they seemed in the use of them to be expressive of a kind of idolatrous homage. others again were exploded, because they were not the representatives of the truth. september, for example, means the [ ]seventh month from the storms. it took this seventh station in the kalendar of romulus, and it designated there its own station as well as the reason of its name. but when it[ ] lost its place in the kalendar by the alteration of the style in england, it lost its meaning. it became no representative of its station, nor any representative of the truth. for it still continues to signify the seventh month, whereas it is made to represent, or to stand in the place of, the ninth. the quakers therefore banished from their language the ancient names of the months, and as they thought they could not do better than they had done in the case of the days, they placed numerical in their stead. they called january the first month, february the second, march the third, and so on to december, which they called the twelfth. thus the quaker kalendar was made up by numerical distinctions, which have continued to the present day. [footnote : septem ab imbribus.] [footnote : this was in the year , prior to this time the year began on the th of march: and therefore september stood in the english as in the roman kalendar. the early quakers, however, as we find by a minute in , had then made these alterations; but when the new style was introduced, they published their reasons for having done so.] another alteration, which took place very generally in the language of the quakers, was the rejection of the word saint, when they spoke either of the apostles, or of the primitive fathers. the papal authority had canonized these. this they considered to be an act of idolatry, and they thought they should be giving a sanction to superstition, if they continued the use of such a title, either in their speech or writings. after this various other alterations took place according as individuals among them thought it right to expunge old expressions, and to substitute new; and these alterations were adopted by the rest, as they had an opinion of those who used them, or as they felt the propriety of doing it. hence new phrases came into use, different from those which were used by the world on the same occasions; and these were gradually spread, till they became incorporated into the language of the society. of these the following examples may suffice. it is not usual with quakers to use the words lucky or fortunate, in the way in which many others do. if a quaker had been out on a journey, and had experienced a number of fine days, he would never say that he had been lucky in his weather. in the same manner if a quaker had recovered from an indisposition, he would never say, in speaking of the circumstance, that he had fortunately recovered, but he would say, that he had recovered, and "that it was a favour." luck, chance, or fortune, are allowed by the quakers to have no power in the settlement of human affairs. it is not usual with quakers to beg ten thousand pardons, as some of the world do, for any little mistake. a quaker generally on such an occasion asks a persons excuse. the quakers never make use of the expression "christian name." this name is called christian by the world, because it is the name given to children in baptism, or in other words, when they are christened, or when they are initiated as christians. but the quakers are never baptised. they have no belief that water-baptism can make a christian, or that it is any true mark of membership with the christian church. hence a man's christian name is called by them his first name, because it is the first of the two, or of any other number of names, that may belong to him. the quakers, on meeting a person, never say "good morrow," because all days are equally good. nor in parting with a person at night, do they say "good evening," for a similar reason, but they make use of the expression of "farewell." i might proceed, till i made a little vocabulary of quaker-expressions; but this is not necessary, and it is not at all consistent with my design. i shall therefore only observe, that it is expected of quakers, that they should use the language of the society; that they should substitute thou for you; that they should discard all flattering titles and expressions; and that they should adopt the numerical, instead of the heathen names, of the days and months. george fox gave the example himself in all these instances. those of the society, who depart from this usage, are said by the quakers to depart from "the plain language." sect. iv. _great objections by the world against the preceding alterations by the quakers--first against the use of thou for you--you said to be no longer a mark of flattery--the use of it is said to be connected often with false grammar--custom said to give it, like a noun of number, a singular as well as plural meaning--consideration of these objections._ there will be no difficulty in imagining, if the quakers have found fault with the words and expressions adopted by others, and these the great majority of the world, that the world will scrutinize, and find fault with, those of the quakers in return. this in fact has turned out to be the case.--and i know of no subject, except that of dress, where the world have been more lavish of their censures, than in that before us. when the quakers first appeared as a religious community, many objections were thrown but against the peculiarities of their language. these were noticed by robert barclay and william penn. but, since that time, other objections have been started. but as these have not been published (for they remain where they have usually been, in the mouths of living persons) quaker writers have not felt themselves called upon to attempt to answer them. these objections, however, of both descriptions, i shall notice in the present place. as the change of the pronoun thou for you was the first article, that i brought forward on the subject of the language of the quakers, i shall begin with the objections, that are usually started against it. "singularity, it is said, should always be avoided, if it can be done with a clear conscience. the quakers might have had honest scruples against you for thou, when you was a mark of flattery. but they can have no reasonable scruples now, and therefore they should cease to be singular, for the word you is clearly no mark of flattery at the present day. however improper it might once have been, it is now an innocent synonime." "the use again of the word thou for you, as insisted upon by the quakers, leads them frequently into false grammar. 'thee knowest,' and terms like these, are not unusual in quaker mouths. now the quakers, though they defended the word thou for you on the notion, that they ought not to accustom their lips to flattery, defended it also strenuously on the notion, that they were strictly adhering to grammar-rules. but all such terms as 'thee knowest,' and others of a similar kind, must recoil upon themselves as incorrect, and as censurable, even upon their own ground." "the word you again may be considered as a singular, as well as a plural expression. the world use it in this manner. and who are the makers of language, but the world? words change their meaning, as the leaves their colour in autumn, and custom has always been found powerful enough to give authority for a change." with respect to these objections, it may be observed, that the word you has certainly so far lost its meaning, as to be no longer a mark of flattery. the quakers also are occasionally found in the use of the ungrammatical expressions, that have been brought against them. and unquestionably, except they mean to give up the grammatical part of the defence by penn and barclay, these ought to be done away. that you, however, is of the singular number, is not quite so clear. for while thou is used in the singular number in the bible, and in the liturgy, and in the prayers of individuals, and while it is the language, as it is, of a great portion of the inhabitants of the northern part of the kingdom, it will be a standing monument against the usurpation and mutilated dominion of you. sect. v. _secondly against the words friend and neighbour, as used by the quakers--quakers also said to be wrong in their disuse of titles--for the use of these is sanctioned by st. luke and st. paul--answer of barclay to the latter assertion--this answer not generally deemed satisfactory--observations upon the subject in dispute._ the subject, that comes next in order, will be that of the objections, that are usually made against certain terms used by the quakers, and against their disuse of titles of honour, as sanctioned by the world. on the use of the words "friend, and neighbour," it is usually observed, that these are too limited in their meaning, to be always, if used promiscuously, representatives of the truth. if the quakers are so nice, that they will use no expression, that is not precisely true, they should invent additional terms, which should express the relative condition of those, with whom they converse. the word "friend" denotes esteem, and the word "neighbour" proximity of dwelling. but all the persons, to whom the quakers address themselves, are not persons, whom they love and respect, or who are the inhabitants of the same neighbourhood with themselves. there is, it is said, as much untruth in calling a man friend, or neighbour, who is not so, as excellency, in whom there may be nothing that is excellent. the quakers, in reply to this, would observe, that they use the word friend, as significative of their own union, and, when they speak to others, as significative of their christian relation to one another. in the same sense they use the word neighbour. jesus christ, when the lawyer asked him who was his neighbour, gave him a short[ ] history of the samaritan, who fell among thieves; from which he suggested on inference, that the term neighbour was not confined to those, who lived near one another, or belonged to the same sect, but that it might extend to those, who lived at a distance, and to the samaritan equally with the jew. in the same manner he considered all men as[ ] brethren. that is, they were thus scripturally related to one another. [footnote : luke x. .] [footnote : matt, xxiii. .] another objection which has been raised against the quakers on this part of the subject, is levelled against their disuse of the titles of honour of the world. st. luke, it has been said, makes use of the terms most excellent, when he addresses theophilus, and st. paul of the words most noble, when he addresses festus. now the teachers and promulgators of christianity would never have given these titles, if they had not been allowable by the gospel. as this last argument was used in the time of barclay, he has noticed it in his celebrated apology.--"since luke, says he, wrote by the dictates of the infallible spirit of god, i think it will not be doubted but theophilus did deserve it, as being really endued with that virtue; in which case we shall not condemn those, who do it by the same rule. but it is not proved, that luke gave theophilus this title, as that which was inherent to him, either by his father, or by any patent theophilus had obtained from any of the princes of the earth, or that he would have given it to him, in case he had not been truly excellent; and without this be proved, which never can, there can nothing hence be deduced against us. the like may be said of that of paul to festus, whom he would not have called such, if he had not been truly noble; as indeed he was, in that he suffered him to be heard in his own cause, and would not give way to the fury of the jews against him. it was not because of any outward title bestowed upon festus, that he so called him, else he would have given the same compilation to his predecessor felix, who had the same office, but being a covetous man we find he gives him no such title." this is the answer of barclay. it has not however been deemed quite satisfactory by the world. it has been observed that one good action will never give a man a right to a general title. this is undoubtedly an observation of some weight. but it must be contended on the other hand, that both luke and paul must have been apprised that the religion, they were so strenuous in propagating, required every man to speak the truth. they must have been apprised also, that it inculcated humility of mind. and it is probable therefore that they would never have bestowed titles upon men, which should have been false in their application, or productive of vanity and pride. st. luke could not be otherwise than aware of the answer of jesus christ, when he rebuked the person for giving him the title of good, because he was one of the evangelists, who[ ] recorded it, and st. paul could not have been otherwise than aware of it also, on account of his intimacy with st. luke, as well as from other causes. [footnote : luke xviii, .] neither has this answer been considered as satisfactory for another reason. it has been presumed that the expressions of excellent and of noble were established titles of rank, and if an evangelist and an apostle used them, they could not be objectionable if used by others. but let us admit for a moment, that they were titles of rank. how happens it that st. paul, when he was before festus, and not in a judicial capacity (for he had been reserved for caesar's tribunal) should have given him this epithet of noble; and that, when summoned before felix, and this in a judicial capacity, he should have omitted it? this application of it to the one and not to the other, either implies that it was no title, or, if it was a title as we have supposed, that st. paul had some reason for this partial use of it. and in this case, no better reason can be given, than that suggested by barclay. st. paul knew that festus had done his duty. he knew, on the other hand, the abandoned character of felix. the latter was then living, as josephus relates, in open adultery with drusilla, who had been married to azis, and brought away from her husband by the help of simon a magician; and this circumstance probably gave occasion to paul to dwell upon temperance, or continence as the word might be rendered, among other subjects, when he made felix tremble. but, besides this, he must have known the general character of a man, of whom tacitus complained, that "his government was distinguished by[ ] servility and every species of cruelty and lust."-- [footnote : "per omnem saevitiam et libidinem jus regium servili ingenio exercuit."] if therefore the epithet of noble was an established title for those romans, who held the government of judea, the giving of it to one, and the omission of it to the other, would probably shew the discrimination of st. paul as a christian, that he had no objection to give it, where it could be applied with truth, but that he refused it, when it was not applicable to the living character. but that the expression of excellent or of noble was any title at all, there is no evidence to shew. and first, let us examine the word, which was used upon this occasion. the [ ]original greek word has no meaning as a title in any lexicon that i have seen. it relates both to personal and civil power, and in a secondary sense, to the strength and disposition of the mind. it occurs but in four places in the new testament. in two of these it is translated excellent and in the others noble. but gilbert wakefield, one of our best scholars has expunged the word noble, and substituted excellent throughout. indeed of all the meanings of this word noble is the least proper. no judgment therefore can be pronounced in favour of a title by any analysis of the word. [footnote : [greek: kralistos]] let us now examine it as used by st. luke. and here almost every consideration makes against it, as an established title. in the first place, the wisest commentators do not know who theophilus was. it has been supposed by many learned fathers, such as epephanius, salvian, and others, that st. luke, in addressing his gospel to theophilus, addressed it as the words, "excellent theophilus" import, to every "firm lover of god," or, if st. luke uses the style of [ ]athanasius, to "every good christian." but on a supposition that theophilus had been a living character, and a man in power, the use of the epithet is against it as a title of rank; because st. luke gives it to theophilus in the beginning of his gospel, and does not give it to him, when he addresses him in the acts. if therefore he had addressed him in this manner, because excellent was his proper title, on one occasion, it would have been a kind of legal, and at any rate a disrespectful omission, not to have given it to him on the other. with respect to the term noble as used by st. paul to festus, the sense of it must be determined by general as well as by particular considerations. there are two circumstances, which at the first sight make in favour of it as a title,[ ]lysias addresses his letter to the "most excellent felix," and the orator [ ]tertullus says, "we except it always and in all places most noble felix!" but there must be some drawback from the latter circumstance, as an argument of weight. there is reason to suppose that this expression was used by tertullus, as a piece of flattery, to compass the death of paul; for it is of a piece with the other expressions which he used, when he talked of the worthy deeds done by the providence of so detestable a wretch, as felix. and it will always be an objection to noble as a legal title, that st. paul gave it to one governor, and omitted it to another, except he did it for the reasons, that have been before described. to this it may be added, that legal titles of eminence were not then, as at this time of day, in use. agrippa had no other, or at least paul gave him no other title, than that of king. if porcius festus had been descended from a patrician, or had had the statues of his ancestors, he might, on these accounts, be said to have been of a noble family. but we know, that nobody on this account, would have addressed him as noble in those days, either by speech or letter. the first roman, who was ever honoured with a legal title, as a title of distinction, was octavius, upon whom the senate, but a few years before the birth of paul, had conferred the name of augustus. but no procurator of a province took this title. neither does it appear that the circumstance gave birth to inferior titles to those in inferior offices in the government. and indeed on the title "augustus" it may be observed, that though it followed the successors of octavius, it was but sparingly used, being mostly used on medals, monumental pillars, and in public acts of the state. pliny, in his letters to trajan, though reputed an excellent prince, addressed him as only sir or master, and he wrote many years after the death of paul. athenagoras, in addressing his book, in times posterior to these, to the emperors m. aurelius antoninus, and l. aurelius commodus, addresses them only by the title of "great princes." in short titles were not in use. they did not creep in, so as to be commonly used, till after the statues of the emperors had begun to be worshipped by the military as a legal and accustomary homage. the terms "eternity and divinity" with others were then ushered in, but these were confined wholly to the emperors themselves. in the time of constantine we find the title of illustrious. this was given to those princes, who had distinguished themselves in war, but it was not continued to their descendants. in process of time, however, it became more common, and the son of every prince began to be called illustrious. [footnote : [greek: makarios] and [greek: philochrisos] are substituted by athanasius for the word christian.] [footnote : acts, xxiii, .] [footnote : acts, xxiv. .] sect. vi. _thirdly against the alteration of the names of the days and months--people, it is said do not necessarily pay homage to idols, who continue in the use of the ancient names--if the quaker principles also were generally adopted on this subject, language would be thrown into confusion--quakers also, by attempting to steer clear of idolatry, fall into it--replies of the quakers to these objections._ the next objections for consideration, which are made against the language of the quakers, are those which relate to their alteration of the names of the days and the months. these objections are commonly made, when the language of the quakers becomes a subject of conversation with the world. "there is great absurdity, it is said, in supposing, that persons pay any respect to heathen idols, who retain the use of the ancient names of the divisions of time. how many thousands are there, who know nothing of their origin? the common people of the country know none of the reasons, why the months, and the days are called as they are. the middle classes are mostly ignorant of the same. those, who are well informed on the subject, never once think, when they mention the months and days, on the reason of the rise of their names. indeed the almost hourly use of those names secures the oblivion of their origin. who, when he speaks of wednesday and thursday, thinks that these were the days sacred to woden and thor? but there can be no idolatry, where there is no intention to idolize." "great weakness, it is said again, is manifested by the quakers, in quarrelling with a few words in the language, and in living at peace with others, which are equally objectionable. every reason, it is said, must be a weak one, which is not universal. but if some of the reasons, given by the quakers, were universally applied, they would throw language into as much confusion as the builders of babel. the word smith for example, which is the common name of many families, ought to be objected to by this rule, if the person, to whom it belongs, happens to be a carpenter. and the word carpenter which is likewise a family-name, ought to be objected to, if the person so called should happen to be a smith. and, in this case, men would be obliged to draw lots for numbers, and to be called by the numerical ticket, which they should draw." "it is objected again to the quakers, that, by attempting to steer clear of idolatry, they fall into it. the quakers are considered to be genuine idolaters, in this case. the blind pagan imagined a moral being, either heavenly or infernal, to inhere in a log of wood or a block of stone. the quakers, in like manner, imagine a moral being, truth or falsehood, to exist in a lifeless word, and this independently of the sense in which it is spoken, and in which it is known that it will be understood. what is this, it is said, but a species of idolatry and a degrading superstition?" the quakers would reply to these observations, first, that they do not charge others with idolatry, in the use of these names, who know nothing of their origin, or who feel no impropriety in their use. secondly, that if the principle, upon which they found their alterations in language, cannot, on account of existing circumstances, be followed in all cases, there is no reason, why it should not be followed, where it can. in the names of men it would be impossible to adopt it. old people are going off, and young people are coming up, and people of all descriptions are themselves changing, and a change of names to suit every persons condition, and qualification, would be impossible. thirdly, that they pay no more homage or obeisance to words, than the obeisance of truth. there is always a propriety in truth, and an impropriety in falsehood. and in proportion as the names of things accord with their essences, qualities, properties, character, and the like, they are more or less proper. september, for example, is not an appropriate name, if its meaning be enquired into, for the month which it represents: but the ninth month is, and the latter appellation will stand the test of the strictest enquiry. they would say again that this, as well as the other alterations in their language has had a moral influence on the society, and has been productive of moral good. in the same manner as the dress, which they received from their ancestors has operated as a guardian, or preservative of virtue, so has the language which they received from them also. the language has made the world overseers of the conduct of the society. a quaker is known by his language as much as by his dress. it operates, by discovering him, as a check upon his actions. it keeps him also, like the dress distinct from others. and the quakers believe, that they can never keep up their christian discipline, except they keep clear of the spirit of the world. hence it has been considered as of great importance to keep up the plain language; and this importance has been further manifested by circumstances, that have taken place within the pale of the society. for in the same manner as those, who begin to depart from the simplicity of dress, are generally in the way to go off among the world, so are those who depart from the simplicity of the language. each deviation is a sign of a temper for desertion. each deviation brings them in appearance nearer to the world. but the nearer they resemble the world in this respect, the more they are found to mix with it. they are of course the more likely to be seduced from the wholesome prohibitions of the society. the language therefore of the quakers has grown up insensibly as a wall of partition, which could not now, it is contended, be taken away without endangering the innocence of their youth. sect. vii. _advantages and disadvantages of the system of the quaker, language--disadvantages are that it may lead to superstition--and hypocrisy--advantages are that it excludes flattery--is founded upon truth--promotes truth, and correctness in the expression of ideas--observation of hobbes--would be the most perfect model for a universal calendar--the use or disuse of this system may either of them be made useful to morality._ i have now given to the reader the objections, that are usually made to the alterations, which the quakers have introduced into the language of the country, as well as the replies, which the quakers would make to these objections. i shall solicit the continuance of his patience a little longer, or till i have made a few remarks of my own upon this subject. it certainly becomes people, who introduce great peculiarities into their system, to be careful, that they are well founded, and to consider how far they may bring their minds into bondage, or what moral effects they may produce on their diameter in a course of time. on the reformed language of the quakers it may be observed, that both advantages and disadvantages may follow according to the due or undue estimation in which individuals may hold it. if individuals should lay too great a stress upon language, that is, if they should carry their prejudices so far against outward and lifeless words, that they should not dare to pronounce them, and this as a matter of religion, they are certainly in the way of becoming superstitious, and of losing the dignified independence of their minds. if again they should put an undue estimate upon language, so as to consider it as a criterion of religious purity, they may be encouraging the growth of hypocrisy within their own precincts. for if the use of this reformed language be considered as an essential of religion, that is, if men are highly thought of in proportion as they conform to it rigidly, it may be a covering to many to neglect the weightier matters of righteousness; at least the fulfilling of such minor duties may shield them from the suspicion of neglecting the greater: and if they should be reported as erring in the latter case, their crime would be less credited under their observance of these minutiae of the law. these effects are likely to result to the society, if the peculiarities of their language be insisted on beyond their due bounds. but, on the other hand, it must be confessed, that advantages are likely to follow from the same system, which are of great importance in themselves, and which may be set off as a counterbalance to the disadvantages described. the quakers may say, and this with the greatest truth, "we have never cringed or stooped below the dignity of men. we have never been guilty of base flattery; we have never been instrumental in raising the creature, with whom we have conversed, above his condition, so that in the imagination of his own consequence, he should lose sight of his dependence on the supreme being, or treat his fellow-men, because they should happen to be below him, as worms or reptiles of the earth." they may say also that the system of their language originated in the purest motives, and that it is founded on the sacred basis of truth. it may be said also, that the habits of caution which the different peculiarities in their language have introduced and interwoven into their constitution, have taught them particularly to respect the truth, and to aim at it in all their expressions whether in speech or letters, and that it has given them a peculiar correctness in the expression of their ideas, which they would scarcely have had by means of the ordinary education of the world. hobbes says[ ] "animadverte, quam sit ab improprietate verborum pronum hominibus prolabi in errores circa res," or "how prone men are to fall into errors about things, when they use improper expressions." the converse of this proposition may be observed to be true with respect to the quakers, or it may be observed, that the study of proper expressions has given them correct conceptions of things, and has had an influence in favor of truth. there are no people, though the common notion may be otherwise, who speak so accurately as the quakers, or whose letters, if examined on any subject, would be so free from any double meaning, so little liable to be mistaken, and so easy to be understood. [footnote : hobbesii examen. et emend. hod. math. p. . edit. amstel.] it may be observed also on the language of the quakers, that is, on that part of it, which relates to the alteration of the names of the months and days, that this alteration would form the most perfect model for an universal calendar of any that has yet appeared in the world. the french nation chose to alter their calendar, and, to make it useful to husbandry, they designated their months, so that they should be representatives of the different seasons of the year. they called them snowy, and windy, and harvest, and vintage-months, and the like. but in so large a territory, as that of france, these new designations were not the representatives of the truth. the northern and southern parts were not alike in their climate. much less could these designations speak the truth for other parts of the world: whereas numerical appellations might be adopted with truth, and be attended with usefulness to all the nations of the world, who divided their time in the same manner. on the latter subject of the names of the days and months, the alteration of which is considered as the most objectionable by the world, i shall only observe, that, if the quakers have religious scruples concerning them, it is their duty to persevere in the disuse of them. those of the world, on the other hand, who have no such scruples, are under no obligation to follow their example. and in the same manner as the quakers convert the disuse of these ancient terms to the improvement of their moral character, so those of the world may convert the use of them to a moral purpose. man is a reasonable, and moral being, and capable of moral improvement; and this improvement may be made to proceed from apparently worthless causes. if we were to find crosses or other roman-catholic relics fixed in the walls of our places of worship, why should we displace them? why should we not rather suffer them to remain, to put us in mind of the necessity of thankfulness for the reformation in our religion? if again we were to find an altar, which had been sacred to moloc, but which had been turned into a stepping stone, to help the aged and infirm upon their horses, why should we destroy it? might it not be made useful to our morality, as far as it could be made to excite sorrow for the past and gratitude for the present? and in the same manner might it not be edifying to retain the use of the ancient names of the days and months? might not thankful feelings be excited in our hearts, that the crime of idolatry had ceased among us, and that the only remnant of it was a useful signature of the times? in fact, if it be the tendency of the corrupt part of our nature to render innocent things vicious, it is, on the other hand, in the essence of our nature, to render vicious things in process of time innocent; so that the remnants of idolatry and superstition may be made subservient to the moral improvement of mankind. chap. iv. _address--all nations have used ceremonies of address--george fox bears his testimony against those in use in his own times--sufferings of the quakers on this account--makes no exception in favor of royalty--his dispute with judge glynn--modern quakers follow his example--use no ceremonies even to majesty--various reasons for their disuse of them._ all nations have been in the habit of using outward gestures or ceremonies, as marks of affection, obeisance or respect. and these outward ceremonies have been different from one another, so much so, that those, which have been adjudged to be suitable emblems of certain affections or dispositions of the mind among one people, would have been considered as very improper emblems of the same, and would have been even thought ridiculous by another, yet all nations have supposed, that they employed the most rational modes for these purposes. and indeed, there were probably none of these outward gestures and ceremonies, which, in their beginning, would not have admitted of a reasonable defence while they continued to convey to the minds of those, who adopted them, the objects, for which they were intended, or while those, who used them, persevered with sincerity in their use, little or no objection could be made to them by the moralist. but as soon as the ends of their institution were lost, or they were used without any appropriate feeling of the heart, they became empty civilities, and little better than mockery or grimace. the customs of this sort, which obtained in the time of george fox, were similar to those, which are now in use on similar occasions. people pulled off their hats, and bowed, and scraped with their feet. and these things they did, as marks of civility, friendship, or respect to one another. george fox was greatly grieved about these idle ceremonies. he lamented that men should degrade themselves by the use of them, and that they should encourage habits, that were abhorrent of the truth. his feelings were so strong upon this subject, that he felt himself called upon to bear his testimony against them. accordingly he never submitted to them himself, and those, who received his religious doctrines, followed his example. the omission of these ceremonies, however, procured both for him and his followers, as had been the case in the change of thou for you, much ill-will, and harsh treatment. the quakers were derided and abused. their hats were taken forcibly from their heads, and thrown away. they were beaten and imprisoned on this sole account. and so far did the world carry their resentment towards them for the omission of these little ceremonies, that they refused for some time to deal with them as tradesmen, or to buy things at their shops, so that some quakers could hardly get money enough to buy themselves bread. george fox, however, and his associates, persevered, notwithstanding this ill usage, in the disuse of all honours, either by the moving of the hat, or the usual bendings of the body; and as that, which was a right custom for one, was a right one for another, they made no exception even in favour of the chief magistrate of the land. george fox, when he visited oliver cromwell as protector, never pulled off his hat; and it is remarkable that the protector was not angry with him for it. neither did he pull off his hat to the judges at any time, notwithstanding he was so often brought before them. controversies sometimes took place between him and them in the public court, upon these occasions, one of which i shall notice, as it marks the manner of conducting the jurisprudence of those times. when george fox, and two other friends, were brought out of launceston gaol, to be tried before judge glynn, who was then chief justice of england, they came into court with their hats on. the judge asked them the reason of this, but they said nothing. he then told them, that the court commanded them to pull off their hats. upon this george fox addressed them in the following manner. "where, says he, did ever any magistrate, king or judge, from moses to daniel, command any to put off their hats, when they came before them in their courts, either amongst the jews, who were god's people, or among the heathen? and if the law of england doth command any such thing, shew me that law, either written or printed." judge glynn upon this grew angry, and replied, that "he did not carry his law-books upon his back." but says george fox, "tell me where it is printed in any statute-book, that i may read it" the judge, in a vulgar manner, ordered him away, and he was accordingly taken away, and put among thieves. the judge, however, in a short time afterwards ordered him up again, and, on his return put to him the following question, "come, says he, where had they hats from moses to daniel? come, answer me. i have you fast now." george. fox replied, that "he might read in the third chapter of daniel, that the three children were cast into the fiery furnace by nebuchadnezzar's command, with their coats, their hose, and their hats on." the repetition of this apposite text stopped the judge from any farther comments on the custom, and he ordered him and his companions to be taken away again. and they were accordingly taken away and they were thrust again among thieves. in process of time, however, this custom of the quakers began to be known among the judges, who so far respected their scruples, as to take care that their hats should be taken off in future in the courts. these omissions of the ceremonies of the world, as begun by the primitive quakers, are continued by the modern. they neither bow nor scrape, nor pull off their hats to any, by way of civility or respect, and they carry their principles, like their predecessors, so far, that they observe none of these exterior parts of politeness even in the presence of royalty. the quakers are in the habit on particular occasions of sending deputies to the king. and it is remarkable that his present majesty always sees them himself, if he be well, and not by proxy. notwithstanding this, no one in the deputation ever pulls off his hat. those, however, who are in waiting in the anti-chamber, knowing this custom of the quakers, take their hats from their heads, before they enter the room, where the king is. on entering the room, they neither bow nor scrape, nor kneel, and as this ceremony cannot be performed for them by others, they go into the royal presence in a less servile, or more dignified manner, than either the representatives of sovereigns, or those, who have humbled nations by the achievement of great victories. the ground, upon which the quakers decline the use of the ordinary ceremonies just mentioned, is, the honours are the honours of the world. now, as that these of the world, they consider them as objectionable on several accounts. first, they are no more the criterions of obeisance and respect, than mourning garments are the criterions of sorrow. but christianity is never satisfied but with the truth. it forbids all false appearances. it allows no image to be held out, that is not a faithful picture of its original, or no action to be resorted to, that is not correspondent with the feelings of the heart. in the second place the quakers presume, that, as honours of the world, all such ceremonies are generally of a complimentary nature. no one bows to a poor man. but almost every one to the rich, and the rich to one another. hence bowing is as much a species of flattery through the medium of the body, as the giving of undeserved titles through the medium of the tongue. as honours of the world again the quakers think them censurable, because all such honours were censured by jesus christ. on the occasion, on which he exhorted his followers not to be like the scribes and pharisees, and to seek flattering titles, so as to be called rabbi rabbi of man, he exhorted them to avoid all ceremonious salutations, such as greetings in the market-places. he couples the two different customs of flattering titles and salutations in the same sentence, and mentions them in the same breath. and though the word "greetings" does not perhaps precisely mean those bowings and scrapings, which are used at the present day, yet it means, both according to its derivation and the nature of the jewish customs, those outward personal actions or gestures, which were used as complimentary to the jewish world. with respect to the pulling off the hat the quakers have an additional objection to this custom, quite distinct from the objections, that have been mentioned above. every minister in the quaker society takes off his hat, either when he preaches, or when he prays. st paul[ ] enjoins this custom. but if they take off their hats, that is, uncover their heads, as an outward act enjoined in the service of god, they cannot with any propriety take them off, or uncover their heads to men, because they would be giving to the creature the same outward honour which they give to the creator. and in this custom they conceive the world to be peculiarly inconsistent. for men go into their churches, and into their meetings, and pull off their hats, or uncover their heads, for the same reason as the quaker-ministers when they pray (for no other reason can be assigned) and, when they come out of their respective places of worship, they uncover them again on every trivial occasion, to those whom they meet, using to man the same outward mark of homage, as they had just given to god. [footnote : cor. chap. xi.] chap. v. _manners and conversation--quakers esteemed reserved--this an appearance owing to their education--their hospitality in their own houses--the freedom allowed and taken--their conversation limited--politics generally excluded--subjects of conversation examined in our towns--also in the metropolis--no such subjects among the quakers--their conversation more dignified--extraordinary circumstance that takes place occasionally in the company of the quakers._ the quakers are generally supposed to be a stiff and reserved people, and to be a people of severe and uncourteous manners. i confess there is something in their appearance that will justify the supposition in the eyes of strangers, and of such as do not know them: i mean of such, as just see them occasionally out of doors, but do not mix with them in their own houses. it cannot be expected that persons, educated like the quakers, should assimilate much in their manners to other people. the very dress they wear, which is so different from that of others, would give them a stiff appearance in the eyes of the world, if nothing else could be found to contribute towards it. excluded also from much intercourse with the world, and separated at a vast distance from it by the singularity of many of their customs, they would naturally appear to others to be close and reserved. neither is it to be expected that those, whose spirits are never animated by music, or enlivened by the exhibitions of the theatre, or the diversions which others follow, would have other than countenances that were grave. their discipline also, which calls them so frequently to important duties, and the dispatch of serious business, would produce the same feature. i may observe also, that a peculiarity of gait, which might be mistaken for awkwardness, might not unreasonably be expected in those, who had neither learned to walk under the guidance of a dancing, master, nor to bow under the direction of the dominion of fashion. if those and those only are to be esteemed really polished and courteous, who bow and scrape, and salute each other by certain prescribed gestures, then the quakers will appear to have contracted much rust, and to have an indisputable right to the title of a clownish and inflexible people. i must observe however that these appearances, though they may be substantial in the estimation of those who do not know them, gradually vanish with those, who do. their hospitality in their own houses, and their great attention and kindness, soon force out of sight all ideas of uncourteousness. their freedom also soon annihilates those of stiffness and reserve. their manners, though they have not the polished surface of those which are usually attached to fashionable life, are agreeable, when known. there is one trait in the quaker-manners, which runs through the whole society, as far as i have seen in their houses, and which is worthy of mention. the quakers appear to be particularly gratified, when those, who visit them, ask for what they want. instead of considering this as rudeness or intrusion, they esteem it as a favour done them. the circumstance of asking, on such an occasion, is to them a proof, that there visitors feel themselves at home. indeed they almost always desire a stranger who has been introduced to them "to be free." this is their usual expression. and if he assures them that he will, and if they find him asking for what he wishes to have, you may perceive in their countenances the pleasure, which his conduct has given them. they consider him, when he has used this freedom, to have acted as they express it "kindly." nothing can be more truly polite than that conduct to another, by which he shall be induced to feel himself as comfortably situated, as if he were in his own house. as the quakers desire their visitors to be free, and to do as they please, so they do not fail to do the same themselves, never regarding such visitors as impediments in the way of their concerns. if they have any business or engagement out of doors, they say so and go, using no ceremony, and but few words as an apology. their visitors, i mean such as stay for a time in their houses, are left in the interim to amuse themselves as they please. this is peculiarly agreeable, because their friends know, when they visit them, that they neither restrain, nor shackle, nor put them to inconvenience. in fact it may be truly said that if satisfaction in visiting depends upon a man's own freedom to do as he likes, to ask and to call for what he wants, to go out and come in as he pleases; and if it depends also on the knowledge he has, that, in doing all these things, he puts no person out of his way, there are no houses, where people will be better pleased with their treatment, than in those of the quakers. this trait in the character of the quakers is very general. i would not pretend, however, to call it universal. but it is quite general enough to be pronounced a feature in their domestic character. i do not mean by the mention of it, to apologize, in any manner for the ruggedness of manners of some quakers. there are undoubtedly solitary families, which having lived in places, where there have been scarcely any of their own society with whom to associate, and which, having scarcely mixed with others of other denominations except in the way of trade, have an uncourteousness, ingrafted in them as it were by these circumstances, which no change of situation afterwards has been able to obliterate. the subjects of conversation among the quakers differ, like those of others, but they are not so numerous, neither are they of the same kind, as those of other people. the quaker conversation is cramped or fettered for two reasons, first by the caution, that prevails among the members of the society relative to the use of idle words, and secondly by the caution, that prevails among them, relative to the adapting of their expressions to the truth. hence the primitive quakers were persons of few words. the subjects also of the quaker conversation are limited for several reasons. the quakers have not the same classical or philosophical education, as those of other denominations in an equal situation in life. this circumstance will of course exclude many topics from their discourse. religious considerations also exclude others. politics, which generally engross a good deal of attention, and which afford an inexhaustible fund of matter for conversation to a great part of the inhabitants of the island, are seldom introduced, and, if introduced, very tenderly handled in general among the quaker-society. i have seen aged quakers gently reprove others of tenderer years, with whom they happened to be in company, for having started them. it is not that the quakers have not the same feelings as other men, or that they are not equally interested about humanity, or that they are incapable of opinions on the changeable political events, that are passing over the face of the globe, that this subject is so little agitated among them. they are usually silent upon it for particular reasons. they consider first, that, as they are not allowed to have any direction, and in many cases could not conscientiously interfere, in government-matters, it would be folly to disquiet their minds with vain and fruitless speculations. they consider again, that political subjects frequently irritate people, and make them warm. now this is a temper, which they consider to be peculiarly detrimental to their religion. they consider themselves also in this life as but upon a journey to another, and that they should get through it as quietly and as inoffensively as they can. they believe again with george fox, that, "in these lower regions, or in this airy life, all news is uncertain. there is nothing stable. but in the higher regions, or in the kingdom of christ, all things are stable: and the news is always good and certain." [ ] [footnote : there is always an exception in favour of conversation on politics, which is, when the government are agitating any question, their interests or their religious freedom is involved.] as politics do not afford matter for much conversation in the quaker-society, so neither do some other subjects, that may be mentioned. in a country town, where people daily visit, it is not uncommon to observe, whether at the card, or at the tea-table, that what is usually called scandal forms a part of the pleasures of conversation. the hatching up of suspicions on the accidental occurrence of trivial circumstances, the blowing up of these suspicions into substances and forms, animadversions on character, these, and such like themes, wear out a great part of the time of an afternoon or an evening visit. such subjects, however, cannot enter where quakers converse with one another. to avoid tale-bearing and detraction is a lesson inculcated into them in early youth. the maxim is incorporated into their religion, and of course follows them through life. it is contained in one of their queries. this query is read to them in their meetings, and the subject of it is therefore repeatedly brought to their notice and recollection. add to which, that, if a quaker were to repeat any unfounded scandal, that operated to the injury of another's character, and were not to give up the author, or make satisfaction for the same, he would be liable, by the rules of the society, to be disowned. i do not mean to assert here, that a quaker never says a harsh thing of another man. all, who profess to be, are not quakers. subjects of a scandalous nature may be in introduced by others of another denomination, in which, if quakers are present, they may unguardedly join. but it is certainly true, that quakers are more upon their guard, with respect to scandalizing others, than many other people. nor is this unlikely to be the case, when we consider that caution in this particular is required of them by the laws of their religion. it is certainly true also, that such subjects are never introduced by them, like those at country tea-tables, for the sole purpose of producing conversation. and i believe i may add with truth, that it would even be deemed extraordinary by the society, if such subjects were introduced by them at all. in companies also in the metropolis, as well as in country towns, a variety of subjects affords food for conversation which never enter into the discourse of the quakers. if we were to go into the company of persons of a certain class in the metropolis, we should find them deriving the enjoyments of conversation from some such subjects as the following. one of the company would probably talk of the exquisitely fine manner, in which an actress performed her part on a certain night. this, would immediately give birth to a variety of remarks. the name of one actress would bring up that of another, and the name of one play that of another, till at length the stage would become the source of supplying a subject for a considerable time. another would probably ask, as soon as this theatrical discussion was over, the opinion of the company on the subject of the duel, which the morning papers had reported to have taken place. this new subject would give new fuel to the fire, and new discussions would take place, and new observations fly about from all quarters. some would applaud the courage of the person, who had been killed. others would pity his hard fate. but none would censure his wickedness for having resorted to such dreadful means for the determination of his dispute. from this time the laws of honour would be canvassed, and disquisitions about punctilio, and etiquette, and honour, would arrest the attention of the company, and supply them with materials for a time. these subjects would be followed by observations on fashionable head-dresses, by the relation of elopements, by the reports of affairs of gallantry. each subject would occupy its own portion of time. thus each would help to swell up the measure of conversation, and to make up the enjoyment of the visit. if we were to go among persons of another class in the metropolis, we should probably find them collecting their entertainment from other topics. one would talk on the subject of some splendid route. he would expatiate on the number of rooms that were opened, on the superb manner, in which they were fitted up, and on the sum of money that was expended in procuring every delicacy that was out of season. a second would probably ask, if it were really known, how much one of their female acquaintance had lost at faro. a third would make observations on the dresses at the last drawing room. a fourth would particularize the liveries brought out by individuals on the birth-day. a fifth would ask, who was to have the vacant red ribbon. another would tell, how the minister had given a certain place to a certain nobleman's third son, and would observe, that the whole family were now provided for by government. each of these topics would be enlarged upon, as successively started, and thus conversation would be kept going during the time of the visit. these and other subjects generally constitute the pleasures of conversation among certain classes of persons. but among the quakers, they can hardly ever intrude themselves at all. places and pensions they neither do, nor can, hold. levees and drawing rooms they neither do, nor would consent to, attend, on pleasure. red ribbons they would not wear if given to them. indeed, very few of the society know what these insignia mean. as to splendid liveries, these would never occupy their attention. liveries for servants, though not expressly forbidden, are not congenial with the quaker-system; and as to gaming, plays, or fashionable amusements, these are forbidden, as i have amply stated before, by the laws of the society. it is obvious then, that these topics cannot easily enter into conversation, where quakers are. indeed, nothing so trifling, ridiculous, or disgusting, occupies their minds. the subjects, that take up their attention, are of a more solid and useful kind. there is a dignity, in general, in the quaker-conversation, arising from the nature of these subjects, and from the gravity and decorum with which it is always conducted. it is not to be inferred from hence, that their conversation is dull and gloomy. there is often no want of sprightliness, wit, and humour. but then this sprightliness, never borders upon folly, for all foolish jesting is to be avoided, and it is always decorous. when vivacity makes its appearance among the quakers; it is sensible, and it is uniformly in an innocent and decent dress. in the company of the quakers a circumstance sometimes occurs, of so peculiar a nature, that it cannot be well omitted in this place. it sometimes happens, that you observe a pause in the conversation. this pause continues. surprized at the universal silence now prevailing, you look round, and find all the quakers in the room apparently thoughtful. the history of the circumstance is this. in the course of the conversation the mind of some one of the persons present has been so overcome with the weight or importance of it, or so overcome by inward suggestions or other subjects, as to have given himself up to meditation, or to passive obedience to the impressions upon his mind. this person is soon discovered by the rest on account of his particular silence and gravity. from this moment the quakers in company cease to converse. they become habitually silent, and continue so, both old and young, to give the apparently meditating person an opportunity of pursuing uninterruptedly the train of his own thoughts. perhaps, in the course of his meditations, the subject, that impressed his mind, gradually dies away, and expires in silence. in this case you find him resuming his natural position, and returning to conversation with the company as before. it sometimes happens, however, that, in the midst of his meditations, he feels an impulse to communicate to those present the subject of his thoughts, and breaks forth, seriously explaining, exhorting, and advising, as the nature of it permits and suggests. when he has finished his observations, the company remain silent for a short time, after which they converse again as before. such a pause, whenever it occurs in the company of the quakers, may be considered as a devotional act. for the subject, which occasions it, is always of a serious or religious nature. the workings in the mind of the meditating person are considered either as the offspring of a solemn reflection upon that subject, suddenly and almost involuntarily as it were produced by duty, or as the immediate offspring of the agency of the spirit. and an habitual silence is as much the consequence, as if the person present had been at a place of worship. it may be observed, however, that such pauses seldom or never occur in ordinary companies, or where quakers ordinarily visit one another. when they take place, it is mostly when a minister is present, and when such a minister is upon a religious visit to families of a certain district. in such a case such religious pauses and exhortations are not unfrequent. a man however may be a hundred times in the company of the quakers, and never be present at one of them, and never know indeed that they exist at all. chap. vi. _custom before meals--ancients formerly made an oblation to vesta before their meals--christians have substituted grace--quakers agree with others in the necessity of grace or thankfulness-but do not adopt it as a devotional act, unless it comes from the heart--allow a silent pause for religious impressions on these occasions--observations on a scotch grace._ there was a time in the early ages of greece, when men apparently little better than beasts of prey, could not meet at entertainments, without quarrelling about the victuals before them. the memory of this circumstance is well preserved in the expressions of early writers. in process of time however, regulations began to be introduced, and quarrels to be prevented, by the institution of the office of a divider or distributer of the feast, who should carve the food into equal portions, and help every individual to his proper share. hence the terms [greek: aatfrn] or equal feast, which so frequently occur in homer, and which were in use in consequence of the division just mentioned, were made use of to shew, that the feasts, then spoken of by him, were different from those of former times. when homer wishes to describe persons as more civilized than others, he describes them as having this equal feast. that is, men did not appear at these feasts, like dogs and wolves, and instantly devour whatever they could come at, and tear each other to pieces in the end; but they waited till their different portions of meat had been assigned them, and then ate them in amity and peace. at the time when we find the custom of one man carving for all his guests to have been in use, we find also that another had been introduced among the same people. the greeks, in the heroic ages, thought it unlawful to eat, till they had first offered a part of their provision to the gods. hence oblations to vesta, and afterwards to others, whom their superstition had defied, came into general use, so that these were always made, before the victuals on the table were allowed to be tasted by any of the guests. these two customs, since that time, have come regularly down to the present day. every person helps his family and his friends at his own table. but as christians can make no sacrifices to heathen deities, we usually find them substituting thanksgiving for oblation, and giving to the creator of the universe instead of an offering of the first fruits from their tables, an offering of gratitude from their hearts. this oblation, which is now usually denominated grace, consists of a form of words, which, being expressive either of praise or thankfulness to god for the blessings of food, with which he continues to supply them, is repeated by the master of the family, or by a minister of the gospel if present, before any one partakes of the victuals, that are set before him. these forms, however, differ, as used by christians. they differ in length, in ideas, in expression. one christian uses one form, another uses another. it may however be observed, that the same christian generally uses the same form of words, or the same grace, on the same occasion. the quakers, as a religious body, agree in the propriety of grace before their meals, that is in the propriety of giving thanks to the author of every good gift for this particular bounty of his providence as to the articles of their daily subsistence, but they differ as to the manner and seasonableness of it on such occasions. they think that people who are in the habit of repeating a determined form of words, may cease to feel, as they pronounce them, in which case the grace becomes an oblation from the tongue, but not from the heart. they think also that, if grace is to be repeated regularly, just as the victuals come, or as regularly and as often as they come upon the table, it may be repeated unseasonably, that is unseasonably with the state of the heart of him, who is to pronounce it; that the heart of man is not to-day as it was yesterday, nor at this hour what it was at a former, nor on any given hour alike disposed; and that if this grace is to be said when the heart is gay, or light, or volatile, it ceases to be a devotional act, and becomes at least a superflous and unmeaning, if not a censurable form. the quakers then to avoid the unprofitableness of such artificial graces on the one hand, and, on the other, to give an opportunity to the heart to accord with the tongue, whenever it is used in praise of the creator, observe the following custom. when they are all seated at table, they sit in solemn silence, and in a thoughtful position, for some time. if the master of the family, during this silence, should feel any religious impression on his mind, whether of praise or thankfulness on the occasion, he gives utterance to his feelings. such praise or thanksgiving in him is considered as a devotional act, and as the quaker grace. but if, after having waited in silence for some time, he feels no such religious disposition, he utters no religious expression. the quakers hold it better to say no grace, than to say that, which is not accompanied by the devotion of the heart. in this case he resumes his natural position, breaks the silence by means of natural discourse, and begins to carve for his family or his friends. this is the ordinary way of proceeding in quaker families, when alone, or in ordinary company. but if a minister happens to be at the table, the master of the family, conceiving such a man to be more in the habit of religious impressions than himself, or any ordinary person, looks up as it were to him, as to a channel, from whence it is possible, that such religious exercise may come. if the minister, during the solemn, silent pause, is impressed, he gives utterance as before: if not, he relieves himself from his grave and thoughtful position, and breaks the silence of the company by engaging in natural discourse. after this the company proceed to their meals. if i were to be asked whether the graces of the quakers were frequent, i should reply in the negative. i never heard any delivered, but when a minister was present. the ordinary grace therefore of private families consists in a solemn, silent, pause, between the time of sitting down to the table and the note of carving the victuals, during which an opportunity is given for the excitement of religious feelings. a person may dine fifty times at the tables of the quakers, and see no other substitution for grace than this temporary silent pause. indeed no other grace than this can be consistent with quaker-principles. it was coeval with the institution of the society, and must continue while it lasts. for thanksgiving is an act of devotion. now no act, in the opinion of the quakers, can be devotional or spiritual, except it originate from above. men, in religious matters can do nothing of themselves, or without the divine aid. and they must therefore wait in silence for this spiritual help, as well in the case of grace, as in the case of any other kind of devotion, if they mean their praise or thanksgiving on such occasions to be an act of religion. there is in the quaker-grace, and its accompaniments, whenever it is uttered, an apparent beauty and an apparent solemnity, which are seldom conspicuous in those of others. how few are there, who repeat the common artificial graces feelingly, and with minds intent upon the subject! grace is usually said as a mere ceremony or custom. the supreme being is just thanked in so many words, while the thoughts are often rambling to other subjects. the quaker-grace, on the other hand, whenever it is uttered; does not come out in any mechanical form of words which men have used before, but in expressions adapted to the feelings. it comes forth also warm from the heart. it comes after a solemn, silent, pause, and it becomes therefore, under all these circumstances, an act of real solemnity and genuine devotion. it is astonishing how little even men of acknowledged piety seem to have their minds fixed upon the ideas contained in the mechanical graces they repeat. i was one afternoon at a friends house, where there happened to be a clergyman of the scottish church. he was a man deservedly esteemed for his piety. the company was large. politics had been discussed some time, when the tea-things were introduced. while the bread and butter were bringing in, the clergyman, who had taken an active part in the discussion, put a question to a gentleman, who was sitting in a corner of the room. the gentleman began to reply, and was proceeding in his answer, when of a sudden i heard a solemn voice. being surprised, i looked round, and found it was the clergyman, who had suddenly started up, and was saying grace. the solemnity, with which he spoke, occasioned his voice to differ so much from its ordinary tone, that i did not, till i had looked about me, discover who the speaker was. i think he might be engaged from three or four minutes in the delivery of this grace. i could not help thinking, during the delivery of it, that i never knew any person say grace like this man. nor was i ever so much moved with any grace, or thought i ever saw so dearly the propriety of saying grace, as on this occasion. but when i found that on the very instant the grace was over politics were resumed; when i found that, no sooner had the last word in the grace been pronounced, than the next, which came from the clergyman himself, began by desiring the gentleman before mentioned to go on with his reply to his own political question, i was so struck with the inconsistency of the thing, that the beauty and solemnity of his grace all vanished. this sudden transition from politics to grace, and from grace to politics, afforded a proof that artificial sentences might be so frequently repeated, as to fail to re-excite their first impressions, or that certain expressions, which might have constituted devotional acts under devotional feeling, might relapse into heartless forms. i should not wish, by the relation of this anecdote, to be understood as reflecting in the slightest manner on the practice of the scottish church. i know well the general sobriety, diligence, piety and religious example of its ministers. i mentioned it merely to shew, that even where the religious character of a person was high, his mind, by the frequent repetition of the same forms of expression on the same occasions, might frequently lose sight of the meaning and force of the words as they were uttered, so that he might pronounce them without that spiritual feeling, which can alone constitute a religious exercise. chap. vii. _customs at and after meals--quakers never drink healths at dinner--nor toasts after dinner--the drinking of toasts a heathen custom--interrupts often the innocence--and leads to the intoxication of the company--anecdote of judge hale--quakers sometimes in embarrassing situations on account of this omission--quaker-women seldom retire after dinner, and leave the men drinking--quakers a sober people._ the quakers though they are occasionally found in the custom of saying grace, do not, as i have stated, either use it as regularly, or in the same manner as other christians. neither do they at their meals, or after their meals, use the same ceremonies as others. they have exploded the unmeaning and troublesome custom of drinking healths at their dinners. this custom the quakers have rejected upon the principle, that it has no connection with true civility. they consider it as officious, troublesome, and even embarrassing, on some occasions. to drink to a man, when he is lifting his victuals to his mouth, and by calling off his attention, to make him drop them, or to interrupt two people, who are eating and talking together, and to break the thread of their discourse, seems to be an action, as rude in its principle, as disagreeable in its effects, nor is the custom often less troublesome to the person drinking the health, than to the person whose health is drank. if a man finds two people engaged in conversation he must wait till he catches their eyes, before he can drink himself. a man may also often be put into a delicate and difficult situation, to know whom to drink to first, and whom second, and may be troubled, lest, by drinking improperly to one before another, he may either be reputed awkward, or may become the occasion of offence. they consider also the custom of drinking healths at dinner as unnecessary, and as tending to no useful end. it must be obvious that a man may wish another his health, full as much without drinking it, as by drinking it with his glass in his hand. and it must be equally obvious that wishes, expressed in this manner, can have no medicinal effect. with respect to the custom of drinking healths at dinner, i may observe that the innovation, which the quakers seem to have been the first to have made upon the practice of it, has been adopted by many, not out of compliance with their example, but on account of the trouble and inconveniences attending it; that the custom is not now so general as it was; that in the higher and more fashionable circles it has nearly been exploded; and that, among some of the other classes of society, it is gradually declining. with respect to the custom of drinking toasts after dinner, the quakers have rejected it for various reasons. they have rejected it first, because, however desirable it may be that christians should follow the best customs of the heathens, it would be a reproach to them to follow the worst. or, in other words, it would be improper for men, whose religion required spirituality of thought and feeling, to imitate the heathens in the manner of their enjoyment of sensual pleasures. the laws and customs of drinking, the quakers observe, are all of heathen origin. the similitude between these and those of modern tunes is too remarkable to be overlooked; and too striking not to warrant them in concluding, that christens have taken their model on this subject from pagan practice. in every grecian family, where company was invited, the master of it was considered to be the king or president of the feast, in his own house. he was usually denominated the eye of the company. it was one of his offices to look about and to see that his guests drank their proper portions of the wine. it was another to keep peace and harmony among them. for these purposes his word was law. at entertainments at the public expence the same office existed, but the person, then appointed to it, was nominated either by lot, or by the votes of the persons present.--this custom obtains among the moderns. the master of every family at the present day presides at his own table for the same purposes. and at great and public dinners at taverns, a similar officer is appointed, who is generally chosen by the committee, who first meet for the proposal of the feast. one of the first toasts, that were usually drank among the ancient greeks, was to the "gods." this entirely corresponds with the modern idea of church; and if the government had been only coupled with the gods in these ancient times, it would have precisely answered to the modern toast of church and state. it was also usual at the entertainments, given by grecian families, to drink the prosperity of those persons, for whom they entertained a friendship, but who happened to be absent. no toast can better coincide than this, with that, which is so frequently given, of our absent friends. it was also a grecian practice for each of the guests to name his particular friend, and sometimes also his particular mistress. the moderns have also a parallel for this. every person gives (to use the common phrase) his gentleman, and his lady, in his turn. it is well known to have been the usage of the ancient greeks, at their entertainments, either to fill or to have had their cups filled for them to the brim. the moderns do precisely the same thing. glasses so filled, have the particular name of bumpers: and however vigilantly an ancient greek might have looked after his guests, and made them drink their glasses filled in this manner, the presidents of modern times are equally vigilant in enforcing adherence to the same custom. it was an ancient practice also with the same people to drink three glasses when the graces, and nine when the muses were named: and three and three times three were drank on particular occasions. this barbarous practice has fortunately not come down to the moderns to its full extent, but they have retained the remembrance of it, and celebrated it in part, by following up their toasts, on any extraordinary occasion, not with three or nine glasses of wine, but with three or nine cheers. among the ancients beforementioned, if any of the persons present were found deficient in drinking their proper portions, they were ordered by the president either to drink them or to leave the room. this usage has been a little altered by the moderns. they do not order those persons to leave the company, who do not comply with the same rules of drinking as the rest, but they subject them to be fined, as it is termed, that is, they oblige them to drink double portions for their deficiency, or punish them in some other manner. from hence it will be obvious that the laws of drinking are of heathen origin; that is, the custom of drinking toasts originated, as the quakers contend, with men of heathen minds and affections for a sensual purpose; and it is therefore a custom, they believe; which men of christian minds and affections should never follow. the quakers have rejected the custom again, because they consider it to be inconsistent with their christian character in other respects. they consider it as morally injurious; for toasts frequently excite and promote indelicate ideas, and thus sometimes interrupt the innocence of conversation. they consider it as morally injurious again, because the drinking of toasts has a direct tendency to promote drunkenness. they, who have been much in company, must have had repeated opportunities of witnessing, that this idea of the quakers is founded in truth, men are undoubtedly stimulated to drink more than they like, and to become intoxicated in consequence of the use of toasts. if a man has no objection to drink toasts at all, he must drink that which the master of the house proposes, and it is usual in this case to fill a bumper. respect to his host is considered as demanding this. thus one full glass is secured to him at the outset. he must also drink a bumper to the king, another to church and state, and another to the army and navy. he would, in many companies, be thought hostile to government, if, in the habit of drinking toasts, he were to refuse to drink these, or to honour these in the same manner. thus three additional glasses are entailed upon him. he must also drink a bumper to his own toast. he would be thought to dishonour the person, whose health he had given, if he were to fail in this. thus a fifth glass is added to his share. he must fill a little besides to every other toast, or he is considered as deficient in respect to the person, who has proposed it. thus many additional glasses are forced upon him. by this time the wine begins to act, when new toasts, of a new nature assail his ear, and he is stimulated to new potions. there are many toasts of so patriotic, and others of so generous and convivial a nature that a man is looked upon as disaffected, or as devoid of sentiment, who refuses them. add to this, that there is a sort of shame, which the young and generous in particular feel in being outdone, and in not keeping pace with the rest, on such occasions. thus toast being urged after toast, and shame acting upon shame, a variety of causes conspires at the same moment to drive him on, till the liquor at length overcomes him and he falls eventually a victim to its power. it will be manifest from this account that the laws of drinking, by which the necessity of drinking a certain number of toasts is enjoined, by which bumpers are attached to certain classes of toasts, by which a stigma is affixed to a non-compliance with the terms, by which in fact a regular system of etiquette is established, cannot but lead, except a man is uncommonly resolute or particularly on his guard, to intoxication. we see indeed instances of men drinking glass after glass, because stimulated in this manner, even against their own inclination, nay even against the determination they had made before they went into company, till they have made themselves quite drunk. but had there been no laws of drinking, or no toasts, we cannot see any reason why the same persons should not have returned sober to their respective homes. it is recorded of the great sir matthew hale, who is deservedly placed among the great men of our country, that in his early youth he had been in company, where the party had drunk to such excess, that one of them fell down apparently dead. quitting the room, he implored forgiveness of the almighty for this excessive intemperance in himself and his companions, and made a vow, that he would never drink another health while he lived. this vow he kept to his dying day. it is hardly necessary for me to remark that he would never have come to such a resolution, if he had not believed, either that the drinking of toasts had produced the excesses of that day, or that the custom led so naturally to intoxication, that it became his duty to suppress it. the quakers having rejected the use of toasts upon the principles assigned, are sometimes placed in a difficult situation, in which there is an occasion for the trial of their courage, in consequence of mixing with others, by whom the custom is still followed. in companies, to which they are invited in regular families, they are seldom put to any disagreeable dilemma in this respect. the master of the house, if in the habit of giving toasts, generally knowing the custom of the quakers in this instance, passes over any quaker who may be present, and calls upon his next neighbour for a toast. good breeding and hospitality demand that such indulgence and exception should be given. there are situations, however, in which their courage is often tried. one of the worst in which a a quaker can be placed, and in which he is frequently placed, is that of being at a common room in an inn, where a number of other travellers dine and sup together. in such companies things are seldom conducted so much to his satisfaction in this respect, as in those described. in general as the bottle passes, some jocose hint is conveyed to him about the toast; and though this is perhaps done with good humour, his feelings are wounded by it. at other times when the company are of a less liberal complexion, there is a determination, soon understood among one another, to hunt him down, as if he were fair game. a toast is pressed upon him, though all know that it is not his custom to drink it. on refusing, they begin to teaze him. one jokes with him. another banters him. toasts both illiberal and indelicate, are at length introduced; and he has no alternative but that of bearing the banter, or quitting the room. i have seen a quaker in such a company (and at such a distance from home, that the transaction in all probability never could have been known, had he, in order to free himself from their attacks, conformed to their custom) bearing all their raillery with astonishing firmness, and courageously struggling against the stream. it is certainly an awkward thing for a solitary quaker to fall in such companies, and it requires considerable courage to preserve singularity in the midst of the prejudices of ignorant and illiberal men. this custom, however, of drinking toasts after dinner, is, like the former of drinking healths at dinner, happily declining. it is much to the credit of those, who move in the higher circles, that they have generally exploded both. it may be probably owing to this circumstance, that though we find persons of this description labouring under the imputation of levity and dissipation, we yet find them respectable for the sobriety of their lives. drunkenness indeed forms no part of their character, nor, generally speaking, is it a vice of the present age as it has been of former ages; and there seems to be little doubt, that in proportion as the custom of drinking healths and toasts, but more particularly the latter, is suppressed, this vice will become less a trait in the national character. there are one or two customs of the quakers, which i shall notice before i conclude this chapter. it is one of the fashions of the world, where people meet in company, for men and women, when the dinner is over, to drink their wine together, and for the women, having done this for a short time, to retire. this custom of the females withdrawing after dinner was probably first insisted upon from an idea, that their presence would be a restraint upon the circulation of the bottle, as well as upon the conversation of the men. the quakers, however, seldom submit to this practice. men and women generally sit together and converse as before dinner. i do not mean by this that women may not retire if they please, because there is no restraint upon any one in the company of the quakers; nor do i mean to say, that women do not occasionally retire, and leave the men at their wine. there are a few rich families, which, having mixed more than usual with the world, allow of this separation. but where one allows it, there are ninety-nine, who give wine to their company after dinner, who do not. it is not a quaker-custom, that in a given time after dinner, the one should be separated from the other sex. it is a pity that the practice of the quakers should not have been adopted by others of our own country in this particular. many advantages would result to those, who were to follow the example. for if women were allowed to remain, chastity of expression and decorum of behaviour would be more likely to be insured. there presence also would operate as a check upon drunkenness. nor can there be a doubt, that women would enliven and give a variety to conversation; and, as they have had a different education from men, that an opportunity of mutual improvement might be afforded by the continuance of the two in the society of one another. it is also usual with the world in such companies, that the men, when the females have retired, should continue drinking till tea-time. this custom is unknown to the quakers, even to those few quakers, who allow of a separation of the sexes. it is not unusual with them to propose a walk before tea, if the weather permit. but even in the case where they remain at the table, their time is spent rather in conversing than in drinking. they have no toasts, as i have observed, which should induce them to put the bottle round in a given time, or which should oblige them to take a certain number of glasses. the bottle, however, is usually put round, and each helps himself as he pleases. at length one of the guests, having had sufficient, declines filling his glass. another, in a little time, declines also for the same cause. a third, after having taken what he thinks sufficient, follows the example. the wine is soon afterwards taken away, and this mostly long before the hour of drinking tea. neither drunkenness, nor any situation approaching to drunkenness, is known in the quaker companies. excess in drinking is strictly forbidden by the laws of the society. it is a subject of one of their queries. it is of course a subject that is often brought to their recollection. whatever may be the faults of the quakers, they must be acknowledged to be a sober people. end of the first volume. distributed proofreading the record of a quaker conscience [illustration: macmillan logo] the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto the record of a quaker conscience cyrus pringle's diary with an introduction by rufus m. jones new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ copyright, by the atlantic monthly company copyright, by the macmillan company set up and printed. published, february, [transcriber's note: several unusual spellings have been kept as in the original, including: northermost ("fairhope meeting-house is in the northermost country") and comformable ("yet probably in a manner comformable to"). in some cases, variant spellings of the same word are used, as in the case of "enrolment" and "enrollment", "therefor" and "therefore", "well meant" and "well-meant". these have been comfirmed with the original. in referring to god, there is also inconsistency in the use of "his" versus "his" and "him" versus "him".] introduction the body of this little book consists of the personal diary of a young quaker named cyrus guernsey pringle of charlotte, vermont. he was drafted for service in the union army, july th, . under the existing draft law a person who had religious scruples against engaging in war was given the privilege of paying a commutation fine of three hundred dollars. this commutation money pringle's conscience would not allow him to pay. a prosperous uncle proposed to pay it surreptitiously for him, but the honest-minded youth discovered the plan and refused to accept the well meant kindness, since he believed, no doubt rightly, that this money would be used to pay for an army substitute in his place. the diary relates in simple, naïve style the experiences which befell the narrator as he followed his hard path of duty, and incidentally it reveals a fine and sensitive type of character, not unlike that which comes so beautifully to light in the journal of john woolman. this is plainly not the psychological moment to study the highly complex and delicate problem of conscience. the strain and tension of world issues disturb our judgment. we cannot if we would turn away from the events and movements that affect the destiny of nations to dwell calmly and securely upon our own inner, private actions. it is never easy, even when the world is most normal and peaceful, to mark off with sharp lines the area of individual freedom. no person ever lives unto himself or is sufficient to himself. he is inextricably woven into the tissue of the social group. his privileges, his responsibilities, his obligations are forever over-individual and come from beyond his narrow isolated life. if he is to be a rational being at all he must _relate_ his life to others and share in some measure their triumphs and their tragedies. but at the same time the most precious thing in the universe is that mysterious thing we call individual liberty and which even god himself guards and respects. up to some point, difficult certainly to delimit, a man must be captain of his soul. he cannot be a _person_ if he does not have a sphere of power over his own act. to treat him as a puppet of external forces, or a mere cog in a vast social mechanism, is to wipe out the unique distinction between person and thing. somewhere the free spirit must take its stand and claim its god-given distinction. if life is to be at all worth while there must be some boundary within which the soul holds its own august and ultimate tribunal. that sanctuary domain within the soul the quakers, ever since their origin in the period of the english commonwealth, have always guarded as the most sacred possession a man can have. no grave difficulty, at least in the modern world, is involved in this faith, until it suddenly comes into conflict with the urgent requirements of social efficiency. when the social group is fused with emotion and moves almost as an undivided unit toward some end, then the claim of a right, on the ground of conscience, for the individual to deviate from the group and to pursue another or an opposite course appears serious if not positively insufferable. the abstract principle of individual liberty all modern persons grant; the strain comes when some one proposes to insist upon a concrete instance of it which involves implications that may endanger the ends which the intensified group is pursuing. a situation of this type confronts the quakers whenever their country engages in war, since as a people they feel that they cannot fight or take any part in military operations. they do not find it an easy thing to give a completely rational ground for their opposition to war. nor, as a matter of fact, is it any more easy for the militarist to rationalize his method of solving world difficulties. both are evidently actuated by instinctive forces which lie far beneath the level of pure reason. the roots of the quakers' opposition to war go deep down into the soil of the past. they are the outgrowth and culmination of a long spiritual movement. they carry along, in their ideas, emotions, habits and attitudes, tendencies which have been unconsciously sucked in with their mother's milk, and which, therefore, cannot be held up and analysed. the mystics, the humanists, the anabaptists, the spiritual reformers, are forerunners of the quaker. they are a necessary part of his pedigree,--and they were all profoundly opposed to war. this attitude has become an integral part of the vital stock of truth by which the quaker lives his spiritual life, and to violate it is for him to stop living "the way of truth," as the early quakers quaintly called their religious faith. but the quakers have never been champions of the negative. they do not take kindly to the rôle of being "antis." their negations grow out of their insistent affirmations. if they are _against_ an established institution or custom it is because they are _for_ some other way of life which seems to them divinely right, and their first obligation is to incarnate that way of life. they cannot, therefore, stand apart in monastic seclusion and safely watch the swirl of forces which they silently disapprove. if in war-time they do not fight, they _do_ something else. they accept and face the dangers incident to their way of life. they feel a compulsion to take up and in some measure to bear the burden of the world's suffering. they endeavour to exhibit, humbly and modestly, the power of sacrificial love, freely, joyously given, and they venture all that the brave can venture to carry their faith into life and action. in the american civil war, in the franco-prussian, the south african, the balkan, the russo-japanese, small bands of quakers revealed the same spirit of service and the same obliviousness to danger which have marked the larger groups that have manned the ambulance units and the war-victims' relief and reconstruction work of this world war. in this present crisis they have gone wherever they could go,--to belgium, to france, to russia, to italy, to serbia and greece and syria and mesopotamia,--to carry into operation the forces of restoration and of reconstruction. they have not stood aloof as spectators of the world's tragedy. they have entered into it and shared it, and they have counted neither money nor life dear to themselves in their desire to reveal the power of redeeming and transforming love. slowly the sincerity of the quaker conviction about war has made itself felt and limited legislative provisions have been made, especially in england and america, to meet the claims of conscience. the problem which confronts the law-maker, even when he is sympathetic with the rights of conviction, is the grave difficulty of determining where to draw the line of special exception to general requirements and how to discover the sincerity of conscientious objection to war. the "slacker" is always a stern possibility. there must be no holes in the net for him to escape through. the makers of armies naturally want every man who can be spared from civilian life and can be utilized for military operations. it has consequently often seemed necessary for law-makers to be narrow and hard toward the obviously sincere for fear of being too easy and lenient with those suspected of having sham consciences. during the civil war in america, president lincoln, eager as he was to win the war, was always deeply in sympathy with the quakers, and he stretched his administrative powers to their full limit to provide relief for conscientious convictions. in the early stages of the great conflict the president wrote the following kindly note in answer to a message from new england yearly meeting of the society of friends: "engaged as i am, in a great war, i fear it will be difficult for the world to understand how fully i appreciate the principles of peace inculcated in this letter [of yours] and every where by the society of friends."[ ] both he and secretary stanton made many positive efforts to find some way of providing for the tender consciences of friends without being unfair to the rights of others. they even requested american friends to call a conference to consider how to find a satisfactory solution of the problem. such a conference was held in baltimore, december th, , and the friends there assembled expressed great appreciation of "the kindness evinced at all times by the president and secretary of war." a delegation from this conference visited washington and, in co-operation with secretary stanton, succeeded in securing a clause in the enrolment bill, declaring friends to be non-combatants, assigning all drafted friends to hospital service or work among freedmen, and further providing for the entire exemption of friends from military service on the payment of $ into a fund for the relief of sick and wounded.[ ] on several occasions friends in larger or smaller groups went to washington for times of prayer and spiritual communion with the great president. these times were deeply appreciated by the heavily burdened man. tears ran down his cheeks, we are told, as he sat bowed in solemn silence or knelt as some moved friend prayed for him to almighty god. writing of the visit of isaac and sarah harvey of clinton county, ohio, in the autumn of , lincoln tenderly said: "may the lord comfort them as they have sustained me." a letter written by the president in to eliza p. gurney, one of a small group of friends who visited him and prayed with him in the autumn of that year, reveals forcibly how he regarded these occasions: "i am glad of this interview, and glad to know that i have your sympathy and prayers. we are indeed going through a great trial--a fiery trial. in the very responsible position in which i happen to be placed, being a humble instrument in the hands of our heavenly father, as i am, and as we all are, to work out his great purposes, i have desired that all my works and acts may be according to his will, and that it might be so, i have sought his aid; but if, after endeavouring to do my best in the light which he affords me, i find my efforts fail, i must believe that for some purpose unknown to me, his will is otherwise. if i had had my way, this war would never have been commenced. if i had been allowed my way, this war would have been ended before this; but we find it still continues, and we must believe that he permits it for some wise purpose of his own, mysterious and unknown to us; and though with our limited understandings we may not be able to comprehend it, yet we cannot but believe that he who made the world still governs it." somewhat later president lincoln wrote again to eliza p. gurney requesting her to exercise her freedom to write to him as he felt the need of spiritual help and reinforcement. her letter of reply so closely touched him and spoke to his condition that he carried it about with him and it was found in his coat pocket at the time of his death, twenty months after it was written. in the autumn of , president lincoln, still impressed by the message which he had received, wrote a memorable letter to eliza p. gurney. it was as follows: "i have not forgotten--probably never shall forget--the very impressive occasion when yourself and friends visited me on a sabbath forenoon two years ago. nor has your kind letter, written nearly a year later, ever been forgotten. in all it has been your purpose to strengthen my reliance on god. i am much indebted to the good christian people of the country for their constant prayers and consolations; and to no one of them more than to yourself. the purposes of the almighty are perfect, and must prevail, though we erring mortals may fail to accurately perceive them in advance. we hoped for a happy termination of this terrible war long before this; but god knows best, and has ruled otherwise. we shall yet acknowledge his wisdom, and our own error therein. meanwhile we must work earnestly in the best lights he gives us, trusting that so working still conduces to the great ends he ordains. surely he intends some great good to follow this mighty convulsion, which no mortal could make, and no mortal could stay. your people, the friends, have had, and are having, a very great trial. on principle and faith opposed to both war and oppression, they can only practically oppose oppression by war. in this dilemma some have chosen one horn and some the other. for those appealing to me on conscientious grounds, i have done, and shall do, the best i could and can, in my own conscience, under my oath to the law. that you believe this i doubt not; and, believing it, i shall still receive for our country and myself your earnest prayers to our father in heaven." it is, then, not surprising that president lincoln was "moved with sympathy" when he heard the story of pringle's suffering for conscience, or that he quietly said to the secretary of war, "it is my urgent wish that this friend be released." rufus m. jones. haverford, pa., december, . footnotes: [ ] nicolay and hay: "abraham lincoln," vol. vi, p. . [ ] secretary stanton endeavoured to provide that this commutation money should be made into a fund for the care of freedmen. this suggestion was, however, not adopted by congress. the record of a quaker conscience at burlington, vt., on the th of the seventh month, , i was drafted. pleasant are my recollections of the th. much of that rainy day i spent in my chamber, as yet unaware of my fate; in writing and reading and in reflecting to compose my mind for any event. the day and the exercise, by the blessing of the father, brought me precious reconciliation to the will of providence. with ardent zeal for our faith and the cause of our peaceable principles; and almost disgusted at the lukewarmness and unfaithfulness of very many who profess these; and considering how heavily slight crosses bore upon their shoulders, i felt to say, "here am i, father, for thy service. as thou will." may i trust it was he who called me and sent me forth with the consolation: "my grace is sufficient for thee." deeply have i felt many times since that i am nothing without the companionship of the spirit. i was to report on the th. then, loyal to our country, wm. lindley dean and i appeared before the provost marshal with a statement of our cases. we were ordered for a hearing on the th. on the afternoon of that day w.l.d. was rejected upon examination of the surgeon, but my case not coming up, he remained with me,--much to my strength and comfort. sweet was his converse and long to be remembered, as we lay together that warm summer night on the straw of the barracks. by his encouragement much was my mind strengthened; my desires for a pure life, and my resolutions for good. in him and those of whom he spoke i saw the abstract beauty of quakerism. on the next morning came joshua m. dean to support me and plead my case before the board of enrollment. on the day after, the st, i came before the board. respectfully those men listened to the exposition of our principles; and, on our representing that we looked for some relief from the president, the marshal released me for twenty days. meanwhile appeared lindley m. macomber and was likewise, by the kindness of the marshal, though they had received instructions from the provost marshal general to show such claims no partiality, released to appear on the th day of the eighth month. all these days we were urged by our acquaintances to pay our commutation money; by some through well-meant kindness and sympathy; by others through interest in the war; and by others still through a belief they entertained it was our duty. but we confess a higher duty than that to country; and, asking no military protection of our government and grateful for none, deny any obligation to support so unlawful a system, as we hold a war to be even when waged in opposition to an evil and oppressive power and ostensibly in defence of liberty, virtue, and free institutions; and, though touched by the kind interest of friends, we could not relieve their distress by a means we held even more sinful than that of serving ourselves, as by supplying money to hire a substitute we would not only be responsible for the result, but be the agents in bringing others into evil. so looking to our father alone for help, and remembering that "whoso loseth his life for my sake shall find it; but whoso saveth it shall lose it," we presented ourselves again before the board, as we had promised to do when released. being offered four days more of time, we accepted it as affording opportunity to visit our friends; and moreover as there would be more probability of meeting peter dakin at rutland. sweet was the comfort and sympathy of our friends as we visited them. there was a deep comfort, as we left them, in the thought that so many pure and pious people follow us with their love and prayers. appearing finally before the marshal on the th, suits and uniforms were selected for us, and we were called upon to give receipts for them. l.m.m. was on his guard, and, being first called upon, declared he could not do so, as that would imply acceptance. failing to come to any agreement, the matter was postponed till next morning, when we certified to the fact that the articles were "with us." here i must make record of the kindness of the marshal, rolla gleason, who treated us with respect and kindness. he had spoken with respect of our society; had given me furloughs to the amount of twenty-four days, when the marshal at rutland considered himself restricted by his oath and duty to six days; and here appeared in person to prevent any harsh treatment of us by his sergeants; and though much against his inclinations, assisted in putting on the uniform with his own hands. we bade him farewell with grateful feelings and expressions of fear that we should not fall into as tender hands again; and amid the rain in the early morning, as the town clock tolled the hour of seven, we were driven amongst the flock that was going forth to the slaughter, down the street and into the cars for brattleboro. dark was the day with murk and cloud and rain; and, as we rolled down through the narrow vales of eastern vermont, somewhat of the shadow crept into our hearts and filled them with dark apprehensions of evil fortune ahead; of long, hopeless trials; of abuse from inferior officers; of contempt from common soldiers; of patient endurance (or an attempt at this), unto an end seen only by the eye of a strong faith. herded into a car by ourselves, we conscripts, substitutes, and the rest, through the greater part of the day, swept over the fertile meadows along the banks of the white river and the connecticut, through pleasant scenes that had little of delight for us. at woodstock we were joined by the conscripts from the st district,--altogether an inferior company from those before with us, who were honest yeomen from the northern and mountainous towns, while these were many of them substitutes from the cities. at brattleboro we were marched up to the camp; our knapsacks and persons searched; and any articles of citizen's dress taken from us; and then shut up in a rough board building under a guard. here the prospect was dreary, and i felt some lack of confidence in our father's arm, though but two days before i wrote to my dear friend, e.m.h.,-- i go tomorrow where the din of war is in the sulphurous air. i go the prince of peace to serve, his cross of suffering to bear. brattleboro, _ th_, _ th_ month, .--twenty-five or thirty caged lions roam lazily to and fro through this building hour after hour through the day. on every side without, sentries pace their slow beat, bearing loaded muskets. men are ranging through the grounds or hanging in synods about the doors of the different buildings, apparently without a purpose. aimless is military life, except betimes its aim is deadly. idle life blends with violent death-struggles till the man is unmade a man; and henceforth there is little of manhood about him. of a man he is made a soldier, which is a man-destroying machine in two senses,--a thing for the prosecuting or repelling an invasion like the block of stone in the fortress or the plate of iron on the side of the monitor. they are alike. i have tried in vain to define a difference, and i see only this. the iron-clad with its gun is the bigger soldier: the more formidable in attack, the less liable to destruction in a given time; the block the most capable of resistance; both are equally obedient to officers. or the more perfect is the soldier, the more nearly he approaches these in this respect. three times a day we are marched out to the mess houses for our rations. in our hands we carry a tin plate, whereon we bring back a piece of bread (sour and tough most likely), and a cup. morning and noon a piece of meat, antique betimes, bears company with the bread. they who wish it receive in their cups two sorts of decoctions: in the morning burnt bread, or peas perhaps, steeped in water with some saccharine substance added (i dare not affirm it to be sugar). at night steeped tea extended by some other herbs probably and its pungency and acridity assuaged by the saccharine principle aforementioned. on this we have so far subsisted and, save some nauseating, comfortably. as we go out and return, on right and left and in front and rear go bayonets. some substitutes heretofore have escaped and we are not to be neglected in our attendants. hard beds are healthy, but i query cannot the result be defeated by the _degree_? our mattresses are boards. only the slight elasticity of our thin blankets breaks the fall of our flesh and bones thereon. oh! now i praise the discipline i have received from uncarpeted floors through warm summer nights of my boyhood. the building resounds with petty talk; jokes and laughter and swearing. something more than that. many of the caged lions are engaged with cards, and money changes hands freely. some of the caged lions read, and some sleep, and so the weary day goes by. l.m.m. and i addressed the following letter to governor holbrook and hired a corporal to forward it to him. brattleboro, vt., _ th_, _ th_ month, . frederick holbrook, governor of vermont:-- we, the undersigned members of the society of friends, beg leave to represent to thee, that we were lately drafted in the d dist. of vermont, have been forced into the army and reached the camp near this town yesterday. that in the language of the elders of our new york yearly meeting, "we love our country and acknowledge with gratitude to our heavenly father the many blessings we have been favoured with under the government; and can feel no sympathy with any who seek its overthrow." but that, true to well-known principles of our society, we cannot violate our religious convictions either by complying with military requisitions or by the equivalents of this compliance,--the furnishing of a substitute or payment of commutation money. that, therefore, we are brought into suffering and exposed to insult and contempt from those who have us in charge, as well as to the penalties of insubordination, though liberty of conscience is granted us by the constitution of vermont as well as that of the united states. therefore, we beg of thee as governor of our state any assistance thou may be able to render, should it be no more than the influence of thy position interceding in our behalf. truly thy friend, cyrus g. pringle. p.s.--we are informed we are to be sent to the vicinity of boston tomorrow. _ th._--on board train to boston. the long afternoon of yesterday passed slowly away. this morning passed by,--the time of our stay in brattleboro, and we neither saw nor heard anything of our governor. we suppose he could not or would not help us. so as we go down to our trial we have no arm to lean upon among all men; but why dost thou complain, oh, my soul? seek thou that faith that will prove a buckler to thy breast, and gain for thee the protection of an arm mightier than the arms of all men. _ th._ camp vermont: long island, boston harbour.--in the early morning damp and cool we marched down off the heights of brattleboro to take train for this place. once in the car the dashing young cavalry officer, who had us in charge, gave notice he had placed men through the cars, with loaded revolvers, who had orders to shoot any person attempting to escape, or jump from the window, and that any one would be shot if he even put his head out of the window. down the beautiful valley of the connecticut, all through its broad intervales, heavy with its crops of corn or tobacco, or shaven smooth by the summer harvest; over the hard and stony counties of northern massachusetts, through its suburbs and under the shadow of bunker hill monument we came into the city of boston, "the hub of the universe." out through street after street we were marched double guarded to the wharves, where we took a small steamer for the island some six miles out in the harbour. a circumstance connected with this march is worth mentioning for its singularity: at the head of this company, like convicts (and feeling very much like such), through the city of boston walked, with heavy hearts and down-cast eyes, two quakers. here on this dry and pleasant island in the midst of the beautiful massachusetts bay, we have the liberty of the camp, the privilege of air and sunshine and hay beds to sleep upon. so we went to bed last night with somewhat of gladness elevating our depressed spirits. here are many troops gathering daily from all the new england states except connecticut and rhode island. their white tents are dotting the green slopes and hilltops of the island and spreading wider and wider. this is the flow of military tide here just now. the ebb went out to sea in the shape of a great shipload just as we came in, and another load will be sent before many days. all is war here. we are surrounded by the pomp and circumstance of war, and enveloped in the cloud thereof. the cloud settles down over the minds and souls of all; they cannot see beyond, nor do they try; but with the clearer eye of christian faith i try to look beyond all this error unto truth and holiness immaculate: and thanks to our father, i am favoured with glimpses that are sweet consolation amid this darkness. this is one gratification: the men with us give us their sympathy. they seem to look upon us tenderly and pitifully, and their expressions of kind wishes are warm. although we are relieved from duty and from drill, and may lie in our tents during rain and at night, we have heard of no complaint. this is the more worthy of note as there are so few in our little (vermont) camp. each man comes on guard half the days. it would probably be otherwise were their hearts in the service; but i have yet to find the man in any of these camps or at any service who does not wish himself at home. substitutes say if they knew all they know now before leaving home they would not have enlisted; and they have been but a week from their homes and have endured no hardships. yesterday l.m.m. and i appeared before the captain commanding this camp with a statement of our cases. he listened to us respectfully and promised to refer us to the general commanding here, general devens; and in the meantime released us from duty. in a short time afterward he passed us in our tent, asking our names. we have not heard from him, but do not drill or stand guard; so, we suppose, his release was confirmed. at that interview a young lieutenant sneeringly told us he thought we had better throw away our scruples and fight in the service of the country; and as we told the captain we could not accept pay, he laughed mockingly, and said he would not stay here for $ . per month. he gets more than a hundred, i suppose. how beautiful seems the world on this glorious morning here by the seaside! eastward and toward the sun, fair green isles with outlines of pure beauty are scattered over the blue bay. along the far line of the mainland white hamlets and towns glisten in the morning sun; countless tiny waves dance in the wind that comes off shore and sparkle sunward like myriads of gems. up the fair vault, flecked by scarcely a cloud, rolls the sun in glory. though fair be the earth, it has come to be tainted and marred by him who was meant to be its crowning glory. behind me on this island are crowded vile and wicked men, the murmur of whose ribaldry riseth continually like the smoke and fumes of a lower world. oh! father of mercies, forgive the hard heartlessness and blindness and scarlet sins of my fellows, my brothers. prison experiences for conscience' sake--our prison _ st._, _ th_ month, . in guard house.--yesterday morning l.m.m. and i were called upon to do fatigue duty. the day before we were asked to do some cleaning about camp and to bring water. we wished to be obliging, to appear willing to bear a hand toward that which would promote our own and our fellows' health and convenience; but as we worked we did not feel easy. suspecting we had been assigned to such work, the more we discussed in our minds the subject, the more clearly the right way seemed opened to us; and we separately came to the judgment that we must not conform to this requirement. so when the sergeant bade us "police the streets," we asked him if he had received instructions with regard to us, and he replied we had been assigned to "fatigue duty." l.m.m. answered him that we could not obey. he left us immediately for the major (jarvis of weathersfield, vt.). he came back and ordered us to the major's tent. the latter met us outside and inquired concerning the complaint he had heard of us. upon our statement of our position, he apparently undertook to argue our whimsies, as he probably looked upon our principles, out of our heads. we replied to his points as we had ability; but he soon turned to bullying us rather than arguing with us, and would hardly let us proceed with a whole sentence. "i make some pretension to religion myself," he said; and quoted the old testament freely in support of war. our terms were, submission or the guard-house. we replied we could not obey. this island was formerly occupied by a company, who carried on the large farm it comprises and opened a great hotel as a summer resort. the subjects of all misdemeanours, grave and small, are here confined. those who have deserted or attempted it; those who have insulted officers and those guilty of theft, fighting, drunkenness, etc. in _most_, as in the camps, there are traces yet of manhood and of the divine spark, but some are abandoned, dissolute. there are many here among the substitutes who were actors in the late new york riots. they show unmistakably the characteristics and sentiments of those rioters, and, especially, hatred to the blacks drafted and about camp, and exhibit this in foul and profane jeers heaped upon these unoffending men at every opportunity. in justice to the blacks i must say they are superior to the whites in all their behaviour. _ st._ p.m.--several of us were a little time ago called out one by one to answer inquiries with regard to our offences. we replied we could not comply with military requisitions. p.d., being last, was asked if he would die first, and replied promptly but mildly, _yes_. here we are in prison in our own land for no crimes, no offence to god nor man; nay, more: we are here for obeying the commands of the son of god and the influences of his holy spirit. i must look for patience in this dark day. i am troubled too much and excited and perplexed. _ st._, _ th_ month.--oh, the horrors of the past night--i never before experienced such _sensations_ and fears; and never did i feel so clearly that i had nothing but the hand of our father to shield me from evil. last night we three lay down together on the floor of a lower room of which we had taken possession. the others were above. we had but one blanket between us and the floor, and one over us. the other one we had lent to a wretched deserter who had skulked into our room for _relief_, being without anything of his own. we had during the day gained the respect of the fellows, and they seemed disposed to let us occupy our room in peace. i cannot say in quiet, for these caged beasts are restless, and the resonant boards of this old building speak of bedlam. the thin board partitions, the light door fastened only by a pine stick thrust into a wooden loop on the casing, seemed small protection in case of assault; but we lay down to sleep in quiet trust. but we had scarcely fallen asleep before we were awakened by the demoniac howlings and yellings of a man just brought into the next room, and allowed the liberty of the whole house. he was drunk, and further seemed to be labouring under delirium tremens. he crashed about furiously, and all the more after the guard tramped heavily in and bound him with handcuffs, and chain and ball. again and again they left, only to return to quiet him by threats or by crushing him down to the floor and gagging him. in a couple of hours he became quiet and we got considerable sleep. in the morning the fellow came into our room apologizing for the intrusion. he appeared a smart, fine-looking young man, restless and uneasy. p.d. has a way of disposing of intruders that is quite effectual. i have not entirely disposed of some misgivings with respect to the legitimacy of his use of the means, so he commenced reading aloud in the bible. the fellow was impatient and noisy, but he soon settled down on the floor beside him. as he listened and talked with us the recollections of his father's house and his innocent childhood were awakened. he was the child of pious parents, taught in sabbath school and under pure home influences till thirteen. then he was drawn into bad company, soon after leaving home for the sea; and, since then, has served in the army and navy,--in the army in wilson's and hawkins's [brigades]. his was the old story of the total subjection of moral power and thralldom to evil habits and associates. he would get drunk, whenever it was in his power. it was wrong; but he could not help it. though he was awakened and recollected his parents looking long and in vain for his return, he soon returned to camp, to his wallowing in the mire, and i fear to his path to certain perdition. _ d._ [ th month.]--a massachusetts major, the officer of the day, in his inspection of the guard-house came into our room today. we were lying on the floor engaged in reading and writing. he was apparently surprised at this and inquired the name of our books; and finding the bible and thomas à kempis's _imitation of christ_, observed that they were good books. i cannot say if he knew we were friends, but he asked us why we were in here. like all officers he proceeded to reason with us, and to advise us to serve, presenting no comfort if we still persisted in our course. he informed us of a young friend, edward w. holway of sandwich, mass., having been yesterday under punishment in the camp by his orders, who was today doing service about camp. he said he was not going to put his quaker in the guard-house, but was going to bring him to work by punishment. we were filled with deep sympathy for him and desired to cheer him by kind words as well as by the knowledge of our similar situation. we obtained permission of the major to write to him a letter open to his inspection. "you may be sure," said e.w.h. to us at w., "the major did not allow it to leave his hands." this forenoon the lieutenant of the day came in and acted the same part, though he was not so cool, and left expressing the hope, if we would not serve our country like men, that god would curse us. oh, the trials from these officers! one after another comes in to relieve himself upon us. finding us firm and not lacking in words, they usually fly into a passion and end by bullying us. how can we reason with such men? they are utterly unable to comprehend the pure christianity and spirituality of our principles. they have long stiffened their necks in their own strength. they have stopped their ears to the voice of the spirit, and hardened their hearts to his influences. they see no duty higher than that to country. what shall we receive at their hands? this major tells us we will not be tried here. then we are to be sent into the field, and there who will deliver us but god? ah, i have nursed in my heart a hope that i may be spared to return home. must i cast it out and have no desire, but to do the will of my master. it were better, even so. o, lord, thy will be done. grant i may make it my chief delight and render true submission thereto. yesterday a little service was required of our dear l.m.m., but he insisted he could not comply. a sergeant and two privates were engaged. they coaxed and threatened him by turns, and with a determination not to be baffled took him out to perform it. though guns were loaded he still stood firm and was soon brought back. we are happy here in guard-house,--too happy, too much at ease. we should see more of the comforter,--feel more strength,--if the trial were fiercer; but this is well. this is a trial of strength of patience. _ th._ [ th month.]--yesterday we had officers again for visitors. major j.b. gould, th massachusetts, came in with the determination of persuading us to consent to be transferred to the hospital here, he being the provost marshal of the island and having the power to make the transfer. he is different in being and bearing from those who have been here before. his motives were apparently those of pure kindness, and his demeanour was that of a gentleman. though he talked with us more than an hour, he lost no part of his self-control or good humour. so by his eloquence and kindness he made more impression upon us than any before. as congregationalist he well knew the courts of the temple, but the holy of holies he had never seen, and knew nothing of its secrets. he understood expediency; but is not the man to "lay down his life for my sake." he is sincere and seems to think what major gould believes cannot be far from right. after his attempt we remained as firm as ever. we must expect all means will be tried upon us, and no less persuasion than threats. at the hospital, _ th._ [ th month.]--yesterday morning came to us major gould again, informing us that he had come to take us out of that dirty place, as he could not see such respectable men lying there, and was going to take us up to the hospital. we assured him we could not serve there, and asked him if he would not bring us back when we had there declared our purpose. he would not reply directly; but brought us here and left us. when the surgeon knew our determination, he was for haling us back at once; what he wanted, he said, was willing men. we sat on the sward without the hospital tents till nearly noon, for some one to take us back; when we were ordered to move into the tents and quarters assigned us in the mess-room. the major must have interposed, demonstrating his kindness by his resolution that we should occupy and enjoy the pleasanter quarters of the hospital, certainly if serving; but none the less so if we declined. later in the day l.m.m. and p.d. were sitting without, when he passed them and, laughing heartily, declared they were the strangest prisoners of war he ever saw. he stopped some time to talk with them and when they came in they declared him a kind and honest man. if we interpret aright his conduct, this dangerous trial is over, and we have escaped the perplexities that his kindness and determination threw about us. _ th._--last night we received a letter from henry dickinson, stating that the president, though sympathizing with those in our situation, felt bound by the conscription act, and felt liberty, in view of his oath to execute the laws, to do no more than detail us from active service to hospital duty, or to the charge of the coloured refugees. for more than a week have we lain here, refusing to engage in hospital service; shall we retrace the steps of the past week? or shall we go south as overseers of the blacks on the confiscated estates of the rebels, to act under military commanders and to report to such? what would become of our testimony and our determination to preserve ourselves clear of the guilt of this war? p.s. we have written back to henry dickinson that we cannot purchase life at cost of peace of soul. _ th._--we have been exceeding sorrowful since receiving advice--as we must call it--from h.d. to enter the hospital service or some similar situation. we did not look for that from him. it is not what our friends sent us out for; nor is it what we came for. we shall feel desolate and dreary in our position, unless supported and cheered by the words of those who have at heart our best interests more than regard for our personal welfare. we walk as we feel guided by best wisdom. oh, may we run and not err in the high path of holiness. _ th._--yesterday a son-in-law of n.b. of lynn came to see us. he was going to get passes for one or two of the lynn friends, that they might come over to see us today. he informed us that the sentiment of the friends hereabouts was that we might enter the hospital without compromising our principles; and he produced a letter from w.w. to s.b. to the same effect. w.w. expressed his opinion that we might do so without doing it in lieu of other service. how can we evade a fact? does not the government both demand and accept it as in lieu of other service? oh, the cruelest blow of all comes from our friends. _ th._--although this trial was brought upon us by our friends, their intentions were well meant. their regard for our personal welfare and safety too much absorbs the zeal they should possess for the maintenance of the principle of the peaceableness of our master's kingdom. an unfaithfulness to this through meekness and timidity seems manifest,--too great a desire to avoid suffering at some sacrifice of principle, perhaps,--too little of placing of faith and confidence upon the rock of eternal truth. our friends at home, with w.d. at their head, support us; and yesterday, at the opportune moment, just as we were most distressed by the solicitations of our visitors, kind and cheering words of truth were sent us through dear c.m.p., whose love rushes out to us warm and living and just from an overflowing fountain. i must record another work of kind attention shown us by major gould. before we embarked, he came to us for a friendly visit. as we passed him on our way to the wharf he bade us farewell and expressed a hope we should not have so hard a time as we feared. and after we were aboard the steamer, as the result of his interference on our behalf, we must believe, we were singled out from the midst of the prisoners, among whom we had been placed previous to coming aboard, and allowed the liberty of the vessel. by this are we saved much suffering, as the other prisoners were kept under close guard in a corner on the outside of the boat. forest city up the potomac. _ nd._ [ th month.]--it was near noon, yesterday, when we turned in from sea between cape charles and henry; and, running thence down across the mouth of chesapeake bay, alongside old point comfort, dropped anchor off fortress monroe. the scene around us was one of beauty, though many of its adornments were the results and means of wrong. the sunshine was brighter, the verdure greener to our eyes weary of the sea, and the calm was milder and more grateful that we had so long tossed in the storm. the anchor was soon drawn up again and the _forest city_ steamed up the james river toward newport news, and turning to the left between the low, pine-grown banks, passed norfolk to leave the new hampshire detachment at portsmouth. coming back to fortress monroe, some freight was landed; and in the calm clear light of the moon, we swung away from shore and dropping down the mouth of the river, rounded old point, and, going up the chesapeake, entered the potomac in the night-time. off shore, alexandria. _ d._--here we anchored last night after the main detachment was landed, and the vermont and massachusetts men remained on board another night. we hear we are to go right to the field, where active operations are going on. this seems hard. we have not till now given up the hope that we were not to go out into virginia with the rest of the men, but were to be kept here at washington. fierce, indeed, are our trials. i am not discouraged entirely; but i am weak from want of food which i can eat, and from sickness. i do not know how i am going to live in such way, or get to the front. p.s. we have just landed; and i had the liberty to buy a pie of a woman hawking such things, that has strengthened me wonderfully. camp near culpeper. _ th._--my distress is too great for words; but i must overcome my disinclination to write, or this record will remain unfinished. so, with aching head and heart, i proceed. yesterday morning we were roused early for breakfast and for preparation for starting. after marching out of the barracks, we were first taken to the armory, where each man received a gun and its equipments and a piece of tent. we stood in line, waiting for our turn with apprehensions of coming trouble. though we had felt free to keep with those among whom we had been placed, we could not consent to carry a gun, even though we did not intend to use it; and, from our previous experience, we knew it would go harder with us, if we took the first step in the wrong direction, though it might seem an unimportant one, and an easy and not very wrong way to avoid difficulty. so we felt decided we must decline receiving the guns. in the hurry and bustle of equipping a detachment of soldiers, one attempting to explain a position and the grounds therefor so peculiar as ours to junior, petty officers, possessing liberally the characteristics of these: pride, vanity, conceit, and an arbitrary spirit, impatience, profanity, and contempt for holy things, must needs find the opportunity a very unfavourable one. we succeeded in giving these young officers a slight idea of what we were; and endeavoured to answer their questions of why we did not pay our commutation, and avail ourselves of that provision made expressly for such; of why we had come as far as that place, etc. we realized then the unpleasant results of that practice, that had been employed with us by the successive officers into whose hands we had fallen,--of shirking any responsibility, and of passing us on to the next officer above. a council was soon holden to decide what to do with us. one proposed to place us under arrest, a sentiment we rather hoped might prevail, as it might prevent our being sent on to the front; but another, in some spite and impatience, insisted, as it was their duty to supply a gun to every man and forward him, that the guns should be put upon us, and we be made to carry them. accordingly the equipment was buckled about us, and the straps of the guns being loosened, they were thrust over our heads and hung upon our shoulders. in this way we were urged forward through the streets of alexandria; and, having been put upon a long train of dirt cars, were started for culpeper. we came over a long stretch of desolated and deserted country, through battlefields of previous summers, and through many camps now lively with the work of this present campaign. seeing, for the first time, a country made dreary by the war-blight, a country once adorned with groves and green pastures and meadows and fields of waving grain, and happy with a thousand homes, now laid with the ground, one realizes as he can in no other way something of the ruin that lies in the trail of a war. but upon these fields of virginia, once so fair, there rests a two-fold blight, first that of slavery, now that of war. when one contrasts the face of this country with the smiling hillsides and vales of new england, he sees stamped upon it in characters so marked, none but a blind man can fail to read, the great irrefutable arguments against slavery and against war, too; and must be filled with loathing for these twin relics of barbarism, so awful in the potency of their consequences that they can change even the face of the country. through the heat of this long ride, we felt our total lack of water and the meagreness of our supply of food. our thirst became so oppressive as we were marched here from culpeper, some four miles with scarcely a halt to rest, under our heavy loads, and through the heat and deep dust of the road, that we drank water and dipped in the brooks we passed, though it was discoloured with the soap the soldiers had used in washing. the guns interfered with our walking, and, slipping down, dragged with painful weight upon our shoulders. poor p.d. fell out from exhaustion and did not come in till we had been some little time at the camp. we were taken to the th vermont regiment and soon apportioned to companies. though we waited upon the officer commanding the company in which we were placed, and endeavoured to explain our situation, we were required immediately after to be present at inspection of arms. we declined, but an attempt was made to force us to obedience, first, by the officers of the company, then, by those of the regiment; but, failing to exact obedience of us, we were ordered by the colonel to be tied, and, if we made outcry, to be gagged also, and to be kept so till he gave orders for our release. after two or three hours we were relieved and left under guard; lying down on the ground in the open air, and covering ourselves with our blankets, we soon fell asleep from exhaustion, and the fatigue of the day. this morning the officers told us we must yield. we must obey and serve. we were threatened great severities and even death. we seem perfectly at the mercy of the military power, and, more, in the hands of the inferior officers, who, from their being far removed from washington, feel less restraint from those regulations of the army, which are for the protection of privates from personal abuse. _ th._ [_ th_ month.]--yesterday my mind was much agitated: doubts and fears and forebodings seized me. i was alone, seeking a resting-place and finding none. it seemed as if god had forsaken me in this dark hour; and the tempter whispered, that after all i might be only the victim of a delusion. my prayers for faith and strength seemed all in vain. but this morning i enjoy peace, and feel as though i could face anything. though i am as a lamb in the shambles, yet do i cry, "thy will be done," and can indeed say,-- passive to his holy will trust i in my master still even though he slay me. i mind me of the anxiety of our dear friends about home, and of their prayers for us. oh, praise be to the lord for the peace and love and resignation that has filled my soul today! oh, the passing beauty of holiness! there is a holy life that is above fear; it is a close communion with christ. i pray for this continually but am not free from the shadow and the tempter. there is ever present with us the thought that perhaps we shall serve the lord the most effectually by our death, and desire, if that be the service he requires of us, that we may be ready and resigned. regimental hospital, th vermont. _ th._ [_ th_ month.]--on the evening of the th the colonel came to us apologizing for the roughness with which he treated us at first, which was, as he insisted, through ignorance of our real character and position. he told us if we persisted in our course, death would probably follow; though at another time he confessed to p.d. that this would only be the extreme sentence of court-martial. he urged us to go into the hospital, stating that this course was advised by friends about new york. we were too well aware of such a fact to make any denial, though it was a subject of surprise to us that he should be informed of it. he pleaded with us long and earnestly, urging us with many promises of indulgence and favour and attentions we found afterwards to be untrue. he gave us till the next morning to consider the question and report our decision. in our discussion of the subject among ourselves, we were very much perplexed. if all his statements concerning the ground taken by our society were true, we seemed to be liable, if we persisted in the course which alone seemed to us to be in accordance with truth, to be exposed to the charge of over-zeal and fanaticism even among our own brethren. regarding the work to be done in hospital as one of mercy and benevolence, we asked if we had any right to refuse its performance; and questioned whether we could do more good by endeavouring to bear to the end a clear testimony against war, than by labouring by word and deed among the needy in the hospitals and camps. we saw around us a rich field for usefulness in which there were scarce any labourers, and toward whose work our hands had often started involuntarily and unbidden. at last we consented to a trial, at least till we could make inquiries concerning the colonel's allegations, and ask the counsel of our friends, reserving the privilege of returning to our former position. at first a great load seemed rolled away from us; we rejoiced in the prospect of life again. but soon there prevailed a feeling of condemnation, as though we had sold our master. and that first day was one of the bitterest i ever experienced. it was a time of stern conflict of soul. the voice that seemed to say, "follow me," as i sought guidance the night before, kept pleading with me, convincing of sin, till i knew of a truth my feet had strayed from his path. the scriptures, which the day before i could scarcely open without finding words of strength and comfort, seemed closed against me, till after a severe struggle alone in the wood to which i had retired, i consented to give up and retrace my steps in faith. but it was too late. l.m.m. wishing to make a fair, honest trial, we were brought here--p.d. being already here unwell. we feel we are erring; but scarce anything is required of us and we wait to hear from friends. of these days of going down into sin, i wish to make little mention. i would that my record of such degradation be brief. we wish to come to an understanding with our friends and the society before we move, but it does not seem that we can repress the upheavings of truth in our hearts. we are bruised by sin. it is with pleasure i record we have just waited upon the colonel with an explanation of our distress of mind, requesting him to proceed with court-martial. we were kindly and tenderly received. "if you want a trial i can give it to you," he answered. the brigade has just marched out to join with the division for inspection. after that we are to have attention to our case. p.m. there is particular cause for congratulation in the consideration that we took this step this morning, when now we receive a letter from h.d. charging us to faithfulness. when lately i have seen dear l.m.m. in the thoroughness and patience of his trial to perform service in hospital, his uneasiness and the intensity of his struggle as manifested by his silence and disposition to avoid the company of his friends, and seen him fail and declare to us, "i cannot stay here," i have received a new proof, and to me a strong one, because it is from the experimental knowledge of an honest man, that no friend, who is really such, desiring to keep himself clear of complicity with this system of war and to bear a perfect testimony against it, can lawfully perform service in the hospitals of the army in lieu of bearing arms. _ th_ mo., _ d._--today dawned fair and our camp is dry again. i was asked to clean the gun i brought, and declining, was tied some two hours upon the ground. _ th._ at washington.--at first, after being informed of our declining to serve in his hospital, colonel foster did not appear altered in his kind regard for us. but his spleen soon became evident. at the time we asked for a trial by court-martial, and it was his duty to place us under arrest and proceed with the preferring of his charges against us. for a while he seemed to hesitate and consult his inferior officers, and among them his chaplain. the result of the conference was our being ordered into our companies, that, separated, and with the force of the officers of a company bearing upon us, we might the more likely be subdued. yet the colonel assured l.m.m., interceding in my behalf, when the lieutenant commanding my company threatened force upon me, that he should not allow any personal injury. when we marched next day i was compelled to bear a gun and equipments. my associates were more fortunate, for, being asked if they would carry their guns, declined and saw no more trouble from them. the captain of the company in which p.d. was placed told him he did not believe he was ugly about it, and that he could only put him under arrest and prefer charges against him. he accordingly was taken under guard, where he lay till we left for here. the next morning the men were busy in burnishing their arms. when i looked toward the one i had borne, yellow with rust, i trembled in the weakness of the flesh at the trial i felt impending over me. before the colonel was up i knocked at his tent, but was told he was asleep, though, through the opening, i saw him lying gazing at me. although i felt i should gain no relief from him, i applied again soon after. he admitted me and, lying on his bed, inquired with cold heartlessness what i wanted. i stated to him, that i could never consent to serve, and, being under the war-power, was resigned to suffer instead all the just penalties of the law. i begged of him release from the attempts by violence to compel my obedience and service, and a trial, though likely to be made by those having no sympathy with me, yet probably in a manner comformable to law. he replied that he had shown us all the favour he should; that he had, now, turned us over to the military power and was going to let that take its course; that is, henceforth we were to be at the mercy of the inferior officers, without appeal to law, justice, or mercy. he said he had placed us in a pleasant position, against which we could have no reasonable objection, and that we had failed to perform our agreement. he wished to deny that our consent was only temporary and conditional. he declared, furthermore, his belief, that a man who would not fight for his country did not deserve to live. i was glad to withdraw from his presence as soon as i could. i went back to my tent and lay down for a season of retirement, endeavouring to gain resignation to any event. i dreaded torture and desired strength of flesh and spirit. my trial soon came. the lieutenant called me out, and pointing to the gun that lay near by, asked if i was going to clean it. i replied to him, that i could not comply with military requisitions, and felt resigned to the consequences. "i do not ask about your feelings; i want to know if you are going to clean that gun?" "i cannot do it," was my answer. he went away, saying, "very well," and i crawled into the tent again. two sergeants soon called for me, and taking me a little aside, bid me lie down on my back, and stretching my limbs apart tied cords to my wrists and ankles and these to four stakes driven in the ground somewhat in the form of an x. i was very quiet in my mind as i lay there on the ground [soaked] with the rain of the previous day, exposed to the heat of the sun, and suffering keenly from the cords binding my wrists and straining my muscles. and, if i dared the presumption, i should say that i caught a glimpse of heavenly pity. i wept, not so much from my own suffering as from sorrow that such things should be in our own country, where justice and freedom and liberty of conscience have been the annual boast of fourth-of-july orators so many years. it seemed that our forefathers in the faith had wrought and suffered in vain, when the privileges they so dearly bought were so soon set aside. and i was sad, that one endeavouring to follow our dear master should be so generally regarded as a despicable and stubborn culprit. after something like an hour had passed, the lieutenant came with his orderly to ask me if i was ready to clean the gun. i replied to the orderly asking the question, that it could but give me pain to be asked or required to do anything i believed wrong. he repeated it to the lieutenant just behind him, who advanced and addressed me. i was favoured to improve the opportunity to say to him a few things i wished. he said little; and, when i had finished, he withdrew with the others who had gathered around. about the end of another hour his orderly came and released me. i arose and sat on the ground. i did not rise to go away. i had not where to go, nothing to do. as i sat there my heart swelled with joy from above. the consolation and sweet fruit of tribulation patiently endured. but i also grieved, that the world was so far gone astray, so cruel and blind. it seemed as if the gospel of christ had never been preached upon earth, and the beautiful example of his life had been utterly lost sight of. some of the men came about me, advising me to yield, and among them one of those who had tied me down, telling me what i had already suffered was nothing to what i must yet suffer unless i yielded; that human flesh could not endure what they would put upon me. i wondered if it could be that they could force me to obedience by torture, and examined myself closely to see if they had advanced as yet one step toward the accomplishment of their purposes. though weaker in body, i believed i found myself, through divine strength, as firm in my resolution to maintain my allegiance to my master. the relaxation of my nerves and muscles after having been so tensely strained left me that afternoon so weak that i could hardly walk or perform any mental exertion. i had not yet eaten the mean and scanty breakfast i had prepared, when i was ordered to pack up my things and report myself at the lieutenant's tent. i was accustomed to such orders and complied, little moved. the lieutenant received me politely with, "good-morning, mr. pringle," and desiring me to be seated, proceeded with the writing with which he was engaged. i sat down in some wonderment and sought to be quiet and prepared for any event. "you are ordered to report to washington," said he; "i do not know what it is for." i assured him that neither did i know. we were gathered before the major's tent for preparation for departure. the regimental officers were there manifesting surprise and chagrin; for they could not but show both as they looked upon us, whom the day before they were threatening to crush into submission, and attempting also to execute their threats that morning, standing out of their power and under orders from one superior to their major commanding e.m. as the bird uncaged, so were our hearts that morning. short and uncertain at first were the flights of hope. as the slave many times before us, leaving his yoke behind him, turned from the plantations of virginia and set his face toward the far north, so we from out a grasp as close and as abundant in suffering and severity, and from without the line of bayonets that had so many weeks surrounded us, turned our backs upon the camp of the th vermont and took our way over the turnpike that ran through the tented fields of culpeper. at the war office we were soon admitted to an audience with the adjutant general, colonel townsend, whom we found to be a very fine man, mild and kind. he referred our cases to the secretary of war, stanton, by whom we were ordered to report for service to surgeon general hammond. here we met isaac newton, commissioner of agriculture, waiting for our arrival, and james austin of nantucket, expecting his son, charles l. austin, and edward w. holway of sandwich, mass., conscripted friends like ourselves, and ordered here from the nd massachusetts. we understand it is through the influence of isaac newton that friends have been able to approach the heads of government in our behalf and to prevail with them to so great an extent. he explained to us the circumstance in which we are placed. that the secretary of war and president sympathized with friends in their present suffering, and would grant them full release, but that they felt themselves bound by their oaths that they would execute the laws, to carry out to its full extent the conscription act. that there appeared but one door of relief open,--that was to parole us and allow us to go home, but subject to their call again ostensibly, though this they neither wished nor proposed to do. that the fact of friends in the army and refusing service had attracted public attention so that it was not expedient to parole us at present. that, therefore, we were to be sent to one of the hospitals for a short time, where it was hoped and expressly requested that we would consent to remain quiet and acquiesce, if possible, in whatever might be required of us. that our work there would be quite free from objection, being for the direct relief of the sick; and that there we would release none for active service in the field, as the nurses were hired civilians. these requirements being so much less objectionable than we had feared, we felt relief, and consented to them. i.n. went with us himself to the surgeon general's office, where he procured peculiar favours for us: that we should be sent to a hospital in the city, where he could see us often; and that orders should be given that nothing should interfere with our comfort, or our enjoyment of our consciences. thence we were sent to medical purveyor abbot, who assigned us to the best hospital in the city, the douglas hospital. the next day after our coming here isaac newton and james austin came to add to our number e.w.h. and c.l.a., so now there are five of us instead of three. we are pleasantly situated in a room by ourselves in the upper or fourth story, and are enjoying our advantages of good quarters and tolerable food as no one can except he has been deprived of them. [_ th_ month] _ th._--today we have a pass to go out to see the city. _ th._--we all went, thinking to do the whole city in a day, but before the time of our passes expired, we were glad to drag ourselves back to the rest and quiet of d.h. during the day we called upon our friend i.n. in the patent office. when he came to see us on the th, he stated he had called upon the president that afternoon to request him to release us and let us go home to our friends. the president promised to consider it over-night. accordingly yesterday morning, as i.n. told us, he waited upon him again. he found there a woman in the greatest distress. her son, only a boy of fifteen years and four months, having been enticed into the army, had deserted and been sentenced to be shot the next day. as the clerks were telling her, the president was in the war office and could not be seen, nor did they think he could attend to her case that day. i.n. found her almost wild with grief. "do not despair, my good woman," said he, "i guess the president can be seen after a bit." he soon presented her case to the president, who exclaimed at once, "that must not be, i must look into that case, before they shoot that boy"; and telegraphed at once to have the order suspended. i.n. judged it was not a fit time to urge our case. we feel we can afford to wait, that a life may be saved. but we long for release. we do not feel easy to remain here. _ th._--today we attended meeting held in the house of a friend, asa arnold, living near here. there were but four persons beside ourselves. e.w.h. and c.l.a. showed their copy of the charges about to have been preferred against them in court-martial before they left their regiment, to a lawyer who attended the meeting. he laughed at the specification of mutiny, declaring such a charge could not have been lawfully sustained against them. the experiences of our new friends were similar to ours, except they fell among officers who usually showed them favour and rejoiced with them in their release. _ th._--l.m.m. had quite an adventure yesterday. he being fireman with another was in the furnace room among three or four others, when the officer of the day, one of the surgeons, passed around on inspection. "stand up," he ordered them, wishing to be saluted. the others arose; but by no means l. the order was repeated for his benefit, but he sat with his cap on, telling the surgeon he had supposed he was excused from such things as he was one of the friends. thereat the officer flew at him, exclaiming, he would take the quaker out of him. he snatched off his cap and seizing him by the collar tried to raise him to his feet; but finding his strength insufficient and that l. was not to be frightened, he changed his purpose in his wrath and calling for the corporal of the guard had him taken to the guard-house. this was about eleven a.m. and he lay there till about six p.m., when the surgeon in charge, arriving home and hearing of it, ordered the officer of the day to go and take him out, telling him never to put another man into the guard-house while he was in charge here without consulting him. the manner of his release was very satisfactory to us, and we waited for this rather than effect it by our own efforts. we are all getting uneasy about remaining here, and if our release do not come soon, we feel we must intercede with the authorities, even if the alternative be imprisonment. the privations i have endured since leaving home, the great tax upon my nervous strength, and my mind as well, since i have had charge of our extensive correspondence, are beginning to tell upon my health and i long for rest. _ th._ we begin to feel we shall have to decline service as heretofore, unless our position is changed. i shall not say but we submit too much in not declining at once, but it has seemed most prudent at least to make suit with government rather than provoke the hostility of their subalterns. we were ordered here with little understanding of the true state of things as they really exist here; and were advised by friends to come and make no objections, being assured it was but for a very brief time and only a matter of form. it might not have been wrong; but as we find we do too much fill the places of soldiers (l.m.m.'s fellow fireman has just left for the field, and i am to take his place, for instance), and are clearly doing military service, we are continually oppressed by a sense of guilt, that makes our struggles earnest. _ st._--i.n. has not called yet; our situation is becoming almost intolerable. i query if patience is justified under the circumstances. my distress of mind may be enhanced by my feeble condition of health, for today i am confined to my bed, almost too weak to get downstairs. this is owing to exposure after being heated over the furnaces. _ th._--though a week has gone by, and my cold has left me, i find i am no better, and that i am reduced very low in strength and flesh by the sickness and pain i am experiencing. yet i still persist in going below once a day. the food i am able to get is not such as is proper. _ th_ mo., _ th._--i spend most of my time on my bed, much of it alone. and very precious to me is the nearness unto the master i am favoured to attain to. notwithstanding my situation and state, i am happy in the enjoyment of his consolations. lately my confidence has been strong, and i think i begin to feel that our patience is soon to be rewarded with relief; insomuch that a little while ago, when dear p.d. was almost overcome with sorrow, i felt bold to comfort him with the assurance of my belief, that it would not be long so. my mind is too weak to allow of my reading much; and, though i enjoy the company of my companions a part of the time, especially in the evening, i am much alone; which affords me abundant time for meditation and waiting upon god. the fruits of this are sweet, and a recompense for affliction. _ th._--last evening e.w.h. saw i.n. particularly on my behalf, i suppose. he left at once for the president. this morning he called to inform us of his interview at the white house. the president was moved to sympathy in my behalf, when i.n. gave him a letter from one of our friends in new york. after its perusal he exclaimed to our friend, "i want you to go and tell stanton that it is my wish all those young men be sent home at once." he was on his way to the secretary this morning as he called. later. i.n. has just called again informing us in joy that we are free. at the war office he was urging the secretary to consent to our paroles, when the president entered. "it is my urgent wish," said he. the secretary yielded; the order was given, and we were released. what we had waited for so many weeks was accomplished in a few moments by a providential ordering of circumstances. _ th._--i.n. came again last evening bringing our paroles. the preliminary arrangements are being made, and we are to start this afternoon for new york. _note._ rising from my sick-bed to undertake this journey, which lasted through the night, its fatigues overcame me, and upon my arrival in new york i was seized with delirium from which i only recovered after many weeks, through the mercy and favour of him, who in all this trial had been our guide and strength and comfort. the end printed in the united states of america the following pages contain advertisements of a few of the macmillan books on kindred subjects the heart of the puritan by elizabeth deering hanscom _$ . _ the purpose of this volume is stated by the editor in these words: "i determined to bring together in one place in a convenient compendium, as it were, some gleanings from many and dusty tomes, some fragments of reality, in the hope that from them might radiate for others, as for me, shafts of light to penetrate the past." the result is unique in the revelation afforded in the puritans' own words of their daily walk and conversation and of that inner temper which governed their public acts. the range is from orders for clothes and directions for an atlantic voyage to the soul searchings of cotton mather and the spiritual ecstasies of mrs. jonathan edwards. the idea is a happy one, and miss hanscom carries it through with great tact and deftness. the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york the tree of heaven by may sinclair _cloth, $ . _ a singularly penetrating story of modern life, written in the author's very best manner. the scheme, the root motive of the book, may be said to be a vindication of the present generation--the generation that was condemned as neurotic and decadent by common consent a little more than three years ago, but is now enduring the ordeal of the war with great singleness of heart. this theme, in miss sinclair's hands, assumes big proportions and gives her at the same time ample opportunity for character analysis, in which art she is equalled by few contemporary writers. the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york fairhope: the annals of a country church by edgar dewitt jones _cloth, mo., $ . _ fairhope meeting-house is in the northermost country of kentucky, in the midst of a populous farming community. in this book mr. jones, a life-long member of the community, tells the story of fairhope meeting-house. the book is a remarkably sympathetic and appealing account of a phase of american rural life at a time when religion was always the uppermost topic in people's minds. "simple narratives of our people, our preachers, and the lights and shadows of our rural religious life"--is the author's modest description of his work. but this gives no hint of the book's peculiar charm. those who love birds and stretches of green meadow, glimpses of lordly and high hills, the soil and the sincere life lived on it, will find here a genuine delight. above all is the interest in the preachers themselves. "there were giants in those days, and for the most part our ministers were good and noble men. of their goodness and sincerity these annals bear witness!" the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york christine by alice cholmondeley _cloth, mo., $ . _ "a book which is true in essentials--so real that one is tempted to doubt whether it is fiction at all--doubly welcome and doubly important.... it would be difficult indeed to find a book in which the state of mind of the german people is pictured so cleverly, with so much understanding and convincing detail.... intelligent, generous, sweet-natured, broadminded, quick to see and to appreciate all that is beautiful either in nature or in art, rejoicing humbly over her own great gift, endowed with a keen sense of humour, christine's is a thoroughly wholesome and lovable character. but charming as christine's personality and her literary style both are, the main value of the book lies in its admirably lucid analysis of the german mind."--_new york times._ "absolutely different from preceding books of the war. its very freedom and girlishness of expression, its very simplicity and open-heartedness, prove the truth of its pictures."--_new york world._ "a luminous story of a sensitive and generous nature, the spontaneous expression of one spirited, affectionate, ardently ambitious, and blessed with a sense of humour."--_boston herald._ "the next time some sentimental old lady of either sex, who 'can't see why we have to send our boys abroad,' comes into your vision, and you know they are too unintelligent (they usually are) to understand a serious essay, try to trap them into reading 'christine.' if you succeed we know it will do them good."--_town and country._ the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york progress of the people called quakers*** transcribed from the harrison and crosfield edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org a brief account of the rise and progress of the people called quakers, in which their fundamental principle, doctrines, worship, ministry, and discipline, are plainly declared. with a summary relation of the former dispensations of god in the world; by way of introduction. by william penn. as unknown, and yet well known. cor. vi. . twelfth edition. manchester: _printed by harrison and crosfield_, _market street_. sold by harvey & darton, gracechurch street, london. . an epistle to the reader. reader, this following account of the people called quakers, &c. was written in the fear and love of god: first, as a standing testimony to that ever blessed truth in the inward parts, with which god, in my youthful time, visited my soul, and for the sense and love of which i was made willing, in no ordinary way, to relinquish the honours and interests of the world. secondly, as a testimony for that despised people, that god has in his great mercy gathered and united by his own blessed spirit in the holy profession of it; whose fellowship i value above all worldly greatness. thirdly, in love and honour to the memory of that worthy servant of god, george fox, the first instrument thereof, and therefore styled by me--the great and blessed apostle of our day. as this gave birth to what is here presented to thy view, in the first edition of it, by way of preface to george fox's excellent journal; so the consideration of the present usefulness of the following account of the people called quakers, by reason of the unjust reflections of some adversaries that once walked under the profession of friends, and the exhortations that conclude it, prevailed with me to consent that it should be republished in a smaller volume; knowing also full well, that great books, especially in these days, grow burthensome, both to the pockets and minds of too many; and that there are not a few that desire, so it be at an easy rate, to be informed about this people, that have been so much every where spoken against: but blessed be the god and father of our lord jesus christ, it is upon no worse grounds than it was said of old time of the primitive christians, as i hope will appear to every sober and considerate reader. our business, after all the ill usage we have met with, being the realities of religion, an effectual change before our last and great change: that all may come to an inward, sensible, and experimental knowledge of god, through the convictions and operations of the light and spirit of christ in themselves; the sufficient and blessed means given to all, that thereby all may come savingly to know the only true god, and jesus christ whom he hath sent to enlighten and redeem the world: which knowledge is indeed eternal life. and that thou, reader, mayst obtain it, is the earnest desire of him that is ever thine in so good a work. william penn. chap. i. _containing a brief account of divers dispensations of god in the world_, _to the time he was pleased to raise this despised people_, _called quakers_. divers have been the dispensations of god since the creation of the world, unto the sons of men; but the great end of all of them, has been the renown of his own excellent name in the creation and restoration of man: man, the emblem of himself, as a god on earth, and the glory of all his works. the world began with innocency; all was then good that the good god had made: and as he blessed the works of his hands, so their natures and harmony magnified him their creator. then the morning stars sang together for joy, and all parts of his work said amen to his law. not a jar in the whole frame; but man in paradise, the beasts in the field, the fowl in the air, the fish in the sea, the lights in the heavens, the fruits of the earth; yea, the air, the earth, the water, and fire, worshipped, praised, and exalted his power, wisdom, and goodness. o holy sabbath! o holy day to the lord! but this happy state lasted not long; for man, the crown and glory of the whole, being tempted to aspire above his place, unhappily yielded, against command and duty, as well as interest and felicity, and so fell below it; lost the divine image, the wisdom, power, and purity he was made in; by which, being no longer fit for paradise, he was expelled that garden of god, his proper dwelling and residence, and was driven out, as a poor vagabond, from the presence of the lord, to wander in the earth, the habitation of beasts. yet god that made him had pity on him; for he, seeing man was deceived, and that it was not of malice, or an original presumption in him, but through the subtilty of the serpent, who had first fallen from his own state, and by the mediation of the woman, man's own nature and companion, whom the serpent had first deluded, in his infinite goodness and wisdom provided a way to repair the breach, recover the loss, and restore fallen man again by a nobler and more excellent adam, promised to be born of a woman; that as by means of a woman the evil one had prevailed upon man, by a woman also he should come into the world, who would prevail against him, and bruise his head, and deliver man from his power: and which, in a signal manner, by the dispensation of the son of god in the flesh, in the fulness of time was personally and fully accomplished by him, and in him, as man's saviour and redeemer. but his power was not limited, in the manifestation of it to that time; for both before and since his blessed manifestation in the flesh, he has been the light and life, the rock and strength of all that ever feared god; was present with them in their temptations, followed them in their travels and afflictions, and supported and carried them through and over the difficulties that have attended them in their earthly pilgrimage. by this, abel's heart excelled cain's, and seth obtained the pre-eminence, and enoch walked with god. it was this that strove with the old world, and which they rebelled against, and which sanctified and instructed noah to salvation. but the outward dispensation that followed the benighted state of man, after his fall, especially among the patriarchs, was generally that of angels; as the scriptures of the old testament do in many places express, as to abraham, jacob, &c. the next was that of the law by moses, which was also delivered by angels, as the apostle tells us. this dispensation was much outward, and suited to a low and servile state; called therefore, by the apostle paul, that of a schoolmaster, which was to point out and prepare that people to look and long for the messiah, who would deliver them from the servitude of a ceremonious and imperfect dispensation, by knowing the realities of those mysterious representations in themselves. in this time the law was written on stone, the temple built with hands, attended with an outward priesthood, and external rites and ceremonies, that were shadows of the good things that were to come, and were only to serve till the seed came, or the more excellent and general manifestation of christ, to whom was the promise, and to all men only in him, in whom it was yea and amen, even life from death, immortality and eternal life. this the prophets foresaw, and comforted the believing jews in the certainty of it; which was the top of the mosaical dispensation, which ended in john's ministry, the forerunner of the messiah, as john's was finished in him, the fulness of all. and then god, that at sundry times, and in divers manners, had spoken to the fathers by his servants the prophets, spoke to men by his son christ jesus, who is heir of all things, being the gospel-day, which is the dispensation of sonship: bringing in thereby a nearer testament, and a better hope; even the beginning of the glory of the latter days, and of the restitution of all things; yea, the restoration of the kingdom unto israel. now the spirit, that was more sparingly communicated in former dispensations, began to be poured forth upon all flesh, according to the prophet joel; and the light that shined in darkness, or but dimly before, the most gracious god caused to shine out of darkness, and the day-star began to rise in the hearts of believers, giving unto them the knowledge of god in the face, or appearance, of his son christ jesus. now the poor in spirit, the meek, the true mourners, the hungry and thirsty after righteousness, the peacemakers, the pure in heart, the merciful and persecuted, came more especially in remembrance before the lord, and were sought out and blessed by israel's true shepherd. old jerusalem with her children grew out of date, and the new jerusalem into request, the mother of the sons of the gospel-day. wherefore, no more at old jerusalem, nor at the mountain of samaria, will god be worshipped above other places; for, behold, he is, by his own son, declared and preached a spirit, and that he will be known as such, and worshipped in the spirit and in the truth. he will now come nearer than of old time, and he will write his law in the heart, and put his fear and spirit in the inward parts, according to his promise. then signs, types, and shadows flew away, the day having discovered their insufficiency in not reaching to the inside of the cup, to the cleansing of the conscience; and all elementary services expired in and by him, that is the substance of all. and to this great and blessed end of the dispensation of the son of god, did the apostles testify, whom he had chosen and anointed by his spirit, to turn the jews from their prejudice and superstition, and the gentiles from their vanity and idolatry, to christ's light and spirit that shined in them; that they might be quickened from the sins and trespasses in which they were dead, to serve the living god, in the newness of the spirit of life, and walk as children of the light, and of the day, even the day of holiness: for such put on christ, the light of the world, and make no more provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof. so that the light, spirit, and grace, that come by christ, and appear in man, were that divine principle the apostles ministered from, and turned people's minds unto, and in which they gathered and built up the church of christ in their day. for which cause they advise them not to quench the spirit, but to wait for the spirit, and speak by the spirit, and pray by the spirit, and walk in the spirit too, as that which approved them the truly begotten children of god, born not of flesh and blood, or of the will of man, but of the will of god; by doing his will, and denying their own; by drinking of christ's cup, and being baptized with his baptism of self-denial; the way and path that all the heirs of life have ever trod to blessedness. but alas! even in the apostles' days, those bright stars of the first magnitude of the gospel light, some clouds, foretelling an eclipse of this primitive glory, began to appear; and several of them gave early caution of it to the christians of their time, that even then there was, and yet would be more and more, a falling away from the power of godliness, and the purity of that spiritual dispensation, by such as sought to make a fair show in the flesh, but with whom the offence of the cross ceased. yet with this comfortable conclusion, that they saw beyond it a more glorious time than ever to the true church. their sight was true; and what they foretold to the churches, gathered by them in the name and power of jesus, came to pass: for christians degenerated apace into outsides, as days, and meats, and divers other ceremonies. and, which was worse, they fell into strife and contention about them; separating one from another, then envying, and, as they had power, persecuting one another, to the shame and scandal of their common christianity, and grievous stumbling and offence of the heathen; among whom the lord had so long and so marvellously preserved them. and having got at last the worldly power into their hands, by kings and emperors embracing the christian profession, they changed, what they could, the kingdom of christ, which is not of this world, into a worldly kingdom; or, at least, styled the worldly kingdom that was in their hands, the kingdom of christ, and so they became worldly and not true christians. then human inventions and novelties, both in doctrine and worship, crowded fast into the church; a door opened thereunto, by the grossness and carnality that appeared then among the generality of christians, who had long since left the guidance of god's meek and heavenly spirit, and given themselves up to superstition, will-worship, and voluntary humility. and as superstition is blind, so it is heady and furious, for all must stoop to its blind and boundless zeal, or perish by it: in the name of the spirit, persecuting the very appearance of the spirit of god in others, and opposing that in others, which they resisted in themselves, viz. the light, grace, and spirit of the lord jesus christ; but always under the notion of innovation, heresy, schism, or some such plausible name; though christianity allows of no name, or pretence whatever, for persecuting of any man for matters of mere religion, being in its very nature meek, gentle, and forbearing; and consists of faith, hope, and charity, which no persecutor can have, whilst he remains a persecutor; in that a man cannot believe well, or hope well, or have a charitable or tender regard to another, whilst he would violate his mind, or persecute his body, for matters of faith or worship towards his god. thus the false church sprang up, and mounted the chair; but, though she lost her nature, she would needs keep her good name of the lamb's bride, the true church, and mother of the faithful: constraining all to receive her mark, either in their forehead, or right-hand; that is, publicly, or privately. but, in deed and in truth, she was mystery babylon, the mother of harlots, mother of those that, with all their show and outside of religion, were adulterated and gone from the spirit, nature, and life of christ, and grown vain, worldly, ambitious, covetous, cruel, &c. which are the fruits of the flesh, and not of the spirit. now it was, that the true church fled into the wilderness, that is, from superstition and violence, to a retired, solitary, and lonely state: hidden, and as it were, out of sight of men, though not out of the world. which shows, that her wonted visibility was not essential to the being of a true church in the judgment of the holy ghost; she being as true a church in the wilderness, though not as visible and lustrous, as when she was in her former splendor of profession. in this state many attempts she made to return, but the waters were yet too high, and her way blocked up; and many of her excellent children, in several nations and centuries, fell by the cruelty of superstition, because they would not fall from their faithfulness to the truth. the last age did set some steps towards it, both as to doctrine, worship, and practice. but practice quickly failed: for wickedness flowed, in a little time, as well among the professors of the reformation, as those they reformed from; so that by the fruits of conversation they were not to be distinguished. and the children of the reformers, if not the reformers themselves, betook themselves, very early, to earthly policy and power, to uphold and carry on their reformation that had been begun with spiritual weapons; which i have often thought has been one of the greatest reasons the reformation made no better progress, as to the life and soul of religion. for whilst the reformers were lowly and spiritually minded, and trusted in god, and looked to him, and lived in his fear, and consulted not with flesh and blood, nor sought deliverance in their own way, there were daily added to the church such as, one might reasonably say, should be saved: for they were not so careful to be safe from persecution, as to be faithful and inoffensive under it: being more concerned to spread the truth by their faith and patience in tribulation, than to get the worldly power out of their hands that inflicted those sufferings upon them: and it will be well if the lord suffer them not to fall, by the very same way they took to stand. in doctrine they were in some things short; in other things, to avoid one extreme, they ran into another: and for worship, there was, for the generality, more of man in it than of god. they owned the spirit, inspiration, and revelation, indeed, and grounded their separation and reformation upon the sense and understanding they received from it, in the reading of the scriptures of truth. and this was their plea; the scripture is the text, the spirit the interpreter, and that to every one for himself. but yet there was too much of human invention, tradition, and art, that remained both in praying and preaching; and of worldly authority, and worldly greatness in their ministers; especially in this kingdom, sweden, denmark, and some parts of germany. god was therefore pleased in england to shift us from vessel to vessel; and the next remove humbled the ministry, so that they were more strict in preaching, devout in praying, and zealous for keeping the lord's day, and catechising of children and servants, and repeating at home in their families what they had heard in public. but even as these grew into power, they were not only for whipping some out, but others into the temple: and they appeared rigid in their spirits, rather than severe in their lives, and more for a party than for piety: which brought forth another people, that were yet more retired and select. they would not communicate at large, or in common with others; but formed churches among themselves of such as could give some account of their conversion, at least of very promising experiences of the work of god's grace upon their hearts, and under mutual agreements and covenants of fellowship, they kept together. these people were somewhat of a softer temper, and seemed to recommend religion by the charms of its love, mercy, and goodness, rather than by the terrors of its judgments and punishments; by which the former party would have awed people into religion. they also allowed greater liberty to prophesy than those before them; for they admitted any member to speak or pray, as well as their pastor, whom they always chose, and not the civil magistrate. if such found anything pressing upon them to either duty, even without the distinction of clergy or laity, persons of any trade had their liberty, be it never so low and mechanical. but alas! even these people suffered great loss: for tasting of worldly empire, and the favour of princes, and the gain that ensued, they degenerated but too much. for though they had cried down national churches and ministry, and maintenance too, some of them, when it was their own turn to be tried, fell under the weight of worldly honour and advantage, got into profitable parsonages too much, and outlived and contradicted their own principles; and, which was yet worse, turned, some of them, absolute persecutors of other men for god's sake, that but so lately came themselves out of the furnace; which drove many a step further, and that was into the water: another baptism, as believing they were not scripturally baptized: and hoping to find that presence and power of god, in submitting to this watery ordinance, which they desired and wanted. these people also made profession of neglecting, if not renouncing and censuring not only the necessity, but use, of all human learning, as to the ministry; and all other qualifications to it, besides the helps and gifts of the spirit of god, and those natural and common to men. and for a time they seemed, like john of old, a burning and a shining light to other societies. they were very diligent, plain, and serious; strong in scripture, and bold in profession; bearing much reproach and contradiction. but that which others fell by, proved their snare. for worldly power spoiled them too; who had enough of it to try them what they would do if they had more: and they rested also too much upon their watery dispensation, instead of passing on more fully to that of the fire and holy ghost, which was his baptism, who came with a fan in his hand, that he might thoroughly, and not in part only, purge his floor, and take away the dross and the tin of his people, and make a man finer than gold. withal, they grew high, rough, and self-righteous; opposing further attainment; too much forgetting the day of their infancy and littleness, which gave them something of a real beauty; insomuch that many left them, and all visible churches and societies, and wandered up and down as sheep without a shepherd, and as doves without their mates; seeking their beloved, but could not find him, as their souls desired to know him, whom their souls loved above their chiefest joy. these people were called seekers by some, and the family of love by others; because, as they came to the knowledge of one another, they sometimes met together, not formally to pray or preach at appointed times or places, in their own wills, as in times past they were accustomed to do, but waited together in silence; and as anything rose in any one of their minds, that they thought savoured of a divine spring, they sometimes spoke. but so it was, that some of them not keeping in humility, and in the fear of god, after the abundance of revelation, were exalted above measure; and for want of staying their minds in an humble dependance upon him that opened their understandings, to see great things in his law, they ran out in their own imaginations, and mixing them with those divine openings, brought forth a monstrous birth, to the scandal of those that feared god, and waited daily in the temple not made with hands, for the consolation of israel; the jew inward, and circumcision in spirit. this people obtained the name of ranters, from their extravagant discourses and practices. for they interpreted christ's fulfilling of the law for us, to be a discharging of us from any obligation and duty the law required of us, instead of the condemnation of the law for sins past, upon faith and repentance: and that now it was no sin to do that which before it was a sin to commit; the slavish fear of the law being taken off by christ, and all things good that man did, if he did but do them with the mind and persuasion that it was so. insomuch that divers fell into gross and enormous practices; pretending in excuse thereof, that they could, without evil, commit the same act which was sin in another to do: thereby distinguishing between the action and the evil of it, by the direction of the mind, and intention in the doing of it. which was to make sin super-abound by the aboundings of grace, and to turn from the grace of god into wantonness; a securer way of sinning than before: as if christ came not to save us from our sins, but in our sins; not to take away sin, but that we might sin more freely at his cost, and with less danger to ourselves. i say, this ensnared divers, and brought them to an utter and lamentable loss as to their eternal state; and they grew very troublesome to the better sort of people, and furnished the looser with an occasion to profane. chap. ii. _of the rise of this people_, _their fundamental principle_, _and doctrine_, _and practice_, _in twelve points resulting from it_: _their progress and sufferings_: _an expostulation with england thereupon_. at was about that very time, as you may see in george fox's annals, that the eternal, wise, and good god, was pleased, in his infinite love, to honour and visit this benighted and bewildered nation, with his glorious day-spring from on high; yea, with a more sure and certain sound of the word of light and life, through the testimony of a chosen vessel, to an effectual and blessed purpose, can many thousands say, glory be to the name of the lord for ever! for as it reached the conscience, and broke the heart, and brought many to a sense and search, so that which people had been vainly seeking without, with much pains and cost, they, by this ministry, found within, where it was they wanted what they sought for, viz. the right way to peace with god. for they were directed to the light of jesus christ within them, as the seed and leaven of the kingdom of god; near all, because in all, and god's talent to all: a faithful and true witness, and just monitor in every bosom. the gift and grace of god to life and salvation, that appears to all, though few regard it. this the traditional christian, conceited of himself, and strong in his own will and righteousness, overcome with blind zeal and passion, either despised as a low and common thing, or opposed as a novelty, under many hard names and opprobrious terms; denying, in his ignorant and angry mind, any fresh manifestations of god's power and spirit in man, in these days, though never more needed to make true christians. not unlike those jews of old, that rejected the son of god, at the very same time that they blindly professed to wait for the messiah to come; because, alas! he appeared not among them according to their carnal mind and expectation. this brought forth many abusive books, which filled the greater sort with envy, and lesser with rage; and made the way and progress of this blessed testimony strait and narrow, indeed, to those that received it. however, god owned his own work, and this testimony did effectually reach, gather, comfort, and establish the weary and heavy-laden, the hungry and thirsty, the poor and needy, the mournful and sick of many maladies, that had spent all upon physicians of no value, and waited for relief from heaven, help only from above; seeing, upon a serious trial of all things, nothing else would do but christ himself; the light of his countenance, a touch of his garment, and help from his hand, who cured the poor woman's issue, raised the centurion's servant, the widow's son, the ruler's daughter, and peter's mother: and like her they no sooner felt his power and efficacy upon their souls, but they gave up to obey him in a testimony to his power: and that with resigned wills and faithful hearts, through all mockings, contradictions, confiscations, beatings, prisons, and many other jeopardies that attended them for his blessed name's sake. and, truly, they were very many, and very great; so that in all human probability they must have been swallowed up quick of the proud and boisterous waves that swelled and beat against them, but that the god of all their tender mercies was with them in his glorious authority; so that the hills often fled, and the mountains melted before the power that filled them; working mightily for them, as well as in them; one ever following the other. by which they saw plainly, to their exceeding great confirmation and comfort, that all things were possible with him with whom they had to do. and that the more that which god required seemed to cross man's wisdom, and expose them to man's wrath, the more god appeared to help and carry them through all to his glory. insomuch, that if ever any people could say in truth, thou art our sun and our shield, our rock and sanctuary; and by thee we have leaped over a wall, and by thee we have run through a troop, and by thee we have put the armies of the aliens to flight; these people had a right to say it. and as god had delivered their souls of the wearisome burdens of sin and vanity, and enriched their poverty of spirit, and satisfied their great hunger and thirst after eternal righteousness, and filled them with the good things of his own house, and made them stewards of his manifold gifts; so they went forth to all quarters of these nations, to declare to the inhabitants thereof, what god had done for them; what they had found, and where and how they had found it, viz.--the way to peace with god: inviting all to come and see, and taste for themselves, the truth of what they declared unto them. and as their testimony was to the principle of god in man, the precious pearl and leaven of the kingdom, as the only blessed means appointed of god to quicken, convince, and sanctify man; so they opened to them what it was in itself, and what it was given to them for; how they might know it from their own spirit, and that of the subtle appearance of the evil one: and what it would do for all those whose minds should be turned off from the vanity of the world, and its lifeless ways and teachers, and adhere to his blessed light in themselves, which discovers and condemns sin in all its appearances, and shows how to overcome it, if minded and obeyed in its holy manifestations and convictions: giving power to such, to avoid and resist those things that do not please god, and to grow strong in love, faith, and good works. that so man, whom sin hath made as a wilderness, over-run with briers and thorns, might become as the garden of god, cultivated by his divine power, and replenished with the most virtuous and beautiful plants of god's own right-hand planting, to his eternal praise. but these experimental preachers of glad tidings of god's truth and kingdom could not run when they list, or pray or preach when they pleased, but as christ their redeemer prepared and moved them by his own blessed spirit, for which they waited in their services and meetings, and spoke as that gave them utterance; and which was as those having authority, and not like the dry, and formal pharisees. and so it plainly appeared to the serious-minded, whose spiritual eye the lord jesus had in any measure opened: so that to one was given the word of exhortation, to another the word of reproof, to another the word of consolation, and all by the same spirit, and in the good order thereof, to the convincing and edifying of many. and, truly, they waxed strong and bold through faithfulness; and by the power and spirit of the lord jesus became very fruitful; thousands, in a short time, being turned to the truth in the inward parts, through their testimony in ministry and sufferings: insomuch as, in most counties, and many of the considerable towns of england, meetings were settled; and daily there were added such as should be saved. for they were diligent to plant and to water, and the lord blessed their labours with an exceeding great increase; notwithstanding all the opposition made to their blessed progress, by false rumours, calumnies, and bitter persecutions; not only from the powers of the earth, but from every one that listed to injure and abuse them: so that they seemed, indeed, to be as poor sheep appointed to the slaughter, and as a people killed all the day long. it were fitter for a volume than a preface, but so much as to repeat the contents of their cruel sufferings; from professors as well as from profane, and from magistrates as well as the rabble: that it may be said of this abused and despised people, they went forth weeping, and sowed in tears, bearing testimony to the precious seed, even the seed of the kingdom, which stands not in words, the finest, the highest that man's wit can use; but in power, the power of christ jesus, to whom god the father hath given all power in heaven and in earth, that he might rule angels above, and men below. who empowered them, as their work witnesseth, by the many that were turned through their ministry, from darkness to light, and out of the broad into the narrow way of life and peace: bringing people to a weighty, serious, and god-like conversation; the practice of that doctrine which they taught. and as without this secret divine power, there is no quickening and regenerating of dead souls, so the want of this generating and begetting power and life, is the cause of the little fruit that the many ministries, that have been and are in the world, bring forth. o that both ministers and people were sensible of this! my soul is often troubled for them, and sorrow and mourning compass me about for their sakes. o that they were wise! o that they would consider, and lay to heart the things that truly and substantially make for their lasting peace! two things are to be considered; the doctrine they taught, and the example they led among all people. i have already touched upon their fundamental principle, which is as the corner-stone of their fabric: and, indeed, to speak eminently and properly, their characteristic, or main distinguishing point or principle, viz. the light of christ within, as god's gift for man's salvation. this, i say, is as the root of the goodly tree of doctrines that grew and branched out from it, which i shall now mention in their natural and experimental order. first, repentance from dead works to serve the living god. which comprehends three operations. first, a sight of sin. secondly, a sense and godly sorrow for sin. thirdly, an amendment for the time to come. this was the repentance they preached and pressed, and a natural result from the principle they turned all people unto. for of light came sight; and of sight came sense and sorrow; and of sense and sorrow came amendment of life. which doctrine of repentance leads to justification; that is, forgiveness of the sins that are past, through christ the alone propitiation, and the sanctification or purgation, of the soul from the defiling nature and habits of sin present, by the spirit of christ in the soul; which is justification in the complete sense of that word: comprehending both justification from the guilt of the sins that are past, as if they had never been committed, through the love and mercy of god in christ jesus; and the creature's being made inwardly just, through the cleansing and sanctifying power and spirit of christ revealed in the soul; which is commonly called sanctification. but none can come to know christ to be their sacrifice, that reject him as their sanctifier: the end of his coming being to save his people from the nature and defilement, as well as guilt of sin; and, therefore, those that resist his light and spirit, make his coming and offering of none effect to them. from hence sprang a second doctrine they were led to declare, as the mark of the prize of the high calling to all true christians, viz. perfection from sin, according to the scriptures of truth; which testify it to be the end of christ's coming, and the nature of his kingdom, and for which his spirit was and is given, viz. to be perfect as our heavenly father is perfect, and holy, because god is holy. and this the apostles laboured for, that the christians should be sanctified throughout in body, soul, and spirit; but they never held a perfection in wisdom and glory in this life, or from natural infirmities, or death, as some have, with a weak or ill mind, imagined and insinuated against them. this they called a redeemed state, regeneration, or the new birth: teaching everywhere, according to their foundation, that unless this work was known, there was no inheriting of the kingdom of god. thirdly, this leads to an acknowledgment of eternal rewards and punishments, as they have good reason; for else, of all people, certainly they must be most miserable, who, for above forty years, have been exceeding great sufferers for their profession; and, in some cases, treated worse than the worst of men; yea, as the refuse and off-scouring of all things. this was the purport of their doctrine and ministry; which for the most part, is what other professors of christianity pretend to hold in words and forms, but not in the power of godliness; which, generally speaking, has been long lost by men's departing from that principle and seed of life that is in man, and which man has not regarded, but lost the sense of; and in and by which he can only be quickened in his mind to serve the living god in newness of life. for as the life of religion was lost, and the generality lived and worshipped god after their own wills, and not after the will of god, nor the mind of christ, which stood in the works and fruits of the holy spirit; so that which these pressed, was not notion, but experience; not formality, but godliness; as being sensible in themselves, through the work of god's righteous judgments, that without holiness no man shall ever see the lord with comfort. besides these general doctrines, as the larger branches, there sprang forth several particular doctrines, that did exemplify and farther explain the truth and efficacy of the general doctrine before observed, in their lives and examples. as, i. communion and loving one another. this is a noted mark in the mouths of all sorts of people concerning them: they will meet, they will help and stick one to another: whence it is common to hear some say, "look how the quakers love and take care of one another." others, less moderate, will say, "the quakers love none but themselves:" and if loving one another, and having an intimate communion in religion, and constant care to meet to worship god, and help one another, be any mark of primitive christianity, they had it, blessed be the lord, in an ample manner. ii. to love enemies. this they both taught and practised. for they did not only refuse to be revenged for injuries done them, and condemned it as of an unchristian spirit; but they did freely forgive, yea, help and relieve those that had been cruel to them, when it was in their power to have been even with them: of which many and singular instances might be given: endeavouring, through faith and patience, to overcome all injustice and oppression, and preaching this doctrine as christian, for others to follow. iii. another was, the sufficiency of truth-speaking, according to christ's own form of sound words, of yea, yea, and nay, nay, among christians, without swearing, both from christ's express prohibition to swear at all; (mat. v.) and for that, they being under the tie and bond of truth in themselves, there was no necessity for an oath; and it would be a reproach to their christian veracity to assure their truth by such an extraordinary way of speaking; simple and uncompounded answers, as yea and nay, without asseveration, attestation, or supernatural vouchers, being most suitable to evangelical righteousness. but offering, at the same time, to be punished to the full for false-speaking, as others for perjury, if ever guilty of it: and hereby they exclude with all true, all false and profane swearing; for which the land did and doth mourn, and the great god was, and is, not a little offended with it. iv. not fighting, but suffering, is another testimony peculiar to this people: they affirm that christianity teacheth people to beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning-hooks, and to learn war no more; that so the wolf may lie down with the lamb, and the lion with the calf, and nothing that destroys be entertained in the hearts of people: exhorting them to employ their zeal against sin, and turn their anger against satan, and no longer war one against another; because all wars and fightings come of men's own hearts' lusts, according to the apostle james, and not of the meek spirit of christ jesus, who is captain of another warfare, and which is carried on with other weapons. thus, as truth-speaking succeeded swearing, so faith and patience succeeded fighting, in the doctrine and practice of this people. nor ought they for this to be obnoxious to civil government, since, if they cannot fight for it, neither can they fight against it; which is no mean security to any state. nor is it reasonable, that people should be blamed for not doing more for others than they can do for themselves. and, christianity set aside, if the costs and fruits of war were well considered, peace, with all its inconveniencies, is generally preferable. but though they were not for fighting, they were for submitting to government, and that, not only for fear, but for conscience-sake, where government doth not interfere with conscience; believing it to be an ordinance of god, and where it is justly administered, a great benefit to mankind. though it has been their lot, through blind zeal in some, and interest in others, to have felt the strokes of it with greater weight and rigour than any other persuasion in this age; whilst they of all others, religion set aside, have given the civil magistrate the least occasion of trouble in the discharge of his office. v. another part of the character of this people was, and is, they refuse to pay tithes or maintenance to a national ministry; and that for two reasons: the one is, they believe all compelled maintenance, even to gospel-ministers, to be unlawful, because expressly contrary to christ's command, who said, "freely you have received, freely give:" at least, that the maintenance of gospel-ministers should be free, and not forced. the other reason of their refusal is, because these ministers are not gospel ones, in that the holy ghost is not their foundation, but human arts and parts. so that it is not matter of humour or sullenness, but pure conscience towards god, that they cannot help to support national ministries where they dwell, which are but too much and too visibly become ways of worldly advantage and preferment. vi. not to respect persons, was, and is, another of their doctrines and practices, for which they were often buffeted and abused. they affirmed it to be sinful to give flattering titles, or to use vain gestures and compliments of respect. though to virtue and authority they ever made a deference; but after their plain and homely manner, yet sincere and substantial way: well remembering the examples of mordecai and elihu; but more especially the command of their lord and master jesus christ, who forbade his followers to call men rabbi, which implies lord or master; also the fashionable greetings and salutations of those times; that so self-love and honour, to which the proud mind of man is incident, in his fallen state, might not be indulged, but rebuked. and though this rendered their conversation disagreeable, yet they that will remember what christ said to the jews, "how can you believe which receive honour one of another?" will abate of their resentment, if his doctrine has any credit with them. vii. they also used the plain language of thee and thou, to a single person, whatever was his degree among men. and, indeed, the wisdom of god was much seen in bringing forth this people in so plain an appearance. for it was a close and distinguishing test upon the spirits of those they came among; showing their insides, and what predominated, notwithstanding their high and great profession of religion. this among the rest sounded harsh to many of them, and they took it ill, forgetting the language they use to god in their own prayers, and the common style of the scriptures, and that it is an absolute and essential propriety of speech. and what good, alas! had their religion done them, who were so sensibly touched with indignation for the use of this plain, honest, and true speech? viii. they recommended silence by their example, having very few words upon all occasions. they were at a word in dealing: nor could their customers, with many words, tempt them from it, having more regard to truth than custom, to example than gain. they sought solitude: but when in company, they would neither use, nor willingly hear unnecessary or unlawful discourses: whereby they preserved their minds pure and undisturbed from unprofitable thoughts, and diversions. nor could they humour the custom of good night, good morrow, god speed; for they knew the night was good, and the day was good, without wishing of either; and that in the other expression, the holy name of god was too lightly and unthankfully used, and therefore taken in vain. besides, they were words and wishes of course, and are usually as little meant, as are love and service in the custom of cap and knee; and superfluity in those, as well as in other things, was burthensome to them; and therefore, they did not only decline to use them, but found themselves often pressed to reprove the practice. ix. for the same reason they forbore drinking to people, or pledging of them, as the manner of the world is: a practice that is not only unnecessary, but they thought evil in the tendencies of it, being a provocation to drink more than did people good, as well as that it was in itself vain and heathenish. x. their way of marriage is peculiar to them; and shows a distinguishing care above other societies professing christianity. they say, that marriage is an ordinance of god, and that god only can rightly join man and woman in marriage. therefore, they use neither priest nor magistrate; but the man and woman concerned take each other as husband and wife, in the presence of divers credible witnesses, promising to each other, with god's assistance, to be loving and faithful in that relation, till death shall separate them. but antecedent to this, they first present themselves to the monthly meeting for the affairs of the church where they reside; there declaring their intentions to take one another as husband and wife, if the said meeting have nothing material to object against it. they are constantly asked the necessary questions, { } as in case of parents or guardians, if they have acquainted them with their intention, and have their consent, &c. the method of the meeting is, to take a minute thereof, and to appoint proper persons to inquire of their conversation and clearness from all others, and whether they have discharged their duty to their parents or guardians; and to make report thereof to the next monthly meeting, where the same parties are desired to give their attendance. { } in case it appears they have proceeded orderly, the meeting passes their proposal, and so records it in their meeting book. and in case the woman be a widow, and hath children, due care is there taken that provision also be made by her for the orphans, before the meeting pass the proposals of marriage: advising the parties concerned, to appoint a convenient time and place, and to give fitting notice to their relations, and such friends and neighbours, as they desire should be the witnesses of their marriage: where they take one another by the hand, and by name promise reciprocally, love and fidelity, after the manner before expressed. of all which proceedings, a narrative in way of certificate is made, to which the said parties first set their hands, thereby confirming it as their act and deed; and then divers relations, spectators, and auditors, set their names as witnesses of what they said and signed. and this certificate is afterward registered in the record belonging to the meeting, where the marriage is solemnized. which regular method has been, as it deserves, adjudged in courts of law a good marriage, where it has been by cross and ill people disputed and contested, for want of the accustomed formalities of priest and ring, &c.--ceremonies they have refused, not out of humour, but conscience reasonably grounded; inasmuch as no scripture example tells us, that the priest had any other part, of old time, than that of a witness among the rest, before whom the jews used to take one another: and, therefore, this people look upon it as an imposition, to advance the power and profits of the clergy: and for the use of the ring, it is enough to say, that it was a heathenish and vain custom, and never in practice among the people of god, jews, or primitive christians. the words of the usual form, as "with my body i thee worship," &c. are hardly defensible. in short, they are more careful, exact, and regular, than any form now used; and it is free of the inconveniences, with which other methods are attended; their care and checks being so many, and such, as that no clandestine marriages can be performed among them. xi. it may not be unfit to say something here of their births and burials, which make up so much of the pomp of too many called christians. for births, the parents name their own children; which is usually some days after they are born, in the presence of the midwife, if she can be there, and those that were at the birth, who afterwards sign a certificate for that purpose prepared, of the birth and name of the child or children; which is recorded in a proper book, in the monthly-meeting to which the parents belong; avoiding the accustomed ceremonies and festivals. xii. their burials are performed with the same simplicity. if the body of the deceased be near any public meeting-place, it is usually carried thither, for the more convenient reception of those that accompany it to the burying-ground. and it so falls out sometimes, that while the meeting is gathering for the burial, { } some or other has a word of exhortation, for the sake of the people there met together. after which the body is borne away by young men, or else those that are of their neighbourhood, or those that were most of the intimacy of the deceased party: the corpse being in a plain coffin, without any covering or furniture upon it. at the ground they pause some time before they put the body into its grave, that if any there should have anything upon them to exhort the people, they may not be disappointed; and that the relations may the more retiredly and solemnly take the last leave of the body of their departed kindred, and the spectators have a sense of mortality, by the occasion then given them, to reflect upon their own latter end. otherwise, they have no set rites or ceremonies on those occasions. neither do the kindred of the deceased ever wear mourning; { } they looking upon it as a worldly ceremony and piece of pomp; and that what mourning is fit for a christian to have, at the departure of a beloved relation or friend, should be worn in the mind, which is only sensible of the loss: and the love they had to them, and remembrance of them, to be outwardly expressed by a respect to their advice, and care of those they have left behind them, and their love of that they loved. which conduct of theirs, though unmodish or unfashionable, leaves nothing of the substance of things neglected or undone; and as they aim at no more, so that simplicity of life is what they observe with great satisfaction; though it sometimes happens not to be without the mockeries of the vain world they live in. these things gave them a rough and disagreeable appearance with the generality; who thought them turners of the world upside down, as, indeed, in some sense they were: but in no other than that wherein paul was so charged, viz. to bring things back into their primitive and right order again. for these and such like practices of theirs were not the result of humour, or for civil distinction, as some have fancied; but a fruit of inward sense, which god through his holy fear, had begotten in them. they did not consider how to contradict the world, or distinguish themselves as a party from others; it being none of their business, as it was not their interest; no, it was not the result of consultation, or a framed design, by which to declare or recommend schism or novelty. but god having given them a sight of themselves, they saw the whole world in the same glass of truth; and sensibly discerned the affections and passions of men, and the rise and tendency of things; what it was that gratified the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, which are not of the father, but of the world. and from thence sprang, in the night of darkness and apostacy, which hath been over people through their degeneration from the light and spirit of god, these and many other vain customs, which are seen, by the heavenly day of christ that dawns in the soul, to be either wrong in their original, or, by time and abuse, hurtful in their practice. and though these things seemed trivial to some, and rendered these people stingy and conceited in such persons' opinion; there was and is more in them, than they were, or are, aware of. it was not very easy to our primitive friends to make themselves sights and spectacles, and the scorn and derision of the world; which they easily foresaw must be the consequence of so unfashionable a conversation in it: but here was the wisdom of god seen in the foolishness of these things; first, that they discovered the satisfaction and concern that people had in and for the fashions of this world, notwithstanding their high pretences to another: in that any disappointment about them came so very near them, as that the greatest honesty, virtue, wisdom, and ability, were unwelcome without them. secondly, it seasonably and profitably divided conversation; for this making their society uneasy to their relations and acquaintance, it gave them the opportunity of more retirement and solitude; wherein they met with better company, even the lord god their redeemer; and grew strong in his love, power, and wisdom; and were thereby better qualified for his service. and the success abundantly showed it, blessed be the name of the lord. and though they were not great and learned in the esteem of this world, (for then they had not wanted followers upon their own credit and authority,) yet they were generally of the most sober of the several persuasions they were in, and of the most repute for religion; and many of them of good capacity, substance, and account among men. and also some among them wanted not for parts, learning, or estate; though then as of old, not many wise, or noble, &c, were called; or, at least, received the heavenly call, because of the cross that attended the profession of it in sincerity. but neither do parts or learning make men the better christians, though the better orators and disputants; and it is the ignorance of people about the divine gift, that causes that vulgar and mischievous mistake. theory and practice, speculation and enjoyment, words and life, are two things. o! it is the penitent, the reformed, the lowly, the watchful, the self-denying, and holy soul, that is the christian! and that frame is the fruit and work of the spirit, which is the life of jesus; whose life, though hid in the fulness of it in god the father, is shed abroad in the hearts of them that truly believe, according to their capacity. o that people did but know this to cleanse them, to circumcise them, to quicken them, and to make them new creatures indeed! recreated, or regenerated, after christ jesus unto good works; that they might live to god, and not to themselves; and offer up living prayers and living praises to the living god, through his own living spirit, in which he is only to be worshipped in this gospel day. o that they that read me could but feel me! for my heart is affected with this merciful visitation of the father of lights and spirits to this poor nation, and the whole world through the same testimony. why should the inhabitants thereof reject it? why should they lose the blessed benefit of it? why should they not turn to the lord with all their hearts, and say from the heart, speak lord, for now thy poor servants hear: o that thy will may be done, thy great, thy good, and holy will, in earth as it is in heaven! do it in us, do it upon us, do what thou wilt with us; for we are thine, and desire to glorify thee our creator, both for that, and because thou art our redeemer; for thou art redeeming us from the earth, from the vanities and pollutions of it, to be a peculiar people unto thee. o! this were a brave day for england, if so she could say in truth! but alas, the case is otherwise! for which some of thine inhabitants, o land of my nativity! have mourned over thee with bitter wailing and lamentation. their heads have been, indeed, as waters, and their eyes as fountains of tears, because of thy transgression and stiffneckedness; because thou wilt not hear, and fear, and return to the rock, even thy rock, o england! from whence thou art hewn. but be thou warned, o land of great profession, to receive him into thy heart. behold, at that door it is he hath stood so long knocking; but thou wilt yet have none of him. o! be thou awakened! lest jerusalem's judgments do swiftly overtake thee, because of jerusalem's sins that abound in thee. for she abounded in formality, but made void the weighty things of god's law, as thou daily dost. she withstood the son of god in the flesh, and thou resistest the son of god in the spirit. he would have gathered her, as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and she would not; so would he have gathered thee out of thy lifeless profession, and have brought thee to inherit substance; to have known his power and kingdom: for which he often knocked within, by his grace and spirit; and without, by his servants and witnesses: but, on the contrary, as jerusalem of old persecuted the manifestation of the son of god in the flesh, and crucified him, and whipped and imprisoned his servants; so hast thou, o land! crucified to thyself afresh the lord of life and glory, and done despite to his spirit of grace; slighting the fatherly visitation, and persecuting the blessed dispensers of it by thy laws and magistrates: though they have early and late pleaded with thee in the power and spirit of the lord; in love and meekness, that thou mightest know the lord, and serve him, and become the glory of all lands. but thou hast evilly entreated and requited them, thou hast set at nought all their counsel, and wouldst have none of their reproof, as thou shouldst have had. their appearance was too straight, and their qualifications were too mean for thee to receive them; like the jews of old, that cried, is not this the carpenter's son, and are not his brethren among us; which of the scribes, of the learned (the orthodox) believe in him? prophesying their fall in a year or two, and making and executing of severe laws to bring it to pass: endeavouring to terrify them out of their holy way, or destroy them for abiding faithful to it. but thou hast seen how many governments that rose against them, and determined their downfall, have been overturned and extinguished, and that they are still preserved, and become a great and a considerable people, among the middle sort of thy numerous inhabitants. and notwithstanding the many difficulties without and within, which they have laboured under, since the lord god eternal first gathered them, they are an increasing people; the lord still adding unto them, in divers parts, such as shall be saved, if they persevere to the end. and to thee, o england! were they, and are they lifted up as a standard, and as a city set upon a hill, and to the nations round about thee, that in their light thou mayst come to see light, even in christ jesus the light of the world, and, therefore, thy light and life too, if thou wouldst but turn from thy many evil ways, and receive and obey it. "for in the light of the lamb must the nations of them that are saved walk," as the scripture testifies. remember, o nation of great profession! how the lord has waited upon thee since the dawning reformation, and the many mercies and judgments by which he has pleaded with thee; and awake and arise out of thy deep sleep, and yet hear his word in thy heart, that thou mayst live. let not this thy day of visitation pass over thy head, nor neglect thou so great salvation as is this which is come to thy house, o england! for why shouldst thou die? o land that god desires to bless, be assured it is he that has been in the midst of this people, in the midst of thee, and not a delusion, as thy mistaken teachers have made thee believe. and this thou shalt find by their marks and fruits, if thou wilt consider them in the spirit of moderation. chap. iii. _of the qualifications of their ministry_. _eleven marks that it is christian_. i. they were changed men themselves, before they went about to change others. their hearts were rent, as well as their garments; and they knew the power and work of god upon them. and this was seen by the great alteration it made, and their stricter course of life, and more godly conversation that immediately followed upon it. ii. they went not forth, or preached, in their own time or will, but in the will of god; and spoke not their own studied matters, but as they were opened and moved of his spirit, with which they were well acquainted in their own conversion: which cannot be expressed to carnal men, so as to give them any intelligible account; for to such it is, as christ said, like the blowing of the wind, which no man knows whence it cometh, or whither it goeth. yet this proof and seal went along with their ministry, that many were turned from their lifeless professions, and the evil of their ways, to an inward and experimental knowledge of god, and a holy life, as thousands can witness. and as they freely received what they had to say from the lord, so they freely administered it to others. iii. the bent and stress of their ministry was conversion to god; regeneration and holiness. not schemes of doctrines and verbal creeds, or new forms of worship: but a leaving off in religion the superfluous, and reducing the ceremonious and formal part, and pressing earnestly the substantial, the necessary and profitable part to the soul; as all, upon a serious reflection, must and do acknowledge. iv. they directed people to a principle in themselves, though not of themselves, by which all that they asserted, preached, and exhorted others to, might be wrought in them, and known to them, through experience, to be true; which is a high and distinguishing mark of the truth of their ministry, both that they knew what they said, and were not afraid of coming to the test. for as they were bold from certainty, so they required conformity upon no human authority, but upon conviction, and the conviction of this principle, which they asserted was in them that they preached unto: and unto that they directed them, that they might examine and prove the reality of those things which they had affirmed of it, as to its manifestation and work in man. and this is more than the many ministers in the world pretended to. they declare of religion, say many things true, in words, of god, christ, and the spirit; of holiness and heaven; that all men should repent and amend their lives, or they will go to hell, &c. but which of them all pretend to speak of their own knowledge and experience; or ever directed to a divine principle, or agent, placed of god in man, to help him; and how to know it, and wait to feel its power to work that good and acceptable will of god in them? some of them, indeed, have spoken of the spirit, and the operations of it to sanctification, and performance of worship to god; but where and how to find it, and wait in it, to perform our duty to god, was yet as a mystery to be declared by this farther degree of reformation. so that this people did not only in words, more than equally press repentance, conversion, and holiness, but did it knowingly and experimentally; and directed those, to whom they preached, to a sufficient principle; and told them where it was, and by what tokens they might know it, and which way they might experience the power and efficacy of it to their souls' happiness. which is more than theory and speculation, upon which most other ministers depend: for here is certainty; a bottom upon which man may boldly appear before god in the great day of account. v. they reached to the inward state and condition of people; which is an evidence of the virtue of their principle, and of their ministering from it, and not from their own imaginations, glosses, or comments upon scripture. for nothing reaches the heart, but what is from the heart; or pierces the conscience, but what comes from a living conscience; insomuch as it hath often happened, where people have under secrecy revealed their state or condition to some choice friends, for advice or ease, they have been so particularly directed in the ministry of this people, that they have challenged their friends with discovering their secrets, and telling their preachers their cases, to whom a word hath not been spoken. yea, the very thoughts and purposes of the hearts of many have been so plainly detected, that they have, like nathaniel, cried out, of this inward appearance of christ, "thou art the son of god, thou art the king of israel." and those that have embraced this divine principle, have found this mark of its truth and divinity, that the woman of samaria did of christ when in the flesh, to be the messiah, viz. it had told them all that ever they had done; shown them their insides, the most inward secrets of their hearts, and laid judgment to the line, and righteousness to the plummet; of which thousands can at this day give in their witness. so that nothing has been affirmed by this people, of the power and virtue of this heavenly principle, that such as have turned to it have not found true, and more; and that one half had not been told to them of what they have seen of the power, purity, wisdom, and goodness of god therein. vi. the accomplishments, with which this principle fitted even some of the meanest of this people for their work and service, furnishing some of them with an extraordinary understanding in divine things, and an admirable, fluency, and taking-way of expression, gave occasion to some to wonder, saying of them, as of their master, "is not this such a mechanic's son, how came he by this learning?" as from thence others took occasion to suspect and insinuate they were jesuits in disguise, who had the reputation of learned men for an age past; though there was not the least ground of truth for any such reflection; in that their ministers are known, the places of their abode, their kindred and education. vii. that they came forth low, and despised, and hated, as the primitive christians did; and not by the help of worldly wisdom or power, as former reformations in part have done: but in all things it may be said, this people were brought forth in the cross; in a contradiction to the ways, worships, fashions, and customs of this world; yea, against wind and tide, that so no flesh might glory before god. viii. they could have no design to themselves in this work, thus to expose themselves to scorn and abuse; to spend and be spent; leaving wife and children, house and land, and all that can be accounted dear to men, with their lives in their hands, being daily in jeopardy, to declare this primitive message revived in their spirits, by the good spirit and power of god, viz. that god is light, and in him is no darkness at all; and that he has sent his son a light into the world, to enlighten all men in order to salvation; and that they that say they have fellowship with god, and are his children and people, and yet walk in darkness, viz. in disobedience to the light in their consciences, and after the vanity of this world, lie and do not the truth. but that all such as love the light, and bring their deeds to it, and walk in the light, as god is light, the blood of jesus christ his son should cleanse them from all sin. thus john i. . . chap. iii. , . john i. , , . ix. their known great constancy and patience in suffering for their testimony in all the branches of it; and that sometimes unto death, by beatings, bruisings, long and crowded imprisonments, and noisome dungeons: four of them in new england dying by the hands of the executioner, purely for preaching amongst that people: besides banishments, and excessive plunders and sequestrations of their goods and estates, almost in all parts, not easily to be expressed, and less to have been endured, but by those that have the support of a good and glorious cause; refusing deliverance by any indirect ways or means, as often as it was offered unto them. x. that they did not only not show any disposition to revenge, when it was at any time in their power, but forgave their cruel enemies; showing mercy to those that had none for them. xi. their plainness with those in authority, like the ancient prophets, not fearing to tell them to their faces, of their private and public sins; and their prophesies to them of their afflictions and downfal, when in the top of their glory: also of some national judgments, as of the plague, and fire of london, in express terms; and likewise particular ones to divers persecutors, which accordingly overtook them; and were very remarkable in the places where they dwelt, which in time may be made public for the glory of god. thus, reader, thou seest this people in their rise, principles, ministry, and progress, both their general and particular testimony; by which thou mayst be informed how, and upon what foot, they sprang, and became so considerable a people. it remains next, that i show also their care, conduct, and discipline as a christian and reformed society, that they might be found living up to their own principles and profession. and this the rather, because they have hardly suffered more in their character from the unjust charge of error, than by the false imputation of disorder: which calumny, indeed, has not failed to follow all the true steps that were ever made to reformation, and under which reproach none suffered more than the primitive christians themselves, that were the honour of christianity, and the great lights and examples of their own and succeeding ages. chap. iv. _of the discipline and practice of this people_, _as a religious society_. _the church power they own and exercise_, _and that which they reject and condemn_: _with the method of their proceedings against erring and disorderly persons_. this people increasing daily both in town and country, a holy care fell upon some of the elders among them, for the benefit and service of the church. and the first business in their view, after the example of the primitive saints, was the exercise of charity; to supply the necessities of the poor, and answer the like occasions. wherefore collections were early and liberally made for that and divers other services in the church, and intrusted with faithful men, fearing god, and of good report, who were not weary in well doing; adding often of their own in large proportions, which they never brought to account, or desired should be known, much less restored to them, that none might want, nor any service be retarded or disappointed. they were also very careful, that every one that belonged to them, answered their profession in their behaviour among men, upon all occasions; that they lived peaceably, and were in all things good examples. they found themselves engaged to record their sufferings and services: and in the case of marriage, which they could not perform in the usual methods of the nation, but among themselves, they took care that all things were clear between the parties and all others: and it was then rare, that any one entertained an inclination to a person on that account, till he or she had communicated it secretly to some very weighty and eminent friends among them, that they might have a sense of the matter; looking to the counsel and unity of their brethren as of great moment to them. but because the charge of the poor, the number of orphans, marriages, sufferings, and other matters, multiplied; and that it was good that the churches were in some way and method of proceeding in such affairs among them, to the end they might the better correspond upon occasion, where a member of one meeting might have to do with one of another; it pleased the lord, in his wisdom and goodness, to open the understanding of the first instrument of this dispensation of life, about a good and orderly way of proceeding; who felt a holy concern to visit the churches in person throughout this nation, to begin and establish it among them: and by his epistles, the like was done in other nations and provinces abroad; which he also afterwards visited, and helped in that service, as shall be observed when i come to speak of him. now the care, conduct, and discipline, i have been speaking of, and which are now practised among this people, is as followeth. this godly elder, in every county where he travelled, exhorted them that some, out of every meeting of worship, should meet together once in the month, to confer about the wants and occasions of the church. and, as the case required, so those monthly meetings were fewer or more in number in every respective county; four or six meetings of worship, usually making one monthly meeting of business. and accordingly, the brethren met him from place to place, and began the said meetings, viz. for the poor, orphans, orderly walking, integrity to their profession, births, marriages, burials, sufferings, &c. and that these monthly meetings should, in each county, make up one quarterly meeting, where the most zealous and eminent friends of the county should assemble to communicate, advise, and help one another, especially when any business seemed difficult, or a monthly meeting was tender of determining a matter. also that these several quarterly meetings should digest the reports of their monthly meetings, and prepare one for each respective county, against the yearly meeting, in which all quarterly meetings resolve; which is held in london: where the churches in this nation, and other nations { a} and provinces, meet by chosen members of their respective counties, both mutually to communicate their church affairs, and to advise, and be advised in any depending case, to edification. also to provide a requisite stock for the discharge of general expenses for general services in the church, not needful to be here particularized. { b} at these meetings any of the members of the churches may come, if they please, and speak their minds freely, in the fear of god, to any matter; but the mind of each quarterly meeting, therein represented, is chiefly understood, as to particular cases, in the sense delivered by the persons deputed, or chosen for that service by the said meeting. during their yearly meeting, to which their other meetings refer in their order, and naturally resolve themselves, care is taken by a select number, for that service chosen by the general assembly, to draw up the minutes { } of the said meeting, upon the several matters that have been under consideration therein, to the end that the respective quarterly and monthly meetings may be informed of all proceedings; together with a general exhortation to holiness, unity, and charity. of all which proceedings in yearly, monthly, and quarterly meetings, due record is kept by some one appointed for that service, or that hath voluntarily undertaken it. these meetings are opened and usually concluded in their solemn waiting upon god, who is sometimes graciously pleased to answer them with as signal evidences of his love and presence, as in any of their meetings of worship. it is further to be noted, that in these solemn assemblies for the churches' service, there is no one presides among them after the manner of the assemblies of other people; christ only being their president, as he is pleased to appear in life and wisdom in any one or more of them, to whom, whatever be their capacity or degree, the rest adhere with a firm unity, not of authority, but conviction, which is the divine authority and way of christ's power and spirit in his people: making good his blessed promise, "that he would be in the midst of his, where and whenever they were met together in his name, even to the end of the world." so be it. now it may be expected, i should here set down what sort of authority is exercised by this people, upon such members of their society as correspond not in their lives with their profession, and that are refractory to this good and wholesome order settled among them: and the rather, because they have not wanted their reproach and sufferings from some tongues and pens, upon this occasion, in a plentiful manner. the power they exercise, is such as christ has given to his own people, to the end of the world, in the persons of his disciples, viz. to oversee, exhort, reprove, and, after long suffering and waiting upon the disobedient and refractory, to disown them, as any longer of their communion, or that they will stand charged with the behaviour of such transgressors, or their conversation, until they repent. the subject matter about which this authority, in any of the foregoing branches of it, is exercised, is, first, in relation to common and general practice. and, secondly, about those things that more strictly refer to their own character and profession, and which distinguish them from all other professors of christianity; avoiding two extremes upon which many split, viz. persecution and libertinism, that is, a coercive power to whip people into the temple; that such as will not conform, though against faith and conscience, shall be punished in their persons or estates; or leaving all loose and at large, as to practice; and so unaccountable to all but god and the magistrate. to which hurtful extreme, nothing has more contributed than the abuse of church power, by such as suffer their passion and private interests to prevail with them, to carry it to outward force and corporal punishment: a practice they have been taught to dislike, by their extreme sufferings, as well as their known principle for a universal liberty of conscience. on the other hand, they equally dislike an independency in society:--an unaccountableness, in practice and conversation, to the rules and terms of their own communion, and to those that are the members of it. they distinguish between imposing any practice that immediately regards faith or worship, which is never to be done or suffered, or submitted unto; and requiring christian compliance with those methods that only respect church-business in its more civil part and concern; and that regard the discreet and orderly maintenance of the character of the society as a sober and religious community. in short, what is for the promotion of holiness and charity, that men may practise what they profess, live up to their own principles, and not be at liberty to give the lie to their own profession without rebuke, is their use and limit of church power. they compel none to them, but oblige those that are of them to walk suitably, or they are denied by them: that is all the mark they set upon them, and the power they exercise, or judge a christian society can exercise, upon those that are members of it. the way of their proceeding against such as have lapsed or transgressed, is this. he is visited by some of them, and the matter of fact laid home to him, be it any evil practice against known and general virtue, or any branch of their particular testimony, which he, in common, professeth with them. they labour with him in much love and zeal, for the good of his soul, the honour of god, and reputation of their profession, to own his fault and condemn it, in as ample a manner as the evil or scandal was given by him; which, for the most part, is performed by some written testimony under the party's hand: and if it so happen, that the party prove refractory, and is not willing to clear the truth they profess, from the reproach of his or her evil doing or unfaithfulness, they, after repeated entreaties and due waiting for a token of repentance, give forth a paper to disown such a fact, and the party offending: recording the same as a testimony of their care for the honour of the truth they profess. and if he or she shall clear their profession and themselves, by sincere acknowledgment of their fault, and godly sorrow for so doing, they are received and looked upon again as members of their communion. for as god, so his true people, upbraid no man after repentance. this is the account i had to give of the people of god called quakers, as to their rise, appearance, principles, and practices, in this age of the world, both with respect to their faith and worship, discipline and conversation. and i judge it very proper in this place, because it is to preface the journal of the first, blessed, and glorious instrument of this work, and for a testimony to him in his singular qualifications and services, in which he abundantly excelled in this day, and which are worthy to be set forth as an example to all succeeding times, to the glory of the most high god, and for a just memorial to that worthy and excellent man, his faithful servant and apostle to this generation of the world. chap. v. _of the first instrument or person by whom god was pleased to gather this people into the way they profess_. _his name george fox_: _his many excellent qualifications; showing a divine_, _and not a human power to have been their original in him_. _his troubles and sufferings both from without and within_. _his end and triumph_. i am now come to the third head or branch of my preface, viz. the instrumental author. for it is natural for some to say, well, here is the people and work, but where and who was the man, the instrument? he that in this age was sent to begin this work and people? i shall, as god shall enable me, declare who and what he was; not only by report of others, but from my own long and most inward converse, and intimate knowledge of him; for which my soul blesseth god, as it hath often done: and i doubt not, but by that time i have discharged myself of this part of my preface, my serious readers will believe i had good cause so to do. the blessed instrument of, and in this day of god, and of whom i am now about to write, was george fox, distinguished from another of that name, by that other's addition of younger to his name, in all his writings; not that he was so in years, but that he was so in the truth: but he was also a worthy man, witness, and servant of god in his time. but this george fox was born in leicestershire, about the year . he descended of honest and sufficient parents, who endeavoured to bring him up, as they did the rest of their children, in the way and worship of the nation: especially his mother, who was a woman accomplished above most of her degree in the place where she lived. but from a child he appeared of another frame of mind than the rest of his brethren; being more religious, inward, still, solid, and observing beyond his years, as the answers he would give, and the questions he would put, upon occasion, manifested, to the astonishment of those that heard him, especially in divine things. his mother, taking notice of his singular temper, and the gravity, wisdom, and piety, that very early shined through him, refusing childish and vain sports, and company, when very young, was tender and indulgent over him, so that from her he met with little difficulty. as to his employment, he was brought up in country business, and as he took most delight in sheep, so he was very skilful in them; an employment that very well suited his mind in several respects, both for its innocency and solitude; and was a just emblem of his after ministry and service. i shall not break in upon his own account, which is by much the best that can be given, and therefore desire what i can, to avoid saying anything of what is said already, as to the particular passages of his coming forth: but, in general, when he was somewhat above twenty, he left his friends, and visited the most retired and religious people in those parts; and some there were in this nation, who waited for the consolation of israel, night and day; as zacharias, anna, and good old simeon did of old time. to these he was sent, and these he sought out in the neighbouring counties, and among them he sojourned till his more ample ministry came upon him. at this time he taught, and was an example of, silence, endeavouring to bring them from self-performances; testifying of, and turning them to, the light of christ within them, and encouraging them to wait in patience, and to feel the power of it to stir in their hearts, that their knowledge and worship of god might stand in the power of an endless life, which was to be found in the light, as it was obeyed in the manifestation of it in man. for in the word was life, and that life is the light of men: life in the word, light in men; and life in men too, as the light is obeyed: the children of the light living by the life of the word, by which the word begets them again to god, which is the regeneration and new birth, without which there is no coming into the kingdom of god: and to which whoever comes, is greater than john; that is, than john's dispensation, which was not that of the kingdom, but the consummation of the legal, and fore-running of the gospel-times, the time of the kingdom. accordingly several meetings were gathered in those parts; and thus his time was employed for some years. in , he being in his usual retirement, his mind exercised towards the lord, upon a very high mountain in some of the higher parts of yorkshire, as i take it, he had a vision of the great work of god in the earth, and of the way that he was to go forth in a public ministry, to begin it. he saw people as thick as motes in the sun, that should in time be brought home to the lord, that there might be but one shepherd and one sheepfold in all the earth. there his eye was directed northward, beholding a great people that should receive him and his message in those parts. upon this mountain he was moved of the lord to sound out his great and notable day, as if he had been in a great auditory; and from thence went north, as the lord had shown him. and in every place where he came, if not before he came to it, he had his particular exercise and service shown to him, so that the lord was his leader indeed. for it was not in vain that he travelled; god in most places sealing his commission with the convincement of some of all sorts, as well publicans as sober professors of religion. some of the first and most eminent of those that came forth in a public ministry, and who are now at rest, were richard farnsworth, james nayler, william dewsberry, thomas aldam, francis howgil, edward burroughs, john camm, john audland, richard hubberthorn, t. taylor, t. holmes, alexander parker, wm. simson, william caton, john stubbs, robert withers, thomas low, josiah coale, john burnyeat, robert lodge, thomas salthouse, and many more worthies, that cannot well be here named; together with divers yet living of the first and great convincement; who, after the knowledge of god's purging judgment in themselves, and some time of waiting in silence upon him, to feel and receive power from on high to speak in his name, (which none else rightly can, though they may use the same words,) felt its divine motions, and were frequently drawn forth, especially to visit the public assemblies, to reprove, inform, and exhort them: sometimes in markets, fairs, streets, and by the highway-side: calling people to repentance, and to turn to the lord with their hearts as well as their mouths; directing them to the light of christ within them, to see, examine, and consider their ways by, and to eschew the evil, and do the good and acceptable will of god. and they suffered great hardships for this their love and good-will; being often stocked, stoned, beaten, whipped, and imprisoned, though honest men, and of good report where they lived; that had left wives, children, and houses and lands to visit them with a living call to repentance. and though the priests generally set themselves to oppose them, and wrote against them, and insinuated most false and scandalous stories to defame them, stirring up the magistrates to suppress them, especially in those northern parts; yet god was pleased to fill them with his living power, and give them such an open door of utterance in his service, that there was a mighty convincement over those parts. and through the tender and singular indulgence of judge bradshaw, and judge fell, and colonel west, in the infancy of things, the priests were never able to gain the point they laboured for, which was to have proceeded to blood; and, if possible, herod-like, by a cruel exercise of the civil power, to have cut them off, and rooted them out of the country. but especially judge fell, who was not only a check to their rage in the course of legal proceedings, but otherwise upon occasion; and finally countenanced this people. for, his wife receiving the truth with the first, it had that influence upon his spirit, being a just and wise man, and seeing in his own wife and family a full confutation of all the popular clamours against the way of truth, that he covered them what he could, and freely opened his doors, and gave up his house to his wife and her friends; not valuing the reproach of ignorant or evil-minded people: which i here mention to his and her honour, and which will be, i believe, an honour and a blessing to such of their name and family, as shall be found in that tenderness, humility, love, and zeal for the truth and people of the lord. that house was for some years, at first especially, until the truth had opened its way into the southern parts of this island, an eminent receptacle of this people. others, of good note and substance in those northern countries, had also opened their houses, together with their hearts, to the many publishers, that, in a short time, the lord had raised to declare his salvation to the people; and where meetings of the lord's messengers were frequently held, to communicate their services and exercises, and comfort and edify one another in their blessed ministry. but lest this may be thought a digression, having touched upon this before, i return to this excellent man; and for his personal qualities, both natural, moral, and divine, as they appeared in his converse with the brethren, and in the church of god, take as follows: i. he was a man that god endued with a clear and wonderful depth: a discerner of others' spirits, and very much a master of his own. and though that side of his understanding which lay next to the world, and especially the expression of it, might sound uncouth and unfashionable to nice ears, his matter was nevertheless very profound; and would not only bear to be often considered, but the more it was so, the more weighty and instructing it appeared. and as abruptly and brokenly as sometimes his sentences would seem to fall from him, about divine things, it is well known they were often as texts to many fairer declarations. and indeed it showed, beyond all contradiction, that god sent him, in that no arts or parts had any share in the matter or manner of his ministry; and that so many great, excellent, and necessary truths, as he came forth to preach to mankind, had therefore nothing of man's wit or wisdom to recommend them. so that as to man he was an original, being no man's copy; and his ministry and writings show they are from one that was not taught of man, nor had learned what he said by study. nor were they notional or speculative, but sensible and practical truths, tending to conversion and regeneration, and the setting up of the kingdom of god in the hearts of men: and the way of it was his work. so that i have many times been overcome in myself, and been made to say, with my lord and master, upon the like occasion, "i thank thee, o father, lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent of this world, and revealed them to babes:" for, many times hath my soul bowed in an humble thankfulness to the lord, that he did not choose any of the wise and learned of this world to be the first messenger in our age, of his blessed truth to men; but that he took one that was not of high degree, or elegant speech, or learned after the way of this world, that his message and work he sent him to do might come with less suspicion, or jealousy of human wisdom and interest, and with more force and clearness upon the consciences of those that sincerely sought the way of truth in the love of it. i say, beholding with the eye of my mind, which the god of heaven had opened in me, the marks of god's finger and hand visibly in this testimony, from the clearness of the principle, the power and efficacy of it, in the exemplary sobriety, plainness, zeal, steadiness, humility, gravity, punctuality, charity, and circumspect care in the government of church-affairs, which shined in his and their life and testimony, that god employed in this work, it greatly confirmed me that it was of god, and engaged my soul in a deep love, fear, reverence, and thankfulness for his love and mercy therein to mankind: in which mind i remain, and shall, i hope, through the lord's strength, to the end of my days. ii. in his testimony or ministry, he much laboured to open truth to the people's understandings, and to bottom them upon the principle and principal, christ jesus the light of the world; that by bringing them to something that was from god in themselves, they might the better know and judge of him and themselves. iii. he had an extraordinary gift in opening the scriptures. he would go to the marrow of things, and show the mind, harmony, and fulfilling of them, with much plainness, and to great comfort and edification. iv. the mystery of the first and second adam, of the fall and restoration, of the law and gospel, of shadows and substance, of the servant's and son's state, and the fulfilling of the scriptures in christ and by christ the true light, in all that are his, through the obedience of faith, were much of the substance and drift of his testimonies: in all which he was witnessed to be of god: being sensibly felt to speak that which he had received of christ, and was his own experience, in that which never errs nor fails. v. but, above all, he excelled in prayer. the inwardness and weight of his spirit, the reverence and solemnity of his address and behaviour, and the fewness and fulness of his words, have often struck even strangers with admiration, as they used to reach others with consolation. the most awful, living, reverent frame i ever felt or beheld, i must say, was his in prayer. and truly it was a testimony he knew and lived nearer to the lord than other men; for they that know him most, will see most reason to approach him with reverence and fear. vi. he was of an innocent life, no busy-body, nor self-seeker: neither touchy nor critical: what fell from him was very inoffensive, if not very edifying. so meek, contented, modest, easy, steady, tender, it was a pleasure to be in his company. he exercised no authority but over evil, and that everywhere, and in all; but with love, compassion, and long-suffering. a most merciful man, as ready to forgive, as unapt to take or give an offence. thousands can truly say, he was of an excellent spirit and savour among them, and because thereof, the most excellent spirits loved him with an unfeigned and unfading love. vii. he was an incessant labourer: for in his younger time, before his many, great, and deep sufferings and travels had enfeebled his body for itinerant services, he laboured much in the word and doctrine, and discipline, in england, scotland, and ireland, turning many to god, and confirming those that were convinced of the truth, and settling good order, as to church affairs, among them. and towards the conclusion of his travelling service, between the years , and , he visited the churches of christ in the plantations of america, and in the united provinces, and germany, as his journal relates; to the convincement and consolation of many. after that time he chiefly resided in and about the city of london; and, besides his labour in the ministry, which was frequent and serviceable, he wrote much, both to them that are within, and those that are without, the communion. but the care he took of the affairs of the church in general was very great. viii. he was often where the records of the business of the church are kept, and where the letters from the many meetings of god's people over all the world use to come: which letters he had read to him, and communicated them to the meeting, that is weekly { } held for such services; and he would be sure to stir them up to answer them, especially in suffering cases, showing great sympathy and compassion upon all such occasions; carefully looking into the respective cases, and endeavouring speedy relief, according to the nature of them. so that the churches, or any of the suffering members thereof, were sure not to be forgotten, or delayed in their desires, if he was there. ix. as he was unwearied, so he was undaunted in his services for god and his people; he was no more to be moved to fear than to wrath. his behaviour at derby, lichfield, appleby, before oliver cromwell, at launceston, scarborough, worcester, and westminster hall, with many other places and exercises, did abundantly evidence it, to his enemies as well as his friends. but as, in the primitive times, some rose up against the blessed apostles of our lord jesus christ, even from among those that they had turned to the hope of the gospel, and became their greatest trouble; so this man of god had his share of suffering from some that were convinced by him; who, through prejudice or mistake, ran against him, as one that sought dominion over conscience, because he pressed, by his presence or epistles, a ready and zealous compliance with such good and wholesome things, as tended to an orderly conversation about the affairs of the church, and in their walking before men. that which contributed much to this ill work, was, in some, a begrudging of this meek man the love and esteem he had and deserved in the hearts of the people; and weakness in others, that were taken with their groundless suggestions of imposition and blind obedience. they would have had every man independent, that as he had the principle in himself, he should only stand and fall to that, and nobody else: not considering that the principle is one in all; and though the measure of light or grace might differ, yet the nature of it was the same; and being so, they struck at the spiritual unity which a people, guided by the same principle, are naturally led into: so that what is an evil to one, is so to all; and what is virtuous, honest, and of good repute to one, is so to all, from the sense and savour of the one universal principle which is common to all, and which the disaffected also profess to be the root of all true christian fellowship, and that spirit into which the people of god drink, and come to be spiritually-minded, and of one heart and one soul. some weakly mistook good order in the government of church affairs, for discipline in worship, and that it was so pressed or recommended by him and other brethren. and thereupon they were ready to reflect the same things that dissenters had very reasonably objected upon the national churches, that have coercively pressed conformity to their respective creeds and worships. whereas these things related wholly to conversation, and the outward, and, as i may say, civil part of the church; that men should walk up to the principles of their belief, and not be wanting in care and charity. but though some have stumbled and fallen through mistakes, and an unreasonable obstinacy even to a prejudice; yet, blessed be god, the generality have returned to their first love, and seen the work of the enemy, that loses no opportunity or advantage by which he may check or hinder the work of god, and disquiet the peace of his church, and chill the love of his people to the truth, and one to another; and there is hope of divers of the few that yet are at a distance. in all these occasions, though there was no person the discontented struck so sharply at, as this good man, he bore all their weakness and prejudice, and returned not reflection for reflection; but forgave them their weak and bitter speeches, praying for them, that they might have a sense of their hurt, and see the subtilty of the enemy to rend and divide, and return into their first love that thought no ill. and truly, i must say, that though god had visibly clothed him with a divine preference and authority, yet he never abused it; but held his place in the church of god with great meekness, and a most engaging humility and moderation. for upon all occasions, like his blessed master, he was a servant to all; holding and exercising his eldership in the invisible power that had gathered them, with reverence to the head, and care over the body: and was received, only in that spirit and power of christ, as the first and chief elder in this age: who, as he was therefore worthy of double honour, so for the same reason it was given by the faithful of this day; because his authority was inward and not outward, and that he got it and kept it by the love of god, and power of an endless life. i write my knowledge, and not report; and my witness is true; having been with him for weeks and months together on divers occasions, and those of the nearest, and most exercising nature; and that by night and by day, by sea and by land; in this and in foreign countries; and i can say, i never saw him out of his place, or not a match for every service or occasion. for in all things he acquitted himself like a man, yea, a strong man, a new and heavenly-minded man, a divine and a naturalist, and all of god almighty's making. i have been surprised at his questions and answers in natural things: that whilst he was ignorant of useless and sophistical science, he had in him the grounds of useful and commendable knowledge, and cherished it every where. civil, beyond all forms of breeding, in his behaviour: very temperate, eating little, and sleeping less, though a bulky person. thus he lived and sojourned among us: and, as he lived, so he died; feeling the same eternal power, that had raised and preserved him, in his last moments. so full of assurance was he, that he triumphed over death; and so even in his spirit to the last, as if death were hardly worth notice, or a mention: recommending to some of us with him, the despatch and dispersion of an epistle just before given forth by him to the churches of christ throughout the world, and his own books: but, above all, friends; and of all friends, those in ireland and america, twice over, saying, "mind poor friends in ireland and america." and to some that came in and inquired how he found himself, he answered, "never heed, the lord's power is over all weakness and death; the seed reigns, blessed be the lord:" which was about four or five hours before his departure out of this world. he was at the great meeting near lombard-street, on the first day of the week, and it was the third following about ten at night when he left us; being at the house of henry goldney, in the same court. in a good old age he went, after having lived to see his children's children in the truth to many generations. he had the comfort of a short illness, and the blessing of a clear sense to the last: and we may truly say, with a man of god of old, that being dead, he yet speaketh: and though now absent in body, he is present in spirit; neither time nor place being able to interrupt the communion of saints, or dissolve the fellowship of the spirits of the just. his works praise him, because they are to the praise of him that wrought by him; for which his memorial is and shall be blessed. i have done, as to this part of my preface, when i have left this short epitaph to his name,--many sons have done virtuously in this day; but, dear george, thou excellest them all. chap. vi. _containing five several exhortations_: _first_, _general_, _reminding this people of their primitive integrity and simplicity_. _secondly_, _in particular_, _to the ministry_. _thirdly_, _to the young convinced_. _fourthly_, _to the children of friends_. _fifthly_, _to those that are yet strangers to this people and way_, _to whom this book_, _and that which it was preface to_, _in its former edition_, _may come_. _all the several exhortations accommodated to their several states and conditions_: _that all may answer the end of god's glory_, _and their own salvation_. and now, friends, you that profess to walk in the way that this blessed man was sent of god to turn us into, suffer, i beseech you, the word of exhortation, as well fathers as children, and elders as young men. the glory of this day, and foundation of the hope that has not made us ashamed since we were a people, you know, is that blessed principle of light and life of christ which we profess, and direct all people to, as the great and divine instrument and agent of man's conversion to god. it was by this that we were first touched, and effectually enlightened, as to our inward state; which put us upon the consideration of our latter end, causing us to set the lord before our eyes, and to number our days, that we might apply our hearts to wisdom. in that day we judged not after the sight of the eye, or after the hearing of the ear; but according to the light and sense this blessed principle gave us, so we judged and acted, in reference to things and persons, ourselves and others; yea, towards god our maker. for being quickened by it in our inward man, we could easily discern the difference of things, and feel what was right and what was wrong, and what was fit, and what not, both in reference to religion and civil concerns. that being the ground of the fellowship of all saints, it was in that our fellowship stood. in this we desired to have a sense of one another, acted towards one another, and all men; in love, faithfulness, and fear. in feeling of the stirrings and motions of this principle in our hearts, we drew near to the lord, and waited to be prepared by it, that we might feel drawings and movings before we approached the lord in prayer, or opened our mouths in ministry. and in our beginning and ending with this, stood our comfort, service, and edification. and as we ran faster, or fell short in our services, we made burdens for ourselves to bear; finding in ourselves a rebuke instead of an acceptance; and, in lieu of "well-done," "who has required this at your hands?" in that day we were an exercised people, our very countenances and deportment declared it. care for others was then much upon us, as well as for ourselves; especially of the young convinced. often had we the burden of the word of the lord to our neighbours, relations, and acquaintance; and sometimes strangers also. we were in travail likewise for one another's preservation; not seeking, but shunning, occasions of any coldness or misunderstanding; treating one another as those that believed and felt god present; which kept our conversation innocent, serious, and weighty; guarding ourselves against the cares and friendships of the world. we held the truth in the spirit of it, and not in our own spirits, or after our own wills and affections. we were bowed and brought into subjection, insomuch that it was visible to them that knew us. we did not think ourselves at our own disposal, to go where we list, or say or do what we list, or when we list. our liberty stood in the liberty of the spirit of truth; and no pleasure, no profit, no fear, no favour, could draw us from this retired, strict, and watchful frame. we were so far from seeking occasions of company, that we avoided them what we could; pursuing our own business with moderation, instead of meddling with other people's unnecessarily. our words were few and savoury, our looks composed and weighty, and our whole deportment very observable. true it is, that this retired and strict sort of life, from the liberty of the conversation of the world, exposed us to the censures of many, as humourists, conceited and self-righteous persons, &c.; but it was our preservation from many snares, to which others were continually exposed, by the prevalency of the lust of the eye, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life, that wanted no occasions or temptations to excite them abroad in the converse of the world. i cannot forget the humility and chaste zeal of that day. o! how constant at meetings, how retired in them; how firm to truth's life, as well as truth's principles; and how entire and united in our communion, as, indeed, became those that profess one head, even christ jesus the lord. this being the testimony and example the man of god before mentioned was sent to declare and leave amongst us, and we having embraced the same, as the merciful visitation of god to us, the word of exhortation, at this time, is that we continue to be found in the way of this testimony, with all zeal and integrity, and so much the more, by how much the day draweth near. and first, as to you my beloved and much honoured brethren in christ, that are in the exercise of the ministry: o! feel life in your ministry. let life be your commission, your well-spring and treasury on all such occasions; else, you well know, there can be no begetting to god: since nothing can quicken or make people alive to god, but the life of god; and it must be a ministry in and from life, that enlivens any people to god. we have seen the fruit of all other ministries, by the few that are turned from the evil of their ways. it is not our parts, or memory, the repetition of former openings, in our own will and time, that will do god's work. a dry doctrinal ministry, however sound in words, can reach but the ears, and is but a dream at the best. there is another soundness that is soundest of all, viz. christ the power of god. this is the key of david, that opens, and none shuts; and shuts and none can open: as the oil to the lamp, and the soul to the body, so is that to the best of words: which made christ to say, "my words, they are spirit, and they are life;" that is, they are from life, and therefore they make you alive, that receive them. if the disciples that had lived with jesus, were to stay at jerusalem till they received it; much more must we wait to receive before we minister, if we will turn people from darkness to light, and from satan's power to god. i fervently bow my knees to the god and father of our lord jesus christ, that you may always be like-minded; that you may ever wait reverently for the coming and opening of the word of life, and attend upon it in your ministry and service, that you may serve god in his spirit. and be it little, or be it much, it is well; for much is not too much, and the least is enough, if from the motion of god's spirit; and without it, verily, never so little is too much, because to no profit. for it is the spirit of the lord immediately, or through the ministry of his servants, that teacheth his people to profit; and to be sure, so far as we take him along with us in our services, so far we are profitable, and no further. for if it be the lord that must work all things in us for our salvation, much more is it the lord that must work in us for the conversion of others. if therefore it was once a cross to us to speak, though the lord required it at our hands, let it never be so to be silent, when he does not. it is one of the most dreadful sayings in the book of god, "that he that adds to the words of the prophecy of this book, god will add to him the plagues written in this book." to keep back the counsel of god, is as terrible; "for he that takes away from the words of the book of this prophecy, god shall take away his part out of the book of life." and truly, it has great caution in it, to those that use the name of the lord, to be well assured the lord speaks; that they may not be found of the number of those that add to the words of the testimony of prophecy, which the lord giveth them to bear; nor yet to mince or diminish the same, both being so very offensive to god. wherefore, brethren, let us be careful, neither to out-go our guide, nor yet loiter behind him; since he that makes haste may miss his way, and he that stays behind lose his guide. for even those that have received the word of the lord, had need wait for wisdom, that they may see how to divide the word aright: which plainly implieth, that it is possible for one that hath received the word of the lord, to miss in the dividing and application of it; which must come from an impatiency of spirit, and a self-working, which makes an unsound and dangerous mixture, and will hardly beget a right-minded living people to god. i am earnest in this, above all other considerations, as to brethren in the ministry, (well knowing how much it concerns the present and future state and preservation of the church of christ jesus, that has been gathered and built up by a living and powerful ministry,) that the ministry be held, preserved, and continued in the manifestations, motions, and supplies of the same life and power, from time to time. and wherever it is observed, that any do minister more from gifts and parts, than life and power, though they have an enlightened and doctrinal understanding, let them in time be advised and admonished for their preservation, because insensibly such will come to depend upon a self-sufficiency; to forsake christ the living fountain, and hew out unto themselves cisterns, that will hold no living waters: and, by degrees, such will come to draw others from waiting upon the gift of god in themselves, and to feel it in others, in order to their strength and refreshment, to wait upon them, and to turn from god to man again, and so make shipwreck of the faith once delivered to the saints, and of a good conscience towards god: which are only kept by that divine gift of life that begat the one, and awakened and sanctified the other in the beginning. nor is it enough, that we have known the divine gift, and in it have reached to the spirits in prison, and been the instruments of the convincing of others of the way of god, if we keep not as low and poor in ourselves, and as depending upon the lord, as ever: since no memory, no repetitions of former openings, revelations, or enjoyments, will bring a soul to god, or afford bread to the hungry, or water to the thirsty, unless life go with what we say, and that must be waited for. o that we may have no other fountain, treasure, or dependence! that none may presume at any rate to act of themselves for god, because they have long acted from god; that we may not supply want of waiting, with our own wisdom, or think that we may take less care and more liberty in speaking than formerly; and that where we do not feel the lord by his power, to open us and enlarge us, whatever be the expectation of the people, or has been our customary supply and character, we may not exceed or fill up the time with our own. i hope we shall ever remember, who it was that said, "of yourselves you can do nothing;" our sufficiency is in him. and if we are not to speak our own words, or take thought what we should say to men in our defence, when exposed for our testimony; surely, we ought to speak none of our own words, or take thought what we shall say in our testimony and ministry, in the name of the lord, to the souls of the people: for then, of all times, and of all other occasions, should it be fulfilled in us, "for it is not you that speak, but the spirit of my father that speaketh in you." and, indeed, the ministry of the spirit must and does keep its analogy and agreement with the birth of the spirit: that as no man can inherit the kingdom of god, unless he be born of the spirit; so no ministry can beget a soul to god, but that which is from the spirit. for this, as i said before, the disciples waited before they went forth; and in this our elder brethren and messengers of god in our day, waited, visited, and reached to us; and having begun in the spirit, let none ever hope or seek to be made perfect in the flesh: for what is the flesh to the spirit, or the chaff to the wheat? and if we keep in the spirit, we shall keep in the unity of it, which is the ground of true fellowship. for by drinking into that one spirit, we are made one people to god, and by it we are continued in the unity of the faith, and the bond of peace. no envying, no bitterness, no strife, can have place with us. we shall watch always for good, and not for evil, one over another; and rejoice exceedingly, and not begrudge at one another's increase in the riches of the grace with which god replenisheth his faithful servants. and brethren, as to you is committed the dispensation of the oracles of god, which give you frequent opportunities, and great place with the people among whom you travel, i beseech you, that you would not think it sufficient to declare the word of life in their assemblies, however edifying and comfortable such opportunities may be to you and them: but, as was the practice of the man of god before mentioned, in great measure, when among us, inquire the state of the several churches you visit; who among them are afflicted or sick, who are tempted, and if any are unfaithful or obstinate; and endeavour to issue those things in the wisdom and power of god, which will be a glorious crown upon your ministry. as that prepares your way in the hearts of the people, to receive you as men of god, so it gives you credit with them to do them good by your advice in other respects; the afflicted will be comforted by you, the tempted strengthened, the sick refreshed, the unfaithful convicted and restored, and such as are obstinate, softened and fitted for reconciliation; which is clinching the nail, and applying and fastening the general testimony, by this particular care of the several branches of it, in reference to them more immediately concerned in it. for though good and wise men, and elders too, may reside in such places, who are of worth and importance in the general, and in other places; yet it does not always follow, that they may have the room they deserve in the hearts of the people they live among; or some particular occasion may make it unfit for him or them to use that authority. but you that travel as god's messengers, if they receive you in the greater, shall they refuse you in the less? and if they own the general testimony, can they withstand the particular application of it in their own cases? thus ye will show yourselves workmen indeed, and carry your business before you, to the praise of his name that hath called you from darkness to light, that you might turn others from satan's power unto god and his kingdom, which is within. and o that there were more of such faithful labourers in the vineyard of the lord!--never more need since the day of god. wherefore i cannot but cry and call aloud to you, that have been long professors of the truth, and know the truth in the convincing power of it, and have had a sober conversation among men; yet content yourselves only to know truth for yourselves, to go to meetings, and exercise an ordinary charity in the church, and an honest behaviour in the world, and limit yourselves within those bounds; feeling little or no concern upon your spirits, for the glory of the lord in the prosperity of his truth in the earth, more than to be glad that others succeed in such service. arise ye in the name and power of the lord jesus! behold how white the fields are unto harvest, in this and other nations, and how few able and faithful labourers there are to work therein! your country-folks, neighbours, and kindred, want to know the lord and his truth, and to walk in it. does nothing lie at your door upon their account! search and see, and lose no time, i beseech you, for the lord is at hand. i do not judge you; there is one that judgeth all men, and his judgment is true. you have mightily increased in your outward substance, may you equally increase in your inward riches, and do good with both, while you have a day to do good. your enemies would once have taken what you had, from you, for his name's sake in whom you have believed; wherefore he has given you much of the world, in the face of your enemies. but o, let it be your servant, and not your master! your diversion rather than your business! let the lord be chiefly in your eye, and ponder your ways, and see if god has nothing more for you to do: and if you find yourselves short in your account with him, then wait for his preparation, and be ready to receive the word of command, and be not weary of well-doing, when you have put your hand to the plough; and, assuredly, you shall reap, if you faint not, the fruit of your heavenly labour in god's everlasting kingdom. and you, young convinced ones, be you entreated and exhorted to a diligent and chaste waiting upon god, in the way of his blessed manifestation and appearance of himself to you. look not out, but within: let not another's liberty be your snare: neither act by imitation, but by sense and feeling of god's power in yourselves: crush not the tender buddings of it in your souls, nor over-run, in your desires and warmness of affections, the holy and gentle motions of it. remember it is a still voice that speaks to us in this day, and that it is not to be heard in the noises and hurries of the mind; but is distinctly understood in a retired frame. jesus loved and chose solitudes, often going to mountains, gardens, and sea sides, to avoid crowds and hurries: to show his disciples it was good to be solitary, and sit loose to the world. two enemies lie near your states, imagination and liberty; but the plain, practical, living, holy truth, that has convinced you, will preserve you, if you mind it in yourselves, and bring all thoughts, inclinations, and affections, to the test of it, to see if they are wrought in god, or of the enemy, or of your ownselves: so will a true taste, discerning, and judgment, be preserved to you, of what you should do and leave undone. and in your diligence and faithfulness in this way, you will come to inherit substance; and christ, the eternal wisdom, will fill your treasury. and when you are converted, as well as convinced, then confirm your brethren; and be ready to every good word and work, that the lord shall call you to: that you may be to his praise, who has chosen you to be partakers, with the saints in light, of a kingdom that cannot be shaken, an inheritance incorruptible in eternal habitations. and now, as for you that are the children of god's people, a great concern is upon my spirit for your good and often are my knees bowed to the god of your fathers for you, that you may come to be partakers of the same divine life and power, that have been the glory of this day: that a generation you may be to god, a holy nation, and a peculiar people, zealous of good works, when all our heads are laid in the dust. o! you young men and women, let it not suffice you, that you are the children of the people of the lord; you must also be born again, if you will inherit the kingdom of god. your fathers are but such after the flesh, and could but beget you into the likeness of the first adam; but you must be begotten into the likeness of the second adam, by a spiritual generation, or you will not, you cannot, be of his children or offspring. and therefore look carefully about you, o ye children of the children of god; consider your standing, and see what you are in relation to this divine kindred, family, and birth. have you obeyed the light, and received and walked in the spirit, which is the incorruptible seed of the word and kingdom of god, of which you must be born again? god is no respecter of persons. the father cannot save or answer for the child, or the child for the father; but in the sin thou sinnest thou shalt die; and in the righteousness thou doest, through christ jesus, thou shalt live: for it is the willing and obedient that shall eat the good of the land. be not deceived, god is mocked. such as all nations and people sow, such they shall reap at the hand of the just god. and then your many and great privileges, above the children of other people, will add weight in the scale against you, if you choose not the way of the lord. for you have had line upon line, and precept upon precept, and not only good doctrine but good example; and which is more, you have been turned to, and acquainted with, a principle in yourselves, which others too generally have been ignorant of: and you know you may be as good as you please, without the fear of frowns and blows, or being turned out of doors, and forsaken of father and mother, for god's sake and his holy religion; as has been the case of some of your fathers in the day they first entered into this holy path. and if you, after hearing and seeing the wonders that god has wrought in the deliverance and preservation of them, through a sea of troubles, and the manifold temporal, as well as spiritual, blessings that he has filled them with, in the sight of their enemies, should neglect and turn your backs upon so great and near a salvation, you would not only be most ungrateful children to god and them, but must expect that god will call the children of those that knew him not, to take the crown out of your hands, and that your lot will be a dreadful judgment at the hand of the lord: but, o that it may never be so with any of you! the lord forbid, saith my soul. wherefore, o ye young men and women! look to the rock of your fathers: there is no other god but him, no other light but his, no other grace but his, nor spirit but his, to convince you, quicken, and comfort you; to lead, guide, and preserve you to god's everlasting kingdom. so will you be possessors as well as professors of the truth, embracing it, not only by education, but judgment and conviction; from a sense begotten in your souls, through the operation of the eternal spirit and power of god; by which you may come to be the seed of abraham, through faith, and the circumcision not made with hands; and so heirs of the promise made to the fathers, of an incorruptible crown. that, as i said before, a generation you may be to god, holding up the profession of the blessed truth in the life and power of it. for formality in religion is nauseous to god and good men; and the more so, where any form or appearance has been new and peculiar, and begun and practised, upon a principle, with an uncommon zeal and strictness. therefore i say, for you to fall flat and formal, and continue the profession, without that salt and savour by which it is come to obtain a good report among men, is not to answer god's love, or your parents' care, or the mind of truth in yourselves, or in those that are without: who, though they will not obey the truth, have sight and sense enough to see if they do that make a profession of it. for where the divine virtue of it is not felt in the soul, and waited for and lived in, imperfections will quickly break out, and show themselves, and detect the unfaithfulness of such persons; and that their insides are not seasoned with the nature of that holy principle which they profess. wherefore, dear children, let me entreat you to shut your eyes at the temptations and allurements of this low and perishing world, and not suffer your affections to be captivated by those lusts and vanities that your fathers, for the truth's sake, long since turned their backs upon: but as you believe it to be the truth, receive it into your hearts, that you may become the children of god: so that it may never be said of you, as the evangelist writes of the jews in his time, that christ, the true light, "came to his own, but his own received him not; but to as many as received him, to them he gave power to become the children of god; which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of god;" a most close and comprehensive passage to this occasion. you exactly and peculiarly answer to those professing jews, in that you bear the name of god's people, by being the children, and wearing of the form of god's people: and he, by his light in you, may be very well said to come to his own, and if you obey it not, but turn your backs upon it, and walk after the vanities of your minds, you will be of those that received him not; which i pray god may never be your case and judgment. but that you may be thoroughly sensible of the many and great obligations you lie under to the lord for his love, and to your parents for their care: and with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your strength, turn to the lord, to his gift and spirit in you; and hear his voice, and obey it, that you may seal to the testimony of your fathers, by the truth and evidence of your own experience: that your children's children may bless you, and the lord for you, as those that delivered a faithful example, as well as record of the truth of god unto them. so will the grey hairs of your dear parents, yet alive, go down to the grave with joy, to see you the posterity of truth, as well as theirs: and that not only their nature, but spirit, shall live in you when they are gone. * * * * * i shall conclude this account with a few words to those who are not of our communion, into whose hands this may come; especially those of our own nation. * * * * * friends, as you are the sons and daughters of adam, and my brethren after the flesh, often and earnest have been my desires and prayers to god on your behalf, that you may come to know your creator to be your redeemer, and restorer to the holy image that through sin you have lost, by the power and spirit of his son jesus christ, whom he hath given for the light and life of the world. and o that you, who are called christians, would receive him into your hearts! for there it is you want him, and at that door he stands knocking, that you might let him in; but you do not open to him; you are full of other guests, so that a manger is his lot among you now as well as of old. yet you are full of profession, as were the jews when he came among them, who knew him not, but rejected and evily entreated him. so that if you come not to the possession and experience of what you profess, all your formality and religion will stand you in no stead in the day of god's judgment. i beseech you ponder with yourselves your eternal condition, and see what title, what ground and foundation you have for your christianity: if more than a profession, and an historical belief of the gospel. have you known the baptism of fire, and the holy ghost, and the fan of christ that winnows away the chaff in your minds, the carnal lusts, and affections; that divine leaven of the kingdom, that, being received, leavens the whole lump of man, sanctifying him throughout in body, soul, and spirit? if this be not the ground of your confidence, you are in a miserable state. you will say, perhaps, that though you are sinners, and live in daily commission of sin, and are not sanctified, as i have been speaking, yet you have faith in christ, who has borne the curse for you, and in him you are complete by faith, his righteousness being imputed to you. but, my friends, let me entreat you not to deceive yourselves, in so important a point, as is that of your immortal souls. if you have true faith in christ, your faith will make you clean; it will sanctify you: for the saints' faith was their victory of old: by this they overcame sin within, and sinful man without. and if thou art in christ, thou walkest not after the flesh, but after the spirit, whose fruits are manifest. yea, thou art a new creature: new made, new fashioned, after god's will and mould. old things are done away, and, behold, all things are become new: new love, desires, will, affections, and practices. it is not any longer thou that livest; (thou disobedient, carnal, worldly one;) but it is christ that liveth in thee; and to live is christ, and to die is thy eternal gain: because thou art assured, that thy corruptible shall put on incorruption, and thy mortal, immortality, and that thou hast a glorious house, eternal in the heavens, that will never wax old or pass away. all this follows being in christ, as heat follows fire, and light the sun. therefore have a care how you presume to rely upon such a notion, as that you are in christ, whilst in your old fallen nature. for what communion hath light with darkness, or christ with belial? hear what the beloved disciple tells you: "if we say we have fellowship with god, and walk in darkness, we lie, and do not the truth." that is, if we go on in a sinful way, are captivated by our carnal affections, and are not converted to god, we walk in darkness, and cannot possibly in that state have any fellowship with god. christ clothes them with his righteousness, that receive his grace in their hearts, and deny themselves, and take up his cross daily, and follow him. christ's righteousness makes men inwardly holy; of holy minds, wills, and practices. it is not the less christ's, because we have it; for it is ours, not by nature, but by faith and adoption: it is the gift of god. but, still, though not ours, as of or from ourselves, (for in that sense it is christ's, for it is of and from him,) yet it is ours, and must be ours, in possession, efficacy, and enjoyment, to do us any good; or christ's righteousness will profit us nothing. it was after this manner that he was made to the primitive christians, righteousness, sanctification, justification, and redemption; and if ever you will have the comfort, kernel, and marrow of the christian religion, thus you must come to learn and obtain it. now, my friends, by what you have read, you may perceive that god has visited a poor people among you, with this saving knowledge and testimony, whom he has upheld and increased to this day, notwithstanding the fierce opposition they have met withal. despise not the meanness of this appearance: it was, and yet is, we know, a day of small things and of small account with too many; and many hard and ill names are given to it; but it is of god, it came from him, because it leads to him. this we know, but we cannot make another to know it, unless he will take the same way to know it that we took. the world talks of god, but what do they do? they pray for power, but reject the principle in which it is. if you would know god, and worship and serve god as you should do, you must come to the means he has ordained and given for that purpose. some seek it in books, some in learned men; but what they look for is in themselves, (though not of themselves,) but they overlook it. the voice is too still, the seed too small, and the light shineth in darkness; they are abroad, and so cannot divide the spoil: but the woman that lost her silver, found it at home, after she had lighted her candle, and swept her house. do you so too, and you shall find what pilate wanted to know, viz. truth. truth in the inward parts, so valuable in the sight of god. the light of christ within, who is the light of the world, and so a light to you, that tells you the truth of your condition, leads all, that take heed unto it, out of darkness into god's marvellous light. for light grows upon the obedient; it is sown for the righteous, and their way is a shining light, that shines forth more and more to the perfect day. wherefore, o friends, turn in, turn in, i beseech you: where is the poison, there is the antidote. there you want christ, and there you must find him; and blessed be god, there you may find him. seek and you shall find, i testify for god. but then you must seek aright, with your whole heart, as men that seek for their lives, yea for their eternal lives: diligently, humbly, patiently, as those that can taste no pleasure, comfort, or satisfaction in any thing else, unless you find him whom your souls want to know and love above all. o it is a travail, a spiritual travail! let the carnal, profane world, think and say as it will. and through this path you must walk to the city of god, that has eternal foundations, if ever you will come there. well! and what doth this blessed light do for you? why, first, it sets all your sins in order before you: it detects the spirit of this world in all its baits and allurements, and shows how man came to fall from god, and the fallen state he is in. secondly, it begets a sense and sorrow, in such as believe in it, for this fearful lapse. you will then see him distinctly whom you have pierced, and all the blows and wounds you have given him by your disobedience, and how you have made him to serve with your sins; and you will weep and mourn for it, and your sorrow will be a godly sorrow. thirdly, after this it will bring you to the holy watch, to take care that you do so no more, and that the enemy surprise you not again. then thoughts, as well as words and works, will come to judgment, which is the way of holiness, in which the redeemed of the lord do walk. here you will come to love god above all, and your neighbours as yourselves. nothing hurts, nothing harms, nothing makes afraid on this holy mountain. now you come to be christ's indeed; for you are his in nature and spirit, and not your own. and when you are thus christ's, then christ is yours, and not before. and here you will know communion with the father and with the son, and the efficacy of the blood of cleansing, even the blood of jesus christ, that immaculate lamb, which speaks better things than the blood of abel; and which cleanseth from all sin, the consciences of those that, through the living faith, come to be sprinkled with it, from dead works to serve the living god. * * * * * to conclude; behold the testimony and doctrine of the people called quakers; behold their practice and discipline; and behold the blessed man and men, at least many of them, that were sent of god in this excellent work and service; all which is more particularly expressed in the annals of that man of god, which i do heartily recommend to my reader's most serious perusal; and beseech almighty god, that his blessing may go along with both, to the convincement of many, as yet strangers to this holy dispensation, and also to the edification of god's church in general: who for his manifold and repeated mercies and blessings to his people, in this day of his great love, is worthy ever to have the glory, honour, thanksgiving, and renown; and be it rendered and ascribed, with fear and reverence, through him in whom he is well pleased, his beloved son and lamb, our light and life, that sits with him upon the throne, world without end. amen. says one that god has long since mercifully favoured with his fatherly visitation, and who was not disobedient to the heavenly vision and call; to whom the way of truth is more lovely and precious than ever, and that knowing the beauty and benefit of it above all worldly treasures, has chosen it for his chiefest joy, and therefore recommends it to thy love and choice, because he is with great sincerity and affection, thy soul's friend, william penn. finis. printed by harrison and crosfield, manchester. books, &c. _on sale_, _at reduced prices_; _the property of the society_: _to be had of_ william manley, , _houndsditch_, _london_; _and at the_ manchester and stockport tract depository, (_for particulars of which see its annexed list_.) _pounds._ _s._ _d._ robert barclay's apology for the true christian divinity, _octavo_ universal love discipline theses e. bates on the doctrines of friends elizabeth bathurst's truth vindicated w. shewen's true christian's faith briefly stated counsel to the christian traveller e. pugh's salutation or call, from the many things to the one thing needful. mo. bound h. turford's grounds of a holy life. th edit. william penn's fruits of a father's love key to distinguish the religion professed by friends from perversion & misrepresentation b. holme's serious call, in christian love to all people. th edition c. marshall's way of life revealed m. brook on silent waiting j. crook's truth's principles on doctrine, &c. g. whitehead's epistle on true christian love j. griffith's remarks on important subjects m. leadbeater's biographical notices of friends who were resident in ireland g. fox's journal of travels, sufferings, and labours of love, in the work of the ministry. vols. vo. boards william edmundson's journal of his life, travels, &c. i. pennington's memoirs, and review of his writings, by j. g. bevan, mo. boards t. ellwood's life t. chalkley's journal and works j. woolman's journal and works serious considerations j. churchman's journal, mo. cloth s. crisp, memoirs of, by s. tuke j. gratton's journal james gough's memoirs, religious experience, &c. d. hall's life and epistles r. jordan's life g. latey's life jane pearson, memoirs of c. story's life john alderson, memoirs of abiah darby's catechism t. carrington's exhortation selection of g. fox's epistles, by s. tuke yearly epistles to , calf selection of advices sewel's history of friends, (_new edition_.) rules and advices of the yearly meeting, _just published_. penn's rise and progress of the people called quakers, in which their fundamental principle, doctrines, worship, ministry, and discipline, are plainly declared. _stiff cover_ _cloth_ there is an association of friends in london, for the printing and distribution of tracts on moral and religious subjects, chiefly such as have a tendency to elucidate and support the principles of christianity as held by the society of friends; in which there are _sixty two_ different tracts, price from _d._ to _s._ _d._ per doz. sold by edmund fry, , houndsditch; and by harvey and darton, , gracechurch street, london: also at the manchester and stockport tract depository. footnotes { } instead of being asked those questions, the present practice is to produce the needful certificates of consent. { } this second attendance is not now required. { } this hardly describes the present practice. it is not _during_ the gathering only, if at all, that exhortation takes place. if the corpse be conveyed to a meeting-house, the meeting is held like any other; and what is here called 'exhortation,' takes place or not, as any minister present believes him or herself influenced. the usage at the burial ground is still as here described. interments often take place without any previous meeting. { } the collective sense and judgment of the church, herein, remains the same, as is manifest by the frequent advices given forth from their yearly and other meetings. { a} at present ( ) there are eight yearly meetings on the american continent, which correspond with the yearly meeting in london, and mutually with each other; they are united in doctrine, and their discipline is similar. { b} they are thus particularized in a more recent publication of the society:--this is an occasional voluntary contribution, expended in printing books; house-rent for a clerk, and his wages for keeping records; the passage of ministers who visit their brethren beyond sea; and some small incidental charges; but not, as has been falsely supposed, the reimbursement of those who suffer distraint for tithes, and other demands, with which they scruple to comply. { } this is not now quite correct. a committee still draws up the general epistle; but the minutes of the transactions of the meeting are made as matters occur during its several sittings. { } called the meeting for sufferings, and now held monthly, except exigencies require more frequent sittings. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) +--------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original | | document have been preserved. | | | | three obvious typographical errors were corrected in | | this text. for a complete list, please see the end of | | the book. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------+ a book of quaker saints +------------------------------------------------+ | _by the same author._ | | | | pilgrims in palestine. | | [_out of print._] | | | | the happy world. | | | | contributions to 'the | | fellowship of silence.' | | | | silent worship: the way of wonder. | | (_swarthmore lecture, ._) | +------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: lois and her nurse] a book of quaker saints by l. v. hodgkin (mrs. john holdsworth) illustrated by f. cayley-robinson, a.r.a. macmillan and co., limited st. martin's street, london copyright first edition reprinted transferred to macmillan & co. and reprinted printed in great britain dedicated to the children of the society of friends and to the grandchildren of thomas hodgkin preface the following stories are intended for children of various ages. the introductory chapter, 'a talk about saints,' and the stories marked with an asterisk in the table of contents, were written first for an eager listener of nine years old. but as the book has grown longer the age of its readers has grown older for two reasons: _first:_ because it was necessary to take for granted some knowledge of the course of english history at the period of the civil wars. to have re-told the story of the contest between king and parliament, leading up to the execution of charles the first and the protectorate of oliver cromwell, would have taken up much of the fresh, undivided attention that i was anxious to focus upon the lives and doings of these 'quaker saints.' i have therefore presupposed a certain familiarity with the chief actors and parties, and an understanding of such names as cavalier, roundhead, presbyterian, independent, etc.; but i have tried to explain any obsolete words, or those of which the meaning has altered in the two and a half centuries that have elapsed since the great struggle. _secondly_: because the stories of the persecutions of the early friends are too harrowing for younger children. even a very much softened and milder version was met with the repeated request: 'do, please, skip this part and make it come happy quickly.' i have preferred, therefore, to write for older boys and girls who will wish for a true account of suffering bravely borne; though without undue insistence on the physical side. for to tell the stories of these lives without the terrible, glorious account of the cruel beatings, imprisonments, and even martyrdom in which they often ended here, is not truly to tell them at all. the tragic darkness in the picture is necessary to enhance its high lights. my youngest critic observes that 'it does not matter so much what happens to grown-up people, because i can always skip that bit; but if anything bad is going to happen to children, you had better leave it out of your book altogether.' i have therefore obediently omitted the actual sufferings of children as far as possible, except in one or two stories where they are an essential part of the narrative. it must be remembered that this is not a history of the early quaker movement, but a book of stories of some early quaker saints. i have based my account on contemporary authorities; but i have not scrupled to supply unrecorded details or explanatory speeches in order to make the scene more vivid to my listeners. in two stories of george fox's youth, as authentic records are scanty, i have even ventured to look through the eyes of imaginary spectators at 'the shepherd of pendle hill' and 'the angel of beverley.' but the deeper i have dug down into the past, the less need there has been to fill in outlines; and the more possible it has been to keep closely to the actual words of george fox's journal, and other contemporary documents. the historical notes at the end of the book will indicate where the original authorities for each story are to be found, and they will show what liberties have been taken. the quotations that precede the different chapters are intended mainly for older readers, and to illustrate either the central thought or the history of the times. many stories of other quaker saints that should have been included in this book have had to be omitted for want of room. the records of william penn and his companions and friends on both sides of the atlantic will, it is hoped, eventually find a place in a later volume. the stories in the present book have been selected to show how the truth of the inward light first dawned gradually on one soul, and then spread rapidly, in ever-widening circles, through a neighbourhood, a kingdom, and, finally, all over the world. i have to thank many kind friends who have helped me in this delightful task. _the book of quaker saints_ owes its existence to my friend ernest e. taylor, who first suggested the title and plan, and then, gently but inexorably, persuaded me to write it. several of the stories and many of the descriptions are due to his intimate knowledge of the lives and homes of the early friends; he has, moreover, been my unfailing adviser and helper at every stage of the work. no one can study this period of quaker history without being constantly indebted to william charles braithwaite, the author of _beginnings of quakerism_, and to norman penney, the librarian at devonshire house, and editor of the cambridge edition of george fox's journal with its invaluable notes. but beyond this i owe a personal debt of gratitude to these two friends, for much wise counsel as to sources, for their kindness in reading my ms. and my proofs, and for the many errors that their accurate scholarship has helped me to avoid, or enabled me to detect. to ethel crawshaw, assistant at the same library; to my sister, ellen s. bosanquet; and to several other friends who have helped me in various ways, my grateful thanks are also due. the stories are intended in the first place for quaker children, and are written throughout from a quaker standpoint, though with the wish to be as fair as possible not only to our staunch forefathers, but also to their doughty antagonists. even when describing the fiercest encounters between them, i have tried to write nothing that might perplex or pain other than quaker listeners; above all, to be ever mindful of what george fox himself calls 'the hidden unity in the eternal being.' l. v. hodgkin. _ th july ._ contents preface _page_ vii * a talk about saints * i. 'stiff as a tree, pure as a bell' * ii. 'pure foy, ma joye' * iii. the angel of beverley * iv. taming the tiger * v. 'the man in leather breeches' vi. the shepherd of pendle hill vii. the people in white raiment viii. a wonderful fortnight ix. under the yew-trees x. 'bewitched!' xi. the judge's return * xii. 'strike again!' * xiii. magnanimity * xiv. miles halhead and the haughty lady xv. scattering the seed xvi. wrestling for god xvii. little james and his journeys xviii. the first quaker martyr * xix. the children of reading meeting * xx. the saddest story of all * xxi. pale windflowers xxii. an undisturbed meeting xxiii. butterflies in the fells xxiv. the victory of amor stoddart * xxv. the marvellous voyage of the good ship 'woodhouse' * xxvi. richard sellar and the 'merciful man' * xxvii. two robber stories--west and east xxviii. silver slippers: or a quakeress among the turks * xxix. fierce feathers * xxx. the thief in the tanyard xxxi. how a french noble became a friend xxxii. preaching to nobody come-to-good historical notes _note._--an asterisk denotes stories suitable for younger children. list of illustrations _reproduced from water-colour drawings by_ f. cayley-robinson i. lois and her nurse _frontispiece_ ii. the boyhood of george fox _page_ iii. 'dreaming of the cot in the vale' iv. 'the voice of the silence' v. pale windflowers vi. fierce feathers vii. a friends' meeting a talk about saints _'what are these that glow from afar,_ _these that lean over the golden bar,_ _strong as the lion, pure as the dove,_ _with open arms and hearts of love?_ _they the blessed ones gone before,_ _they the blessed for evermore._ _out of great tribulation they went_ _home to their home of heaven-content;_ _through flood or blood or furnace-fire,_ _to the rest that fulfils desire.'_ _christina rossetti._ _st. patrick's three orders of saints: 'a glory on the mountain tops: a gleam on the sides of the hills: a few faint lights in the valleys.'_ _'the lord is king in his saints, he guards them, and guides them with his mighty power, into his kingdom of glory and eternal rest, where they find joy, and peace, and rest eternal.'--george fox._ a talk about saints _'what is a saint? how i do wish i knew!'_ _a little girl asked herself this question a great many years ago, as she sat looking up at a patch of sunset cloud that went sailing past the bars of her nursery window late one sunday afternoon; but the window was small and high up, and the cloud sailed by quickly._ _as she watched it go, little lois wished that she was back in her own nursery at home, where the windows were large and low down, and so near the floor that even a small girl could see out of them easily. moreover, her own windows had wide window-sills that she could sit on, with toy-cupboards underneath._ _there were no toy-cupboards in this old-fashioned nursery, where lois was visiting, and not many toys either. there was a doll's house, that her mother used to play with when she was a little girl; but the dolls in it were all made of wood and looked stiff and stern, and one hundred years older than the dolls of to-day, or than the children either, for that matter. besides, the doll's house might not be opened on sundays._ _so lois turned again to the window, and looking up at it, she wished, as she had wished many times before on this visit, that it was rather lower down and much larger, and that the window ledge was a little wider, so that she could lean upon it and see where that rosy cloud had gone._ _she ran for a chair, and climbed up, hoping to be able to see out better. alas! the window was a long way from the ground outside. she still could not look out and see what was happening in the garden below. even the sun had sunk too far down for her to say good-night to it before it set. but that did not matter, for the rosy cloud had apparently gone to fetch innumerable other rosy cloudlets, and they were all holding hands and dancing across the sky in a wide band, with pale, clear pools of green and blue behind them._ _'what lovely rainbow colours!' thought the little girl. and then the rainbow colours reminded her of the question that had been puzzling her when she began to watch the rosy cloud. so she repeated, out loud this time and in rather a weary voice, 'whatever is a saint? how i do wish i knew! and why are there no saints on the windows in meeting?'_ _no answer came to her questions. lois and her nurse were paying a visit all by themselves. they spent most of their days up in this old nursery at the top of the big house. nurse had gone downstairs a long time ago, saying that she would bring up tea for them both on a tea-tray, before it was time to light the lamps. for there was no gas or electric light in children's nurseries in those days._ _if lois had been at home she would herself have been having tea downstairs in the dining-room at this time with her father and mother. then she could have asked them what a saint was, and have found out all about it at once. father and mother always seemed to know the answers to her questions. at least, very nearly always. for lois was so fond of asking questions, that sometimes she asked some that had no answer; but those were silly questions, not like this one. lois felt certain that either her father or her mother would have explained to her quite clearly all about saints, and would have wanted her to understand about them. away here there was nobody to ask. nurse would only say, 'if you ask me no questions, i'll tell you no lies.' somehow whenever she said that, lois fancied it meant that nurse was not very sure of the answer herself. she had already asked aunt isabel in church that same morning, when the puzzle began; and aunt isabel's answer about 'a halo' had left the little girl more perplexed than ever._ _lois had heard of people 'going to church' before, but she had never understood what it meant until to-day. at home on sundays she went to meeting with father and mother. she liked walking there, in between them, holding a hand of each, skipping and jumping in order not to step on the black lines of the pavement. she liked to see the shops with their eyes all shut tight for sunday, and to watch for the naughty shops, here and there, who kept a corner of their blinds up, just to show a few toys or goodies underneath. lois always thought that those shops looked as if they were winking up at her; and she smiled back at them a rather reproving little smile. she enjoyed the walk and was sorry when it came to an end. for, to tell the truth, she did not enjoy the meeting that followed it at all._ _long before the hour was over she used to grow very tired of the silence and of the quiet room, tired of kicking her blue footstool (gently of course, but still kicking it) and of counting her boot buttons up and down, or else watching the hands of the clock move slowly round its big calm face. 'church' was a more interesting place than meeting, certainly; but then 'church' had disadvantages of its own. everything there was strange to lois. it had almost frightened her, this first time. she did not know when she ought to stand up, or when she ought to kneel, and when she might sit down. then, when the organ played and everybody stood up and sang a hymn, lois found to her surprise that her throat was beginning to feel tight and choky. for some reason she began to wonder if father and mother were sitting in meeting alone, and if they had quite forgotten their little girl. two small tears gathered. in another minute they might have slipped out of the corners of her eyes, and have run down her cheeks. they might even have fallen upon the page of the hymn-book she was carefully holding upside down. and that would have been dreadful!_ _happily, just in time, she looked up and saw something so beautiful above her that the two tears ran back to wherever it was they came from, in less time than it takes to tell._ _for there, above her head, was a tall, pointed, glass window, high up on the wall. the glass in the window was of wonderful colours, like a rainbow:--deep purple and blue, shining gold, rich, soft red, and glowing crimson, with here and there a green that twinkled like young beech-leaves in the woods in spring. best of all, there was one bit of purest white, with sunlight streaming through it, that shone like dazzling snow. at first lois only noticed the colours, and the ugly black lines that separated them. she wondered why the beautiful glass was divided up into such queer shapes. there are no black lines between the colours in a real rainbow._ _gradually, however, she discovered that all the different colours meant something, that they were all part of a picture on the window, that a tall figure was standing there, looking down upon her--upon her, fidgety little lois, kicking her scarlet hassock in the pew. but lois was not kicking her hassock any longer. she was looking up into the grave, kind face above her on the window. 'whoever was it? who could it be? was it a man or a woman? a man,' lois thought at first, until she saw that he was wearing a robe that fell into glowing folds at his feet. 'men never wear robes, do they? unless they are dressing-gowns. this certainly was not a dressing-gown. and what was the flat thing like a plate behind his head?' lois had never seen either a man or a woman wear anything like that before. 'if it was a plate, how could it be fastened on? it would be sure to fall off and break....'_ _the busy little mind had so much to wonder about, that lois found it easy to sit still, until the sermon was over, as she watched the sunlight pour through the different colours in turn, making each one more beautiful and full of light as it passed._ _at length the organ stopped, and the last long 'ah-men' had been sung. 'church sings "ah-men" out loud, and meeting says "amen" quite gently; p'raps that's what makes the difference between them,' lois thought to herself wisely. as soon as the last notes of music had died away, she nestled close to aunt isabel's side and said in an eager voice, 'what is that lovely window up there? who is that beautiful person? i do like his face. and is it a he or a she?'_ _'hush, darling!' her aunt whispered. 'speak lower. that is a saint, of course.'_ _'but what is a saint and how do you know it is one?' the little girl whispered earnestly, pointing upwards to the tall figure through which the sunshine streamed. aunt isabel was busy collecting her books and she only whispered back, 'don't you see the halo?' 'i don't know what a halo can be, but a saint is a kind of glass window, i suppose,' thought lois, as she followed her aunt down the aisle. afterwards on her way home, and at dinner, and all the afternoon, there had been so many other things to see and to think about, that it was not until the rosy patch of cloud sailed past the nursery window-pane at sunset that she was reminded of the beautiful colours in church, and of the puzzle about saints and haloes that till then she had forgotten._ _'at least, no, i didn't exactly forget', she said to herself, 'but i think p'raps i sort of disremembered--till the sunset colours reminded me. only i haven't found out what a saint is yet, or a halo. and why don't we have them on our sunday windows in meeting?'_ _just at that moment the door opened, and nurse, who had been enjoying a long talk downstairs in the kitchen, came in with the tea-tray. 'how dark you are up here!' nurse exclaimed in her cheerful voice. 'we shall have to light the lamp after all, or you will never find the way to your mouth.'_ _so the lamp was lighted. the curtains were drawn. the sunset sky, fast fading now, was hidden. and lois' questions remained unanswered._ * * * * * _a few days later, the visit came to an end. the next sunday, lois was at home again, 'chattering like a little magpie,' as her mother said, about everything she had seen and done. she had so much to think about, that even meeting did not seem as long as usual, though she thought the walls looked plainer than ever, and the glass windows very empty, till the sight of them reminded her that she could find out more about saints now. at home in the afternoon she began. drawing her footstool close to the big arm-chair, she put her elbows on her father's knee and looked up searchingly into his face. 'father, please tell me, if you possibly can,' pleaded an earnest little voice, 'for i do very badly want to find out. do you know what a saint is?' her father laughed. 'know what a saint is? i should think i did! no man better!' he answered. lois wondered why he glanced across to the other side of the fire where her mother was sitting; and why she glanced back at him and shook her head, meeting his eyes with a happy smile. then her father jumped up, and from the lowest shelf of one of his book-cases he fetched a fat, square volume, bound in brown leather and gold. this he put carefully on a table, and drawing lois on to his knee and putting his arm round her, he showed her a number of photographs. lambs were there, and running fountains, and spangly stars, and peacocks, and doves. but those pages he turned over quickly, until he came to others: photographs of men and women dressed in white, carrying palms and holding crowns in their hands._ _he told lois that these people were 'saints,' that they formed a long procession on the walls of a big church at ravenna, far away in italy; and that they were made of little pieces of a sort of shining glass called 'mosaic.' 'saints have something to do with glass then. but these photographs are not a bit like my beautiful window,' lois thought to herself, rather sadly. 'there are no colours here.' she turned over the photographs without much interest, until her father, exclaiming, 'there, that is the one i want!' showed her one portrait of a little girl standing among all the grown-up people, carrying just as big a palm and crown as any of the others. he told lois that these crowns and palms were to show that the people who carried them had all been put to death or 'martyred,' because they would not worship heathen gods. he made lois spell out the letters 'sca. eulalia' written on the halo around the little girl's head, 'that is saint eulalia,' her father explained. 'she was offered her freedom and her life if she would sacrifice to idols just one tiny grain of corn, to show that she renounced her allegiance to jesus christ; but when the corn was put into her hands she threw it all back into the judge's face. after that, there was no escape for her. she was condemned to die, and she did die, lois, very bravely, though she was only a little girl, not much older than you.' here lois hid her face against her father's coat and shivered. 'but after that cruel death, when her little body was lying unburied, a white dove hovered over it, until a fall of snowflakes came and hid it from people's sight. so you see, lois, though eulalia was only twelve years old when she was put to death, she has been called saint eulalia ever since, though it all happened hundreds of years ago. children can be saints as well as grown-up people, if they are brave enough and faithful enough.'_ _'saints must be brave, and saints must be faithful,' lois repeated, as she shut up the big book and helped to carry it back to its shelf. 'but lots of other children have died since sancta eulalia was killed and her body was covered by the snow. surely some of those children must have been brave and faithful too, even though they are not called saints? they don't stand on glass windows, or wear those things that father calls haloes, and that i call plates, round their heads, with their names written on them. so saints really are rather puzzling sort of people still. i do hope i shall find out more about them some day.'_ _thus lois went on wondering, till, gradually, she came to find out more of the things that make a saint--not purple robes, or shining garments, or haloes; not even crowns and palms; but other things, quite different, and much more difficult to get._ * * * * * _'it is enough to vex a saint!' her kind nurse exclaimed when lois spilled her jam at tea, all down her clean white frock. or, on other days, 'oh dear! my patiences is not so good as they once were!' and, 'these rheumatics would try the patience of a saint!' nurse would say, with a weary sigh._ _'then the reason my nanny isn't a saint is because she gets vexed when i'm naughty, and because she isn't patient when she has a pain,' reasoned lois. 'what a number of things it does seem to take to make a saint! but then it takes eggs and milk and butter and sugar and flour and currants and raisins too to make a cake. saints must be brave_ and _faithful; never get vexed; have patience always. mother said patience was the beginning of everything, when i stamped my foot because i broke my cotton. do saints have to begin with patience too? if only i could see a real live one with my own eyes and find out!'_ _yet, strange to say, when lois was told that she was looking at a 'real live saint' at last, the little girl did not even wish to believe it. this happened one saturday afternoon. she was walking with her governess to a beautiful wooded dene, through which a clear stream hurried to join the big black river that flowed past the windows of lois' home. on the way to the dene they passed near a broad marsh with stepping-stones across it. close to the river lois saw, in the distance, the roofs of some wretched-looking cottages. evidently on her way to these cottages, balancing herself on the slippery stepping-stones, was a little old lady in a hideous black bonnet with jet ornaments that waggled as she moved, and shiny black gloves screwed up into tight corkscrews at the finger ends. she carried a large basket in one hand, and held up her skirts with the other, showing that she wore boots with elastic sides, which lois particularly disliked._ _'look there!' her governess said to lois, 'actually crossing the marsh to visit that den of fever! old miss s ... may not be a beauty, but she certainly is a perfect saint!'_ _'oh no, she's not!' cried lois with much vehemence. 'at least, i mean i hope she isn't,' she added the next minute. 'you see,' she went on apologetically, 'i have a very special reason for being interested in saints; i don't at all want any of my saints to look ugly like that. and, what is more, i don't believe they do!'_ * * * * * _many months passed before the time came, when she was least expecting it, that lois saw, she actually did see, a 'real live saint' for herself._ _how did she know it was a saint? lois could not tell how she knew; but from the very first moment that she found herself looking up into one of the kindest, most loving faces that she had ever seen, she was perfectly sure that she had found a saint at last. she saw no halo--at least no golden halo; but the white hair that tenderly framed the white face looked almost like a halo of silver, the little girl thought. it was not a beautiful face; at any rate not what lois would have called beautiful beforehand. it had many wrinkles though the skin was fresh and clear. the eyes looked, somehow, as if they had shed so many tears long ago, that now there were no tears left to shed; nothing remained but smiles. perhaps that was the reason they were nearly always smiling. as lois looked up and saw that gentle old face bending over her, it gave her the same sort of mysterious feeling that she had when she gazed up into the cloudless blue sky at noonday, or into a night sky full of stars. she seemed to be looking up, as high as ever she could, into something infinitely far above her; and yet to be looking down into something as well, deep down into an endless depth. or rather, she felt that she was neither looking up nor down, but that she was looking_ through.... _'why, saints are a sort of window after all,' lois said to herself, as she gave a jump of joy,--'real windows! only not the glass kind! i have found out at last what makes a saint, and what real live saints look like. it is not being killed only; though i suppose they must always be ready to be killed. it is not being made of all the difficult things inside only; though, of course, they must always be full of them. it certainly isn't wearing ugly clothes or anything horrid. i know now what really and truly, and most especially, makes a saint, and that is_ letting the sunlight through!' _so lois had found out something for herself at last, had she not? those are always the best sort of discoveries; but there are a great many more things to find out about saints that lois never thought of, in those days long ago. most interesting things they are! that is one comfort about saints--they are always interesting, never dull. dull is the one thing that real saints can never be, or they would stop being saints that very minute. even when saints are doing the dullest, dreariest, most difficult tasks, they themselves are always packed full of sunshine inside that cannot help streaming out over the dull part and making it interesting._ _this is one thing to remember about saints; but there are many other things to discover. see if you can find out some of them in the stories that follow._ _only a few saint stories are written here. you will read for yourself, by and by, many others: stories of older saints, and perhaps of brighter saints, or it may be even of saintlier saints than these. but in this book are written the stories of some of the saints who did not know that they were saints at all: they thought that they were just quite ordinary men and women and little children, and that makes them rather specially comforting to us, who are just quite ordinary people too._ _moreover, these quaker saints never have been, never will be put on glass windows, or given birthdays or haloes or emblems of their own, like most of the other saints. they have never even had their stories told before in a way that it is easy for children to understand._ _that is why these particular stories have been written now, in this particular book_ for you. i. 'stiff as a tree, pure as a bell' _'i am plenteuous in ioie in all oure tribulacione.'--st. paul (wiclif's translation)._ _'stand firm like a smitten anvil under the blows of a hammer; be strong as an athlete of god, it is part of a great athlete to receive blows and to conquer.'--ignatius._ _'he was valiant for the truth, bold in asserting it, patient in suffering for it, unwearied in labouring in it, steady in his testimony to it, immoveable as a rock.'--t. ellwood about g. fox._ _'george fox never lost his temper--he left that to his opponents: and he had the most exasperating way of getting the best of an argument. his journal ... is like a little rusty gate which opens right into the heart of the th century, so that when we go in by it--hey presto! we find ourselves pilgrims with the old quaker in the strangest kind of england.'--l.m. mackay._ _'and there was never any persecution that came but we saw it was for good, and we looked upon it to be good as from god. and there was never any prisons or sufferings that i was in, but still it was for bringing multitudes more out of prison.'--g. fox._ i. 'stiff as a tree, pure as a bell' when the days are lengthening in the spring, even though the worst of the winter may be over, there is often a sharp tooth in the march wind as it sweeps over the angry sea and bites into the north-eastern coast of england. children, warm and snug in cosy rooms, like to watch the gale and the damage it does as it hurries past. it amuses them to see the wind at its tricks, ruffling up the manes of the white horses far out at sea, blowing the ships away from their moorings in the harbour, and playing tricks upon the passers-by, when it comes ashore. off fly stout old gentlemen's hats, round like windmills go the smart ladies' skirts and ribbons; even the milkman's fingers turn blue with cold. it is all very well for children, safe indoors, to laugh at the antics of the mischievous wind, even on the bleak north-eastern coast nowadays; but in times long ago, that same wind could be a more cruel playfellow still. come back with me for two hundred and fifty years. let us watch the tricks the wind is playing on the prisoners in the castle high up on scarborough cliff in the year of our lord . though the keen, cutting blast is the same, a very different scarborough lies around us from the scarborough modern children know. there is a much smaller town close down by the water's edge, and a much larger castle covering nearly the whole of the cliff. nowadays, when children go to scarborough for their holidays in the summer, as they run down the steep paths with their spades and buckets to dig on the beach, they are too busy to pay much attention to the high cliff that juts out against the sky above the steep red roofs of the old town. but if they do look up for a moment they notice a pile of grey stones at the very top of the hill. 'oh, that is the old ruined castle,' they say to themselves; and then they forget all about it and devote themselves to the important task of digging a new castle of their own that shall not crumble into ruins in its turn, as even sand castles have an uncomfortable way of doing, if they are unskilfully made. those children are only modern children. they have not gone back, as you and i are trying to do, two hundred and fifty long years up the stream of time. if we are really to find out what scarborough looked like then, we must put on our thinking caps and flap our fancy wings, and, shutting our eyes very tight, not open them again until that long-ago scarborough is really clear before us. then, looking up at the castle, what shall we see? the same hill of course, but so covered with stately buildings that we can barely make out its outline. instead of one old pile of crumbling stones, roofless, doorless, windowless, there is a massive fortress towering over us, ringed round with walls and guarded with battlements and turrets. high above all stands the frowning norman keep, of which only some of the thick outer stones remain to-day. scarborough castle was a grand place, and a strong place too, in the seventeenth century. in order to reach it, then as now, it was necessary to climb the long flights of stone steps that stretch up from the lower town near the water's edge to the high, arched gateway upon the castle hill. we will climb those steps, only of course the stones were newer and cleaner then, and less worn by generations of climbing feet. up them we mount till we reach the gateway with its threatening portcullis, where the soldiers of king charles the second, in their jackboots, are walking up and down on guard, determined to keep out all intruders. intruders we certainly are, seeing that we belong to another generation and another century. there is no entrance at that gateway for us. yet except through that gateway there is no way into the castle, and all the windows on this side are high up in the walls, and barred and filled with strong thick glass. now let us go round to the far side of the cliff where the castle overlooks the sea. here the fortress still frowns above us; but lower down, nearer our level, we can see some holes and caves scooped out of the solid rock, through which the wind blows and shrieks eerily. as these caves can only be reached by going through the castle, some of the prisoners are kept here for safety. the windows have no glass. they are merely holes in the rock, open to fog and snow and bitter wind. another hole in the cliff does duty for a chimney after a fashion, but even if the prisoners are allowed to light a fire they are scarcely any warmer, for the whole cave becomes filled with smoke. and now we must flap our fancy wings still more vigorously, until somehow we stand outside one of those prison holes, scooped out of the cliff, and can look down and see what is to be seen inside it. there is only one man in this particular prison cave, and what is he doing? is he moving about to keep himself warm? at first he seems to be, for he walks from side to side without a moment's rest. every now and then he stretches his arm out of the window, apparently throwing something away. he is certainly ill. his body and legs are badly swollen, and there are great lumps in the places where his joints and knuckles ought to be. well then, if he is ill, why does he not lie still in bed and rest and get well? for even in this wretched cave-room there is something that looks like a bed in one corner. it has no white sheets or soft blankets, but still it has four legs and a sort of coverlet, and at least the prisoner could rest upon it, which would be better for him than dancing about. look again! the bed stands under a gaping hole in the roof, and a stream of water is dripping steadily down upon it. the coarse coverings must be soaked through already, and the hard mattress too. it is really less like a bed than a damp and nasty little pond. no wonder the prisoner does not choose to lie there. but then, why not move the bed somewhere else? and what is that round thing like a platter in his hand, and what is he doing with it? is he playing 'turn the trencher' to keep himself warm? look again! how could he move the bed? he is in a tiny cave, and all its walls are leaky. the bed must stand in that particular corner because there is nowhere else that it could be placed. now look down at the floor. notice how uneven it is, and the big pools of water standing on it, and then you will understand what the prisoner is doing. indeed he is not playing 'turn the trencher'; he is trying to scoop up some of the water in that shallow platter, because he has nothing else in the room that will hold it. if he can do this fast enough, and can manage to pour enough of the water away out of one of the holes in the walls, he may be able to keep himself from being flooded out, and thus he may preserve one little dry patch of floor, dry enough for his swollen feet to stand on, till the storm is over. but it is like trying to bale water out of a very leaky boat; for always faster than he can scoop it up and pour it away, more rain comes pouring in steadily, dripping and drenching. the wind shrieks and whistles and the prisoner is numb with cold. what a wicked man he must be, to be punished by being put in this dreadful place! certainly, if he has committed some dreadful crime, he has found a terrible punishment. but does he look wicked? see, at last he is too stiff and weary to move about any longer. in spite of the rain and the wind he sinks down exhausted upon a rickety chair and draws it to the spot where there is the best chance of a little shelter. there he sits in silence for some time. he is soaked to the skin, as well as tired and stiff and hungry. there is a small mug by the door, but it is empty and there is not a sign of food. some bitter water to drink and a small piece of bread are all the food he has had to-day, and that is all gone now, for it was so very little. in this place a small threepenny loaf of bread has sometimes to last for three weeks. this poor man must be utterly miserable and wretched. but is he? let us watch him. do you think he can be a wicked man after all? is not the prisoner being punished through some dreadful mistake? he looks kind and good, and, stranger still, he looks happy, even through all his sufferings in this horrible prison. his face has a sort of brightness in it, like the mysterious light there is sometimes to be seen in a dark sky, behind a thunderstorm. a radiance is about him too as if, in spite of all he is enduring, he has some big joy that shines through everything and makes it seem worth while. he is actually 'letting the sunlight through,' even in this dismal place. any one who can do that must be a very real and a very big saint indeed. we must just find out all that we can about him. let us take a good look at him now, while we have the chance. then we shall know him another time, when we meet him again, having all sorts of adventures in all sorts of places. it is impossible to see his eyes, as he sits by the bed, for they are downcast, but we can see that he has a long, nearly straight nose, and lips tightly pressed together. his hair is parted and hangs down on each side of his head, stiff and lank now, owing to the wet, but in happier days it must have hung in little curls round his neck, just below his ears. he is a tall man, with a big strong-looking body. in spite of the coarse clothes he wears, there is a strange dignity about him. you feel something drawing you to him, making you want to know more about him. you feel somehow as if you were in the presence of some one who is very big, and that you yourself are very small, smaller perhaps than you ever felt in your life. yet you feel ready to do anything for him, and, at the same time, you believe that, if only you could make him know that you are there, he would be ready to do anything for you. even in this wretched den he carries himself with an air of authority, as if he were accustomed to command. now, at last he is looking up; and we can see his eyes. most wonderful eyes they are! eyes that look as if they could pierce through all sorts of disguises, and read the deepest secrets of a man's heart. they are kind eyes too; and look as if they could be extraordinarily tender at times. they are something like a shepherd's eyes, as if they were accustomed to gazing out far and wide in search of strayed sheep and lost lambs. yet they are also like the eyes of a judge; thoroughly well able to distinguish right from wrong. it would be terrible to meet those eyes after doing anything the least bit crooked or shabby or untrue. they look as if they would know at the first glance just how much excuses were worth; and what was the truth. no wonder that once, when those eyes fell on a man who was arguing on the wrong side, he felt ashamed all of a sudden and cried out in terror: 'do not pierce me so with thine eyes! keep thine eyes off me!' another time when this same prisoner was reasoning with a crowd of people, who did not agree with him, they all cried out with one accord: 'look at his eyes, look at his eyes!' and yet another time when he was riding through an angry mob, in a city where men were ready to take his life, they dared not touch him. 'oh, oh,' they cried, 'see, he shines! he glisters!' then what happened next? we do not want to look at the prisoner in fancy any longer. we want really to know about him: to hear the beginnings and endings of those stories and of many others. and that is exactly what we are going to do. the prisoner is going to tell us his own true story in his own real words. there is no need for our fancy wings any longer. they may shrivel up and drop off unheeded. for that prisoner is george fox, and he belongs to english history. he has left the whole story of his life and adventures written in two large folio volumes that may still be seen in london. the pages are so old and the edges have worn so thin in the two hundred and fifty years since they were written, that each page has had to be most carefully framed in strong paper to keep it from getting torn. the ink is faded and brown, and the writing is often crabbed and difficult to read. but it can be read, and it is full of stories. in olden times, probably, the book was bound in a brown leather cover, but now, because it is very old and valuable, it has been clothed with beautiful red leather, on which is stamped in gold letters, the title: george fox's journal. now let us open it at the right place, and, before any of the other stories, let us hear what the writer says about that dismal prison in scarborough castle: how long he stayed there, and how he was at last set free. 'one day the governor of scarborough castle, sir jordan crosland, came to see me. i desired the governor to go into my room and see what a place i had. i had got a little fire made in it, and it was so filled with smoke that when they were in it they could hardly find their way out again.... i told him i was forced to lay out about fifty shillings to stop out the rain, and keep the room from smoking so much. when i had been at that charge and had made it somewhat tolerable, they removed me into a worse room, where i had neither chimney nor fire hearth.' (this last is the room in the castle cliff that is still called 'george fox's prison,' where we have been standing in imagination and looking in upon him. we will listen while he describes it again, so as to get accustomed to his rather old-fashioned english.) 'this being to the sea-side and lying much open, the wind drove in the rain forcibly, so that the water came over my bed, and ran about the room, that i was fain to skim it up with a platter. and when my clothes were wet, i had no fire to dry them; so that my body was benumbed with cold, and my fingers swelled, that one was grown as big as two. though i was at some charge in this room also, yet i could not keep out the wind and rain.... afterwards i hired a soldier to fetch me water and bread, and something to make a fire of, when i was in a room where a fire could be made. commonly a threepenny loaf served me three weeks, and sometimes longer, and most of my drink was water, with wormwood steeped or bruised in it.... as to friends i was as a man buried alive, for though many came far to see me, yet few were suffered to come to me.... the officers often threatened that i should be hanged over the wall. nay, the deputy governor told me once, that the king, knowing that i had a great interest in the people, had sent me thither, that if there should be any stirring in the nation, they should hang me over the wall to keep the people down. a while after they talked much of hanging me. but i told them that if that was what they desired and it was permitted them, i was ready; for i never feared death nor sufferings in my life, but i was known to be an innocent, peaceable man, free from all stirrings and plottings, and one that sought the good of all men. afterwards, the governor growing kinder, i spoke to him when he was going to london, and desired him to speak to esquire marsh, sir francis cobb, and some others, and let them know how long i had lain in prison, and for what, and he did so. when he came down again, he told me that esquire marsh said he would go a hundred miles barefoot for my liberty, he knew me so well; and several others, he said, spoke well of me. from which time the governor was very loving to me. 'there were among the prisoners two very bad men, who often sat drinking with the officers and soldiers; and because i would not sit and drink with them, it made them the worse against me. one time when these two prisoners were drunk, one of them (whose name was william wilkinson, who had been a captain), came in and challenged me to fight with him. i seeing what condition he was in, got out of his way; and next morning, when he was more sober, showed him how unmanly a thing it was in him to challenge a man to fight, whose principle he knew it was not to strike; but if he was stricken on one ear to turn the other. i told him that if he had a mind to fight, he should have challenged some of the soldiers, that could have answered him in his own way. but, however, seeing he had challenged me, i was now come to answer him, with my hands in my pockets: and, reaching my head towards him, "here," said i, "here is my hair, here are my cheeks, here is my back." with that, he skipped away from me and went into another room, at which the soldiers fell a-laughing; and one of the officers said, "you are a happy man that can bear such things." thus he was conquered without a blow. '... after i had lain a prisoner above a year in scarborough castle, i sent a letter to the king, in which i gave him an account of my imprisonment, and the bad usage i had received in prison; and also i was informed no man could deliver me but he. after this, john whitehead being at london, and being acquainted with esquire marsh, went to visit him, and spoke to him about me; and he undertook, if john whitehead would get the state of my case drawn up, to deliver it to the master of requests, sir john birkenhead, and endeavour to get a release for me. so john whitehead ... drew up an account of my imprisonment and sufferings and carried it to marsh; and he went with it to the master of requests, who procured an order from the king for my release. the substance of this order was that the king, being certainly informed, that i was a man principled against plotting and fighting, and had been ready at all times to discover plots, rather than to make any, therefore his royal pleasure was, that i should be discharged from my imprisonment. as soon as this order was obtained, john whitehead came to scarborough with it and delivered it to the governor; who, upon receipt thereof, gathered the officers together, ... and being satisfied that i was a man of peaceable life, he discharged me freely, and gave me the following passport:-- '"permit the bearer hereof, george fox, late a prisoner here, and now discharged by his majesty's order, quietly to pass about his lawful occasions, without any molestation. given under my hand at scarborough castle, this first day of september .--jordan crosland, governor of scarborough castle." 'after i was released, i would have made the governor a present for his civility and kindness he had of late showed me; but he would not receive anything; saying "whatever good he could for me and my friends, he would do it, and never do them any hurt." ... he continued loving unto me unto his dying day. the officers also and the soldiers were mightily changed, and became very respectful to me; when they had occasion to speak of me they would say, "he is as stiff as a tree, and as pure as a bell; for we could never bow him."' ii. 'pure foy, ma joye' _'outwardly there was little resemblance between george fox and francis of assisi, between the young leicestershire shepherd of the xviith century and the young italian merchant of the xiiith, but they both felt the power of god and yielded themselves wholly to it: both left father and mother and home: both defied the opinions of their time: both won their way through bitter opposition to solid success: both cast themselves "upon the infinite love of god": both were most truly surrendered souls; but francis submitted himself to established authority, fox only to the spirit of god speaking in the single soul.'_ _'in solitude and silence fox found god and heard him. he proclaimed that the kingdom of god is the kingdom of a living spirit who holds converse with his people.'--bishop westcott._ _'some place their religion in books, some in images, some in the pomp and splendour of external worship, but some with illuminated understandings hear what the holy spirit speaketh in their hearts'--thomas Ã� kempis._ _'lord, when i look upon mine own life it seems thou hast led me so carefully, so tenderly, thou canst have attended to none else; but when i see how wonderfully thou hast led the world and art leading it, i am amazed that thou hast had time to attend to such as i.'--augustine._ ii. 'pure foy, ma joye' 'he is stiff as a tree and pure as a bell, and we could never bow him.' so spoke the rough soldiers of scarborough castle of their prisoner, george fox, after he had been set at liberty. a splendid thing it was for soldiers to say of a prisoner whom they had held absolutely in their power. but a tree does not grow stiff all at once. it takes many years for a tiny seedling to grow into a sturdy oak. a bell has to undergo many processes before it gains its perfect form and pure ringing note. and a whole lifetime of joys and sorrows had been needed to develop the 'stiffness' (or steadfastness, as we should call it now) and purity of character that astonished the soldiers in their prisoner. there will not be much story in this history of george fox's early days, but it is the foundation-stone on which most of the later stories will be built. * * * * * it was in july , the last year in which james the first, king of england, ruled in his palace at whitehall, that far away in a quiet leicestershire village their first baby was born to a weaver and his wife. they lived in a small cottage with a thatched roof and wooden shutters, in a village then known as 'drayton-in-the-clay,' because of the desolate waters of the marshlands that lay in winter time close round the walls of the little hamlet. even though the fens and marshes have now long ago been drained and turned into fertile country, the village is still called 'fenny drayton.' the weaver's name was christopher fox. his wife's maiden name had been mary lago; and the name they gave to their first little son was george. mary lago came 'of the stock of the martyrs': that is to say, either her parents or her grand-parents had been put to death for their faith. they had been burnt at the stake, probably, in one of the persecutions in the reign of queen mary. from her 'martyr stock' mary lago must have learned, when she was quite a little girl, to worship god in purity of faith. later on, after she had become the mother of little george, it was no wonder that her baby son sitting on her knee, looking up into her face, or listening to her stories, learned from the very beginning to try to be 'pure as a bell.' mary lago's husband, christopher fox, did not come 'of the stock of the martyrs,' but evidently he had inherited from his ancestors plenty of tough courage and sturdy sense. almost the only story remembered about him is that one day he stuck his cane into the ground after listening to a long dispute and exclaimed: 'now i see that if a man will but stick to the truth it will bear him out.' when little george grew old enough to scramble down from his mother's knee and to walk with unsteady steps across the stone-flagged floor of the cottage, there was his weaver father sitting at his loom, making a pleasant rhythmic sound that filled the small house with music. as the boy watched the skilful hands sending the flying shuttle in and out among the threads, he learned from his father, not only the right way to weave good reliable stuff, but also how to weave the many coloured threads of everyday life into a strong character. the village people called his father 'righteous christer,' which shows that he too must have been 'stiff as a tree' in following what he knew to be right; for a name like that is not very easily earned where village eyes are sharp and village tongues are shrewd. [illustration: the boyhood of george fox] less than a mile from the weaver's cottage stood the church and the manor house side by side. the churchyard had a wall of solid red bricks, overshadowed by a border of solemn old yew-trees. the manor house was encircled by a moat on which graceful white swans swam to and fro. for centuries the purefoy family had been squires of drayton village. they had inhabited the manor house while they were alive, and had been buried in the churchyard close by after they were dead. the present squire was a certain colonel george purefoy. it may have been after him that 'righteous christer' called his eldest son george, or it may have been after that other george, 'saint george for merrie england,' whose image killing the dragon was to be seen engraved on each rare golden 'noble' that found its way to the weaver's home. christopher and mary fox were both of them possessed of more education than was usual among country people at that time, when reading and writing were still rare accomplishments. 'righteous christer' was an important man in the small village. besides being a weaver, he was also a churchwarden, and was able to sign his own name in bold characters, as may still be seen to-day in the parish registers, where his fellow-churchwarden, being unable to read or write, was only able to sign his name with a cross. unfortunately this same register, which ought to record the exact day of july on which little george was baptized here in the old church, no longer mentions him, since, more than a hundred years after his time, the wife of the sexton of fenny drayton, running short of paper to cover her jam-pots, must needs lay hands on the valuable church records and tear out a few priceless pages just here. so, although several other brothers and sisters followed george and came to live in the weaver's cottage during the next few years, we know none of their ages or birthdays, until we come to the record of the baptism of the youngest sister sarah. happily her page came last of all, after the sexton's jam was finished, and thus sarah's name escaped being made into the lid of a jam-pot. but we will hope that the weaver and his wife remembered and kept all their children's birthdays on the right days, even though they are forgotten now. however that may have been, george's parents 'endeavoured to train him up, as they did their other children, in the common way of worship--his mother especially being eminent for piety: but even from a child he was seen to be of another frame of mind from his brethren, for he was more religious, retired, still and solid, and was also observing beyond his age. his mother, seeing this extraordinary temper and godliness, which so early did shine through him, so that he would not meddle with childish games, carried herself indulgent towards him.... meanwhile he learned to read pretty well, and to write as much as would serve to signify his meaning to others.' when he saw older people behaving in a rowdy, frivolous way, it distressed him, and the little boy used to say to himself: 'if ever i come to be a man, surely i will not be so wanton.' 'when i came to eleven years of age,' he says himself in his journal, 'i knew pureness and righteousness; for while i was a child i was taught how to walk so as to be kept pure, and to be faithful in two ways, both inwardly to god, and outwardly to man, and to keep to yea and nay in all things.' at that time there was a law obliging everybody to attend church on sundays, and as the services lasted for several hours at a time, the weaver's children doubtless had time to look about them, and learned to know the stones of the old church well. when the squire and his family were at home they sat in the purefoy chapel in the north aisle. from this chapel a door in the wall opened on to a path that led straight over the drawbridge across the moat to the manor house. it must have been interesting for all the village children to watch for the opening and shutting of that door. but up in the chancel there was, and still is, something even more interesting: the big tomb that a certain mistress jocosa or joyce purefoy had put up to the memory of her husband, who had died in the days of good queen bess. 'pure foy, ma joye,' the black letters of the family motto, can still be read on a marble scroll. if george in his boyhood ever asked his mother what the french words meant, mary fox, who was, we are told, 'accomplished above her degree in the place where she lived,' may have been able to tell him that they mean, in english, 'pure faith is my joy'; or that, keeping the rhyme, they might be translated as follows:-- 'my faith pure, my joy sure.' then remembering what had happened in her own family, surely she would add, 'and i, who come of martyr stock, know that that is true. even if you have to suffer for it, my son, even if you have to die for it, keep your faith pure, and your joy will be sure in the end.' then righteous christer would take the little lad up on his shoulder and show him the broken spear above the tomb, the crest of the purefoys, and tell him its story. hundreds of years before, one of the squires of this family had defended his liege lord on the battle-field at the risk of his own life, and even after his weapon, a spear, had been broken in his hand. his lord, out of gratitude for this, had given his faithful follower, not only the right to wear the broken spear in token of his valour ever after as a crest, but also by his name and by his motto to proclaim to all men the pure faith (purefoy) that had given him this sure and lasting joy. ever since, for hundreds of years, the purefoy family had handed down, by their name, by their motto, and by the broken spear on their crest, this noble tradition of loyalty and allegiance--enshrined like a shining jewel in the centre of the muddy village of drayton-in-the-clay. this was not the only battle story the boy must have known well. a few miles from fenny drayton is 'the rising ground of market bosworth,' better known as bosworth field. as he grew older george loved to wander over the fields that surrounded his birthplace. he 'must have often passed the site of henry's camp, perhaps may have drunk sometimes at the well at which richard is said to have quenched his thirst.' but although his home was near this old battlefield, the boy grew up in a peaceful england. probably no one in fenny drayton imagined that in a very few years the smiling english meadows would once more be drenched in blood. george fox in his country home was brought up to follow country pursuits, and was especially skilful in the management of sheep. he says in his journal: 'as i grew up, my relations thought to have made me a priest, but others persuaded to the contrary. whereupon i was put to a man who was a shoemaker by trade, and dealt in wool. he also used grazing and sold cattle; and a great deal went through my hands. while i was with him he was blest, but after i left him, he broke and came to nothing. i never wronged man or woman in all that time.... while i was in that service, i used in my dealings the word "verily," and it was a common saying among those that knew me, "if george says verily, there is no altering him." when boys and rude persons would laugh at me, i let them alone, but people generally had a love to me for my innocence and honesty. 'when i came towards years of age, being upon business at a fair, one of my cousins, whose name was bradford, a professor, having another professor with him, asked me to drink part of a jug of beer with them. i, being thirsty, went with them, for i loved any that had a sense of good. when we had drunk a glass apiece, they began to drink healths and called for more drink, agreeing together that he that would not drink should pay for all. i was grieved that they should do so, and putting my hand into my pocket took out a groat and laid it on the table before them, saying, "if it be so, i will leave you." so i went away, and when i had done my business i returned home, but did not go to bed that night, nor could i sleep, but sometimes walked up and down and prayed and cried unto the lord, who said to me: "thou must forsake all, young and old, keep out of all and be a stranger to all." 'then at the command of god, the th of the th month,[ ] , i left my relations, and broke off all familiarity or fellowship with young or old.' the old-fashioned english of the 'journal' makes this story rather puzzling at the first reading, because several words have changed in meaning since it was written. the name 'professors,' did not then mean learned men who teach or lecture in a university, but any men who 'professed' to be particularly religious and good. these 'professionally religious people' are generally known as 'the puritans,' and it was meeting with these bad specimens among them who 'professed' a religion they did not attempt to practise, that so dismayed george fox. here at any rate 'pure faith' was not being kept either to god or men. he must find a more solid foundation on which to rest his own soul's loyalty and allegiance. over the porch of the church at fenny drayton is painted now, not the purefoy motto, but the words: 'i will go forth in the strength of the lord god.' it was from this place that george fox set forth on the long search for a 'pure faith' that, when he found it, was to bring both to him and to many thousands of his countrymen a 'sure joy.' why righteous christer and his wife did not help george more at this time remains a puzzle. they may have been afraid lest he was making a terrible mistake in leaving the worship they knew and followed, or they may have guessed that god was really calling him to do some work for him bigger than they could understand, and may have felt that they could help their boy best by leaving him free to follow the voice that spoke to him in the depths of his own heart, even if he had to fight his own battles unaided. or possibly their thoughts were too full of all the actual battles that were filling the air just then to think any other troubles important. for our quaker saints are not legendary people; they are a real part of english history. all through the years of george's boyhood the struggle between king charles the first and his parliament had been getting more tense and embittered. the abolition of the star chamber (may ), the attempted arrest of the five members (october ), the trial and death, first of strafford (may ) and then of laud (january )--all these events had been convulsing the great heart of the english nation during the long years while young george had been quietly keeping his master's sheep and cattle in his secluded leicestershire village. a year before he left home the long-dreaded civil war had at last broken out. but the civil war that broke out in the soul of the young shepherd lad, the struggle between good and evil when he saw his puritan cousin tempting other people to drink and carouse, was to him a more momentous event than all the outward battles that were raging. his journal hardly mentions the rival armies of king and parliament that were marching through the land. yet in reading of his early struggles in his own spirit, we must always keep in the background of our minds the thought of the great national struggle that was raging at the same time. it was not in the orderly, peaceful, settled england of his earliest years that the boy grew to manhood, but in an england that was being torn asunder by the rival faiths and passions of her sons. men's minds were filled with the perplexities of great national problems of church and state, of tyranny and freedom. no wonder that at such a time everyone was too busy to spare much sympathy or many thoughts for the spiritual perplexities of one obscure country lad. right into the very middle, then, of this troubled, seething england, george fox plunged when he left his home at fenny drayton. the battle of marston moor was fought the following year, july , and naseby the summer after that. but george was not heeding outward battles. up and down the country he walked, seeking for help in his spiritual difficulties from all the different kinds of people he came across; and there were a great many different kinds. the england of that day was not only torn by civil war, it was also split up into innumerable different sects, now that the attempt to force everyone to worship according to one prescribed fashion was at length being abandoned. in one small yorkshire town it is recorded that there were no less than forty of these sects worshipping in different ways about this time, while new sects were continually arising. perhaps it was a generous wish to give the professors another chance and not to judge the whole party from the bad specimens he had met, that made george go back to the puritans for help. at first they made much of the young enquirer; but, alas! they all had the same defect as those he had met already. their spoken profession sounded very fine, but they did not carry it out in their lives. 'they sought to be acquainted with me, but i was afraid of them, for i was sensible they did not possess what they professed.' in other words, their faith did not ring true. the professors were certainly not 'pure as a bell.' george fox's test was always the same, both for his own religion and other people's: 'is this faith real? is it true? can you actually live out what you profess to believe? and do you? is your faith pure? is your joy sure?' finding that, in the case of the professors, a sorrowful 'no' was the only answer that their lives gave to these questions, george says: 'a strong temptation to despair came over me. i then saw how christ was tempted, and mighty troubles i was in. sometimes i kept myself retired in my chamber, and often walked solitary in the chace to wait upon the lord.' it must not be forgotten that part of the puritan worship consisted in making enormously long prayers in spoken words, and preaching sermons that lasted several hours at a time. george fox became more and more sure that this was not the worship god wanted from him, as he thought over these matters in solitude under the trees of barnet chace. after a time he went back to his relations in leicestershire. they saw the youth was unhappy, and very naturally thought it would be far better for him to settle down and have a happy home of his own than to go wandering about the country in distress about the state of his soul. 'being returned into leicestershire, my relations would have had me married; but i told them i was but a lad and must get wisdom.' other people said: 'no, don't marry him yet. put him into the auxiliary band among the soldiery. once he gets fighting, that will soon knock the notions out of his head.' young george would not consent to this plan either. he had his own battle to fight, his own victory to win, unaided and alone. he did not yet know that it was useless for him to seek for outward help. being still only a lad of nineteen he thought that surely there must be someone among his elders who could help him, if only he could find out the right person. having failed with the professors, he determined next to consult the priests and see if they could advise him in his perplexities. 'priests' is another word that has changed its meaning almost as much as 'professors' has done. by 'priests' george fox does not mean anglican or roman catholic clergy, but simply men of any denomination who were paid for preaching. at this particular time the english rectories and vicarages were mostly occupied by presbyterians and independents. it was they who preached and who were paid for preaching in the village churches, which is what he means by calling them 'priests' in his journal. in these stories there is no need to think of george fox as arguing or fighting against real christianity in any of the churches. he was fighting, rather, against sham religion, formality and hypocrisy wherever he found them. in that great fight all who truly love truth and god are on the same side, even though they are called by different names. so remember that these old labels that he uses for his opponents have changed their meaning very considerably in the three hundred years that have passed since his birth. remember too that the world had had at that time nearly three hundred years less in which to learn good manners than it has now. the manners and customs of the day were much rougher than those of modern times. however much we may disagree with people, there is no need for us to tell them so in the same sort of harsh language that was too often used by george fox and his contemporaries. to these presbyterian priests, therefore, george went next to ask for counsel and help. the first he tried was the reverend nathaniel stephens, the priest of his own village of fenny drayton. at first priest stephens and young george seemed to get on very well together. another priest was often with stephens, and the two learned men would often talk and argue with the boy, and be astonished at the wise answers he gave. 'it is a very good, full answer,' stephens once said to george, 'and such an one as i have not heard.' he applauded the boy and spoke highly of him, and even used the answers he gave in his own sermons on sundays. this was a compliment, but it cost him george's friendship and respect, because he felt it was a deceitful practice. the journal says: 'what i said in discourse to him on week-days, he would preach of on first days, which gave me a dislike to him. this priest afterwards became my great persecutor.' priest stephens' wife was also very much opposed to fox, and it is said that on one occasion she 'very unseemly plucked and haled him up and down, and scoffed and laughed.' fox always felt that this priest and his wife were his bitter foes; but other people described priest stephens as 'a good scholar and a useful preacher, in his younger days a very hard student, in his old age pleasant and cheerful.' so, as generally happens, there may have been a friendly side to this couple for those who took them the right way. after this, fox continues, 'i went to another ancient priest at mancetter in warwickshire, and reasoned with him about the ground of despair and temptations; but he was ignorant of my condition; he bade me take tobacco and sing psalms. tobacco was a thing i did not love, and psalms i was not in a state to sing; i could not sing. then he bid me come again and he would tell me many things; but when i came he was angry and pettish; for my former words had displeased him. he told my troubles, sorrows and griefs to his servants so that it got among the milk-lasses. it grieved me that i should have opened my mind to such a one. i saw they were all miserable comforters, and this brought my troubles more upon me. then i heard of a priest living about tamworth, which was accounted an experienced man, and i went seven miles to him; but i found him like an empty hollow cask. i heard also of one called dr. craddock of coventry, and went to him. i asked him the ground of temptations and despair, and how troubles came to be wrought in man? he asked me, "who was christ's father and mother?" i told him mary was his mother, and that he was supposed to be the son of joseph, but he was the son of god. now, as we were walking together in his garden, the alley being narrow, i chanced, in turning, to set my foot on the side of a bed, at which the man was in a rage, as if his house had been on fire. thus all our discourse was lost, and i went away in sorrow, worse than i was when i came. i thought them miserable comforters, and saw they were all as nothing to me; for they could not reach my condition. after this i went to another, one macham, a priest in high account. he would needs give me some physic, and i was to have been let blood; but they could not get one drop of blood from me, either in arms or head (though they endeavoured to do so), my body being, as it were, dried up with sorrows, grief and troubles, which were so great upon me that i could have wished i had never been born, or that i had been born blind, that i might never have seen wickedness or vanity; and deaf, that i might never have heard vain and wicked words, or the lord's name blasphemed. when the time called christmas came, while others were feasting and sporting themselves, i looked out poor widows from house to house, and gave them some money. when i was invited to marriages (as i sometimes was) i went to none at all, but the next day, or soon after, i would go to visit them; and if they were poor, i gave them some money; for i had wherewith both to keep myself from being chargeable to others, and to administer something to the necessities of those who were in need.' three years passed in this way, and then at last the first streaks of light began to dawn in the darkness. they came, not in any sudden or startling way, but little by little his soul was filled with the hope of dawn: silently as the morning comes on when night is done, or the crimson streak, on ocean's cheek, grows into the great sun. he says, 'about the beginning of the year , as i was going into coventry, a consideration arose in me how it was said, "all christians are believers, both protestants and papists," and the lord opened to me, that if all were believers, then they were all born of god, and were passed from death unto life, and that none were true believers but such, and though others said they were believers, yet they were not.' possibly george fox was looking up at the 'three tall spires' of coventry when this thought came to him, and remembering in how many different ways christians had worshipped under their shadow: first the latin mass, then the order of common prayer, and now the puritan service. 'at another time,' he says, 'as i was walking in a field on a first day morning, the lord opened to me "that being bred at oxford or cambridge was not enough to fit and qualify men to be ministers of christ:" and i wondered at it because it was the common belief of people. but i saw it clearly as the lord had opened it to me, and was satisfied and admired the goodness of the lord, who had opened the thing to me this morning.... so that which opened in me struck i saw at the priests' ministry. but my relations were much troubled that i would not go with them to hear the priest; for i would go into the orchard or the fields with my bible by myself.... i saw that to be a true believer was another thing than they looked upon it to be ... so neither them nor any of the dissenting people could i join with. 'at another time it was opened in me, "that god who made the world did not dwell in temples made with hands." this at the first seemed strange, because both priests and people used to call their temples or churches dreadful places, holy ground and the temples of god. but the lord showed me clearly that he did not dwell in these temples which men had made, but in people's hearts.' in this way george fox had found out for himself three of the foundation truths of a pure faith:-- st. that all christians are believers, protestants and papists alike. nd. that christ was come to teach his people himself. rd. that the temple in which god wishes to dwell is in the hearts of his children. now that george fox was sure of these three things, it troubled him less if he was with people whose beliefs he could not share. the first set of people he came among believed that women had no souls, 'no more than a goose has a soul' added one of them in a light, jesting tone. george fox reproved them and told them it was a wrong thing to say, and added that mary in her song said, 'my soul doth magnify the lord, my spirit hath rejoiced in god my saviour,' so she must have had a soul. george by this time had learned to know his bible so well in the long quiet hours out of doors, when it had been his only companion, that it was easy to him to find the exact quotation he wanted in an argument. it was said of him, later on, by wise and learned men, that if the bible itself were ever to be lost it might almost be found again in the mouth of george fox, so well did he know it. the next set of people he came to were great dreamers. they guided their lives in the daytime according to the dreams they had happened to dream during the night. and i should think a fine mess they must have made of things! george helped these dreamers to know more of realities, till, later on, many of them came out of their dream-world and became friends. after this at last he came upon a set of people who really did seem to understand him and to care for the same things that he did. they were called 'shattered baptists,' because they had broken off from the other baptists in the neighbourhood who 'did the lord's work negligently' and did not act up to what they professed. this was the very same fault that had driven george forth from among the professors at the beginning of his long quest. it is easy to imagine that he and these people were happy together. 'with these,' he says, 'i had some meetings and discourses, but my troubles continued and i was often under great temptations. i fasted much, walked abroad in solitary places many days, and often took my bible and sat in hollow trees and lonesome places till night came on, and frequently in the night walked about by myself.... o the everlasting love of god to my soul, when i was in great distress! when my troubles and torments were great, then was his love exceeding great.... when all my hopes in all men were gone so that i had nothing outwardly to help me, nor could i tell what to do, then, o then, i heard a voice which said, "there is one, even christ jesus, that can speak to thy condition." when i heard it, my heart did leap for joy.' this message was like the rising of the sun to george fox. the long night of darkness was over now, the sun had risen, and though there might be clouds and storms ahead of him still he had come out into the full clear light of day. 'my desires after the lord grew stronger,' he writes, 'and zeal in the pure knowledge of god and of christ alone, without the help of any man, book, or writing.... then the lord gently led me along and let me see his love which was endless and eternal, surpassing all the knowledge that men have in the natural state or can get by history and books. that love let me see myself as i was without him.... at another time i saw the great love of god, and was filled with admiration at the infiniteness of it.' the truths that george fox is trying to express are difficult to put into words. it is the more difficult for us to understand what he means because his language is not quite the same as ours. other words besides 'priest' and 'professor' have altered their meanings. when he speaks of having had things 'opened' to him, we should be more likely to say he had had them revealed to him, or had had a revelation. perhaps these 'openings' and 'seeings' that he describes, though they meant much to him, do not sound to us now like very great discoveries. they are only what we have been accustomed to hear all our lives. but then, whom have we to thank for that? in large measure george fox himself. in the immense bush forests that cover an unexplored country or continent the first man who attempts to make a track through them has the hardest task. he has to guess the right direction, to cut down the first trees, to 'blaze a trail,' to help every one who follows him to find the way a little more easily. that man is called a pioneer. george fox was a pioneer in the spiritual world. he discovered a true path for himself, a path leading right through the thick forest of human selfishness and sin and out into the bright sunshine beyond. in his lonely quest through those years of struggle he was indeed 'blazing a trail' for us. if the track we tread nowadays is smooth and easy to tread, that is because of the pioneers who have gone before us. our ease has been gained through their labours and sufferings and steadfastness. the track was not fully clear even yet to george fox. he had more to learn before he could make the right path plain to others; more to learn, but chiefly more to suffer. to strengthen him beforehand for those sufferings, he was given an assurance that never afterwards entirely left him. 'i saw the infinite love of god. i saw also that there was an ocean of darkness and death; but an infinite ocean of light and love which flowed over the ocean of darkness. in that also i saw the infinite love of god, and i had great openings.' the quest was ended. faith was pure, and joy was sure at last. 'now was i come up in spirit, through the flaming sword, into the paradise of god. all things were made new, and all the creation gave another smell to me beyond what words can utter. i knew nothing but pureness, innocency, and righteousness, being renewed up to the image of god by christ jesus.... great things did the lord lead me into, and wonderful depths were opened to me, beyond what can by words be declared; but as people come into subjection by the spirit of god, and grow up in the image and power of the almighty they may receive the word of wisdom that opens all things, and come to know the hidden unity in the eternal being.' 'thus travelled i in the lord's service, as he led me.' footnotes: [ ] the th month would be september, because the years then began with march. iii. the angel of beverley _'to instruct young lasses and maidens in whatever things was useful in the creation.'--r. abraham._ _'it was the age of long discourses and ecstatic exercises.'--morley's cromwell._ _'george fox's preaching, in those early years, chiefly consisted of some few, but powerful and piercing words, to those whose hearts were already in some measure prepared to be capable of receiving this doctrine.'--sewel's history._ _'but at the first convincement when friends could not put off their hats to people, nor say you to a particular but thee and thou; and could not bowe nor use the world's fashions nor customs ... people would not trade with them nor trust them ... but afterwards people came to see friends honesty and truthfulness.'--g. fox._ _'the light which shows us our sins is that which heals us.'--g. fox._ _'god works slowly.'--bishop westcott._ iii. the angel of beverley among all the children of drayton village who watched eagerly for the door to open into the purefoy chapel on sundays, when the squire's family were at home, none watched for it more intently than blue-eyed cecily, the old huntsman's granddaughter. cecily's parents were both dead, and she lived with her grandfather in one of the twin lodges that guarded the manor gates. old thomas had fought at the squire's side abroad in years gone by. now, aged and bent, he, too, watched for that door to open, as he sat in his accustomed place in the church with cecily by his side. old thomas's eyes followed his master lovingly, when colonel purefoy entered, heading the little procession,--a tall, erect, soldierly-looking man, though his hair was decidedly grey, and grey too was the pointed beard that he still wore over a small ruff, in the fashion of the preceding reign. close behind him came his wife. the village people spoke of her as 'madam,' since, although english born, and, indeed, possessed of considerable property in her own native county of yorkshire, she was attached to the court of queen henrietta maria, and had caught something of the foreign grace of her french mistress. but it was the two children for whose coming cecily waited most eagerly, as they followed their parents. edward purefoy, the heir, a tall, handsome boy, came in first, leading by the hand his dainty little sister jocosa, who seemed too fairy-like to support the stately family name, and who was generally known by its shorter form of joyce. last of all came a portly waiting-maid, carrying a silky-haired spaniel on a cushion under each arm. these petted darlings, king charles' own special favourites, were all the rage at court at this time, and accompanied their masters and mistresses everywhere, even to church, where--fortunate beings--they were allowed to slumber peacefully on cushions at their owners' feet throughout the long services, when mere human creatures were obliged at any rate to endeavour to keep awake. cecily had no eyes to spare, even for the pet-dogs, on the eventful sunday when the squire and his family first appeared again at church after an unusually long absence. for there was little mistress jocosa, all clad in white satin, like a princess in a fairy tale, and as pretty as a picture. and so the great court painter, sir anthony vandyck, must have thought, seeing he had chosen to paint her portrait and make a picture of her himself in this same costume, with its stiff, straight, shining skirt, tight bodice, pointed lace collar, and close-fitting transparent cap that covered, but could not hide, the waves of dark crisp hair. when cecily discovered that a string of pearls was clasped round the other little girl's neck, she gave a long gasp of delight, a gasp that ended in an irrepressible sigh. for, a moment later, this dazzling vision, with its dancing eyes, delicate features, and glowing cheeks, was lost to sight. all through the remainder of the service it stayed hidden in the depths of the high old family pew, whence nothing could be seen save the top of the squire's silver head, rising occasionally, like an erratic half moon, over the edge of the dark oak wood. not another glimpse was to be had of the white satin princess; there was no one to look at but the ordinary village folk whom cecily could see every day of her life: young george fox, for instance, the weaver's son, who was staring straight before him as usual, paying not the smallest heed to the entrance of all these marvellous beings. fancy staring at the marble tomb erected by a long dead lady jocosa, and never even noticing her living namesake of to-day, with all her sparkles and flushes! truly the weaver's son was a strange lad, as the whole village knew. a strange boy indeed, joyce purefoy thought in her turn, as, passing close by him on her way out of church, she happened to look up and to meet the steady gaze of the young eyes that were at the same time so piercing and yet so far away. she could not see his features clearly, since the sun, pouring in through a tall lancet window behind him, dazzled her eyes. yet, even through the blurr of light, she felt the clear look that went straight through and found the real joyce lying deep down somewhere, though hidden beneath all the finery with which she had hoped to dazzle the village children. late that same evening it was no fairy princess but a contrite little girl who approached her mother's side at bed-time. 'forgive me, mother mine, i did pick just a few cherries from the tree above the moat,' she whispered hesitatingly 'i was hot and they were juicy. then, when you and my father crossed the bridge on our way to church and asked me had i taken any, i,--no--i did not exactly forget, but i suppose i disremembered, and i said i had not had one.' 'jocosa!' exclaimed her mother sternly: 'what! you a purefoy and my daughter, yet not to be trusted to tell the truth! for the cherries, they are a small matter, i gave you plenty myself later, but to lie about even a trifle, it is that, that i mind.' the little girl hung her head still lower. 'i know,' she said, 'it was shameful. yet, in truth, i did confess at length.' 'true,' answered her mother, 'and therefore thou art forgiven, and without a punishment; only remember thy name and take better heed of thy pure faith another time. what made thee come and tell me even now?' 'the sight of the broken spear in church,' stammered the little girl. 'that began it, and then i partly remembered....' she got no further. even to her indulgent mother (and madam purefoy was accounted an unwontedly tender parent in those days), joyce could not explain how it was, that, as the glance from those grave boyish eyes fell upon her, out of the sunlit window, her 'disremembering' became suddenly a weight too heavy to be borne. jocosa purefoy never forgot that sunday, or her childish fault. * * * * * the visits of the squire and his family to the old manor house were few and far between. the estates in yorkshire that madam purefoy had brought to her husband on her marriage were the children's real home. it was several years after this before cecily saw her fairy princess again. the next glimpse was even more fleeting than their appearance in church, just a mere flash at the lodge gates as jocosa and her brother cantered past on their way out for a day's hunting. old thomas, sitting in his arm-chair in the sun, looked critically and enviously at the man-servant who accompanied them. 'too young--too young,' he muttered. his own hunting days were long past, but he could not bear, even crippled with rheumatism as he was, that any one but he, who had taught their father to sit a horse, should ride to hounds with his children. cecily had some envious thoughts too. 'i should like very well to wear a scarlet riding-dress and fur tippet, and a long red feather in my hat, and go a-hunting on old snowball, instead of having to stop at home and take care of grandfather and mind the house.' after she had closed the heavy iron gates with a clang, she pressed her nose between the bars and looked wistfully along the straight road, carried on its high causeway above the fens, down which the gay riders were swiftly disappearing. but, in spite of envious looks, the gaiety of the day was short-lived. during the very first run, snowball put her foot into a rabbit-hole, and almost came down. 'lamed herself, sure enough,' said the man-servant grimly. no more hunting for snowball that day. the best that could be hoped was that she might be able to carry her little mistress's light weight safely home, at a walking pace, over the few miles that separated them from drayton. joyce could not return alone, and edward would not desert his sister, though he could not repress a few gloomy remarks on the homeward way. 'to lose such a splendid dry day at this season! once the weather breaks and the floods are out, there will be no leaving the manor house again for weeks, save by the causeway over the fens!' thus it was a rather melancholy trio that returned slowly by the same road over which the ponies' feet had scampered gaily an hour or two before. when the chimneys of drayton were coming in sight, a loud 'halloo' made the riders look round. a second fox must have led the hunt back in their direction after all. sure enough, a speck of ruddy brown was to be seen slinking along beneath a haystack in the distance. already the hounds were scrambling across the road after him, while, except for the huntsman, not a solitary rider was as yet to be seen anywhere. the temptation was too strong for edward. the brush might still be his, if he were quick. 'we are close at home. you will come to no harm now, sister,' he called. then, raising his whip, he was off at a gallop, beckoning peremptorily to the groom to follow him. not without a shade of remorse for deserting his little mistress, the man-servant obediently gave snowball's bridle to joyce, and set spurs to his horse. then, as he galloped away, he salved his conscience with the reflection that 'after all, young master's neck is in more danger than young missie's, now home is in sight.' joyce, left alone, dismounted, in order to lead snowball herself on the uneven road across the fens. it was difficult to do this satisfactorily, owing to the pony's lameness, and her long, clinging skirt, over which she was perpetually tripping. therefore, looking down over the hedgeless country for someone to help her, it was with real relief that she caught sight of a tall youth close at hand, in a pasture where sheep and cattle were grazing. all her life joyce was accustomed to treat the people she met with the airs of a queen. therefore, 'hey! boy,' she called imperiously, 'come and help me! quick!' she had to call more than once before the youth looked up, and when he did, at first he made no motion in response. then, seeing that the pony really was limping badly, and that the little lady was obviously in difficulty, and was, moreover, a very little lady still, in spite of her peremptory tones, he changed his mind. striding slowly towards her, he rather reluctantly closed the book he had been reading, and placed it in his pocket. then, without saying a single word, he put out his hand and taking snowball's bridle from joyce he proceeded to lead the pony carefully and cleverly over the stones. the silence remained unbroken for a few minutes: the lad buried in his own thoughts, grave, earnest and preoccupied; the dainty damsel, her skirt held up now, satisfactorily, on both sides, skipping along, with glancing footsteps, as she tried to keep up with her companion's longer paces, and at the same time to remember why this tall, silent boy seemed to her vaguely familiar. she could not see his face, for it was turned towards snowball, and joyce herself scarcely came up to her companion's elbow. they passed a cottage, set back at some distance from the road and half hidden by a cherry-tree with a few late leaves upon it, crimsoned by the first touch of november frost. a cherry-tree! the old memory flashed back in a moment. 'i know who you are,' exclaimed joyce, 'even though you don't speak a word. and i know your name. you are righteous christer the weaver's son, and you are called george, like my father. you have grown so big and tall i did not know you at first, but now i do. where do you live?' the boy pointed in the direction of the cottage under the cherry-tree. the gentle whirr of the loom stole through the window as they approached. 'and i have seen you before,' joyce went on, 'a long time ago, the last time we were here, on sunday. it was in church,' she concluded triumphantly. 'aye, in yon steeple-house,' answered her companion moodily, and with no show of interest. 'very like.' his eyes wandered from the thatched roof of the cottage to where, high above the tall old yew-trees, a slender spire pointed heavenward. joyce laughed at the unfamiliar word. 'that is a church, not a steeple-house,' she corrected. 'of course it has a steeple, but wherefore give it such a clumsy name?' her companion made no reply. he seemed absorbed in a world of his own, though still leading the pony carefully. joyce, piqued at having her presence ignored even by a village lad, determined to arouse him. 'moreover, i have heard priest stephens speak of you to my father,' she went on, with a little pin-prick of emphasis on each word, though addressing her remarks apparently to no one in particular, and with her dainty head tilted in the air. her companion turned to her at once. 'what said the priest?' he enquired quickly. 'the priest said, "never was such a plant bred in england before!" what his words meant i know not--unless he was thinking of the proverb of certain plants that grow apace,' she added maliciously, looking up with a gleam of fun at the tall figure beside her. 'and my father said....' colonel purefoy's remark was not destined to be revealed, for they had reached the tall gateway by this time. old thomas, seeing his little mistress approaching, accompanied only by the weaver's son, and with snowball obviously damaged, had hobbled to meet them in spite of his rheumatics. close at hand was cecily, brimful of excitement at the sight of her fairy princess actually stopping at their own cottage door. the tall youth handed the pony's bridle to the old man, and was departing with evident relief, when a clear, imperious voice stopped him-- 'good-bye and good-day to you, weaver's son, and thanks for your aid,' said jocosa, like a queen dismissing a subject. the tall figure looked down upon the patronizing little lady, as if from a remote height. 'mayest thou verily fare well,' he said, almost with solemnity, and then, without removing his hat or making any gesture of respect, he turned abruptly and was gone. 'a strange boy,' joyce said to herself a few minutes later as she stood on the stone bridge that crossed the moat in front of the manor house. 'i did not like him; in fact i rather disliked him--but i should like to see him again and find out what he meant by his "steeple-house" and "verily."' cecily, left behind at the lodge, very happy because her fairy princess had actually thrown her a smile as she passed, was still following the distant figure on the bridge with wistful eyes, as joyce busily searched her pockets for a few stray crumbs with which to feed the swans in the moat. the scarlet riding-dress, glossy tippet, and scarlet feather in the big brown hat were all faithfully reflected in the clear water below, except where the swans interrupted the vivid picture with dazzling snowy curves and orange webbed feet. more critical eyes than cecily's were also watching joyce. high up on the terrace, where a few late roses and asters were still in bloom, two figures were leaning over the stone parapet, looking down over the moat. 'a fair maiden, indeed,' a voice was saying, in low, polished tones. the next moment the sound of her own name made the girl look up. there, coming towards her, at the very top of the flight of shallow stone steps that led from the terrace to the low stone bridge, she saw her father, and with him a stranger, dressed, not like colonel purefoy, in a slightly archaic costume, but in the very latest fashion of king charles's court at whitehall. 'my father come home already! and a stranger with him! what an unlucky chance after the misadventure of the morning!' throwing her remaining crumbs over the swans in a swift shower, joyce made haste up the stone steps, to greet the two gentlemen with the reverence always paid by children to their elders in those days. somewhat to her surprise, her father bent down and kissed her cheek. then, taking her hand, he led her towards the stranger, and presented her very gravely. 'my daughter, jocosa: my good friend, sir everard danvers.' 'exactly as if i had been a grown-up lady at court,' thought joyce, delighted, with the delight of thirteen, at her own unexpected importance. her father had never paid her so much attention before. well, at least he should see that she was worthy of it now. and joyce dropped her lowest, most formal, curtsey, as the stranger bowed low over her hand. to curtsey at the edge of a flight of steps, and in a clinging riding skirt, was an accomplishment of which anyone might be proud. was the stranger properly impressed? he appeared grave enough, anyhow, and a very splendid figure in his suit of sky-blue satin, short shoulder cape, and pointed lace collar. he was a strikingly handsome man, of a dark-olive complexion, with good features, and jet-black hair; but strangely enough, the sight of him made joyce turn back to her father, feeling as if she had never understood before the comfort of his quiet, familiar face. even the old-fashioned ruff gave her a sense of home and security. she would tell him about the morning's disasters now after all. but colonel purefoy's questions came first. 'how now, jocosa, and wherefore alone? my daughter rides with her brother in my absence,' he added, turning to his companion. 'father,--snowball,...' began joyce bravely, her colour rising as she spoke. 'talk not of snowballs,' interrupted sir everard gallantly, 'it may be november by the calendar, but here it is high summer yet, with roses all abloom.' he pointed to her crimsoning cheeks. they quickly flushed a deeper crimson, evidently to the stranger's amusement. 'why here comes maiden's blush, queen of all the roses' he went on, in a teasing voice. then, turning to colonel purefoy, 'by my faith, purefoy,' he said, 'my scamp of a nephew is a lucky dog.' joyce's bewilderment increased. what did it all mean? was he play-acting? why did they both treat her so? the stranger's punctilious politeness had flattered her at first, but, since the mocking tone stole into his voice she felt that she hated him, and looked round hoping to escape. sir everard was too quick for her. in that instant he had managed to possess himself of her hand, and now he was kissing it with exaggerated homage and deference, yet still with that mocking smile that seemed to say--'like it, or like it not, little i care.' joyce had often seen people kiss her mother's hand, and had thought, as she watched the delightful process, how much she should enjoy it, when her own turn came. she knew better now: it was not a delightful process at all, it was simply hateful. a new joyce suddenly woke up within her, a frightened, angry joyce, who wanted to run away and hide. all her new-born dignity vanished in a moment. scarcely waiting for her father's amused permission: 'there then, maiden, haste to thy mother: she has news for thee'--she flew along the terrace and in at the hall door. as she fled up the oak staircase that led to her mother's withdrawing-room, she vainly tried to shut her ears to the sounds of laughter that floated after her from the terrace below. madam purefoy was seated, half hidden behind her big, upright embroidery frame, in one of the recesses formed by the high, deeply mullioned windows. thin rays of autumn sunshine filled the tapestried room with pale, clear light. there was no possibility of mistaking the colours of the silks that lay in their varied hues close under her hand. why, then, had this skilful embroideress deliberately threaded her needle with a shade of brilliant blue silk? why was she carefully using it to fill in a lady's cheek without noticing, apparently, that anything was wrong? yet, at the first sound of joyce's light footfall on the stairs she laid down her needle and listened, and held out her arms, directly her daughter appeared, flushed and agitated, in the doorway, waiting for permission to enter. mothers were mothers, it seems, even in the seventeenth century. in another minute joyce was in her arms, pouring out the whole history of the morning. by this time snowball's lameness had faded behind the remembrance of the encounter on the terrace. 'who is that man, mother? a courtier, i know, since he wears such beautiful clothes. but wherefore comes he here? i thought i liked him, until he kissed my hand and laughed at me, and then i detested him. i hope i shall never see him again.' and she hid her face. before speaking, mistress purefoy left her seat and carefully closed the casement, in order that their voices might not reach the ears of anyone on the terrace below. then, taking joyce on her knee as if she had been still a child, she explained to her that the stranger, sir everard danvers, was a well-known and favourite attendant of the queen's. 'and it is by her wish that he comes hither for thee, mignonne.' 'for me?' joyce grew rosier than ever; 'i am too young yet to be a maid of honour as thou wert in thy girlhood. what does her majesty know about me?' she questioned. 'only that thou art my daughter, and that she is my very good friend. her majesty knows also that, in time, thou wilt inherit some of my yorkshire estates; and therefore she hath sent sir everard to demand thy hand in marriage for his nephew and ward, the young viscount danvers, whose property marches with ours. moreover, seeing that the times are unsettled, her majesty hath signified her pleasure that not a mere betrothal, but the marriage ceremony itself, shall take place as soon as possible in the chapel royal at st. james's, since the young viscount, thy husband to be, is attached to her suite as a page.' 'but i am not fourteen yet,' faltered joyce, ''tis full soon to be wed.' a vista of endless court curtseys and endless mocking strangers swam before her eyes, and prevented her being elated with the prospect that would otherwise have appeared so dazzling. her mother stifled a sigh. 'aye truly,' she replied, 'thy father and i have both urged that. but her majesty hath never forgotten the french fashion of youthful marriages, and is bent on the scheme. she says, with truth, that thou must needs have a year or two's education after thy marriage for the position thou wilt have in future to fill at court, and 'tis better to have the contract settled first.' education! to be married at thirteen might be a glorious thing, but to be sent back, a bride, for a year or two of education thereafter was a dismal prospect. that night there were tears of excitement and dismay on the pillow of the viscountess-to-be as she thought of the alarming future. yet she woke up, laughing, in the morning sunlight, for she had dreamt that she was fastening a coronet over her brown hair. * * * * * the wedding festivities a few weeks later left nothing to be desired. day after day joyce found herself the caressed centre of a brilliant throng that held but one disappointing figure--her boy bridegroom. 'he has eyes like a weasel, and a nose like a ferret,' was the bride's secret criticism, when the introduction took place. but, after all, the bridegroom was one of the least important parts of the wedding: far less important than the prince of wales, who led her out to dance, and whom she much preferred: far less important also than the bridegroom's cousin, abigail, a bold, black-eyed girl who took country-bred joyce under her protection at once, and saved her from many a mistake. abigail was already at the school to which joyce was to be sent. she herself was betrothed, though not as yet married, to my lord darcy, and was therefore able to instruct joyce herself in many of the needful accomplishments of her new position. the school days that followed were not unhappy ones, since, far better than their books, both girls loved their embroidery work and other 'curious and ingenious manufactures,' especially the new and fashionable employment of making samplers, which had just been introduced. but when, in a short time, the civil wars broke out, their peaceful world collapsed like a house of cards. the 'position' of the young viscountess and her husband vanished into thin air. one winter at court the young couple spent together, it is true, when the king and queen were in oxford, keeping state that was like a faint echo of whitehall. all too soon the fighting began again. in one of the earliest battles young lord danvers was severely wounded and sent home maimed for life. his days at court and camp were over. summoning his wife to nurse him, he returned to his estate near beverley in yorkshire, where the next few years of joyce's life were spent, to her ill-concealed displeasure. her husband's days were evidently numbered, and as he grew weaker, he grew more exacting. patience had never been one of joyce's strong points, and, though she did her best, time often dragged, and she mourned the cruel fate that had cast her lot in such an unquiet age. instead of wearing her coronet at court, here she was moping and mewed up in a stiff, puritanical countryside. after the triumph of the parliamentarians, things grew worse. it would have gone hard with the young couple had not a neighbour of theirs, of much influence with the protector, one justice hotham, made representations as to the young lord's dying state and so ensured their being left unmolested. justice hotham was a fatherly old man with a genius for understanding his neighbours, especially young people. he was a good friend to joyce, and perpetually urged her to cherish her husband while he remained with her. judge then of the good justice's distress, when, one fine day, a note was brought to him from his wilful neighbour to say that she could bear her lot no longer, that her dear friend abigail, lady darcy, was now on her way to join the queen in france, and had persuaded joyce to leave her husband and accompany her thither. the justice looked up in dismay: a dismay reflected on the face of the waiting-woman to whom joyce had entrusted her confidential letter. this was a certain blue-eyed cecily, now a tall and comely maiden, who had followed her mistress from her old home at drayton-in-the-clay. 'she must be stopped,' said the good judge. 'spending the night with lady darcy at the inn at beverley is she, sayest thou? and thou art to join her there? hie thee after her then, and delay her at all costs. plague on this gouty foot that ties me here! maiden, i trust in thee to bring her home.' cecily needed no second bidding. 'she will not heed me. no mortal man or woman can hinder my lady, once her mind is made up. still i will do my best,' was her only answer to the judge; while 'it would take an angel to stop her! may heaven find one to do the work and send her home, or ever my lord finds out that she has forsaken him,' she prayed in the depths of her faithful heart. was it in answer to her prayer that the rain came down in such torrents that for two days the roads were impassable? cecily was inclined to think so. anyhow, joyce and abigail, growing tired of the stuffy inn parlour while the torrents descended, and having nothing to do, seeing that the day was the sabbath, and therefore scrupulously observed without doors in puritan beverley, strolled through the minster, meaning to make sport of the congregation and its ways thereafter. the sermon was long and tedious, but it was nearing its end as they entered. at the close a stranger rose to speak in the body of the church, a tall stranger, who stood in the rays of the sun that streamed through a lancet window behind him. his first words arrested careless joyce, though she paid small heed to preaching as a rule. more than the words, something vaguely familiar in the tones of the voice and the piercing gaze that fell upon her out of the flood of sunlight, awoke in her the memory of that long ago sunday of her childhood, of her theft of the cherries, of her 'disremembering,' and then of her mother's words, 'you, a purefoy, to forget to be worthy of your name.' alas! where was her pure faith now? the preacher seemed to be speaking to her, to her alone: yet, strangely enough, to almost every heart in that vast congregation the message went home. did the building itself rock and shake as if filled with power? the real joyce was reached again: the real joyce, though hidden now under the weight of years of self-pleasing, a heavier burden than any childish finery. certainly reached she was, though lady darcy preserved through it all her cynical smile, and made sport of her friend's earnestness. nevertheless lady darcy went to france alone. lady danvers returned to her husband--too much accustomed to be left alone, poor man, to have been seriously disquieted by her absence. for the remainder of his short life his wife did her best to tend him dutifully. but she did leave him for an hour or two the day after her return, in order to go and throw herself on her knees beside kind old justice hotham, and confess to him how nearly she had deserted her post. 'and then what saved you?' enquired the wise old man, smoothing back the wavy hair from the wilful, lovely face that looked up to him, pleading for forgiveness. 'i think it was an angel,' said joyce simply--'an angel or a spirit. it rose up in beverley minster: it preached to us of the wonderful things of god: words that burned. the whole building shook. afterwards it passed away.' little she guessed that george fox, the weaver's son, the judge's guest, seated in a deep recess of the long, panelled library, was obliged to listen to every word she spoke. joyce never knew that the angel who had again enabled her to keep her 'faith pure' was no stranger to her. neither did it occur to him, whose thoughts were ever full of weightier matters than wilful woman's ways, that he had met this 'great woman of beverley,' as he calls her, long before. only waiting-maid cecily, who had prayed for an angel; cecily, who had recognised the weaver's son the first moment she saw him at the inn door; cecily who had found in him, also, the messenger sent by god in answer to her prayer--wise cecily kept silence until the day of her death. * * * * * george fox says in his journal: 'i was moved of the lord to go to beverley steeple-house, which was a place of high profession. being very wet with rain, i went first to an inn. as soon as i came to the door, a young woman of the house said, "what, is it you? come in," as if she had known me before, for the lord's power bowed their hearts. so i refreshed myself and went to bed. in the morning, my clothes being still wet, i got ready, and, having paid for what i had, went up to the steeple-house where was a man preaching. when he had done, i was moved to speak to him and to the people in the mighty power of god, and turned them to their teacher, christ jesus. the power of the lord was so strong that it struck a mighty dread among the people. the mayor came and spoke a few words to me, but none had power to meddle with me, so i passed out of the town, and the next day went to justice hotham's. he was a pretty tender man and had some experience of god's workings in his heart. after some discourse with him of the things of god he took me into his closet, where, sitting together, he told me he had known that principle these ten years, and was glad that the lord did now send his servants to publish it abroad among the people. while i was there a great woman of beverley came to justice hotham about some business. in discourse she told him that "the last sabbath day," as she called it, "an angel or spirit came into the church at beverley and spoke the wonderful things of god, to the astonishment of all that were there: and when it had done, it passed away, and they did not know whence it came or whither it went; but it astonished all, priests, professors and magistrates." this relation justice hotham gave me afterwards, and then i gave him an account that i had been that day at beverley steeple-house and had declared truth to the priest and people there.' iv. taming the tiger _'the state of the english law in the th century with regard to prisons was worthy of looking glass land. the magistrates' responsibility was defined by ... the justice. "they were to commit them to prison but not to provide prisons for them." this duty devolved upon the gaoler, who was an autocrat and responsible to no authority. it frequently happened that he was a convicted & branded felon, chosen for the position by reason of his strength & brutality. prisoners were ... required to pay for this enforced hospitality, & their first act must be to make the most favourable terms possible with their gaoler landlord or his wife, for food & lodging.'--m.r. brailsford._ _'you are bidden to fight with your own selves, with your own desires, with your own affections, with your own reason, and with your own will; and therefore if you will find your enemies, never look without.... you must expect to fight a great battle.'--john everard. ._ _'the real essential battlefield is always in the heart itself. it is the victory over ourselves, over the evil within, which alone enables us to gain any real victory over the evil without.'--e.r. charles._ _'they who defend war, must defend the dispositions that lead to war, and these are clean against the gospel.'--erasmus._ iv. taming the tiger perhaps some boys and girls have said many times since the war began: 'i wish friends did not think it wrong to fight for their king and country. why did george fox forbid quakers to fight for the right like other brave men? is it not right to fight for our own dear england?' but did george fox ever forbid other people to fight? he was not in the habit of laying down rules for other people, even his own followers. let us see what he himself did when, as a young man, he was faced with this very same difficulty, or an even more perplexing one, since it was our own dear england itself in those days that was tossed and torn with civil war. first of all, listen to the story of a man who tamed a tiger:-- far away in india, a savage, hungry tiger, with stealthy steps and a yellow, striped skin, came padding into a defenceless native village, to seek for prey. in the early morning he had slunk out of the jungle, with soft, cushioned paws that showed no signs of the fierce nails they concealed. all through the long, hot day he had lain hidden in the thick reeds by the riverside; but at sunset he grew hungry, and sprang, with a great bound, up from his hiding-place. right into the village itself he came, trampling down the patches of young, green corn that the villagers had sown, and that were just beginning to spring up, fresh and green, around the mud walls of their homes. all the villagers fled away in terror at the first glimpse of the yellow, striped skin. the fathers and mothers snatched up their brown babies, the older children ran in front screaming, 'tiger! tiger!' young and old they all fled away, as fast as ever they could, into the safest hiding-places near at hand. one man alone, a stranger, did not fly. he remained standing right in the middle of the tiger's path, and fearlessly faced the savage beast. with a howl of rage, the tiger prepared for a spring. the man showed no sign of fear. he never moved a muscle. not an eyelash quivered. such unusual behaviour puzzled the tiger. what could this strange thing be, that stood quite still in the middle of the path? it could hardly be a man. men were always terrified of tigers, and fled screaming when they approached. the tiger actually stopped short in its spring, to gaze upon this perplexing, motionless being who knew no fear. there he stood, perfectly silent, perfectly calm, gazing back at the tiger with the look of a conqueror. several long, heavy minutes passed. at length the villagers, peeping out from their hiding-places, looking between the broad plantain leaves or through the chinks of their wooden huts, beheld a miracle. they saw, to their amazement, the tiger slink off, sullen and baffled, to the jungle, while the stranger remained alone and unharmed in possession of the path. at first they scarcely dared to believe their eyes. it was only gradually, as they saw that the tiger had really departed not to return, that they ventured to creep back, by twos and threes first of all, and then in little timid groups, to where the stranger stood. then they fell at his feet and embraced his knees and worshipped him, almost as if he had been a god. 'tell us your magic, sahib,' they cried, 'this mighty magic, whereby you have managed to overcome the monarch of the jungle and tame him to your will.' 'i know no magic,' answered the stranger, 'i used no spells. i was able to overcome this savage tiger only because i have already learned how to overcome and tame the tiger in my own heart.' that was his secret. that is the story. and now let us return to george fox. think of the england he lived in when he was a young man, the distracted england of the civil wars. think of all the tiger spirits of hatred that had been unloosed and that were trampling the land. the whole country lay torn and bleeding. some bad men there were on both sides certainly; but the real misery was that many good men on each side were trying to kill and maim one another, in order that the cause they believed to be 'the right' might triumph. 'have at you for the king!' cried the cavaliers, and rushed into the fiercest battle with a smile. 'god with us!' shouted back the deep-voiced puritans. 'for god and the liberties of england!' and they too laid down their lives gladly. far away from all the hurly-burly, though in the very middle of the clash of arms, george fox, the unknown leicestershire shepherd lad, went on his way, unheeded and unheeding. he, too, had to fight; but his was a lonely battle, in the silence of his own heart. it was there that he fought and conquered first of all, there that he tamed his own tiger at last--more than that, he learned to find god. 'one day,' he says in his journal, 'when i had been walking solitarily abroad and was come home, i was taken up into the love of god, and it was opened to me by the eternal light and power, and i therein clearly saw that all was to be done in and by christ, and how he conquers and destroys the devil and all his works and is atop of him.' he means that he saw that all the outward fighting was really part of one great battle, and that to be on the right side in that fight is the thing that matters eternally to every man. another time he writes: 'i saw into that which was without end, things which cannot be uttered and of the greatness and infiniteness of the love of god, which cannot be expressed by words, for i had been brought through the very ocean of darkness and death, and through and over the power of satan by the eternal glorious power of christ; even through that darkness was i brought which covered over all the world and shut up all in the death.... and i saw the harvest white and the seed of god lying thick in the ground, as ever did wheat that was sown outwardly, and i mourned that there was none to gather it.' when george fox speaks of the 'seed,' he means the tender spot that there must always be in the hearts of all men, however wicked, since they are made in the likeness of god. a tiny, tiny something, the first stirring of life, that god's spirit can find and work on, however deeply it may be buried (like a seed under heavy clods of earth), if men will only yield to it. in another place he calls this seed 'that of god within you.' and it is this tender growing 'seed' that gets trampled down when fierce angry passions are unloosed in people's hearts, just as the tender springing corn in the indian village was trampled down by the hungry tiger. george fox believed that that seed lay hidden in the hearts of all men, because he had found it in his own. everywhere he longed to set that seed free to grow, and to tame the tiger spirits that would trample it down and destroy it. let us watch and see how he did this. one day when he was about twenty-five years old, he heard that some people had been put in prison at coventry for the sake of their religion. he thought that there must be a good crop of seed in the hearts of those people, since they were willing to suffer for their faith, so he determined to go and see them. as he was on his way to the gaol a message came to him from god. he seemed to hear god's own voice saying to him, 'my love was always to thee, and thou art in my love.' 'always to thee.' then that love had always been round him, even in his loneliest struggles, and now that he knew that he was in it, nothing could really hurt him. no wonder that he walked on towards the gaol with a feeling of new joy and strength. but when he came to the dark, frowning prison where numbers of men and women were lying in sin and misery, this joyfulness left him. he says, 'a great power of darkness struck at me.' the prisoners were not the sort of people he had hoped to find them. they were a set of what were then called 'ranters.' they began to swear and to say wicked things against god. george fox sat silent among them, still fastening his mind on the thought of god's conquering love; but as they went on to say yet wilder and more wicked things, at last that very love forced him to reprove them. they paid no attention, and at length fox was obliged to leave them. he says he was 'greatly grieved, yet i admired the goodness of the lord in appearing so to me, before i went among them.' for the time it did seem as if the tiger spirits had won, and were able to trample down the living seed. but wait! a little while after, one of these same prisoners, named joseph salmon, wrote a paper confessing that he was sorry for what he had said and done, whereupon they were all set at liberty. meanwhile, george fox went on his way, and travelled through 'markets, fairs, and divers places, and saw death and darkness everywhere, where the lord had not shaken them.' in one place he heard that a great man lay dying and that his recovery was despaired of by all the doctors. some of his friends in the town desired george fox to visit the sufferer. 'i went up to him in his chamber,' says fox in his journal, 'and spake the word of life to him, and was moved to pray by him, and the lord was entreated and restored him to health. when i was come down the stairs into a lower room and was speaking to the servants, a serving-man of his came raving out of another room, with a naked rapier in his hand, and set it just to my side. i looked steadfastly on him and said "alack for thee, poor creature! what wilt thou do with thy carnal weapon, it is no more to me than a straw." the standers-by were much troubled, and he went away in a rage; but when news came of it to his master, he turned him out of his service.' although that particular man's tiger spirit had been foiled in its spring, the man himself had not been really tamed. perhaps george fox needed to learn more, and to suffer more himself, before he could really change other men's hearts. if so, he had not long to wait. shortly after this, it was his own turn to be imprisoned. he was shut up in derby gaol, and given into the charge of a very cruel gaoler. this man was a strict puritan, and he hated fox, and spoke wickedly against him. he even refused him permission to go and preach to the people of the town, which, strangely enough, the prisoners in those days were allowed to do. one morning, however, fox was walking up and down in his cell, when he heard a doleful noise. he stopped his walk to listen. through the wall he could hear the voice of the gaoler speaking to his wife--'wife,' he said, 'i have had a dream. i saw the day of judgment, and i saw george there!' how the listener must have wondered what was coming! 'i saw george there,' the gaoler continued, 'and i was afraid of him, because i had done him so much wrong, and spoken so much against him to the ministers and professors, and to the justices and in taverns and alehouses.' but there the voice stopped, and the prisoner heard no more. when evening came, however, the gaoler visited the cell, no longer raging and storming at his prisoner, but humbled and still. 'i have been as a lion against you,' he said to fox, 'but now i come like a lamb, or like the gaoler that came to paul and silas, trembling.' he came to ask as a favour that he might spend the night in the same prison chamber where fox lay. fox answered that he was in the gaoler's power: the keeper of the prison of course could sleep in any place he chose. 'no,' answered the gaoler, 'i wish to have your permission. i should like to have you always with me, but not as my prisoner.' so the two strange companions spent that night together lying side by side. in the quiet hours of darkness the gaoler told fox all that was in his heart. 'i have found that what you said of the true faith and hope is really true, and i want you to know that even before i had that terrible vision, whenever i refused to let you go and preach, i was sorry afterwards when i had treated you roughly, and i had great trouble of mind.' there had been a little seed of kindness even in this rough gaoler's heart. deeply buried though it was, it had been growing in the darkness all the time, though no one guessed it--the gaoler himself perhaps least of all until his dream showed him the truth about himself. when the night was over and morning light had come, the gaoler was determined to do all he could to help his new friend. he went straight to the justices and told them that he and all his household had been plagued because of what they had done to george fox the prisoner. 'well, we have been plagued too for having him put in prison,' answered one of the justices, whose name was justice bennett. and here we must wait a minute, for it is interesting to know that it was this same justice bennett who first gave the name of quakers to george fox and his followers as a nickname, to make fun of them. fox declared in his preaching that 'all men should tremble at the word of the lord,' whereupon the justice laughingly said that 'quakers and tremblers was the name for such people.' the justice might have been much surprised if he could have known that centuries after, thousands of people all over the world would still be proud to call themselves by the name he had given in a moment of mockery. neither justice bennett nor his prisoner could guess this, however; and therefore, although his gaoler's heart had been changed, george fox still lay in derby prison. there was more work waiting for him to do there. one day he heard that a soldier wanted to see him, and in there came a rough trooper, with a story that he was very anxious to tell. 'i was sitting in church,' he began. 'thou meanest in the steeple-house,' corrected fox, who was always very sure that a 'church' meant a 'company of christ's faithful people,' and that the mere outward building where they were gathered should only be called a steeple-house if it had a steeple, or a meeting-house if it had none. 'sitting in church, listening to the priest,' continued the trooper, paying no attention to the interruption, 'i was in an exceeding great trouble, thinking over my sins and wondering what i should do, when a voice came to me--i believe it was god's own voice and it said--"dost thou not know that my servant is in prison? go thou to him for direction." so i obeyed the voice,' the man continued, 'and here i have come to you, and now i want you to tell me what i must do to get rid of the burden of these sins of mine.' he was like christian in _pilgrim's progress_, with a load of sins on his back, was he not? and just as christian's burden rolled away when he came to the cross, so the trooper's distress vanished when fox spoke to him, and told him that the same power that had shown him his sins and troubled him for them, would also show him his salvation, for 'that which shows a man his sin is the same that takes it away!' fox did not speak in vain. the trooper 'began to have great understanding of the lord's truth and mercyes.' he became a bold man too, and took his new-found happiness straight back to the other soldiers in his quarters, and told them of the truths he had learnt in the prison. he even said that their colonel--colonel barton--was 'as blind as nebuchadnezzar, to cast such a true servant of god as fox was, into gaol.' before long this saying came to colonel barton's ears, and then there was a fine to do. naturally he did not like being compared with nebuchadnezzar. who would? but it would have been undignified for a colonel to take any notice then of the soldiers' tittle-tattle; so he said nothing, only bided his time and waited until he could pay back his grudge against the sergeant. a whole year he waited--then his chance came. it was at the battle of worcester, when the two armies were lying close together, but before the actual fighting had begun, that two soldiers of the king's army came out and challenged any two soldiers of the parliamentary army to single combat, whereupon colonel barton ordered the soldier who had likened him to nebuchadnezzar to go with one other companion on this dangerous errand. they went; they fought with the two royalists, and one of the two parliamentarians was killed; but it was the other one, not fox's friend. he, left alone, with his comrade lying dead by his side, suddenly found that not even to save his own life could he kill his enemies. so he drove them both before him back to the town, but he did not fire off his pistol at them. then, as soon as worcester fight was over, he himself returned and told the whole tale to fox. he told him 'how the lord had miraculously preserved him,' and said also that now he had 'seen the deceit and hypocrisy of the officers he had seen also to the end of fighting.' whereupon he straightway laid down his arms. the trooper left the army. meanwhile his friend and teacher had suffered for refusing to join it. we must go back a little to the time, some months before the battle of worcester, when the original term of fox's imprisonment in the house of correction in derby was drawing to a close. at this time many new soldiers were being raised for the parliamentary army, and among them the authorities were anxious to include their stalwart prisoner, george fox. accordingly the gaoler was asked to bring his charge out to the market-place, and there, before the assembled commissioners and soldiers, fox was offered a good position in the army if he would take up arms for the commonwealth against charles stuart. the officers could not understand why george fox should refuse to regain his liberty on what seemed to them to be such easy terms. 'surely,' they said, 'a strong, big-boned man like you will be not only willing but eager to take up arms against the oppressor and abuser of the liberties of the people of england!' fox persisted in his refusal. 'i told them,' he writes in his journal, 'that i knew whence all wars arose, even from men's lusts ... and that i lived in the virtue of that life and power that took away the occasion of all wars. yet they courted me to accept their offer, and thought i did but compliment them. but i told them i was come into that covenant of peace which was before wars and strifes were. they said they offered it in love and kindness to me, because for my virtue, and such like flattering words they used. but i told them if that was their love and kindness, i trampled it under my feet. then their rage got up, and they said, "take him away, gaoler, and put him into the prison among the rogues and thieves."' this prison was a much worse place than the house of correction where fox had been confined hitherto. in it he was obliged to remain for a weary half-year longer, knowing all the time that he might have been at liberty, could he have consented to become an officer in the army. his relations, distressed at his imprisonment, had already offered £ for his release, but fox would not accept the pardon this sum might have obtained for him as he said he had done nothing wrong. he was occasionally allowed to leave the horrible, dirty gaol, with its loathsome insects and wicked companions, and walk for a short time in the garden by himself, because his keepers knew that when he had given his word he would not try to escape from their custody. as time went on, many dismal people (looking on the gloomy side of things, as dismal people always do) began to shake their heads and say, 'poor young man, he will spend all his life in gaol. you will see he will never be set free or get his liberty again.' but fox refused to be cast down. narrow though his prison was, hope shared it with him. 'i had faith in god,' his journal says, 'that i should be delivered from that place in the lord's time, but not yet, being set there for a work he had for me to do!' work there was for him in prison truly. a young woman prisoner who had robbed her master was sentenced to be hanged, according to the barbarous law then in force. this shocked fox so much that he wrote letters to her judges and to the men who were to have been her executioners, expressing his horror at what was going to happen in such strong language that he actually softened their hearts. although the girl had actually reached the foot of the gallows, and her grave had already been dug, she was reprieved. then, when she was brought back into prison again after this wonderful escape fox was able to pour light and life into her soul, which was an even greater thing than saving her body from death. many other prisoners did fox help and comfort in derby gaol;[ ] but though he could soften the sufferings of others he could not shorten his own. once again justice bennett sent his men to the prison, this time with orders to take the quaker by force and compel him to join the army, since he would not fight of his own free will. 'but i told him,' said fox, '"that i was brought off from outward wars." they came again to give me press money, but i would take none. afterwards the constables brought me a second time before the commissioners, who said i should go for a soldier, but i said i was dead to it. they said i was alive. i told them where envy and hatred is, there is confusion. they offered me money twice, but i refused it. being disappointed, they were angry, and committed me a close prisoner, till at length they were made to turn me out of gaol about the beginning of winter , after i had been a prisoner in derby almost a year; six months in the house of correction, and six months in the common gaol.' thus at length derby prison was left behind; but the seeds that the prisoner had planted in that dark place sprang up and flourished and bore fruit long after he had left. eleven years later, the very same gaoler, who had been cruel to fox at the first, and had then had the vision and repented, wrote this letter to his former prisoner. it is a real gaoler's love-letter, and quite fresh to-day, though it was written nearly years ago. 'dear friend,' the letter begins, 'having such a convenient messenger i could do no less than give thee an account of my present condition; remembering that to the first awakening of me to a sense of life, god was pleased to make use of thee as an instrument. so that sometimes i am taken with admiration that it should come by such means as it did; that is to say that providence should order thee to be my prisoner to give me my first sight of the truth. it makes me think of the gaoler's conversion by the apostles. oh! happy george fox! that first breathed the breath of life within the walls of my habitation! notwithstanding that my outward losses are since that time such that i am become nothing in the world, yet i hope i shall find that these light afflictions, which are but for a moment, will work for me a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. they have taken all from me; and now instead of keeping a prison, i am waiting rather when i shall become a prisoner myself. pray for me that my faith fail not, and that i may hold out to the death, that i may receive a crown of life. i earnestly desire to hear from thee and of thy condition, which would very much rejoice me. not having else at present, but my kind love to thee and all friends, in haste, i rest thine in christ jesus. 'thomas sharman. 'derby, the nd of the fourth month, .' this gaoler was one of the first people whose tiger spirits were tamed by george fox. but he certainly was not the last. fox himself had told the soldiers in derby market-place that he could not fight, because he 'lived in the virtue of that life and power that took away the occasion of all wars.' as a friend of his wrote, after his death many years later: 'george fox was a discerner of other men's spirits, and very much a master of his own.' footnotes: [ ] two men who were executed for small offences he could not save, but 'a little time after they had suffered their spirits appeared to me as i was walking, and i saw the men was well.' v. 'the man in leather breeches' _'as i was walking i heard old people and work people to say: "he is such a man as never was, he knows people's thoughts" for i turned them to the divine light of christ and his spirit let them see ... that there was the first step to peace to stand still in the light that showed them their sin and transgression.'--g. fox._ _'do not look at but keep over all unnaturalness, if any such thing should appear, but keep in that which was and is and will be.'--g. fox._ _'wait patiently upon the lord; let every man that loves god, endeavour by the spirit of wisdom, meekness, and love to dry up euphrates, even this spirit of bitterness that like a great river hath overflowed the earth of mankind.'--gerrard winstanley. ._ _'blessed is he who loves thee, and his friend in thee, and his enemy for thy sake.'--augustine._ _'eternity is just the real world for which we were made, and which we enter through the door of love.'--rufus m. jones._ v. 'the man in leather breeches' nd dec. . 'rough moll, the worst-tempered woman in all yorkshire.' it was thus her neighbours were wont to speak behind her back of mistress moll, the keeper of the 'george and dragon' inn at hutton cranswick near driffield in the east riding. never a good word or a kind deed had she for anyone, since her husband had been called away to serve in king charles's army. in former days, when mine host was at home, the neighbours had been encouraged to come early and stay late at night gossipping over the home-brewed ale he fetched for them so cheerily; for moll's husband was an open-hearted, pleasant-mannered man, the very opposite of his shrewish wife. but now, since his departure for the wars, the neighbours got to the bottom of their mugs with as little delay as possible, vowing to themselves in whispers that they would seek refuge elsewhere another night, since moll's sour looks went near to give a flavour of vinegar even to the ale she brewed. thus, as speedily as might be, they escaped from the reach of their hostess's sharp tongue. but the lasses of the inn, who were kept to do the rough work of the house, found it harder to escape from the harsh rule of their mistress. and for little jan, moll's four-year-old son, there was still less possibility of escape from the tyrant whom he called by the name of mother. nothing of true mother-love had ever yet been kindled in rough moll's heart. from the very beginning she had fiercely resented being burdened with what she called 'the plague of a brat.' still, so long as his father remained at home, the child's life had not been an unhappy one. as soon as ever he could stand alone he drew himself up by his father's trousers, with an outstretched hand to be grasped in the big fist. as soon as he could toddle, he spent his days wandering round the inn after his daddy, knowing that directly he grew tired daddy would be ready to stop whatever he might be doing, in order to lift the small boy up in his arms or to give him a ride on his knee. 'wasting your time over the brat and leaving the tavern to go to rack and ruin'--moll would say, with a sneer, as she passed them. but she never interfered; for the husband who had courted her when she was a young girl was the only person for whom she still kept a soft spot in the heart that of late years seemed to have grown so hard. truth to tell, tavern-keeping was no easy business in those unsettled times, and moll had ever been a famous body for worrying over trifles. '"the worry cow would have lived till now, if she had not lost her breath, but she thought her hay would not last the day, so she mooed herself to death." 'and all the time she had three sacks full! remember that, moll, my lass!' jan's father would say to his wife, when she began to pour out to him her dismal forebodings about the future. but since this easy-going, jolly daddy had left the inn and had gone away with the other men and lads of the village to fight with my lord for the king, little jan's lot was a hard one, and seemed likely to grow harder day by day. rough moll's own life was not too easy either, at this time, though few folks troubled themselves to speculate upon the reason for her added gruffness. so she concealed her anxieties under an extra harshness of tongue and did her best to make life a burden to everyone she came across. for, naturally, now that the inn was no longer a pleasant place in mine host's absence, it was no longer a profitable place either. custom was falling off and quarter day was fast approaching. moll was at her wits' end to know where she should find money to pay her rent, when, one day, to her unspeakable relief, my lady in her coach stopped at the door of the inn. now moll had been dairymaid up at the hall years ago, before her marriage, and my lady knew of old that moll's butter was as sweet as her looks were sour. perhaps she guessed, also, at some of the other woman's anxieties; for was not her own husband, my lord, away at the wars too? anyway, when the fine yellow coach stopped at the door of the inn, it was my lady's own head with the golden ringlets that leaned out of the window, and my lady's own soft voice that asked if her old dairymaid could possibly oblige her with no less than thirty pounds of butter for her yuletide feast to the villagers the following week. the moll who came out, smiling and flattered, to the inn door and stood there curtseying very low to her ladyship, was a different being from the rough moll of every day. she promised, with her very smoothest tongue, she would not fail. she knew where to get the milk, and her ladyship should have the butter, full weight and the very best, by the following evening, which would leave two full days before christmas. 'that is settled then, for i have never known you to fail me,' said my lady, as the coach drove away, leaving moll curtseying behind her, and vowing again that 'let come what would come,' she would not fail. it was small wonder, therefore, after this unaccustomed graciousness, that she was shorter-tempered than ever with her unfortunate guests that evening. was not their presence hindering her from getting on with her task? at length she left the lasses to serve the ale, which, truth to tell, they were nothing loath to do, while moll herself, in her wooden shoes and with her skirts tucked up all round her, clattered in and out of the dairy where already a goodly row of large basins stood full to the brim with rich yellow milk on which, even now, the cream was fast rising. thirty pounds of butter could never all be made in one day; she must begin her task overnight. true, little jan was whining to go to bed as he tried vainly to keep awake on his small hard stool by the fire. the brat must wait; she could not attend to him now. he could sleep well enough leaning against the bricks of the chimney-corner. or, no! the butter-making would take a long time, and moll was never a methodical woman. jan should lie down, just as he was, and have a nap in the kitchen until she was ready to attend to him. roughly, but not unkindly, she pulled him off the stool and laid him down on a rug in a dark corner of the kitchen and told him to be off to sleep as fast as he could, stooping to cover him with an old coat of her husband's that was hanging on the door, as she spoke. nothing loath, jan shut his sleepy eyes, and, burying his little nose in the folds of the old coat, he went happily off into dreamland, soothed by the well-remembered out-door smell that always clung around his father's belongings. it did not take moll long to fill the churn and to set it in its place. just as she was busy shutting down the lid, there came a knock at the door. 'plague take you, stranger,' she grumbled, as she opened it, and a gust of snow and wind blew in upon her and the assembled guests in the tavern kitchen. 'you bring in more of the storm than you are likely to pay for your ale.' 'my desire is not for ale,' said the stranger, speaking slowly, and looking at the woman keenly from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. 'i came but to ask thee for shelter from the storm; and for a little meat, if thou hast any to set before me.' 'to ask _thee_ for shelter.' 'if _thou_ hast any meat.' the unusual form of address caught moll's ear. she looked more closely at her visitor. yes, his lower limbs were not covered with homely yorkshire frieze; they were encased in odd garments that must surely be made of leather, since the snowflakes lay upon them in crisp wreaths and wrinkles before they melted. she had heard of the strange being who was visiting those parts and she had no desire to make his acquaintance. 'hey, lasses!' she called to her maids at the far end of the tavern parlour, 'here is the man in leather breeches himself, come to pay us a visit this wild night!' a shout of laughter went up from the men at their tankards. 'the man in leather breeches!' 'send him out again into the storm! we'll have none of his company here, the spoil sport!' moll nodded assent, and returning to her unwelcome guest, said shortly, 'meat there is none for you here,' and moved towards the door, where the stranger still stood, as if to close it upon him. but the man was not to be so easily dismissed. 'hast thou then milk?' he asked. moll laughed aloud. a man who did not want ale should not have milk; no money to be made out of that; especially this night of all nights, when every drop would be wanted for her ladyship's butter. lies were part of moll's regular stock-in-trade. she lied now, with the ease of long habit. 'you will get no shelter here,' she said roughly, 'and as for milk, there is not a drop in the house.' the stranger looked at her. he spoke no words for a full minute, but as his eyes pierced her through and through, she knew that he knew that she had lied. the knowledge made her angry. she repeated her words with an oath. the stranger made as if to turn away; then, almost reluctantly but very tenderly, as if he were being drawn back in spite of himself: 'hast thou then cream?' he asked. yet, though his tone was persuasive, his brows were knitted as he stood looking down upon the angry woman. 'not as if he cared about the cream, but as if he cared about me,' moll said herself, long after. but at the time: 'no, nor cream either. on my soul, there is not a drop in the house,' she repeated, more fiercely than before. but, even as she spoke, she saw that the stranger's eyes were fastened on the churn that stood behind her, the churn evidently full and drawn out for use, with drops of rich yellow cream still standing upon the lid and trickling down the sides. moll turned her square shoulders upon the churn as if to shut out its witness to her falsehood. her lies came thick and fast; 'i tell you there is not a single drop of cream in the house.' the next moment, a loud crash made her look round. she had forgotten jan! the loud angry voice and the cold blast from the open door had awakened him before he had had time to get sound asleep. hearing his mother vow that she had not a drop of cream in the house, he left his rug and began playing about again. then, being ever a restless little mortal, he had crept round to the churn to see if it had really become empty in such a short time. he had tried to pull himself up by one of the legs in order to stand on the rim and see if there was really no cream inside; and in attempting this feat, naturally, he had pulled the whole churn over upon him. and not only the churn,--its contents too! eighteen quarts of moll's richest yellow cream were streaming all over the kitchen floor. pools, lakes, rivers, seas of cream were running over the flagstones and dripping through the crevices into the ground. with a cry of rage moll turned, and, seeing the damage, she sprang upon little jan and beat him soundly; and a beating from moll's heavy hand was no small matter: then with a curse she flung the child away from her towards the hearth. 'woman!' the stranger's voice recalled her. 'woman! beware! thou art full of lies and fury and deceit, yet in the name of the lord i warn thee. ere three days have gone by, thou shalt know what is in thine heart; and thou shalt learn the power of that which was, and is, and will be!' so saying, the unwelcome guest opened the outer door and walked away into the raging storm and darkness,--a less bitter storm it seemed to him now than that created by the violent woman within doors. some way further on he espied a haystack, under which he lay down, as he had done on many another night before this, and there he slept in the wind and the snow until morning. moll, meanwhile, enraged beyond words at the loss of her cream, stalked off for a pail and cloth, and set herself to wash the floor, muttering curses as she did so. never a glance did she cast at the corner by the fire where little jan still lay by the hearth-stone, motionless and strangely quiet; he, the restless imp, who was usually so full of life. never a glance, until, the centre of the floor being at last clean again, moll, on her knees, came with her pail of soap-suds to the white river that surrounded the corner of the kitchen where jan lay. a white river? nay, there was a crimson river that mingled with it; a stream of crimson drops that flowed from the stone under the child's head. moll leapt to her feet on the instant. what ailed the boy? she had beaten him, it is true, but then she had beaten him often before this in his father's absence. a beating was nothing new to little jan. why had he fallen? what made him lie so still? she turned him over. ah! it was easy to see the reason. as she flung him from her in her rage, the child in his fall had struck his head against the sharp edge of the hearth-stone, and there he lay now, with the life-blood steadily flowing from his temple. a feeling that rough moll had never been conscious of before gripped her heart at the sight. was her boy dead? had she killed him? what would his father say? what would her husband call her? a murderer? was she that? was that what the stranger had meant when he had looked at her with those piercing eyes? he might have called her a liar, at the sight of the churn full of cream, but he had not done so; and little she would have cared if he had. but a murderer! was murder in her heart? lifting jan as carefully as she could, she carried him upstairs to the small bedroom under the roof, where he usually lay on a tiny pallet by her side. but this night the child's small figure lay in the wide bed, and big moll, with all her clothes on, hung over him; or if she lay down for a moment or two, it was only on the hard little pallet by his side. all that night moll watched. but all that night jan never moved. all the next day he lay unconscious, while moll did her clumsy utmost to staunch the wound in his forehead. long before it was light, she tried to send one of her maids for the doctor; but the storm was now so violent that none could leave or enter the house. her ladyship's order went unheeded. the thirty pounds of butter were never made. but my lady, who was a mother herself, not only forgave moll for spoiling her yuletide festivities, but even told her, when she heard of the disaster, that she need not trouble about the rent until her boy was better. until he was better! but would jan ever be better? moll had no thought now for either the butter or the rent. the yellow cream might turn sour in every single one of her pans for all she cared, if only she could get rid of this new unbearable pain. at length, on the evening of the second day, faint with the want of sleep, she fell into an uneasy doze: and still jan had neither moved nor stirred. presently a faint sound woke her. was he calling? no; it was but the christmas bells ringing across the snow. what were those bells saying? 'mur-der-er' 'mur-derer'--was that it? over and over again. did even the bells know what she had done and what she had in her heart? for a moment black despair seized her. the next moment there followed the shuffling sound of many feet padding through the snow. the storm had ceased by this time, and all the world was wrapped in a white silence, broken only by the sound of the distant bells. and now the christmas waits had followed the bells' music, and were singing carols outside the ale-house door. fiercely, moll stuck her fingers in her ears. she would not listen, lest even the waits should sing of her sin, and shew her the blackness of her heart. but the song stole up into the room, and, in spite of herself, something forced moll to attend to the words: 'babe jesus lay in mary's lap, the sun shone on his hair-- and that was how she saw, mayhap, the crown already there.' that was how good mothers sang to their children. they saw crowns upon their hair. what sort of a crown had moll given to her child? she looked across and saw the chaplet of white bandages lying on the white pillow. no; she, moll, had never been a good mother, would never be one now, unless her boy came back to life again. she was a murderer, and her husband when he returned from the wars would tell her so, and little jan would never know that his mother had a heart after all. at that moment the carol died away, and the waits' feet, heavy with clinging snow, shuffled off into the darkness; but looking down again at the head with its crown of white bandages upon the white pillow, moll saw that this time jan's eyes were open and shining up at her. 'mother,' he said, in his little weak voice, as he opened his arms and smiled. moll had seen him smile like that at his father; she had never known before that she wanted to share that smile. she knew it now. only three short days had passed since she turned the stranger from her doors, but little jan and his mother entered a new world of love and tenderness together that christmas morning. as rough moll gathered her little son up into her arms and held him closely to her breast, she knew for the first time the power of 'that which was, and is, and will be.' vi. the shepherd of pendle hill _'on pendle g.f. saw people as thick as motes in the sun, that should in time be brought home to the lord, that there might be but one shepherd and one sheepfold in all the earth. there his eye was directed northward beholding a great people that should receive him and his message in those parts.'--w. penn's testimony to george fox._ _'in adam, in the fall are all the inward foul weather, storms, tempests, winds, strifes, the whole family of it is in confusion, being all gone from the spirit and witness of god in themselves, and the power and the light, in which power and light and spirit, is the fellowship with god and with one another, through which they come ... into the quickener, who awakens (them) and brings (them) up unto himself, the way, christ; and out of and off from the teachers and priests, and shepherds that change and fall, to the priest, shepherd and prophet, that never fell or changed, nor ever will fail or change, nor leave the flock in the cold weather nor in the winter, nor in storms or tempests; nor doth the voice of the wolf frighten him from his flock. for the light, the power, the truth, the righteousness, did it ever leave you in any weather, or in any storms or tempests? and so his sheep know his voice and follow him, who gives them life eternal abundantly.'--george fox._ vi. the shepherd of pendle hill 'ingleborough, pendle and pen-y-ghent are the highest hills 'twixt scotland and trent.' so sing i, the shepherd of pendle, to myself, and so have i sung, on summer days, these many years, lying out atop of old pendle hill, keeping watch over my flock. in good sooth, a shepherd's life is a hard one, on our lancashire fells, for nine months out of the twelve. the nights begin to be sharp with frost towards the back-end of the year, for all the days are sunny and warm at times. bitter cold it is in winter and worse in spring, albeit the daylight is longer. 'as the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens,' runs the rhyme, and well do men know the truth of it in these parts. many a time a man must be ready to give his own life for his sheep, aye and do it too, to save them in a snow-drift or from the biting frost. it is an anxious season for the shepherd, until he sees the lambs safely at play and able to stand upon their weak legs and run after their mothers. but it is not until the dams are clipped that a shepherd has an easy mind and can let his thoughts dwell on other things. then, at last, in the summer, his time runs gently for a while; and i, for one, was always ready to enjoy myself, when once the bitter weather was over. so there i was, one day many years ago, nigh upon midsummer, lying out on the grassy slopes atop of old pendle hill, and singing to myself-- 'ingleborough, pendle and pen-y-ghent are the highest hills 'twixt scotland and trent.' but for all i sang of the hills, my thoughts were in the valleys. i lay there, watching till the sun should catch the steep roof of a certain cot i know. it stands by the side of a stream, so hidden among the bushes that even my eye cannot find it, unless the sunlight finds it first, and flashes back at me from roof and window-pane. that was the cot i had never lived in then, but i hoped to live in it before the summer was over, and to bring the bonniest lass in all yon broad yorkshire there with me as my bride. that was to be if things went well with me and with the sheep; for my master had promised to give me a full wage (seeing i had now reached man's estate), if so be i came through the spring and early summer without losing a single lamb. thinking of these things, and dreaming dreams as a lad will, the hours trod swiftly over pendle hill that day; for all the sun was going down the sky but slowly, seeing it was midsummer-tide. suddenly, as i lay there looking down over the slope, i saw a strange sight, for travellers are scarce on pendle hill even at midsummer. but it was a traveller surely, or was it a shepherd? at first i could not be sure; for he carried a lamb in his arms and trod warily with it, in the way that shepherds do. yet i never met a shepherd clad in clothes like his; nor with a face like his either, as i saw it, when he came nearer. weary he looked, and with a pale countenance, as if he had much ado to come up the hill, and in good sooth 'tis full steep just there; or else, may be, he was fasting and faint for lack of food. but all this i only thought of later. at the time, i looked not much at him, but only at the lamb he carried in his arms. how came such a man to be carrying a lamb, and carrying it full gently and carefully too, supporting one leg with both hands, although he was encumbered with a staff? then, when he had come yet nearer, i saw that it was not only a lamb--it was one of my master's lambs, my own lambs that i was set to watch; for there on its wool was the brand carried by our flocks and by none others on all those fells. one of my lambs, lying in a stranger's arms! a careless shepherd i! i must have been asleep or dreaming ... dreaming foolish dreams about that cottage, on which the sun might shine unheeded now, i cared not for it, being full of other thoughts. no sooner did i espy the brand on the lamb than i rose to my feet, and, even as i ran nimbly down the slope towards the stranger, my eyes roamed over the hillside to discover which of my lambs had strayed:--rosamond, cowslip, eglantine and gillyflower--i could see them all safe with their dams, and many more besides. all the lambs that springtime i had named after the flowers that i hoped to plant another year in the garden of that cot beside the stream. and all the flowers i could see and name were safe beside their dams, as i leapt down the hillside. nay, periwinkle was missing! periwinkle was ever a strayer, and periwinkle's dam was bleating at the edge of the steep cliff up which the stranger toiled. it was periwinkle and none other that he was carrying in his arms! seeing it was periwinkle, i halloed to him to halt. hearing my cry, he stopped, and waited till i reached him, all the time holding the lamb carefully, tending it and speaking to it in the tone a shepherd is wont to use. [illustration: 'dreaming of the cot in the vale'] 'thanks to you, good stranger,' i said, as i came nearer, 'periwinkle is ever a strayer. did you see her fall?' 'nay,' said the stranger, giving the lamb tenderly into my arms, and halting upon his staff; speaking warily and weightily as i never heard a man speak before or since. 'nay; the lambkin must have fallen before i came by. but i heard the mother bleat, and i knew, by the sound, that she was in distress. therefore i turned towards the crag upon which she stood, and, looking down, i perceived the lamb fallen among the brambles beneath a high ledge.' 'and went down over for her yourself and brought her up again! 'twas bravely done, good stranger,' i answered, and then, thinking to encourage him, i said, 'better you could not have done it, had you been a shepherd yourself, for i see your hands are torn.' 'it is nothing,' he answered. 'a shepherd expects that.' 'then are you a shepherd too, master stranger?' i asked, but he gave no answer; only fastened his eyes upon me as we climbed together up the hill. wonderful eyes he had, not like to other men's; with a depth and yet a light in them, as when the june sun shines back reflected from the blackness of a mountain tarn. i saw them then, and still i seem to see them, for when he looked at me, although he said no word, it was as if he knew me apart from everyone else in the world, even as i know every one of my master's sheep. i felt that he knew too how i had been looking at that cot in the vale and dreaming idly, forgetful of my lambs. therefore, though he said no word of rebuke to me, i felt my cheeks grow hot, and i hung my head and spake not. only, when we reached the top of the hill, he turned and answered me at last. 'thou judgest right, friend,' he said, 'i was indeed a shepherd in my young years. i am a shepherd even now, though as yet with full few sheep. but, hereafter, it may be....' i did not wait for the end of his sentence. now that we were come to level ground i was fain to show that i was not a careless, idle shepherd in truth. my mind was set on periwinkle's leg; broken, i feared, for it hung down limply. i took her,--laid her on the grass beside her dam while i fashioned a rough splint, shepherd-fashion, to keep the leg steady till we reached the fold. then, seeing the sun was low by this time and nigh to setting over beyond the sea towards morecambe, i called my sheep and gathered them from all the fells, near and far; and a fairer flock of sheep ye shall never see 'twixt scotland and trent, as the song says, though i trow ye may, an ye look carefully, find steeper hills than old pendle. when my work was done, i took up periwinkle in my arms once more, anxious to descend with her ere night fell. already i was climbing carefully down the slope, when, bless me, i remembered the stranger, and that i had left him without a word, he having gone clean out of my mind, and i not having given him so much as a 'thank ye' at parting, for all he had saved periwinkle. but i think i must have gone clean out of his mind too. when i came back to him once more, there he was, still standing on the very top of the hill, where i had left him. but now his head was raised, the breeze lifted his hair. a kind of glory was on him. it was light from the sunset sky, i thought at first; but it was brighter far than that; for the sunset sky looked dull and dim beside it. his eyes were roaming far and wide over the valleys and hills, even as my eyes had wandered, when i was gathering my sheep. but his eyes wandered further, and further far, till they reached the utmost line of the irish sea to westward and covered all the country that lay between. then he turned himself around to the east again. a strong man he was and a tall, and the glory was still on his face, though now he had the sunset sky at his back. and he opened his mouth and spake. strange were his words: 'if but one man,' said he, 'but one man or woman, were raised by the lord's power to stand and live in the same spirit that the apostles and prophets were in, he or she should shake all this country for miles round.' shake all the country! he had uttered a fearsome thing. 'nay, master stranger, bethink ye,' i said, going up to him, 'how may that be? what would happen to me and the sheep were these fells to shake? even now, though they stand steady, you have seen that wayward lambs like periwinkle will fall over and do themselves a mischief.' so i spake, being but a witless lad. but my words might have been the wind passing by him, so little he heeded them. i doubt if he even heard or knew that i was there although i stood close at his side. for again his eyes were resting on the irish sea, and on the country that lay shining in the sun towards furness, and on the wide, glistening sands round morecambe bay. and then he turned himself round to the north where lie the high mountains that can at times be seen, or guessed, in the glow of the setting sun. thus, as he gazed on all that fair land, the stranger spoke. again he uttered strange words. at first his voice was low and what he said reached me not, save only the words: 'a great people, a great people to be gathered.' whereat i, being, as i say, but a lad then, full of my own notions and mighty sure of myself as young lads are, plucked at his sleeve, having heard but the last words, and supposing that he had watched me gathering my flock for the fold. 'not people, master stranger,' i interrupted. ''tis my business to gather sheep. sheep and silly, heedless lambs like periwinkle, 'tis them i must gather for my master's fold.' he saw and heard me then, full surely. 'aye,' he said, and his voice, though deep, had music in it, while his eyes pierced me yet again, but more gently this time, so that i made sure he had seen me tending periwinkle and knew that i had done the best i could. 'aye, verily thou dost well. shepherd of pendle, to gather lambs and silly sheep for their master's fold. i, too....' but there again he broke off and fell once more into silence. thus i left him, still standing atop of the hill; but as i turned to go i heard his voice yet again, and though i looked not round, the sound of it was as if a man were speaking to his friend, for all i knew that he stood there, atop of the hill, alone: 'i thank thee, lord, that thou hast let me see this day in what places thou hast a great people, a great people to be gathered.' thereat i partly understood, yet turned not back again, nor sought to enquire further of his meaning; for the daylight was fast fading and i had need of all my skill in getting home my sheep. vii. the people in white raiment _'after a while he (g.f.) travelled up further towards the dales in yorkshire, as wensdale, and sedburgh, and amongst the hills, dales, and mountains he came on and convinced many of the eternal truth.'--m. fox's testimony to g. fox._ _'in the mighty power of god, go on, preaching the gospel to every creature, and discipling them in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit. in the name of christ preach the mighty day of the lord to all the consciences of them who have long lain in darkness.... in the name of the lord jesus christ go on, that that of god in all consciences may witness that ye are sent of god and are of god and so according to that speak. sound, sound the trumpet abroad, ye valiant soldiers of christ's kingdom, of which there is no end.... be famous in his light and bold in his strength.'--g. fox._ _'let us in our message offer that which is beyond all creeds,--the evidence in our lives of communion with the spirit of god.'--j. w. rowntree._ vii. the people in white raiment the summer twilight was fading into night. the moon, hidden at her rising by a bank of clouds, had now climbed high above them, and shone down, a golden lamp from the clear evening sky. it was already dusk when the shepherd of pendle disappeared with his flock into the dewy valley. it was already light again, with the pallid light of the moon, when at length george fox descended old pendle hill. heavily he trod and slowly. wrapped in thought was he, as a man who has seen things greater and more mysterious than he can express or comprehend. only as he descended the slope of the hill did he remember that he was bodily weary, having eaten and drunk little for several days. a short distance from the summit, his ear caught the tinkle of falling water; and guided by its gentle music he came to where a tiny spring gushed out of the hillside, and went leaping on its way, gleaming like a thread of silver. fox knelt down upon the soft turf, and dipping his hand, cup-wise, into the water, he carried with difficulty a few shining drops to his parched lips. the cool freshness of even this scanty draught revived him. he looked round, his glance roaming over the wide landscape that lay, mist-filled and moon-filled, beneath him, but as yet scarce seeing what he saw. then, rising and quickening his steps, he hastened down the hill to the place where, hours before, his companion, richard farnsworth, had promised to await his return. even faithful richard had grown weary, as time passed and the night drew on apace. he had been minded to chide his friend for his forgetfulness and long delay, but as the two men met, something stopped him, or ever he began to speak. maybe it was the moonlight that fell full upon george fox's countenance, or maybe there was in truth visible there some faint reflection of the radiance that transfigured the face of moses, when he too, coming down from a far mightier revelation on a far loftier mountain, 'wist not that the skin of his face shone.' at any rate richard, loyal soul, checked the impatient words of remonstrance that had risen to his lips. silently putting his hand through his friend's arm, he led him a mile or two further along the road, until they came to the small wayside inn where they intended to spend the night. no sooner were they within doors than richard was startled afresh by the pallor of his companion's countenance. the glory had departed now. nothing but utter weariness remained. in all haste richard called for food and drink, and placing them before fox he almost forced him to partake. fox swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread, and drank a little clear red wine in a glass. then as he set the glass down, he noticed the inn-keeper who was standing by, watching his guest's every movement with curious eyes. a rough, plain countryman, he seemed, mine host of the ale-house, to most of those who had dealings with him. but fox, in spite of his own bodily hunger and physical weariness, discerned that the spirit of the man before him knew the cravings of a yet keener need: was fainting under the weight of a yet heavier load. instantly he recognised the seeking soul within, even as the shepherd of pendle a few hours previously, out on the hillside, had recognised his master's mark on the straying sheep. forgetting his own weariness, even for the time putting aside the remembrance of the visions he had seen, he set himself to win and satisfy this humble soul at his side. 'i declared truth to the man of the house,' so runs his journal, 'and wrote a paper to the priests and professors declaring "the day of the lord and that christ was come to teach his people himself, by his power and spirit in their hearts, and to bring people off from all the world's ways and teaching, to his own free teaching who had bought them, and was the saviour of all them that believed in him." and the man of the house did spread the paper up and down and was mightily affected with truth!' the inn-keeper went out full of gladness to 'publish truth' in his turn. henceforth he was a new man in the power of the new message that had been entrusted to him. a new life lay before him. but when the two friends were once more alone together, and the immediate task was done, richard farnsworth perceived the strange look that had silenced him at the foot of the mountain returning to his companion's face. only now the weariness was fading, it was the glory that returned. pushing away the table, george fox rose to his feet, and stretched both his arms out wide. he and farnsworth were alone in the narrow inn parlour, lighted only by one flickering rushlight. so small was the room that the whitewashed walls pressed close on every side. so low was the ceiling that when fox arose and drew himself up to his full height the black oak beams were scarce a hand's breadth above his head. yet richard, as he looked up, awed and silent, from his stool by the table, felt as if his friend were still standing far above him on the summit of a high hill, with nothing but the heights of sky beyond his head and with the hills and valleys of the whole world stretching away below his feet. 'i see,' said fox, and, as he spoke, to richard too the narrow walls seemed to open and melt away into infinite space on every side: 'i see a people in white raiment, by a riverside--a great people--in white raiment, coming to the lord.' the flickering rushlight spluttered and went out. through the low casement window the white mists could be seen, still rising from every bend and fold of the widespread valleys that lay around them, rising up, up, like an innumerable company of spirit-filled souls, while the moon shone down serenely over all. ii it was a few days later, and whitsun eve. the same traveller who had climbed to the top of old pendle hill 'with much ado, it was so steep,' was coming down now on the far side of the yorkshire dales. 'a lusty strong man of body' but 'of a grave look or countenance,' he 'travelled much on foot through rough and untrodden paths.' 'as he passed through wensleydale he advised the people as he met or passed through them' 'to fear god,' 'which ... did much alarm the people, it being a time that many people were filled with zeal.'[ ] at sunset he passed through a village of flax-weavers whose settlements lay in the low flatts that bordered the rushing river rawthey a mile or two outside of sedbergh town. 'i came through the dales,' says george fox in his journal, 'and as i was passing along the way, i asked a man which was richard robinson's, and he asked me from whence i came, and i told him "from the lord."' this must have been a rather unexpected answer from a traveller on the high road. can you not see the countryman's surprised face as he turns round and stares at the speaker, and wonders whatever he means? 'so when i came to richard robinson's i declared the everlasting truth to him, and yet a dark jealousy rose up in him after i had gone to bed, that i might be somebody that was come to rob his house, and he locked all his doors fast. and the next day i went to a separate meeting at justice benson's where the people generally was convinced, and this was the place that i had seen a people coming forth in white raiment; and a mighty meeting there was and is to this day near sedbarr which i gathered in the name of jesus.' these flax-weavers of brigflatts were a company of 'seekers,' unsatisfied souls who had strayed away like lost sheep from all the sects and churches, and were longing for a spiritual shepherd to come and find them again and bring them home to the fold. george fox was a weaver's son himself. directly he heard it, the whirr of the looms beside the rushing rawthey must have been a homelike sound in his ears. but more than that, his spirit was immediately at home among the little colony of weavers of snowy linen; for he recognised at once that these were the riverside people 'in white raiment,' whom he had seen in his vision, and to whom he had been sent. not only the flax-weavers, but also some of the 'considerable people' of the neighbourhood accepted the message of the wandering preacher, who came to them over the dales that memorable whitsuntide. the master of the house where the meeting was held, colonel gervase benson himself, and his good wife dorothy also, were 'convinced of truth,' and faithfully did they adhere thereafter to their new faith, through fair weather and foul. in later years, men noted that this same colonel benson, following his teacher's love of simplicity, and hatred of high-sounding titles, generally styled himself merely a 'husbandman,' notwithstanding 'the height and glory of the world that he had a great share of,'[ ] seeing that 'he had been a colonel, a justice of the peace, mayor of kendal, and commissary in the archdeaconry of richmond before the late domestic wars. yet, as an humble servant of christ, he downed those things.'[ ] his wife, mistress dorothy, also, was to prove herself a faithful friend to her teacher in after years, when his turn, and her turn too, came to suffer for 'truth's sake.' but in these opening summer days of , no shadows fell on the sunrise of enthusiasm and of hope, as, in the good justice's house beside the rushing rawthey, the gathering of the 'great people' began. the day was whitsunday, the anniversary of that other gathering in the upper room at jerusalem, when the apostles being all 'in one place, with one accord, of one mind,' the rushing mighty wind came and shook all the place where they were sitting, followed by the cloven tongues 'like as of fire, that sat upon each of them.' the gift given at pentecost has never been recalled. throughout the ages the spirit waits to take possession of human hearts, ready to fill even the humblest lives with its own power of breath and flame. this was the truth that had grown dusty and neglected in england in this seventeenth century. the 'still, small voice' had been drowned in the clash of arms and in the almost worse clamour of a thousand different sects. now that, after his own long search in loneliness and darkness, george fox had at length found the voice speaking to him unmistakably in the depths of his own heart, the whole object of his life was to persuade others to listen also to 'the true teacher that is within,' and to convince them that he was always waiting to speak not only in their hearts, but also through their lives. 'my message unto them from the lord was,' he says, 'that they should all come together again and wait to feel the lord's power and spirit in themselves, to gather them together to christ, that they might be taught of him who says "learn of me."' this was the truth--an actual, living truth--that not only the flax-weavers of brigflatts, but many other companies of 'seekers' scattered through the dales of yorkshire and westmorland, as well as in many other places, had been longing to hear proclaimed. 'thirsty souls that hunger' was one of the names by which they called themselves. it was to these thirsty, hungering souls that george fox had been led at the very moment when he was burning to share with others the vision of the 'wide horizons of the future' that had been unfolded to him on the top of old pendle hill. no wonder that the seekers welcomed him and flocked round him, drinking in his words as if their thirsty souls could never have enough. no wonder that he welcomed them with equal gladness, rejoicing not only in their joy, but yet more in that he saw his vision's fulfilment beginning. here in these secluded villages he had been led unmistakably to the 'great people,' whom he had seen afar off, waiting to be gathered. within a fortnight from that assembly on whit-sunday at justice benson's house george fox was no longer a solitary, wandering teacher, trying to convince scattered people here and there of the truths he had discovered. within a fortnight--a wonderful fortnight truly--he had become the leader of a mighty movement that gathered adherents and grew of itself, spreading with an irresistible impulse until, only a few years later, one englishman out of every ninety was a member of the society of friends. footnotes: [ ] first publishers of truth. [ ] first publishers of truth. [ ] first publishers of truth. viii. a wonderful fortnight _'i look upon cumberland and westmorland as the galilee of quakerism.'--t. hodgkin._ _'they may have failed in their intellectual formulation, but at least they succeeded in finding a living god, warm and tender and near at hand, the life of their lives, the day star in their hearts; and their travail of soul, their brave endurance, and their loyal obedience to vision have helped to make our modern world.'--rufus m. jones._ _'we ceased from the teachings of all men, and their words and their worships, and their temples and all their baptisms and churches, and we ceased from our own words and professions and practices in religion.... we met together often, and waited upon the lord in pure silence from our own words, and hearkened to the voice of the lord and felt his word in our hearts.'--e. burrough._ _'john camm, he was my father according to the flesh, so was he also a spiritual father and instructor of me in the way of truth and righteousness ... for his tender care was great for the education of me and the rest of his children and family in the nurture and fear of the lord.'--thomas camm._ _'death cannot separate us, for in the never-failing love of god there is union for evermore.'--j. camm._ viii. a wonderful fortnight i the annual fair on whitsun wednesday is the gayest time of the whole year at sedbergh. for a few hours the solid grey town under the green fells gives itself up to gaiety and merriment. the gentry of the neighbourhood as well as the country folk for miles around come flocking to the annual hiring of farm lads and lasses, which is the main business of the fair. thoughts of profit and the chance of making a good bargain fill the heads of the older generation. but the youths and maidens come, eager-eyed, looking for romance. at the fair they seek to guess what fate may hold in store for them during the long months of labour that will follow hard on their few hours of jollification. 'all manner of finery was to be had' at the fair; 'there were morris and rapier dances, wrestling and love-making going on,' and plenty of hard drinking too. 'the fair at sedbergh' was the emphatic destination of many a prosperous farmer and labourer on a whitsun wednesday morning; but it was 'sebba fair' he cursed thickly under his breath as he reeled home at night. in truth seventeenth-century sedbergh was a busy place, not only in fair week, but at other times too, with its stately old church and its grammar school; to say nothing of the fact that, in these days of oliver's protectorate, it boasted no less than forty-eight different religious sects among its few hundred inhabitants. only the sad-eyed seekers, coming down in little groups from their scattered hamlets, exchanged sorrowful greetings as they met one another amid all the riot and hubbub of the fair; for they had tried the forty-eight sects in turn for the nourishment their souls needed, and had tried them all in vain. until this miraculous whitsuntide of june , when, suddenly, in a moment, everything was changed. the little groups of seekers stood still and looked at one another in astonishment as they came out from the shadow of the narrow street of grey stone houses into the open square in the centre of the town. for there, opposite the market cross and under the spreading boughs of a gigantic yew-tree, they saw a young man standing on a bench, and preaching as they had never heard anyone preach before. behind him rose the massive square tower, and the long row of clerestory windows that were, then as now, the glory of sedbergh church. the tall green grass of the churchyard was already trampled down by the feet of hundreds of spell-bound listeners. who was this unexpected stranger who dared to interrupt even the noisy business of the fair with the earnestness and insistence of his appeal? he was a young and handsome man, with regular features and hair that hung in short curls under his hat-brim, contrary to the puritan fashion; big-boned in body, and of a commanding presence. the boys of the grammar school, determined to make the most of their holiday, thought it good sport at first to mock at the stranger's garb. as he stood there, lifted up above them on the rough bench, they could see every detail of the queer leather breeches that he wore underneath his long coat. his girdle with its alchemy buttons showed off grandly too, while the fine linen bands he wore at his neck gleamed out with dazzling whiteness against the dark branches of sedbergh's majestic old yew-tree. the preacher's words and tones and his piercing eyes quickly overawed his audience, and made them forget his outlandish appearance. even the boys could understand what he was saying, for he seemed to be speaking to each one of them, as much as to any of the grown-up people. and what was this he was telling them? with outstretched hand he pointed upwards, insisting that that church, the beautiful building, the pride of sedbergh, was not a church at all. it was only a steeple-house; they themselves were the true church, their own souls and bodies were the temples chosen by the spirit of god for his habitation. no wonder the schoolboys, and many older people too, became awed and silent at the bare idea of such a guest. none of the eight-and-forty sects of sedbergh town had ever heard doctrine like this before. possibly there might not have been eight-and-forty of them if they had. once during the discourse a captain got up and interrupted the stranger: 'why do you preach out here under the yew-tree? why do you not go inside the church and preach there?' 'but,' says george fox, 'i said unto him that i denied their church. 'then stood up francis howgill, a separate preacher, that had not seen me before, and so he began to dispute with the captain, but he held his peace. then said francis howgill, "this man speaks with authority, and not as the scribes." 'and so,' continues george fox, 'i opened to the people that that ground and house was no holier than another place, and that house was not the church, but the people which christ is head of. and so, after a while that i had made a stand among the people, the priests came up to me and i warned them to repent. and one of them said i was mad, and so they turned away. but many people were glad at the hearing of the truth declared unto them that day, which they received gladly. 'and there came one edward ward, and he said my very eyes pierced through him, and he was convinced of god's everlasting truth and lived and died in it, and many more was convinced there at that time.' convinced they were indeed, as they had never been convinced in all their former lives; and now that they had found the teacher they wanted, the hungry, thirsty seekers were not going to let him go again. almost overturning the booths of the fair, these solemn, sad-eyed men jostled each other like children in their endeavours to reach their new friend. there at the back of the crowd solid john camm, the prosperous 'statesman' farmer of cammsgill, near preston patrick, could be seen waving his staff like a schoolboy to attract the preacher's attention as soon as the sermon stopped. 'come home, young sir! come home with me,' john camm called out lustily. but ruddy-cheeked john audland, the linen-draper of crosslands, had been quicker than the elderly farmer. he was a happy bridegroom that summer, and bringing his wife with him for the first time to sedbergh fair. she--a seeker like himself--had been known in her maiden days as gentle anne newby of kendal town: yet the ways of the dalesmen and of the country people were in a measure strange to her, seeing all her girlhood had been spent at her aunt's house in london town, where she had received her education. possibly she had looked forward not without dread to the rough merry-making of the fair; but she too had kindled at the stranger's message. her shyness fled from her as, with her hand locked fast in her husband's, the two pressed forward. the crowd seemed to melt away at sight of their radiant faces, and almost before the sermon was ended the young couple found themselves face to face with the preacher. the same longing was in both their hearts: the same words rose unbidden to their lips: 'come back with us to crosslands, sir! come back and be the first guest to bless our home.' george fox smiled as he met the eager gaze of the young folk, and stretched out a friendly hand. but an old slow man with a long white beard had forestalled even the impetuous rush of the youthful bride and bridegroom. 'nay; now, good friends,' said farmer thomas blaykling of drawwell, 'my home is nigh at hand. for the next three days the stranger is mine. he must stay with me and i will bring him to firbank chapel on sunday. come ye also thither and hear him again, and bring every seeking man and woman and child in all these dales to hear him too; and thereafter ye shall have him in your turn and entertain him where ye will.' ii the first three peaceful days after the fair were spent by the young preacher at drawwell farm, knitting up a friendship with its inmates that neither time nor suffering was able thereafter to unravel. 'the house inhabited by the blayklings may still be seen. its thick walls, small windows and rooms, with the clear well behind, must be almost in the same condition as in the week we are remembering.'[ ] in later days many a 'mighty meeting' was to be held in the big barn that adjoins the small whitewashed house with its grey flagged roof. drawwell is situated about two miles away from sedbergh, on the sunny slope of a hill overlooking the river lune, that here forms the boundary between the two counties of westmorland and yorkshire. there, under the shadow of the great fells, george fox had time for many a quiet talk with his hosts, in the days that followed the whitsuntide fair. john blaykling, the farmer's son, was a man of strong character. he was afterwards to become himself a powerful preacher of the truth and to suffer for it when persecution came. moreover, 'he was a great supporter of them that were in low circumstances in the world, often assisting them in difficult cases to the exposing of himself to great hazards of loss.' he had also an especial care for the feelings of others. on the sunday after the fair he was anxious to take his guest to firbank chapel, where the seekers' service was to be held, high up on the hill opposite drawwell. yet he seems to have had some misgivings that his guest might be too full of his own powerful message to remember to behave courteously to others, who, although in a humbler way, were still trying to declare the truth as far as they had a knowledge of it. fox writes in his journal: 'and the next first day i came to firbank chapel, where francis howgill and john audland were preaching in the morning, and john blaykling and others came to me and desired me not to reprove them publicly, for they was not parish teachers but pretty sober men, but i would not tell them whether i would or no, though i had little in me to declare publicly against them, but told them they must leave me to the lord's movings. the chapel was full of people and many could not get in. francis howgill (who was preaching) said he thought i looked into the chapel, but i did not. and he said that i might have killed him with a crab-apple, the lord's power had so surprised him. 'so they had quickly done with their preaching to the people at that time, and they and the people went to their dinners, but abundance stayed till they came again. and i went to a brook and got me a little water, and so i came and sat me down atop of a rock, (for the word of the lord came to me that i must go and sit upon the rock in the mountain, even as christ had done before). 'and in the afternoon the people gathered about me with several separate teachers, where it was judged there was above a thousand people. and all those several separate teachers were convinced of god's everlasting truth that day, amongst whom i declared freely and largely god's everlasting truth and word of life about three hours. and there was many old people went into the chapel and looked out of the windows and thought it a strange thing to see a man to preach on a hill or mountain, and not in their church as they called it. so i was made to open to the people that the steeple-house and the ground whereon it stood was no more holier than that mountain ... but christ was come who ended the temple and the priests and the tithes, and christ said, "learn of me," and god said, "this is my beloved son, hear ye him." 'for the lord had sent me with his everlasting gospel to preach, and his word of life so that they all might come to know christ their teacher, their counsellor, their shepherd to feed them, and their bishop to oversee them, and their prophet to open to them, and to know their bodies to be temples of god and christ for them to dwell in.... and so, turning the people to the spirit of god, and from the darkness to the light, that they might believe in it and become children of light.' iii 'now, it is our turn,' insisted ruddy-faced john audland, 'george fox must come home with me. my house at crosslands will be the most convenient resting-place for him, seeing it lies mid-way between here and preston patrick; and to preston patrick and the general meeting of our seeking people he must certainly come, since it is to be held in three days' time. there are many folk, still seeking, on the other side of the dales, who have not yet heard the good news, but who will rejoice mightily when they find him there. besides, he has promised my wife that he will be the first guest to come and bless our home.' 'yes in truth, he shall return with thee,' echoed audland's friend, john camm of cammsgill, 'since preston patrick is too far a step for him to-day. he shall lodge with thee and thy good wife anne, and bless your home. but on wednesday, betimes, thou must bring him to me at cammsgill right early in the day--and i will take him as my guest to preston patrick and our seekers' meeting.' john audland readily assented to this proposal. he and his wife would have the wonderful stranger all to themselves until wednesday. as the two men wandered back over the hills in a satisfied silence, his mind was full of all the questions he meant to ask. for had not he himself, though only a youth of twenty-two, been one of the appointed preachers at firbank chapel? truly he had done his best there, as at other times, to feed the people; yet in spite of his words they had seemed ever hungry, until the stranger came among them, breaking the true bread of life for all to share. john audland was 'a young man of a comely countenance, and very lovely qualities.'[ ] never a thought of jealousy or envy crossed his mind; only he was filled with a longing to know more, to learn, to be fed himself, that he, in his turn, might feed others. still, being but human, it was with slight irritation that he heard himself hailed with a loud 'halloo!' from behind. looking round, he beheld a long-legged figure ambling after them along the dusty road, and recognised a certain tactless youth, john story by name, famous throughout the district for his knack of thrusting himself in where he was least wanted. without so much as a 'by your leave' john story caught up the other two men and began a lively conversation as they walked along. self-invited, he followed them into john audland's home; where the young bride, anne, was too well bred to betray her disappointment at this unexpected visitor. elbowing his way rudely past the master of the house and the invited guest, john story stalked ahead into the bridal parlour and sat himself down deliberately in the best chair. 'i'm your first guest now, mistress anne,' he said with a chuckle. then lighting his pipe he threw his head back and made himself comfortable--evidently intending to stay the evening. but his chief care and intention was to patronise george fox. he had been at firbank also, and he had remembered enough of the sermon there to repeat some of the preacher's words jestingly to his face. he handed his lighted pipe to george fox, saying, 'come, will you take a pipe of tobacco?'--and added, mockingly, seeing his hesitation, 'come, all is ours!' 'but,' says george fox, 'i looked upon him to be a forward bold lad; and tobacco i did not take. but it came into my mind that the lad might think i had not unity with the creation: for i saw he had a flashy, empty notion of religion. so i took his pipe and put it to my mouth, and gave it to him again to stop him lest his rude tongue should say i had not unity with the creation.' and soon after this, let us hope, john story, with his tobacco and his rude tongue, saw fit to take his leave, and remove his unwelcome presence. iv two more days of the 'wonderful fortnight' were passed in the linen-draper's home at crosslands before, on the wednesday forenoon, john audland and his guest descended the dales of westmorland and climbed the steep, wooded glen that leads to cammsgill farm. there, at the door, with hands outstretched in welcome, stood good john camm and his loving wife mabel. peeping behind them curiously at the stranger was their twelve-year-old son, tom. at the windows of the farm were to be seen the faces of the men-servants and maid-servants, for great was the curiosity to see the stranger of whom such great tidings had been told. among the serving-maids were two sisters, jane and dorothy waugh. little did the eager girls imagine that the stranger whom they eyed so keenly was to alter the whole course of their lives by his words that day; that, for both of them, the pleasant, easy, farm life at cammsgill was over, and that they were hereafter to go forth to preach in their turn, to suffer beatings and cruel imprisonments, and even to cross the seas, in order to publish the same truth that he had come to proclaim. tom camm also, boy as he was, was never to forget that eventful morning. long years afterwards he remembered every detail of it. 'on the th day morning,' he writes, 'john audland came with george fox to the house of john camm at cammsgill in preston patrick, who with his wife and familie gladly received g.f.' and now, while they are 'gladly receiving' their guest and waiting till it is time to go down the steep hill to preston patrick, let us look back at the farm-house of cammsgill where they are sitting, and learn something of its history and that of its owners. it was to cammsgill that farmer john camm had brought home his bride on a late day of summer, thirteen years before the eventful year of which these stories tell. a wise, prosperous man was good john camm, one of the most successful 'statesmen' in all the fertile dales round about. so busy had he been developing his farm, and attending to the numerous flocks and herds, that were ever increasing under his skilful management, that time for love-making seemed to have been left out of his life. but at last, when he was well over forty, he found the one woman he had been unconsciously needing through all his prosperous years to make his life round and complete. it was a mellow day of indian summer when john and mabel camm walked up the winding road to cammsgill for the first time as man and wife. but the golden sunshine that lay on all the burnished riches of the well-filled farm-yard was dim compared with the inward sunshine that gladdened the farmer's heart. farmer john had made a wise choice, and he knew it. in his eyes nothing was good enough for his wife, not even the home where he had been born, and where his ancestors for generations had lived and died; so cammsgill had been entirely rebuilt before that golden september day when john and mabel camm came home to begin their new life together. the re-building had been done in such solid fashion that part of the farm-house still stands, well-proportioned and serviceable, after nearly three centuries have passed to test it, showing that he who builds for love builds truly and well. mabel camm was a proud woman as she stood at the door of her hillside home and watched the autumn sunlight lighting up her husband's face as he walked across his fields in the valley, or strode, almost with the energetic step of a young man, up the crab-apple bordered track to the farm. close at his heels followed his collie, looking up into his master's face with adoring affection. not only every animal on the farm loved the master, the men-servants and maid-servants also would do anything to please him, for was he not ever mindful of their interests as if they had been his own? in those days each labourer had three or four acres of land as of right. this fostered an independent spirit and made their affection a tribute worth the winning.[ ] later on that same year, when winter came, earlier than its wont, the fells were knee-deep in snow and all the beasts were brought for shelter round the farm to protect them from the snow-drifts and bitter weather on the upland pastures. then it was that at nights in the snug farm-house kitchen, after the day's work was done, john camm and his young wife together carved their initials on the 'brideswain,' a tall oak chest that held the goodly stock of homespun linen and flax brought by mabel camm to her new home. john camm was something of an artist. his was the design of the interlaced initials. all his life he had been a skilful carver with his tools on the winter evenings, and now he took pleasure in showing his bride the right way to use them and how to fashion her strokes aright. night after night the two heads bent over their task, but to this day it may still be seen at cammsgill that one of the two artists was less skilful than the other, for mabel's curves are more angular and without the careless ease of her husband's. what, however, did unskilful fingers matter when the firelight shone upon two happy faces bending over the work close together, aglow with the inner radiance of two thankful hearts? there were other uses for the brideswain the following summer. the fair white sheets and pillow-cases were moved to an under-shelf. the upper half of the chest was filled to overflowing with tiny garments fashioned by mabel's own fingers, skilful indeed at this dainty work. no more woodcarving now, but endless rows of stitchery, tiny tucks and delicate dotting, all ready to welcome the little son who arrived before the summer's close, and completed his parents' joy. since that day, a dozen years had slipped away. now young thomas camm was leaving childhood, as he had long left babyhood, behind him. he was a big boy, quick, strong for his age, and bidding fair to be as good a farmer as his father some day. 'cammsgill was a favourite house with both men and women servants, for mistress camm took care that all had their fill of bread, butter, milk, eggs or bacon, and each their three meals. of the maid-servants, jane and dorothy waugh especially looked on their master as a father, he was so kind and thoughtful of their needs. indeed no one could walk up the winding gill without meeting with a warm welcome from the owners of the farm-house, and on winter evenings there was many a large "sitting," by aid of the rushlights, in which the neighbours joined, all hands being busy the while with the knitting of caps and jerseys for the kendal trade.... he and his wife greatly loved to entertain visitors from a distance, especially those who were like-minded with themselves, also looking for "the coming of the day of the lord,"'[ ] for all the household at cammsgill were of the company of the "seekers" who met every month at the chapel of preston patrick in the valley below. now at last it is time for the meeting. thomas camm's account continues: 'and it having been then a common practice among the said seeking and religiously inclined people to raise a general meeting at preston patrick chapel once a month, upon the fourth day of the week, thither george fox went, being accompanied with john audland and john camm. john audland would have had george fox go into the place or pew where usually he and the preacher did sit, but he refused and took a back seat near the door, and john camm sat down by him, where he sat silent, waiting upon god for about half an hour, in which time of silence francis howgill seemed uneasy, and pulled out his bible and opened it, and stood up several times, sitting down again and closing his book, and dread and fear being on him that he durst not begin to preach. after the said silence and waiting george fox stood up in the mighty power of god, and in the demonstration thereof was his mouth opened to preach christ jesus, the light of life, and the way to god, and saviour of all that believe and obey him, which was delivered in that power and that authority that most of the auditory, which were several hundreds, were effectually reached to the heart, and convinced of the truth that very day, for it was the day of god's power. a notable day indeed, never to be forgotten by me thomas camm.... i, being then present at that meeting, a school-boy but about twelve years of age, yet, i bless the lord for his mercy, then religiously inclined, do still remember that blessed and glorious day, in which my soul, by that living testimony then borne in the demonstration of god's power, was effectually opened, reached and convinced, with many more who are seals of that powerful ministry that attended this faithful minister of the lord jesus christ, and by which we were convinced, and turned from darkness to light and from satan's power to the power of god. after which meeting at preston chapel, g.f. came to the house of john camm at cammsgill. next day travelled to kendal where he had a meeting, where many were convinced and received his testimony with joy.' the 'wonderful fortnight' was drawing to a close. the vision on pendle hill, when george fox beheld a people 'as thick as motes in the sun that should in time be brought home to the lord,' had already begun to form around it a society of friends who were pledged to carry it out. remember always, it was not the society that beheld the vision; it was the vision that created and creates the society. the vision is the important thing; for it is still unfulfilled. footnotes: [ ] ernest e. taylor, _a great people to be gathered._ [ ] sewel's _history of the quakers._ [ ] e.e. taylor, _faithful servants of god._ [ ] e.e. taylor, _faithful servants of god._ ix. under the yew-trees _'george fox was a born leader of souls. the flame of religious ardour which burned in him, and the intense conviction and spiritual power with which he spoke, would in any age have made him great. he was born in a generation of revolutions and upheavals, both political and spiritual. confusion and unrest, war and reformations, give to great spirits a power which, when life is calmer, they might not attain. fox drew to himself a multitude of noble souls, attracted to him by that which they shared with him, the sense of spiritual realities, and the consciousness of the guiding spirit. the age of george fox thirsted for spiritual reality. he had found it. men on all sides were ready to find it as he had. the dales of yorkshire, and the hills of lakeland, not less than the towns of the midlands, had men in them ready to rejoice in the touch of the spiritual, ready to respond to the movement of the spirit. see him then arriving at some farm-yard in the hills, or may be at a country squire's hall....'--cyril hepher, 'fellowship of silence.'_ _'the house was no doubt full of music, as were indeed many others, in that most musical of english centuries.'--j. bailey, 'milton.'_ _motto on seal of a letter to m. fell:_ '_god above keep us in his light and love._' ix. under the yew-trees six gay girls sat together, laughing and talking, under the shadow of the ancient yew-trees that guard the eastern corner of swarthmoor hall. the interlaced boughs of the gloomy old trees made a cool canopy of shadow above the merry maidens. it was a breathless day of late june, , at the very end of the 'wonderful fortnight.' there they were, judge fell's six fair daughters: margaret, bridget, isabel, sarah, mary and little susanna, who was but three years old, on that hot summer afternoon. ''tis a pity that there are only six of us,' sarah was saying with mock melancholy. 'now, suppose my brother george instead of being a boy had been a girl, then there would have been seven. the seven sisters of swarthmoor hall! in truth it has a gallant sound like unto a play. seven young sisters and seven ancient yew trees! each of us might have a yew-tree then for her very own.' so saying, sarah leant back against the huge gnarled trunk behind her, her golden curls rippling like sunshine over the wrinkled wood, while her blue eyes peered into the dark-green depths overhead. 'moreover, in that case,' continued isabel, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice, 'and supposing the seventh sister, who doth not exist, were to have seven more daughters in her turn,--then it might be expected that the seventh daughter of that seventh daughter would have keener than mortal hearing, and sharper than mortal sight. she would be able to hear the grass growing, and know when the fairies were making their rings, and be able to catch the brownies at their tasks, so the country people say. heigh ho! i wish she were here! or i would that i myself were the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, or still better the seventh son of a seventh son, for they have real true second sight, and can look in magic crystals and foresee things to come.' 'now it is my turn,' chimed in bridget, 'i am the eldest but one, and it is time i talked a little. then when the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter walks hand in hand with the seventh son of a seventh son (neither of whom, allow me to remind you in passing, ever have existed, or, it is to be hoped, ever will exist in a well-connected family like ours), when they walk hand in hand under the shade of the seven ancient yew-trees which, we all know, have guarded swarthmoor for centuries ... the seven ancient trees will be sure to overhear them whispering honeyed nothings to each other. then the oldest and wisest of all the trees (by the bye, it is that one behind you, isabel!) will say, "dearly beloved children, although the words you say are incredibly foolish, yet to me they sound almost wise compared with the still more incredibly foolish conversation carried on beneath my old boughs in the year of our lord one thousand six hundred and fifty-two by your ever venerable great aunt isabel and your still more venerable great aunt sarah!"' 'o _bridget_,' came in aggrieved tones from the two younger girls as they flung themselves upon her and put laughing hands over her mouth, 'that is too bad, that is unkind.' the eldest sister, margaret, looked up from the low bench where she was sitting with mary and susanna, the two youngest children beside her. seeing the struggling heap of muslin and ribbons on the grass she resolutely turned the talk into less personal channels. 'i do not at all agree with sarah,' she said calmly, 'besides it is much too hot to argue. for my part, _i_ think six sisters are fully enough for any household. if i had more than five younger ones to look after, i don't know what i should do. even for the yew-trees it is better. there is one now for each of us to sit under, and one to spare for my mother when at last she comes home. i wonder what makes her so late? when will she be here?' a ripple of expectation stirred the maidens. moved by the same impulse, they all looked out under the dark yew branches and over the sunlit orchard, beyond which lay the high road leading up the hill from ulverston. nothing as yet was to be seen and no faintest rumble of approaching wheels reached any of the listeners. everywhere the hot air quivered in the sunshine. even the stately elizabethan hall with its high stone chimneys and mullioned bay windows looked drowsy and half asleep. a pale wisp of smoke was ascending listlessly in a straight line above the gabled roofs high up into the far still air. scarcely a sound came from the outbuildings that lay beyond the hall. even the pigeons on the roof were too hot to coo. in the herb garden beneath, the flowers drooped in the scorching light. glare everywhere. only under the yew-trees was there to be found a pool of grateful shadow. and even that pool had a sunshine of its own radiating from the group of merry maidens, with their bright faces and gay voices raised in perpetual talk, or laughter, or song. for a little while they seemed to be busy practising a madrigal. then the irrepressible chatter burst out afresh. cool and fragrant all the maidens looked, in their dresses of clear sprigged muslin, each tied at waist, wrists, and throat with ribbons of a different colour: lilac, lavender, primrose, cherry, emerald, and blue. the garden roses might droop in the hot garden outside, but the roses on the girls' cheeks, instead of fading, flushed and deepened with growing excitement. they all seemed full of suppressed eagerness, evidently waiting for something much desired to happen. at length tall bridget, exclaiming, 'it must be time now!' sprang to her feet, and, stooping under the clinging boughs of the yew-tree temple, drew herself up to her full height outside its shade. her gaze roamed over the long grass of the orchard and down the broad path, to the high stone arch of the entrance gate through which she could just catch sight of a glimpse of dusty road. 'nothing yet!' she reported, 'not even a sign of the black horses' ears or heads above the hedge and not a sound upon the road.' margaret raised her head to listen. she inherited her mother's placid, madonna-like beauty, and was at this time the fairest of the whole sisterhood. sarah, who was hereafter to be considered not only the wit but also the beauty of the family, was at this time a child of ten, and not yet grown into her full inheritance of comeliness. in after years it was said of sarah that she was 'not only beautiful and lovely to a high degree, but was wonderfully happy in ingeny and memory.' but even at her loveliest it was never said of her, as it was of margaret, that she was 'glorious, comely, and beautiful in that which never fades away,' 'lovely in the truth, an example of holiness and wisdom.' this comely margaret, seeing and hearing nothing of what she sought, bent her fair face down once more to the little sisters seated on each side of her. to beguile the waiting time she was making for them a chain of the daisies they had gathered as they flitted about, like gay white butterflies, over the grass. mary was eight years old, and therefore able to pick daisies with discretion; but the stalks of the flowers gathered by little susanna were all sadly too short and the flowers themselves suffered in her tight hot hand. at this moment isabel ran to join bridget and, standing on tiptoe beside her, tried hard to see as much as her taller sister. 'nothing yet,' she reported, 'not a sign of the black horses nor even the top of the coach.' sarah, not to be outdone, swung herself up, with a laugh, on to one of the lower boughs of the oldest yew-tree, and standing on it thrust her golden head through the thick canopy overhead. she peered out in her turn looking across the orchard and over the hedge to the road, then, bending down with a laughing face to margaret and the little ones, 'i'm tallest now,' she exclaimed, 'and i shall be the first to spy the coach when it reaches the top of the hill!' but agile isabel, ever ready to follow a sister's lead, had already left bridget's side and swung herself up, past sarah, on to a yet higher bough. 'methinks not, mistress sarah,' she called over her head, slowly and demurely, 'for now i can see yet farther, and there are the horses' ears and heads; yea and the chariot also, and now, at last! our mother's face!' but the group below had not waited for her tidings. they had heard the rumble of the wheels and the horses' feet on the road. with cries of joy, off they all sped down the path and across the orchard; to see who should be first at the gate to welcome their mother. only margaret stayed behind on her bench among the scattered daisies, with a slightly pensive expression on her lovely face. 'all of them flying to greet her!' margaret thought to herself. 'see, bridget has caught up even susanna in her arms, that she shall not be left too far behind; while i, the eldest, whom my mother doth ever call her right hand, am forced to stay here. but my mother knows that my knee prevents me. she will not forget her margaret. already she sees me, and is beckoning the others to come this way.' in truth mistress fell had already alighted and was now passing swiftly under the high stone arch of the gateway. never did she come through that gate without a flash of remembrance of the first time she entered there, leaning on her husband's arm, a bride of seventeen summers, younger than her own fair margaret now. she entered, this time, leaning on the arm of tall bridget, walking as if she were a trifle weary, yet stooping to pick up little susanna and to cover her with kisses as she moved up the path surrounded by her cloud of girls. 'not the house, maids,' she cried, 'the yew-trees first! i see my margaret waiting there. your news, how marvellous soever, must wait until i have greeted my right-hand daughter and learned how she fares.' 'how art thou, dear heart?' she enquired, as she stooped down and kissed her eldest daughter, and sat down beside her. 'hath thy knee pained thee a little less this afternoon?' 'much less,' answered margaret gaily, 'in fact i had almost forgotten it, and was about to rise and welcome you with the rest, when a sudden ache reminded me that i must not run yet awhile.' mistress fell shook her head. 'i fear that i shall have to take thee to london and to wapping for the waters some day. i cannot have my bird unable to fly like the rest of the brood, and obliged to wait behind with a clipped wing.' 'young margrett,' as she was called, to distinguish her from her mother, laughed aloud. 'nay now, sweet mother, 'tis nothing,' she replied. 'let us think of more cheerful things. in truth we have much to tell you, for we have had an afternoon of visitors and many happenings in thy absence.' 'visitors?' a slight furrow showed itself in the elder margaret's smooth forehead. 'well, that is not strange, since the door of swarthmoor stands ever open to welcome guests, as all the country knows. still i would that i had been at home, or thy father. who were the visitors, daughter?' it was bridget who answered. 'my father hath often said that there has been scarce a day without a visitor at swarthmoor since he first brought you here as its mistress,' she began primly, 'but in all these years, mother, i doubt you have never set eyes on such an one as our guest of to-day. priest lampitt said the same.' 'priest lampitt? hath he been here? and i not at home. truly, it grieves me, children, to have missed our good neighbour. did he then bring a stranger with him?' 'no, no, no,' a chorus of dissent broke from the girls, all now seated round their mother on the grass, each eager to be the first to tell the tale, yet at a loss for words. bridget, as usual, stepped into the gap. she explained that 'the priest had been amazed to find the stranger here. they had had much discourse. till at last, priest lampitt, waxing hot and fiery ere he departed, strode down the flagged path slashing all the flowers with his cane and never seemed to know what he was doing, though you know, mother, that he loves our garden.' a shade of real annoyance crossed mistress fell's face. 'the good priest angered in my house,' she said, with real concern in her voice, 'and i not there, but only a pack of giddy maids, who had not wit enough between them to keep a discourteous stranger in his place and prevent his being rude to an old friend! nay, now, maidens, speak not all together. ye are too young and do but babble. let bridget continue, or my margaret. either of them i can trust.' but 'young margrett' was bending her head still lower, seemingly over her daisy chain. 'truly, mother,' she said in a low voice close to her mother's ear, 'there are no words for him. he is so--different; i knew not that earth held a man like him. and he will be coming back shortly to the house--maybe he is already awaiting you!' mistress fell looked up now in undisguised alarm. who was this nameless stranger who had invaded her house during her absence, and had apparently stolen the heart of her discreet and dignified margaret, in one interview, by the mere sight of his charms? young, handsome, quarrelsome; who could he be? what had brought him to swarthmoor to destroy its peace? she turned to capable bridget for information. bridget, never at a loss, understood her mother's fears, or some of them, and immediately answered reassuringly, 'be not disquieted, sweet mother. nothing really untoward has happened. it is true the stranger disputed hotly with lampitt, but it was the priest's blame as much as the stranger's at first, though afterwards, when lampitt held out his hand and wished to be friendly, the stranger turned from him and shook him off. yet, though his actions were harsh there was gentleness in his face and bearing. he is a man of goodly presence, this stranger, but quite, quite old, thirty or thereabouts by my guessing.' the elder margaret smiled. bridget continued hastily: 'or may be more. any way he seemed older from his gravity, and from his outlandish dress. under his coat could be seen a leather doublet and breeches, and on his head he wore a large, soft, white hat.' at these words the concern in mistress fell's face disappeared in a moment. a quick look of welcome sprang into her eyes. 'a man in a white hat!' she exclaimed. 'perhaps, then, his coming forbodes good to us after all. it was only the other night that, as i lay a-dreaming, i saw a man in a large white hat coming towards me. i had been seeking for guidance on my knees, for often i fear we are not wholly in the right way, with all our seeking and religious exercises. in answer to my prayer there came towards me, in my dream, a man, and i knew that he was to be the messenger of god to me and to all my household. tell me more, maidens, of this stranger, how he came and whence, and why he left and when he will return.' this time it was 'young margrett' who answered. seeing the sympathy in her mother's eyes, she found her voice at last, and rejoined quickly: 'he resembleth a priest somewhat, yet not altogether. he speaketh with more authority than anyone i ever heard. grave he is too. grave as my father when he is executing justice. yet, for all his gravity, as bridget says, he is wondrous gentle. none of us were affrighted at him, and the little maids ran to him as they do to my father. moreover, he showed them a curious seal he carried in his pocket with letters intertwined among roses, a "g" i saw, and an "f." afterwards he took them on his knees and blessed them and they were wholly at ease. priest lampitt, who had been watching through a window, his countenance strangely altered by his rage, now took his departure. seeing him go, the stranger put down the children gently, setting susanna with both her feet squarely on the polished floor, as i have seen a shepherd set down a lamb, as if afeared that it might slip. then he turned in sorrow and spoke a few words to his companion. this was the man who brought him hither, one of the seekers from wensleydale or thereabouts, i should judge from his language; but truly none of us paid much heed to him. the two of them left the hall together, and passed down through the herb-garden, and over the stream. once i noticed the stranger turn and gaze back at the house, searching each window, as if looking for something he found not there. also he smiled at sight of the yew-trees, with a greeting as if they were old friends. bridget declares that she heard the stranger, our stranger, say that he would return hither shortly, when he had set his companion a short distance on his homeward way. but that is now more than two hours agone, and as yet he hath not reappeared.' 'well then, maids,' replied mistress fell briskly, 'let us not linger here. it is high time we went back to the house to welcome our guest, on his return.' so saying, she rose to her feet, and aiding 'young margrett' with one hand, she drew aside with the other the thick screen of the branches. a ray of sunshine fell upon margaret fell, standing there, in the velvety gloom of the old yew-trees, with her six young daughters round her. sunshine was in her heart too, as she looked down fondly at them for a moment. then, lifting up her eyes, she recognised the unknown man she had seen in her dream. in the full blaze of sunlight, coming straight up the flagged path towards her was a stranger, wearing a white hat. and thus did mistress margaret fell behold for the first time george fox. [illustration] x. 'bewitched!' _'when ye do judge of matters, or when ye do judge of words, or when ye do judge of persons, all these are distinct things. a wise man will not give both his ears to one party but reserve one for the other party, and will hear both, and then judge.'--g. fox._ _'and after i came to one captain sands, which he and his wife if they could have had the world and truth they would have received it. but they was hypocrites and he a very light chaffy man, and the way was too strait for him.'--g. fox._ _'james the first was crazed beyond his english subjects with the witch mania of scotland and the continent. no sooner had his first parliament enacted new death laws than the judges and the magistrates, the constable and the mob began to hunt up the oldest and ugliest spinster who lived with her geese on the common, or tottered about the village street. many pleaded guilty, and described the covenants they had formed with black dogs and "goblins called tibb"; others were beaten or terrified into fictitious confessions, or perished, denying their guilt to the last. the black business culminated during the civil wars when scores of women were put to death.'--g.m. trevelyan._ x. 'bewitched!' saint swithin's feast was passed. it was a sultry, thundery afternoon of mid july, when three horsemen were to be seen carefully picking their way across the wide wet estuary of the river leven that goes by the name of 'the sands.' the foremost rider was evidently the most important person of the three. he was an oldish man with a careworn face, and deepset eyes occasionally lighted by a smile, as he urged his weary horse across the sand. this was no less a person than judge fell himself, the master of swarthmoor hall, attended by his clerk and his groom, and returning to his home after a lengthy absence on circuit. a man of wide learning, of sound knowledge of affairs, and gifted with an excellent judgment was thomas fell. he was as popular now, in the autumn of his days among his country neighbours, as he had been in former times in parliament, and among the puritan leaders. thrice had he represented his native county in the house of commons, and had been a trusted friend of oliver cromwell himself. it was only latterly, men said, since oliver showed a disposition to grasp more and ever more power for himself that the good judge, unable to prevent that of which he disapproved, had retired from the intricate problems and difficulties of the capital. he now filled the office of judge on the welsh circuit and later on that of vice-chancellor of the duchy of lancaster. but whether he dwelt in the country or in london town it was all one. wherever he came, men thought highly of him.[ ] the good thirsted for his approval. the bad trembled to meet his eye. yet, it was noted, that even when he was obliged to sentence some poor wretch, he seemed to commiserate him, and he ever sought to throw the weight of his influence on the side of mercy, although no man could be sterner at times, especially when he dealt with a case of treachery or cold-blooded cruelty. the lines of his countenance were rugged, yet underneath there was always an expression of goodwill, and a kindly light in his eyes that seemed to come from some still quiet fount of happiness within. it was said of the judge, and truly, that he had the happiest home, the fairest and wisest wife, and the goodliest young family, of any man in the county. that had been a joyful day, indeed, for him, twenty years before, when he brought the golden-haired margaret askew, the heiress of marsh grange, as his bride to the old grey hall of swarthmoor. sixteen full years younger than her husband was she, yet a wondrous wise-hearted woman, and his companion in all things. now that a son and six fair daughters filled the old hall with music and gay laughter all day long, the judge might well be no less proud of his 'great family' than even of having been oliver cromwell's friend. he was ever loath to leave that cherished home for his long absences on the chester and north welsh circuit, and ever joyful when the day came that he might return thither. even the heavy sand that clogged his horse's feet could hardly make him check his pace. the sands of morecambe bay are perilous at times, especially to strangers, for the tide flows in with such swiftness that even a galloping horse may not escape it. but the judge and his companions knew the dangers well enough to avoid them. their trained eyes instinctively marked the slight depressions in the sand and the line of brogs, or half-hidden trees, that guide travellers across by what is really the safest route, although it may seem to take unnecessary loops and curves.[ ] at a little distance lay the lonely chapel island, surrounded by the sea even at low tide, where in olden days lived a community of monks, who tolled a bell to guide pilgrims across the shifting sands, or said masses for the souls of those who perished. as his horse picked its way carefully, the judge raised his eyes often towards the high plateau on the horizon to which he was steadily drawing nearer with every tedious step. beloved swarthmoor! the house itself was hidden, but he could plainly discern the belt of trees in which it stood. he thought of each of the inmates of that hidden home. george, his only son, how straight and tall he was growing, how gallant a rider, and how skilful a sportsman even now, though hasty in temper and over apt to take offence. his gay maidens, were they at this moment singing over some new madrigal prepared to greet him on his return? in an hour or two he should see them all running down the garden path to welcome him, from stately 'young margrett' to little toddling susanna. his wife, his own margaret, well he knew where she would be! watching for him from the lattice of their chamber, where she was ever the first to catch sight of him on his return, as she had been the last to bid him farewell on his departure. at this point the good judge's meditations were suddenly interrupted by his groom, who, spurring his horse on a level with his master's, pointed respectfully, with upraised whip, towards several moving specks that were hastening across the estuary. the softest bit of sand was over now, the travellers were reaching firmer ground, where it was possible to go at a quicker pace. setting spurs to his horse the judge hastened forward, his face flushing with an anxiety he took no pains to conceal. in those days, when posts were rare and letters difficult to get or to send, an absence of many weeks always meant the possibility of finding bad news at home on the return from a journey. 'heaven send they bring me no ill tidings!' judge fell said to himself as he cantered anxiously forward. before long, it was possible to make out that the moving specks were a little company of horsemen galloping towards them over the sands. a few minutes later the judge was surrounded by a group of breathless riders and panting horses, with bits and bridles flecked with foam. the judge's fears increased as he recognised all his most important neighbours. their excited faces also struck him with dread. 'you bring me bad news?' he had called out, as soon as the cavalcade came within earshot. at the answering shout, 'aye, the worst,' his heart had sunk like lead. and now here he was actually in their midst, and not one of them could speak. 'out with it, friends,' he commanded, 'let me know the worst. to whom hath evil happened? to my wife? my son? my daughters?' but even he was hardly prepared for the answer, low-breathed and muttering like a roll of thunder: 'to all.' 'to all!' cried the agonised father. 'impossible! they cannot all be dead!' again came the ominous rejoinder, 'worse, far worse,' and then, in a shout from half-a-dozen throats at once, 'far, far worse. they are all bewitched!' bewitched! that was indeed a word of ill-omen in those days, a word at which no man, be his position ever so exalted, could afford to smile. ever since the days of the first parliament of the first stuart king, the penalties for the sin of witchcraft had been made increasingly severe. although the country was now settling down into an uneasy peace, after the turmoil of the civil wars, still its witch hunts were even yet too recent a memory for a devoted husband and father to hear the fatal accusation breathed against his family without dismay. not all a woman's youth and beauty might always save her, if the hunt were keen. the judge's lips were tightly pressed together, but his unmoved countenance showed little of his inward alarm as he gazed on the faces round him. his courteous neighbours, who had ridden in such haste with the 'ill news' that 'travels fast,' which of them all should enlighten him? his neighbour captain sands? a jovial good-humoured man truly;--no, not he, he could not enter into a husband and father's deep anxiety, seeing that he was ever of a mocking disposition inwardly for all that he looked sober and scared enough now. his brother justice, john sawrey? instinctively judge fell recoiled from the thought. sawrey's countenance might be sober enough in good sooth, seeing he was a leader among professing puritans, but somehow judge fell had always mistrusted the pompous little man. even bad news would be worsened if he had to hear it from those lips. therefore it was with considerable relief that the good judge caught sight of a well-known figure riding up more slowly than the others, and now hovering on the outskirts of the group. 'the very man! my honoured neighbour priest lampitt! you, the priest of ulverston, will surely tell me what has befallen the members of my household, who are likewise members of your flock?' but the priest's face was even gloomier than that of the other gentlemen. in the fewest possible words, but with stinging emphasis, he told the judge that the news was indeed too true; his wife and young family, yea, and even the household servants had, one and all, been bewitched. at this the judge thought his wisest course was to laugh. 'nay, nay, good friends,' he said, 'that is too much! i know my wife. i trust her good sense utterly. still it is possible for even the wisest of women to lose her judgment at times. but as for my trusty steward thomas salthouse, the steadiest man i have ever had in my employ, if even old nick himself has managed to bewitch him, he must be a cleverer devil than i thought.' then drawing himself up proudly he added, 'so now, gentlemen, i will thank you to submit to me your evidence for these incredible and baseless allegations.' priest lampitt hastened to explain. he spoke with due respect of mistress fell, his 'honoured neighbour,' as he called her. ''tis her well-known kindness of heart that hath led her astray. she hath warmed a snake in her bosom, a wandering quaker preacher, who hath beguiled and corrupted both herself and her household.' 'a wandering, ranting quaker entertained in my house, during my absence!' judge fell had an even temper, but the rising flush on his forehead betokened the effort with which he kept his anger under control. 'i thank ye, gentles, for your news. my wife and i have ever right gladly given food and lodging to all true servants of the lord, but i will not have any quakers or ranters creeping into my house during my absence and nesting there, to set abroad such tales as ye have hastened to spread before me this day. even the wisest woman is but a woman still, and the sooner i reach home the better.' so saying he raised his hat, and set spurs to his horse. but little mr. justice sawrey, edging out of the group officiously, set spurs to his own horse and trotted after him. laying a restraining hand on his fellow justice's bridle, 'one moment more!' he entreated. ''tis best you should know all ere you return. not only at swarthmoor, at ulverston church also, hath this pestilential fellow caused a disturbance. it was on the saturday that he arrived at swarthmoor hall, and violently brawled with our good friend lampitt during mistress fell's absence from home.' a shade of relief crossed the judge's face, 'my wife absent! i might have sworn to it. the maidens are too young to have sober judgment.' 'nay, but listen,' continued sawrey, 'the day after he came to the hall was not only the sabbath but also a day of public humiliation. our good priest lampitt, seeing mistress fell surrounded by her family in the pew at church, trusted, as did we all, that she had sent the fellow packing speedily about his business. alack! no such thing, he was but prowling outside. no sooner did the congregation sing a hymn than in he came, and boldly standing on a form, asked leave to speak. our worthy priest, the soul of courtesy, consented. then, oh! the tedious discourse that fell on our ears, how that the hymn we had sung was entirely unsuited to our condition, with much talk of moses and of john, and i know not what besides, ending up in no less a place than the paradise of god! naturally, none of us, gentles, paid much attention. i crossed my legs and tried to sleep until the wearisome business should be ended. when, to my dismay, i was aroused by our honoured neighbour mistress fell standing upright on the seat of her pew, shrieking with a loud voice: "we are all thieves, we are all thieves!" this was after the ranter had finished. while he was yet speaking, she continued to gaze on him, so says my wife, as if she were drinking in every word. but afterwards, having loosed this exclamation about thieves (and she a justice's wife, forsooth!) she sat down in her pew once more and began to weep bitterly.' 'yes,' interrupted lampitt, who had also come alongside by this time, 'and he continued to pour forth foul speeches, how that god was come to teach his people by his own spirit, and to bring them off from all their old ways and religions and churches and worships, for that they were all out of the life and spirit, that they was in that gave them forth.... and so on, until our good friend here,' indicating sawrey, 'being a justice of the peace, called out to the churchwardens, "take him away, take the fellow away." whereat mistress fell must needs rise up again and say to the officers, "why may he not speak as well as any other? let him alone!" and i, willing to humour her----' 'yes, more fool you,' interrupted sawrey rudely, 'you must needs echo her, and cry, "let him alone!" else had i safely and securely clapped him into the stocks.' judge fell, who had listened with obviously growing impatience, now broke away from his vociferous companions. crying once more, 'i thank you, sirs, for your well-meant courtesy, but now i pray you to excuse me and allow me to hasten to my home,' he broke away from the restraining hands laid upon his bridle and galloped over the sands. his attendants, who had been waiting at a little distance just out of earshot, eagerly joined him, and the three figures gradually grew smaller and then disappeared into the distance. the other group of riders departed on their different ways homewards, well satisfied with their day's work. not without a parting shot from fat captain sands as they separated. raising his whip he said mockingly as he pointed at the judge's figure riding away in urgent haste: 'let us hope he may not find the fox too foxy when he expels him from his earth!' footnotes: [ ] 'being beloved,' the historian says, 'for his justice, wisdom, moderation, and mercy.' [ ] 'the sands are left uncovered at low water to a great extent; and travellers between lancaster and furness had formerly to cross from hest bank to ulverston by the route _brogged_ out by the guides; the brogs being branches of trees stuck in the sand to mark where the treacherous way was safest; a dreary distance of about miles.'--richardson, _furness_, i. . xi. the judge's return _'the cross being minded it makes a separation from all other lovers, and brings to god.'--g. fox._ _'give up to be crossed;_ that _is the way to please the lord and to follow him in his own will and way, whose way is the best.'--m. fell._ _'now here was a time of waiting, here is a time of receiving, here is a time of speaking; the holy ghost fell upon them, that they spoke the wonderful things of god.'--g. fox._ _'mind and consider well the spirit of christ in you, that's he that's lowly in you, that's just and lowly in you: mind this spirit in you, and then whither will you run, and forsake the lord of life? will you leave christ the fountain which should spring in you and hunt for yourselves? should you not abide within, and drink of that which springs freely, and feed on that which is pure, meek and lowly in spirit, that so you might grow spiritual men into the same spirit, to be as he is, the sheep of his pasture? for as is your pasture, so are you filled.... and you shall say no more, i am weak and can do nothing, but all things through him who gives you strength.'--james nayler._ xi. the judge's return not one of the six maidens ever remembered a home-coming over-clouded as was judge fell's on that thundery afternoon of late july. sadder, darker days lay before them in the years to follow, but none more filled with unacknowledged dread. was this sad, stern-looking man, who dismounted wearily from his horse at the high arched gate, really their indulgent father? he scarcely noticed or spoke to them, as he tramped heavily towards the house. 'he did not even raise an eye towards the window where my mother sits, as she hath ever sat, to welcome him,' young margrett noticed. the thunder rumbled ominously overhead. the first big drops fell from the gloomy clouds that had been gathering for hours; while upstairs, in her panelled chamber, a big tear splashed on the delicate cambric needlework that lay between the elder margaret's fingers, before she laid it aside and descended the shallow, oaken stairs to greet her husband. margaret fell looked older and sadder than on the afternoon under the yew-trees, only three weeks before. there was a new shade of care on her smooth forehead: yet there was a soft radiance about her that was also new. even her voice had gentler tones. she looked as if she had reached a haven, like a stately ship that, after long tossing in the waves, now feels itself safely anchored and at rest. happily she has left an account of the judge's return in her own words, words as fresh and vivid as if they had been written but yesterday, instead of more than two hundred and fifty years ago. we will take up her narrative at the point in ulverston church at which judge fell broke away from mr. justice sawrey when he was telling him the same tale from his point of view, on the glistening sands of the estuary of the leven. 'and there was one john sawrey,' writes mistress fell, 'a justice of peace and professor, that bid the church warden take him [george fox] away, and he laid hands on him several times, and took them off again, and let him alone; and then after awhile he gave over and he [g.f.] came to our house again that night. he spoke in the family amongst the servants, and they were all generally convinced; as william caton, thomas salthouse, mary askew, anne clayton, and several other servants. and i was struck into such a sadness, i knew not what to do, my husband being from home. i saw it was the truth, and i could not deny it; and i did as the apostle saith, "i received truth in the love of it;" and it was opened to me so clear, that i had never a tittle in my heart against it; but i desired the lord that i might be kept in it, and then i desired no greater portion.' 'he went on to dalton, aldingham, dendron and ramside chapels and steeple-houses, and several places up and down, and the people followed him mightily; and abundance were convinced and saw that that which he spoke was the truth, but the priests were in a rage. and about two weeks after james nayler and richard farnsworth followed him and enquired him out, till they came to swarthmoor, and there stayed awhile with me at our house, and did me much good; for i was under great heaviness and judgment. but the power of the lord entered upon me within about two weeks that he came, and about three weeks end my husband came home; and many were in a mighty rage, and a deal of the captains and great ones of the country went to meet my then husband as he was coming home, and informed him "that a great disaster was befallen amongst his family, and that they were witches; and that they had taken us away out of our religion; and that he must either set them away, or all the country would be undone."' 'so my husband came home, greatly offended; and any may think what a condition i was like to be in, that either i must displease my husband or offend god; for he was very much troubled with us all in the house and family, they had so prepossessed him against us. but james nayler and richard farnsworth were both then at our house, and i desired them both to come and speak to him, and so they did very moderately and wisely; but he was at first displeased with them until they told him "they came in love and goodwill to his house." and after that he had heard them speak awhile, he was better satisfied, and they offered as if they would go away; but i desired them to stay and not go away yet, for george fox will come this evening. and i would have had my husband to have heard them all, and satisfied himself further about them, because they [_i.e._ the neighbours] had so prepossessed him against them of such dangerous fearful things in his first coming home. and then he was pretty moderate and quiet, and his dinner being ready he went to it, and i went in, and sate me down by him. and whilst i was sitting, the power of the lord seized upon me, and he was struck with amazement, and knew not what to think; but was quiet and still. and the children were all quiet and still, and grown sober, and could not play on their musick that they were learning; and all these things made him quiet and still.' 'at night george fox came: and after supper my husband was sitting in the parlour, and i asked him, "if george fox might come in?" and he said, "yes." so george came in without any compliment, and walked into the room, and began to speak presently; and the family, and james nayler, and richard farnsworth came all in; and he spoke very excellently as ever i heard him, and opened christ's and the apostles' practices, which they were in, in their day. and he opened the night of apostacy since the apostles' days, and laid open the priests and their practices in the apostacy that if all england had been there, i thought they could not have denied the truth of these things. and so my husband came to see clearly the truth of what he spoke, and was very quiet that night, said no more and went to bed. the next morning came lampitt, priest of ulverston, and got my husband in the garden, and spoke much to him there, but my husband had seen so much the night before, that the priest got little entrance upon him.... after awhile the priest went away; this was on the sixth day of the week, about the fifth month (july) . and at our house divers friends were speaking to one another, how there were several convinced hereaways and we could not tell where to get a meeting: my husband being also present, he overheard and said of his own accord, "you may meet here, if you will:" and that was the first meeting that we had that he offered of his own accord. and then notice was given that day and the next to friends, and there was a good large meeting the first day, which was the first meeting that was at swarthmoor, and so continued there a meeting from till [when the present meeting-house, given by george fox, was built]. and my husband went that day to the steeple-house, and none with him but his clerk and his groom that rid with him; and the priest and the people were all fearfully troubled; but praised be the lord, they never got their wills upon us to this day.' george fox in his journal also records his first eventful interview with judge fell as follows: 'i found that the priests and professors and justice sawrey had much incensed judge fell against the truth with their lies; but when i came to speak with him i answered all his objections, and so thoroughly satisfied him by the scriptures that he was convinced in his judgment. he asked me "if i was that george fox whom justice robinson spoke so much in commendation of among many of the parliament men?" i told him i had been with justice robinson and justice hotham, in yorkshire, who were very civil and loving to me. after we had discoursed a pretty while together, judge fell himself was satisfied also, and came to see, by the openings of the spirit of god in his heart, over all the priests and teachers of the world, and did not go to hear them for some years before he died. he sometimes wished i was awhile with judge bradshaw to discourse with him.' this was judge bradshaw the regicide, and, coming as it did from such a friend of cromwell's as judge fell, the remark was probably a high compliment. the following year, , george fox came again to swarthmoor, where he says he had 'great openings from the lord, not only of divine and spiritual matters, but also of outward things relating to the civil government. being one day in swarthmoor hall when judge fell and justice benson were talking of the news in the newsbook, and of the parliament then sitting, (called the long parliament) i was moved to tell them, "before that day two weeks the parliament should be broken up, and the speaker plucked out of his chair"; and that day two weeks justice benson told judge fell that now he saw that george was a true prophet, for oliver had broken up the parliament.' although judge fell never actually joined friends he was their constant protector and helper, and, in the words of fox, 'a wall to the believers.' if he did not himself attend the meetings in the great hall at swarthmoor, he was wont to leave the door open as he sat in his justice's chair in his little oak-panelled study close at hand, and thus hear all that was said, himself unseen. how entirely his wife had regained his confidence, and how entirely lampitt and sawrey had failed to poison his mind against her or her new teacher, is shown by the following letter written about this time, when the judge was away on one of his frequent absences. it is the only letter to judge fell from his wife that has been preserved, but it is ample assurance that no shadow had dimmed the unclouded love of this devoted husband and wife. 'dear husband,' margaret writes, 'my dear love and tender desires to the lord run forth for thee. i have received a letter this day from you, and am very glad that the lord carried you on your journey so prosperously.... dear heart, mind the lord above all, with whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning, and who will overturn all powers that stand before him.... we sent to my dear brother james nayler and he is kept very close and cannot be suffered to have any fire. he is not free to eat of the jailor's meat, so they eat very little but bread and water. he writ to us that they are plotting again to get more false witnesses to swear against him things that he never spoke. i sent him lb., but he took but [shillings?]. they are mighty violent in westmorland and all parts everywhere towards us. they bid lb. to any man that will take george anywhere that they can find him within westmorland.... the children are all in health, praised be the lord. george is not with us now, but he remembered his dear love to thee.... 'thy dutiful wife till death, margaret fell.' 'swarthmoor, feb. , .' but whether margaret fell ever entirely forgave justice sawrey for the part he had played in trying to alienate her husband from her, is, to say the least, doubtful. anyhow, later on she wrote of him as 'a catterpillar which shall be swept out of the way.' and 'swept out of the way' he eventually was, some years later, when it is recorded that 'he was drowned in a puddle upon the road coming from york.' but he was to have time and opportunity to do much harm to friends, and especially to george fox, before that happened, as the next two stories will show. xii. 'strike again!' _'ulverston consisted of thatched one storied houses, many old shops, gabled buildings standing out towards the street on pillars beneath which neighbours sheltered and gossipped. on market days these projections were filled with goods to tempt gentry and yeomanry to open their purse-strings.'--from 'home life in north lonsdale.'_ _'by the year "the man with the leather breeches" as he was called, had become a celebrity throughout england, with scattered converts and adherents everywhere, but voted a pest and a terror by the public authorities, the regular steeple-house clergy, whether presbyterian or independent, and the appointed preachers of all the old sects.'--d. masson._ _'for in those days the high and proud professors and persecutors were generally bitterly set against the people called quakers, when presbytery and independency swimmed and floated in possession, and with their long lectures against us cried out, "these are the antichrists come in the last times"'--g. whitehead._ _'for in all things he acquitted himself like a man, yea, a strong man, a new and heavenly-minded man.'--w. penn of george fox._ xii. 'strike again!' 'love, wisdom, and patience will overcome all that is not of god.'--g. fox. by the side of even a low mountain the tallest tower looks small. the fells that shelter the old market town of ulverston from northerly winds are not lofty compared with the range of giants that lies behind them in the distance, coniston old man, sca fell, skiddaw, helvellyn, and their brethren. but the fells are high enough to make the tall old church tower of ulverston look small and toy-like as it rises under their shadow above the thatched roofs of the old town. swarthmoor hall stands on a level plateau on the other side of ulverston; and it was from swarthmoor hall, through a wooded glen by the side of the stream, that george fox came down to ulverston church, one 'lecture day' at the end of september . on a 'lecture day' a sermon lasting for several hours was delivered by an appointed teacher; and when that was finished, anyone who had listened to it was free to rise and deliver a message in his turn if he wished to do so. in those days, as there were no clocks or watches in churches, the length of the sermon was measured by turning an hour-glass, until all the sand had run out, a certain number of times. children, and perhaps grown-up people too, must often have watched the sand with longing eyes when a sermon of several hours' length was in process. on this particular day, priest lampitt was the appointed preacher. lampitt had never forgiven fox for having persuaded so many of his hearers, and especially the important ladies of swarthmoor, to forsake their parish church, and assemble for their own service at home. his feelings may be imagined, therefore, when, his own sermon ended, he saw george fox get up and begin to preach in his turn. george fox says, 'on a lecture day i was moved to go to ulverston steeple-house, where there was an abundance of professors and priests,[ ] and people. and i went up near to lampitt who was blustering on in his preaching, and the lord opened my mouth to speak.' now among the 'abundance of people' who were present in the church was that same mr. justice sawrey, 'the catterpillar,' of whom the last two stories tell. as soon as george fox opened his mouth and began to preach, up bustled the justice to him, with a patronising air, and said, 'now, my good fellow, you may have my permission to speak in this church, so long as you speak according to the scriptures.' like lightning, george fox turned round on the high step where he was standing near to priest lampitt, and saw at his elbow the little pompous justice, his face flushed, full of fussiness about his own dignity and anxious to arrange everything according to his own ideas. george fox, who felt he had a message from god to deliver, had no intention of being interrupted by any man in this way. 'i stranged at him,' says fox, 'for speaking so to me!' 'stranged' is an unfamiliar word, no longer used in modern english. it sounds as if it meant something very fierce, and calls up a picture of george fox glaring at his antagonist or trying to shout him down. in reality it only means that fox was astonished at his strange behaviour. 'i stranged at him and told him that i would speak according to the scriptures, and bring the scriptures to prove what i had to say, for i had something to say to lampitt and to them.' 'you shall do nothing of the kind,' said mr. justice sawrey, contradicting his own words of the moment before, that fox might speak so long as he spoke according to the scriptures. fox paid no attention to this injunction, but went on calmly with his sermon. at first the congregation listened quietly. but fox had made a new enemy and a powerful one. the little justice would not be ignored in this way. he whispered to one and another in the congregation, 'don't listen to this fellow. why should he air his notions in our fine church? beat him! stop his mouth! duck him in the pond! teach him that the men of ulverston are sensible fellows, and not to be led astray by a ranting quaker!' these suggestions had their effect. possibly the congregation agreed with the speaker. possibly also, they knew that the little justice, though short of stature, was of long memory and an ill man to offend. moreover, a magistrate's favour is a useful thing to have at all times. perhaps if they hunted mr. justice sawrey's quarry for him in the daytime, he would be more likely to turn a blind eye the next moonlight night that they were minded to go out snaring other game, with fur and feathers, in the justice's own park! anyhow, faces began to grow threatening as the quaker's discourse proceeded. presently loud voices were raised. still the calm tones flowed on unheeding. at length, clenched fists were raised; and, at the sight, the smile on the justice's face visibly broadened. nodding his head emphatically, he seemed to be saying, 'on, men, on!' till at length, like sparks fanned by a bellows, the congregation's ill-humour suddenly burst into a flame of rage. when at length rough hands fell upon the quaker's shoulders and set all his alchemy buttons a-jingling, mr. justice sawrey leaned against the back of his high wooden pew, crossed his legs complacently, and laughed long and loud at the joke. the crowd took this as a sign that they might do as they chose. they fell upon fox, knocked him down, and finally trampled upon him, under the justice's own eyes. the uproar became so great that the quieter members of the congregation were terrified, 'and the people fell over their seats for fear.' at length the justice bethought himself that such behaviour as this in a church was quite illegal, since a man had been sentenced, before now, to lose his hand as a punishment for even striking his neighbour within consecrated walls. he began to feel uneasily that even the excellent sport of quaker-baiting might be carried too far inside the church. he came forward, therefore, and without difficulty rescued george fox from the hands of his tormentors. but he had not finished with the quaker yet. leading him outside the church, he there formally handed him over to the constables, saying, 'take the fellow. thrash him soundly and turn him out of the town,' adding, perhaps, under his breath, 'and teach him to behave with greater respect hereafter to a justice of the peace!' george fox describes in his own words what happened next. 'they led me,' says the journal, 'about a quarter of a mile, some taking hold of my collar, and some by the arms and shoulders, and shook and dragged me, and some got hedge-stakes and holme bushes and other staffs. and many friendly people that was come to the market, and had come into the steeple-house to hear me, many of them they knocked down and broke their heads also, and the blood ran down several people so as i never saw the like in my life, as i looked at them when they were dragging me along. and judge fell's son, running after me to see what they would do to me, they threw him into a ditch of water and cried, "knock the teeth out of his head!"' once well away from the town, apparently, the constables were content to let their prisoner go, knowing that they might trust their fellow-townsmen to finish the job with right good will. the mob yelled with joy to find their prey in their hands at last. with one accord they fell upon fox, and endeavoured to pull him down, much as, at the huntsman's signal, a pack of hounds sets upon his four-footed namesake with a bushy tail. the constables and officers, too, continued to assist. giving him some final blows with willow-rods they thrust fox 'amid the rude multitude, and they then fell upon me as aforesaid with their stakes and clubs and beat me on the head and arms and shoulders, until at last,' their victim says, 'they mazed me, and i fell down upon the wet common.' the crowd had won! george fox was down at last! he lay, bruised and fainting, on the wet moss of the common on the far side of the town. yes, there he lay for a few moments, stunned, bruised, bleeding, beaten nigh to death. only for a few moments, no longer. very soon his consciousness returned. finding himself helpless on the watery common with the savage mob glowering over him, he says, 'i lay a little still without attempting to rise. then suddenly the power of the lord sprang through me, and the eternal refreshings revived me, so that i stood up again in the eternal power of god, and stretched out my arms among them all and said with a loud voice: "strike again! here are my arms, my head, my cheeks!"' whatever would he do next? what sort of a man was this? the rough fellows in the circle around him insensibly drew back a little, and looked in each other's faces with surprise, as they tried to read the riddle of this disconcerting behaviour. the quaker would not show fight! he was actually giving them leave to set upon him and beat him again! all in a minute, what had hitherto seemed like rare sport began to be rather poor fun. 'there's no sense in thrashing a man who doesn't strike back! better leave the fellow alone!' some of the more decent-minded whispered to each other in undertones, and then slunk away ashamed. only one man, a mason, well known as the bully of the town, knew no shame. 'strike again, sayest thou, quaker?' he thundered. 'hast had none but soft blows hitherto? faith then, i will strike in good earnest this time.' so saying, the mason brought a thick wooden rule that he was carrying down on the outstretched hand before him, with a savage blow that might have felled an ox. after the first shock of agonising pain george fox lost all feeling from his finger-tips right up to his shoulder. when he tried to draw the wounded hand back to his side he could not do it. the paralysed nerves refused to carry the message of the brain. 'the mason hath made a good job of it this time,' jeered a mocking voice from the crowd. 'the quaker hath lost the use of his right hand for ever.' for ever! terrible words. george fox was but a young man still. was he indeed to go through life maimed, without the use of his right hand? the bravest man might have shrunk from such a prospect; but george fox did not shrink, because he did not happen to be thinking of himself at all. his hand was not his own. not it alone but his whole body also had been given, long ago, to the service of his master. they belonged to him. therefore if that master should need the right hand of his servant to be used in his service, his power could be trusted to make it whole. thus fox trusted, and not in vain; since all the while, no thoughts of vengeance or hatred to those who had injured him were able to find even a moment's lodging in his heart. 'so as the people cried out, "he hath spoiled his hand for ever having any use of it more," i looked at it in the love of god and i was in the love of god to all them that had persecuted me. and after a while the lord's power sprang through my hand and arm and through me, that in a minute i recovered my hand and arm and strength in the face and sight of them all.' this miracle, as it seemed to them, overawed the rough mob for a moment. but some of the greedier spirits saw a chance of making a good thing out of the afternoon's work for themselves. they came to fox and said if he would give them some money they would defend him from the others, and he should go free. but fox would not hear of such a thing. he 'was moved of the lord to declare unto them the word of life, and how they were more like jews and heathens and not like christians.' thus, instead of thankfully slinking away and disappearing up the hill by a by-path to the friendly shelter of swarthmoor, fox strode boldly back into the centre of the town of ulverston with his persecutors, like a crowd of whipped dogs, following him at his heels. yet still they snarled and showed their teeth at times, as if to say, they would have him yet if they dared. right into ulverston market-place he came, and a stranger sight the old grey town, with its thatched roofs and timbered houses, had surely never seen. in the middle of the market-place the one other courageous man in the town came up to him. this was a soldier, carrying a sword. 'sir,' said this gallant gentleman, as he met the bruised and bleeding quaker, 'i am ashamed that you, a stranger, should have been thus ill-treated and abused, for you are a man, sir,' said he. fox nodded, and a smile like wintry sunshine stole over his worn face. silently he held out his hand. the soldier grasped it. 'in truth, i am grieved,' he repeated, 'grieved and ashamed that you should have been treated like this at ulverston. gladly will i assist you myself as far as i can against these cowards, who are not ashamed to set upon an unarmed man, forty to one, and drag him down.' 'no matter for that, friend,' said fox, 'they have no power to harm me, for the lord's power is over all.' with these words he turned and crossed the crowded market-place again, on his way to leave the town, and not one of the people dared to touch him. but, as everyone prefers both to be defended himself and to defend others with those weapons in which he himself puts most trust, the soldier very naturally followed fox, in case 'the lord's power' might also need the assistance of his trusty sword. the mob, seeing fox well protected, turned, like the cowards they were, and fell upon the other 'friendly people' who were standing defenceless in the market-place and beat them instead. their meanness enraged the soldier. leaving fox, he turned and ran upon the mob in his turn, his naked rapier shining in his hand. 'my trusty sword shall teach these cravens a lesson at last,' he thought. quick as he was, fox was quicker. he, too, had turned at the noise, and seeing his defender running at the crowd, and the sunshine dancing down the steel blade as it gleamed in the air, he also ran, and dashed up the soldier's weapon before it had time to descend. then taking firm hold of the man's right hand, sword and all, 'thou must put up thy sword, friend,' he commanded, 'if thou wilt come along with me.' half sulkily, and wholly disappointed, the soldier, in spite of himself, obeyed. but he insisted on accompanying fox to the outskirts of the town. 'you will be safe now, sir,' he said, and sweeping his plumed hat respectfully on the ground, as he bowed low to his new friend, the two parted. nevertheless, not many days thereafter this very gallant gentleman paid for his chivalrous conduct. no less than seven men fell upon him at once, and beat him cruelly 'for daring to take the quaker's part.' 'for it was the custom of this country to run twenty or forty people upon one man,' adds the journal, with quiet scorn. 'and they fell so upon friends in many places, that they could hardly pass the high ways, stoning and beating and breaking their heads.' but of the punishment in store for his defender, fox was happily ignorant that hot afternoon of the riot, as he followed the peaceful brook through its sheltered glen, and so came up again at last, after his rough handling, to friendly swarthmoor, where young george fell, escaped from his persecutors and the miry ditch, had arrived before him. 'and there they were, dressing the heads and hands of friends and friendly people that were broken that day by the professors and hearers of priest lampitt,' writes fox. 'and my body and arms were yellow, black and blue with the blows and bruises i received among them that day.' footnotes: [ ] remember always that by 'priest' george fox only means a man of any form of religion who was paid for preaching. lampitt was probably an independent. 'professors,' as we have already seen, are the people usually called 'puritans, who 'professed' or made a great show of being very religious.' xiii. magnanimity _'magnanimity ... includes all that belongs to a great soul. a high and mighty courage, an invincible patience, an immovable grandeur; which is above the reach of injuries; a high and lofty spirit allayed with the sweetness of courtesy and respect: a deep and stable resolution founded on humilitie without any baseness ... a generous confidence, and a great inclination to heroical deeds; all these conspire to compleat it, with a severe and mighty expectation of bliss incomprehensible...._ _'a magnanimous soul is always awake. the whole globe of the earth is but a nutshell in comparison with its enjoyments. the sun is its lamp, the sea its fishpond, the stars its jewels, men, angels, its attendance, and god alone its sovereign delight and supreme complacency.... nothing is great if compared with a magnanimous soul but the sovereign lord of all the worlds.'--rev. thomas traherne (a contemporary of g. fox)._ _'they threw stones upon me that were so great, that i did admire they did not kill us; but so mighty was the power of the lord, that they were as a nut or a bean to my thinking.'--thomas briggs, ._ xiii. magnanimity beloved swarthmoor! dear home, where kind hearts abode, where gentle faces and tender hands were ever ready to welcome and bind up the wounds, both visible and invisible, of any persecuted guest in those troubled times. surely, after his terrible experiences on the day of the riot at ulverston, george fox would yield to the entreaties of his entertainers, and allow himself to be persuaded to rest in peace under the shadow of the swarthmoor yew-trees, until the bloodthirsty fury against all who bore the name of quaker, and against himself in particular, should have somewhat lessened in the neighbourhood? far from it. to 'flee from storms' was never this strong man's way.[ ] gentle reeds and delicate grasses may bow as the storm-wind rushes over them. the sturdy oak-tree, with its tough roots grappling firmly underground, stubbornly faces the blast. george fox, 'ever stiff as a tree,' by the admission even of his enemies, barely waited for his 'yellow, black and blue' bruises to disappear before he came forth again to encounter his foes. certain priests had however taken advantage of this short enforced absence to 'put about a prophecy' that he had disappeared for good, and 'that within a year all these quakers would be utterly put down.' great, therefore, must have been their chagrin to hear, only a short fortnight after the lecture day at ulverston, that the hated 'man in leather breeches' was off once more on his dangerous career. fox's companion on this journey was that same james nayler who had followed him on his first visit to swarthmoor, a few weeks previously. nayler was one of the most brilliantly gifted of all those early comrades of george fox, who were hereafter to earn the name of 'the valiant sixty.' clouds and sorrows were to separate the two friends in years to come, but at this time they were united in heart and soul, both alike given up to the joyful service of 'publishing truth.' the object of their journey was to visit another recent convert, james lancaster by name, in his home on the island of walney that lies off the furness coast. on the way thither the travellers spent one night at a small town on the mainland called cockan. here, as usual, they held a meeting with the inhabitants of the place, in order to proclaim the message that possessed them. their words had already convinced one of their hearers, and more converts to the truth might have followed, when suddenly, at a low window of the hall where they were assembled, a man's figure appeared, threatening the audience with a loaded pistol which he carried in his hand. as this pistol was pointed, first at one and then at another of george fox's listeners, all the terrified people sprang to their feet and rushed through the doors of the hall as fast as their legs could carry them. their alarm was natural; probably most, if not all of them, had seen fire-arms used in grim earnest before this, for the period of the civil wars was too recent to have faded from anyone's memory. 'i am not after you, ye timid sheep,' shouted the man with the pistol as the scared people fled past him. 'it is that deceiver who is leading you all astray that i have to do with. come out and meet me, george fox,' he shouted, 'if you call yourself a man.' there was no need to ask twice. 'here i am, friend,' answered a quiet voice, as the well-known figure, in its wide white hat, long coat, leather breeches and doublet, and girdle with alchemy buttons, appeared standing in the doorway. then, passing calmly through it, george fox drew up scarce three paces from his assailant--his body making a large target at close range that it would be impossible to miss. the frightened people paused in their flight to watch. were they going to see the quaker slain? the stranger raised his pistol; he aimed carefully. not a muscle of fox's countenance quivered. not an eyelash moved. the trigger snapped.... nothing happened! the pistol did not go off. as if by a miracle the quaker was saved. seeing this wonderful escape of their leader, some of the other men's courage returned. they rushed back to assist him. they threw themselves upon his assailant and wrenched the pistol from his hand, vowing he should do no further mischief. fox, seeing in his adversary, not an enemy who had just sought his life, but a fellow-man with a 'seed of god' hidden somewhere within him and therefore a possible soul to be won, was 'moved in the lord's power to speak to him; and he was struck with the lord's power' (small wonder!) 'so that he went and hid himself in a cellar and trembled for fear. 'and so the lord's power came over them all, though there was a great rage in the country.' the journal continues (but it was written many years later, remember, when the account of what had happened could not bring anyone into trouble): 'and ye next morning i went over in a boat to james lancaster's, and as soon as i came to land there rushed out about forty men, with staffs, clubs, and fishing-poles, and fell upon me with them, beating, punching, and thrust me backwards into the sea. and when they had thrust me almost into the sea, i stood up and went into the middle of them again, but they all laid on me again and knocked me down and mazed me. and when i was down and came to myself, i looked up and saw james lancaster's wife throwing stones at my face, and her husband lying over me, to keep the stones and blows off me. for the people had persuaded james's wife that i had bewitched her husband, and had promised her that if she would let them know when i came hither they would be my death. 'so at last i got up in the power of god over them all, and they beat me down into the boat. and so james lancaster came into the boat to me and so he set me over the water. 'and james nayler we saw afterwards that they were beating of him. for while they were beating of me, he walked up into a field, and they never minded him till i was gone, and then they fell upon him, and all their cry was "kill him!" "kill him!" when i was come over to the town again, on the other side of the water, the townsmen rose up with pitchforks, flails, and staves to keep me out of the town, crying, "kill him! knock him on the head! bring the cart and carry him to the churchyard." and so they abused me and guarded me with all those weapons a pretty way out of the town, and there at last, the lord's power being over them all, they left me. then james lancaster went back again to look for james nayler. so i was alone and came to a ditch of water and washed me, for they had all dirted me, and wet and mired my clothes, my hands and my face. 'i walked a matter of three miles to thomas hutton's, where thomas lawson the priest lodged, who was convinced. and i could hardly speak to them when i came in i was so bruised. and so i told them where i had left james nayler, and they went and took each of them a horse, and brought him thither that night. and i went to bed, but i was so weak with bruises that i was not able to turn me. and the next day, they hearing of it at swarthmoor, they sent a horse for me. and as i was riding the horse knocked his foot against a stone and stumbled, so that it shook me so and pained me, as it seemed worse to me than all the blows, my body was so tortured. so i came to swarthmoor, and my body was exceedingly bruised.' even within the sheltering walls of swarthmoor, this time persecution followed. justice sawrey had not yet forgiven the quaker for his behaviour on the day of the riot. he must have further punishment. so right up to swarthmoor itself came constables with a warrant signed by two justices (sawrey of course being one of them), that a certain man named george fox was to be apprehended as a disturber of the peace. and clapped into gaol george fox would have been, wounded and bruised as he was, in spite of all that his gentle hostesses could do to prevent it, had it not happened that, just as the constables arrived to execute this order, the master of the house, good judge fell himself, must needs return once more, in the very nick of time, home to swarthmoor. his mere presence was a defence. he had been away again on circuit all this time that george fox had been so cruelly treated in the neighbourhood, and had therefore known nothing of the rioting during his absence. now that he was back at home again, straightway everything went well. the roof seemed to grow all at once more sheltering, the walls of the old hall to become thicker and more able to protect its inmates, when once the master of the house was safely at home once more. the six girls ran up and down stairs more lightly, smiling with relief whenever they met each other in the rooms and passages. long afterwards, in the troubled years that were to follow, when there was no indulgent father to protect them and their mother and their friends from the bitter blast of persecution, many a time did the maidens of swarthmoor recall that day. they remembered how, weeping, they had run down to the high arched gate of the orchard to meet their father, and to tell him what was a-doing up at the hall. thus they drew near the house, the judge's dark figure half hidden among his muslined maidens, even as the dark old yews are hidden in spring by the snowy-blossomed apple-trees. when they saw the judge himself coming towards them, the constables drawn up in the courtyard began to look mighty foolish. they approached with gestures of respect, giving a short account of what had happened at walney, and holding out the warrant, signed by two justices, as an apology for their presence at judge fell's own hall during his absence. all their excuses availed them little. judge fell could look stern enough when he chose, and now his eyes flashed at this invasion of his home. 'what brings you here, men? a warrant for the apprehension of george fox, _my guest_? are my brother justices not aware then that i am a justice too, and vice-chancellor of the county to boot? under this roof a man is safe, were he fifty times a quaker. but, since ye are here' (this with a nod and a wink, as the constables followed the judge up the flagged path and by a side door into his oak-panelled study), 'since ye are here, men, i will give you other warrants a-plenty to execute instead. those riotous folk at walney island are well known to me of old. it is high time they were punished. take this, and see that the ringleaders who assaulted my guest are themselves clapped into lancaster gaol forthwith.' well pleased to get off with nothing but a reprimand, the constables departed, and carried out their new mission with right good will. the rioters were apprehended, and some of them were forced to flee from the country. in time james lancaster's wife came to understand better the nature of the 'witchcraft' that george fox had used upon her husband. she too was 'convinced of truth.' later on, after she had herself become a friend, she must often have looked back with remorse to the sad day when her husband had been forced to defend his loved and revered teacher with his own body from her blows and stones. meanwhile at swarthmoor there had been great rejoicing over the discomfiture of the constables. no sooner had they departed down the flagged path than back flitted the bevy of girls again into the study, until the small room was full to overflowing. it was like seeing a company of fat bumble-bees, their portly bodies resplendent in black and gold, buzz heavily out of a room, and a gay flight of pale-blue and lemon butterflies flit back in their places. all the daughters fell upon their father, margaret, bridget, isabel, sarah, mary, and susanna; there they all were! tugging off his heavy riding-boots and gaiters, putting away the whip on the whip-rack, while little mary perched herself proudly on his knee and put up her face for a kiss; and, all the time, such a talk went on as never was about friend george fox and the sufferings he had undergone, each girl telling the story over and over again. 'now, now, maids!' said the kind father at last, 'i have heard enough of your chatter. it is time for you to depart and send mr. fox hither to me himself. 'tis a stirring tale, even told by maidens' lips; i would fain hear it at greater length from the man himself. he shall tell me, in his own words, all that he hath suffered, and the vile usage he hath met with at the hands of his enemies.' a few minutes later, a steady step was heard crossing the hall and ascending the two shallow stairs that led to the justice's private sanctum. as george fox entered the room judge fell rose from his seat at the writing-table to receive his guest, and clasped his hand with a hearty greeting. the study at swarthmoor is only a small room; but when those two strong men were both in it together, facing each other with level brows and glances of unclouded trust, the small room seemed suddenly to grow larger and more spacious. it was swept through by the wide free airs of heaven, where full-grown spirits can meet and recognise one another unhindered. they disagreed often, these two determined, powerful men. they owned different loyalties and held different opinions; but from the day they first met to the day they parted they respected and trusted one another wholly, and for this each man in his heart gave thanks to god. george fox began by asking his host how his affairs had prospered; but when, these enquiries answered, the judge in his turn questioned his guest of the rough usage he had met with both at ulverston and in the island of walney, to his surprise no details were forthcoming. had the judge not had full particulars from his daughters as well as from the constables, he would have thought that nothing of much moment had occurred. george fox apparently took no interest in the subject; the most he would say, in answer to his host's repeated enquiries, was that 'the people could do no other, in the spirit in which they were. they did but show the fruits of their priest's ministry and their profession and religion to be wrong.' 'i' faith, margaret, thy friend is a right generous man,' the good judge remarked to his wife, that same night, a few hours later, when they were at length alone together in their chamber. the festoons of interlaced roses and lilies, carved in high relief on the high black oak fireplace, shone out clearly in the glow of two tall candles above their heads. 'in truth, dear heart,' he continued, taking his wife's hand in his, and drawing her fondly to him, 'in truth, though i said not so to him, the quaker doth manifest the fruits of his religion to be right, by his behaviour to his foes. all stiff and bruised though he was, he made nothing of his injuries. when i would have enquired after his hurts, he would only say the power of the lord had surely healed him. for the rest, he made nothing of it, and spoke as a man who had not been concerned.' footnotes: [ ] 'flee from storms' is a motto in the note-book of leonardo da vinci. xiv. miles halhead and the haughty lady _'many a notable occurrence miles halhead had in his life.... but his going thus often from home was a great cross to his wife, who in the first year of his change, not being of his persuasion, was often much troubled in her mind, and would often say from discontent, "would to god i had married a drunkard, then i might have found him at the alehouse; but now i cannot tell where to find my husband."'--sewel._ _to friends--to take care of such as suffer for owning the truth._ _'and that if any friends be oppressed any manner of way, others may take care to help them: and that all may be as one family, building up one another and helping one another.'_ _'and, friends, go not into the aggravating part to strive with it, lest you do hurt to your souls, and run into the same nature; for patience must get the victory, and it answers to that of god in everyone and will bring everyone from the contrary. so let your temperance and moderation and patience be known to all.'--george fox._ _'non tristabit justum quidquid si accederit.'_ _'whatever happens to the righteous man it shall not heavy him.'--richard rolle. ._ xiv. miles halhead and the haughty lady a plain, simple man was miles halhead, the husbandman of mountjoy. ten years older than fox was he, and wise withal, so that men wondered to see him forsake his home and leave wife and child at the call of the quaker's preaching, and go forth instead to become a preacher of the gospel. yet, truth to tell, the change was natural and easily explained. all his life miles had had to do with seeds buried in the ground. therefore when he heard george fox preach at his home near underbarrow in westmorland, telling all men to consider 'that as the fallow ground in their fields must be ploughed up before it would bear seed to them, so must the fallow ground of their hearts be ploughed up before they could bear seed to god,' miles' own past experience as a husbandman bore witness to the truth of this doctrine. his whole nature sprang forward to receive it; and thus, in a short while, he was mightily convinced. now at that time there were, as we know, many companies of seekers scattered up and down the pleasant westmorland dales. miles himself had been one of such a group, but now, having found that which he had aforetime been a-seeking, nought was of any value to him, but that his old companions should likewise cease to be seekers, and become also in their turn finders. yet miles wondered often how such an one as he should be able to convince them. for he was neither skilful nor ready of tongue, nor of a commanding presence like friend george fox, but only a simple husbandman. still he was wary in his discourse, from his long watching of the faces of earth and sky--full also he was of a most convincing silence; and, though as yet he had proved it not, staunch to suffer for his faith. it was said of him that 'his testimony was plaine and powerful, he being a plain simple man.' thus miles halhead began to preach the gospel, at first only in the hamlets and valleys round his home at underbarrow near to kendal. but one day when the daffodils were all abloom, and blowing their golden trumpets silently beside the sheltered streams, it came to him that he must take a further journey, and must follow the golden paths of the daffodils over hill and vale, until at the end of this street of gold he should come to swarthmoor hall; that there he might assist his friends at their meeting, and with them be strengthened and have his soul refreshed. a walk of seventeen miles or so lay before him, and an easy journey it should prove in this gay springtime, though in winter, when the snow lay drifted on the uplands, it would have been another matter. he could have travelled by the sheltered road that runs through the valley. it being springtime, however, and a sunny day when miles set out from his home, he chose for pure pleasure to go by the fells. first, he travelled across the westmorland country till he came to the lower end of lake winandermere, where the hills lie gently round like giants' children, being not yet full grown into giants themselves with brows that touch the sky, as they are at the upper end of that same shining lake. then, leaving winandermere, across the furness fells he came, keeping ever on his right hand the old man of coniston, who, with his head for the most part wrapped in clouds, standeth yet, as he hath stood for ages, the guardian of all that region. thus at length, as miles journeyed, he came within sight of the promontory of furness, that lies encircled by the sea, even as a babe's head lies in the crook of a woman's elbow. seeing this, miles' heart rejoiced, for he knew that his journey's end was in sight, and he tramped along blithely and without fear. suddenly, on the path at some distance ahead of him, he saw a patch of brilliant green and purple coming towards him--a gay figure more likely to be met with in the streets of london than on those lonely fells. miles thought to himself as it drew nearer, ''tis a woman!' then, 'nay, it is surely a great thistle coming towards me; no woman would wear garments such as those in this lonely place.' as he shaded his eyes the better to see what might be approaching, his mind ran back to the first sermon he had ever heard george fox preach, on his first visit to underbarrow, when he said, 'that all people in the fall were gone from the image of god, righteousness and holiness, and were degenerated into the nature of beasts, of serpents, of tall cedars, of oaks, of bulls and of heifers.' ... 'some were in the nature of dogs and swine, biting and rending; some in the nature of briars, thistles and thorns; some like the owls and dragons in the night; some like the wild asses and horses snuffing up the wind; and some like the mountains and rocks, and crooked and rough ways.' 'i was not certain of his meaning when i first heard him utter these words,' simple miles thought to himself, 'but now that i see this fine thistle coming towards me, i begin to understand him. haply it is but a thistle in outer seeming, and carries within the nature of a lily or a rose.' even as he thought of this, the thistle came yet nearer, and when he could see it more plainly he feared that neither lily nor rose was there, but a thistle full of prickles in very truth. it was indeed a woman, but clad in more gorgeous raiment than miles had ever seen. green satin was her robe, slashed with pale yellow silk, marvellous to behold. but it was the hat that drew miles' gaze, for though newly come to be a quaker preacher, he had been a husbandman long enough to be swift to notice the garb of all growing, living things, whether they were flowers or dames. truly the hat was marvellous, of a bright purple satin, and crowned with such a tuft of tall feathers that the wearer's face could scarcely be seen beneath its shade. dressed all in gaudy style was this fine madam; and, as she passed miles, she tilted up her head and drew her skirts disdainfully together, lest they should be soiled by his approach. although the lady appeared to see him not, but to be gazing at the sky, she was in truth well aware of his presence, and awaited even hungrily a lowly obeisance from him, that should assure her in her own sight of her own importance. for of no high-born lineage was this flaunting dame, no earl's or duke's daughter, else perhaps she had been too well aware of her own dignity and worth to insist upon others acknowledging it. she was but the young wife of the old justice, thomas preston, and a plain mistress, like miles' own simple wife at home, in spite of her gay garments and flaunting airs. but the fact that she had newly come to live at holker hall, the finest mansion in all that country-side, had uplifted her in her own sight, and puffed her out with pride, sending her forth at all hours into unseasonable places to show off her fine new london clothes. therefore she paused a little as she passed miles, waiting for him to doff his hat and bend his knee, and declare himself in all lowliness her servant. but miles had never a thought of doing this. though he was but newly turned quaker, right well he remembered hearing george fox say-- 'moreover, when the lord sent me forth into the world, he forbade me to put off my hat to any--high or low--and i was required to "thee" and "thou" all men and women, without any respect to rich or poor, great or small. and as i travelled up and down, i was not to bid people "good-morrow," or "good-evening," neither might i bow or scrape with the leg to anyone, and this made the sects and the professors to rage.' miles, too, having learnt this lesson and made it his own, passed by the lady in all soberness and quietness, taking no more notice of her than if she had been one of those dames painted on canvas by the late king's painter, sir anthony van dyck, which, truth to tell, she mightily resembled. the haughty fair one seeing this, as soon as he had fully passed and she could no longer delude herself with the hope that the longed-for salute was coming, was vastly and mightily incensed. it was not her hat alone that was thistle colour then: her face, her forehead, her neck all blazed and burned in one purple flush of rage. only her cheeks stayed a changeless crimson, and that for a very excellent reason, easy to guess. violently she turned herself to a serving-man who was following in her train, following so humbly, and being so much hidden by madam's fallals and furbelows, that until that moment miles had not even seen that he was there. 'back, sirrah!' she said in a loud, angry voice, speaking to the man as if he had been a dog or a horse, 'back with thy staff and beat that unmannerly knave till thou hast taught him 'twere well he should learn to salute his betters.' the servant was tired of following his lady like a lap-dog, and attending to all her whims and whimsies. scenting sport more nearly to his liking, he obeyed, nothing loath. he fell upon miles and beat him lustily and stoutly, expecting every moment that he would resist or beg for mercy. mistress preston meanwhile, having turned full round, watched the thwacking blows, and counted each one as it fell, with a smile of pleasure. but her smile speedily became an angry frown, for miles, well knowing to whom his chastisement was due, paid no heed to the serving-man, let him lay on never so soundly, but turned himself round under the blows, and cried out in a loud voice to her: 'oh, thou jezebel, thou proud jezebel, canst thou not permit and suffer the servant of the lord to pass by thee quietly?' now at that word 'jezebel,' mistress preston's anger was yet more mightily inflamed against miles, for she knew that he had discovered the reason why her cheeks had remained pink, and flushed not thistle purple like the rest of her countenance. even the serving-man smiled to himself, a mocking smile, and hummed in a low voice, as he continued to lay the blows thickly on miles, a ditty having this refrain-- 'jezebel, the proud queen, painted her face,' he did not suppose that his mistress would recognise the tune; but recognise it she did, and it increased her anger yet more, if that were possible. she flung out both hands in a fury, as if she would herself have struck at miles, then, thinking him not fit for her touch, she changed her mind, and spat full in his face. oh, what a savage thistle was that woman, and worse far than any thistle in her behaviour! loudly, too, she exclaimed, 'i scorn to fall down at thy words!' her meaning in saying this is not fully clear, but it may be, as miles had called her jezebel, she meant that no one should ever cast her down from her high estate, as jezebel was cast down from the window in the palace, whence she mocked at jehu. this made miles testify yet once more--'thou proud jezebel,' said he, 'thou that hardenest thine heart and brazenest thy face against the lord and his servant, the lord will plead with thee in his own time and set in order before thee the things thou hast this day done to his servant.' by this time the lady's lackey had at length stopped his beating, not out of mercy to miles, but simply because his arm was weary. yet he still kept humming under his breath another verse of the same ditty, ending-- 'jezebel, the proud queen, 'tired her hair!' miles, therefore, being loosed from his hands, parted from both mistress and man, and left them standing without more words and himself passed on, bruised and buffeted, to continue his journey in sore discomfort of body until he came to swarthmoor. arrived at that gracious home, his friends comforted him and bound up his aching limbs, as indeed they were well accustomed to do in those days, when the guests who arrived at swarthmoor had too often been sorely mishandled. even to this day, in all the lanes around, may be seen the walls composed of sharp, grey, jagged stones, over which is creeping a covering of soft golden moss. so in those old days of which i write, men, aye and women too, often came to swarthmoor torn and bleeding, perhaps sometimes with anger in their hearts (though miles halhead was not of these), and all alike found their inward and outward wounds staunched and assuaged by the never-failing sympathy of kindly hearts, and hands more soft than the softest golden moss. thus miles halhead was comforted of his friends at swarthmoor, and inwardly refreshed. yet the matter of his encounter with the haughty lady, and of her prickly thistle nature, rested on his mind, and he could not be content without giving her yet one more chance to doff her prickles and become a sweet and fragrant flower in the garden of the lord. therefore, three months later, being continually urged thereunto by 'the true teacher which is within,' he determined to take yet another journey and come himself to holker hall, and ask to speak with its mistress and endeavour to bring her to a better mind. thither then in due course he came. now a mansion surpassing grand is holker hall, the goodliest in all that country-side. and a plain man and a simple, as has been said, was miles halhead the husbandman of mountjoy, even among the quakers--who were none of them gay gallants. nevertheless, being full of a great courage though small in stature, all weary and travel-stained as he was, to holker hall miles halhead came. he would not go to any back door or side door, seeing that his errand was to the mistress of the stately building. he walked therefore right up the broad avenue till he came to the front entrance, with its grand portico, where a king had been welcomed before now. as luck would have it, the door stood open as the quaker approached, and the mistress of holker hall herself happened to be passing through the hall behind. she paused a moment to look through the open door, intending most likely to mock at the odd figure she saw approaching. but on that instant she recognised miles as the man who had called her jezebel. now miles at first sight did not recognise her, and was doubtful if this could be the haughty thistle lady he sought, or if it were not a lily in very truth. for mistress preston was clad this hot day in a lily-like frock of white clear muslin, all open at the neck and short enough to show her ankles and little feet, and tied with a blue ribbon round the waist, a garb most innocent to look upon, and more suited to a girl in her teens than to the justice's wife, the buxom mistress of holker hall. therefore miles, not recognising her, did ask her if she were in truth the woman of the house. to which she, seeing his uncertainty, answered lyingly: 'no, that i am not, but if you would speak with mistress preston, i will entreat her to come to you.' even as the words left her lips, miles was sensible that she was speaking falsely, seeing how, even under the paint, her cheeks took on a deeper hue. and she, ever mindful that it was that same man who had called her jezebel, went into the house and returning presently with another woman, declared that here was mistress preston, and demanded what was his will with her. no sooner had she spoken a second time than it was manifested to miles with perfect clearness that she herself and none other was the woman he sought. wherefore, in spite of her different dress and girlish mien, he said to her, 'woman, how darest thou lie before the lord and his servant?' and she, being silent, not speaking a word, he proceeded, 'woman, hear thou what the lord's servant hath to say unto thee,--o woman, harden not thy heart against the lord, for if thou dost, he will cut thee off in his sore displeasure; therefore take warning in time, and fear the lord god of heaven and earth, that thou mayest end thy days in peace.' having thus spoken he went his way; she, how proud soever, not seeking to stay him nor doing him any harm, but standing there silent and dumb under the tall pillars of the door, being withheld and stilled by something, she knew not what. yet her thistle nature was not changed, though, for that time, her prickles were blunted. it chanced that several years later, when george fox was a prisoner at lancaster, this same gay madam came to him and 'belched out many railing words,' saying among the rest that 'his tongue should be cut off, and he be hanged.' instead of which, it was she herself that was cut off and died not long after in a miserable condition. thus did mistress preston of holker hall refuse to bow her haughty spirit, yet the matter betwixt her and miles ended not altogether there. for it happened that another april day, some three springs after miles halhead had encountered her the first time, as he was again riding from swarthmoor towards his home near underbarrow, and again being come near to holker hall, he met a man unknown to him by sight. this person, as miles was crossing a meadow full of daffodils that grew beside a stream, would not let him pass, as he intended, but stopped and accosted him. 'friend,' said he to miles, 'i have something to say to you which hath lain upon me this long time. i am the man that about three years ago, at the command of my mistress, did beat you very sore; for which i have been very troubled, more than for anything which ever i did in all my life: for truly night and day it hath been in my heart that i did not well in beating an innocent man that never did me any hurt or harm. i pray you forgive me and desire the lord to forgive me, that i may be at peace and rest in my mind.' to whom miles answered, 'truly, friend, from that time to this day i have never had anything in my heart towards either thee or thy mistress but love. may god forgive you both. as for me, i desire that it may not be laid to your charge, for you knew not what you did.' here miles stopped and gave the man his hand and forthwith went on his way; and the serving-man went on his way; both of them with a glow of brotherhood and fellowship within their hearts. while the daffodils beside the stream looked up with sunlit faces to the sun, as they blew on their golden trumpets a blast of silent music, for joy that ancient injury was ended, and that in its stead goodwill had come. xv. scattering the seed _'as early as sixty-three ministers, with their headquarters at swarthmoor, and undoubtedly under central control, were travelling the country upon "truth's ponies"'--john wilhelm rowntree._ _'it is interesting to note and profitable to remember, how large a part these sturdy shepherds and husbandmen, from under the shade of the great mountains, had in preaching the doctrines of the inward light and of god's revelation of himself to every seeking soul, in the softer and more settled countries of the south.'--thomas hodgkin._ _'some speak to the conscience; some plough and break the clods; some weed out, and some sow; some wait that fowls devour not the seed. but wait all for the gathering of the simple-hearted ones.'... ._ _'friends, spread yourselves abroad, that you may be serviceable for the lord and his truth.' ._ _'love the truth more than all, and go on in the mighty power of god, as good soldiers of christ, well-fixed in his glorious gospel, and in his word and power; that you may know him, the life and salvation and bring up others into it.'--g. fox._ _'go! set the whole world on fire and in flames!'--ignatius loyola. (to one whom he sent on a distant mission.)_ xv. scattering the seed in springtime the south of england is a primrose country. gay carpets of primroses are spread in the woods; shy primroses peep out like stars in sheltered hedgerows; vain primroses are stooping down to look at their own faces in pools and streams, there are primroses, primroses everywhere. but in the north of england their 'paly gold' used to be a much rarer treasure. true, there were always a few primroses to be found in fortunate spots, if you knew exactly where to look for them; but they were not scattered broadcast over the country as they are further south. therefore, north country children never took primroses as a matter of course, they did not tear them up roughly, just for the fun of gathering them, drop them heedlessly the next minute and leave them on the road to die. north country children used their precious holiday time to seek out their favourite flowers in their rare hiding-places. 'i've found one!' 'so have i!' 'there they are; two, three, four,--lots!' 'i see them!' the air would be full of delighted exclamations as the children scampered off, short legs racing, rosy cheeks flushing, bright eyes glowing with eagerness, to see who could take home the largest bunch. the further north a traveller went, the rarer did primroses become, till in northumberland, the most northerly county of all, primroses used to be very scarce indeed. until, only a few years ago, a wonderful thing happened. there were days and weeks and months of warm sunny weather all through the spring and summer in that particular year. old people smiled and nodded to one another as they said: 'none of us ever remembers a spring like this before!' the tender leaves and buds and flowers undid their wrappings in a hurry to be first to catch sight of the sun, whose warm fingers had awakened them, long before their usual time, from their winter sleep. all over england the spring flowers had a splendid time of it that year. even the few scattered primroses living in what southerners call 'the cold grey north' were obviously enjoying themselves. their smooth, pale-yellow faces opened wider, and grew larger and more golden, day by day: while new, soft, pointed buds came poking up through their downy green blankets in unexpected places. moreover, the warm weather lasted right through the summer. not only did far more primroses flower than usual, but also, after they had faded, there was plenty of warmth to ripen the precious seed packet that each one had carried at its heart. no wonder the children clapped their hands, that joyous spring, when their treasures were so plentiful; but they feared that they would never have such good luck again, even if they lived to be as old as the old people who had 'never seen such a spring before.' it was not until a year later that the delighted children discovered that the long spell of sunshine and the enchanter wind had worked a lasting magic. the ripened seed had been scattered far and wide. the primroses had come to the north to stay; and new paradises were springing up everywhere. now this is a primrose parable of many things, and worth remembering. among other things it is an illustration of the change that was wrought all over england by the preaching of george fox. think once again of the long bleak years of his youth, when he was struggling in a dark world into which it seemed as if no ray of light could pierce; when he and everyone else seemed to be frozen up in a wintry religion, without life or warmth. then think how at length he felt the sap rising in his own soul, turning his whole being to the light, as he found 'there is one, even christ jesus, that can speak to thy condition.' this discovery taught him that in all other men's hearts too, if they only knew, there was 'that of god.' henceforward, to proclaim that light to others and the seed within their own hearts that responds to the beams of the sun of righteousness, was the service to which george fox devoted his whole life. as his own being blossomed in the spiritual sunshine of his great discovery, he was able to persuade hundreds and thousands of other frozen hearts to yield themselves and turn to the light, and open and blossom also in that same sunshine. a greater wonder followed. those other lives, as they yielded themselves, began to ripen too, in different ways, but silently and surely, until they in their turn were ready to scatter the new seed, or, in the language of their day, to 'publish truth' up and down all over the country, until the whole face of england was changed. by the time of george fox's death, more than one out of every hundred among all the people of england was a friend. but the friends never regarded themselves as a sect, although sects were flourishing at that time. in it is said that twenty new kinds of sects blossomed out in the course of one week. george fox and his followers believed that the discovery they had made was meant for everybody, as much as sunshine is. other people nicknamed them 'quakers,' but they always spoke of themselves by names that the whole world was welcome to share: 'children of the light,' 'friends of the truth,' or simply 'friends.' there was nothing exclusive about such names as these. there was no such thing as membership in a society then or for more than fifty years afterwards. anyone who was convinced by what he had heard, and lived in the spirit of what he professed, became 'truth's friend' in his turn. neither was there anything exclusive in george fox's message. 'keep yourselves in an universal spirit' was what he both preached and practised. it was in 'an universal spirit' that he and his followers scattered all over the country. no wonder they earned the name of 'the valiant sixty,' that little band of comrades who in started out from the north country on their mission of convincing all england of 'the truth.' they were nearly all young men, their leader fox himself still only thirty at this time. francis howgill and john camm were two of the very few elders in the company. they usually travelled in couples, dear friends naturally going together; for is not the best work always done with the right companion? george fox, who was leader, not by any outward signs of authority but by fervour of inward power and zeal, occasionally travelled alone. more often he took with him a comrade, such as richard farnsworth (of whom we have heard at pendle), or james nayler, or leonard fell, or many another, of whom there are other stories yet to tell. never was george fox happier than when he was sowing the seed in a new place. all over england there are memories of him, even as far away as the land's end. when, in , he reached the rocky peninsula of granite at the extreme south-west of england, he wrote in his journal: 'at land's end we had a precious meeting. here was a fisherman, nicholas jose, convinced, that became a faithful minister. he spoke in meetings and declared truth to the people, so that i told friends he was "like peter." i was glad the lord raised up his standard in those dark parts of the nation, where since there is a fine meeting of honest-hearted friends, and a great people the lord will have in that country.' unluckily, some of the other cornish fisherfolk were not at all 'like peter.' they were wreckers, and used to entice ships on to the rocks by means of false lights in order to enrich themselves with the spoils washed up on their coasts. this is why george fox spoke of them as a 'dark people,' and was moved to put forth a paper 'warning them against such wicked practices.' there are memories of him also in the town which was then called smethwick, and is now called falmouth, as well as at grim old pendennis castle: one of the twin castles that had been built by king henry the eighth to guard the mouth of falmouth harbour. here george fox was confined. from hence he was carried to launceston, where he lay for many weeks in prison in the awful den of doomsdale, under conditions so dreadful that it is impossible to describe them here. when, at length, he was set at liberty he found a refuge at the hospitable farmhouse of tregangeeves near st. austell--the swarthmoor of the west of england--with its warm-hearted mistress, loveday hambley. at exeter he stayed at an inn, at the foot of the bridge, named 'the seven stars.' in our own day some of his followers have found another 'inn of shining stars' at exeter also, when their turn has come to be lodged within the grim walls of the gaol for conscience sake. * * * * * now let us borrow the giant's seven-leagued boots, and fancy ourselves in the far north of england, in , just leaving cumberland and crossing the scottish border. again the same square-set figure in the plain, soft, wide hat is riding ahead. but on this journey george fox has several others with him: one is our old acquaintance, james lancaster: alexander parker is the name of another of his companions: the third, robert widders, fox himself described as 'a thundering man.' with them rides a certain colonel william osborne, 'one of the earliest quaker preachers north of the tweed, who came into cumberland at this time on purpose to guide the party.'[ ] colonel osborne, who had been present with the other travellers at a meeting at pardshaw crag shortly before, 'said that he never saw such a glorious meeting in his life.' 'fox says that as soon as his horse set foot across the border, the infinite sparks of life sparkled about him, and as he rode along he saw that the seed of the seedsman christ was sown, but abundance of clods of foul and filthy earth was above it.'[ ] a high-born scottish lady, named lady margaret hamilton, was convinced on this journey. she afterwards went in her turn to warn oliver cromwell of the day of the lord that was coming upon him. various other distinguished people seem also to have been convinced at this time. the names of fox's new disciples sound unusually imposing: 'judge swinton of swinton; sir gideon scott of highchester; walter scott of raeburn, sir gideon's brother; charles ormiston, merchant, kelso; anthony haig of bemersyde and william his brother'; but quakerism never took firm root in the northern kingdom, as it did among the dalesmen and townsfolk farther south. fox journeyed on, right into the highlands, but he got no welcome there. 'we went among the clans,' he says, 'and they were devilish, and like to have spoiled us and our horses, and run with pitchforks at us, but through the lord's power we escaped them.' at perth, the baptists were very bitter, and persuaded the governor to drive the party from the town, whereupon 'james lancaster was moved to sound and sing in the power of god, and i was moved to sound the day of the lord, the glorious everlasting gospel; and all the streets were up and filled with people: and the soldiers were so ashamed that they cried, and said they had rather have gone to jamaica[ ] than to guard us so, and then they set us in a boat and set us over the water.' at leith many officers of the army and their wives came to see fox. among these latter was a certain mrs. billing, who lived alone, having quarrelled with her husband. she brought a handful of coral ornaments with her, and threw them on the table ostentatiously, in order to see if fox would preach a sermon against such gewgaws, since the quakers were well known to disapprove of jewellery and other vanities. 'i took no notice of it,' says fox, 'but declared truth to her, and she was reached.' what a picture it makes! the fine lady, with her chains and brooches and rings of smooth, rose-coloured coral heaped up on the table before her, her eyes cast down as she pretended to let the pretty trifles slip idly through her fingers, yet glancing up now and then, under her eyelashes, to see if she had managed to attract the great preacher's attention; and fox, noticing the baubles well enough, but paying no attention to them. fixing his piercing eyes not on the coral but on its owner, he spoke to mrs. billing with such power that her whole life was changed. once more fox had found 'that of god' within this seemingly frivolous woman. before he left scotland he had the happiness of persuading mrs. billing to send for her husband, and of helping to make up the quarrel between them. they agreed eventually to live in unity together once more as man and wife. fox journeyed on, in this way, year after year, always sowing the seed wherever he went, and sometimes having the joy of seeing it spring up above the clods and bring forth fruit an hundredfold. even during the long weary intervals of captivity this service still continued. 'indeed, fox and his fellow-sufferers never looked upon prison as an interruption in their life service, but used the new surroundings in a fresh campaign.'[ ] thus, the historian tells us: 'though george fox found good entertainment, yet he did not settle there but kept in a continual motion, going from one place to another, to beget souls unto god.'[ ] the rest of the 'valiant sixty,' meanwhile, were likewise busy, going up and down the country, working in different places and with different methods, but all intent on the one enterprise of 'publishing truth.' 'and so when the churches were settled in the north,' says the journal, 'and the lord had raised up many and sent forth many into his vineyard to preach his everlasting gospel, as francis howgill and edward burrough to london, john camm and john audland to bristol through the countries, richard hubberthorne and george whitehead towards norwich, and thomas holme unto wales, that a matter of sixty ministers did the lord raise up and send abroad out of the north countries.' there were far fewer big towns in england in those days than there are now. probably at least two-thirds of the people lived in the country, and only the remaining third were townsfolk: nowadays the proportions are more than reversed. there was then no thickly populated 'black country'; there were then no humming mills in the woollen districts of yorkshire, no iron and steel works soiling the pure rivers of tees and wear and tyne. most of the chief towns and industries at that time were in the south. 'london had a population of half a million. bristol, the principal seaport, had about thirty thousand; norwich, with a similar number of inhabitants, was still the largest manufacturing city. the publishers of truth would now make these three places their chief fields of service, showing something of the same concentration of effort at strategic centres which marked the extension of christianity through the roman empire, under the leadership of paul.'[ ] a certain impetuous lad named james parnell, already a noted minister though still in his teens, was hard at work in the counties of east anglia. in the next story we shall hear how howgill and burrough fared in their mission 'to conquer london.' splendid tidings came from the two johns, john audland and john camm, of their progress in bristol and the west: 'the mighty power of god is that way; that is a precious city and a gallant people: their net is like to break with fishes, they have caught so much there and all the coast thereabout.' the memory of the enthusiasm of those early days lingered long in the west, in the memory of those who had shared in them. 'ah! those great meetings in the orchard at bristol i may not forget,' wrote john audland many years later, 'i would so gladly have spread my net over all and have gathered all, that i forgot myself, never considering the inability of my body,--but it's well, my reward is with me, and i am content to give up and be with the lord, for that my soul values above all things.' women also were among the first publishers of truth and helped to spread the message. even before burrough and howgill reached london, two women had been there, gently scattering the new seed. it is recorded that one of them, named isabella buttery, 'sometimes spoke a few words in this small meeting.' two quaker girls from kendal, elizabeth leavens and 'little elizabeth fletcher,' were the first to preach in oxford, and a terrible time they had of it. 'little elizabeth fletcher' was then only seventeen, 'a modest, grave, young woman.' jane waugh, one of the 'convinced' serving-maids at cammsgill, was a friend of hers; but jane waugh's turn for suffering had not yet come. she was still in the north when the two elizabeths reached oxford. this is the account of what befell them there: 'the th day of the th month [june] came to this city two maids, who went through the streets and into the colleges, steeple and tower houses, preaching repentance and declaring the word of the lord to the people.... on the th day of the same month they were moved to go to martin's mass house (_alias_) carefox, where one of those maids, after the priest had done, spake something in answer to what the priest had before spoken in exhortation to the people, and presently were by two justices sent to prison.' the mayor of oxford seems to have been pleased with the behaviour of the two girls and caused them to be set at liberty again. but the vice-chancellor and the justices would not agree to this, and 'earnestly enquired from whence they came, and their business to oxford. they answered, "they were commanded of the lord to come"; and it being demanded "what to do," they answered, to "declare against sin and ungodliness, which they lived in." and at this answer the vice-chancellor and the justices ordered their punishment, to be whipped out of town, and demanding of the mayor to agree to the same, and for refusing, said they would do it of themselves, and signing a paper, the contents whereof was this: to be severely whipped, and sent out of town as vagrants. and forthwith, because of the tumult, they were put into the cage, a place common for the worst of people; and accordingly the next morning, they were whipped, and sent away, and on the backside of the city, meeting some scholars, they were moved to speak to them, who fell on them very violently, and drew them into john's college, where they tied them back to back and pumped water on them, until they were almost stifled; and they being met at another time as they passed through a graveyard, where a corpse was to be buried, elizabeth holme spake something to the priest and people, and one ann andrews thrust her over a grave stone, which hurt she felt near to her dying day.' two other women, elizabeth williams and a certain mary fisher (who was hereafter to go on a mission to no less a person than the grand turk), were also cruelly flogged at cambridge for daring to 'publish truth' there. 'the mayor ... issued his warrant to the constable to whip them at the market cross till the blood ran down their bodies; and ordered three of his sergeants to see that sentence, equally cruel and lawless, severely executed. the poor women kneeling down, in christian meekness besought the lord to forgive him, for that he knew not what he did: so they were led to the market cross, calling upon god to strengthen their faith. the executioner commanded them to put off their clothes, which they refused. then he stripped them naked to the waist, put their arms into the whipping-post, and executed the mayor's warrant far more cruelly than is usually done to the worst of malefactors, so that their flesh was miserably cut and torn. the constancy and patience which they expressed under this barbarous usage was astonishing to the beholders, for they endured the cruel torture without the least change of countenance or appearance of uneasiness, and in the midst of their punishment sang and rejoiced, saying, "the lord be blessed, the lord be praised, who hath thus honoured us and strengthened us to suffer for his name's sake." ... as they were led back into the town they exhorted the people to fear god, not man, telling them "this was but the beginning of the sufferings of the people of god."'[ ] these two women were the first friends to be publicly whipped in england. but their prophecy that 'this was but the beginning' was only too literally fulfilled. not only had bodily sufferings to be undergone by these brave 'first publishers.' malicious reports were also spread against them, which must have been almost harder to bear. william prynne, the same william prynne who had had his own ears cropped in earlier days by order of the star chamber, but who had not, apparently, learned charity to others through his own sufferings, published a pamphlet that was spread abroad throughout england. it was called 'the quakers unmasked, and clearly detected to be but the spawn of romish frogs, jesuits and franciscan friars, sent from rome to seduce the intoxicated giddy-headed english nation.' george fox called the pamphlet in which he answered this charge by an almost equally uncharitable title: 'the unmasking and discovery of antichrist, with all the false prophets, by the true light which comes from christ jesus.' the seventeenth century has truly been called 'a very ill-mannered century.' certainly these were not pretty names for pamphlets that were so widely read that, to quote the graphic expression of an earlier writer, 'they walked up and down england at deer rates.' yet, still, in spite of bodily ill-usage and imprisonment, through good report and through evil report, through fair weather and foul, the work of scattering the seed continued steadily, day after day, month after month, year after year. the messengers went on, undaunted; the message spread and took root throughout the land; the trials of the work were swallowed up in the triumphant joy of service and of 'publishing truth.' footnotes: [ ] w.c. braithwaite, _beginnings of quakerism_. [ ] w.c. braithwaite, _beginnings of quakerism_. [ ] jamaica, with its deadly climate, had lately been taken by england from spain, and was at this time proving the grave of hundreds of english soldiers. [ ] _cameos from the life of george fox_, by e.e. taylor. [ ] sewel's _history of the quakers_. [ ] w.c. braithwaite, _beginnings of quakerism_. [ ] besse, _sufferings of the quakers_. xvi. wrestling for god _'being but a boy, edward burrough had the spirit of a man. reviling, slandering, buffetting and caning were oft his lot. nothing could make this hero shrink.'--sewel._ _'his natural disposition was bold and manly, what he took in hand he did with his might; loving, courteous, merciful and easy to be entreated; he delighted in conference and reading of the holy scriptures.'--'piety promoted.'_ _'dear brother, mind the lord and stand in his will and counsel. and dwell in the pure measure of god in thee, and there thou wilt see the lord god present with thee. for the bringing forth many out of prison art thou there set; behold the word of the lord cannot be bound. the lord god of power give thee wisdom, courage, manhood, and boldness, to thresh down all deceit. dear heart, be valiant, and mind the pure spirit of god in thee, to guide thee up into god, to thunder down all deceit within and without. so farewell, and god almighty keep you.'--george fox, to a friend in the ministry._ _'so, all dear and tender hearts, abide in the counsel of god, and let not the world overcome your minds but wait for a daily victory over it.'--e. burrough._ _'give me the strength to surrender my strength to thee in love.'--rabindranath tagore._ xvi. wrestling for god 'a brisk young man with a ready tongue' was the verdict passed upon edward burrough, the hero of this story, by a certain mr. thomas ellwood when he met him first in the year . ellwood himself, who thus described his new acquaintance, was a young man too at that time, of good education and scholarly tastes. he became later the friend of a certain mr. john milton, who thought sufficiently well of his judgment to allow him to read his poetry before it was published, and to ask him what he thought of it; even, occasionally, to act upon his suggestions. ellwood, therefore, was clearly the possessor of a sober judgment, and not a likely person to be carried away by the glib words of a wandering preacher. yet that 'brisk young man,' edward burrough, did not only 'reach him' with his 'ready tongue,' he also completely 'convinced' him, and altered his whole life: ellwood returned to his family ready to suffer hardship if need be on behalf of his newly-found faith. ellwood's own adventures, however, do not concern us here, but those of the young man who convinced him. edward burrough was one of the best loved and most valiant of all those 'valiant sixty' ministers who went forth throughout the length and breadth of england, in , on their new, wonderful enterprise of 'publishing truth.' if edward burrough was still 'young and brisk' when ellwood first came across him, he must have been yet younger and brisker on that summer's day, five years earlier, when he left his home in westmorland in order to 'conquer london.' this was an ambitious undertaking truly for any man, however brisk and ready of tongue. it is true that the london of those long-ago days of the commonwealth, before the great fire, was a much more compact city than the gigantic, overgrown london of to-day. instead of 'sprawling over five or six counties,'[ ] and containing six or seven million inhabitants, london was then a comparatively small place, its population, though rapidly increasing, did not yet number one million. 'an old map of the year shows us that london and westminster were then two neighbouring cities surrounded by meadows. "totten court" was an outlying country village. oxford street is marked on this map as "the way to uxbridge," and runs between meadows and pastures. the tower, westminster abbey, st. paul's church, ... and some other landmarks are indeed there, but it is curious to read the accounts given by the chronicles of the day of its narrow and dirty streets, in which carts and coaches jostled one another, and foot passengers found it difficult to get along at all.... when the king went to parliament, faggots were thrown into the ruts in the streets through which he passed, to make it easier for his state coach to drive over the uneven roads!'[ ] nevertheless this gay little countrified town of timbered houses, surrounded by meadows and orchards, and overlooked by the green heights of 'hamsted' and primrose hill, was then as now the capital city of england. and england under oliver cromwell was one of the most powerful of the states of europe. therefore if a young man barely out of his teens were to succeed in 'conquering london,' and bending it to his will, he would certainly need all his briskness and readiness of tongue. edward burrough probably entered london alone and on foot, after a journey extending over several weeks. he had left his native westmorland in company with good john camm, the 'statesman' farmer of cammsgill. the first stages of their journey were made on horseback. many a quiet talk the two men must have had together as they rode through the green lanes of england,--that long-ago england of the commonwealth, its clear skies unstained by any tall chimneys or factory smoke. there were but few hedgerows then, 'a single hedge is a marked feature in the contemporary maps.'[ ] the cornfields stretched away in a broad, unbroken expanse as they do to-day on the continent of europe and in the lands of the new world. as they rode, camm would tell burrough, doubtless, of his first sight of george fox, preaching in sedbergh churchyard, under the ancient yew-tree opposite the market cross, on that never-to-be-forgotten day of the whitsuntide fair. the story of the 'wonderful fortnight' would be sure to follow; of the 'mighty meeting' on the fell outside firbank chapel; of the gathering of the seekers at preston patrick; and of yet another open-air meeting, when hundreds of people assembled one memorable first day near his own hillside farm at cammsgill. then it would be the younger man's turn to tell his tale. 'he was born in the barony of kendal ... of parents who for their honest and virtuous life were in good repute; he was well educated, and trained up in such learning as that country did afford.... by his parents he was trained up in the episcopal worship,'[ ] but for a long time, he says that the only religion that he practised was 'going to church one day in seven to hear a man preach, to read, and sing, and rabble over a prayer.' (it is easy to smile at the old-fashioned word; but let us try to remember it when we ourselves are tempted to get up too late in the morning and 'rabble over' our own prayers.) gradually the unseen world grew more real. a beautiful and comforting message was given to him in his heart, 'whom god once loves, he loves for ever.' now he grew weary of hearing any of the priests, for he saw they did not possess what they spoke of to others, and sometimes he began to question his own experiences. nevertheless he felt it a grievous trial to give up all his prospects of earthly advancement and become a quaker. yet from the day he listened to george fox preaching at underbarrow there was no other course open to him; though his own parents were much incensed with him for daring to join this despised people. they even refused to acknowledge him any longer as a member of their family. being rejected as a son, therefore, he begged to be allowed to stay on in his home and work as a servant, but this, too, was refused. thus being, as he says, 'separated from all the glory of the world, and from all his acquaintance and kindred,' he betook himself to the company of 'a poor, despised people called quakers.' it must have been a comfort to him, after being cast off by his own family, to find himself adopted by a still larger family of friends, and to become one of the 'valiant sixty' entrusted with the great adventure of publishing truth. riding along with good john camm, with talk to beguile the way, was pleasant travelling; but this happy companionship was not to last very long. for as they journeyed and came near the 'middle kingdom,' or midlands, they fell in with another of 'truth's publishers.' this was none other than their westmorland neighbour, john audland, 'the ruddy-faced linen-draper of crosslands,' john camm's own especial comrade and pair among the 'sixty.' it may have been a prearranged plan that they should meet here; anyway camm turned aside with audland and went on with him to bristol, where he had already begun to scatter the seed in the west of england, while edward burrough pursued his journey in solitude towards london.[ ] but his days of loneliness were not to last for long. either just before or just after his arrival in the great city, two other publishers also reached the metropolis, one of whom, francis howgill, was to be his own especial comrade and pair in the task of 'conquering london.' this was that same francis howgill, a considerably older man than burrough, and formerly a leader among the seekers, who had been preaching that memorable day at firbank when he thought george fox looked into the chapel and was so much struck that 'you could have killed him with a crab-apple.' now that they had come together, however, it would have taken more than many crab-apples to deter him and burrough from their mission. together the two friends laid their plans for the capture of london, and together they proceeded to carry them out. the success they met with was astonishing. 'by the arm of the lord,' writes howgill, 'all falls before us, according to the word of the lord before i came to this city, that all should be as a plain.' amidst their engrossing labours in the capital the two london 'publishers' did not forget to send news of their work to friends in the north. many letters written at this time remain. those to margaret fell, especially, give a vivid picture of their progress. these letters are signed sometimes by howgill, sometimes by burrough, sometimes by both together. but, whatever the signature, the pronouns 'i' and 'we' are used indiscriminately, as if to show that the writers were not only united in the service of truth but were also one in heart. 'we two,' they say in one letter, 'are constrained to stay in this city; but we are not alone, for the power of our father is with us, and it is daily made manifest through weakness, even to the stopping of the mouths of lions and to the confounding of the serpent's wisdom; eternal praises to him for evermore. in this city, iniquity is grown to the height. we have three meetings or more every week, very large, more than any place will contain, and which we can conveniently meet in. many of all sorts come to us and many of all sorts are convinced, yea, hundreds do believe....' again: 'we get friends together on the first days to meet together out of the rude multitude; and we two go to the great meeting place which we have, which will hold a thousand people, which is always nearly filled, there to thresh among the world; and we stay till twelve or one o'clock and then pass away, the one to the one place and the other to another place where friends are met in private; and stay till four or five o'clock.' only a month later yet another 'great place' had to be taken for a 'threshing-floor,' or hall where public meetings could be held. to these meetings anyone might come and listen to the preachers' message, which 'threshed them like grain, and sifted the wheat from the "light chaffy minds" among the hearers.' how 'chaffy' and frivolous this gay world of london appeared to these first publishers, consumed with the burning eagerness of their mission, the following description shows. it occurs in a letter from george fox himself when he, too, came to the metropolis, a few months later. 'what a world this is,' he writes ... 'altogether carried with fooleries and vanities both men and women ... putting on gold, gay apparel, plaiting the hair, men and women they are powdering it, making their backs as if they were bags of meal, and they look so strange that they cannot look at one another. pride hath puffed up every one, they are out of the fear of god, men and women, young and old, one puffs up another, they are not in the fashion of the world else, they are not in esteem else, they shall not be respected else, if they have not gold and silver upon their backs, or his hair be not powdered. if he have a company of ribbons hung about his waist, red or white, or black or yellow, and about his knees, and gets a company in his hat, and powders his hair, then he is a brave man, then he is accepted, then he is no quaker.... likewise the women having their gold, their spots on their faces, noses, cheeks, foreheads, having their rings on their fingers, wearing gold, having their cuffs doubled under and about like a butcher with white sleeves' (how pretty they must have been!), 'having their ribbons tied about their hands, and three or four gold laces about their clothes, "this is no quaker," say they.... now are not all these that have got these ribbons hung about their arms, backs, waists, knees, hats, hands, like unto fiddlers' boys, and shew that you are gotten into the basest contemptible life as be in the fashion of the fiddlers' boys and stage-players, and quite out of the paths and steeps of solid men.... and further to get a pair of breeches like a coat and hang them about with points up almost to the middle, and a pair of double cuffs upon his hands, and a feather in his cap, and to say, "here's a gentleman, bow before him, put off your hats, bow, get a company of fiddlers, a set of music and women to dance, this is a brave fellow, up in the chamber without and up in the chamber within," are these your fine christians? "yea," say they. "yea but," say the serious people, "they are not of christ's life." and to see such a company as are in the fashions of the world ... get a couple of bowls in their hands or tables [dice] or shovel-board, or a horse with a company of ribbons on his head as he hath on his own, and a ring in his ear; and so go to horse-racing to spoil the creature. oh these are gentlemen, these are bred up gentlemen! these are brave fellows and they must have their recreation, and pleasures are lawful. these are bad christians and shew that they are gluttoned with the creature and then the flesh rejoiceth!' no wonder that edward burrough wrote to margaret fell that 'in this city iniquity is grown to the height,' and again, in a later letter: 'there are hundreds convinced, but not many great or noble do receive our testimony ... we are much refreshed, we receive letters from all quarters, the work goes on fast everywhere.... richard hubberthorne is yet in prison and james parnell at cambridge.... our dear brethren john audland and john camm we hear from, and we write to one another twice in the week. they are near us, they are precious and the work of the lord is great in bristol.' margaret fell writes back in answer, like a true mother in israel, 'you are all dear unto me, and all are present with me, and are all met together in my heart.' and now, having heard what the 'valiant sixty' thought of london, what did london think of the 'valiant sixty'? many years later a certain william spurry wrote of these early days: 'i being in london at the time of the first publication of truth, there was a report spread in the city that there was a sort of people come there that went by the name of plain north country plow men, who did differ in judgment to all other people in that city, who i was very desirous to see and converse with. and upon strict enquiry i was informed that they did meet at one widow matthews in white cross street, in her garden, where i repaired, where was our dear friends edward burrough and francis howgill, who declared the lord's everlasting truth in the demonstration of the spirit of life, where myself and many more were convinced. a little time after there was a silent meeting appointed and kept at sarah sawyer's in rainbow alley.' very rural and unlike london these places sound: but meetings were not only held in secluded spots, such as the garden in white cross street, and the house in rainbow alley, they were also held in the tumultuous centres of vanity fair. 'edward burrough,' says sewel the historian, 'though he was a very young man when he first came forth, yet grew in wisdom and valour so that he feared not the face of man.' 'at london there is a custom in summer time, when the evening approaches and tradesmen leave off working, that many lusty fellows meet in the fields, to try their skill and strength at wrestling, where generally a multitude of people stand gazing in a round. now it so fell out, that edward burrough passed by the place where they were wrestling, and standing still among the spectators, saw how a strong and dexterous fellow had already thrown three others, and was now waiting for a fourth champion, if any durst venture to enter the lists. at length none being bold enough to try, e. burrough stepped into the ring (commonly made up of all sorts of people), and having looked upon the wrestler with a serious countenance, the man was not a little surprised, instead of an airy antagonist, to meet with a grave and awful young man; and all stood amazed at this sight, eagerly expecting what would be the issue of this combat. but it was quite another fight edward burrough aimed at. for having already fought against spiritual wickedness, that had once prevailed in him and having overcome it in measure, by the grace of god, he now endeavoured also to fight against it in others, and to turn them from the evil of their ways. with this intention he began very seriously to speak to the standers by, and that with such a heart-piercing power, that he was heard by this mixed multitude with no less attention than admiration; for his speech tended to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of satan to god. 'thus he preached zealously; and though many might look upon this as a novelty, yet it was of such effect that many were convinced of the truth.... and indeed he was one of those valiants, whose bow never turned back ... nay he was such an excellent instrument in the hand of god that even some mighty and eminent men were touched to the heart by the power of the word of life which he preached' ... 'using few words but preaching after a new fashion so that he was called a "son of thunder and also of consolation."' 'now i come also to the glorious exit of e. burrough, that valiant hero. for several years he had been very much in london, and had there preached the gospel with piercing and powerful declarations. and that city was so near to him, that oftentimes, when persecution grew hot, he said to francis howgill, his bosom friend, "i can go freely to the city of london, and lay down my life for a testimony of that truth, which i have declared through the power and spirit of god." being in this year [ ] at bristol, and thereabouts, and moved to return to london, he said to many of his friends, when he took leave of them, that he did not know he should see their faces any more; and therefore he exhorted them to faithfulness and steadfastness, in that wherein they had found rest for their souls. and to some he said, "i am now going up to the city of london again, to lay down my life for the gospel, and suffer among friends in that place."'[ ] thus it befell that edward burrough was called to a more deadly wrestling match than any in the pleasant london fields. he was thrown into prison, and there he had to face a mortal foe in the gaol-fever that was then raging in that noisome den. this was to wrestle in grim earnest, with death himself for an adversary; and in this wrestling match death was the conqueror. charles the second was now on the throne. he knew and respected edward burrough, and did his best to rescue him. knowing the pestilential and overcrowded state of newgate at that time, the merry monarch, to his lasting credit, sent a royal warrant for the release of edward burrough and some of the other prisoners, when he heard of the danger they were in from the foul state of the prison. but this order a certain cruel and persecuting alderman, named richard brown, and some magistrates of the city of london contrived to thwart. the prisoners remained in the gaol. edward burrough caught the fever, and grew rapidly worse. on his death-bed he said, 'lord, forgive richard brown, who imprisoned me, if he may be forgiven.' later on he said, 'i have served my god in my generation, and that spirit, which has lived and ruled in me shall yet break forth in thousands.' 'the morning before he departed his life ... he said, "now my soul and spirit is centred into its own being with god; and this form of person must return from whence it was taken...."' a few moments later, in crowded newgate, he peacefully fell asleep. 'this was the exit of e. burrough, who in his flourishing youth, about the age of eight and twenty, in an unmarried state, changed this mortal life for an incorruptible, and whose youthful summer flower was cut down in the winter season, after he had very zealously preached the gospel about ten years.'[ ] francis howgill, now left desolate and alone, poured forth a touching lament for his vanished 'yoke-fellow.' 'it was my lot,' he writes, 'to be his companion and fellow-labourer in the work of the gospel where-unto we were called, for many years together. and oh! when i consider, my heart is broken; how sweetly we walked together for many months and years in which we had perfect knowledge of one another's hearts and perfect unity of spirit. not so much as one cross word or one hard thought of discontent ever rose (i believe) in either of our hearts for ten years together.' george fox, no mean fighter himself, adds this comment: 'edward burrough never turned his back on the truth, nor his back from any out of the truth. a valiant warrior, more than a conqueror, who hath got the crown through death and sufferings; who is dead, but yet liveth amongst us, and amongst us is alive.' but it is from francis howgill, who knew him best and loved him most of all, that we learn the inmost secret of the life of this mighty wrestler, when he says: 'his very strength was bended after god.' [illustration] footnotes: [ ] _story of quakerism_, e.b. emmott. [ ] _story of quakerism_, e.b. emmott. [ ] _england under the stuarts_, g.m. trevelyan. [ ] sewel's _history of the quakers_. [ ] i have followed thomas camm's account of his father's journey with edward burrough, and of their meeting with john audland in the midlands, as given in his book, _the memory of the righteous revived_. w.c. braithwaite, however, in his _beginnings of quakerism_, thinks it more probable that francis howgill was e. burrough's companion from the north, and that the two friends reached london together. [ ] sewel's _history of the quakers_. [ ] sewel's _history of the quakers_. xvii. little james and his journeys _o, how beautiful is the spring in a barren field, where barrenness and deadness fly away. as the spring comes on, the winter casts her coat and the summer is nigh. o, wait to see and read these things within. you that have been as barren and dead and dry without sap; unto you the sun of righteousness is risen with healing in his wings and begins to shine in your coasts.... o, mind the secret sprigs and tender plants. now you are called to dress the garden. let not the weeds and wild plants remain. peevishness is a weed; anger is a weed; self-love and self-will are weeds; pride is a wild plant; covetousness is a wild plant; lightness and vanity are wild plants, and lust is the root of all. and these things have had a room in your gardens, and have been tall and strong; and truth, innocence, and equity have been left out, and could not be found, until the sun of righteousness arose and searched out that which was lost. therefore, stand not idle, but come into the vineyard and work. your work shall be to watch and keep out the fowls, unclean beasts, wild bears and subtle foxes. and he that is the husbandman will pluck up the wild plants and weeds, and make defence about the vines. he will tell you what to do. he who is father of the vineyard will be nigh you. and what is not clear to you, wait for the fulfilling.--james parnell. (epistle to friends from prison.)_ xvii. little james and his journeys 'be willing that self shall suffer for the truth, and not the truth for self.' james parnell. tramping! tramping! tramping! an endless journey along the white, dusty highroad it seemed to little james. indeed the one hundred and fifty miles that separate retford in nottinghamshire from carlisle in far-off cumberland would have been a long distance even for a full-grown man to travel on foot in those far-off, railroad-less days of . whereas little james, who had undertaken this journey right across england, was but a boy of sixteen, delicate and small for his age. 'ye will never get there, james,' the neighbours cried when he unfolded his plans. 'to go afoot to carlisle! did any one ever hear the like? it would be a wild-goose chase, even if a man hoped to come to speak with a king in his palace at the end of it; but for _thee_ to go such a journey in order to speak but for a few moments with a man thou dost not know, and in prison, it is nothing but a daft notion! what ails thee, boy?' the only answer james gave was to knit his brows more firmly together, and to mutter resolutely to himself, as he gathered his few belongings into a bundle, 'i must and i will see george fox!' george fox! the secret was out. that was the explanation of this fantastic journey. george fox, after gathering a 'great people' up in the north, was now himself kept a close prisoner in carlisle gaol: yet he was the magnet attracting this lad, frail of body but determined of will, to travel right across england for the hope of speaking with him in his prison cell. * * * * * let us look back a little and see how this befell. in the stately old church of saint swithin at east retford a record shows that 'james, son of thomas parnell and sarah his wife, was baptized there on the sixth day of september .' james' parents were pious church people. it must have been a proud and thankful day for them when they took their baby son to be christened in the beautiful old font in that church, where their elder daughter, sarah, had received her name a few years before. on the font may still be seen the figure of saint swithin himself, the patron saint of the church. this gentle saint, whose dying wish had been that he might be buried in no stately building of stone but 'where his grave might be trod by human feet and watered with the raindrops of heaven,' was the guardian the parents chose for their little lad. all through his short life the boy seems to have shared this love of nature and of the open air. james' parents were well-to-do people, and wisely determined to give their only son a good education. they sent him, therefore, as soon as he was old enough, to the retford grammar school, to be 'trained up in the schools of literature.' james tells us that he was 'as wild as others during the time he was at school, and that he was perfect in sin and iniquity as any in the town where he lived, yea and exceeded many in the wickedness of his life,' until something or other happened to sober the wild boy. he does not say what it was. perhaps it may have been the news that reached retford during his school days, that the king of england had been executed at whitehall, one cold january morning. or it may have been something quite different. anyhow, before he left school, he was already anxious and troubled about his soul. school days finished, he sought for help in his difficulties from 'priests and professors.' but, like george fox, a few years earlier, james parnell got small help from them. some of the priests told him that he was deluded. others, whose words sounded better, did not practise what they preached. he says, they 'preached down with their tongues what they upheld in their lives.' therefore he decided, out of his scanty experience, that they all were 'hollow professors,' and could be of no use to him. a very hasty judgment! but little james was tremendously sure of himself at this time, quite certain that he knew more than most of the people he met, feeling entirely able to set his neighbours to rights, and yet with a real wish to learn, if only he could find a true teacher. he says, 'i was the first in all that town of retford which the lord was pleased to make known his power in, and turn my heart towards him and truly to seek him, so that i became a wonder to the world and an astonishment to the heathen round about.' he adds that, at this time or a little later, even 'his own relations became his enemies.' this is not surprising. a young man of fifteen who described his neighbours and friends as 'the heathen round about' must have been a distinctly trying companion to the aforesaid 'heathen.' possibly there was more than one sigh of relief heaved in east retford when the first of little james's journeys began. it was to be only a short one, to 'a people with whom i found union a few miles out of the town where i lived. the lord was a-gathering them out of the dark world to sit down together and to wait upon his name.' these people were either a little group of friends already gathered at balby, or they may have been 'seekers' meeting together here in nottinghamshire, as they did in the north, at sedbergh and preston patrick and many another place, 'not celebrating baptism or the holy communion,' but 'waiting together in silence to be instruments in the hand of the lord.' truly helpful 'instruments' they proved to little james, for they sent him straight on to nottingham, where a company of 'children of light' was already gathered, to worship god. 'children of light' is the first, and the most beautiful, name given to the society of friends in england. when these nottingham friends saw the vehement, impulsive boy, his thin frame trembling, his eyes glowing, as he poured forth his difficulties, naturally their thoughts went back to the other lad who had also passed through severe soul struggles in this same neighbourhood, some ten or twelve years earlier. they all said to him, one after the other, 'james parnell, thou must see george fox.' 'george fox!' cried little james eagerly, 'i have never even heard his name. who is he? where is he? i will go and find him this very moment, if he can help me.' at these words, all the nottingham friends shook their heads very solemnly and sadly and said, 'that is impossible, james, for our friend languisheth in carlisle gaol. but we can tell thee of him.' then one after another they recounted the well-known story of george fox's boyhood, of his difficulties, of his seeking, of his finding, and lastly of his preaching, when the power of god shone through him as he spoke, and melted men's hearts till they became as wax. james, drinking in every word, exclaimed breathlessly as soon as the story was finished, 'that is the man for me. i will set out for carlisle this very minute to find him!' of course all the friends were aghast at the effect of their words. they declared that he really couldn't and really shouldn't, that it was out of the question, and that he must do nothing of the kind! they did their very best to stop him. but little james (who, as we know, was not in the habit of paying over-much attention to other people's opinions at any time) treated all these remonstrances as if they had been thistledown. he swung his small bundle at the end of a short stick over his shoulder, tightened his belt, tore himself from their restraining hands, and exclaiming, 'farewell, friends, i go to find george fox,' off he set on the long, long journey to carlisle. his spirit was aflame with desire to meet his unknown friend. the miles seemed few and short that separated him from his goal. but doubtless some of the women among the 'children of light' wiped their eyes as they watched the fiery little figure disappear along the dusty road, and said, 'truly that lad hath a valiant heart!' thus, in a burning fury of desire, the journey began. after many weary days of travel the flame still burned unquenchably, although the boy's figure looked yet leaner and more under-sized than when he left his home. tramp, tramp, tramp, on and ever on, till at last the long-desired day came, when, over the crest of a low hill, he made out for the first time the distant spire and towers of the fair border city. the river eden in the meadows below lay gleaming in the sunshine like a silver bow. threadbare and very dusty were his clothes, his feet swollen and sore, but his chin was pressed well forward, and the light in his eyes was that of a conqueror, when at last, tramp, tramp, tramp, his tired feet came pattering up the stones of the steep old bridge that spans the eden and leads to carlisle town. 'which is the prison?' james asked himself, as his eyes scanned a bewildering maze of towers and roofs. the tall leaden spire of the cathedral was unmistakable, 'no prisoners there.' next he made out the big square fortress of sandstone, red as red william the norman who built it long ago, on its central mound frowning over the town. his unknown friend might very possibly be within those walls. james quickened his tired steps at the thought, and then stopped short, for the gates of the bridge were shut. droves of sheep and oxen on their way to market filled the entry, and all foot passengers must wait. james threw himself down, full length, on one of the broad stone parapets of the bridge to rest his tired limbs until the way should be clear again. two men were seated in a stone recess below him, also waiting to pass. at first james noticed only the dress they wore; their tall hats and sombre clothes marked them out as baptists; the younger man a deacon probably, and the elder a pastor. presently james began to listen to their conversation. 'it is well he is safe in the castle,' said the younger man, 'most pernicious quaker doctrine did he deliver that sabbath day in answer to our questions in the abbey.' 'pernicious quaker doctrine!' james pricked up his ears at the words. he settled himself comfortably to listen, without any scruples, seeing that the speakers were in a public place, and besides, the entrance to the bridge was by this time so packed with people that he could hardly have moved off the parapet had he wished. the older man shook his head. 'i thought i had hewed him in pieces before the lord,' he said in a low voice, 'for no sooner was he silent than i asked him if he knew what he spake, and what it was should be damned at the last day. whereat he did but fix his eyes upon me and said that "it was that which spoke in me which should be damned." even as he spoke my old notions of religion glittered and fell off me, for i knew that through him whom i despised as a wandering quaker i was listening to the voice of god. he went on to upbraid me as a flashy notionist and yet, even so, i was constrained to listen to him in silence.' the pastor's voice had sunk very low: james could hardly catch the last words. 'aye, no wonder,' rejoined the younger man, 'with those eyes he seemeth to pierce the fleshly veil and to read the secrets of a man's inmost heart. i, too, experienced this, the following market day, he being then come to the market cross "a-publishing of truth" as he and his followers term it, in their quaking jargon. the magistrates, godly men, had sent the sergeants commanding them to stop his mouth. moreover, they had sent their wives as well, and even the sergeants were less bitter against him than the women. for they declared that if the quaker dared to defile the noble market cross of carlisle city by preaching there, they themselves would pluck off the hair from his head, while the sergeants should clap him into gaol. nevertheless the quaker would not be stopped. preach he did, standing forth boldly on the high step of the cross.' 'and what said he?' enquired the older man. 'right forcibly he declared judgment on all the market folk for their deceitful ways. he spoke to the merchants as if he were a merchant himself, beseeching them to lay aside their false weights and measures and deceitful merchandize, with all cozening and cheating, and to speak truth only to one another. ever as he spoke, the people flocked closer around him, hanging on his words as if he were reading their secret hearts, so that the sergeants could not come nigh him for the press to lead him away. thus only when he had finished he stepped down from the cross and would have passed gently away, but i and some of the brethren, thinking that now our turn had come, followed after him. the contention between us was sharp. yet his words struck into me like knives, and scarce knowing what i did, i cried out aloud, for a strange power was over me. thereat he fixed his eyes upon me and spake sharply to me, as if he knew that i was resisting the spirit of the lord. i know not why, but i was forced to cry out again, "do not pierce me so with thine eyes. keep thine eyes off me."' 'well,' questioned the elder man, 'and what followed? did his eyes leave thee?' 'they have never left me,' replied the other. 'wherever i go those eyes burn me yet, although the man himself lies fast in gaol among the thieves and murderers, in the worst and most loathsome of the dungeons. thither i go every day to assure myself that he is fast caged behind thick walls, and to rejoice my eyes with the sight of the gibbet nailed high over-head upon the castle wall. men say he shall swing there soon, but of that i know not. wilt thou come with me now, for see, the bridge is free?' 'not i,' returned the pastor, moodily, as he shuffled away, like a man ill at ease with himself. little james, from his perch on the parapet, had drunk in greedily every word of this conversation. directly the bridge was clear he crept down and followed the deacon like a shadow. they passed over the silver eden and up the main street of the city, paved with rough, uneven stones, and with an open sewer flowing through the centre of it. right across the busy market-place they passed, before the deacon halted beneath the castle walls. full of noise and hubbub was carlisle city that day; yet, as the two entered the courtyard of the castle, james was aware of another sound, rising clear above the tumult of the town--strains of music, surely, that came from a fiddle. as they stepped under the inner gateway and approached the norman keep, the fiddler himself came in sight playing with might and main, under a barred window about six feet from the ground. by the fiddler's side, urging him on, was a huge, burly man with a red face. whenever the fiddler showed signs of weariness the man beside him raising a large tankard of ale to his lips would force him to drink of it, saying, 'play up, man! play up!' the thin, clear strains of the fiddle rose up steadily towards the barred window, but, above them, james caught another sound that floated yet more steadily out through the bars: the firm, full tones of a deep bass voice within, singing loud and strong. though he could not see the singer, something in the song thrilled james through and through. forgetting his weariness he knew that he was near his journey's end at last. as he listened, he noticed a handful of people, listening also, under the barred window. loud jeers arose: 'play up, fiddler!' 'sing on, quaker!' or even, 'ply him with more ale, gaoler: the prisoner is the better musician!' at these cries the fat man's countenance grew ever more enraged. he looked savage and huge, 'like a bear-ward,' a man more accustomed to deal with bears than with human beings. finally, in his wrath, he turned the now empty tankard upon the crowd and bespattered them with the last drops of the ale, and then called lustily for more, with which he plied the fiddler anew. so the contest continued, but at last, the ale perhaps taking effect, the fiddler's head dropped, his bow swept the strings more wearily, while the strong notes inside the dungeon grew ever more firm and loud. the gaoler seeing, or rather hearing, himself worsted, caught the bow from the fiddler's hand and cracked it over his skull. the fiddler, seizing this chance to escape, leapt to his feet and dashed across the courtyard, followed by the gaoler and the populace in full chase. even the sombre baptist deacon gathered up the skirts of his long coat and bestirred his lean legs. the singing ceased. a face appeared at the window: only for an instant: but one glance was enough for james. timidly he approached the window, but he had only taken two steps towards it when he found himself firmly elbowed off the pavement and pushed into the gutter. someone else also had been watching for the crowd to disperse, in order to have a chance of speaking with the prisoner. the new-comer was a portly lady in a satin gown, a much grander person than james had expected to find in the near neighbourhood of a dungeon. she carried a large, covered basket, and, as soon as the way was clear, she set it down on the pavement and began to take out the contents carefully: bread and salt, beef and elecampane ale. without looking up from her work she called to the unseen figure at the window above her head: 'so thou hast stopped their vain sounds at length with thy singing?' 'aye,' answered the deep voice from within. 'thou mayest safely approach the window now, for the gaoler hath departed. after he had beaten thee and the other friends with his great cudgel, next he was moved to beat me also, through the window, did i but come near to it to get my meat. and as he struck me i was moved to sing in the lord's power, and that made him rage the more, whereat he fetched the fiddler, saying he would soon drown my noise if i would not cease.' 'eat now, dear heart,' the woman interrupted, 'whilst thou hast the chance.' so saying, she handed some of the dishes up to the prisoner, standing herself on tiptoe beneath the prison window in order to reach his hand stretched out through the bars. here james saw his chance. 'madam,' he cried, 'let me hand the meat up to you.' the lady looked down and saw the worn, thin face. perhaps she thought the boy looked hungry enough to need the food himself, but something in his eager glance touched her, and when he added, 'for i have come one hundred and fifty miles to see george fox,' her kind heart was won. 'nay, then, thou hast a better right to help him even than i,' she said, 'though i am his very good friend and colonel benson's wife. thou shall hand up the dishes to me, and when our friend is satisfied, thou and i will finish what remains, for in the lord's power i am moved to eat no meat at my own house, but to share all my sustenance with his faithful servant who lies within this noisome gaol.' 'madam,' said the boy, speaking with the concentrated intensity of weeks of suppressed longing, 'for the food, it is no matter, though i am much beholden to you. i hunger after but one thing. bring me within the gaol where i may speak with him face to face. there is that, that i have come afoot a hundred miles to ask him. 'bring me to him, speedily i pray you, for, though even unseen i love him, 'i must see george fox.' xviii. the first quaker martyr (_from another point of view._) _extracts from the diary of the rev. ralph josselin, vicar of earls colne, essex._ _ .--'preacht at gaines coln, the quakers' nest, but no disturbance. god hath raised up my heart not to fear but willing to bear and to make opposition to their ways, in defence of truth.'_ _ap. , .--'heard this morning that james parnell, the father of the quakers in these parts, having undertaken to fast forty days and forty nights was in the morning found dead. he was by jury found guilty of his own death and buried in the castle yard.'_ _'heard and true that turner's daughter was distract in the quaking business.'_ _'sad are the fits at coxall, like the pow-wowing among the indians.'_ _ .--'the quakers, after a stop and a silence, seem to be swarming and increased, and why, lord thou only knowest!'_ _'so there is no obtaining of life but through death, nor no obtaining the crown but through the cross.'--james parnell._ xviii. the first quaker martyr how mrs. benson managed it, there is no record. perhaps she hardly knew herself! but she was not a woman to be easily turned aside from her purpose, and her husband, colonel gervase benson, had been one of the 'considerable people' in the county before he had turned quaker and 'downed those things.' even after the change, it may be that prison doors were more easily unlocked by certain little golden and silver keys in those days, than they are in our own. anyway, somehow or other, the interview was arranged. 'little james' found his desire fulfilled at last. when he passed into the stifling, crowded prison den, where human beings were herded together like beasts, he never heeded the horrible stench or the crawling vermin that abounded everywhere. rather, he felt as if he were entering the palace of a king. he paid no attention to the crowd of savage figures all around him. he saw nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing, until at last he found that his hand was lying in the grasp of a stronger, firmer hand, that held it, and would not let it go. then, indeed, for the first time he looked up, and knew that his long journey was ended, as he met the penetrating gaze of george fox. 'keep thine eyes off me, they pierce me,' the baptist deacon had cried, a few weeks before, in that same city. as james looked up, he too felt for the first time the piercing power of those eyes, but to him it brought no terror, only joy, as he yielded himself wholly to his teacher's scrutiny. in silence the two stood, reading each the other's soul. james felt, instinctively, that his new friend knew and understood everything that had happened to him, all his life long; that there was no need to tell him anything, or to explain anything. of an older friendship between two men it was written, 'thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.' thus it proved once more in that crowded dungeon. no details remain of the interview; no record of what james said, or what george said. no one else could have reported what passed between them, and, though each of them has left a mention of their first meeting, the silence remains unbroken. the journal says merely: 'while i was in ye dungeon at carlisle, a little boy, one james parnell, about fifteen years old, came to me, and he was convinced and came to be a very fine minister and turned many to christ.' the boy's own account is shorter still. he does not even mention george fox by name. 'i was called for,' he says, 'to visit some friends in the north part of england, with whom i had union before i saw their faces, and afterwards i returned to my outward dwelling-place.' his 'outward dwelling-place': the lad's frail body might tramp back along the weary miles to retford; his spirit remained in the north, freely imprisoned with his friend. 'george' and 'james' were brothers in heart, ever after that short interview in carlisle gaol: united in one inseparable purpose. while george was confined, james, the free brother, must carry forward george's work. triumphantly he did it. by the following year he had earned his place right well among the 'valiant sixty' who were then sent forth, 'east and west and south and north,' to 'publish truth.' the eastern counties, hitherto almost unbroken ground, fell to james's share. assisted by two other 'valiants,' richard hubberthorne and george whitehead, the seed was scattered throughout the length and breadth of east anglia. within three short years 'gallant meetings' were already gathered and settled everywhere. james parnell was the first quaker preacher to enter the city of colchester, which was soon to rank third among the strongholds of quakerism. this boy of eighteen, still so small and delicate in appearance that his enemies taunted him with the name of 'little quaking lad,' has left an account of one of his first crowded days of work in that city. in the morning, he says, he received any of the townspeople who were minded to come and ask him questions at his lodgings. he was a guest, at the time, of a weaver named thomas shortland, who, with his wife ann, had been convinced shortly before, by their guest's ministry. in adversity also they were soon to prove themselves tried and faithful friends. later, that same sunday morning ( th july ), james went down the high street to saint nicholas' church, and, when the sermon was ended, preached to the people in his turn. in the afternoon 'he addressed a very great meeting of about a thousand people, in john furly's yard, he being mounted above the crowd and speaking out of a hay-chamber window.' still later, that same day, he not only carried on a discussion with 'the town-lecturer and another priest,' he, the boy of eighteen, but also 'appeared in the evening at a previously advertised meeting held in the schoolroom for the children of the french and flemish weaver refugees in colchester, who were being at this time hospitably entertained in john furly's house.'[ ] george fox says, 'many hundreds of people were convinced by the words and labours of this young minister.' but, far better than preaching to other people, he had by this time learned to rule his own spirit. once, as he was coming out of the 'steeple-house of colchester, called nicholas,' one person in particular struck him with a great staff and said to him, 'take that for jesus christ's sake,' to whom james parnell meekly replied, 'friend, i do receive it for jesus christ's sake.' the journey his soul had travelled from the time, only three short years before, when he had described his neighbours as 'the heathen round about,' until the day that he could give such an answer was perhaps a longer one really than all the weary miles he had traversed between retford and far carlisle. the two friends, george and james, had one short happy time of service together, both of them free. after that they parted. then, all too soon it was george's turn to visit james, now himself in prison at colchester castle, an even more terrible prison than carlisle, where only death could open the doors and set the weary prisoner free. george's record of his visit to his friend is short and grim. 'as i went through colchester,' he says, 'i went to visit james parnell in prison, but the cruel gaoler would hardly let us come in or stay with him, and there the gaoler's wife threatened to have his blood, and there they did destroy him.' an account, written by his colchester friends, expands the terrible, glorious tale of his sufferings. 'the first messenger of the lord that appeared in this town to sound the everlasting gospel was that eminent minister and labourer, james parnell, whose first coming to ye town was in ye fourth month (june) in the year .... great were the sufferings which this faithful minister of the lord underwent, being beat and abused by many. 'as touching the cause of his sufferings in this his last imprisonment unto death, which was the fruits of a fast kept at great coggeshall against error (as they said), the th day of the fifth month , where he spoke some words when the priests had done speaking; and when he was gone out of the high place one followed him, called justice wakering, and clapt him on the back and said he arrested him. and so, by the means of divers independent priests and others, he was committed to this prison at colchester. and in that prison he was kept close up, and his friends and acquaintance denied to come at him. then at the assizes he was carried to chelmsford, about eighteen miles through the country, as a sport or gazing-stock, locked on a chain with five accused for felony and murder, and he with three others remained on the chain day and night. but when he appeared at the bar, he was taken off the chain, only had irons on his hands, where he appeared before judge hill ... the first time. but seeing some cried out against this cruelty, and what shame it would be to let the irons be seen on him, the next day they took them off, and he appeared without, where the priests and justices were the accusers. and the judge gathered what he could out of what they said, to make what he could against the prisoner to the jury, and urged them to find him guilty, lest it fall upon their own heads.... and when he would have spoken truth for himself to inform the jury, the judge would not permit him thereto. so the judge fined him about twice twenty marks, or forty pounds, and said the lord protector had charged him to see to punish such persons as should contemn either magistracy or ministry. so he committed him close prisoner till payment, and gave the jailor charge to let no giddy-headed people come at him; for his friends and those that would have done him good were called "giddy-headed people," and so kept out; and such as would abuse him by scorning or beating, those they let in and set them on. and the jailor's wife would set her man to beat him, who threatened to knock him down and make him shake his heels, yea, the jailor's wife did beat him divers times, and swore she would have his blood, or he should have hers. to which he answered, "woman, i would not have thine."'[ ] one of james' own letters remains written about this time: 'the day i came in from the assize,' he says, 'there was a friend or two with me in the jaylor's house, and the jaylor's wife sent her man to call me from them and to put me into a yard, and would not suffer my friends to come at me. and one friend brought me water, and they would not suffer her to come to me, but made her carry it back again.' the name of this woman friend is not given in this letter, but i daresay we shall not be far wrong if we fill it in for ourselves here, and think of her as the same anne langley, who would not be kept out of the prison later on. other people mention her by name. it is only in little james' own account that her name does not appear. perhaps the tie that bound them was something more than friendship, and he did not wish her to suffer for her love and faith. james' letter continues: 'at night they locked me up into a hole with a condemned man ... and the same day a friend desired the jaylor's wife that she would let her come and speak with me, and the jaylor's wife answered her and the other friends who were with her, calling them "rogues, witches ... and the devil's dish washers" ... and other names, and saying "that they had skipped out of hell when the devil was asleep!" and much more of the same unchristian-like speeches which is too tedious to relate.... and thus they make a prey upon the innocent; and when they do let any come to me they would not let them stay but very little,' (poor james! the visits were all too short, and the lonely hours alone all too long for the prisoner) 'and the jaylor's wife would threaten to pull them down the stairs.... and swore that she would have my blood several times, and told my friends so, and that she would mark my face, calling me witch and rogue, shake hell ... and the like; and because i did reprove her for her wickedness, the jaylor hath given order that none shall come to me at any occasion, but only one or two that brings my food.' even this small mercy was not to be allowed much longer. the account of the colchester friend continues: 'and sometimes they would stop any from bringing him victuals, and set the prisoners to take his victuals from him; and when he would have had a trundle bed to have kept him off the stones, they would not suffer friends to bring him one, but forced him to lie on the stones, which sometimes would run down with water in a wet season. and when he was in a room for which he paid d. a night, he was threatened, if he did but walk to and fro in it, by the jaylor's wife. then they put him in a hole in the wall, very high, where the ladder was too short by about six foot, and when friends would have given him a cord and basket to have taken up his victuals, he was denied thereof and could not be suffered to have it, though it was much desired, but he must either come up and down by that rope, or else famish in the hole, which he did a long time, before god suffered them to see their desires in which time much means was used about it, but their wills were unalterably set in cruelty towards him. but after long suffering in this hole, where there was nought but misery as to the outward man, being no hole either for air or for smoke, being much benumbed in the naturals, as he was climbing up the ladder with his victuals in one hand, and coming to the top of the ladder, catching at the rope with the other hand, missed the rope, and fell a very great height upon stones, by which fall he was exceedingly wounded in the head and arms, and his body much bruised, and taken up for dead, but did recover again that time. 'then they put him in a low hole called the oven, and much like an oven, and some have said who have been in it that they have seen a baker's oven much bigger, except for the height of the roof, without the least airhole or window for smoke and air, nor would they suffer him to have a little charcoal brought in by friends to prevent the noisome smoke. nor would they suffer him, after he was a little recovered, to take a little air upon the castle wall, which was but once desired by the prisoner, feeling himself spent for want of breath. all which he bore with much patience and still kept his suffering much from friends there, seeing they was much sorrowful to see it. yea, others who were no friends were wounded at the sight of his usage in many other particulars, which we forbear here to mention. 'and divers came to see him, who heard of his usage from far, not being friends, had liberty to see him, who was astonished at his usage, and some of them would say "if this be the usage of the protector's prisoners it were better to be anybody's prisoners than his," as justice barrington's daughter said, who saw their cruelty to him. and many who came to see him were moved with pity to the creature, for his sufferings were great.' 'and although some did offer of their bond of forty pounds [to pay the fine and so set him at liberty] and one to lie body for body, that he might come to their house till he was a little recovered, yet they would not permit it, and it being desired that he might but walk in the yard, it was answered he should not walk so much as to the castle door. and the door being once opened, he did but take the freedom to walk forth in a close, stinking yard before the door, and the gaoler came in a rage and locked up the hole where he lay, and shut him out in the yard all night in the coldest time of the winter. so, finding that nothing but his blood would satisfy them, great application was made to them in a superior authority but to no purpose. thus he having endured about ten months' imprisonment, and having passed through many trials and exercises, which the lord enabled him to bear with courage and faithfulness, he laid down his head in peace and died a prisoner and faithful martyr for the sake of the truth, under the hands of a persecuting generation in the year .'[ ] it was his former host, thomas shortland the weaver, who had offered to lie 'body for body' in prison, if only james might be allowed to return to his house and be nursed back to health again there. after the boy's death this kind man wrote as follows: 'dear friend--in answer to thine, is this, james parnell being dead, the coroner sent an officer for me, and one anne langley, a friend, who both of us watched with him that night that he departed. and coming to him [the coroner] he said, "that it was usual when any died in prison, to have a jury got on them," and james being dead, and he hearing we two watched with him, he sent for us to hear what we could say concerning his death, whether he died on his fair death [_i.e._ a natural death] or whether he were guilty of his own death.... he asked whether he had his senses and how he behaved himself late-ward toward his departure. i answered that he had his senses and that he spake sensibly, and to as good understanding as he used to do. he then enquired what words he spoke. to which anne langley answered that she heard him say, "here i die innocently," and she said that she had been at the departing of many, but never was where was such sweet departing; and at his departing his last words were, "now i must go," and turned his head to me and said, "thomas, this death i must die," and further said, "o thomas, i have seen great things," and bade me that i should not hold him, but let him go, and said it over again, "will you not hold me?" and then said anne, "dear heart, we will not hold thee." and he said, "now i go," and stretched out himself, and fell into a sweet sleep and slept about an hour (as he often said, that one hour's sleep would cure him of all), and so drew breath no more.' * * * * * little james was free at last. he had left his frail, weary body behind and had departed on the longest, shortest journey of all. a journey this, ending in no noisome den in carlisle castle, as when he first saw the earthly teacher he had loved so long, but leading straight and swift to the heavenly abiding-places: to the welcome of his unseen yet everlasting friend. 'how know i that it looms lovely, that land i have never seen, with morning-glory and heartsease, and unexampled green? all souls singing, seeing, rejoicing everywhere, yea, much more than this i know, for i know that christ is there.'[ ] footnotes: [ ] _james parnell_, by c. fell smith. [ ] 'lamb's defence against lyes.' [ ] _first publishers of truth_. [ ] christina rossetti. xix. the children of reading meeting _'and all must be meeke, sober and jentell and quiet and loving, and not give one another bad word noe time in the skouell, nor out of it ... all is to mind their lessons and be digelent in their rightings, and to lay up their boukes when they go from the skouell and ther pens and inkonerns and to keep them sow, else they must be louk'd upon as carles and slovenes; and soe you must keep all things clean, suet and neat and hanson.'--g. fox. advice to schoolmasters._ _'dear and tender little babes, as well as strong men, ... let not anything straiten you, when god moves: and thou, faithful babe, though thou stutter and stammer forth a few words in the dread of the lord, they are accepted, and all that are strong, serve the weak in strengthening them and wait in wisdom to give place to the motion of the spirit in them, that it may have time to bring forth what god hath given ... that ... you maybe a well spring of life to one another in the power of the endless love of god.'--w. dewsbury._ _'when the justices threatened friend john boult and told him that he and other reading friends should be sent to prison, he replied: "that's the weakest thing thou canst do. if thou canst convince me of anything that is evil, i will hear thee and let the prisons alone."'--w.c. braithwaite._ xix. the children of reading meeting it was a most uncomfortable first day morning. the children looked at each other and wondered what would happen next, as they stood in the small bedroom under the thatched roof. dorcas, the eldest, already half dressed, held baby stephen in her arms; but the twins, tryphena and tryphosa, were running about the floor with bare feet and only their petticoats on, strings and tapes all flying loose. baby was crying, whilst the twins shouted with mischievous glee. something must be done. so dorcas seated herself in a big chair and tried to dress baby. but baby was hungry. he wanted his breakfast and he did not at all want to be dressed! oh, if only mother was here! where was mother all this long time? had she and father really been taken to prison? dorcas felt heart-sick at the thought. happily the twins and baby were too little to understand. she herself was nearly ten and therefore almost grown up. she understood now all about it quite well. this was what mother had meant when she bent down to kiss her little girl in bed last night, saying that she was going out to a meeting at friend curtis' house, hoping to be back in an hour or two. 'but if not'--here dorcas remembered that mother's eyes had filled with tears. she had left the sentence unfinished, adding only: 'anyway, i know i can trust thee, dorcas, to be a little mother to the little ones while i am away.' 'but if not....' dorcas had been too sleepy last night to think what the words meant, or to keep awake until mother's return. it seemed as if she had only just closed her eyes for a minute or two; and yet, when she opened them again, the bright morning sunlight was filling the room. 'but if not....' after all, there had been no need for mother to finish the sentence. now that dorcas was wide awake she could complete it for herself only too well. for dorcas knew that at any moment a meeting of five or more persons who met to practise a form of worship not authorized by law might be rudely interrupted by the constables, and all the friends who were sitting in silence together dragged off to prison for disobeying the quaker act. since that act had been passed in this same month of may , quaker children understood that this might happen at any moment, but of course each child hoped that it would not happen just yet, or at least not to his own father and mother. but now apparently it had happened here in peaceful reading beside the broad thames. last night's meeting had been fixed at an unusually late hour. for, as the late spring evenings were lengthening, the reading quakers had wished to take advantage of the long may twilight to gather together and meet with a friend, one of the valiant sixty, who had come in for a few hours unexpectedly on his way to london. so the children had fallen asleep as usual, fully expecting to find their parents beside them when they woke. but now the empty places and the unslept-in beds told their own tale. 'be a mother to the little ones, dorcas,' mother had said. well, dorcas was trying her very best, but it was not easy. baby had many strings to tie and many buttons to fasten, and just as she was getting the very last button safely into its button-hole the twins came running up to say that they had got into each other's clothes by mistake and could not get out of them again. this was serious; for though phenie's frock was only a little too big for phosie, phosie's frock was much too small for phenie. dorcas was obliged to put baby down to attend to them; but this reminded baby that he had still not been provided with his much-desired breakfast, whereupon he began to howl, till dorcas took him up in her arms again, and dandled him as mother did. this made him crow for happiness, just as he did when mother took him, so for a few minutes dorcas was happy too, till she saw that the twins were now beginning to squabble again, and to tear out each other's hair with the comb. at that unlucky moment up came brother peter's big voice calling from below, 'dorcas, dorcas, what are you all doing up there? why is not breakfast ready? i have milked the cow for you. you must come down this very minute; i am starving!' it was an uncomfortable morning; and the worst of it was that it was first day morning too. dorcas had not known before that a first day morning could be uncomfortable. usually first day was the happiest day in the whole week. mother's hands were so gentle that, though the children had been taught to help themselves as soon as they were old enough, still mother always seemed to know just when there was an unruly button that needed a little coaxing to help it to find its hole, or a string that wanted to get into a knot that ought to be persuaded to tie itself into a bow. then breakfast was always a pleasant meal, with the big blue bowls full of milk, warm from the cow, set out on the wooden table, and father sitting at one end raising his hand as he said a silent grace. father never said any words at these times. but he bent his head as if he were thanking someone he loved very much, someone close beside him, for giving him the milk and bread to give to the children and for making him very happy. so the children felt happy too. dorcas thought that the brown bread always tasted especially good on first day morning, because father was at the head of the table to cut it and hand it to them himself. on other, week-day, mornings he had to go off much earlier, ploughing, or reaping, or gathering in the ripe corn from the harvest-fields behind the farm. also, peter never teased the little ones when father was there. but to-day if there were no breakfast, (and where was breakfast to come from?) peter would be dreadfully cross. yet how could dorcas go and get breakfast for peter when the three little ones were all wanting her help at once? 'i'm coming, peter, as fast as ever i can,' she called back, in answer to a second yet more peremptory summons. but, oh! how glad she was to hear a gentle knock at the door of the thatched cottage a minute or two later. 'come in! come in!' she heard peter saying joyfully as he opened the door, and then came the sound of light footsteps on the wooden stairs. another minute, and the bedroom door opened gently, and a sunshiny face looked into the children's untidy room. 'why, it is thee, hester!' dorcas exclaimed, with a cry of joy. 'oh, i am glad to see thee! and how glad mother would be to know thou wert here.' the girl who entered was both taller and older than dorcas. she was a well-loved playfellow evidently, for tryphena and tryphosa toddled towards her across the room at once, to be caught up in her arms and kissed. 'of course, it is i, dorcas,' she answered promptly. 'who else should it be? prudence and i determined that we would come over and try to help thee as soon as we could. we brought a basket of provisions too, in case you were short. prudence is helping peter to set out breakfast in the kitchen now, so we must hasten.' life often becomes easy when you are two, however difficult it may have been when you were only one! with hester to help, the dressing was finished at lightning speed. yet, when the children came down to the kitchen, prudence and peter already had the fire blazing away merrily; the warm milk was foaming in the bowls. the hungry children thought, as they drank it up, that never before had breakfast tasted so good. 'hester, what made thee think of coming?' dorcas asked a little later, when, baby's imperious needs being satisfied, she was able to begin her own breakfast, while he drummed an accompaniment on the back of her hand with a wooden spoon. 'how did the news reach thee? or have they taken thy father and mother away too? have all the friends gone to gaol this time?' hester nodded. her bright face clouded for a moment or two. then she resolutely brushed the cloud away. 'yea, in truth, dorcas,' she answered. 'i fear much that only we children are left. anyhow, thy parents and mine are taken, and the others as well most like. my father had warning from a trusty source that he and other friends had best not meet in thomas curtis' house last night. but he is never one to be turned aside from his purpose, thou knows. so he took me between his knees and said, "hester, dear maid, thy mother and i must go. 'tis none of our choosing. if we are taken, fear not for us, nor for thyself and prue. only seek to nourish and care for the tender babes in the other houses, whence friends are likely to be taken also." therefore i hastened hither to help thee, dorcas, bringing prudence with me, partly because i love thee, and thou art mine own dear friend, but also because it was my father's command. if i can be of service to thee, perhaps he will pat my head when he returns out of gaol and say, as he doth sometimes, "i knew i could trust thee, my hester."' 'will they be long in prison, dost thou think?' asked dorcas, with a tremor in her voice. she was always an anxious-minded little girl, and inclined to look on the gloomy side of things, whereas hester was sunshine itself. 'who can say?' answered hester, and again even her bright face clouded. 'the justices are sure to tender to them the oath, but since they follow him who commanded, "swear not at all," how can they take it?' 'then, if they refuse, they will be said to be out of the king's protection, and the justices and the gaolers may do with them as they will,' added peter doggedly. at these words hester, seeing that dorcas looked very sorrowful and almost ready to cry, checked peter suddenly, and said, 'at any rate, we can but hope for the best. and now we must hasten, or we shall be late for meeting.' 'meeting?' dorcas looked up in surprise. 'i thought thou saidst that all the friends had been taken.' 'all the men and women, yes,' answered hester; 'but we children are left. we know what our fathers and mothers would have us do.' here peter broke in, 'yes, of course, dorcas, we must go to show them that friends are not cowards, and that we will keep up our meetings come what may. dost thou not mind what friend thomas curtis' wife, mistress nan, has often told us of her father, the sheriff of bristol? how he was hung before his own door, because men said he was endeavouring to betray the city to prince rupert, and thus serve his king in banishment. shall we be less loyal than he?' 'loyal to our king, dorcas,' added hester gently. dorcas hesitated no longer. 'thou art right, hester,' she answered, 'and peter, thou art right too. we will go all together. i had forgotten. of course children as well as grown-up people can wait upon god.' * * * * * the children arrived at the friends' usual meeting place, only to find it locked and strongly guarded. they went on, undismayed, to friend lamboll's orchard, but, there also, two heavy padlocks, sealed with the king's seal, were upon the green gate. an old goody from a cottage hard by waved them away. 'be off, children! here is no place for you,' she said; adding not unkindly, 'your parents were taken near here yester eve, and the officers of the law are still prowling round. this orchard is sure to be one of the first places they will visit.' then seeing the tired look on dorcas' face, as she turned to go, with heavy stephen in her arms: 'here, give the babe to me,' she said, 'i'll care for him this forenoon. thy mother managed to get a word with me last night as the officers dragged her away, and i promised her i would do what i could to help you, though you be quakers and i hold to the church. see, he'll be safe in this cradle while you go and play, though it is forty years and more since it held a babe of my own.' very thankfully dorcas laid stephen, now sleeping peacefully, down in the oaken cradle in the old woman's flagged kitchen. then she ran off to join the others assembled at a little distance from the orchard gate. by this time a few more children had joined them: two or three girls, and four or five older boys. where were they to meet? the sight of the closed house, and the sealed gate, even the mention of the officers of the law, far from frightening the children, had only made them more than ever clear that, somewhere or other, the meeting must be held. at length one of the elder boys suggested 'my father's granary?' the very place!--they all agreed: so thither the little flock of children trooped. the granary was a large building of grey stone lighted only by two mullioned windows high up in the walls. in queen elizabeth's days these windows had lighted the small rooms of an upper storey, but now the dividing floor had been removed to make more room for the grain which lay piled up as high as the roof over more than half the building. but, at one end, there was an empty space on the floor, and here the children seated themselves on scattered bundles of hay. quietly meeting began. at first some of the children peeped up at one another anxiously under their eyelids. it felt very strange somehow to be gathering together in silence alone without any grown-up people. were they really doing right? dorcas' heart began to beat rather nervously, and a hot flush dyed her cheek, until she looked across at hester sitting opposite, and was calmed by the peaceful expression of the elder girl's face. hester's hood had fallen back upon her shoulders. her fair hair, slightly ruffled, shone like a halo of pale gold against the grey stone wall of the granary. her blue eyes were looking up, up at the blue sky, far away beyond the high window. 'hester looks happy, almost as if she were listening to something,' dorcas said to herself, 'something that comforts her although we are all sad.' then, settling herself cosily down into the hay, 'now i will try to listen for comfort too.' a few moments later the silence was broken by a half-whispered prayer from a dark corner of the granary, 'our dear, dear parents! help them to be brave and faithful, and make us all brave and faithful too.' none of the boys and girls looked round to see who had spoken, for the words seemed to come from the deepest place in their own hearts. swiftly and speedily the children's prayer was answered. help was given to them, but they needed every scrap of their courage and faith during the next half-hour. almost before the last words of the prayer died away, a loud noise was heard and the tramp of heavy feet coming round the granary wall. the officers of the law were upon them: 'what, yet another conventicle of these pestilential heretics to be broken up?' shouted a wrathful voice. the next moment the door was roughly burst open, and in the doorway appeared a much dreaded figure, no less a person than sir william armorer himself, justice of the peace and equerry to the king. none of the children had any very clear idea as to the meaning of that word 'equerry'; therefore it always filled them with a vague terror of unknown possibilities. in after years, whenever they heard it they saw again an angry man with a florid face, dressed in a suit of apple-green satin slashed with gold, standing in a doorway and wrathfully shaking a loaded cane over their heads. 'yet more of ye itching to be laid by the ears in gaol!' shouted this apparition as he entered and slammed the heavy wooden door behind him. but an expression of amazement followed when he was once inside the room. 'brats! by my life! quaker brats! and none beside them!' he exclaimed astonished, as he looked round the band of children. 'quaker brats holding a conventicle of their own, as if they were grown men and women! having stopped the earth and gaoled the fox, must we now deal with the litter? look you here, do you want a closer acquaintance with this?' with these words, he pointed his loaded stick at each of the children in turn and drew out a sharp iron point concealed in one end of it, and began to slash the air. then, changing his mind again, he went back to the door and called out to his followers in the passage outside, 'here, men, we will let the maidens go, but you must teach these lads what it is to disobey the law, or i'm no justice of his majesty's peace.' even in that moment of terror the children wondered not only at the loud angry voice but at the unfamiliar scent that filled the room. the air, which had been pure and fragrant with the smell of hay, was now heavy and loaded with essences and perfumes. well it might be, for though the children knew it not, the flowing lovelocks of the curly wig that descended to the justice's shoulders had been scented that very morning with odours of ambergris, musk, and violet, orris root, orange flowers, and jessamine, as well as others besides. the stronger scents of kennel and stable, and even of ale and beer, that filled the room as the constables trooped into it were almost a relief to the children, because they at least were familiar, and unlike the other strange, sickly fragrance. the constables seized the boys, turned them out into the road, and there punched and beat them with their own staffs and the justice's loaded stick until they were black in the face. the girls were driven in a frightened bunch down the lane. only hester sat on in her place, still and unmoved, sheltering the twins in her bosom and holding her hands over their eyes. up to her came the angry justice in a fine rage, until it seemed as if the perfumed wig must almost touch her smooth plaits of hair. then, at last, hester moved, but not in time to prevent the justice seizing her by the shoulder and flinging her down the road after the others. her frightened charges, torn from her arms, still clung to her skirts, while the full-grown men strode along after them, threatening to duck them all in the pond if they made the slightest resistance, and did not at once disperse to their homes. it certainly was neither a comfortable thing nor a pleasant thing to be a quaker child in those stormy days. nevertheless, pleasant or unpleasant, comfortable or uncomfortable, made no difference. it was thanks to the courage of this handful of boys and girls that, in spite of the worst that mr. justice armorer could do, in spite of the dread of him and his constables, in spite of his angry face, of his scented wig and loaded cane, in spite of all these things,--still, sunday after sunday, through many a long anxious month, god was worshipped in freedom and simplicity in the town by silver thames. reading meeting was held. meantime, throughout these same long months, within the prison walls the fathers and mothers prayed for their absent children. although apart from one another, the two companies were not really separated; for both were listening to the same shepherd's voice. until, at last, the happy day came when the gaol-doors were opened and the prisoners released. then, oh the kissing and the hugging! the crying and the blessing! as the parents heard of all the children had undergone in order to keep faithful and true! that was indeed the most joyful meeting of all! thankfulness and joy last freshly through the centuries, as an old letter, written at that time by one of the fathers to george fox still proves to us to-day: 'our little children kept the meetings up, when we were all in prison, notwithstanding that wicked justice when he came and found them there, with a staff that had a spear in it would pull them out of the meeting, and punch them in the back till some of them were black in the face ... his fellow is not, i believe, to be found in all england a justice of the peace.' * * * * * 'for they might as well think to hinder the sun from shining, or the tide from flowing, as to think to hinder the lord's people from meeting to wait upon him.' xx. the saddest story of all _'take heed of forward minds, and of running out before your guide, for that leads out into looseness; and such plead for liberty, and run out in their wills and bring dishonour to the lord.'..._ _'and take heed if under a pretence of liberty you do not ... set up that both in yourselves and on others that will be hard to get down again.'--g. fox._ _'the truth in this city spreads and flourisheth; many large meetings we have, and great ones of the world come to them, and are much tendered. james is fitted for this great place, and a great love is begotten towards him'--a. parker to m. fell, (from london, before nayler's fall)._ _'his forebearing in due time to testify against the folly of those his followers (who magnified him) was his great weakness and loss of judgment, and brought the greatest suffering upon him, poor man! though when he was delivered out of the snare, he did condemn all their wild and mad actions towards him and judged himself also. howbeit our adversaries and persecutors unjustly took occasion thereupon, to triumph and insult, and to reproach and roar against quakers, though as a people (they were) wholly unconcerned and clear from those offences.'--g. whitehead._ _'and so his will is my peace.'--james nayler._ xx. the saddest story of all but it has a happy end children--come close. let us hold hands and gather round the fire. this story must be told in the twilight, while the room is all dark except for the dim glow of the coals. then, if a few tears do run down our cheeks--no one will see them. and presently the lamp will come in, the darkness will vanish, and the story will end happily--as most stories do if we could only carry them on far enough. what makes the sadness to us, often, is that we only see such a little bit of the way. this is the story of a man who made terrible mistakes, and suffered a terrible punishment. but, through his sufferings, and perhaps even through the great mistakes he made, he learned some lessons that he might never have learned in any other way. his name was james nayler. he was born in , and was the son of a well-to-do farmer in yorkshire. he was 'educated in good english,' and learned to write and speak well. his early life seems to have been uneventful. at the age of he married, and settled near wakefield with his young wife, anne. after a few years of happy married life, the long dispute between king charles and his parliament finally broke out into civil war. the old peaceful life of the countryside was at an end. everywhere men were called upon to take sides and to arm. james nayler was one of the first to answer that call. he enlisted in the parliamentary army under lord fairfax, and spent the next nine or ten years as a soldier. under general lambert he rose to be quartermaster, and the prospect of attaining still higher military rank was before him when his health broke down and he was obliged to return home. a little later he made a friend. one eventful sunday in 'the man in leather breeches' visited wakefield, and came to the 'steeple-house' where nayler had been accustomed to worship with his family. directly the sermon was finished, all the people in the church pointed at the stranger, and called him to come up to the priest. fox rose, as his custom was, and began to 'declare the word of life.' he went on to say that he thought the priest who had been preaching had been deceiving his hearers in some parts of his sermon. naturally the priest who had spoken did not like this, and although some of the congregation agreed with fox, and felt that 'they could have listened to him for ever,' most of the people hated the stranger for his words. they rushed at fox, punching and beating him; then, crying, 'let us have him in the stocks!' they thrust him out of the door of the church. once in the cool fresh air, however, the crowd became less violent. their mood changed. instead of hustling their unresisting visitor through the town and clapping him into the stocks, they loosed their hold of him and suffered him to go quietly away. as he departed, george fox came upon another group of people assembled at a little distance. these were the men and women who had listened to him gladly in church, who now wished to hear more of the new truths he had been declaring. among them was james nayler, a man older than fox, who had been convinced by him a year earlier. this second visit, however, clinched nayler's allegiance to his new friend. possibly, having been a soldier himself, he began by admiring fox's courage. here was a man who refused to strike a single blow in self-defence. he was apparently quite ready to let the angry mob do what they would, and yet in the end he managed to quell their rage by the force of his own spiritual power. the journal simply says that a great many people were convinced that day of the truth of the quaker preaching, and that 'they were directed to the lord's teaching _in themselves_.' hereupon the priest of the church became very angry. he spread abroad many untrue stories about fox, saying that he 'carried bottles with him, and made people drink of them and so made them follow him and become quakers.' at wakefield, also, in those days, as well as farther north, 'enchantment' was the first and simplest explanation of anything unusual. this same priest also said that fox rode upon a great black horse, and was seen riding upon it in one county at a certain time, and was also seen on the same horse and at the very same time in another county sixty miles away. 'with these lies,' says fox, 'he fed his people, to make them think evil of the truth which i had declared amongst them. but by those lies he preached many of his hearers away from him, for i was travelling on foot and had no horse; which the people generally knew.' james nayler at any rate decided to become one of fox's followers, and let the priest do his worst. it may have been at his house that george fox lodged that night, thankful for its shelter, having slept under a hedge the night before. when fox left, nayler did not go with him, but remained quietly at home. having been a farmer's son before he became a soldier, he quietly returned to his farming when he left the army. one day in early spring, a few months after fox's visit, as james nayler was driving the plough and thinking of the things of god, he heard a voice calling to him through the silence, telling him to leave his home and his relations, for god would be with him. at first james nayler rejoiced exceedingly because he had heard the voice of god, but when he considered how much he would have to give up if he left home, he tried to put the command aside. nothing that he undertook prospered with him after this; he fell ill and nearly died, till at last he was made willing to surrender his own will utterly and go out, ready to do god's will, day by day and hour by hour, as it should be revealed to him. 'and so he continued, not knowing one day what he was to do the next; and the promise of god that he would be with him, he found made good to him every day.' these are his own words. his inward guidance led him into the west of england, and there he found george fox. after this nayler and fox were often together. sometimes nayler would take a long journey to see fox when he was staying with his dear friends at swarthmoor. sometimes they wrote beautiful letters to each other. here is one from nayler to fox that might have been written to us to-day: 'dear hearts, you make your own troubles by being unwilling and disobedient to that which would lead you safe. there is no way but to go hand in hand with him in all things, running after him without fear or considering, leaving the whole work only to him. if he seem to smile, follow him in fear and love, and if he seem to frown, follow him and fall into his will, and you shall see he is yours still,--for he will prove his own.' [illustration: 'the voice of the silence'] nayler's adventurous journey with fox to walney island must have drawn their friendship closer than ever. in spite of hardships these were happy days as they went about the country together on god's errands. but these days came to an end. you see, nayler had not found his faith after a long struggle as george fox had done. perhaps he had accepted it a little too easily, and too confidently, in his own strength. he was a splendid, brilliant preacher, and he loved arguing for his new belief in public. once, in derbyshire, in an argument with some ministers, he got so much the best of it that the crowd was delighted and cried out, 'a nailer, a nailer hath confuted them all.' another time, when he was attending a meeting at a friend's house, he says that 'hundreds of vain people continued all the while throwing great stones in at the window, but we were kept in great peace within.' it would be rather difficult to sit quite still and 'think meeting thoughts' with large stones flying through the windows, would it not? once, when i was at a service on board ship, a few years ago, a tremendous wave broke through the port-hole and splashed the kneeling men and women on that side of the saloon. they were so startled that nearly all of them jumped, and one called out quite loudly, 'oh, what's that?' but the clergyman went on quietly reading the service, and very soon everything became still and quiet again. james nayler also continued to give his message of stillness and calm, and the gathered people, listening to him intently, forgot to think about the stones. he must have had a great deal of that strange quality that we call magnetism. just as a magnet attracts bits of iron to it, so some people have the power of attracting others to listen to them and love them. fox was the most powerful magnet of all the quaker preachers. he attracted people in thousands all over the country. but nayler seems to have had a great deal of magnetism too, though it was of a different kind. for one thing he was handsomer to look at than fox. he is described as 'of ruddy complexion and medium height, with long, low hanging brown hair, oval face, and nose that rose a little in the middle: he wore a small band close to his collar, but no band strings, and a hat that hung over his brows.' but it would have been happier for him if he had not been so good-looking, as you will see presently. he must have had much charm of manner, too. a court lady, abigail, lady darcy, invited him to her house to preach, and there, beside all the people who had assembled to hear him, many other much grander listeners were also present although unseen, 'lords, ladies, officers, and ministers.' these great people, not wishing it to be known that they came to listen to the quaker preacher, were hidden away behind a ceiling. nayler himself must have known of their presence, since he mentions it in a letter, though he does not explain how a ceiling could be a hiding-place. he spoke to them afterwards of the voice that had called him as he was ploughing in the fields at home. these fine lords and ladies could not understand what he meant. 'a voice, a voice?' they asked him, 'but did you really hear it?' 'aye, verily, i did hear it,' he replied in such solemn tones that they wondered more than ever what he meant; and perhaps they began to listen too for the inner voice. the discovery that he, a humble quaker preacher, could attract all this attention did james nayler harm. instead of remembering only the thankfulness and joy of being entrusted with his master's message, he allowed small, lower feelings to creep into his heart: 'what a good messenger i am! don't i preach well? far grander people throng to hear me than to any other quaker minister's sermons!' another temptation came to him through his good looks. he was evidently getting to think altogether too much about himself. it was james nayler this and james nayler that, far too much about james nayler. also, some of his friends were foolish, and did not help him. the interesting thing about james nayler is that his chief temptations always came to him through his good qualities. if he had been a little duller, or a little uglier, or a little stupider, if he had even made fewer friends, he might have walked safely all his life. as it was, instead of listening only to the voice of god, he allowed himself to listen to one of the most dangerous suggestions of the tempter. nayler began to think that he might imitate jesus christ not only in inner ways, not only by trying to be meek and loving and gentle and self-sacrificing, as he was to all the people around him. that is the way we may all try to be like him. nayler also tried to imitate him in outer ways. he found a portrait of the saviour and noticed how he was supposed to have worn his hair and beard; and then he arranged his own hair and beard in the same way. he even attempted to work miracles like those in the gospel story. he tried to fast as christ had done, 'he ate no bread but one little bit for a whole month, and there was about a fortnight ... he took no manner of food, but some days a pint of white wine, and some days a gill mingled with water.' this was when he was imprisoned in exeter gaol with many other quakers. one woman among them fainted and became unconscious, and she believed she had been brought back to life by nayler's laying his hand on her head and saying, 'dorcas, arise.' some of his friends and the other women in the prison were foolish and silly. instead of helping nayler to serve god in lowliness and humility, they flattered his vanity, and encouraged him to become yet more vain and presumptuous. they even knelt before him in the prison, bowing and singing, 'holy, holy, holy.' some one wrote him a wicked letter saying, 'thy name shall be no more james nayler, but jesus'! nayler confessed afterwards that 'a fear struck him' when he received that letter. he put it in his pocket, meaning that no one should see it. but though nayler did not himself encourage his friends in their wicked folly, still he did not check them as he should have done. he thought that he was meant to be a 'sign of christ' for the world. he was weak in health at the time, and had suffered much from imprisonment and long fasting; so it can be said in excuse that his mind may have been clouded, and that perhaps he did not altogether understand what was being done. the real sadness of this story is that we cannot excuse him altogether. some of the blame for the silly and foolish and wicked things that were done around him does, and must, belong to him too. he ought to have known and to have forbidden it all from the beginning. george fox and the other steady friends of course did not approve of these wild doings of james nayler and his friends. george fox came to see james nayler in prison at exeter, and reproved him for his errors. james nayler was proud and would not listen to rebukes, though he offered to kiss george fox at parting. but fox, who was 'stiff as a tree and pure as a bell,' would not kiss any man, however much he loved him, who persisted in such wrong notions. the two friends parted very sorrowfully, and with a sad heart fox returned to the inn on exeter bridge. not all the 'seven stars' on its signboard could shine through this cloud. after this, things grew worse. nayler persisted in his idea that he was meant, in his own life, and in his own body, to imitate jesus christ outwardly, and the women persisted in their wild acting round him. when nayler and his admirers came to bristol, in october , they arranged a sort of play scene, to make it like the entry of jesus into jerusalem. one man, bareheaded, led nayler's horse, and the women spread scarves and handkerchiefs in the way before him, as they had no palms. they even shouted 'hosanna!' and other songs and hymns that they had no business to sing except in the worship of god. they meant it to be all very brilliant and triumphant. but it was really a miserable sort of affair, for the rain came down heavily, and the roads were muddy and dirty, which made the whole company wet and draggled. still it was not the rain that mattered,--what mattered most was that none of them can have had the sunshine of peace in their hearts, for they must have known that they were doing wrong. anyhow the magistrates of the city of bristol had no manner of doubt about that. as soon as the foolish, dishevelled, excited company reached the city they were all clapped into gaol, which was perhaps the best place to sober their excited spirits. the officers of the law were thoroughly well pleased. they had said from the first that george fox was a most dangerous man, and that the quakers were a misguided people to follow him. now the folly and wickedness of nayler and his company gave them just the excuse they were wanting to prove that they had been right all along. james nayler was taken to london, tried, found guilty, and sentenced to savage punishments. he was examined at length by a committee of parliament. just before his sentence was pronounced he said that he 'did not know his offence,' which looks as if his mind really had been clouded over when some of the things he was accused of were done. but this was not allowed to be any excuse. 'you shall know your offence by your punishment' was the only answer he received. the members of oliver cromwell's second parliament who dealt with nayler's case were not likely to be lenient to any man, who, like nayler, had done wrong and allowed himself to be led astray. his commonwealth judges showed him no mercy indeed. when nayler heard his terrible sentence, he listened calmly, and said, 'god has given me a body: god will, i hope, give me a spirit to endure it. i pray god he may not lay it to your charge.' this shows that he had learned really to share his master's spirit, which is the only true way of imitating him. the punishments were cruel and vindictive. they lasted through many weeks. half way through, many 'persons of note' signed a petition to ask that he might be allowed to miss the rest of the penalties, owing to his enfeebled condition. in spite of this, the whole barbarous sentence was carried out. james nayler bore it unflinchingly. i am only going to tell you one or two of the cruel things that were done to him--and those not the worst. he was sentenced to have the letter 'b' burned on his forehead with a hot iron. 'b' stands for 'blasphemer,' and it was to show everybody who saw him, wherever he came, that he had been found guilty of saying wicked things about god. the worst part of this punishment must have been knowing in his heart that the accusation was, more or less, true. there he stood before the old exchange in london, on a bitter december day, in the presence of thousands of spectators. he bore not only the branding with a red-hot iron on the forehead until smoke arose from the burning flesh, but also other worse tortures with 'a wonderful patience.' the crowd, who always assembled on such occasions, were touched by his demeanour. instead of jeering and mocking, as they were accustomed to do to criminals, all these thousands of people lifted their hats in token of respect, and remained standing bareheaded as they watched him in his agony. it is said that 'he shrinked a little when the iron came upon his forehead,' yet on being unbound he embraced his executioner. one faithful friend, robert rich, who had done his utmost to save nayler from this terrible punishment, stood with him on the pillory and held his hand all through the burning, and afterwards licked the wounds with his tongue to allay the pain. 'i am the dog that licked lazarus' sores,' robert rich used to say, alluding to that terrible day. long years after, when he was an old man with a long white beard, he used to walk up and down in meeting in a long velvet gown, still repeating the story of his friend's sufferings and of his patience. * * * * * after this punishment nayler was sent down to bristol to undergo the rest of his sentence there. he was made to enter the city again in deepest humiliation, no longer with excited followers shouting 'hosanna!' before him, but seated on a horse _facing to the tail_, with the big 'b' burned on his forehead for all men to see--and then he was publicly whipped. yet in spite of all the pain and shame he must have been happier in one way during that sorrowful return to bristol than at his former entrance to the city, for he must have had more true peace in his heart. now, at last, comes the happy end of this sad story. there is no need to sit over the fire in the darkness any longer. we can dry our eyes and light the lamps--for it is not sorrowful really. james nayler's mistakes and sufferings had not been wasted. they had made him more really like his master, and his worst troubles were now over. he still lay in prison for two years more, but he was allowed ink and paper, and he wrote many beautiful letters acknowledging that he had done wrong, confessing his sin, and praising god even for the sufferings which had shown him his error. he says in one place, 'the provocation of that time of temptation was exceeding great against the pure love of god; yet he left me not; for after i had given myself under that power, and darkness was above, my adversary so prevailed, that all things were turned and so perverted against my right seeing, hearing, or understanding; only a secret hope and faith i had in my god whom i had served, that he would bring me through it, and to the end of it, and that i should again see the day of my redemption from under it all; and this quieted my soul in my greatest tribulation.' and again, 'dear brethren--my heart is broken this day for the offence that i have occasioned to god's truth and people.... 'and concerning you, the tender plants of my father, who have suffered through me, or with me, in what the lord hath suffered to be done with me, in this time of great trial and temptation; the almighty god of love, who hath numbered every sigh, and put every tear in his bottle, reward it a thousandfold into your bosoms, in the day of your need, when you shall come to be tried and tempted; and in the meantime fulfil your joy with his love, which you seek after. the lord knows, it was never in my heart to cause you to mourn, whose suffering is my greatest sorrow that ever yet came upon me, for you are innocent herein.' after this, at last he was set free. the first thing he did was to try to return home to his wife and children. it is said that 'he was a man of great self-denial, and very jealous of himself ever after his fall and recovery. at last, departing from the city of london, about the latter end of october , towards the north, intending to go home to his wife and children at wakefield in yorkshire, he was seen by a friend of hertford (sitting by the wayside in a very awful, weighty frame of mind), who invited him to his house, but he refused, signifying his mind to pass forward, and so went on foot as far as huntingdon, and was observed by a friend as he passed through the town, in such an awful frame, as if he had been redeemed from the earth, and a stranger on it, seeking a better country and inheritance. but going some miles beyond huntingdon, he was taken ill (being as 'tis said) robbed by the way, and left bound: whether he received any personal injury is not certainly known, but being found in a field by a countryman toward evening, was had, or went to a friend's house at holm, not far from king's ripton, where thomas parnell, a doctor of physic, dwelt, who came to visit him; and being asked, if any friends at london should be sent for to come and see him; he said, "nay," expressing his care and love to them. being shifted, he said, "you have refreshed my body, the lord refresh your souls"; and not long after departed this life in peace with the lord, about the ninth month, , and the forty-fourth year of his age, and was buried in thomas parnell's burying-ground at king's ripton aforesaid.' 'i don't call that a happy ending. i call it a very sad ending indeed! what could be worse? to sit all alone by the roadside, and then perhaps to be robbed and bound, or if not that, at any rate to be taken ill and carried to a stranger's house to die. that is only a sorrowful ending to a most sorrowful life.' is this what anyone is thinking? ah, but listen! that is not the real end. it is said that 'about two hours before his death he spoke in the presence of several witnesses' these words: 'there is a spirit which i feel, that delights to do no evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end: its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to weary out all exaltation and cruelty, or whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. it sees to the end of all temptations: as it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thoughts to any other: if it be betrayed it bears it, for its ground and spring is the mercies and forgiveness of god: its crown is meekness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned, and takes its kingdom with entreaty, and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind: in god alone it can rejoice, though none else regard it, or can own its life: it is conceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression: it can never rejoice but through sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered: i found it alone, being forsaken; i have fellowship therein with them who lived in dens, and desolate places in the earth, who through death obtained this resurrection and eternal holy life.' that is why this story has a happy ending. a made-up story might have left james nayler at home with his wife and children. but, after all he had suffered, he may have been too tired to bear much joy on earth. besides, how could he have borne for those dear ones to see the condemning 'b' burned on his forehead? and the other scars and signs of his terrible punishments, how could they have borne to see them? was it not better that the end came as it did by the roadside near huntingdon? only remember always, that what we call the end is itself only the beginning. think how thankful james nayler must have been to lay down the tired, scarred body in which he had sinned and suffered, while his spirit, strengthened, purified, and cleansed by all he had endured, was set free to serve in the larger, fuller life beyond. james nayler's difficult school-days were over at last on this little earth, where we are set to learn our lessons. like the other prodigal son he had gone to receive his own welcome from the father's heart in the father's home. * * * * * why have i told you this story--'the saddest story of all'? a parable will explain it best. imagine that ever since the beginning of time there has been a great big looking-glass with the sun shining down upon it. then imagine that that looking-glass has been broken up into innumerable fragments, and that one bit is given to each human soul, when it is born on earth, to keep and to hold at the right angle, so that it can still reflect the sun's beams. that is something like the truth that george fox discovered for himself and preached all over england. he called it the doctrine of 'the inner light.' to all the hungering, thirsting, sinful, ignorant men and women in england he gave the same message: 'there is that of god within you, that can reflect him. you can hear his voice speaking in your hearts'; or, to continue the parable, 'if you hold your own little bit of looking-glass in the sunlight it will, it must, reflect the sun.' james nayler listened to this message, accepted it, and rejoiced in it. he did truly turn to the light. but he forgot one thing that must never be forgotten. he looked too much at his own tiny bit of looking-glass and too little at the sun. in this way the mirror of his soul grew soiled and stained and dim. it could no longer reflect the light faithfully. then, it had to be cleansed by suffering. but all this time, and always, the sun of god's unchanging love was steadily shining, waiting for him to turn to it again. let us too look up towards that sun of love. let us open our hearts wide to receive its light. then we shall find that we have not only a mirror in our hearts but also something alive and growing; what george fox would call the 'seed.' sometimes he calls it the 'seed,' and sometimes the 'light,' because it is too wonderful for any picture or parable to express it wholly. but we each have 'that of god within' that can reflect and respond to him, if we will only let it. let us try then to open our hearts wide, wide, to receive, and not to think of ourselves. if we do this, sooner or later we shall learn to live and grow in the sunshine of god's love, as easily and naturally as the daisies do, when they spread their white and golden hearts wide open in the earthly sunshine on a summer's day. * * * * * james nayler did learn that lesson at last, and therefore even this, 'the saddest story of all,' really and truly has a happy end. xxi. pale wind flowers: or the little prison maid _'let not anything straiten you when god moves.'--w. dewsbury, epistle from york tower, ._ _'all friends and brethren everywhere, that are imprisoned for the truth, give yourselves up in it, and it will make you free, and the power of the lord will carry you over all the persecutors. be faithful in the life and power of the lord god and be valiant for the truth on the earth; and look not at your sufferings, but at the power of god; and that will bring some good out of all your sufferings; and your imprisonments will reach to the prisoned that the persecutor prisons in himself.... so be faithful in that which overcomes and gives victory.'--g. fox._ _'bread and wine were the supper of the lord in the dispensation of time, ... a figure of his death, which were fulfilled when he had suffered and rose again, and now he is known to stand at the door and knock, "if any man hear my voice and open the door, i will come in and sup with him and he with me," saith christ. and we being many are one bread and one body and know the wine renewed in our father's kingdom. christ the substance we now witness; shadows and figures done away; he that can receive it, let him.'--w. dewsbury._ xxi. pale wind flowers: or the little prison maid i 'dear grandfather will be wearying for me! we must not linger.' there was a wistful ring in the child's voice as she spoke. little mary samm looked longingly towards a clump of wood anemones dancing in the sunshine, as she followed her aunt, joan dewsbury, through a coppice of beech-trees on the outskirts of the city of warwick. it was a bright windy day of early spring in the year . mary was twelve years old, but so small and slight that she looked and seemed much younger. and now she wanted badly to gather some wood anemones. but would aunt joan approve? would it be selfish to leave 'dear grandfather' longer alone? happily the older woman, who preceded little mary on the narrow woodland pathway, possessed a kind heart underneath her severe, grey, quaker bodice and stiff manner. she caught the wistful tone in the little girl's voice, and, turning round, noticed the wood anemones. indeed, the wood anemones insisted on being noticed. joan dewsbury walked on a few steps further in silence; then, setting the heavy basket down on the trunk of a felled tree, 'no, mary,' she said, 'in truth we must not linger; but we may rest a few moments. also thou knowest thy grandfather's love of a posy in his prison. if i see aright, there are some pale windflowers blowing yonder, beside that old tree, though it is full early for them still. here, give me thy basket, and hie thee to gather them. i will sit down and wait for thy return; and, if we hasten our steps hereafter, we shall not be much delayed.' little mary samm glanced up with a joyful smile. she had espied the few, first, faint windflowers as soon as she entered the wood; but, without her aunt's permission, it would never have entered her head to suggest that she might gather them. for mary was a carefully trained (not to say primly brought up) little maiden of the seventeenth century, when children followed their elders' injunctions in all things, without daring to dwell on their own wishes. if joan dewsbury had been an artist she would have enjoyed watching the child's slim little upright figure stepping daintily over the rustling brown beech leaves, between the rounded trunks of the grey trees. the air was full of the promise of early spring. a cold blue sky showed through the lattice work of twigs and branches; but, as yet, no fluttering leaf had crept out of its sheath to soften, with a hint of tender green, the virginal stiffness and straightness of the stems. grey among the grey tree-trunks little mary flitted about, gathering her precious windflowers. she was clad in the demure puritan dress worn by young and old alike in the early days of the society of friends. a frock of grey duffel hung in straight lines around her slight figure; a cape of the same material was drawn closely round her shoulders, while a grey bonnet framed the pensive face. a strange unchildlike face it was, small and pinched, with a high, narrow forehead and sharply pointed chin. there were no childish roses in the pale cheeks. a very faint flush of pink, caused by fresh air and unwonted exercise, could not disguise the curious yellow tinge of the skin, like old parchment that has been kept too long from the light of day. only the tips of a few locks of light brown hair, cut very short and straight round the ears, were visible under the close, tightly-fitting bonnet. [illustration: pale windflowers] 'an ugly little girl, in perfectly hideous clothes,' modern children might have said if they had seen mary samm for the first time, looking down at her windflowers, though even then there was a hint of beauty in the long, curved, black eyelashes that lay quietly on the pale cheeks, and a very sweet expression hovered round the corners of the firm, delicate, little mouth. but no one who could have seen little mary running back to her aunt with her precious flowers in her hand would have called her 'ugly' or even 'plain' any longer. the radiant light in her eyes transfigured the small, pinched face of the demure little being in its old-fashioned garments. even critical modern children would have forgotten everything else, and would have exclaimed, 'she has the most beautiful eyes!' what colour were her eyes? they were not blue, or black, or grey, or brown, or hazel, or green, or yellow. perhaps they were in truth more yellow than anything else. they were full not only of sparkling lights but also of deep velvety shadows that made it difficult to tell their exact colour. who can say the colour of a mountain stream that runs over a pebbled bed? every stone can be seen through the clear, transparent water, but there are mysterious, shadowy darknesses in it also, reflected from the overhanging banks. little mary samm's eyes were both clear and mysterious as such a mountain stream; while her voice,--but hush! she is speaking again, her rather shrill, high tones breaking the crisp silence of the march afternoon. 'here is the posy, aunt; will not dear grandfather love his pale windflowers, come like stars to visit him in his prison? only these flower stars will not pass away quickly out of sight as do the real stars we watch together through the bars every evening.' joan dewsbury took the bunch of anemones from her niece's cold fingers, laid it down carefully in mary's rush basket and covered it with a corner of the cloth. had she been a 'nowadays aunt' she might have thought that mary was not unlike a windflower herself. the girl's small white face was flushed faintly, like the ethereal white sepals; there was a delicate, fragile fragrance about her as if a breath might blow her away, yet there was an unconquerable air of determination also in her every movement and gesture. but joan dewsbury was not a 'nowadays aunt'; she was a 'thenadays aunt,' and that was an entirely different kind. she never thought of comparing a little girl, who had come to take care of her grandfather in his prison, with the white, starry flowers that came out in the wood so early, holding on tight to the roots of the old tree, and blooming gallantly through all the gales of spring. joan dewsbury's thoughts were full of different and, to her, far more important matters than her niece's appearance. she rose, and, after handing mary her small rush basket and settling her own larger one comfortably on her arm, the two started off once more with quickened steps through the wood. neither the older woman nor the girl was much of a talker, and the winding woodland pathways were too narrow for two people to walk abreast. but when they came out on the broad grassy way that wandered across the meadows by the side of the smooth avon towards the city walls, they did seem to have a few things to say to one another. they spoke of the farm they had visited, of the milk, eggs, and cheese they carried in their baskets. but most often they mentioned 'the prison.' little mary still seemed to be in a great hurry to get back to be with 'dear grandfather,' while her companion was apparently anxious to detain her long enough to learn something more of her life in the gaol. 'i could envy thee, mary, were it not a sin,' she said once. 'thou art a real comfort to my dear father. since my mother died, gladly would i have been his companion, and have sought to ease his captivity, but the governor of the gaol would not allow it.' 'ay, i know,' replied mary, in her clear, high-pitched voice. 'my mother told me that day at my home in bedfordshire, that no one but a child like me could be allowed to serve him, and to live in the prison as his little maid.' 'didst thou want to come, mary?' her aunt enquired. mary's face clouded for a moment. then she looked full at her aunt. the candid eyes that had nothing to hide, reflected shadows as well as light at that moment. 'no, aunt,' she said, firmly and clearly, 'at the first i did not want to come. there was my home, thou seest; i love hutton conquest, and my mother, and the maids, my sisters. also i had many friends in our village with whom i was wont to have rare frolics and games. when first my mother told me of the governor's permission, i did not want to leave the pleasant bedfordshire meadows that lie around our dear farm, and go to live cooped up behind bolts and bars. besides, i had heard that warwick gaol was a fearsome place. i was affrighted at the thought of being shut up among the thieves and murderers. and--' she hesitated. 'poor maid,' said her aunt, 'still thou didst come in the end?' 'in the end it was made clear to me that my place was with dear grandfather,' said the child in her crisp, old-fashioned way. 'my mother said she could not force me; for she feared the gaol fever for me. i feared it too. and it is worse even than i feared. at nights i hear the prisoners screaming with it often. nearly every day some of them die. they say it is worse for the young, and i know my grandfather dreads that i may take it. he looks at me often very sadly, or he did when i first came. always then at nightfall he grew sad. but, latterly, we have been so comfortable together that i think he hath forgot his fears. when the evenings darken, and he can no longer read or write, we sit and watch the stars. then if i can persuade him to tell me stories of what he hath undergone, that doth turn his thoughts, and afterwards he will fall asleep, and sleep well the whole night through.' 'thou art a comfort to him, sure enough,' her aunt answered. 'it is wonderful how much brighter he hath been since he had thee, though he hath never smiled since my mother's death. but thou thyself must surely grow tired of the prison and its bare stone walls? thou must long to be back at play with thy sisters in the bedfordshire meadows?' 'that do i no longer,' little mary samm made answer firmly. 'i love my sisters dearly, dearly,' she raised her voice unconsciously as she spoke, and a chaffinch on a branch overhead filled in the pause with an answering chirp, 'i love my mother too. didst thou really say thou wert expecting her to visit thee right soon? my dear, dear mother! but i love my dear grandfather best of all, for he hath nobody but me to care for him. at least, of course, he hath thee, aunt joan,' she added hastily, noticing a slight shade pass over her aunt's face. 'and what should we do without thee to bake bread for us, and go to the farm to fetch him fresh eggs, and butter, and cheese, and sweet, new milk? he would soon starve on the filthy prison fare. see, i have the milk bottle safe hidden under my flowers.' 'aye, thou wast ever a careful maid,' answered her aunt; 'but, tell me, hath the governor indeed grown gentler of late, and hath he given my father more liberty, and a better room?' 'that he hath indeed. he patted my head this very morn, and said i might have permission to come out and walk with thee for the first time,' mary answered. 'he saith, too, that the gaol is no place for a child like me, and that thou shalt come and see us in a se'nnight from now; then haply thou wilt bring my mother with thee! the room my grandfather hath now is small in truth, but he can lie down at length, and i have a little cupboard within the wall where i can also lie and hear if he needs me. doth he but stir or call "mary" at nights, ever so gently, in a moment i am by his side.' 'and canst thou ease him?' her aunt enquired. 'that i can,' answered mary proudly. 'often i can ease him, or warm his poor cold hands, or soothe him till he sleeps again, for he grows weaker after this long imprisonment.' 'small wonder,' replied her aunt. 'if thou hadst seen the dungeon where they set him first--foul, beneath the floor, with no window, only a grating overhead to give him air. there were a dozen or more felons and murderers packed in it too, along with him, so that he had not enough room even to lie down. but there--it is not fit for a child like thee to know the half of all he hath undergone in the cause of truth.' 'dear, dear grandfather,' said mary wistfully, 'yet he never complains. he says always that he "doth esteem the locks and bolts as jewels," since he doth endure them for his master's sake.' 'ay, and what was his crime for which he suffered at first in that foul place? nothing but his giving of thanks one night after supper at an inn. his accusers must needs affirm this to be "preaching at a conventicle." hist! we had better be silent now we have reached the town. i must leave thee at the gate of the gaol, and go on my way, while thou goest thine. be sure and say to my dear father that i and thy mother will visit him as soon as ever the governor shall permit.' a few minutes later they stopped; joan dewsbury took the basket from her arm and gave it to her niece. 'farewell, dear child,' she said cheerily, as the porter opened the tall portal of the prison; but her eyes grew dim as she watched the small figure disappear behind the heavy bolts and bars. 'she is a good maid, and a brave one,' she said to herself as she passed down the street between the timbered houses to her home. 'yet she is not as other children are. for all the comfort she is to my dear father, i would fain think of her safe once more at home with her sisters. right glad i am that her mother hath sent me word by a sure hand to say she cometh speedily to see of her condition for herself. the governor is right, the gaol is no place for a child, nor is it the life for her either. she liveth too much in her own thoughts. this morn on our walk to the farm when i asked her wherefore she seemed sorrowful, she replied that she was "troubled in her conscience, that she thought she would not live long and wanted satisfaction from the lord as to whither her soul would go if she were to die." yet she sprang after those flowers as gaily as her sisters, and she saith always that she is well. if only she may keep as she is until her mother shall come.' shaking her head, and full of anxious thoughts, the kind woman pursued her homeward way. over the cobble-stones and between the timbered houses with their steep gables and high-thatched roofs, she passed through the city until she came to her own small dwelling, william dewsbury's home, where his daughter lived alone, and awaited his return. ii have you ever seen a ray of golden sunshine steal in through the thick blinds, heavy shutters and close curtains that try to shut it out? people may pull down the blinds and shut the shutters and draw the curtains, and do their very best to keep the sunshine away. yet, sooner or later, a ray always manages to get in somehow. it dances through a chink here or a hole there, or steals along the floor, till at last it arrives, a radiant messenger, in the darkened room to say that a whole world of light is waiting outside. in spite of her sombre garments, mary samm was like such a ray of sunshine as she stole into warwick prison. no doors, bolts or bars could keep her out; and the gaoler seemed to know it, as he preceded her down the damp, dark, stone passages: the walls and floor oozing moisture, and the ceiling blackened by the smoke of many candles. the prisons of england were all foul, ill-smelling, fever-haunted places at that time; and hardly any of them was worse than warwick gaol. william dewsbury had earned the esteem of his keepers during his successive imprisonments which lasted altogether for nearly nineteen years. he was privileged now to lie away from the other criminals, who were herded together in the main building. he had been given a small apartment that looked towards the river on the far side of a courtyard, called the sergeants' ward. there was even a pump in the centre of this courtyard from whence his granddaughter might fetch him water daily, and the old man and the child were now privileged to take exercise together in the fresh air;--a great solace in the weary monotony of prison life. the gaoler unlocked the door of this sergeants' ward, and then, putting into mary's hand the key of her grandfather's apartment, he retraced his steps to the outer gate. mary sped across the cobble-stones of the courtyard with joyful haste, unlocked the door, set down her baskets carefully, the big one first, the little one after it, and then, 'grandfather, dear grandfather,' she exclaimed, 'tell me, am i late? hast thou missed thy little prison maid?' the white-haired man, who was writing at a rough oak table, lifted his head as she entered. his face was worn and haggard; his eyes were sunken, but the smile that overspread his countenance, as he saw who had entered, was as bright as little mary's own. laying down his pen and pushing the papers from him, he held out his arms, and in another minute his granddaughter was clasped in his embrace. it would be hard to say which of the two was the happier as she placed the precious windflowers in his thin, blue-veined hand and told him all she had seen and done. joan's messages were given; and then, 'but what hast thou been doing, dear grandfather?' mary asked in her turn. 'hast thou been writing yet another epistle to friends to encourage them to stand firm? i see thy name very clear and bold at the foot: "william dewsbury." i love thy name, grandfather! it reminds me of our summer flowers and berries at home in bedfordshire and of the heavy dews that fall on them. thy name is as good as a garden, grandfather, in itself.' 'it is thou who shouldst be in a garden thyself, my little mary,' william dewsbury answered sorrowfully. 'it is sad to bring thee back within these gloomy walls, a maid like thee.' 'nay, grandfather, it is not sad! thou promised me that thou wouldst never say that again! my work was shewn me plainly; that i was to come and care for thee, and fetch thee thy provisions. it is full early yet for supper, although the light is fading; canst thou not tell me a little tale while i sit on thy knee? afterwards we will eat our meal, and then thou wilt tell me more stories yet, more and more, to shorten the dark hours till the stars are shining brightly and it is time to go to rest.' 'thou hast heard most of my tales so often, dear granddaughter, as we sit here these dark evenings, that thou dost almost know them better than i myself,' the old man replied. 'yea, truly, i know them well,' answered mary. 'yet i am never weary of hearing of thy own life long ago. tell me once more how thou wast brought off from being a soldier, and established in the path of peace.' 'thou must have that tale well nigh by heart already, dear lamb,' the old man answered. 'many a time i have told thee of my early days among the flocks, how i was a shepherd lad until i came to thine own age of twelve years. thereafter, when i was thirteen years old, i was bound an apprentice to a clothmaker in a town called holdbeck, near leeds. he was a godly man and strict, but sharp of tongue. i might have continued in that town to this day. but when i was fully come to man's estate the civil war between king and parliament broke out all over the land. loath was i to take up arms, having been ever of a peaceable disposition, but when wise men, whom i revered, called upon me to fight for the civil and religious freedom of my native land, it seemed to me, in my dark ignorance of soul, that no other course remained honourably open to me. i feared if i did not join the army of the parliament that had sworn to curb the tyranny of charles stuart, then upon my head would rest the curse of meroz, "who went not to the help of the lord against the mighty." thus i became a soldier, thinking that by so doing i was fighting for the gospel--and forgetting that my master was one who was called the prince of peace. 'small peace, in truth, did i find in the ranks of the army of the parliament--or indeed in any other place, until in the fulness of time it was made clear to me that i was but seeking the living amongst the dead, and looking without for that which was only to be found within. 'then my mind was turned within, by the power of the lord, to wait on his counsel, the light in my own conscience, to hear what the lord would say: and the word of the lord came unto me, and said, "put up thy sword into thy scabbard.... knowest thou not that if i need i could have twelve legions of angels from my father": which word enlightened my heart, and discovered the mystery of iniquity, and that the kingdom of christ was within, and was spiritual, and my weapons against them must be spiritual, the power of god. 'it was on this wise that i came to join the army of the lamb, and of his peaceful servants who follow him whithersoever he goeth.' 'but, grandfather, explain to me, how couldst thou leave the parliamentary army thou wert pledged to serve?' 'a hard struggle i had truly to get free. yet i did leave it, for i was yet more deeply pledged to him who had said, "my kingdom is not of this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants fight." at length my way was made more plain before me. i left the army and resumed my weaving. thus i passed through deep baptizings of the holy ghost and of fire,--baptisms too deep for a child like thee to understand how they affected my soul.' mary nodded her head gently and said to herself, 'perhaps i can understand already, better than my grandfather thinks. have i not twice already in my young years been brought nigh to death? even now death seemeth to me often not far away.' 'wouldst thou then fear to die, grandfather?' she added aloud. 'no more than a bird would fear to leave its cage and fly, were once the door but open,' the old man answered. 'but the door is still securely fastened for me, it seems; and since i had thee, my little bird, to share my captivity i am no longer anxious to leave my cage. i was younger by four years than thou art now, my child, when i lost my fear of the grave. it was on this wise. i was but a little lad of eight years old, mourning and weeping for the loss of my dear father, who had been taken from us. as the tears streamed down my cheeks, methought i heard a voice saying: "weep for thyself; thy father is well." never since that day, mary child, have i doubted for one moment that for those who go hence in peace, it is well indeed.' 'dear grandfather, there is a sad sound in thy voice,' said little mary. 'it is too dark by this time to see thy face, but i cannot let thee be sad. how shall i cheer thee? ah! i know! how could i have forgotten? my aunt charged me to say she hath news by a sure hand that my dear mother may be coming hither to visit thee and me before many days are over.' 'my daughter mary is ever welcome,' said the old man dreamily, 'and in the darkness thy voice is so like to hers, i could almost deem she herself was sitting by my side. already the young moon has disappeared behind the battlements of the castle. yet i need not her silver light to tell me that thy hair is softer and straighter than thy mother's, and without the golden lights and twining curls that hers had when she was thy age.' 'the moon truly has left us, grandfather,' mary interrupted, springing from his knee. 'yet what matters the darkness while we are close together? i can still see to get thy supper ready for thee. thou must eat first, and then we will talk further, until it is time to go to rest.' deftly the little prison maid moved about the bare cell, drawing her grandfather's chair to the rough oak table. on this she arranged the loaf of bread and bottle of milk from her basket, setting them and the earthenware mugs and platters out on the white cloth, to look as home-like as possible. the anemones in the centre still glimmered faintly as if shining by their own light. the simple meal was a very happy one. when it was finished and the remains had been cleared away and carefully replaced in the basket for to-morrow's needs, the stars were looking in through the prison bars. 'now, one more story, grandfather,' said mary firmly, 'just one, before we go to rest.' 'i love to see thy small white face shining up at me through the gloom,' the old man answered. 'i will tell thee of my first meeting with george fox. hast thou ever heard that story?' the little prison maid was far too wary to reply directly. 'tell it to me now, grandfather,' she replied evasively, and then, to turn the old man's thoughts in the right direction, 'thou hadst already left the army by that time?' she hazarded. 'ay, that i had,' answered dewsbury. 'i had left it for several years, and a measure of truth i had found for myself. greatly i longed to proclaim it and to share my new-found happiness with others. but the inward voice spoke to me clearly and said: "keep thee silent for six full years, until the year shall have come. then shalt thou find more hungering and thirsting among the people than at the present time." so "i kept silence even from good words, though it was pain and grief to me." thou knowest, mary, even while i was yet in the army, many and deep exercisings had i had in my spirit, and such were still my portion at times. about this time, by the providence of god, i chanced to hear of a young woman living in the city of york, who was going through a like season of sorrow and anguish regarding her immortal soul. after due deliberation, i found it in my heart to pay her a visit. i did this and went on foot to york. when i came into her presence, at once we were made aware of each other's conditions. no sooner did we begin to converse than we found ourselves joined together in deep unity of spirit. her spiritual exercises answered unto mine own, as in water face answereth to face. dost thou understand, child, of what i am speaking?' 'i follow not thy language always with entire comprehension, dear grandfather,' answered mary with her usual precise honesty of speech, 'but it appears to me thy meaning is clear. i think that this young woman must likely have been my grandmother?' william dewsbury smiled. 'thou art right,' he said, 'it was to be even so, in the fulness of time; that, however, was long after. almost at once we became man and wife. there seemed no need to settle that between us. it had been settled for us by him who brought us together. we knew it from the first moment that we saw each the other's face. thy grandmother had in a measure joined herself unto the anabaptists, therefore 'twas at one of their meetings that we were wed. the power of the spirit was an astonishment unto them, and i have heard it said that never hath the divine presence been more felt in any assembly than it was that day. thy grandmother resembled thee, my mary, as thou wilt be when thou art a woman grown--when thou shalt be taller and rounder, and less slim and spare. her eyes were darker than thine, and she had the same soft brown hair as thine, but with thy mother's golden threads in it, my ann! before she became my wife, she had been blessed with a plenty of this world's goods, but no sooner were we wed than her brother unjustly deprived her of her property. for myself, i cared not. now that she was safely mine own, he was welcome to the land that should have been hers by right. yet for her sake i strove to get it back, but in vain. then did the enemy of souls reproach me for having brought her, whom i tenderly loved, into a state of poverty. in humiliation and lowliness of mind before the lord, without yielding to the tempter, i desired him to make me content to be what he would have me to be; and, in a moment, i was so filled with the presence of the lord, that i was not able to bear the weight of the glory that was upon me. i desired the lord, if he had any service for me to do, to withdraw, for i could not live; then i heard as it were a voice say to me, "thou art mine, all in heaven and earth is mine, and it is thine in me; what i see good i will give unto thee, and unto thy wife and children."' 'poor grandfather, that was a hard pass for thee,' murmured mary, smoothing the old man's coat sleeve. 'but did not a great joy follow close upon thy trouble?' she prompted, 'a great joy on a moonshine night, not a dark one like this?' william dewsbury's countenance kindled with fresh life and vigour. 'yea, my child,' he answered, 'light did indeed illuminate us on that same moonshine night of which thou speakest, when we went, my ann and i, to lieutenant roper's house to hear the stranger preach. all our lives we had both been seeking, but now by the power of the lord, the time was come for us to find. we went to hear a stranger. but no stranger was george fox. rather did we recognise him, from the first moment of that meeting, as the own brother of our souls. up and down the length and breadth of the land i had journeyed, seeking for deliverance and for truth. now, in my own county of yorkshire, my deliverer was found. it was not alone the words he spake, though they were forcible and convincing, much more it was the irresistible power of the lord breathing through him that brought us to our knees. all men could see as they looked upon his goodly form, not then marred by cruel imprisonments and sufferings, that he was a man among ten thousand. but to me he was also a chosen vessel of the lord; for power spoke through him, yea, to my very heart. i have told thee, mary, of my long searchings after truth, and of those of my dear wife. there was no need to mention one of them to george. with the first words he spake it was clear to me that he knew them all, he could read our necessities like an open book. well hath it been said of him that "he was a man of god endued with a clear and wonderful depth; a discerner of other men's spirits, and very much a master of his own." our hearts clave unto him at once. we could scarcely restrain ourselves until the meeting should be at an end, to disclose our inmost souls unto him. then at last, when all the multitude had departed, we watched friend george set out on his homeward way. we followed him in all haste, my ann and i, until we came up with him in a lonely field. the moon shone full on his face and on our seeking faces, revealing us to each other. at first he gazed on us as if we were strangers. for all we had longed ardently to tell him, we found no words. only a long time we stood together silently, we three, with the dumb kine slumbering around us in the dewy meadows; we three, revealed to one another in the full light. then at last we confessed to the truth before him, and from him we received truth again. there is no scripture to warrant the sprinkling of a few drops of water on the face of a child and calling that baptism; but there is a scripture for being baptized with the holy ghost and with fire. that true essential baptism did our spirits receive in very deed that night from god's own minister of his everlasting gospel. 'thus, then and there, were we three knit together in soul; and the lord's power was over all.' the old man's voice died away into silence. his thoughts were far off in the past. the loneliness of the prison was forgotten, little mary knew that her evening's task was done. very gently she flitted from his side, arranged his bed for the night, and then slipped, noiselessly as a shadow, into her little inner cell, scarcely larger than a cupboard. here she undressed in the darkness and laid herself down on her little straw pallet on the floor. but she had brought the precious windflowers with her. 'they are so white, they will be like company through the dark night hours,' she said to herself, placing the glass close to her bed. presently, through a tiny slit of window high up in the prison wall, one sentinel star looked down into the narrow cell. it peeped in upon a small white figure straight and slim amid the surrounding blackness of the cell, with 'dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane'; but mary's eyes were wide open, her ears were listening intently for her grandfather's softest call. gradually the ray of starlight crept up the prison wall and disappeared; soon other stars one by one looked in at the narrow window and passed upwards also on their high steep pathways; gradually the eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes lay upon the white cheeks. drowsily little mary thought to herself, 'i am glad my mother will soon be here, but it hath been a very happy evening. truly i am glad i came to help dear grandfather, and to be his little prison maid.' only one starry white windflower, clasped tight in her fingers through the long night hours, gradually drooped and died. xxii. an undisturbed meeting _'it was impossible to ignore the quaker because he would not be ignored. if you close his meeting-house he holds it in the street; if you stone him out of the city in the evening, he is there in the morning with his bleeding wounds still upon him.... you may break the earthen vessel, but the spirit is invincible and that you cannot kill.'--john wilhelm rowntree._ _'interior calmness means interior and exterior strength.'--j. rendel harris._ _'be nothing terrified at their threats of banishment, for they cannot banish you from the coasts and sanctuary of the living god.'--margaret fox._ _'grant us grace to rest from all sinful deeds and thoughts, to surrender ourselves wholly unto thee, to keep our souls still before thee like a still lake; that so the beams of thy love may be mirrored therein, and may kindle in our hearts the beams of faith, and love, and prayer. may we, through such stillness and hope, find strength and gladness in thee o god, now, and for evermore.'--joachim embden, ._ _'for the soul that is close to god_ _in the folded wings of prayer,_ _passion no more can vex,_ _infinite peace is there.'_ _edwin hatch._ xxii. an undisturbed meeting quiet and lonely now stands the small old farmhouse of drawwell, on the sunny slope of a hill, under the shadow of the great fells. to this day the old draw-well behind the house, which gives its name to the homestead, continues to yield its refreshing draught of pure cold water. 'it is generally full, even in times of drought, and never overflows.'[ ] to this day, also, the 'living water,' drawn in many a 'mighty meeting' held around that well in the early years of quakerism, continues to refresh thirsty souls. * * * * * it was to drawwell farm that george fox came with his hosts thomas and john blaykling, on whitsun wednesday evening in june , at the end of sedbergh fair. from drawwell he accompanied them to firbank chapel, the following sunday forenoon. there, high up on the opposite fell, he was moved, as he says in his journal, to 'sit down upon the rock on the mountain' and 'discourse to over a thousand people, amongst whom i declared god's everlasting truth and word of life freely and largely, for about the space of three hours, whereby many were convinced.' more than once in after days, george fox returned again thankfully to drawwell, seeking and finding rest and refreshment for soul and body under its hospitable, low, stone roof, as he went up and down on those endless journeys of his, throughout the length and breadth of england, whereby he 'kept himself in a perpetual motion, begetting souls unto god.' many hallowed memories cling about drawwell farm,--as closely as the silvery mist clings to every nook and cranny of its walls in damp weather,--but none more vivid than that of the undisturbed meeting of . george fox was not present that day. his open-air wanderings, and his visits to the home under the great fells were alike at an end for a time, while in the narrow prison cells of lancaster and scarborough he was bearing witness, after a different fashion, to the freedom of the spirit of the lord. george fox was not among the guests at drawwell. no 'mighty meeting,' as often at other times, was gathered there that day. there was only a company of humble men and women seated on forms and chairs under the black oak rafters of the big barn that adjoins the house, since the living-room was not spacious enough to hold them all with ease, although their numbers were not much above a score. the master and mistress of drawwell were present of course. good farmer blaykling, with his ever ready courtesy and kindness, looked older now than on the day, thirteen years before, when he and his father had brought the young preacher back with them from the fair. he himself had known latterly what it was to suffer 'for truth's sake,' as some extra furrows on his brow had testified plainly since the day when 'priest john burton of sedbergh beat john blaykling and pulled him by the hair off his seat in his high place.' happily that outbreak had passed over, and all seemed quiet this sunday morning, as he took his place in the big barn. his wife sat by his side; around them were their children (none of them young), the farm lads and lasses, and several families of neighbouring friends. but it chanced that the youngest person present, one of the farm lasses, was well into her teens. 'surely it was the loving-kindness of the lord' (motherly mistress blaykling was wont to testify in after years) 'that brought the ordeal only upon us, grown men and women, and not upon any tender babes.' the meeting began, much like any other meeting in that peaceful country, where friends ever loved to gather under the shadow of the hills and the yet mightier overshadowing of the spirit of god. the dove of peace brooded over the company. even as the unseen water bubbled in the dark depths of the old draw-well close by, so, in the deep stillness, already some hearts were becoming conscious of-- 'the bubbling of the hidden springs, that feed the world.' soon, out of the living silence would have been born the fresh gift of living speech.... when suddenly, into all this peace, there came the clattering of horses' hoofs along the stony road that leads to the farm, followed by loud voices and a pistol shot, as a body of troopers trotted right up to the homestead. finding that deserted and receiving no answers to their shouts, they proceeded to the barn itself in search of the assembled friends. the officer in charge was a young ensign, lawrence hodgson, a very gay gentleman indeed, a gentleman of the restoration, when not only courtiers but soldiers too, knew well what it was to be courtly. he came from dent, 'with other officers of the militia and soldiers.' now dent was a place of importance, in those days, and looked down on even sedbergh as a mere village. wherefore to be sent off to a small farm in the outskirts of sedbergh in search of a nest of quakers was a paltry job at best for these fine gentlemen from dent. naturally, they set about it, cursing and swearing with a will, to shew what brave fellows they were. for here were all these quakers whom they had been sent to harry, brazening out their crime in the full light of day. by act of parliament it had been declared, not so long ago either, that any quakers who 'assembled to the number of five or more persons at any one time, and in any one place, under pretence of joining in a religious worship not authorised by law, were, on conviction, to suffer merely fines or imprisonment for their first and second offences, but for the third, they were to be liable to be transported to any of his majesty's plantations beyond seas.' a serious penalty this, in those days second only to death itself, and a terror to the most hardened of the soldiery; but here was a handful of humble farmfolk, deliberately daring such a punishment unafraid. 'stiff-necked quakers--you shall answer for this,' shouted ensign hodgson as he entered 'cursing and swearing' (so says the old account) 'and threatening that if friends would not depart and disperse he would kill them and slay and what not.' 'you look like hardened offenders, all of you, and i doubt this is not a first offence.' so saying, the ensign set spurs to his horse and rode up and down the barn, overturning forms and chairs, slashing at the women friends with the flat of his sword, while some of the roughest of his followers poked the sharp points of their blades through the coats of the men, 'just to remind you, quaker dogs, of what we could do, an' we chose.' amid all this noise and hurly-burly, the men and women friends sat on in stillness as long as possible. only when their seats were actually overturned, they rose to their feet and stood upright in their places. they were ready to be beaten or trampled upon, if necessary; but they would not, of their own will, quit their ground. strangely enough, the wives did not rush to their husbands or cling to them; the men did not seek to protect the women-folk. they all remained, even the lads and lasses, self-poised as it were, one company still; resting, as long as they could, quietly, in the inward citadel of peace. in spite of all the hubbub, the true spirit of worship was not disturbed. at last the soldiers, determined not to be baffled, came to yet closer quarters and drove their unresisting victims, willy nilly, before them from under the sheltering rafters of the barn. the friends were roughly hustled down the steep hillside and driven hither and thither, but still the meeting was not interrupted, for their hearts could not be driven out from the overshadowing presence of god. so the great fells looked down upon a strange scene a few minutes later,--a strange scene, yet one all too common in those days. a cavalcade of glittering horsemen with their flowing perukes, ruffles, gay coats, plumed hats, and all the extravagances of the costume of even the fighting man of 'good king charles's golden days.' in the centre of this gay throng, a little company of friends in their plain garments of homespun and duffel, moving along, with sober faces and downcast eyes, speaking never a word as their captors prepared to force them to their destination--the justice's house at ingmire hall near sedbergh. now from drawwell farm to ingmire is some little distance. the way is hilly, and the roads are narrow and rough. bad going it is on those roads even to-day, and far worse in the times of which i write. therefore the troopers quickly grew weary of their task, weary of trying to rein in their mettlesome horses to keep pace with the slow steps of their prisoners, weary, too, of even the sport of pricking at these last with their swords, to try to make them go faster. they had barely reached the bottom of the slope when ensign hodgson, ever a restless youth, lost patience. as soon as he found his horse on a bit of level road, he called to his men, 'halloo! here's our chance for a canter!--we'll leave the lambs to follow us to the slaughter-house at their own sweet will.' then, seeing mingled relief and consternation on the men's faces, he slapped his thighs with a loud laugh and said: 'ye silly fellows, have no fear! no quaker ever yet tried to escape from gaol, nor ever will. we can trust them to follow us in our absence as well as if we were here to drive them. quakers haven't the wit to seek after their own safety.' the audacity of the plan tickled the troopers. following hodgson's example, they, one and all, raised their plumed hats and, rising high in their stirrups, bowed with mock courtesy, as they took leave of their prisoners. 'farewell, sweet lambkins,' called out the ensign, 'hasten your quaker pace and meet us at the slaughter-house at ingmire hall as fast as you can, or' ... he cocked his pistol at them, and then, dashing it up, fired a shot into the air. with wild shouting and laughter the whole troop disappeared round a turn of the road. 'to sedbergh,' they cried, 'to sedbergh first! plenty of time for a carouse, and yet to arrive at ingmire hall as soon as the lambs!' arriving in sedbergh at a canter they slackened rein at a tavern and refreshed themselves with a draught of ale and an hour's carouse, before setting off to meet their prisoners at the justice's house. when they arrived at ingmire hall, to their dismay, not a quaker was in sight. sending his men off to scour the roads, ensign hodgson himself dismounted with an oath on justice otway's doorstep, and went within to inquire if the quakers from drawwell had yet arrived. 'the quakers, whom you were sent to fetch from drawwell and for whose non-appearance you are yourself wholly responsible, have not arrived,' answered the justice tartly, raising his eyebrows as if to emphasise his words. all men knew that good sir john otway was no friend to persecution; and gay lawrence hodgson was no favourite of his. with a louder oath than that with which he had entered the house, the ensign flung out of it again, and rode off at the head of his men--all of them discomfited by their vain search, for not a quaker was to be seen in the neighbourhood. the 'lambs' were less docile than had been supposed. after all, they had successfully managed to avoid the 'slaughter-house'; they must have retreated to drawwell, if they had not even seized the opportunity to escape. back again along the road to drawwell, therefore, the whole sulky company of horsemen were obliged to return, much out of humour. cursing their leader's carelessness, as he doubtless cursed his own folly, they trotted along, gloomily enough, till they came to the bend of the road where the homestead comes in sight, and where they had taken leave of their prisoners. there, as they turned the corner, suddenly they all stopped, thunderstruck, pulling their horses back on to their haunches in their amazement. the lambs had not escaped! though they had not followed meekly to the slaughter-house, at least they had made no endeavours to flee, or even to return to the sheepfold on the hillside above them. all the time that the soldiers had been carousing in the alehouse, or searching the lanes, the little company of friends had remained in the very same spot where the soldiers had left them nearly two hours before. and there they were still, every one of them;--sitting on the green, grassy bank by the wayside. there they were, quietly going on with their uninterrupted worship. yes; out there, under the shadow of the everlasting hills, untroubled by the shadow of even a passing cloud of fear, the friends calmly continued to wait upon god. footnotes: [ ] this paragraph is taken from e.e. taylor's description of drawwell. xxiii. butterflies in the fells _'my concern for god and his holy, eternal truth was then in the north, where god had placed and set me.'--margaret fox._ _'i should be glad if thou would incline to come home, that thou might get a little rest, methinks its the most comfortable when one has a home to be there, but the lord give us patience to bear all things'--m. fox to g. fox, ._ _'i did not stir much abroad during the time i now stayed in the north; but when friends were not with me spent pretty much time in writing books and papers for truth's service.'--g. fox._ _'all dear friends press forward in the straight way.'--john audland._ _'is not liberty of conscience in religion a fundamental?... liberty of conscience is a natural right, and he that would have it, ought to give it, having liberty to settle what he likes for the public.... this i say is fundamental: it ought to be so. it is for us and the generations to come.'--oliver cromwell._ xxiii. butterflies in the fells above all other saints in the calendar, the good people of newcastle-upon-tyne do hold in highest honour saint nicholas, since to him is dedicated the stately church that is the pride and glory of their town. everyone who dwells in the bonnie north countrie knows well that shrine of saint nicholas, set on high on the steep northern bank of the river tyne. beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole north, is st. nicholas. therefore, in olden times, one roger thornton, a wealthy merchant of the town, saw fit to embellish it yet further with a window at the eastern end, of glass stained with colours marvellous to behold. men said indeed that merchant roger clearly owed that window to the saint, seeing that when he first entered the town scarce a dozen years before, he came but as a poor pedlar, possessed of naught but 'a hap, a halfpenny, and a lambskin,' whereas these few years spent under the shadow of the saint's protection had made him already a man of great estate. roger thornton it was who gave the eastern window to the church, but none know now, for certain, who first embellished the shrine with its crowning gift, the tall steeple that gathers to itself not only the affection of all those who dwell beneath its shadow, but also their glory and their pride. some believe it was built by king david of scotland: others by one robert de rede, since his name may still be seen carven upon the stone by him who has skill to look. but in truth the architect hath carried both his name and his secret with him, and the craftsmen of many another larger and more famous city have sought in vain to build such another tower. by london bridge and again at edinburgh, in the capitals of two fair kingdoms, may indeed be seen a steeple built in like fashion, but far less fair. one man alone, he whose very name hath been forgotten, hath known how to swing with perfect grace a pinnacled crown, formed of stone yet delicate as lacework, aloft in highest air. therefore to this day doth the lantern tower of st. nicholas remain without a peer. a lantern tower the learned call it, and indeed the semblance of an open lantern doth rise, supported by pinnacles, in the centre of the tower; but to most men it resembles less a lantern than an imperial crown swung high in air, under a canopy of dazzling blue. it is a golden crown in the daytime, as it shines on high above the hum of the city streets in the clear mid-day light. it becomes a fiery crown when the sun sets, for then the golden fleurs-de-lys on each of the eight golden vanes atop of the pinnacles gleam and glow like sparks of flame, climbing higher and ever higher into the steep and burnished air. but it is a jewelled crown that shines by night over the slumbering town beneath; for then the turrets and pinnacles are gemmed with glittering stars. that tower, to those who have been born under it, is one of the dearest things upon this earth. judge then of the dismay that was caused to every man, woman, and child, when newcastle was being besieged by the scottish army during the civil wars, at the message that came from the general of the beleaguering army, that were the town not surrendered to him without delay, he would train his guns on the tower of st. nicholas itself, and lay that first in ruins. happily sir john marley, the english commander, who was likewise mayor of the town, was more than a match for the canny scot. and this was the answer that the gallant sir john sent back from the beleaguered town: that general leslie might train his guns on the tower and welcome, if such were his pleasure, but if he did so, before he brought down one single stone of it, he would be obliged to take the lives of his own scottish prisoners, whom the guns would find as their first target there. sir john was as good as his word. the scottish prisoners were strung out in companies along the tower ledges, and kept there day after day, till the scottish army had retreated, baffled for that time, and st. nicholas was saved. therefore, thanks to sir john marley and his nimble wit, the pinnacled crown still soars up aloft into the sky, keeping guard over the city of newcastle to-day, as it hath done throughout the centuries. * * * * * little did the friends, who came to newcastle a few years after the scotsmen had departed, regard the beauty of st. nicholas or its tower. they came also desiring to besiege the town, though with only spiritual weapons. the church to them was but a 'steeple-house,' and the tower akin to an idol. thus slowly do men learn that 'the ways unto god are as the number of the souls of the children of men,' and that wherever a man truly seeketh god in whatsoever fashion, so he do but seek honestly and with his whole heart, god will consent to be found of him. yet though the friends who came to newcastle came truly to besiege the town for love's sake, not with love did the town receive them. 'ruddy-faced john audland' was the first to come, he who had been one of the preachers that memorable sunday at firbank chapel, and who, having yielded place to george fox, had been in his turn mightily convinced of truth. 'a man beloved of god, and of all good men,' was john audland, 'of an exceedingly sweet disposition, unspeakably loving and tenderly affectionate, always ready to lend a helping hand to the weak and needy, open-hearted, free and near to his friends, deep in the understanding of the heavenly mysteries.' yet little all this availed him. in newcastle as elsewhere he preached the truth, 'full of dread and shining brightness on his countenance.' certain of the townsfolk gathered themselves unto him and became friends, but the authorities would have none of the new doctrine, and straightway clapped him into gaol. there he lay for a time, till at last he was set free and went his way. after him came george fox, when some thirteen years had gone by since sir john marley saved the tower, and general leslie had returned discomfited to edinburgh. from edinburgh, too, george fox had come on his homeward way after that eventful journey to the northern kingdom, when 'the infinite sparks of life sparkled about him as soon as his horse set foot across the border.' weary he was of riding when he reached the gates of newcastle-upon-tyne. yet 'gladded' in his heart was he, for as he had passed by berwick-upon-tweed, the governor there had 'shewn himself loving towards friends,' and, though only a little meeting had been gathered, 'the lord's power had been over all.' as fox and his companion rode through the woods and beside the yellow brown streams and over the heathery moors of northumberland, they found and visited many scattered friends whose welcome had made george fox's heart rejoice. but no sooner had he entered the town than all his gladness left him, at the grievous tale the faithful friends of newcastle had to tell. ever since john audland's preaching had stirred the souls of the townsfolk, the priests and professors had done their best to prevent 'this pernicious poison from spreading.' five newcastle priests had written a book, entitled 'the perfect pharisee under monkish holiness,' in which they blamed friends for many things, but above all for their custom of preaching in the streets and open places. 'it is a pestilent heresy at best,' they said (though they used not these very words), 'yet did they keep it to themselves 'twere no great harm, but we find no place hears so much of friends' religion as streets and market-places.' yet even so their witness agreed not together. for while the priests accused friends of too much preaching in public, a certain alderman of the city, thomas ledger by name, put forth three other books against them. and his main charge was this--'that the quakers would not come into any great towns, but lived in the fells like butterflies.' george fox, hearing these things from the friends assembled to greet him at the entrance to the town, was tried in his spirit, and determined that the matter should be dealt with, without more ado. the journal saith: 'the newcastle priests wrote many books against us, and one ledger, an alderman of the town, was very envious of truth and friends. he and the priests had said, "the quakers would not come into great towns, but lived in the fells like butterflies." i took anthony pearson with me and went to this ledger, and several others of the aldermen, desiring to have a meeting among them, seeing they had written so many things against us: for we were now come, i told them, into their great town. but they would not yield we should have a meeting, neither would they be spoke with, save only this ledger and one other. i queried: "had they not called friends butterflies, and said we would not come into any great towns? and now they would not come at us, though they had printed books against us; who are the butterflies now?" 'as we could not have a public meeting amongst them we got a little meeting amongst friends and friendly people at the gate-side. as i was passing by the market-side, the power of the lord rose in me, to warn them of the day of the lord that was coming upon them. and not long after all the priests were turned out of their profession, when the king came in.' thus did those same envious priests, who had accused friends of living like butterflies in the fells, become themselves as butterflies, being chased out of the great town, and forced to flit to and fro in the open country. the friends, meanwhile, increased on both sides of the river tyne. in george whitehead visited newcastle, and was kindly received in the house of one john dove, who had been a lieutenant in the army before he became a friend. whitehead, himself one of the 'valiant sixty,' writes:--'the mayor of the town (influenced by the priests), would not suffer us to keep any meeting within the liberty of the town, though in gate-side (being out of the mayor's liberty), our friends had settled a meeting at our beloved friend richard ubank's house.... the first meeting we then endeavoured to have within the town of newcastle was in a large room taken on purpose by some friends.... the meeting was not fully gathered when the mayor of the town and his officers came, and by force turned us out of the meeting; and not only so, but out of the town also; for the mayor and his company commanded us and went along with us as far as the bridge over the river tine that parts newcastle and gates-head, upon which bridge there is a blew stone to which the mayor's liberty extends; when we came to the stone, the mayor gave his charge to each of us in these words: "i charge and command you in the name of his highness the lord protector. that you come no more into newcastle to have any more meetings there at your peril.'" the friends, therefore, continued to meet at the place that is called gateside (though some say that goat's head was the name of it at first), and there they remained till, after divers persecutions, they were at length suffered to assemble within the walls of newcastle itself, upon the north side of the 'blew stone' above the river tyne. here, in , they bought a plot of ground, within a stone's-throw of st. nicholas, facing towards the street that the townsmen call pilgrim street, since thither in olden days did many weary pilgrims wend their way, seeking to come unto the mound of jesu on the outskirts of the town. and that same mound of jesu is now called by men, jesu mond, or shorter, jesmond, and no longer is it the resort of pilgrims, but rather of merchants and pleasure seekers. yet still beside the pilgrim street stands the meeting-house built by those other pilgrim souls, those quakers, whom the men of the town in scorn called 'butterflies.' and there, so far from flitting over the fells, they have continued to hold their meetings and worship god after their own fashion within those walls for more than two hundred years. * * * * * before ever this had come to pass, and while the quakers of newcastle were still without an assembling place on their own side of the river, it happened that a certain man among them, named robert jeckel, being nigh unto death (though as yet he knew it not), was seized with a vehement desire to behold george fox yet once more in the flesh, since full sixteen years had gone by since his visit to the town. wherefore this same robert jeckel, hearing that his beloved friend was now again to be found at swarthmoor, dwelling there in much seclusion, seeking to regain the strength that had been sorely wasted in long and terrible imprisonments,--this man, robert jeckel, would no longer be persuaded or gainsaid, but set out at once with several others, who were like-minded and desirous to come as speedily as might be to swarthmoor. in good heart they set forth, but that same day, and before they had come even as far as unto hexham, robert jeckel was seized with a sore sickness, whereat his friends entreated him to return the way he came to his own home and tender wife. but he refused to be dissuaded and would still press forward. at many other places by the way he was ill and suffering, yet he would not be satisfied to turn back or to stop until he should arrive at swarthmoor. and thither after many days of sore travel he came. the mistress of swarthmoor was now no longer margaret fell but margaret fox. eight full years after the death of her honoured husband, judge fell, and after long waiting to be sure that the thing was from the lord, she had been united in marriage with her beloved friend, george fox, unto whom she was ever a most loving and dutiful wife. therefore, when robert jeckel arrived with his friends before the high arched stone gateway that led into the avenue that approacheth swarthmoor hall, it was mistress fox, who, with her husband, came to meet their guests. close behind followed her youngest daughter, rachel fell, the seventh sister of swarthmoor hall. she, the judge's pet and plaything in her childhood, was now a woman grown. seeing by robert jeckel's countenance that he was sorely stricken, mistress fox led him straight to the fair guest chamber of swarthmoor, where she and her daughter nursed him with their wonted tenderness and skill, hoping thus, if it might be, to restore him to his home in peace. but it had been otherwise ordained, for robert jeckel, arriving at swarthmoor on the second day of the fifth month that men call july, lay sick there but for nine days and then he died. during his illness many and good words did he say, among others these: 'though i was persuaded to stay by the way (being indisposed), before i came to this place, yet this was the place where i would have been, and the place where i should be, whether i live or die.' george fox, being himself, as i say, weakened by his long suffering in worcester gaol, was yet able to visit robert jeckel as he lay a-dying, and exhorted him to offer up his soul and spirit to the lord, who gives life and breath to all and takes it again. whereupon robert jeckel lifted up his hands and said, 'the lord is worthy of it, and i have done it.' george fox then asked him if he could say, 'thy will, oh god, be done on earth as it is in heaven,' and he, lifting up his hands again, and looking upwards with his eyes, answered cheerfully, 'he did it.' then, he in his turn, exhorting those about him, said: 'dear friends, dwell in love and unity together, and keep out of jars, strife, and contentions, and be sure to continue faithful to the end.' and speaking of his wife, he said, 'as to my wife, i give her up freely to the lord; for she loveth the lord and he will love her. i have often told my dear wife, as to what we have of outward things, it was the lord's first before it was ours; and in that i desire she may serve the truth to the end of her days.' 'in much patience the lord did keep him, and he was in perfect sense and memory all the time of his weakness, often saying, "dear friends, give me up and weep not for me, for i am content with the lord's doings." and often said that he had no pain, but gradually declined, often lifting up his hands while he had strength, praising the lord, and made a comfortable end on the th day of the fifth month, .' thus did the joyful spirit of this dear friend at last take flight for the heavenly country, when, as he said himself in his sickness, 'soul separated from body, the spirit returning to god that gave it, and the body to the earth from whence it came.' yea, verily; his soul took flight for the heavenly country, happier in its escape from the worn chrysalis of his weak and weary body than any glad-winged butterfly that flitteth over the fells of his own beloved northumberland. xxiv. the victory of amor stoddart _'from the heart of the puritan sects sprang the religion of the quakers, in which many a war-worn soldier of the commonwealth closed his visionary eyes.'--g.m. trevelyan._ _'to be a man of war means to live no longer than the life of the world, which is perishing; but to be a man of the holy spirit, a man born of god, a man that wars not after the flesh, a man of the kingdom of god, as well as of england--that means to live beyond time and age and men and the world, to be gathered into that life which is eternal.'--john saltmarsh, ._ _'keep out of all jangling, for all that are in the transgression are out from the law of love; but all that are in the law of love come to the lamb's power.'--g. fox._ _'he changed his weapons, warfare, and captain ... when he 'listed himself under the banner of christ.'--w. penn, about j. whitehead._ _a prayer for the soldier spirit. 'teach us, good lord, to serve thee as thou deservest: to give and not to count the cost; to fight and not to heed the wounds; to toil and not to seek for rest; to labour and not to ask for any reward, save that of knowing that we do thy will: through jesus christ our lord.'--ignatius loyola._ xxiv. the victory of amor stoddart 'christ disarmed peter, and in so doing he unbuckled the sword of every soldier.' tertullian. a dauntless fighter in his day was captain amor stoddart, seeing he had served in the parliamentary army throughout the civil wars. in truth, it was no child's play to command a body of men as tough as oliver's famous ironsides. therefore captain stoddart had doubtless come through many a bloody struggle, and fought in many a hardly fought contest during those long wars, before the final victory was won. but now, not a single memory remains of his small individual share in those 'old unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago.' his story has come down to us as a staunch comrade and a valiant fighter, in a different kind of warfare. his victory was won in a struggle in which all the visible weapons were on the other side; when, through long years, he had only the armour of meekness and of love wherewith to oppose hardship and violence and wrong. wherefore, of this fight and of this victory, his own name remains as a symbol and a sign. not in vain was he called at his birth 'amor,' which, in the latin tongue signifies 'love,' as all men know. the first meeting between captain amor stoddart and him who was to be thereafter his spirit's earthly captain in the new strange warfare that lay before him, happened on this wise. in the year , when the long civil wars were at last nearing their close, george fox visited mansfield in nottinghamshire and held a meeting with the professors (that is to say the puritans) there. it was in that same year of , when every day the shadow was drawing nearer of the fatal scaffold that should be erected within the palace at whitehall the following january. but although that shadow crept daily nearer, men, for the most part, as yet perceived it not. fox himself was at this time still young, as years are counted, being only twenty-four years of age. four other summers were yet to pass before that memorable day when he should climb to the summit of old pendle hill, and, after seeing there the vision of a 'great people to be gathered,' should begin himself to gather them at firbank and swarthmoor and many another place. george, though still young in years, was already possessed not only of a strange and wonderful presence, but also of a gift to perceive and to draw the souls of other men, and to knit them to his own. 'i went again to mansfield,' he says in his journal, 'where was a great meeting of professors and people, where i was moved to pray; and the lord's power was so great that the house seemed to be shaken. when i had done, one of the professors said, "it was now as in the days of the apostles, when the house was shaken where they were."' after fox had finished praying, with this vehemence that seemed to shake the house, one of the professors began to pray in his turn, but in such a dead and formal way that even the other professors were grieved thereat and rebuked him. whereupon this praying professor came in all humility to fox, beseeching him that he would pray again. 'but,' says fox, 'i could not pray in any man's will.' still, though he could not make a prayer to order, he agreed to meet with these same professors another day. this second meeting was another 'great meeting.' from far and wide the professors and people gathered to see the man who had learnt to pray. but the professors did not truly seem to care to learn the secret. they went on talking and arguing together. they were 'jangling,' as fox calls it (that is to say, using endless strings of words to talk about sacred things, without really feeling the truth of them in their hearts), jangling all together, when suddenly the door opened and a grave young officer walked in. ''tis captain amor stoddart, of noll's army,' the professors said one to another, as, hardly stopping for a moment at the stranger's entrance, they continued to 'jangle' among themselves. they went on, speaking of the most holy things, talking even about the blood of christ, without any feeling of solemnity, till fox could bear it no longer. 'as they were discoursing of it,' he says, 'i saw through the immediate opening of the invisible spirit, the blood of christ; and cried out among them saying, "do you not see the blood of christ? see it in your hearts, to sprinkle your hearts and consciences from dead works to serve the living god?" for i saw the blood of the new covenant how it came into the heart. this startled the professors who would have the blood only without them, and not in them. but captain stoddart was reached, and said, "let the youth speak, hear the youth speak," when he saw that they endeavoured to bear me down with many words.' 'captain stoddart was reached.' he, the soldier, accustomed to the terrible realities of a battlefield, knew the sight of blood for himself only too well. george fox's words may seem perhaps mysterious to us now, but they came home to amor and made him able to see something of the same vision that fox saw. we may not be able to see that vision ourselves, but at least we can feel the difference between having the blood of christ, that is the life of christ, within our hearts, and only talking and 'jangling' about it, as the professors were doing. 'captain stoddart was reached.' having been 'reached,' having seen, if only for one moment, something of what the cross had meant to christ, and having felt his life within, amor became a different man. to take the lives of his fellowmen, to shed their blood for whom that blood had been shed, was henceforth for him impossible. he unbuckled his sword, and resigning his captaincy in oliver's conquering army, just when victory was at hand after the stern struggle, he followed his despised quaker teacher into obscurity. for seven long years we hear nothing more of him. then he appears again at george fox's side, no longer captain stoddart the officer, but plain amor stoddart, a comrade and helper of the first publishers of truth. in the year , fox's journal records: 'on the sixth day i had a large meeting near colchester[ ] to which many professors and the independent teachers came. after i had done speaking and was stepped down from the place on which i stood, one of the independent teachers began to make a "jangling" [it seems they still went on jangling, even after seven long years!], which amor stoddart perceiving said, "stand up again, george!" for i was going away and did not at the first hear them.' if amor stoddart had unbuckled his sword, evidently he had not lost the power of grappling with difficulties, of swiftly seeing the right thing to do, and of giving his orders with soldier-like precision. 'stand up again, george!'--a quick, military command, in the fewest possible words. george fox was more in the habit of commanding other people than of being commanded himself; but he knew his comrade and obeyed without a word. 'i stood up again,' he says, 'when i heard the independent [the man who had been jangling], and after a while the lord's power came over him and all his company, who were confounded, and the lord's truth was over all. a great flock of sheep hath the lord in that country that feed in his pastures of life.' nevertheless, without amor stoddart the sheep would have gone away hungry, and would not have been fed at that meeting. again we hear of amor a little later in the same year, still at george fox's side, but this time not as a passive spectator, nor even merely as a resourceful comrade. he was now himself to be a sufferer for the truth. he still lives for us through his share in a strange but wonderful scene of george fox's life. a few months after the meeting at colchester, the two friends visited cambridge, and 'there,' says fox in his journal, 'the scholars, hearing of me, were up and were exceeding rude. i kept on my horse's back and rode through them in the lord's power. "oh," said they, "he shines, he glisters," but they unhorsed amor stoddart before we could get to the inn. when we were in the inn they were so rude in the courts and the streets, so that the miners, colliers, and carters could never be ruder. and the people of the inn asked us 'what we would have for supper' as is the way of inns. "supper," said i, "were it not that the lord's power is over them, these rude scholars look as if they would pluck us in pieces and make a supper of us!"' after this treatment, the two friends might have been expected to keep away from cambridge in the future; but that was not their way. where the fight was hottest, there these two faithful soldiers of the cross were sure to be found. the very next year saw fox back in cambridgeshire once more; and again amor stoddart was with him, standing by his side and sharing all dangers like a valiant and faithful friend. 'i passed into cambridgeshire,' the journal continues, 'and into the fen country, where i had many meetings, and the lord's truth spread. robert craven, who had been sheriff of lincoln, was with me [it would be interesting to know more about robert craven, and where and how he was "reached"], and amor stoddart and alexander parker. we went to crowland, a very rude place; for the townspeople were got together at the inn we went to, and were half drunk, both priest and people. i reproved them for their drunkenness and warned them of the day of the lord that was coming upon all the wicked; exhorting them to leave their wickedness and to turn to the lord in time. while i was thus speaking to them the priest and the clerk broke out into a rage, and got up the tongs and fire-shovel at us, so that had not the lord's power preserved us we might have been murdered amongst them. yet, for all their rudeness and violence, some received the truth then, and have stood in it ever since.' george fox was not the only man to find a faithful and staunch supporter in amor stoddart. there is another glimpse of him, again standing at a comrade's side in time of danger, but the comrade in this case is not fox but 'dear william dewsbury,' one of the best loved of all the early friends. amor stoddart was dewsbury's companion that sore day at bristol when the tidings came from new england overseas, that the first two quaker martyrs, william robinson and marmaduke stevenson, had been hanged for their faith on boston common. heavy at heart were the bristol friends at the news, and not they only, for assembled with them were some new england friends who had been banished from their families and from their homes, under pain of the same death that the martyrs had suffered. 'we were bowed down unto our god,' dewsbury writes, 'and prayer was made unto him when there came a knocking at the door. it came upon my spirit that it was the rude people, and the life of god did mightily arise, and they had no power to come in until we were clear before our god. then they came in, setting the house about with muskets and lighted matches. so after a season of this they came into the room, where i was and amor stoddart with me. i looked upon them when they came into the room, and they cried as fast as they could well speak, "we will be civil! we will be civil!" 'i spoke these words, "see that you be so." they ran forth out of the room and came no more into it, but ran up and down in the house with their weapons in their hands, and the lord god caused their hearts to fail and they passed away, and not any harm done to any of us.' eleven years after this pass in almost complete silence, as far as amor is concerned. occasionally we hear the bare mention of his name among the london friends. one short entry in fox's journal speaks of him as having 'buried his wife.' then the veil lifts again and shows one more glimpse of him. it is the last. in , twenty-two years after that first meeting at mansfield, when captain stoddart came into the room, and said, 'let the youth speak,' george fox, now a man worn with his sufferings and service, came into another room to bid farewell to his old comrade as he lay a-dying. fox himself had been brought near to death not long before, but he knew that his work was not yet wholly finished, he was not yet 'fully clear' in his master's sight. 'under great sufferings, sorrows, and oppressions i lay several weeks,' he writes in his journal, 'whereby i was brought so low that few thought i could live. when those about me had given me up to die, i spoke to them to get me a coach to carry me to gerard roberts, about twelve miles off, for i found it was my place to go thither. so i went down a pair of stairs to the coach, and when i came to the coach i was like to have fallen down, i was so weak and feeble, but i got up into the coach, and some friends with me. when i came to gerard's, after i had stayed about three weeks there, it was with me to go to enfield. friends were afraid of my removing, but i told them that i might safely go. when i had taken my leave of gerard and had come to enfield, i went first to visit amor stoddart, who lay very weak and almost speechless. i was moved to tell him "that he had been faithful as a man and faithful to god, and the immortal seed of life was his crown." many more words i was moved to speak to him, though i was then so weak, i could scarcely stand, and within a few days after, amor died.' that is all. very simply he passes out of sight, having heard his comrade's 'well done':--this valiant soldier who renounced his sword. his name, amor, still holds the secret of his power, his silent patience, and of his victory, for 'omnia vincit amor.' footnotes: [ ] it was on this visit to colchester that george fox had his farewell interview with james parnell, imprisoned in the castle. xxv. the marvellous voyage of the good ship 'woodhouse' _'in the th century england was peculiarly rich, if not in great mystics, at any rate in mystically minded men. mysticism, it seems, was in the air; broke out under many disguises and affected many forms of life.'--e. underhill, 'mysticism.'_ _'he who says "yes," responds, obeys, co-operates, and allows this resident seed of god, or christ light, to have full sway in him, becomes transformed thereby and recreated into likeness to christ by whom the inner seed was planted, and of whose nature it is.'--rufus m. jones._ _'through winds and tides, one compass guides.'--a.h. clough._ _'have mercy upon me, o god, for thine ocean is so great, and my little bark is so small.'--breton fisherman's prayer._ _'be faithful and still, till the winds cease and the storm be over.' ... 'friends' fellowship must be in the spirit, and all friends must know one another in the spirit and power of god.'--g. fox._ _'christopher holder and i are going ... in obedience to the will of our god, whose will is our joy.'--john copeland. ._ _'the log of the little "woodhouse" has become a sacred classic.'--william littleboy, swarthmoor lecture, ._ xxv. the marvellous voyage of the good ship 'woodhouse' master robert fowler of burlington was a well-known figure in all the fishing towns and villages along the yorkshire coast in the year of grace . a man of substance was he, a master mariner, well skilled in his craft; building his own ships and sailing them withal, and never to be turned back from an adventurous voyage. many fine vessels he had, sailing over the broad waters, taking the yorkshire cargoes of wool and hides to distant lands, and bringing back foreign goods in exchange, to be sold again at a profit on his return to old england's shores. thus up and down the yorkshire coast men spoke and thought highly of master robert fowler's judgment in all matters pertaining to the sea. on land, too, he seemed prudent and skilful, though some folks looked at him askance of late years, since he had joined himself to that strange and perverse people known as the quakers. yet, in spite of what his neighbours considered his new-fangled religion, master robert fowler was prospering in all his worldly affairs. even now on the sunny day when our story opens, he was hard at work putting the last touches to a new boat of graceful proportions and gallant curves, that bade fair to be a yet more notable seafarer than any of her distant sisters. why then did master robert fowler pause more than once in his work to heave a deep sigh, and throw down his tools almost pettishly? why did he suddenly put his fingers in his ears as if to shut out an unwelcome sound, resuming his work thereafter with double speed? no one was speaking to him. the mid-day air was very still. the haze that often broods over the north-east coast veiled the horizon. sea and sky melted into one another till it was impossible to say where earth ended and heaven began. an unwonted silence reigned even on burlington quay. no sound was to be heard save for the tap, tap, tap of master robert fowler's hammer. again he dropped his tools. again he looked up to the sky, as if he were listening to an unseen voice. someone was truly speaking to him, though no faintest sound vibrated on the air. his inward ear heard clearly these words-- 'thou hast her not for nothing.' his eyes travelled proudly over the nearly completed vessel. every one of her swelling curves he knew by heart; had learned to know and love through long months of toil. how still she lay, the beauty, still as a bird, poising on the sea. ah! but the day was coming when she would spread her wings and skim over the ocean, buoyant and dainty as one of the terns, those sea-swallows that with their sharp white wings even now were hovering round her. built for use she was too, not merely to take the eye. although small of size more bales of goods could be stowed away under her shapely decks than in many another larger clumsier vessel. who should know this better than robert, her maker, who had planned it all? for what had he planned her? was it for the voyage to the eastern mediterranean that had been the desire of his heart for many years? how well he knew it, that voyage he had never made! down the channel he would go, past ushant and safely across the bay. then, when finisterre had dropped to leeward, it would be but a few days' sail along the pleasant coasts of portugal till gibraltar was reached. and then, heigh ho! for a fair voyage in the summer season, week after week over a calm blue sea to the land-locked harbour where flat-roofed, white-walled houses, stately palm-trees, rosy domes and minarets, mirrored in the still water, gazed down at their own reflections. was the _woodhouse_ for this? he had planned her for this dream voyage. why then came that other voice in his heart directly he began to build: 'fashion thee a ship for the service of truth!' and now that she was nearly completed, why did the voice grow daily more insistent, giving ever clearer directions? what a bird she was! his own bird of the sea, his beautiful _woodhouse_! so thought master robert fowler. but then again came the insistent voice within, speaking yet more clearly and distinctly than ever before: 'thou hast her not for nothing.' the vision of his sea-swallow, her white wings gleaming in the sun as she dropped anchor in that still harbour; the vision of the white and rose-coloured city stretched like an encircling arm around the turquoise waters, these dreams faded relentlessly from his sight. instead he saw the _woodhouse_ beating up wearily against a bleak and rugged shore on which grey waves were breaking. angry, white teeth those giant breakers showed; teeth that would grind a dainty boat to pieces with no more compunction than a dog who snaps at a fly. must he take her there? a vision of that inhospitable shore was constantly with him as he worked. 'new england was presented before him.' day after day he drove the thought from him. night after night it returned. 'thou hast her not for nothing. she is needed for the service of truth.' master robert fowler grew lean and wan with inward struggle, but yield his will he could not, yet disobey the voice he did not dare. when his wife and children asked what ailed him he answered not, or gave a surly reply. truth to tell, he avoided their company all he could,--and yet a look was in his eyes when they did not notice as if he had never before felt them half so dear. at length the long-expected day arrived when the completed vessel sailed graciously out to sea. but there was no gaiety on board, as there had been when her sister ships had departed. no cargo had she. no farewells were said. master robert fowler stole aboard when all beside were sleeping. the _woodhouse_ slipped from the grey harbour into the grey sea, noiselessly as a bird. none of the crew knew what ailed the master, nor why his door was locked for long hours thereafter, until the yorkshire coast first drew dim, and then faded from the horizon. he would not even tell them whither the vessel was bound. 'keep a straight course; come back at four bells, and then i will direct you,' was all his answer, when the mate knocked at his door for orders. but within the cabin a man was wrestling with himself upon his knees; till at last in agony he cried: 'e'en take the boat, lord, an so thou wilt, for i have no power to give her thee. yet truly she is thine.' * * * * * at that same hour in london an anxious little company was gathered in a house at the back side of thomas apostles church, over the door of which swung the well-known sign of the fleur-de-luce. the master of the house, friend gerard roberts, a merchant of watling street, sat at the top of the table in a small upper room. the anxiety on his countenance was reflected in the faces round his board. seven men and four women were there, all soberly clad as befitted ministering friends. they were not eating or drinking, but solemnly seeking for guidance. 'can no ship then be found to carry us to the other side? for truly the lord's word is as a fire and hammer in me, though in the outward appearance there is no likelihood of getting passage,' one friend was saying. 'ships in plenty there are bound for new england, but ne'er a one that is willing to carry even one quaker, let alone eleven,' friend roberts answered. 'the colonists' new laws are strict, and their punishments are savage. i know, friends, ye are all ready, aye and willing, to suffer in the service of truth. it is not merely the threatened cropping of the ears of every quaker who sets foot ashore that is the difficulty. it is the one hundred pounds fine for every quaker landed, not levied on the friends themselves, mind you--that were simple--but on the owner of the boat in which they shall have voyaged. this it is that hinders your departure. it were not fair to ask a man to run such risk. it is not fair. yet already i have asked many in vain. way doth not open. we must needs leave it, and see if the concern abides.' clear as a bell rose the silvery tones of a young woman friend, one who had been formerly a serving-maid at cammsgill farm: 'commit thy way unto the lord, trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass. shall not he who setteth a bound to the sea that it shall not pass over, and taketh up the isles as a very little thing--shall not he be trusted to find a ship for his servants who trust in him, to enable them to perform his will?' as the clear bell-like tones died away the little company, impelled by a united instinct, sank into a silence in which time passed unnoticed. suddenly, at the same moment, a weight seemed to be removed from the hearts of all. they clasped hands and separated. and at that very moment, although they knew it not, far away on the broad seas, a man, wrestling on his knees in the cabin of his vessel, was saying with bitter tears, 'e'en take, lord, an so thou wilt, though i have no power to give her to thee. yet truly she is thine.' when four bells were sounded on the good ship _woodhouse_, and a knock came to the door of the cabin as the mate asked for directions, it was in a steady voice that master robert fowler replied from within, 'mark a straight course for london; and after--whithersoever the lord may direct.' blithely and gaily henceforward the _woodhouse_ skimmed her way to the mouth of the thames and dropped anchor at the port of london. but as yet master robert fowler knew nothing of the anxious group of friends waiting to be taken to new england on the service of truth (five of them having already been deported thence for the offence of being quakers, yet anxious to return and take six others with them). neither did these friends know anything of master robert fowler, nor of his good ship _woodhouse_. yet, though unknown to each other, he and they alike were well known to one heart, were guided by one hand, were listening to the directions of one voice. therefore, though it may seem a strange chance, it was not wonderful really that within a few hours of the arrival of the _woodhouse_ in the thames master robert fowler and friend gerard roberts met each other face to face in london city. nor was it strange that the ship's captain should be moved to tell the merchant of the exercise of his spirit about his ship. in truth all friends who visited london in those days were wont to unburden themselves of their perplexities to the master of that hospitable house over whose doorway swung the sign of the fleur-de-luce. lightly he told it--almost as a jest--the folly of the notion that a vessel of such small tonnage could be needed to face the terrors of the terrible atlantic. surely a prudent merchant like friend roberts would tell him to pay no heed to visions and inner voices, and such like idle notions? but gerard roberts did not scoff. he listened silently. a look almost of awe stole over his face. the first words he uttered were, 'it is the lord's doing and it is marvellous in our eyes.' and at these words master robert fowler's heart sank down, down like lead. long afterwards, describing the scene, he says: 'also when (the vessel) was finished and freighted, and made to sea, contrary to my will, was brought to london, where, speaking touching this matter to gerard roberts and others, they confirmed the matter in behalf of the lord, that it must be so.' 'it must be so.' this is the secret of guidance from that day to this. the inner voice alone is not always enough for action; the outer need or claim of service alone is not necessarily a call. but when the inner voice and the outer need come together, then truly the will of the lord is plain, and 'it must be so.' master robert fowler was not yet willing or ready to sacrifice his own wishes. a decisive victory is not to be won in one battle, however severe, but only throughout the stress of a long campaign. the struggle in his cabin, when he allowed the ship's head to be turned towards london, must needs be fought out again. the unreasonableness of such a voyage in such a vessel, the risk, the thought of the dangers and misery it would bring, took possession of his mind once more, as he himself confesses: 'yet entering into reasoning and letting in temptation and hardships, and the loss of my life, wife, and children, with the enjoyment of all earthly things, it brought me as low as the grave, and laid me as one dead to the things of god.' 'let the sacrifice be made, if it must be made,' he said to himself, 'but it is too much to expect any man to make it willingly.' for days he went about, in his own words, 'as one dead.' the eagerness of the friends to depart, their plans for the voyage, their happy cares, only loaded his spirit the more. it was a dark, sad, miserable time; and a dark, sad, miserable man was the owner of the _woodhouse_. till on a certain day, the friends coming as usual to visit his ship brought another with them, a stranger; taller, stronger, sturdier than them all; a man with a long drooping nose and piercing eyes--yes, and leather breeches! it was, it could be no other than george fox! what did he say to robert fowler? what words did he use? did he argue or command? that was unnecessary. the mere presence of the strong faithful servant of the lord drew out a like faithfulness in the other more timid soul. robert fowler's narrative continues: 'but by his instrument, george fox, was i refreshed and raised up again, which before was much contrary to myself that i could have as willingly have died as gone; but by the strength of god i was now made willing to do his will; yea even the customs and fashions of the customs house could not stop me.' 'made willing to do his will.' there is the secret of this 'wonderful voyage.' for it was absurdly dangerous to think of sailing across the atlantic in such a vessel as the _woodhouse_: or it would have been, had it been a mere human plan. but if the all-powerful, almighty will of god really commanded them to go, then it was no longer dangerous but the only safe thing they could do. 'our trembling hands held in thy strong and loving grasp, what shall even the weakest of us fear?' perhaps master robert expected when once he was ready to obey cheerfully, that all his difficulties would vanish. instead, fresh difficulties arose; and the next difficulty was truly a great one. the press-gang came by, and took robert fowler's servants off by force to help to man the british fleet that was being fitted out to fight in the baltic; took them, whether they would or no, as richard sellar was to be captured in the same way, seven years later. so now the long voyage to america must be undertaken not only in too small a boat, but with too few sailors to work her. besides robert fowler, only two men and three boys were left on board to sail the ship on this long, difficult voyage. presently the friends began to come on board; and if the captain's heart sank anew as he saw the long string of passengers making for his tiny boat--who shall wonder or blame him? it was a very solemn procession of weighty friends. in front came the five, who had been in america before, and who were going back to face persecution, knowing what it meant. their names were: first that 'ancient and venerable man' william brend; then young christopher holder of winterbourne in gloucestershire, a well-educated man of good estate; john copeland of holderness in yorkshire; mary weatherhead of bristol; and dorothy[ ] waugh, the serving-maid of preston patrick, who had been 'convinced and called to the ministry' as she went about her daily work in the family of friend john camm, at cammsgill. after them followed the other five who had not crossed the atlantic before, but who were no less eager to face unknown difficulties and dangers. their names were: william robinson the london merchant; robert hodgson; humphrey norton (remember humphrey norton, he will be heard of again); richard doudney, 'an innocent man who served the lord in sincerity'; and mary clark, the wife of john clark, a london friend, who, like most of the others, had already undergone much suffering for her faith. on board the _woodhouse_ they all came, stepping on deck one after the other solemnly and sedately, while the anxious captain watched them and wondered how many more were to come, and where they were all to be lodged. once they were on board, however, things changed and felt quite different. it was as if an unseen passenger had come with them. this is robert fowler's own account: 'upon the st day of fourth month called june received i the lord's servants aboard, who came with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm with them; so that with courage we set sail and came to the downs the second day, where our dearly beloved william dewsbury with michael thompson came aboard, and in them we were much refreshed; and, recommending us to the grace of god, we launched forth.' after this his narrative has a different ring: master fowler was no longer going about his ship with eyes cast down and hanging head and a heart full of fear. he had straightened his back and was a stalwart mariner again. perhaps this was partly owing to the great pleasure that came to him before they actually set sail, when, as he tells, william dewsbury came on board to visit the travellers. 'dear william dewsbury' was the one friend of all others robert fowler must have wished to see once more before leaving england, for it was william dewsbury's preaching that had 'convinced' robert fowler and made him become a friend a few years before. it was william dewsbury's teaching about the blessedness of following the inner voice, the inner guidance, that had led him to offer himself and the _woodhouse_ for the service of truth. perhaps he said, half in joke, half in earnest, 'o william dewsbury! o william dewsbury! thou hast much to answer for! if i had never met thee i should never have undertaken this voyage in my little boat!' if he said this, i think a very tender, thankful light came into william dewsbury's face, as he answered, 'let us give thanks then together, brother, that the message did reach thee through me; since without this voyage thou could'st not fully have known the power and the wonder of the lord.' quakers do not have priests to baptize them, or bishops to confirm or ordain them, as church people do. yet god's actual presence in the heart is often revealed first through the message of one of his messengers. therefore there is a special bond of tender fellowship and friendship between those who are truly fathers and children in god, even in a society where all are friends. in this relation william dewsbury stood to robert fowler. reason and fear raised their heads once again, even after william dewsbury's visit. robert fowler thought of going to the admiral in the downs to complain of the loss of his servants, and to ask that a convoy might be sent with them. but he did not go, because, as he says, 'from which thing i was withholden by that hand which was my helper.' the south wind began to blow, and they were obliged to put in at portsmouth, and there there were plenty of men waiting to be engaged, but when they heard that this tiny vessel was actually venturing to cross the atlantic, not one would sail in her, and this happened again at south yarmouth, where they put in a few days later. at portsmouth, however, the friends were not idle. they went ashore and held a meeting, or, as robert fowler puts it, 'they went forth and gathered sticks and kindled a fire, and left it burning.' not real sticks for a real fire, of course, but a fire of love and service in people's hearts, that would help to keep the cold world warm in after days. this was their last task in england. a few hours later they had quitted her shores. the coast-line that followed them faithfully at first, dropped behind gradually, growing fainter and paler, then resting like a thought upon the sea, till it finally disappeared. only a vast expanse of heaving waters surrounded the travellers. at first it seemed as if their courage was not to be too severely tested. 'three pretty large ships which were for the newfoundland' appeared, and bore the _woodhouse_ company for some fifty leagues. in their vicinity the smaller vessel might have made the voyage, perilous at best, with a certain amount of confidence. but the dutch warships were known to be not far distant, and in order to escape them the three 'pretty large ships made off to the northward, and left us without hope or help as to the outward.' the manner of the departure of the ships was on this wise. early in the morning it was shown to humphrey norton--who seems to have been especially sensitive to messages from the invisible world--'that those were nigh unto us who sought our lives.' he called robert fowler, and gave him this warning, and added, 'thus saith the lord, ye shall be carried away as in a mist.' 'presently,' says robert fowler, 'we espied a great ship making up to us, and the three great ships were much afraid, and tacked about with what speed they could; in the very interim the lord fulfilled his promise, and struck our enemies in the face with a contrary wind, wonderfully to our refreshment. then upon our parting from these three ships we were brought to ask counsel of the lord, and the word was from him, "cut through and steer your straight course and mind nothing but me."' 'cut through and steer your straight course, and mind nothing but me!' alone upon the broad atlantic in this cockle-shell of a boat! only a cockle-shell truly, yet it held a bit of heaven within it--the heaven of obedience. every day the little company of friends met in that ship's hold together, and 'he himself met with us and manifested himself largely unto us,' words that have been proved true by many another company of the master's servants afloat upon the broad waters from that day to this. there they sat on the wooden benches, with spray breaking over them, the faithful men and women who were daring all for the truth. only three times in the whole voyage was the weather so bad that storms prevented their assembling together. much of the actual navigation of the vessel seems to have been left to the strange passengers to determine. the captain's narrative continues: 'thus it was all the voyage with the faithful, who were carried far above storms and tempests, that when the ship went either to the right hand or to the left, their hands joined all as one, and did direct her way; so that we have seen and said, "we see the lord leading our vessel even as it were a man leading a horse by the head; we regarding neither latitude nor longitude, but kept to our line, which was and is our leader, guide, and rule."' besides the guidance vouchsafed to the friends as a group, some of them had special intimations given to them. 'the sea was my figure,' says robert fowler, 'for if anything got up within, the sea without rose up against me, and then the floods clapped their hands, of which in time i took notice and told humphrey norton.'[ ] in this account humphrey norton always seems to hear voices directing their course, while robert fowler generally 'sees figures'--sights that teach him what to do. guidance may come in different ways to different people, but it does come surely to those who seek for it. the inward voice spoke to robert fowler also when they were in mid atlantic after they had been at sea some two weeks: 'we saw another great ship making up to us which did appear far off to be a frigate, and made her sign for us to come to them, which was to me a great cross, we being to windward of them; and it was said "go speak to him, the cross is sure; did i ever fail thee therein?" and unto others there appeared no danger in it, so that we did, and it proved a tradesman of london, by whom we writ back.' the hardest test of their faith came some three weeks later, when after five weeks at sea they had still accomplished only leagues, scarcely a third part of their voyage, and their destination still seemed hopelessly distant. the strong faith of humphrey norton carried them all over this trial. 'he (humphrey norton) falling into communion with god, told me that he had received a comfortable answer, and also that about such a day we should land in america, which was even so fulfilled. upon the last day of the fifth month (july) , we made land.' this land turned out to be the very part to which the friends had most desired to come. the pilot[ ] had expected to reach quite a different point, but the invisible guidance of his strange passengers was clear and unwavering. 'our drawing had been all the passage to keep to the southward, until the evening before we made land, and then the word was, "there is a lion in the way"; unto which we gave obedience, and said, "let them steer northwards until the day following."'[ ] that must have been an anxious day on board the _woodhouse_. think of the two different clues that were being followed within that one small boat: the friends with their clasped hands, seeking and finding guidance; up on deck the pilot, with his nautical knowledge, scoffing very likely at any other method of progress than the reckoning to which he was accustomed. as the slow hours passed, and no land appeared to break the changeless circle of the sea, the friends felt a 'drawing' to meet together long before their usual time. 'and it was said that we may look abroad in the evening; and as we sat waiting upon the lord, we discovered the land, and our mouths were opened in prayer and thanksgiving.' the words are simple as any words could be. but in spite of the years that separate that day from this, its gladness is still fresh. all voyagers know the thrill caused by the first sight of land, even in these days of steamships, when all arrangements can be made and carried out with almost clock-like precision. but in the old time of sailing ships, when a contrary wind or a sudden calm might upset the reckoning for days together, and when there was the added danger that food or water might give out, to see the longed-for land in sight at last must have been even more of an event. to all the friends on board the _woodhouse_ this first sight of america meant a yet deeper blessedness. it was the outer assurance that the invisible guidance they were following was reliable. the friends rejoiced and were wholly at rest and thankful. but the pilot, instead of being, as might have been expected, convinced at last that there was a wisdom wiser than his own, still resisted. where some people see life with a thread of guidance running through it unmistakably, others are always to be found who will say these things are nothing but chance and what is called 'coincidence.' such an one was the pilot of the _woodhouse_. as the land drew nearer, a creek was seen to open out in it. the friends were sure that their vessel was meant to enter there, but again the pilot resisted. by this time the friends had learned to expect objections from him, and had learned, too, that it was best not to argue with him, but to leave him to find out for himself that their guidance was right. so they told him to do as he chose, that 'both sides were safe, but going that way would be more trouble to him.' when morning dawned 'he saw, after he had laid by all the night, the thing fulfilled.' into the creek, therefore, in the bright morning sunlight the _woodhouse_ came gaily sailing; not knowing where she was, nor whither the creek would lead. 'now to lay before you the largeness of the wisdom, will, and power of god, this creek led us in between the dutch plantation and long island:'--the very place that some of the friends had felt that they ought to visit, but which it would have been most difficult to reach had they landed in any other spot. thus 'the lord god that moved them brought them to the place appointed, and led us into our way according to the word which came unto christopher holder: "you are in the road to rhode island." in that creek came a shallop to guide us, taking us to be strangers, we making our way with our boat, and they spoke english, and informed us, and guided us along. the power of the lord fell much upon us, and an irresistible word came unto us, that the seed in america shall be as the sand of the sea; it was published in the ears of the brethren, which caused tears to break forth with fulness of joy; so that presently for these places some prepared themselves, who were robert hodgson, richard doudney, sarah gibbons, mary weatherhead, and dorothy waugh, who the next day were put safely ashore into the dutch plantation, called new amsterdam.' 'new amsterdam, on an unnamed creek in the dutch plantation,' sounds an unfamiliar place to modern ears. yet when that same dutch plantation changed hands and became english territory its new masters altered the name of its chief town. new amsterdam was re-christened in honour of the king's brother, james, duke of york, and became known as new york, the largest city of the future united states of america. as to the unnamed 'creek' into which the _woodhouse_ was led, that was probably the estuary of the mighty river hudson. 'here,' continues robert fowler, 'we came, and it being the first day of the week several came aboard to us and we began our work. i was caused to go to the governor, and robert hodgson with me--he (the governor) was moderate both in words and actions.' this moderation on the governor's part must have been no small comfort to the new arrivals. also the laws of the new netherland colonies, where they had unexpectedly landed, were much more tolerant than those of new england, whither they were bound. even yet the perils of the gallant _woodhouse_ were not over. the remaining friends had now to be taken on to hospitable rhode island, the home of religious liberty, from whence they could pursue their mission to the persecuting colonists on the mainland. a few days before their arrival at new amsterdam, the two roberts (robert hodgson and robert fowler) had both had a vision in which they had seen the _woodhouse_ in great danger. the day following their interview with the governor, when they were once more on the sea, 'it was fulfilled, there being a passage between the two lands which is called by the name of hell-gate; we lay very conveniently for a pilot, and into that place we came, and into it were forced, and over it were carried, which i never heard of any before that were; there were rocks many on both sides of us, so that i believe one yard's length would have endangered both vessel and goods.' here for the last time the little group of friends gathered to give thanks for their safe arrival after their most wonderful voyage. if any of them were tempted to think they owed any of their protection and guidance to their own merits and faithfulness, a last vision that came to robert fowler must have chased this thought out of their minds once for all. 'there was a shoal of fish,' he says, 'which pursued our vessel and followed her strangely, and along close by our rudder.' the master mariner's eye had evidently been following the movements of the fish throughout the day, as he asked himself: 'what are those fish? i never saw fish act in that way before. why do they follow the vessel so steadily?' then, in the time of silent waiting upon god, light streamed upon this puzzle in his mind. 'in our meeting it was shewn to me, these fish are to thee a figure. "thus doth the prayers of the churches proceed to the lord for thee and the rest."' that was the explanation of the wonderful voyage. the _woodhouse_ and her little company had not been solitary and unprotected, even when the three 'pretty great ships' drew off for fear of the dutch men of war and left them alone. the prayers of their friends in england were following them across the vast atlantic, though unseen by human eyes, even as those hosts of shining fish, which surrounded the vessel as she drove her prow through the clear water, would be unseen to a spectator above its surface. george fox was praying for the travellers. william dewsbury was sure to be praying for them. friend gerard roberts would be also much in prayer, since the responsibility of the voyage was largely on his shoulders. besides these, there were the husbands, wives, and little children of some of the friends, the brothers and sisters of others, all longing for them to arrive safely and do their master's work. now here came the fish to assure robert fowler that the faith he believed was true. real as the things we can see or touch or feel seem to us to be, the unseen things are more real still. ever after, to those who had crossed the atlantic in the good ship _woodhouse_, the assurance of god's clear guidance and the answered prayers of his people must have been the most real of all. robert fowler's story of the marvellous voyage ends with these words: 'surely in our meeting did the thing run through me as oil and bid me much rejoice.' footnotes: [ ] she sometimes spelled her name dorithy, which is not the way to spell dorothy now, but spelling was much less fixed in those days. [ ] the meaning seems to be that whenever fear or misgiving came to fowler's heart, the sea also became stormy; while his spirit remained trustful, the sea was likewise calm. [ ] as the navigating officer of the ship was then called. [ ] it is not quite easy at this distance of time to understand why 'a lion in the way' should mean 'go north,' unless it was because the 'drawing' had been strongly south hitherto, and now that path was blocked. xxvi. richard sellar and the 'merciful man' _'to resort to force is to lose faith in the inner light. war only results from men taking counsel with their passions instead of waiting upon god. if one believes, as fox did, that the most powerful element in human nature is that something of god which speaks in the conscience, then to coerce men is clearly wrong. the only true line of approach is by patience to reach down to that divine seed, to appeal to what is best, because it is what is strongest in man. the quaker testimony against war is no isolated outwork of their position: it forms part of their citadel.'--h.g. wood._ _'the following narrative we have thought proper to insert in the very words of the sufferer, as taken from his own mouth. the candid reader will easily excuse the simplicity of its style, and the plainness of its expressions. it is the more like the man, and carries the greater evidence of the honesty and integrity of the relator, viz. "an account of the sufferings of richard seller of keinsey, a fisherman, who was prest in scarborough-piers, in the time of the two last engagements between the dutch and english, in the year ." these are (says the writer) the very words that proceeded from him, who sat before me weeping.'--besse, 'sufferings of the quakers.'_ xxvi. richard sellar and the 'merciful man' away to the yorkshire coast we must go, and once more find ourselves looking up at the bold headland of scarborough cliff, as it juts out into the north sea. away again in time, too, to the year , when george fox still lay in prison up at the castle, with his room full of smoke on stormy days when the wind 'drove in the rain forcibly,' while 'the water came all over his bed and ran about the room till he was forced to skim it up with a platter.' happily there is no storm raging this time. our story begins on a still, warm afternoon late in the summer, when even the prisoner up at the castle can hardly help taking some pleasure in the cloudless blue sky and shining sea spread out above and around him. but it is not to the castle we are bound to-day. we need not climb again the steep, worn steps that lead to the top of the hill. instead, we must descend an equally narrow flight that leads down, down, down with queer twists and turns, till we find ourselves close to the water's edge. even in the fiercest gales there is shelter here for the red-roofed fishing village that surrounds the harbour, while on a warm afternoon the air is almost oppressively hot. the brown sails of the fishing smacks and the red roofs of the houses are faithfully reflected in the clear water beneath them as in a looking-glass. outside the door of one of the houses a rough fisherman is seated on a bench, his back against the house wall, mending his nets. at first sight he looks almost like an old man, for his hair is grey, though his body is still strong and active. his hands are twisted and bear the marks of cruel scars upon them, but his face is peaceful, though worn and rugged. he handles the nets lovingly, as if he were glad to feel them slipping through his fingers again. evidently the nets have not been used for some time, for there are many holes in them, and the mending is a slow business. as he works the fisherman sings in a low voice, not loud enough for the neighbours to hear but just humming to himself. every now and then the door of the house half opens, and a little girl looks out and asks, 'thou art really there, father? truly safe back again?' the man looks up, smiling, as he calls back, 'ay, ay, my maid. get on with thy work, margery, and i'll get on with mine.' 'art thou sure thou art safe, father?' he does not answer this question in words, but he raises his voice and sings the next verse of his song a little more loudly and clearly-- 'because on me his love is set, deliver him i will, and safely bring him higher yet upon my holy hil.' later on, when the nets are mended and the sun is sinking above the castle cliff in a fiery glow, margery comes out and sits on her father's knee; the lads, home from school, gather round and say, 'now then, master sellar, tell us once more the story of thy absence from us, and about how thou wast pressed and taken on board the _royal prince_. tell us about the capstan and the lashings; about how they beat thee; what the carpenter and the boatswain's mate did, and how the gunner went down three times on his bare knees on the deck to beg thy life. let us hear it all again.' 'yes, please do, father dear,' chimes in margery, 'only leave out some of the beatings and the dreadful part, and hurry on very quickly to the end of the story about all the sailors throwing up their caps and huzzaing for sir edward, the merciful man.' the fisherman smiles and nods. he puts his arm more tenderly than ever round his small daughter as he says, 'ay, ay, dear heart, never thou fear.' then, drawing margery closer to him, he begins his tale. it is a long story. the sun has set; the crescent moon has disappeared; and the stars are stealing out, one by one, before he has finished. i wish you and i could listen to that story, don't you? well, we can! someone who heard it from the fisherman's own lips has written it all down for us. he is telling it to us in his own words to-day, as he told it to those children in scarborough village long ago. now and then we must interrupt him to explain some of the words he uses, or even alter the form of the sentences slightly, in order fully to understand what it is he is talking about. but he is telling his own story. 'my name,' begins the fisherman, 'is richard sellar. it was during the war between the dutch and english that i was pressed at scarborough in .' 'pressed' means that he was forced to go and fight against his will. when the country is in danger men are obliged to leave their peaceful employments and learn to be soldiers and sailors, in order, as they think, to defend their own nation by trying to kill their enemies. it is something like what people now call 'conscription' that richard sellar is talking of when he speaks of 'being pressed.' he means that a number of men, called a 'press-crew,' forced him to go with them to fight in the king's navy, for, as the proverb said, 'a king's ship and the gallows refuse nobody.' 'i was pressed,' richard continues, 'within scarborough piers, and refusing to go on board the ketch [or boat] they beat me very sore, and i still refusing, they hoisted me in with a tackle on board, and they bunched me with their feet, that i fell backward into a tub, and was so maimed that they were forced to swaddle me up with clothes.' richard sellar could not help himself. bound, bruised, and beaten he was carried off in the boat to be taken to a big fighting ship called the _royal prince_, that was waiting for them off the mouth of the thames and needing more sailors to man her for the war. the press-crew however had not captured enough men at scarborough, so they put in at another yorkshire port, spelled burlington then but bridlington now. it was that same burlington or bridlington from which master robert fowler had sailed years before. was he at home again now, i wonder, working in his shipyard and remembering the wonderful experiences of the good ship _woodhouse_? surely he must have been away on a voyage at this time or he would if possible have visited richard sellar in his confinement on the ketch. happily at bridlington there also lived two kind women, who, hearing that the ketch had a 'pressed quaker' on board, sent richard sellar a present of food--green stuff and eatables that would keep well on a voyage: these provisions saved his life later on. after this stay in port the ketch sailed on again to the nore, a big sand-bank lying near the mouth of the thames. 'and there,' richard goes on to say, 'they haled me in at a gunport, on board of the ship called the _royal prince_. the first day of the third month, they commanded me to go to work at the capstan. i refused; then they commanded me to call of the steward for my victuals; which i refused, and told them that as i was not free to do the king's work, i would not live at his charge for victuals. then the boatswain's mate beat me sore, and thrust me about with the capstan until he was weary; then the captain sent for me on the quarter-deck, and asked me why i refused to fight for the king, and why i refused to eat of his victuals? i told him i was afraid to offend god, for my warfare was spiritual, and therefore i durst not fight with carnal weapons. then the captain fell upon me, and beat me first with his small cane, then called for his great cane, and beat me sore, and felled me down to the deck three or four times, and beat me as long as his strength continued. then came one, thomas horner (which was brought up at easington), and said, "i pray you, noble captain, be merciful, for i know him to be an honest and a good man." then said the captain, "he is a quaker; i will beat his brains out." then falling on me again, he beat me until he was weary, and then called some to help him; "for" said he, "i am not able to beat him enough to make him willing to do the king's service."' there richard lay, bruised and beaten, on the deck. neither the sailors nor the captain knew what to do with him. presently up came the commander's jester or clown, a man whose business it was to make the officers laugh. 'what,' said he, 'can't you make that quaker work? do you want him to draw ropes for you and he won't? why you are going the wrong way to work, you fool!' no one else in the whole ship would have dared to call the captain 'you fool!' no one else could have done so without being put in chains. but the jester might do as he liked. his business was to make the captain laugh; and at these words he did laugh. 'show me the right way to make him work, then,' said he. 'that i will gladly,' answered the jester, 'we will have a bet. i will give you one golden guinea if i cannot make him draw ropes, if you will give me another if i do compel him to do so.' 'marry that i will,' answered the captain, and forthwith the two guineas were thrown down on the deck, rattling gaily, while all the ship's company stood around to watch what should befall. 'then the jester called for two seamen and made them make two ropes fast to the wrists of my arms, and reeved the ropes through two blocks in the mizen shrouds on the starboard side, and hoisted me up aloft, and made the ropes fast to the gunwale of the ship, and i hung some time. then the jester called the ship's company to behold, and bear him witness, that he made the quaker hale the king's ropes; so veering the ropes they lowered me half-way down, then made me fast again. "now," said the jester, "noble captain, you and the company see that the quaker haleth the king's ropes"; and with that he commanded them to let fly the ropes loose, when i fell on the deck. "now," said the jester, "noble captain, the wager is won. he haled the ropes to the deck, and you can hale them no further, nor any man else."' not a very good joke, was it? it seems to have pleased the rough sailors since it set them a-laughing. but it was no laughing matter for richard sellar to be set swinging in the air strung up by the wrists, and then to be bumped down upon deck again, fast bound and unable to move. the captain did not laugh either. the thought of his lost money made him feel savage. in a loud, angry voice he called to the boatswain's mate and bade him, 'take the quakerly dog away, and put him to the capstan and make him work.' only the jester laughed, and chuckled to himself, as he gathered up the golden guineas from the deck, and slapped his thighs for pleasure as he slipped them into his pockets. meantime the boatswain's mate was having fine sport with the 'quaker dog,' as he carried out the captain's orders. calling the roughest members of the crew to help him, they beat poor richard cruelly, and abused him as they dragged him down into the darkness below deck. 'then he went,' says richard, 'and sat him down upon a chest lid, and i went and sat down upon another beside him; then he fell upon me and beat me again; then called his boy to bring him two lashings and he lashed my arms to the capstan's bars and caused the men to heave the capstan about; and in three or four times passing about the lashings were loosed, no man knew how, nor when, nor could they ever be found, although they sought them with lighted candles.' the sailors had tied their prisoner with ropes to the heavy iron wheel in the stern of the boat called a capstan; so that as he moved he would be obliged to drag it round and thus help to work the ship. they had made their prisoner as fast as ever they could. yet, somehow, here he was free again, and his bonds had disappeared! the boatswain's mate couldn't understand it, but he was determined to solve the mystery. he sent for a bible and made the sailors swear upon it in turn, in that dark, ill-smelling den, that not one of them had loosed richard. they all swore willingly, but even that did not content the mate. he thought they were lying, and would not let them go till he had turned out all their pockets, and found that not one of them contained the missing lashings that had mysteriously disappeared. then, at last, even the rough mate felt afraid. richard seemed to be in his power and defenceless: was he really protected by something or someone stronger than any cruel men, the mate wondered? so he called the sailors round him again, and spoke to them as follows: 'hear what i shall say unto you; you see this is a wonderful thing, which is done by an invisible hand, which loosed him, for none of you could see his hands loosed, that were so near him. i suppose this man' (said he) 'is called a quaker, and for conscience' sake refuseth to act, therefore i am afflicted, and do promise before god and man that i will never beat, nor cause to be beaten, either quaker or any other man that doth refuse, for conscience' sake, to fight for the king. and if i do, i wish i may lose my right hand.' that was the promise of the boatswain's mate. * * * * * three days later the admiral of the whole fleet, sir edward spragg, came on board the _royal prince_. he was a very fine gentleman indeed. at once every one began to tell him the same story: how they had pressed a quaker up at scarborough in the north; how the quaker had refused to work, and had been given over to the boatswain's mate to be flogged; how the boatswain's mate had fallen upon him and had beaten him furiously, but now refused to lay a finger upon him, saying that he would no longer beat a quaker or any other man for conscience' sake. 'send that boatswain's mate to me that he may answer for himself,' said the admiral. 'why would you not beat the quaker?' he demanded in a terrible voice, when the boatswain's mate was brought before him. 'i have beat him very sore,' the mate answered, 'i seized his arms to the capstan bars, and forced them to heave him about, and beat him, and then sat down; and in three or four times of the capstan's going about, the lashings were loosed, and he came and sat down by me; then i called the men from the capstan, and took them sworn, but they all denied that they had loosed him, or knew how he was loosed; neither could the lashings ever be found; therefore i did and do believe that it was an invisible power which set him at liberty, and i did promise before god and the company, that i would never beat a quaker again, nor any man else for conscience' sake.' the admiral told the mate that he must lose both his cane of office and his place. he willingly yielded them both. he was also threatened with the loss of his right hand. he held it out and said, 'take it from me if you please.' his cane was taken from him and he was displaced; but mercifully his right hand was not cut off: that was only a threat. the commander had now to find some one else to beat richard sellar. so he gave orders to seven strong sailors (called yeomen) to beat richard whenever they met him, and to make him work. beat him they did, till they were tired; but they could not make him work or go against his conscience, which forbade him in any way to help in fighting. then an eighth yeoman was called, the strongest of all. the same order was given to him: 'beat that quaker as much as you like whenever you meet him, only see that you make him work.' the eighth yeoman promised gladly in his turn, and said, 'i'll make him!' he too beat richard for a whole day and a night, till he too grew weary and asked to be excused. then another wonderful thing happened, stranger even than the disappearance of the lashings. after all these cruel beatings the commander ordered richard's clothes to be taken off that he might see the marks of the blows on his body. 'he caused my clothes to be stript off,' richard says, 'shirt and all, from my head to my waist downward; then he took a view of my body to see what wounds and bruises i had, but he could find none,--no, not so much as a blue spot on my skin. then the commander was angry with them, for not beating me enough. then the captain answered him and said, "i have beat him myself as much as would kill an ox." the jester said he had hung me a great while by the arms aloft in the shrouds. the men said they also had beaten me very sore, but they might as well have beaten the main mast. then said the commander, "i will cause irons to be laid upon him during the king's pleasure and mine."' a marvellous story! after all these beatings, not a bruise or a mark to be seen! probably it is not possible now to explain how it happened. of course we might believe that richard was telling lies all the time, and that either the sailors did not beat him or that the bruises did show. but why invent anything so unlikely? it is easier to believe that he was trying to tell the truth as far as he could, even though we cannot understand it. perhaps his heart was so happy at being allowed to suffer for what he thought right, that his body really did not feel the cruel beatings, as it would have done if he had been doing wrong and had deserved them. or perhaps there are wonderful ways, unknown to us until we experience them for ourselves, in which god will, and can, and does protect his own true servants who are trying to obey him. that is the most comforting explanation. if ever some one much bigger and stronger than we are tries to bully us into doing wrong, let us remember that god does not save us _from_ pain and suffering always; but he can save us _through_ the very worst pain, if only we are true to him. anyhow, though richard's beatings were over for the time, other troubles began. he was 'put in irons,' heavily loaded with chains, a punishment usually kept for the worst criminals, such as thieves and murderers. all the crew were forbidden to bring him food and drink even though he was beginning to be ill with a fever--the result of all the sufferings he had undergone. happily there was one kind, brave man among the crew, the carpenter's mate. although sir edward spragg had said that any one giving food to richard would have to share his punishment, this good man was not afraid, and did give the prisoner both food and drink. all this time, richard had been living on the provisions that the two kind friends, thomasin smales and mary stringer, had sent him at bridlington, having refused to eat the king's food, as he could not do the king's work. thankful indeed he must have felt when this kind carpenter's mate came and squeezed up against him among a crowd of sailors, and managed to pass some meat and drink out of his own pocket and into richard's. his new friend did this so cleverly that nobody noticed. pleased with his success, he whispered to richard, 'i'll bring you some more every day while you need food. you needn't mind taking things from me, for they are all bought out of my own money, not the king's.' 'what makes thee so good to me?' whispered back richard. he was weakened by fever and all unused to kindness on board the _royal prince_. very likely the tears came into his eyes and his voice trembled as he spoke, though he had borne all his beatings unmoved. the carpenter's mate told him in reply that before he came on board, both his wife and his mother had made him promise that if any quakers should be on the ship he would be kind to them. also, that quite lately he had had a letter from them asking him 'to remember his promise, and be kind to quakers, if any were on board.' how much we should like to know what put it into the two women's hearts to think of such a thing! were they quakers themselves, or had they quaker friends? once more there is no answer but: 'god will, and can, and does protect his own.' unfortunately this kind man was sent away from the ship to do work elsewhere, and for three days and nights richard lay in his heavy irons, with nothing either to eat or drink. some sailors who had been quarrelling in a drunken brawl on deck were thrown into prison and chained up beside richard. they were sorry for him and did their best to help him. they even gave him something to drink when they were alone, though for his sake they had to pretend that they were trying to hurt and kill him when any of the officers were present. these rough sailors pretended so well that one lieutenant, who had been specially cruel to richard before, now grew alarmed, and thought the other prisoners really would kill the quaker. he went up to sir edward's cabin and knocked at the door. 'who is there?' asked the cabin-boy. 'i,' said the lieutenant, 'i want to speak to sir edward.' when he was admitted he said, 'if it please your highness to remember that there is a poor quaker in irons yet, that was laid in two weeks since, and the other prisoners will kill him for us.' 'we will have a court martial,' thought sir edward, 'and settle this quaker's job once for all.' he told the lieutenant to go for the keys and let richard out, and to put a flag at the mizen-mast's head, and call a council of war, and make all the captains come from all the other ships to try the quaker. it was not yet eight o'clock on a sunday morning. at the signal, all the captains of all the other ships came hurrying on board the _royal prince_, the admiral's flag-ship. richard was fetched up from his prison and brought before this council of war--or court martial as it would be called now. the admiral sat in the middle, very grand indeed; beside him sat the judge of the court martial, 'who,' says richard, 'was a papist, being governor of dover castle, who went to sea on pleasure.' he probably looked grander still. around these two sat the other naval captains from the other ships. opposite all these great people was quaker richard, so weakened by fever and lame from his heavy fetters that he could not stand, and had to be allowed to sit. the commander, to give richard one more chance, asked him if he would go aboard another ship, a tender with six guns. richard's conscience was still clear that he could have nothing to do with guns or fighting. he said he would rather stay where he was and abide his punishment. what punishment do you think the judge thought would be suitable for a man who had committed only the crime of refusing to fight, or to work to help those who were fighting? 'the judge said i should be put into a barrel or cask _driven full of nails with their points inward and so rolled to death_; but the council of war taking it into consideration, thought it too terrible a death and too much unchristianlike; so they agreed to hang me.' 'too much unchristianlike' indeed! the mere thought of such a punishment makes us shiver. the governor of dover castle, who suggested it, was himself a roman catholic. history tells how fiercely the roman catholics persecuted the protestants in queen mary's reign, when cranmer, ridley, latimer, hooper, and many others were burnt at the stake for their religion. since then times had changed, and when the protestants were in power they too had often persecuted the roman catholics in their turn. perhaps someone whom this 'papist' judge had loved very much had been cruelly put to death, and perhaps that was the reason he suggested this savage punishment for quaker richard. we do not know how that may be. but we do know that cruelty makes cruelty, on and on without end. the only real way to stop it, is to turn right round and follow the other law, the blessed law, whereby love makes love. richard sellar was only a rough, ignorant fisherman, but he had begun to learn this lesson out of christ's lesson book: and how difficult a lesson it is, nobody knows who has not tried to carry it out. richard heard his sentence pronounced, that he was to be hanged. when he heard that he was being wrongfully accused of various crimes that he had not committed, he longed to rise and justify himself, but he could only sit or kneel because he was too weak to stand. in vain he tried to rise, and tried to speak. he could neither move nor say a word. he could not even say: 'i am innocent.' he could not even pray to god to help him in his difficulty. again he tried to rise, and then suddenly in his utter weakness he felt god's power holding him, and a voice said quite distinctly, three times over, in his heart: 'be still--be still--be still.' 'which voice,' says richard, 'i obeyed and was comforted. then i believed god would arise. and when they had done speaking, then god did arise, and i was filled with the power of god; and my spirit lifted up above all earthly things; and wonderful strength was given me to my limbs, and my heart was full of the power and wisdom of god; and with glad tidings my mouth was opened, to declare to the people the things god had made manifest to me. with sweat running down, and tears trickling from my eyes, i told them, "the hearts of kings were in the hand of the lord; and so are both yours and mine; and i do not value what you can do to this body, for i am at peace with god and all men, and with you my adversaries. for if i might live an hundred and thirty years longer, i can never die in a better condition: for the lord hath satisfied me, that he hath forgiven me all things in this world; and i am glad through his mercy, that he hath made me willing to suffer for his name's sake, and not only so, but i am heartily glad, and do really rejoice, and with a seal in my heart to the same." then there came a man and laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said, "where are all thy accusers?" then my eyes were opened, and i looked about me, and they were all gone.' the court martial was over. every one of the captains had disappeared. his accusers were gone; but richard's sentence remained, and was still to be carried out on the following morning. one officer, the same lieutenant who had been cruel to him before, was still unkind to him and called him 'a hypocrite quaker,' but many others on board ship did their best to save him. first of all there came up an ancient soldier to the admiral on the quarter-deck. he 'loosed down his knee-strings, and put down his stockings, and put his cap under his knees, and begged sir edward's pardon three times' (this seems to have been the correct behaviour when addressing the admiral), and the ancient soldier said, 'noble sir edward, you know that i have served his majesty under you many years, both in this nation and other nations, by the sea, and you were always a merciful man; therefore i do entreat you, in all kindness, to be merciful to this poor man, who is condemned to die to-morrow; and only for denying your order for fear of offending god, and for conscience' sake; and we have but one man on board, out of nine hundred and fifty--only one which doth refuse for conscience' sake; and shall we take his life away? nay, god forbid! for he hath already declared that, if we take his life away there shall a judgment appear upon some on board, within eight and forty hours; and to me it hath appeared; therefore i am forced to come upon quarter-deck before you; and my spirit is one with his; therefore i desire you, in all kindness, to give me the liberty, when you take his life away, to go off on board, for i shall not be willing to serve his majesty any longer on board of ship; so i do entreat you once more to be merciful to this poor man--so god bless you, sir edward. i have no more to say to you.' next came up the chief gunner--a more important man, for he had been himself a captain--but he too 'loosed down his knee-strings, and did beg the admiral's pardon three times, being on his bare knees before sir edward.' then sir edward said, 'arise up, gunner, and speak.' whereupon the chief gunner answered, 'if it please your worship, sir edward, we know you are a merciful man, and therefore i entreat you, in all kindness, to be merciful to this poor man, in whom there remains something more than flesh and blood; therefore i entreat you, let us not destroy that which is alive; neither endeavour to do it; and so god bless you, sir edward. i have no more to say to you.' then he too went away. it was all of no use. richard had been sentenced by the court martial to be hanged next morning, and hanged he must be. only sir edward--pleased perhaps at being told so often that he was a merciful man, and willing to show that he had some small idea of what mercy meant--'gave orders that any that had a mind to give me victuals might; and that i might eat and drink with whom i pleased; and that none should molest me that day. then came the lieutenant and sat down by me, whilst they were at their worship; and he would have given me brandy, but i refused. then the dinner came up to be served, and several gave me victuals to eat, and i did eat freely, and was kindly entertained that day. night being come, a man kindly proffered me his hammock to lie in that night, because i had lain long in irons; and i accepted of his kindness, and laid me down, and i slept well that night.' 'the next morning being come, it being the second day of the week, on which i was to be executed, about eight o'clock in the morning, the rope being reeved on the mizen-yard's arm; and the boy ready to turn me off; and boats being come on board with captains from other ships, that were of the council of war, who came on purpose to see me executed; i was therefore called to come to be executed. then, i coming to the execution place, the commander asked the council how their judgment did stand now? so most of them did consent; and some were silent. then he desired me freely to speak my mind, if i had anything to say, before i was executed. i told him i had little at present to speak. so there came a man, and bid me to go forward to be executed. so i stepped upon the gunwale, to go towards the rope. the commander bid me stop there, if i had anything to say. then spake the judge and said, "sir edward is a merciful man, that puts that heretic to no worse death than hanging."' the judge, the governor of dover castle, was, as we have heard, a roman catholic. to him sir edward and richard sellar were both alike heretics, one not much worse than the other, since both were outside what he believed to be the only true church.[ ] sir edward knew this. therefore on hearing the word 'heretic' he turned sharp round to the judge, 'what sayest thou?' apparently the judge felt that he had been unwise to speak his candid thoughts, for he repeated the sentence, leaving out the irritating word 'heretic': 'i say you are a merciful man that puts him to no worse death than hanging.' sir edward knew that he had not been mistaken in the word his sharp ears had caught. 'but,' said he, 'what is the other word that thou saidst?' 'that heretic,' repeated the judge. 'i say,' said the commander, 'he is more like a christian than thyself; for i do believe thou wouldst hang me if it were in thy power.' 'then said the commander to me,' continues richard, '"come down again, for i will not hurt an hair of thy head; for i cannot make one hair grow." then he cried, "silence all men," and proclaimed it three times over, that if any man or men on board of the ship would come and give evidence that i had done anything that i deserved death for, i should have it, provided they were credible persons. but no man came, neither a mouth opened against me then. so he cried again, "silence all men, and hear me speak." then he proclaimed that the quaker was as free a man as any on board of the ship was. so the men heaved up their hats, and with a loud voice cried, "god bless sir edward, he is a merciful man!" the shrouds and tops and decks being full of men, several of their hats flew overboard and were lost.' we will say good-bye to richard there, with all the sailors huzzaing round him, throwing up their caps, and sir edward standing by with a pleased smile, more pleased than ever now, since it was impossible for any one to deny that he was a merciful, a most merciful man. the change for richard himself, from being a condemned criminal loaded with chains to being a universal favourite, must have been startling indeed, though his troubles were not over yet. difficulties surrounded him again when the actual battles with the dutch began. but, though he could not fight, and was therefore in perpetual danger, he could and did help and heal. his story tells us how he was able to save the whole ship's company from destruction more than once, and had more marvellous adventures than there is time here to relate. he tells also how the persecuting lieutenant became his fast friend, and eventually helped him to get his freedom. for he did regain his liberty in the end, and was given a written permission to go home and earn his living as a fisherman. with this writing in his hand no press-crew would dare to kidnap him again. so back he came to scarborough, to the red-roofed cottage by the water's edge, to his unmended nets, and to the little daughter with whom we saw him first. most likely at this time george fox was still a prisoner in the castle. if so, one of the very first things richard did, we may be sure, was to climb the many stone steps up to the castle and seek his friend in his cheerless prison. the fire smoke and the rain would be forgotten by both men as they talked together, and george fox's face would light up as he heard the story of the lashings that disappeared and the beatings that left no bruise. he was not a man who laughed easily, but doubtless he laughed once, at any rate, as he listened to richard's story, when he heard of the huzzaing sailors whose hats fell off into the water because they were so energetically sure that 'sir edward was a very merciful man.' footnotes: [ ] the roman catholic gentry used sometimes to alarm their protestant neighbours with blood-curdling announcements that the good times of queen mary were coming back, and 'faggotts should be deere yet' (g.m. trevelyan, _england under the stuarts_, p. ). xxvii. two robber stories. west and east _'they were changed men themselves, before they went out to change others'--w. penn, testimony to george fox._ _'but when he comes to reign, whose right it is, then peace and goodwill is unto all men, and no hurt in all the holy mountain of the lord is seen.'--g. fox._ _'wouldst thou love one who never died for thee,_ _or ever die for one who had not died for thee?_ _and if god dieth not for man and giveth not himself_ _eternally for man, man could not exist, for man is love_ _as god is love. every kindness to another is a little death_ _in the divine image, nor can man exist but by brotherhood.'_ _w. blake, 'jerusalem.'_ _'england is as a family of prophets which must spread over all nations, as a garden of plants, and the place where the pearl is found which must enrich all nations with the heavenly treasure, out of which shall the waters of life flow, and water all the thirsty ground, and out of which nation and dominion must go the spiritually weaponed and armed men, to fight and conquer all nations and bring them to the nation of god.'--epistle of skipton general meeting, ._ xxvii. two robber stories. west and east i leonard fell and the highwayman in that same memorable summer of when george fox first visited swarthmoor hall and 'bewitched' the household there, he also met and 'bewitched' another member of the fell family. this was one leonard fell, a connection of the judge, whose home was at baycliff in the same county of lancashire. thither george fox came on his travels shortly after his first visit to swarthmoor, when only margaret fell and her children were at home, and before his later visit after judge fell's return. 'i went to becliff,' says the journal, 'where leonard fell was convinced, and became a minister of the everlasting gospel. several others were convinced there and came into obedience to truth. here the people said they could not dispute, and would fain have put some others to hold talk with me, but i bid them, "fear the lord and not in a light way hold a talk of the lord's words, but put the things in practice."' leonard fell did indeed put his new faith 'in practice.' he left his home and followed his teacher, sharing with him many of the perils and dangers of his journeys in the service of truth. up and down and across the length and breadth of england the two men travelled side by side along the hedgeless english roads. at first as they went along, leonard fell watched george fox with sharp eyes, in his dealings with the different people they met on their journeys, in order to discover how his teacher would 'put into practice' the central truth he proclaimed: that in every man, however degraded, there remains some hidden spark of the divine. but put it in practice george fox did, till at length leonard fell, too, learned to look for 'that of god within' every one he met, learned to depend upon finding it, and to be able to draw it out in his turn. one day, leonard was travelling in the 'service of truth,' not in george fox's company but alone, when, as he crossed a desolate moor on horseback, he heard the thunderous sound of horses' hoofs coming after him down the road. looking round, he beheld a masked and bearded highwayman, his figure enveloped in a long flowing cloak, rapidly approaching on a far swifter horse than his own 'truth's pony.' a moment later, a pistol was drawn from the newcomer's belt and pointed full at leonard's head. 'another step and you are a dead man! your money or your life, and be quick about it!' said the highwayman, as he suddenly pulled the curb and checked his foam-covered horse. at this challenge, leonard obediently pulled up his own steed with his left hand, while, with his right, he drew out his purse and handed it over to the robber without a word. the pistol still remained at full cock, pointed straight at his head. 'your horse next,' demanded the stranger. 'it is a good beast. though not as swift as mine i can find a use for it in my profession. dismount; or i fire.' in perfect silence leonard dismounted, making no objection, and gave his horse's bridle into the highwayman's outstretched hand. then at last, the threatened pistol was lowered, and replaced in the robber's belt. throwing the folds of his long cloak over one shoulder, and carefully adjusting his mask, that not a glimpse of either face or figure should betray his identity, he prepared to depart, leaving his victim penniless and afoot on the wide, desolate moor. but, though the highwayman had now finished with the quaker, the quaker had by no means finished with the highwayman. it was now leonard's turn to be aggressive. standing there on the bleak road, alone and unarmed, leonard fell raised a warning hand, and solemnly rebuked his assailant for his evil deeds. at the same time he admonished him that it was not yet too late for him to repent and lead a righteous life, before his hour for repentance should be forever passed. this was a most surprising turn of events for the highwayman. at first he listened silently, too much astonished to speak. leonard however did not mince matters, and before he had finished his exhortation the other man was in a furious rage. never before had any of his victims treated him in this fashion. curses, tears, despair, those were all to be expected in his 'profession'; but this extraordinary man was neither beseeching him for money nor swearing at him in anger. his victim was merely giving a solemn, yet almost friendly warning to the robber of his horse and of his gold. 'you, you cowardly dog!' blustered leonard's assailant. 'you let me rob you of your purse and of your steed like a craven! you could not even pluck up courage to defend yourself. yet now, you actually dare to stand and preach at me, in the middle of the king's highway?' the pistol was out again with a flourish. this time leonard faced it calmly, making no movement to defend himself. 'i would not risk my life to defend either my money or my horse,' he answered, looking up straight at the muzzle with a steady eye, 'but i will lay it down gladly, if by so doing i can save thy soul.' this unexpected answer was altogether too much for the highwayman. though his finger was already on the trigger of the pistol, that trigger was never pulled. he sat motionless on his horse, staring through the holes in his mask, down into the eyes of his intended victim, as if he would read his inmost soul. this astonishing man, whom he had taken for a coward, was calmly ready and was apparently quite willing to give his life--his life!--in order to save his enemy's soul. the robber had almost forgotten that he had a soul. his manhood was black and stained now by numberless deeds of violence, by crimes, too many remembered and far more forgotten. yet he had once known what it was to feel tender and white and innocent. he had certainly possessed a soul long ago. did it still exist? apparently the stranger was convinced that it must, since he was actually prepared to stake his own life upon its eternal welfare. surprising man! he really cared what became of a robber's soul. it was impossible to wish to murder or even to steal from such an one. there could not be another like him, the wide world over. he had best be allowed to continue on his unique adventure of discovering souls, a much more dangerous career it seemed to be than any mere everyday highwayman's 'profession.' as these thoughts passed through the robber's mind, his hand sought the folds of his cloak, and then drawing leonard's purse forth from a deep convenient pocket, he returned it to its owner, stooping over him, as he did so, with a low and courtly bow. next, putting the horse's bridle also back into leonard's hand, 'if you are such a man as that,' the highwayman said, 'i will take neither your money nor your horse!' a moment later, as if already ashamed of his impulsive generosity, he set spurs to his horse and disappeared as swiftly as he had come. leonard, meanwhile, remounting, pursued his way in safety, with both his horse and his money once more restored to him. but more precious, by far, than either, was the knowledge that his friend's teaching had again been proved to be true. in his own experience he had discovered that there really and truly is an inward light that does shine still, even in the hearts of wicked men. thus was leonard fell in his turn enabled to 'put these things in practice.' ii on the road to jerusalem a few years later, on another desolate road, crossing another lonely plain, another traveller met with a very similar adventure thousands of miles away from england. only this traveller's experiences were much worse than leonard fell's. he was not only attacked by three robbers instead of one alone, but this happened amid many other far worse dangers and narrower escapes. possibly he even looked back, in after days, to his encounter with the robbers as one of the pleasanter parts of his journey! this traveller's name was george robinson, and he was an english quaker and a london youth. he has left the record of his experiences in a few closely printed pages at the end of a very small book. 'in the year ,' he writes, 'about the beginning of the seventh month [september], as i was waiting upon the lord in singleness of heart, his blessed presence filled me and by the power of his spirit did command me to go unto jerusalem, and further said to me, "thy sufferings shall be great, but i will bear thee over them all."' this was no easy journey for anyone in those days, least of all for a poor man such as george robinson. however, he set out obediently, and went by ship to leghorn in italy. there he waited a fortnight until he could get a passage in another ship bound for st. jean d'acre, on the coast of palestine, where centuries before richard coeur de lion had disembarked with his crusaders. innumerable other pilgrims had landed there, since richard's time, on their way to see the holy places at jerusalem. george robinson refused to call himself a pilgrim, but he had a true pilgrim's heart that no difficulties could turn back or dismay. after staying for eight days in the house of a french merchant at acre, he set sail in yet a third ship that was bound for joppa (or jaffa, as it is called now). 'but the wind rising against us,' robinson says in his narrative, 'we came to an anchor and the next morning divers turks came aboard, and demanded tribute of those called christians in the vessel, which they paid for fear of sufferings but very unwillingly, their demands being very unreasonable, and in like manner demanded of me, but i refusing to pay as according to their demands, they threatened to beat the soles of my feet with a stick, and one of them would have put his hand into my pocket, but the chiefest of them rebuked him. soon after they began to take me out of the vessel to effect their work, but one of the turks belonging to the vessel speaking to them as they were taking me ashore, they let me alone, wherein i saw the good hand of god preserving me.... after this, about three or four days we came to joppa.' and there at joppa (or jaffa), where jonah long ago had embarked for tarshish, and where peter on the house-top had had his vision of the great white sheet, our traveller landed. he proceeded straightway on what he hoped would have been the last stage of his long journey to jerusalem. alas! he was mistaken. a few pleasant hours of travel he had, as he passed through the palm-groves that encircle the city of jaffa, and over the first few miles of dusty road that cross the famous plain of sharon. ever as he journeyed he could see the tall tower of ramleh, built by the crusaders hundreds of years before, growing taller as he approached, rising in the sunset like a rosy finger to beckon him across the plains. when he reached it, in the shadow of the tall tower enemies were lurking. certain friars up at jerusalem, in the hilly country that borders the plain, had heard from their brethren at acre that a heretic stranger from england was coming on foot to visit the holy city. now these friars, although they called themselves franciscans, were no true followers of st. francis, the 'little poor man of god,' that gentlest saint and truest lover of holy poverty and holy peace. these jerusalem friars had forgotten his teaching, and lived on the gains they made off pilgrims; therefore, hearing that the heretic stranger from heretic england was travelling independently and not on a pilgrimage, they feared that he might spoil their business at the holy shrines. accordingly they sent word to their brethren, the friars of ramleh in the plain, to waylay him and turn him back as soon as he had reached the first stage of his journey from jaffa on the coast. 'the friars of jerusalem,' says robinson, 'hearing of my coming, gave orders unto some there [at ramleh] to stay me, which accordingly was done; for i was taken and locked up in a room for one night and part of the day following, and then had liberty to go into the yard, but as a prisoner; in which time the turks showed friendship unto me, one ancient man especially, of great repute, who desired that i might come to his house, which thing being granted, he courteously entertained me.' four or five days later there came down an irish friar from jerusalem to see the prisoner. at first he spoke kindly to him, and greeted him as a fellow-countryman, seeing that they both came from the distant isles of britain, set in their silver seas. presently it appeared, however, that he had not come out of friendship, but as a messenger from the friars at jerusalem, to insist that the englishman must make five solemn promises before he could be allowed to proceed on his journey. he must promise: ' . that he would visit the holy places [so the friar called them] as other pilgrims did. . and give such sums of money as is the usual manner of pilgrims. . wear such a sort of habit as is the manner of pilgrims. . speak nothing against the turks' laws. . and when he came to jerusalem not to speak anything about religion.' george robinson had no intention of promising any one of these things--much less all five. 'i stand in the will of god, and shall do as he bids me,' was the only answer he would make, which did not satisfy the irish friar. determined that his journey should not have been in vain, and persuasion having proved useless, he sought to accomplish his object by force. taking his prisoner, therefore, he set him on horseback, and surrounding him with a number of armed guards, both horsemen and footmen, whom he had brought down from jerusalem for the purpose, he himself escorted george robinson back for the second time to jaffa. there, that very day, he put him aboard a vessel on the point of sailing for acre. then, clattering back with his guards across the plain of sharon, the irish friar probably assured the ramleh friars that they had nothing more to fear from that heretic. nothing could turn george robinson from his purpose. he was still quite sure that his master had work for his servant to do in his own city of jerusalem; and, therefore, to jerusalem that servant must go. he was obliged to stay for three weeks at acre before he could find a ship to carry him southwards again. he lodged at this time at the house of a kind french merchant called by the curious name of surrubi. 'a man,' robinson says, 'that i had never seen before (that i knew of), who friendly took me into his house as i was passing along, where i remained about twenty days.' surrubi was a most courteous host to his quaker visitor. he used to say that he was sure god had sent him to his house as an honoured guest. 'for,' he continued, 'when my own countrymen come to me, they are little to me, but thee i can willingly receive.' 'the old man would admire the lord's doing in this thing, and he did love me exceedingly much,' his visitor records gratefully. 'but the friars had so far prevailed with the consul that in twenty days i could not be received into a vessel for to go to jerusalem, so that i knew not but to have gone by land; yet it was several days' journey, and i knew not the way, not so much as out of the city, besides the great difficulty there is in going through the country beyond my expression; yet i, not looking at the hardships but at the heavenly will of our lord, i was made to cry in my heart, "lord, thy will be done and not mine." and so being prepared to go, and taking leave of the tender old man, he cried, "i should be destroyed if i went by land," and would not let me go.' the friars had told the consul that robinson had refused to accept their conditions, 'he will turn turk,' they said, 'and be a devil.' but, thanks to surrubi's kindness and help, after much trouble robinson was at length set aboard another ship bound for the south. and thus after bidding a grateful farewell to his host, he made a quick passage and came for the second time to jaffa. again he set forth on his last perilous journey. only a few miles of fertile plain to cross, only a few hours of climbing up the dim blue hills that were already in view on the horizon, and then at last he should reach his goal, the holy city. even yet it was not to be! this time his troubles began before ever he came within sight of the tall tower of ramleh, under whose shadow his enemies, the friars, were still lying in wait for him. he says that having 'left the ship and paid his passage, and having met with many people on the way, they peacefully passed him by until he had gone about six miles out of jaffa.' but on the long straight road that runs like a dusty white ribbon across the wide parched plain of sharon, he beheld three other figures coming towards him. two of them rode on the stately white asses used by travellers of the east. the third, a person of less consequence, followed on foot. as they came nearer, our traveller noticed that they all carried guns as well as fierce-looking daggers stuck in their swathed girdles. however, arms are no unusual accompaniments for a journey in that country, so robinson still hoped to be allowed to pass with a peaceable salutation. instead of bowing themselves in return, according to the beautiful oriental custom, with the threefold gesture that signifies 'my head, my lips, and my heart are all at your service,' and the spoken wish that his day might be blessed, the three men rushed at the english wayfarer and threw themselves upon him, demanding money. one man held a gun with its muzzle touching robinson's breast, another searched his pockets and took out everything that he could find, while the third held the asses. 'i, not resisting them,' is their victim's simple account, 'stood in the fear of the lord, who preserved me, for they passed away, and he that took my things forth of my pockets put them up again, taking nothing from me, nor did me the least harm. but one of them took me by the hand and led me on my way in a friendly manner, and so left me.... so i, passing through like dangers through the great love of god, which caused me to magnify his holy name, came, though in much weakness of body, to ramleh.' at ramleh worse dangers even than he had met with on his former visit were awaiting him. many more perils and hairbreadth escapes had yet to be surmounted before he could say that his feet--his tired feet--had stood 'within thy gates, o jerusalem.' throughout these later hardships his faith must have been strengthened by the memory of his encounter with the robbers, and the victory won by the everlasting power of meekness. east or west, the master's command can always be followed: the command not to fight evil with evil, but to overcome evil with good. leonard fell was given his opportunity of 'putting in practice the things he had learned' as he travelled in england. our later pilgrim had the honour of being tested in the holy land itself: 'in those holy fields, over whose acres walked those blessed feet, which [nineteen] hundred years ago were nailed for our advantage on the bitter cross.' xxviii. silver slippers: or a quakeress among the turks _'if romance, like laughter, is the child of sudden glory, the figure of mary fisher is the most romantic in the early quaker annals.'--mabel brailsford._ _'truly mary fisher is a precious heart, and hath been very serviceable here.'--henry fell to margt. fell. (barbadoes, .)_ _'my dear father ... let me not be forgotten of thee, but let thy prayers be for me that i may continue faithful to the end. if any of your friends be free to come over, they may be serviceable; here are many convinced, and many desire to know the way, so i rest.'--mary fisher to george fox. (barbadoes, .)_ _'this english maiden would not be at rest before she went in purpose to the great emperor of the turks, and informed him concerning the errors of his religion and the truth of hers.'--gerard croese._ _'henceforth, my daughter, do manfully and without hesitation those things which by the ordering of providence will be put into thy hands; for being now armed with the fortitude of the faith, thou wilt happily overcome all thy adversaries.'--catherine of siena._ xxviii. silver slippers: or a quakeress among the turks i the grand turk had removed his court from constantinople. his beautiful capital city by the golden horn was in disgrace, on account of the growing disaffection of its populace and the frequent mutinies of its garrison. for the wars of sultan mahomet against the republic of venice were increasingly unpopular in his capital, whose treasuries were being drained to furnish constant relays of fresh troops for further campaigns. therefore, before its citizens became even more bankrupt in their allegiance than they already were in their purses, the ancient grand vizier advised his young master to withdraw, for a while, the radiance of his imperial countenance from the now sullen city beside the golden horn. thus it came about that in the late autumn of , sultan mahomet, accompanied by his aged minister, suddenly departed with his whole court, and took up his residence close outside the still loyal city of adrianople. his state entry into that town was of surpassing splendour, since both the sultan and his minister were desirous to impress the citizens, in order to persuade them to open their purse-strings and reveal their hidden hoards. moreover, they were ever more wishful to dazzle and overawe the venetian ambassador, ballerino, who was still kept by them, unrighteously, a prisoner in the said town. a full hour or more was the long cavalcade in passing over the narrow stone bridge that spans the turbid maritza outside the walls of adrianople. in at the great gate, and down the one, long, meandering street of the city, the imperial procession wound, moving steadily and easily along, since, an hour or two previously, hundreds of slaves had filled up the cavernous holes in the roadway with innumerable barrel loads of sawdust, in honour of the sultan's arrival. surrounded by multitudes of welcoming citizens, the procession wound its way at length out on the far side of the city. there, amid a semicircle of low hills, clothed with chestnut woods, the imperial encampment of hundreds and thousands of silken tents shone glistening in the sun.[ ] in one of the most splendid apartments of the sultan's own most magnificent pavilion, the two chief personages who presided over this marvellous silken city might have been seen, deep in conversation, one sultry evening in june , a few months after the court had taken up its residence outside the walls of adrianople. they formed a strange contrast: the boy sultan and his aged grand vizier, kuprüli the albanian. sultan mahomet, the 'grand seignior' of the whole turkish empire, was no strong, powerful man, but a mere stripling who had been scarred and branded for life, some say even deformed, by an attack made upon him in earliest infancy by his own unnatural father, the sultan ibrahim. this cruel maniac (whose only excuse was that he was not in possession of more than half his wits at the time) had been seized with a fit of ungovernable rage against the ladies of his harem, and in his fury had done his best to slay his own son and heir. happily he had not succeeded in doing more than maim the child, and, before long, imprisonment and the bow-string put an end to his dangerous career. but though the boy sultan had escaped with his life, and had now reached the age of sixteen years, he never attained to an imposing presence. he has been described as 'a monster of a man, deformed in body and mind, stupid, logger-headed, cruel, fierce as to his visage,' though this would seem to be an exaggeration, since another account speaks of him as 'young and active, addicted wholly to the delight of hunting and to follow the chase of fearful and flying beasts.' in order to have more leisure for these sports he was wont to depute all the business of government to his grand vizier, the aged albanian chieftain kuprüli, who now, bending low before his young master, so that the hairs of his white beard almost swept the ground, was having one of his farewell audiences before departing for the battlefield. kuprüli, though over eighty years of age, was about to face danger for the sake of the boy ruler, who lounged luxuriously on his cushions, glittering with jewels, scented and effeminate, with sidelong, cunning glances and cruel lips. yet even sultan mahomet, touched by his aged minister's devotion, had been fired with unwonted generosity: 'ask what you will and you shall have it, even unto the half of my kingdom,' he was exclaiming with true oriental fervour. the grand vizier again swept the ground with his long white beard, protesting that he was but a humble dead dog in his master's sight, and that one beam from the imperial eyes was a far more precious reward than the gold and jewels of the whole universe. nevertheless, the sultan detected a shade of hesitation in spite of the magniloquence of this refusal. there was something the grand vizier wished to ask. he must be yet further encouraged. 'thou hast a boon at heart; i read it in thy countenance,' the sultan continued, 'ask and fear not. be it my fairest province for thy revenues, my fleetest arab for thy stable, my whitest circassian beauty for thine own, thou canst demand it at this moment without fear.' so saying, as if to prove his words, he waved away with one hand the court executioner who stood ever at his side when he gave audience, ready to avenge the smallest slip in etiquette. the grand vizier looked on the ground, still hesitating and troubled, 'the joy of the flourishing tree and the lord of all magnificence is my lord,' he answered slowly, 'the gift i crave is unworthy of his bountiful goodness. how shall one small speck of dust be noticed in the full blaze of the noonday sun? yet, in truth, i have promised this mere speck of dust, this white stranger woman, by the mouth of my interpreter, that i would mention to my lord's sublimity her desire to bask in the sunshine of his rays and----' 'a white, stranger woman,' interrupted the sultan eagerly, 'desiring to see me? nay, then, the boon is of thy giving, not of mine. tell me more! yet it matters not. were she beauteous as the crescent at even, or ill-favoured as a bird of prey, she shall yet be welcome for thy sake, o faithful servant, be she a slave or a queen. tell me only her name and whence she comes.' again the grand vizier made obeisance. 'neither foul nor fair, neither young nor old, neither slave nor queen,' he replied. 'she is in truth a marvel, like to none other these eyes have seen in all their fourscore years and more. tender as the dewdrop is her glance; yet cold as snow is her behaviour. weak as water in her outward seeming; yet firm and strong as ice is she in strength of inward purpose.' 'of what nation is this wonder?' enquired the sultan. 'she can scarcely be a follower of the prophet, on whom be peace, since thou appearest to have gazed upon her unveiled countenance?' 'nay, herein is the greatest marvel,' returned the minister, 'it is an englishwoman, come hither in unheard fashion over untrodden ways, with a tale to tickle the ears. she tells my interpreter (who alone, as yet, hath spoken with her) that her home is in the cold grey isle of britain. that there she dwelt many years in lowly estate, being indeed but a serving-maid in a town called yorkshire; or so my interpreter understands. she saith that there she heard the voice of allah himself, calling her to be his minister and messenger, heard and straightway obeyed. sayeth, moreover, that she hath already travelled in his service beyond the utmost western sea, even to the new land discovered by that same cristofero of genoa, whose fellow citizens are at this hour dwelling in our city yonder. sayeth that in that far western land she hath been beaten and imprisoned. yet, nevertheless, she was forbidden to rest at home until she had carried her message "as far to the east as to the west," or some such words. that having thus already visited the land where sleeps the setting sun of western skies, she craveth now an audience with the splendid morning sun, the light of the whole east; even the grand seignior, who is as the shade of god himself.' 'for what purpose doth she desire an audience?' enquired the sultan moodily. 'being a mere woman and therefore without skill, she can use only simple words,' answered the grand vizier. '"tell the sultan i have something to declare unto him from the most high god," such is her message; but who heedeth what a woman saith? "never give ear to the counsels and advices of woman" is the chiefest word inscribed upon the heart of a wise king, as i have counselled ever. yet, this once, seeing that this maiden is wholly unlike all other women, it might be well to let her bask in the rays of glory rather than turn her unsatisfied away----.' the vizier paused expectantly. the sultan remained looking down, toying with the pearl and turquoise sheath of the dagger stuck in his girdle. 'a strange tale,' he said at last, 'it interests me not, although i feel an unknown power that forces me to listen to thy words. her name?' he suddenly demanded, lifting his eyes once more to his minister's face. 'she gives it not,' returned the other, 'speaketh of herself as but a messenger, repeating ever, "not i, but his word." yet my interpreter, having caused enquiries to be made, findeth that those with whom she lodgeth in the city do speak of her as maree. also, some peasants who found her wandering on the mountains when the moon was full, and brought her hither, speak of her by the name of miriam. marvelling at the whiteness of her skin, they deem she is a witch or moon maiden come hither by enchantment. yet must she on no account be hurt or disregarded, they say, since she is wholly guileless of evil spells, and under the special protection of issa ben miriam, seeing that she beareth his mother's name.' the sultan was growing impatient. 'a fit tale for ignorant peasants,' he declared. 'me it doth not deceive. this is but another english vagabond sent hither by that old jackal sir thomas bendish, their ambassador at constantinople, to dog my footsteps even here, and report my doings to him. i will not see her, were she ten times a witch, since she is of his nation and surely comes at his behest.' 'let my lord slay his servant with his own hands rather than with his distrust,' returned the grand vizier. 'had she come from sir thomas bendish, or by his orders, straightway to him she should have returned. she hath never even seen him, nor so much as set eyes on our sacred city beside the golden horn. had she gazed even from a distance upon the most holy mosque of the sacred wisdom at constantinople, she had surely been less utterly astonished at the sight of even our noble sultan selim in this city.' so saying, the grand vizier turned to the entrance of the pavilion, and gazed towards the town of adrianople lying in the plain beneath, beyond the poplar-bordered stream of the maritza. high above all other buildings rose the great mosque of sultan selim, with its majestic dome surrounded by slender sky-piercing minarets. its windows shone glorious in the rays of the setting sun:--sultan selim, the glory of adrianople, the ruin of the architect who schemed its wondrous beauty; since he, poor wretch, was executed on the completion of the marvel, for this crime only, that he had placed windows within its walls, and had missed, though but by one, the miracle of a full thousand. the vizier continued: 'the woman declares she hath come hither on foot, alone and unattended. her tale is that she came by the sea from the isles of britain with several companions (filled all of them with the same desire to behold the face of the sublime magnificence) so far as smyrna; where, declaring their wish unto the english consul there, he, like a wise-hearted man, advised her and her companions "by all means to forbear." 'they not heeding and still urgently beseeching him to bring them further on their journey, the consul dissembled and used guile. therefore, the while he pretended all friendliness and promised to help forward their enterprise, he in truth set them instead on board a ship bound for venice and no wise for constantinople, hoping thereby to thwart their purpose, and to force them to return to their native land. some of the company, discovering this after the ship had set sail, though lamenting, did resign themselves to their fate. only this maid, strong in soul, would not be turned from her purpose, but declared constantly that allah, who had commanded her to come, would surely bring her there where he would have her, even to the presence of the grand seignior himself. and lo! even as she spoke, a violent storm arose, the ship was driven out of her course and cast upon the island of zante with its rugged peaks; and there, speaking to the ship-master, she persuaded him to put her ashore on the opposite coast of the mainland, even at the place known as the black mountain; and thence she hath made her way hither on foot, alone, and hath met with nothing but lovingkindness from young and old, so she saith, as the messenger of the great king.' the sultan's interest was aroused at last: 'afoot--from the black mountain!--incredible! a woman, and alone! it is a journey of many hundreds of miles, and through wild, mountainous country. what proof hast thou that she speaketh truly?' 'my interpreter hath questioned her closely as to her travels. his home is in that region, and he is convinced that she has indeed seen the places she describes. also, she carries ever in her breast a small sprig of fadeless sea-lavender that groweth only on the black mountain slopes, and sayeth that the sea captain plucked it as he set her ashore, telling her that it was even as her courage, seeing that it would never fade.' but the sultan's patience was exhausted: 'i must see this woman and judge for myself, not merely hear of her from aged lips,' he exclaimed. 'witch or woman--moonbeam or maiden--she shall declare herself in my presence. only, since she doth dare to call herself the messenger of the most high god, let her be accorded the honours of an ambassador, that all men may know that the sultan duly regardeth the message of allah.' ii on a divan of silken cushions in the guest chamber of a house in the city of adrianople, a woman lay, still and straight. midnight was long past. outside, the hot wind could be heard every now and then, listlessly flapping the carved wooden lattice-work shutters of an overhanging balcony built out on timber props over the river maritza, whose turbid waters surged beneath with steady plash. inside, the striped silken curtains were closely drawn. the atmosphere was stuffy and airless, filled with languorous aromatic spices. mary fisher could not sleep: she lay motionless as the slow hours passed; gazing into the darkness with wide, unseeing eyes, while she thought of all that the coming day would bring. the end of her incredible journey was at hand. the grand vizier's word was pledged. the grand turk himself would grant her an audience before the hour of noon, to receive her message from the great king. her message. through all the difficulties and dangers of her journey, that message had sustained her. as she had tramped over steep mountain ranges, or won a perilous footing in the water-courses of dry hillside torrents, more like staircases than roads, thoughts and words had often rushed unbidden to her mind and even to her lips. no difficulties could daunt her with that message still undelivered. many an evening as she lay down beneath the gnarled trees of an olive grove, or cooled her aching feet in the waters of some clear stream, far beyond any bodily refreshment the intense peace of the message she was sent to deliver had quieted the heart of the weary messenger. only now that her goal was almost reached, all power of speech or thought seemed to be taken from her. but, though a candle may burn low, may even for a time be extinguished, it still carries securely within it the possibility of flame. even so the messenger of the great king lay, hour after hour, in the hot night silence; not sleeping, yet smiling: physically exhausted, yet spiritually unafraid. the heat within the chamber became at length unbearably oppressive to one accustomed, as mary fisher had been for weeks past, to sleeping under the open sky. stretching up a thin white arm through the scented darkness, she managed to unfasten the silken cords and buttons of the curtain above her, and to let in a rush of warm night air. it was still too early for the reviving breeze to spring up that would herald the approach of dawn: too early for even the earliest of the orange hawks, that haunted the city in the daytime, to be awake. cuddled close in cosy nests under the wide eaves, their slumbers were disturbed for a moment as mary, half sitting up, shook the pierced lattice-work of the shutters that formed the sides of her apartment. peering through the interstices of fragrant wood, she caught sight of a wan crescent moon, just appearing behind a group of chestnut-trees on the opposite hill above the river. the crescent moon! her guide over sea and land! had she not come half round the world to proclaim to the followers of that same crescent, a people truly sitting in gross darkness, the message of the one true light? however long the midnight hours, dawn surely must be nigh at hand. before long, that waning crescent must set and disappear, and the sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings. there lay the slumbering flame of her wondrous message. the right words wherewith to kindle that flame in the hearts of others would surely be given when the right hour came, however unworthy the messenger. 'as far as the east is from the west,' the weary woman thought to herself, while the scenes of her wondrous journey across two hemispheres rushed back unbidden to her mind--'even so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.' at that moment, the eagerly awaited breeze of dawn passed over her hot temples, soothing her like a friend. refreshed and strengthened, she lay down once more, still and straight; her smooth hair braided round her head; her hands crossed calmly on her breast; in a repose as quiet and austere, even upon those yielding oriental cushions, as when she lay upon her hard, narrow pallet bed at home. before the first apricot flush of dawn crept up the eastern sky, mary fisher had sunk into a tranquil sleep. iii it was broad daylight, though still early, when she awoke. outside, the garden behind the house was now a rippling sea of rose and scarlet poppies, above which the orange hawks swooped or dived like copper anchors, in the crisp morning air. within doors, a slave girl stood beside the divan in the guest chamber, clapping her hands gently together to cause the white stranger to awake. but the chamber seemed full of moonlight, although it was broad day. had the waning crescent retraced her footsteps, or left behind some of her chill beams? mary fisher rubbed her eyes. she must surely be dreaming still! then, waking fully, she saw that the moon-like radiance came from a heap of silvery gauze draperies, reflected in the emerald green tiles of the floor and in the tall narrow mirrors that separated the lattice-work shutters. a flowing robe of silver tissue was spread out over an ottoman in the centre of the floor. the slave girl at her side was holding up a long veil of shimmering silver, drawing it through her henna-stained finger-tips, with low, gurgling cries of delight; then, stretching out her arms wide, she spread the veil easily to their fullest extent. a moment later, drawing a tiny ring from her finger, she had pressed the veil as easily through the small golden circlet, so fine were the silken folds. then with significant gestures she explained that all these treasures were for the stranger to wear instead of her own apparel. with scornful glances from her dark almond-shaped eyes she pointed disdainfully to mary fisher's own simple garments, which, at her entrance, she had tossed contemptuously into a heap on the floor. the plain, grey, quakeress's dress did indeed look simpler than ever amid all the shining oriental splendour. worn too it was, and travel-stained in places, though newly washed, carefully mended and all ready for use. mary fisher had been a woman for many years before she became a quakeress. nay more, she was a woman still. it is possible that, for about the space of half a minute, she may have looked almost regretfully at the silver tissue draperies and the gauze veil. half a minute. not longer! for her, a messenger of the great king, to clothe herself in garments worn by turkish women, unbelievers, followers of the false prophet, was impossible, not to be contemplated for an instant. with the gentleness of complete decision she dismissed the slave girl, who departed reluctantly towards the women's apartments. in spite of the froth of shining, billowy folds with which her arms were full, she turned round as she parted the striped, silken hangings of the doorway and drew her dusky orange finger-tips in a significant gesture across her slender brown throat. it was obvious that the slave girl considered this refusal a very serious breach of etiquette indeed! left alone, mary fisher clothed herself, proudly and yet humbly, in her own simple garments. her body bore even yet the marks where cruel scourgings in her youth had furrowed deep scars from head to waist. years ago thus had english christians received her, when she and her companion had been whipped until the blood ran down their backs beneath the market cross at cambridge. the two young girls were the first of any of the friends to be thus publicly scourged. 'this is but the beginning of the sufferings of the people of god,' mary had exclaimed prophetically, as the first stroke of the lash fell on her shoulders, while the assembled multitudes listened in amazement as the two suffering women went on to pray for mercy on their persecutors. while here, in adrianople, under the crescent, the infidel turk, to whom she had come in the power of the very same message for which she had suffered in christian countries, was receiving her with kindness and respect, offering to clothe her body in sumptuous apparel, instead of with bloody scars.... mary fisher sighed with irrepressible pain at the thought. looking down, the marks left by the stocks were also plainly visible under the sunburn round her ankles, as she stood, bare-footed, on the crimson rug. she gladly covered up those tell-tale tokens under her white stockings. but where were her shoes? they seemed to have disappeared. although the few strips of worn leather that she had put off the night before had been scarcely worthy of the name of shoes, their disappearance might be a grave difficulty. had they been taken away in order to force her to appear bare-footed before the sultan? ah!--here the slave girl was reappearing. kneeling down, with a triumphant smile she forced the englishwoman's small, delicate feet--hardened, it is true, by many hundreds of miles of rough travelling, but shapely still--into a little pair of embroidered silver slippers. turkish slippers! glistening with silver thread and crystal beads, turned up at the pointed toes, and finished by two silver tufted tassels, that peeped out incongruously from under the straight folds of the simple grey frock. this time mary fisher yielded submissively and made not the slightest resistance. it did not matter to her in the least how her feet were shod, so long as they were shod in some way, and she was saved from having to pay a mark of homage to the infidel. as she sat with folded hands on the divan, awaiting the summons of the grand vizier, her deep eyes showed that her thoughts were far, far away from any silver slippers. iv 'mahomet, sone of the emperour, sone of god, thrice heavenly and thrice known as the renowned emperour of the turks, king of greece, macedonia and moldavia, king of samaria and hungary, king of greater and lesser egypt, king of all the inhabitants of the earth and the earthly paradise, guardian of the sepulchre of thy god, lord of the tree of life, lord of all the emperours of the world from the east even to the west, grand persecutor of the christians and of all the wicked, the joy of the flourishing tree' ... and so forth and so on. the owner of all these high-sounding titles was hunched up on his cushions in the state pavilion. 'on state occasions, among which it is evident that he included this quaker audience, he delighted to deck his unpleasing person in a vest of cloth of gold, lined with sable of the richest contrasting blackness. around him were ranged the servants of the seraglio--the highest rank of lacqueys standing nearest the royal person, the "paicks" in their embroidered coats and caps of beaten gold, and the "solacks," adorned with feathers, and armed with bows and arrows. behind them were grouped great numbers of eunuchs and the court pages, carrying lances. these wore the peculiar coiffure permitted only to those of the royal chamber, and above their tresses hung long caps embroidered with gold. 'mary fisher was ushered into this brilliant scene with all the honours usually accorded to an ambassador: the sultan's dragomans accompanied her and stood waiting to interpret at the interview. she was at this time about thirty-five years of age, "a maid ... whose intellectual faculties were greatly adorned by the gravity of her deportment." ... she must have stood in her simple grey frock, amidst that riot of gold and scarlet, like a lily in a garden of tulips, her quiet face shining in that cruel and lustful place with the joy of a task accomplished, and the sense of the presence of god.'[ ] thus she stood, at the goal of her journey at last, in the presence of the grand turk, she the messenger of the great king. there was the grand turk, resplendent in his sable and cloth of gold. opposite to him stood the gentle quakeress, in her plain garment of grey yorkshire frieze with its spotless deep collar and close-fitting cap of snowy lawn. only the message was wanting now. at first no message came. the sultan, thinking that the woman before him was naturally alarmed by such unwonted magnificence, spoke to her graciously. 'he asked by his interpreters (whereof there were three with him) whether it was true what had been told him that she had something to say to him from the lord god. she answered, "yea." then he bade her speak on: and she not being forward, weightily pondering what she might say. "should he dismiss his attendants and let her speak with him in the presence of fewer listeners?" the grand turk asked her kindly.' again came an uncourtly monosyllabic 'no,' followed by another baffling silence. the executioner, a hook-nosed kurd with eyes like a bird of prey, stationed, as always, at the sultan's right hand, began to look at the slight woman in grey with a professional interest. he felt the edge of his blade with a skilful thumb and fore-finger, and turned keen eyes from the slender throat of the quakeress, rising above the folds of snowy lawn, to the aged neck of the grand vizier half hidden by his long white beard. there might be a double failure in etiquette to avenge, should the sultan's pleasure change and this unprecedented interview prove a failure! the executioner smacked his cruel lips with pleasure at the thought, looking, in his azalea-coloured garment, like an orange hawk himself, all ready to pounce on his victims. still silence reigned:--a keen silence more piercing than the sharpest damascene blade. it was piercing its way into one heart already. not into the heart of the aged grand vizier. the grand vizier was frankly bored, and was, moreover, beginning to be strangely uneasy at his _protégée's_ unaccountable behaviour. he turned to his interpreter with an enquiring frown. the interpreter looked yet more uncomfortable--even terrified. approaching his master, he began to whisper profound apologies into his ear, how that he ought to have warned him that this might happen; the woman had in truth confessed that she could not tell when the message would be sent, nor could she give it a moment before it came: 'sayeth indeed that her teacher in this strange faith hath been known to keep an assembly of over people waiting for a matter of three hours, in order to "famish them from words," not daring to open his lips without command.' 'thou shouldest indeed have mentioned this before! allah grant that this maiden keepeth us not here so long,' retorted the grand vizier, with a scowl of natural impatience, seeing that he was to set forth on his journey to the battle-field that very day, and that moments were growing precious, even in the timeless east. then, turning to the sultan, he in his turn began to pour out profuse explanations and apologies. the uncouth, misshapen figure on the central divan, however, paid scant heed to his minister. right into the fierce, cruel, passionate heart of sultan mahomet that strange silence was piercing: piercing as no words could have done, through the crust formed by years of self-seeking and sin, piercing, until it found, until it quickened, 'that of god within.' what happened next must be told in the historian sewel's own words, since he doubtless heard the tale from the only person who could tell it, mary fisher herself. 'the grand turk then bade her speak the word of the lord to them and not to fear, for they had good hearts and could hear it. he also charged her to speak the word she had to say from the lord, neither more nor less, for they were willing to hear it, be it what it would. _then she spoke what was upon her mind._' she never says what it was. the message, once delivered, could never be repeated. 'the turks hearkened to her with much attention and gravity until she had done; and then, the sultan asking her whether she had anything more to say? she asked him whether he understood what she had said? he answered, "yes, every word," and further said that what she had spoken was truth. then he desired her to stay in that country, saying that they could not but respect such an one, as should take so much pains to come to them so far as from england with a message from the lord god. he also proffered her a guard to bring her into constantinople, whither she intended. but she, not accepting this offer, he told her it was dangerous travelling, especially for such an one as she: and wondered that she had passed safe so far as she had, saying also that it was in respect for her, and kindness, that he proffered it, and that he would not for anything she should come to the least hurt in his dominions. she having no more to say, the turks asked her what she thought of their prophet mahomet? she answered warily that she knew him not, but christ the true prophet, the son of god, who was the light of the world, and enlightened every man coming into the world, him she knew. and concerning mahomet, she said that they might judge of him to be true or false according to the words and prophecies he spoke; saying further, "if the word of a prophet shall come to pass, then shall ye know that the lord hath sent that prophet: but if it come not to pass, then shall ye know that the lord never sent him." the turks confessed this to be true, and mary, having performed her message, departed from the camp to constantinople without a guard, whither she came without the least hurt or scoff....' v thus mary returned safe to england, where, if not romance, at any rate solid happiness awaited her in the shape of a certain william bayly. he, a quaker preacher and master mariner, having been himself a great traveller and having endured repeated imprisonments in distant countries, could appreciate the courage and success of her unprecedented journey. at any rate, as the historian quaintly tells us, he 'thought her worthy to make him a second wife.' a few months after her return to england, but while she was still unmarried, mary fisher wrote the following account of her travels to some of the friends in whose company she had suffered imprisonment in former days before her great journey. 'my dear love salutes you all in one, you have been often in my remembrance since i departed from you, and being now returned into england and many trials, such as i was never tried with before, yet have borne my testimony for the lord before the king unto whom i was sent, and he was very noble unto me, and so were all they that were about him: he and all that were about him received the word of truth without contradiction. they do dread the name of god, many of them, and eyes his messengers. there is a royal seed amongst them which in time god will raise. they are more near truth than many nations, there is a love begot in me towards them which is endless, but this is my hope concerning them, that he who hath raised me to love them more than many others will also raise his seed in them unto which my love is. nevertheless, though they be called turks, the seed of them is near unto god, and their kindness hath in some measure been shewn towards his servants. after the word of the lord was declared unto them, they would willingly have me to stay in the country, and when they could not prevail with me, they proffered me a man and a horse to go five days' journey that was to constantinople, but i refused and came safe from them. the english are more bad, most of them, yet hath a good word gone through them, and some have received it, but they are few: so i rest with my dear love to you all--your dear sister, mary fisher.' vi forty years later, in , an aged woman was yet alive at charlestown in america, who was still remembered as the heroine of the famous journey so many years before. although twice widowed since then, and now with children and grandchildren around her, she was spoken of to the end by her maiden name. a shipwrecked visitor from the other side of the atlantic describes her in his letters home as 'one whose name you have heard of, mary fisher, she that spoke to the grand turk.' in the dwelling of that ancient widow, however old she grew, however many other relics she kept--remembrances of her two husbands, of children and grandchildren--between the pages of her well-worn bible was there not always one pressed sprig of the fadeless sea-lavender that grows on the rocky shores of the black mountain? and, somewhere or other, in the drawer of an inlaid cabinet or work-table there must have been also one precious packet, carefully tied up with ribbon and silver paper, in which some favourite grandchild, allowed for a treat to open it, would find, to her indescribable delight, a little tasselled pair of turkish silver slippers. footnotes: [ ] a certain englishman, paul rycaut by name, has left a description of this encampment as he saw it on his visit a short time afterwards. 'the tents were raised on a small hill, and about in number, ranged at that time without order, only the grand signior's seemed to be in the midst to overtop all the rest, well worthy observation, costing (as was reported) , dollars, richly embroidered in the inside with gold. within the walls of this tent (as i may so call them) were all sorts of offices belonging to the seraglio, apartments for the pages, chiosks or summer-houses for pleasure, and though i could not get admittance to view the innermost rooms and chambers, yet by the outward and more common places of resort i could make a guess at the richness of the rest, being sumptuous beyond comparison of any in use among christian princes. on the right hereof was pitched the grand vizier's tent, exceeding rich and lofty, and had i not seen that of the sultan before it, i should have judged it the best that mine eyes had seen. the ostentation and richness of this empire being evidenced in nothing more than the richness of their pavilions, sumptuous beyond the fixed palaces of princes, erected with marble and mortar.' [ ] _quaker women_, by mabel r. brailsford. xxix. fierce feathers _'we who were once slayers of one another do not now fight against our enemies.'--justin martyr. a.d. ._ _'victory that is gotten by the sword is a victory slaves get one over the other; but victory contained by love is a victory for a king.'--gerrard winstanley. ._ _'here you will come to love god above all, and your neighbours as yourselves. nothing hurts, nothing harms, nothing makes afraid on this holy mountain.'--g. fox._ _'my friends that are gone or are going over to plant and make outward plantations in america, keep your own plantations in your hearts with the spirit and power of god, that your own vines and lilies be not hurt.'--g. fox._ _'take heed of many words, what reaches to the life settles in the life. that which cometh from the life and is received from god, reaches to the life and settles others in the life.'--g. fox._ _'an old indian named papunehang appreciated the spirit and atmosphere of a friends' meeting, even if he did not comprehend the words, telling the interpreter afterwards, "i love to feel where words come from."'--a.m. gummere (from john woolman's journal)._ xxix. fierce feathers the sunlight lay in patches on the steep roof of the meeting-house of easton township, in the county of saratoga, in the state of new york. it was a bright summer morning in the year . the children of easton township liked their wooden house, although it was made only of rough-hewn logs, nailed hastily together in order to provide some sort of shelter for the worshipping friends. they would not, if they could, have exchanged it for one of the more stately meeting-houses at home in england, on the other side of the atlantic. there, the windows were generally high up in the walls. english children could see nothing through the panes but a peep of sky, or the topmost branches of a tall tree. when they grew tired of looking in the branches of the tree for an invisible nest that was not there, there was nothing more to be hoped for, out of those windows. the children's eyes came back inside the room again, as they watched the slow shadows creep along the white-washed walls, or tried to count the flies upon the ceiling. but out here in america there was no need for that. the new meeting-house of easton had nearly as many possibilities as the new world outside. to begin with, its logs did not fit quite close together. if a boy or girl happened to be sitting in the corner seat, he or she could often see, through a chink, right out into the woods. for the untamed wilderness still stretched away on all sides round the newly-cleared settlement of easton. moreover, there were no glass windows in the log house as yet, only open spaces provided with wooden shutters that could be closed, if necessary, during a summer storm. another larger, open space at one end of the building would be closed by a door when the next cold weather came. at present the summer air met no hindrance as it blew in softly, laden with the fragrant scents of the flowers and pine-trees, stirring the children's hair as it lightly passed. every now and then a drowsy bee would come blundering in by mistake, and after buzzing about for some time among the assembled friends, he would make his perilous way out again through one of the chinks between the logs. the children, as they sat in meeting, always hoped that a butterfly might also find its way in, some fine day--before the winter came, and before the window spaces of the new meeting-house had to be filled with glass, and a door fastened at the end of the room to keep out the cold. especially on a mid-week meeting like to-day, they often found it difficult to 'think meeting thoughts' in the silence, or even to attend to what was being said, so busy were they, watching for the entrance of that long desired butterfly. for children thought about very much the same kind of things, and had very much the same kind of difficulties in meeting, then as now; even though the place was far away, and it is more than a hundred years since that sunny morning in easton township, when the sunlight lay in patches on the roof. it was not only the children who found silent worship difficult that still summer morning. there were traces of anxiety on the faces of many friends and even on the placid countenances of the elders in their raised seats in the gallery. there, at the head of the meeting, sat friend zebulon hoxie, the grandfather of most of the children who were present. below him sat his two sons. opposite them, their wives and families, and a sprinkling of other friends. the children had never seen before one of the stranger friends who sat in the gallery that day, by their grandfather's side. they had heard that his name was robert nisbet, and that he had just arrived, after having walked for two days, thirty miles through the wilderness country to sit with friends at new easton at their mid-week meeting. the children had no idea why he had come, so they fixed their eyes intently on the stranger and stirred gently in their seats with relief when at last he rose to speak. they had liked his kind, open face as soon as they saw it. they liked still better the sound of the rich, clear voice that made it easy for even children to listen. but they liked the words of his text best of all: 'the belovéd of the lord shall dwell in safety by him. he shall cover them all the day long.' robert nisbet lingered over the first words of his message as if they were dear to him. his voice was full and mellow, and the words seemed as if they were part of the rich tide of summer life that flowed around. he paused a moment, and then went on, 'and now, how shall the belovéd of the lord be thus in safety covered? even as saith the psalmist, "he shall cover thee with his feathers and under his wings shalt thou trust."' then, changing his tones a little and speaking more lightly, though gravely still, he continued: 'you have done well, dear friends, to stay on valiantly in your homes, when all your neighbours have fled; and therefore are these messages sent to you by me. these promises of covering and of shelter are truly meant for you. make them your own and you shall not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day.' here the boys and girls on the low benches under the gallery looked at one another. now they knew what had brought the stranger! he had come because he had heard of the danger that threatened the little clearing of settlers in the woods. for though new easton and east hoosack lay thirty miles apart they were both links in the long chain of quaker settlements that had been formed to separate the territory belonging to the dutch traders (who dwelt near the hudson river) from the english settlements along the valley of the connecticut. in former days disputes between the dutch and english colonists had been both frequent and fierce, until at length the government had conceived the brilliant idea of establishing a belt of neutral ground between the disputants, and peopling it with unwarlike quakers. the plan worked well. the friends, in their settlements strung out over a long, narrow strip of territory, were on friendly terms with their dutch and english neighbours on either side. raids went out of fashion. peace reigned, and for a time the authorities were well content. a fiercer contest was now brewing, no longer between two handfuls of colonists but between the inhabitants of two great continents. for it was just before the outbreak of the revolutionary war of . the part of the country in which easton township was situated was already distressed by visits of scouting parties from both british and american armies, and the american government, unable to protect the inhabitants, had issued a proclamation directing them to leave the country. this was the reason that all the scattered houses in the neighbourhood were deserted, save only the few tenanted by the handful of friends. 'you did well, friends,' the speaker continued, 'well to ask to be permitted to exercise your own judgment without blame to the authorities, well to say to them in all courtesy and charity, "you are clear of us in that you have warned us"--and to stay on in your dwellings and to carry out your accustomed work. the report of this your courage and faith hath reached us in our abiding place at east hoosack, and the lord hath charged me to come on foot through the wilderness country these thirty miles, to meet with you to-day, and to bear to you these two messages from him, "the belovéd of the lord shall dwell in safety by him," and "he shall cover thee with his feathers all the day long."' the visitor sat down again in his seat. the furrowed line of anxiety in old zebulon hoxie's high forehead smoothed itself away; the eyes of one or two of the younger women friends filled with tears. as the speaker's voice ceased, little susannah hoxie's head, which had been drooping lower and lower, finally found a resting-place, and was encircled by her mother's arm. young mrs. hoxie drew off her small daughter's shady hat, and put it on the seat beside her, while she very gently stroked back the golden curls from the child's high forehead. in doing this she caught a rebuking glance from her elder daughter, dinah. 'naughty, naughty susie, to go to sleep in meeting,' dinah was thinking; 'it is very hot, and _i_ am sleepy too, but _i_ don't go to sleep. i do wish a butterfly would come in at the window just for once--or a bird, a little bird with blue, and red, and pink, and yellow feathers. i liked what that stranger friend said about being 'covered with feathers all the day long.' i wish i was all covered with feathers like a little bird. i wish there were feathers in meeting, or anywhere close outside.' she turned in her corner seat and looked through the slit in the wall--why there were feathers close outside the wall of the house, red, and yellow, and blue, and pink! what could they be? very gently dinah moved her head, so that her eye came closer to the slit. but, when she looked again, the feathers had mysteriously disappeared--nothing was to be seen now but a slight trembling of the tree branches in the wilderness woods at a little distance. in the mean while her brother, benjamin hoxie, on the other low seat opposite the window, was also thinking of the stranger's sermon. 'he said it was a valiant thing to do, to stop on here when all the neighbours have left. i didn't know friends could do valiant things. i thought only soldiers were valiant. but if a scouting party really did come--if those english scouts suddenly appeared, then even a quaker boy might have a chance to show that he is not necessarily a coward because he does not fight.' benjamin's eyes strayed also out of the open window. it was very hot and still in the meeting-house. yet the bushes certainly were trembling. how strange that there should be a breeze there and not here! 'thou shall not be afraid for the arrow that flieth by day,' he thought to himself. 'well, there are no arrows in this part of the country any longer, now that they say all the indians have left. i wonder, if i saw an english gun pointing at me out of those bushes, should i be afraid?' but it was gentle mrs. hoxie, with her arm still round her baby daughter, who kept the stranger's words longest in her heart. 'shall dwell in safety by him,--the belovéd of the lord,' she repeated to herself over and over again, 'yet my husband hath feared for me, and we have both been very fearful for the children. truly, we have known the terror by night these last weeks in these unsettled times, even though our duty was plainly to stay here. why were we so fearful? we of little faith. "the belovéd of the lord shall dwell in safety by him. he shall cover him with his feathers all the day long."' and then, in her turn, mrs. hoxie looked up, as her little daughter had done, and saw the same three tall feathers creeping above the sill of the open meeting-house window frame. for just one moment her heart, that usually beat so calmly under her grey quaker robe, seemed to stand absolutely still. she went white to the lips. then 'shall dwell in safety by him,' the words flashed back to her mind. she looked across to where her husband sat--an urgent look. he met her eyes, read them, and followed the direction in which she gazed. then he, too, saw the feathers--three, five, seven, nine, sticking up in a row. another instant, and a dark-skinned face, an evil face, appeared beneath them, looking over the sill. the moment most to be dreaded in the lives of all american settlers--more terrible than any visit from civilised soldiers--had come suddenly upon the little company of friends alone here in the wilderness. an indian chief was staring in at their meeting-house window, showing his teeth in a cruel grin. in his hand he held a sheaf of arrows, poisoned arrows, only too ready to fly, and kill, by day. all the assembled friends were aware of his presence by this time, and were watching the window now, though not one of them moved. mrs. hoxie glanced towards her other little daughter, and saw to her great relief that dinah too had fallen asleep, her head against the wooden wall. dinah and susie were the two youngest children in meeting that morning. the others were mostly older even than benjamin, who was twelve. they were, therefore, far too well-trained in quaker stillness to move, for any indians, until the friends at the head of the meeting should have shaken hands and given the signal to disperse. nevertheless, the hearts of even the elder girls were beating very fast. benjamin's lips were tightly shut, and with eyes that were unusually bright he followed every movement of the indian chief, who, as it seemed in one bound and without making the slightest noise, had moved round to the open doorway. there he stood, the naked brown figure, in full war-paint and feathers, looking with piercing eyes at each man friend in turn, as if one of them must have the weapons that he sought. but the friends were entirely unarmed. there was not a gun, or a rifle, or a sword to be found in any of their dwelling-houses, so there could not be any in their peaceful meeting. a minute later, a dozen other redskins, equally terrible, stood beside the chief, and the bushes in the distance were quite still. the bushes trembled no longer. it was benjamin who found it hard not to tremble now, as he saw thirteen sharp arrows taken from their quivers by thirteen skinny brown hands, and their notches held taut to thirteen bow-strings, all ready to shoot. yet still the friends sat on, without stirring, in complete silence. [illustration: fierce feathers] only benjamin, turning his head to look at his grandfather, saw zebulon hoxie, the patriarch of the meeting, gazing full at the chief, who had first approached. the indian's flashing eyes, under the matted black eyebrows, gazed back fiercely beneath his narrow red forehead into the quaker's calm blue eyes beneath the high white brow and snowy hair. no word was spoken, but in silence two powers were measured against one another--the power of hate, and the power of love. for steady friendliness to his strange visitors was written in every line of zebulon hoxie's face. the children never knew how long that steadfast gaze lasted. but at length, to benjamin's utter astonishment, for some unknown reason the indian's eyes fell. his head, that he had carried high and haughtily, sank towards his breast. he glanced round the meeting-house three times with a scrutiny that nothing could escape. then, signing to his followers, the thirteen arrows were noiselessly replaced in thirteen quivers, the thirteen bows were laid down and rested against the wall; many footsteps, lighter than falling snow, crossed the floor; the indian chief, unarmed, sat himself down in the nearest seat, with his followers in all their war-paint, but also unarmed, close round him. the meeting did not stop. the meeting continued--one of the strangest friends' meetings, surely, that ever was held. the meeting not only continued, it increased in solemnity and in power. never, while they lived, did any of those present that day forget that silent meeting, or the brooding presence, that, closer, clearer than the sunlight, filled the bright room. 'cover thee with his feathers all the day long.' the friends sat in their accustomed stillness. but the indians sat more still than any of them. they seemed strangely at home in the silence, these wild men of the woods. motionless they sat, as a group of trees on a windless day, or as a tranquil pool unstirred by the smallest breeze; silent, as if they were themselves a part of nature's own silence rather than of the family of her unquiet, human children. the slow minutes slipped past. the peace brooded, and grew, and deepened. 'am i dreaming?' mrs. hoxie thought to herself more than once, and then, raising her eyes, she saw the indians still in the same place, and knew it was no dream. she saw, too, that benjamin's eyes were riveted to some objects hanging from the strangers' waists, that none of the other friends appeared to see. at last, when the accustomed hour of worship was ended, the two friends at the head of the meeting shook hands solemnly. then, and not till then, did old zebulon hoxie advance to the indian chief, and with signs he invited him and his followers to come to his house close at hand. with signs they accepted. the strange procession crossed the sunlit path. susie and dinah, wide awake now, but kept silent in obedience to their mother's whispers, were watching the feathers with clear, untroubled eyes that knew no fear. only benjamin shivered as if he were cold. when the company had arrived at the house, zebulon put bread and cheese on the table, and invited his unwonted guests to help themselves. they did so, thanking him with signs, as they knew little or no english. robert nisbet, the visiting friend, who could speak and understand french, had a conversation with one of the indians in that language, and this was what he said: 'we surrounded your house, meaning to destroy every living person within it. but when we saw you sitting with your door open, and _without weapons of defence_, we had no wish any longer to hurt you. now, we would fight for you, and defend you ourselves from all who wish you ill.' meanwhile the chief who had entered first was speaking in broken english to old zebulon hoxie, gesticulating to make his meaning clear. 'indian come white man house,' he said, pointing with his finger towards the settlement, 'indian want kill white man, one, two, three, six, all!' and he clutched the tomahawk at his belt with a gruesome gesture. 'indian come, see white man sit in house; no gun, no arrow, no knife; all quiet, all still, worshipping great spirit. great spirit inside indian too;' he pointed to his breast; 'then great spirit say: "indian! no kill them!"' with these words, the chief took a white feather from one of his arrows, and stuck it firmly over the centre of the roof in a peculiar way. 'with that white feather above your house,' the french-speaking indian said to robert nisbet, 'your settlement is safe. we indians are your friends henceforward, and you are ours.' a moment later and the strange guests had all disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. but, when the bushes had ceased to tremble, benjamin stole to his mother's side. 'mother, did you _see_, did you _see_?' he whispered. 'they were _not_ friendly indians. they were the very most savage kind. did you,' he shuddered, 'did you, and father, and grandfather, and the others not notice what those things were, hanging from their waists? they were _scalps_--scalps of men and women that those indians had killed,' and again he shuddered. his mother stooped and kissed him. 'yea, my son,' she answered, 'i did see. in truth we all saw, too well, save only the tender maids, thy sisters, who know naught of terror or wrong. but thou, my son, when thou dost remember those human scalps, pray for the slayers and for the slain. only for thyself and for us, have no fear. remember, rather, the blessing of that other benjamin, for whom i named thee. "the belovéd of the lord shall dwell in safety by him. he shall cover him all the day long."' xxx. the thief in the tanyard _'in the house of love men do not curse nor swear; they do not destroy nor kill any. they use no outward swords or spears. they seek to to destroy no flesh of man; but it is a fight of the cross and patience to the subduing of sin.'--henry nicholas (circa )_. _'we have to keep in mind the thought of christ. to us it seems most important to stop the evil act, hold it down by force, or push off its consequences on to someone else: anything, so long as we get rid of them from ourselves. christ's thought was to change the evil mind, whatever physical consequences action, directed to this end, might involve.... this is the essence of "turning the other cheek," it is the attitude most likely to convert the sinner who injures us, whether it actually does so or not,--we cannot force him to be converted.' ... 'those who try this method of love for the sake of the evildoer must be prepared to go down, if necessary, as the front ranks storming a strong position go down, paying the price of victory for those who come after them. this method is not certain to conquer the evil mind: it is the most likely way to do it, and it is that that matters most.'--a. neave brayshaw._ xxx. the thief in the tanyard knock! knock! knock! the tremulous sound, three times repeated, disturbed the stillness of an empty street of small wooden houses. the night was very dark, but the square mass of the tanner's house could just be discerned, black and solid against the sky. the rays of a solitary oil lamp straggled faintly across the roadway, and showed a man with a large bundle on his back standing on the doorstep of that house, knocking as if he were afraid of the noise he made. knock! knock! knock! he tried once more, but with growing timidity and hesitation. evidently the inmates of the house were busy, or too far off to hear the feeble summons. no one answered. the man's small stock of courage seemed exhausted. giving his heavy bundle a hitch back on to his shoulder, he slunk off down the road, to where at a little distance the small oil lamp high up on the wall beckoned faintly in the darkness. the all-pervading smell of a tannery close by filled the air. when he came directly under the lamp, the man stopped. the light, falling directly upon the package he carried, showed it to be a bundle of hides all ready for tanning. here he stopped, and drew out a piece of crumpled newspaper from his pocket. smoothing out the creases as carefully as he could, he held it up towards the lamp, and read once more the strange words that he already knew almost by heart. this notice was printed in large letters in the advertisement column: 'whoever stole a lot of hides on the fifth day of the present month is hereby informed that their owner has a sincere wish to be his friend. if poverty tempted him to this false step the owner will keep the whole transaction secret, and will gladly put him in the way of obtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind.' 'if poverty tempted him to this false step,' the man repeated to himself half aloud. 'tanner savery wraps up his meaning in fine words, but their sense is plain enough. if it was being poor that drove a man to become a thief and to steal these hides from the shadow of that dark archway down by the river last sunday night,--suppose it was poverty, well what then? friend savery "will gladly put him in the way of obtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind." will he indeed? can i trust him? is it a hoax? i would rather do without the money now, if only i could get rid of these hides, and of their smell, that sticks to a man's nostrils even as sin does to his memory. but the tanner promises to give me back peace of mind, does he? well, that's a fair offer and worth some risk. i'll knock once more at his door and see what happens.' stuffing the newspaper into his pocket he walked quickly up the road again, back to the square house, and up the sanded steps. again he lifted the brass knocker, and again 'knock! knock! knock!' rang out on the night air. but this time the knocking was less tremulous, and as it happened the inmates of the house were crossing the hall on their way to bed and heard the sound at once. in less than a minute the door opened, and a square brass candlestick, held high up, threw its light out into the street. the candlestick was held by a tall man with greyish white hair, whom all the town knew as tanner savery. peeping behind his shoulder appeared his wife's gentle face, surmounted by the clear muslin of a quakeress's cap. the man on the doorstep never lifted up his eyes to the couple. 'i've brought them back, mr. savery,' he mumbled, too much ashamed even to explain what he meant by 'them.' but william savery needed no explanation. ever since the hides had mysteriously disappeared from his tanyard a few days before, he had felt sure that this quarrelsome neighbour of his must have taken them. what was that neighbour's real name? that, nobody knows, or ever will know now. we only know that whatever it may have been it certainly was not john smith, because when, in after years, tanner savery occasionally told this story he always called the stealer of his hides 'john smith' in order to disguise his identity; so we will speak of john smith too. 'a ne'er-do-well' was the character people gave him. they spoke of him as a man who was his own worst enemy, sadly too fond of his glass, and always quarrelling with his neighbours. only william savery refused to believe that any man could be altogether evil, and he kept a ray of hope in his heart for john smith, even when his valuable bundle of hides mysteriously disappeared. it was that ray of hope that had made him put the advertisement in the paper, though he knew it would set the town laughing over 'those quakers and their queer soft ways.' this evening the ray of hope was shining more brightly than ever. more brightly even than the candlelight shone in the darkness of the night, the hope in his heart shone through the brightness of the tanner's eyes and smile. yet he only answered cheerily, 'all right, friend, wait till i can light a lantern and go to the barn to take them back with thee.' there was no trace of surprise in his voice. those matter-of-fact tones sounded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go out to the tanyard at o'clock at night instead of going upstairs to bed. 'after we have done that,' he continued, 'perhaps thou wilt come in and tell me how this happened; we will see what can be done for thee.' a lantern, hanging on its hook in the hall, was soon lighted. the two men picked their way down the sanded steps again, then passing under a high creeper-covered gateway they followed a narrow, flagged path to the tanyard. all this time william savery had not said one word to his wife--but the ring of happiness in his voice had made her happy too, and had told her what he would like her to do during his absence from the house. lifting up the bedroom candlestick from the oak chest on which her husband had set it down, she hastened to the larder, then to the kitchen, where she poked up the fire into a bright glow, put a kettle on, and then went back again through the hall to the parlour, to and fro several times. when the two men returned to the house a quarter of an hour later, the fragrance of hot coffee greeted them. solid pies and meat were spread out on the dark oak table. mrs. savery's pies were famous throughout the town. but besides pies there were cakes, buns, bread, and fruit,--a meal, indeed, to tempt any hungry man. 'i thought some hot supper would be good for thee, neighbour smith,' said mrs. savery in her gentle voice, as she handed him some coffee in one of her favourite blue willow-pattern cups. but john smith did not take the cup from her. instead, he turned his back abruptly, went over to the high carved fireplace, and leaning down looking into the glowing coals, said in a choked voice, 'it is the first time i ever stole anything, and i can tell you i have felt very bad about it ever since. i don't know how it is. i am sure i didn't think once that i should ever come to be a thief. first i took to drinking and then to quarrelling. since i began to go downhill everybody gives me a kick; you are the first people who have offered me a helping hand. my wife is sickly and my children are starving. you have sent them many a meal, god bless you! yet i stole the hides from you, meaning to sell them the first chance i could get. but i tell you the truth when i say, drunkard as i am, it is the first time i was ever a thief.' 'let it be the last time, my friend,' replied william savery, 'and the secret shall remain between ourselves. thou art still young, and it is within thy power to make up for lost time. promise me that thou wilt not take any strong drink for a year, and i will employ thee myself in the tanyard at good wages. perhaps we may find some employment for thy family also. the little boy can, at least, pick up stones. but eat a bit now, and drink some hot coffee; perhaps it will keep thee from craving anything stronger tonight.' so saying, william savery advanced, and taking his guest by the arm, gently forced him into a chair. mrs. savery pushed the cup towards him, and heaped his plate with her excellent meat-pies. the stranger took up the cup to drink, but his hand trembled so much that he could not put it to his lips. he tried to swallow a small mouthful of bread, but the effort nearly choked him. william savery, seeing his guest's excited state, went on talking in his grave kind voice, to give him time, and help him to grow calm. 'doubtless thou wilt find it hard to abstain from drink at first,' he continued, 'but keep up a brave heart for the sake of thy wife and children, and it will soon become easy. whenever thou hast need of coffee tell my wife, mary, and she will give it thee.' mary savery's blue eyes shone as she nodded her head; she did not say a word, for she saw that her guest was nearly at an end of his composure. gently she laid her hand on his rough sleeve as if to try to calm and reassure him. but even her light touch was more than he could bear at that moment. pushing the food and drink away from him untasted, he laid both his arms on the table, and burying his head, he wept like a child. the husband and wife looked at each other. 'can i do anything to help him?' mary's eyes asked her husband in silence. 'leave him alone for a little; he will be better when this fit of tears is over,' his wise glance answered back. william savery was right. the burst of weeping relieved john smith's over-wrought feelings. besides, he really was almost faint with hunger. in a few moments, when the coffee was actually held to his lips, he found he could drink it--right down to the bottom of the cup. as if by magic, the cup was filled up again, and then, very quickly, the meatpies too began to disappear. at each mouthful the man grew calmer. it was an entirely different john smith who took leave of his kind friends an hour later. again they followed him to the door. 'try to do well, john, and thou wilt always find a friend in me,' william savery said, as they parted. mary savery added no words--she was never a woman given to much talk. only she slipped her fingers into her guest's hand with a touch that said silently, 'fare thee well, _friend_.' the next day john smith entered the tanyard, not this time slinking in as a thief in the darkness, but introduced by the master himself as an engaged workman. for many years he remained with his employer, a sober, honest, and faithful servant, respected by others and respecting himself. the secret of the first visit was kept. william and mary savery never alluded to it, and john smith certainly did not, though the memory of it never left him and altered all the rest of his life. long years after john smith was dead, william savery, in telling the story, always omitted the man's name. that is why he has to be called john smith, because no one knows now, no one ever will know, what his real name may have been. 'but,' as william savery used to say when he was prevailed on to tell the story, 'the thing to know and remember is that it is possible to overcome evil with good.' xxxi. how a french noble became a friend _sentences from 'no cross, no crown,' by william penn._ _'come, reader, hearken to me awhile; i seek thy salvation; that is my plot; thou wilt forgive me.'_ _'thou, like the inn of old, hast been full of guests; thy affections have entertained other lovers; there has been no room for thy saviour in thy soul ... but his love is after thee still, & his holy invitation continues to save thee.'_ _'receive his leaven, & it will change thee; his medicine and it will cure thee; he is as infallible as free; without money and with certainty.... yield up the body, soul & spirit to him that maketh all things new: new heavens & new earth, new love, new joy, new peace, new works, a new life & conversation....'_ _'the inward, steady righteousness of jesus is another thing than all the contrived devotion of poor superstitious man.... true worship is an inward work; the soul must be touched and raised in its heavenly desires by the heavenly spirit.... so that souls of true worshippers see god: and this they wait, they pant, they thirst for.'_ _'worship is the supreme act of man's life.'_ xxxi. how a french noble became a friend now we come to a saint who had a life so full of adventures that a book twice as big as this one would be needed to contain the stories that might be told about him alone. unlike any of the other 'quaker saints' in this book, he was by birth a frenchman and came of noble family. his name was etienne de grellet. he was born nearly a century after the death of george fox; but he probably did not know that such a person had ever existed, never even heard fox's name, until long after he was grown up. if etienne de grellet, the gay young nobleman of the french court, had been told that his story would ever be written in a book of 'quaker saints' he would, most likely, have raised his dark eyebrows and have looked extremely surprised. '_quakère? qu'est-ce que c'est alors, quakère? quel drôle de mot! je ne suis pas quakère, moi!_' he might have answered, with a disdainful shrug of his high, narrow, aristocratic french shoulders. yet here he is after all! * * * * * etienne de grellet was born at limoges in france, in the year . his childhood was passed in the stormy years when the cloud was gathering that was to burst a little later in the full fury of the french revolution. his father, gabriel de grellet, a wealthy merchant of limoges, was a great friend and counsellor of louis xvi. and marie antoinette. as a reward for having introduced into the country the manufacture of finer porcelain than had ever before been made in france he was ennobled by the king, whom he often used to attend in his private chapel. limoges china is still celebrated all over the world; and at that time the most celebrated of its china-makers was m. de grellet, the king's friend. naturally the sons of this successful merchant and nobleman were brought up in great luxury. etienne and his brothers were not sent to a school, but had expensive tutors to teach them at home. their parents wanted their children to be well educated, honourable, straightforward, generous, and kind; to possess not only accomplishments but good qualities. yet etienne felt, when he looked back in later days, that something had been left out in their education that was, perhaps, the most important thing of all. when he was quite a little boy he was taken to visit one of his aunts who was a nun in a convent near limoges. the rules of this convent were so strict that the nuns might not even see their relations who came to visit them. they might only speak to them from the other side of two iron gratings, between the bars of which a thick curtain was hung. the little boy thought it very strange to be taken from his beautiful home, full of costly furniture, pictures, and hangings, and to be brought into the bare convent cell. then he looked up and saw an iron grating, and heard a voice coming through the folds of a thick curtain that hung behind it. he could hear the voice, but he might never see the face of the aunt who spoke to him. at night at home, as he lay in his comfortable bed, he used to think of his aunt and the other nuns 'rising three times in the night for prayer in the church, from the hard boards which formed their couch, even the luxury of a straw pallet being denied them.' 'which is the real life,' he used to ask himself, 'the easy comfortable life that goes on round me every day, or that other, difficult life hidden behind the folds of the thick curtain?' child though he was, etienne felt that his aunt loved him, although he had never seen her. this helped him to feel that, although unseen, god was loving him too. as he grew older he wondered: 'perhaps everything we see here is like the bars of a grating, or a thick curtain. perhaps there is some one on the other side who is speaking to us too.' etienne was only about five or six years old when he made the great discovery that god is there, hidden behind the screen of visible things all round us. after this, he longed to be able to speak to god and to listen to god's voice, as he was able to listen to his unseen aunt's voice speaking to him from behind the curtain in the convent. no one ever taught him to pray; but presently he discovered that too for himself. one day, when he was only six years old, his tutor gave him a latin lesson to learn that was much too difficult for him. etienne took the book up to his bedroom, and there, all alone, he read it over and over and did his very best to learn it. but the unfamiliar latin words would not stay in his memory. at last he closed the book in despair and went to his bedroom window and looked out. he gazed over the high roofs of the city, away over the wide plain in which limoges lay, to the distant mountain, blue against the sky. everything looked fair and peaceful. as he gazed, the thought came to him, 'god made the plain and the river and the mountains. god made this whole beautiful world in which i live. if god can create all these things, surely he can give me memory also.' he knelt down at the foot of his bed and prayed, for the first time in his life, that his unseen friend would help him to master the difficult lesson. taking up the book again, he read the hard latin words once more, very attentively. this time the words stayed in his memory and did not fade away. often afterwards, he found that if he prayed all his lessons became easier. he could not, of course, learn them without effort, but after he had really prayed earnestly, he found he could remember things better. then one day he learned the lord's prayer. long years after, when he was an old man, he could still recall the exact spot in his beautiful home where, as a little boy, he had first learned to say, 'our father.' etienne and his family belonged to the roman catholic church. on sundays they went to the great cathedral of limoges; but the service there always seemed strange and far away to etienne.[ ] the music, the chanting, the latin words that were said and sung by bishops and priests in their gorgeous robes, did not seem to him to have anything to do with the quiet voice that spoke to the boy in the silence of his own heart. when etienne and his brothers were old enough they were sent to several different colleges and schools. their last place of instruction was the celebrated college of the oratorians at lyons. among other things, the students of this college were taught to move so quietly that fifty or a hundred boys went up or down the stone steps of the college all together, without their feet making the least noise. etienne tells us in his diary: 'as we were educated by roman catholics and in their principles we were required to confess once a month,' that is, to tell a priest whatever they had done that was wrong, and receive the assurance of god's forgiveness from him. the priest to whom etienne regularly made his confession was 'a pious, conscientious man,' who treated him with fatherly care. when the boy told him of his puzzles, and asked how it could be necessary to confess to any man, since god alone could forgive sins, he received a kind, helpful answer. 'yet,' he says, 'my reasoning faculties brought me to the root of the matter; from created objects to the creator--from time to eternity.' after he was confirmed at college he hoped that his heart would be changed and made different; but he found that he was still much the same as before. before leaving the college he and the other students who were also departing received the sacrament of the lord's supper at mass. this was to etienne a very solemn time. but, he says, as soon as he was out in the world again, the remembrance of it faded away. he settled that he had no use for religion in his life, and determined to live for pleasure and happiness alone. 'i sought after happiness,' his diary says, 'in the world's delights. i went in pursuit of it from one party of pleasure to another; but i did _not_ find it, and i wondered that the name of pleasure could be given to anything of that kind.' in his dissipated life after leaving college, he gave up saying his prayers, and gradually he lost his belief that god was there. he read unbelieving books, which said that god did not exist, and that the unseen world was only a delusion and a dream. for a time etienne gave himself up to doubt and denial as well as to dissipation. he was in this restless state when the french revolution broke out and caught him, like a butterfly in a thunderstorm. new questions surged over him. 'if there is a god after all, why should he allow these horrors to happen?' but no answer came. or perhaps he had forgotten how to listen. 'towards the close of ,' he writes, 'i left my dear father's house, and bade him, as it proved, a lasting farewell, having never seen him since.' at this time, etienne accompanied his brothers and many other nobles into germany, to join the french princes who were endeavouring to bring about a counter-revolution and restore the king, louis xvi. on this dangerous journey the young men met with many narrow escapes. courage came naturally to etienne. 'i was not the least moved,' he writes in his diary, 'when surrounded by people and soldiers, who lavished their abuses upon us, and threatened to hang me to the lamp-post. i coolly stood by, my hands in my pockets, being provided with three pairs of pistols, two of which were double-barrelled. i concluded to wait to see what they would do, and resolved, after destroying as many of them as i could, to take my own life with the last.' happily the necessity for extreme courses did not arise. he was, he says, 'mercifully preserved,' and no violent hands were laid upon him, though he and his companions suffered a short detention, after which they succeeded in safely joining the french princes and their adherents at the city of coblentz on the rhine. here etienne spent the following winter and spring surrounded, he tells us, by many temptations. 'i was fond of solitude,' continues the diary, 'and had many retired walks through the woods and over the hills. i delighted to visit the deserted hermitages, which formerly abounded on the rhine. i envied the situation of such hermits, retired from the world, and sheltered from its many temptations; for i thought it impossible for me to live a life of purity while continuing among my associates. i looked forward wishfully to the time when i could thus retire; but i saw also that, unless i could leave behind me my earthly-mindedness, my pride, vanity, and every carnal propensity, an outward solitude could afford me no shelter. 'our army entered into france the forepart of the summer of , accompanied by the austrians and prussians. i was in the king's horse guards, which consisted mostly of the nobility. we endured great hardships, for many weeks sleeping on the bare ground, in the open air, and were sometimes in want of provisions. but that word _honour_ so inflamed us, that i marvel how contentedly we bore our privations.' towards the approach of winter, owing to various political changes, the princes' army was obliged to retire from france, and soon after was disbanded. 'etienne had been present at several engagements; he had seen many falling about him, stricken by the shafts of death; he had stood in battle array, facing the enemy ready for the conflict; but, being in a reserve corps, he was preserved from actually shedding blood, having never fought with the sword, or fired a gun.' in after years, he was thankful to remember that although he had been perfectly willing to take life, he had never actually done so in his soldier days. after the retreat of the french army, he and his brothers set out for amsterdam. on the way, however, they were made prisoners of war, and condemned to be shot. 'the execution of the sentence was each moment expected, when some sudden commotion in the hostile army gave them an opportunity to make their escape.' their lives thus having been spared a second time they reached holland in safety. the young men were puzzled what to do next. they could not bear to leave their beloved parents at distant limoges, and yet it was impossible to reach them or to help them in any way. france was a dangerous place for people with a 'de' in their names in those days, and for young men of military age most dangerous of all. finally, etienne and his brother joseph settled to go to south america. 'through the kind assistance of a republican general, a friend of the family, they obtained a passage on board a ship bound for demerara, where they arrived in the first month of , after a voyage of about forty days.' unfortunately this long voyage had not taken them away from scenes of violence. the revolution in france was terrible, but the horrors of slavery in south america were, if possible, even worse. the new world seemed no less full of tragedy than the old. etienne saw there husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters torn apart, most cruelly beaten, often sold like cattle to tyrannical masters, never to see each other's faces again. amid such scenes etienne grew more than ever full of despairing thoughts, more than ever inclined to believe that there could not be a god ruling a world where these evils were allowed to go unpunished. 'such was the impression made upon etienne by the scenes of cruelty and anguish he witnessed, that, many years after, the sound of a whip in the street would chill his blood, in the remembrance of the agony of the poor slaves; and he felt convinced that there was no excess of wickedness and malice which a slave-holder, or driver, might not be guilty of.' etienne and joseph stayed in demerara for more than two years. in the spring of they left south america and settled in long island near new york. there, they made friends with a certain colonel corsa, a man who had served in the british army, and who had a daughter who spoke french. as the two brothers at this time knew no english it was a great cheer to them in their loneliness to be able to visit at this hospitable house. one day colonel corsa happened to speak of william penn. etienne had already heard of the quaker statesman, george fox's friend, and when the young girl said she possessed penn's writings etienne asked to borrow them. he took back to his lodgings with him a large folio book, intending, with the help of a dictionary, to translate it in order to improve his english. great was his disappointment when he found that the book contained nothing about politics or statesmanship. it was about religion; and at this time etienne thought that religion was all a humbug and delusion. therefore he shut up the book and put it away, though he did not return it to its owner. one evening, about this time, as he was walking in the fields alone, suddenly the voice he had heard in his childhood spoke to him once more, close by and terribly clear: 'eternity, eternity, eternity.' these three words, he says, 'reached my very soul,--my whole man shook,--it brought me, like saul, to the ground.' the sinfulness and carelessness of his last few years passed before him. he cried out, 'if there is no god, doubtless there is a hell.' his soul was almost in hell already, for hell is despair, and etienne was very nearly despairing at that moment. only one way out remained, the way of prayer, the little mossy pathway that he used to tread when he was a child, but that he had not trodden, now, for many years. tangled, mossy, and overgrown that path was now, but it still led out from the dark wood of life where etienne had almost lost his way and his hope. etienne took that way. with his whole heart he prayed for mercy and for deliverance from the sin and horror that oppressed him. when no answer came at once he did not stop praying, but continued day and night, praying, praying for mercy. perhaps he scarcely knew to whom his prayer was addressed; but it was none the less a real prayer. he expected that the answer to it would come in some startling form that he could recognise the first minute and say: 'there! now god is answering my prayer!' instead, the answer came far more simply than he had expected. god often seems to choose to answer prayers in such a gentle, natural fashion, that his children need to watch very carefully lest they take his most radiant messengers, his most wonderful messages, almost as a matter of course. only if they recognise god's love in all that comes, planning how things shall happen, they can see his hand arranging even the tiniest details of their lives, fitting them all in, and making things work out right. then they understand how truly wonderful his answers are. the answer to etienne's prayer came through nothing more extraordinary than that same old folio book which he had borrowed from his friend miss corsa, and had put away, thinking it too dull to translate. he took it out again, and opened upon a part called 'no cross, no crown.' 'i proceeded,' he says, 'to read it with the help of my dictionary, having to look for the meaning of nearly every word.' when he had finished, he read it straight through again. 'i had never met with anything of the kind before,' and all the time he was reading the voice inside his heart kept on saying, 'yes, yes, yes, that is true!' 'i now withdrew from company, and spent most of my time in retirement, and in silent waiting upon god. i began to read the bible, with the aid of my dictionary, for i had none then in french. i was much of a stranger to the inspired records. i had not even seen them before that i remember; what i had heard of any part of their contents, was only detached portions in prayer books. 'whilst the fallow ground of my heart was thus preparing, my brother and myself, being one day at colonel corsa's, heard that a meeting was appointed to be held next day in the friends' meeting-house, by two englishwomen, to which we were invited. the friends were deborah darby and rebecca young. the sight of them brought solemn feelings over me; but i soon forgot all things around me; for, in an inward silent frame of mind, seeking for the divine presence, i was favoured to find _in_ me, what i had so long, and with so many tears, sought for _without_ me. my brother, who sat beside me, and to whom the silence, in which the forepart of the meeting was held, was irksome, repeatedly whispered to me, "let us go away." but i felt the lord's power in such a manner, that a secret joy filled me, in that i had found him after whom my soul had longed. i was as one nailed to my seat. shortly after, one or two men friends in the ministry spoke, but i could understand very little of what they said. after them deborah darby and rebecca young spoke also; but i was so gathered in the temple of my heart before god, that i was wholly absorbed with what was passing there. thus had the lord opened my heart to seek him where he is to be found. 'my brother and myself were invited to dine in the company of these friends, at colonel corsa's. there was a religious opportunity after dinner, in which several communications were made. i could hardly understand a word of what was said, but, as deborah darby began to address my brother and myself, it seemed as if the lord opened my outward ear, and my heart. she seemed like one reading the pages of my heart, with clearness describing how it had been, and how it was with me. o what sweetness did i then feel! it was indeed a memorable day. i was like one introduced into a new world; the creation, and all things around me, bore a different aspect, my heart glowed with love to all.... o how can the extent of the lord's love, mercy, pity, and tender compassion be fathomed!' after the visit of the two friends had made this change in his life etienne decided to give up his french name and title, and to be no longer etienne de grellet, the french nobleman, but plain stephen grellet, the teacher of languages. later on, he was to become stephen grellet the quaker preacher; but the time for that had not yet come. after deborah darby's visit he went regularly to the friends' meetings in long island, but they were held for the most part in complete silence, and sad to say not one of the friends ever spoke to him afterwards. he missed their friendliness all the more because the people he was lodging with could not bear his attending quaker meetings, and tried to make him give up going to such unfashionable assemblies. his brother, joseph, also could not understand what had come to him, and both joseph and the lodging-house people teased poor stephen about his quaker leanings, till he, who had been brave enough when his life was in danger, was a coward before their mockery. he did not want to give up going to his dear meeting, but he hated to be ridiculed. at first he tried to give up meeting, but this disobedience gave him, he says, 'a feeling of misery.' when the next sunday came he tried another plan. he went to the meeting-house by roundabout ways 'through fields and over fences, ashamed to be seen by any one on the road.' when he reached the meeting-house by these by-lanes, the door was closed. no meeting was to be held there that day. the friends happened to have gone to another place. stephen, therefore, sat down, 'in a retired place and in a very tried state,' to think the whole question over again, with much humility. he decided that henceforth, come what might, he would not be a coward; and he kept his resolution. the next sunday he went to meeting 'though it rained hard and i had about three miles to walk.' henceforward he attended meeting regularly, and at last his brother ceased reproaching him for his quakerism, and one sunday he actually came to meeting too. this time joseph also enjoyed the silence and followed the worship. 'from that time he attended meetings diligently, and was a great comfort to me. but, during all that period,' stephen continues, 'we had no intercourse with any of the members of the religious society of friends.' these friends still took no notice of the two strangers. they seem to have been friends only in name. about this time bad news came from france. 'my dear mother wrote to me that the granaries we had at our country seat had been secured by the revolutionary party, as well as every article of food in our town house. my mother and my younger brother were only allowed the scanty pittance of a peck of mouldy horse-beans per week. my dear father was shut up in prison, with an equally scanty allowance. but it was before i was acquainted with the sufferings of my beloved parents, that the consideration of the general scarcity prevailing in the country led me to think how wrong it was for me to wear powder on my head, the ground of which i knew to be pride.' he gave up powder from this time. it would not be much of a sacrifice nowadays, but it was a very real one then, when powder was supposed to be the distinguishing mark of a gentleman. the two brothers were now obliged to learn to support themselves. all their estates in france had been seized. 'our means began to be low, and yet our feelings for the sufferings in which our beloved parents might be involved, caused us to forget ourselves, strangers in a strange country, and to forward them a few hundred dollars we had yet left.' it was no easy matter to find employment. the brothers went on to new york, and there at last the friends were kind: friends in deed and not in name only. they found a situation for joseph in new york itself, and arranged for stephen to go to philadelphia, where he was more likely to find work. and at philadelphia the friends were, if possible, even kinder to him than the friends at new york. they were spiritual fathers and mothers to him, he says, and seemed to know exactly what he was feeling. 'they had but little to say in words, but i often felt that my spirit was refreshed and strengthened in their company.' at philadelphia, he had many offers of tempting employment, but he decided to continue as a teacher of languages in a school. he gave his whole mind to his school work while he was at it, and out of school hours wandered about entirely care free. but although he was a teacher of languages and although the english of his journals is scrupulously careful, it has often a slight foreign stiffness and formality. he was often afraid in his early years of making mistakes and not speaking quite correctly. there is a story that long afterwards, when he was in england and was taking his leave of some schoolgirls, he wished to say to them that he hoped they might be preserved safely. but in the agitation of his departure he chose the wrong words. his parting injunction, therefore, never faded from the girls' memory: 'my dear young friends, may the lord _pickle_ you, his dear little _muttons_.' if, even as an old man, stephen was liable to fall into such pitfalls as this, it is easy to understand that in his earlier years the fear of making mistakes must have been a real terror to him, especially when he thought of speaking in meeting. very soon after he became a friend he felt, with great dread, that the beautiful, comforting messages that refreshed his own soul were meant to be shared with others. months, if not years, of struggle followed, before he could rise in his place in meeting and obey this inward prompting. but directly he did so, his fears of making a mistake, or being laughed at, vanished utterly away. after agony, came joy. 'the lord shewed me how he is mouth, wisdom and utterance to his true and faithful ministers; that it is from him alone that they are to communicate to the people, and also the _when_ and the _how_.' at that first meeting, after stephen had given his message and sat down again, several friends, whose blessing he specially valued, also spoke and said how thankful they were for his words. among those present that day was that same william savery, who, in the last story, had a bundle of valuable hides stolen from his tanyard, and punished the thief, when he came to return the hides, by loading him with kindness and giving him a good situation. certainly william savery would not tell the story of 'the man who was not john smith' to stephen grellet on that particular day; for stephen was so filled with the thankful wonder that follows obedience, that he had no thought for outside things. 'for some days after this act of dedication,' he says, 'my peace flowed as a river.' in the autumn of this year ( ), stephen grellet, the french nobleman, became a friend. about two years later, he was acknowledged as a minister by the society. 'in those days,' he writes, 'my mind dwelt much on the nature of the hope of redemption through jesus christ.... i felt that the best testimony i could bear was to evince by my life what he had actually done for me.' henceforth stephen's life was spent in trying to make known to others the joy that had overflowed his own soul. he did indeed 'put the things that he had learned in practice,' as he journeyed over both europe and america, time after time, visiting high and low. his life is one long record of adventures, of perils surmounted, of hairbreadth escapes, of constant toil and of much plodding, humdrum service too. his message brought him into the strangest situations, as he gave it fearlessly. he sought an interview with the pope at rome in order to remonstrate with him about the state of the prisons in the papal states. stephen gave his message with perfect candour, and afterwards entered into conversation with the pope. finally, he says, 'as i felt the love of christ flowing in my heart towards him, i particularly addressed him.... the pope ... kept his head inclined and appeared tender, while i thus addressed him; then rising from his seat, in a kind and respectful manner, he expressed his desire that "the lord would bless and protect me wherever i went," on which i left him.' not satisfied with that, though it seems wonderful enough, stephen another time induced the czar of all the russias, alexander i., to attend westminster meeting. both these stories are well worth telling. but there is one story about stephen, better worth telling still, and that is how the voice that guided him all over the world sent him one day 'preaching to nobody' in a lonely forest clearing in the far backwoods of america. footnotes: [ ] 'from my earliest days,' he writes, 'there was that in me that would not allow me implicitly to believe the various doctrines i was taught.' xxxii. preaching to nobody _'all the artillery in the world, were they all discharged together at one clap, could not more deaf the ears of our bodies than the clamourings of desires in the soul deaf its ears, so you see a man must go into silence or else he cannot hear god speak.'_--john everard. . _'god forces none, for love cannot compel, and god's service is therefore a thing of complete freedom.... the thing which hinders and has always hindered is that our wills are different from god's will. god never seeks himself, in his willing--we do. there is no other way to blessedness than to lose one's self will'_--hans denck. . _'the inward command is never wanting in the due season to any duty.'_--r. barclay. . _'i think i can reverently say that i very much doubt whether, since the lord by his grace brought me into the faith of his dear son, i have ever broken bread or drunk wine, even in the ordinary course of life, without the remembrance of, and some devout feeling regarding the broken body and the blood-shedding of my dear lord and saviour.'_--stephen grellet. _'one loving spirit sets another on fire.'_--augustine. xxxii. preaching to nobody stephen grellet, after much waiting on the lord to shew him his will, was directed by the spirit to take a long journey into the backwoods of america, and preach the gospel to some woodcutters who were felling forest timber.'[ ] at first stephen did not know which was the wood he was meant to visit, having travelled through hundreds of miles of forests on his journey. so he waited very quietly, his heart as still as a clear lake, ready to reflect anything god might show him. suddenly a picture came. he remembered a lonely forest clearing, far away. workmen's huts were dotted about here and there, and a big wooden building rose in the midst of the clearing. all around were woodcutters, some busy sawing timber, some marking the tall forest trees, others carting huge logs and piling them at a little distance. stephen now remembered the place well. he remembered, too, the workmen's rough faces, and the wild shouts that filled the air as he had passed by on horseback. he had noticed a faint film of blue smoke curling up from the large building, and he had supposed that that must be the dining-shanty where the workmen's food was prepared and where they had their meals. he remembered having thought to himself, 'a lonely life and a wild one!' but the place had not made a deep impression on his mind, and he had forgotten it as he journeyed, in the joy of getting nearer home. now, suddenly, that forest clearing, with the huts and the dining-shanty and the busy woodmen all round, came back to him as vividly as a picture in a magic-lantern view, while a voice said, distinctly but very gently in his own heart, so that only he could hear, 'go back there and preach to those lonely men.' stephen knew quite well whose voice it was that was speaking to him, for he had loved and followed that voice for many years. obedience was easy now. he said at once, 'yes, i will go;' and saying good-bye to his wife, he left his home, and set forth again into the forest. as he journeyed, a flood of happiness came over his soul. the long ride through the lonely woods, day after day, no longer seemed tedious. he was absolutely alone, but he never felt the least bit lonely. it was as if someone were journeying with him all the way, the invisible friend whose voice he knew and loved and obeyed. when at length he drew near the clearing in the forest, he both trembled and rejoiced, at the thought of soon being able to deliver his message to the woodmen. coming yet nearer, however, he no longer saw any blue smoke curling up in a thin spiral between the straight stems of the forest trees. neither did he hear any sound of saws sawing timber, or the men shouting to their horses. the whole place was silent and deserted. when he reached the clearing, nobody was there. even the huts had gone. he would have thought he had mistaken the place if the dining-shanty had not been there, by the edge of a little trickling stream, just as he remembered it. nowhere was there a living soul to be seen. evidently all the woodmen had gone away deeper into the forest to find fresh timber, for the clearing was much larger and many more trees had been cut down than on stephen's first visit. the neglected look of the one big wooden hut that remained showed that the men had not used it for many days. weeks might pass before any of the woodcutters returned. what was stephen to do? he had no idea in which direction the woodmen had departed. it was hopeless to think of tracking them further through the lonely forest glades. had the voice made a mistake? could he have misunderstood the command? was the whole expedition a failure? must he return home with his message still undelivered? his heart burned within him at the thought, and he said, half aloud, 'no, no, no!' there was only one way out of the difficulty, the same way that had helped him to learn his latin lesson years ago when he was a little boy. but it was no tiny mossy track now, it was a broad, well-marked road travelled daily, hourly, through long years,--this prayer way that led his soul to god. tying up his horse to the nearest tree, stephen knelt down on the carpet of red-brown pine-needles, and put up a wordless prayer for guidance and help. then he began to listen. through the windless silence of the forest spaces the voice came again more clearly than ever, saying: 'give your message. it is not yours but mine.' stephen hesitated no longer. he went straight into the dining-shanty. he strode past the bare empty tables, under which the long grass and flowers were already growing thick and tall. he went straight up to the end of the room, and there, standing on a form, as if the place had been filled with one or two hundred eager listeners, although no single human being was to be seen, he preached, as he had never yet preached in his life. the love of god, the 'love that will not let us go,' seemed to him the most real thing in the whole world. all his life he had longed to find an anchor for his soul. now that he had found it, he must help others to find it too. why doesn't everyone find it? ah! there he began to speak of sin; how sin builds up a wall between our hearts and god; how, in jesus christ, that wall has been thrown down once for all, and now there is nothing to keep us apart except our own blindness and pride; and how if we will only turn round and open our hearts to him, he is longing to come in and dwell with us. as stephen went on, he pleaded yet more earnestly. he thought of the absent woodcutters. he felt that he loved every single one of those wild, rough men; and if he loved them, he, a stranger, how much more dear must they be to their heavenly father. 'grant me to win each single soul for thee, o lord,' he pleaded, 'each single soul for thee.' where were they all now, these men to whom he had come to speak? he could not find them. but god could. god was their shepherd. even if his messenger failed, the good shepherd would seek on until he found each single wandering soul that he loved. 'and when the shepherd findeth the lost sheep, after leaving the ninety and nine in the wilderness, how does he bring it home? does he whip it? does he threaten it? no such thing! he carries it on his shoulder and deals most tenderly with the poor, weary, wandering one.' while he was speaking he thought of the absent woodcutters with an evergrowing desire to help them. he thought of the hard lives they were forced to lead, of the temptations they must meet with daily, and of the lack of all outward help towards a better life. as he repeated the words again, 'grant me, o lord, to win these lost sheep of thine back to thee and to thy service; help me to win each single soul for thee,' he felt as if, somehow, his voice, his prayer, must reach the men he sought, even though hundreds of miles of desolate forest lay between. towards the end of his sermon, the tears ran down his cheeks. at last, utterly exhausted by the strength of his desire he sat down once more, and, throwing his arms on the rough board before him, he hid his face in his hands. a long time passed; the silence grew ever more intense. at last stephen lifted his head. he felt as tired as if he had gone a long journey since he entered the wooden building. yet it was all exactly the same as when he had come in an hour before,--the rows of empty forms and the bare tables, with grass and flowers growing up between them. stephen's eyes wandered out through the open door. he noticed a thick mug of earthenware lying beside the path outside, evidently left behind by the woodcutters as not worth taking with them. a common earthenware mug it was, of coarse material and ugly shape; and cracked. as stephen's eyes fell upon it, he felt as if he hated that mug more than he had ever before hated anything in his life. it seemed to have been left behind there, on purpose to mock him. here he was with only an earthenware mug in sight, he who might have been surrounded by the exquisite and delicate porcelain that he remembered in his father's factory at limoges. all that beauty and luxury belonged to him by right; they might still have been his, if only he had not listened for years to the voice. and now the voice had led him on this fool's errand. here he was, preaching to nobody, and looking at a cracked mug. was his whole life a mistake? a delusion? 'am i a fool after all?' he asked himself bitterly. he was in the sad, bitter mood that is called 'reaction.' strangely enough, it often seizes people just when they have done some particularly difficult piece of work for their master. perhaps it comes to keep them from thinking that they can finish anything in their own strength alone. stephen was in the grip of this mood now. happily he had wrestled with the same sort of temptation many times before. he knew it of old; he knew, too, that the best way to meet it is to face this giant reaction boldly, as christian faced apollyon, to wrestle with it and so to overcome. he went straight out of the door to where the mug was lying, and took up that mug, that cracked mug, in his hands, more reverently than if it had been a vase of the most precious and fragile porcelain. he took it up, and accepted it, this thing he hated worst of all. if life had led him only to a cracked mug, at least he would accept that mug and use it as best he could. carrying it in his hands, he walked to the little stream whose gentle murmur came through the tall grasses close at hand. there he knelt down, cleansed the mug carefully, filled it with water, and putting it to his lips, he drank a long refreshing draught. in his pocket he found a crust of bread. he took it out, broke it in two pieces, and then drank again. only a piece of dry bread! only a drink of cold water in a cracked cup! no meal could be simpler. yet stephen ate and drank with a kind of awe, enfolded in a sustaining, life-giving presence. he knew that he was not alone; he knew that another was with him, feeding and refreshing his inmost soul, as he drank of the clear, cold water and ate the broken bread. a wonderful peace and gladness fell upon his spirit as he knelt in the sunny air. the silence of the great forest was itself a song of praise. he rode homewards like a man in a dream. day after day as he journeyed, the brooding peace grew and deepened. even the forest pathways looked different as he travelled through them on his homeward way. they had been full of trustful obedience before. they were filled with thankfulness now. but the deepest thankfulness was in stephen's own heart. * * * * * is that the end of the story? for many years that was the end. stephen never forgot his mysterious journey into the backwoods. he often wondered why the voice had sent him there. nevertheless he knew, for certain and past all doubting, that he had done right to go. perhaps gradually the memory faded a little and became dim.... * * * * * anyway nothing was further from his thoughts than the lonely backwoods of america one afternoon, years after, when on one of his journeys in europe his business led him across london bridge. the bridge was crowded with traffic. everyone was bustling to and fro, intent on his own business or pleasure. not many people had leisure to notice one slight figure distinguished by a foreign air of courtliness and grace, in spite of the stiff, severe lines of its quaker hat and coat. not many people, even if they had noticed the earnest face under the broad-brimmed hat, would have stopped to gaze a second time upon it that busy afternoon. not many people. but one man did. as stephen was hastening across the crowded bridge, suddenly he felt himself seized roughly by the shoulders, and he heard a gruff voice exclaiming: 'there you are! i have found you at last, have i?' deep down inside stephen grellet, the quaker preacher, there still remained a few traces of the fastidious french noble, etienne de grellet. the traces had been buried deep down by this time, but there they still were. they leapt suddenly to light, that busy afternoon on london bridge. neither french nobleman nor quaker preacher liked to be seized in such unceremonious fashion. 'friend,' he remonstrated, drawing himself gently away, 'i think that thou art mistaken.' 'no, i am not,' rejoined the other, his grip tighter than ever. 'when you have sought a man over the face of the globe year after year, you don't make a mistake when you find him at last. not you! not me either! i'm not mistaken, and i don't let you go now i've found you after all these years, with your same little dapper, black, cut-away coat, that i thought so queer; and your broad-brimmed hat that i well remember. never heard a man preach with his hat on before!' 'hast thou heard me preach, friend? why then didst thou not speak to me afterwards if thou wished?' 'but i didn't wish!' answered the stranger, 'nothing i wished for less!' 'where was it?' enquired stephen. 'why, i heard you preaching to nobody, years and years ago,' the man returned. 'at least you supposed you were preaching to nobody. really, you were preaching to me. cut me to the heart you did too, i can tell you.' a dawning light of comprehension came into stephen's face as the other went on: 'didn't you preach in a deserted dining-shanty in the backwoods of america near----' (and he named the place), 'on such a day and in such a year?' he asked these questions in a loud voice, regardless of the astonished looks of the passers-by, still holding tight to the edge of stephen's coat with one hand, and shaking the forefinger of the other in stephen's face as he spoke, to emphasize each word. by this time all traces of etienne, the fastidious french nobleman, had utterly disappeared. stephen grellet, the minister of christ, was alive now to the tips of his fingers. his whole soul was in his eyes as he gazed at his questioner. was that old, old riddle going to find its answer at last? 'wast thou there?' he enquired breathlessly. 'impossible! i must have seen thee!' 'i was there, right enough,' answered the man. 'but you did not see me, because i took very good care that you should not. at first i thought you were a lunatic, preaching to a lot of forms and tables like that, and better left alone. then, afterwards, i wouldn't let you see me, for fear you should see also that your words had gone in deeper than i cared to show. i was the ganger of the woodmen,' he continued, taking stephen's arm in his and compelling the little quaker to walk beside him as he talked. 'it all happened in this way. we had moved forth into the forest, and were putting up more shanties to live in, when i discovered that i had left my lever at the old settlement. so, after setting my men to work, i came back alone for my instrument. as i approached the old place, i heard a voice. trembling and agitated, i drew near, i saw you through the chinks of the timber walls of our dining-shanty, i listened to you; and as i listened, your words went through a chink in my heart too, though its walls were thicker than those of any dining-shanty. i was determined you should not see me. i crept away and went back to my men. the arrow stuck fast. i was miserable for many weeks. i had no bible, no book of any kind, not a creature to ask about better things.' 'poor sheep! poor lost sheep!' stephen murmured gently; 'i knew it; i knew it! the good shepherd knew it too!' 'we were a rough lot in those days,' continued the other, 'worse than rough, bad; worse than bad, wicked. there wasn't much about sin that we didn't know among us, didn't enjoy too, after a fashion. that was why your sermon made me so miserable. seemed to know just all about the lot of us, you did. after it, for weeks i went on getting more and more wretched. there seemed nothing to do, me not being able to find you, but to try and get hold of the book that had put you up to it. none of us had such a thing, of course. it was a long time before i could lay hands on one. me and a bible! how the men laughed! but they stopped laughing before i had done with them. i read and read till i found what you had said about the good shepherd and the lost sheep--'and god so loved the world,' and at last--eternal life. and then i wasn't going to keep that to myself. it's share and share alike out in the backwoods, i can tell you. i told my men all about it, just like you. i never let 'em alone, i gave them no peace till they were one and all brought home to god--every single one! i heard you asking him: "every single soul for thy service, every single soul for thee, o lord." that was what you asked him for,--that, and more than that, he gave. it's always the way! when the lord begins to answer, he does answer! every single one of those men was brought home to him. but it didn't stop there. three of them became missionaries, to go and bring others back to the fold in their turn. i tell you the solemn truth. already one thousand lost sheep, if not more, have been brought home to the good shepherd through that sermon of yours, that day in the backwoods, when you thought you were preaching to nobody!' footnotes: [ ] _the american friend_, th november . come-to-good _'flowers are the little faces of god.'--(a saying of some little children.)_ _'to the soul that feeds on the bread of life the outward conventions of religion are no longer needful. hid with christ in god there is for him small place for outward rites, for all experience is a holy baptism, a perpetual supper with the lord, and all life a sacrifice holy and acceptable unto god._ _'this hidden life, this inward vision, this immediate and intimate union between the soul and god, this, as revealed in jesus christ, is the basis of the quaker faith.'_--j.w. rowntree. _'here the pure mind is known, and the pure god is waited upon for wisdom from above; and the peace, which hath no end, is enjoyed.... and the light of god that calls your minds out of the creatures, turns them to god, to an endless being, joy and peace: here is a seeing god always present.... so fare you well! and god almighty bless, guide and keep you all in his wisdom.'_--george fox. come-to-good _one more meeting-house to visit; the last and the smallest of all. a meeting-house with no story, except the story in its name. '"come-to-good!"' boys and girls from other counties will exclaim perhaps, 'whoever heard of such a place? why did people not call it "come-to-harm," or "ne'er-do-weel," while they were about it?'_ _cornish boys and girls know better. they will explain that in their far western corner of england there has always been an idea, and a very good idea it is, that a name should really describe the place to which it belongs, and should tell the hearer something about its character. thus it comes to pass that on one tidal river a certain creek, covered with salt sea-water at high tide, but showing only an expanse of muddy flats at low water, is called 'cockles' peep out.' another creek, near by, is known as 'frenchman's pill,' because some french prisoners were sent there for safety during the napoleonic wars. then, too, a busy sea-port was once called 'penny come quick,' with good reason; and another out-of-the-way place 'hard to come by,' which explains itself. most romantic of all, the valley where king charles's army lost a battle long ago is still known as 'fine and brave.' there, the country people say, headless ghosts of defeated cavaliers may still be seen on moonlight nights riding up and down, carrying their own plumed-hatted heads under their arms. all over the county these story places are to be found. the more odd a cornish name sounds at the first hearing, the more apt it will often prove, when the reason for it is understood._ _thus it is not strange that a lonely, shut-in valley, folded away between two steep hills, should be known as 'come-to-good,' since, for more than two centuries, men and women, and little children also, have 'come to good' in that remote and hidden place. there, surrounded by sheltering trees, stands the little old meeting-house. its high thatched roof projects, like a bushy eyebrow, over the low white walls and thick white buttresses, shading the three narrow casement windows of pale-green glass with their diamond lattice panes. the windows are almost hidden by the roof; the roof is almost hidden by the trees; and the trees are almost hidden by the hills that rise above them. therefore the pilgrim always comes upon the meeting-house with a certain sense of surprise, so carefully is it concealed;--like a most secret and precious thought._ _the bare cornish uplands and wide moors have a trick of hiding away these rich, fertile valleys, that have given rise to the proverb: 'cornwall is a lady, whose beauty is seen in her wrinkles.' yet, hidden away as it is, 'come-to-good' has drawn people to it for centuries. in all the country round, for generations past, one sunday in august has been known as 'come-to-good sunday,' because, on that day, the friends assemble from three or four distant towns to hold their meeting there. and not the friends only. no bell has ever broken the stillness of that peaceful valley, yet for miles round, on a 'meeting sunday,' the lanes are full of small groups of people: parents and children; farm lads and lasses; thoughtful-faced men, who admit that 'they never go anywhere else'; shy lovers lingering behind, or whole families walking together. all are to be seen on their way to refresh their souls with the hour of quiet worship in the snowy white meeting-house under its thatched roof._ * * * * * _many years ago, little lois (whom you read about at the beginning of this book) was taken to come-to-good for the first time on such a sunday, by her grandmother. even now, whenever she goes there, she still seems to see that dear grandmother's tall, erect figure, in its flowing black silk mantle and quaker bonnet, walking with stately steps up the path in front; or stooping for once--she who never stooped!--to enter the little low door. people who did not know her well, and even some who did, occasionally felt lois' 'dear grandmamma' rather a formidable old lady. they said she was 'severe' and 'alarmingly dignified,' and 'she says straight out just exactly what she thinks.' certainly, she was not one of the spoiling, indulgent, eiderdown-silk-cushion kind of grannies that some children have now; but lois loved her with all her heart and was never really afraid of her. what stories she could tell! what wonderful stockings full of treasures santa claus brought down her chimneys on christmas eve to the happy grandchild staying with her! lois loved to sit beside her 'dear grandmamma,' and to watch her in her corner by the fire, upright as ever, knitting. even on the long drive to come-to-good, the feeling of her smooth, calm hand had soothed the restless little fingers held in it so firmly and gently. the drive over, lois wondered what would happen to her in the strange meeting-house when she might not sit by that dear grandmother's side any longer, since she, of course, would have to be up in the ministers' gallery, with all the other 'weighty friends.' but, at come-to-good, things always turn out right. lois found, to her delight, that she and the other boys and girls were to be allowed to creep, very quietly, up the twisty wooden stairs at the far end of the meeting-house, and to make their way up into the 'loft' where four or five low forms had been specially placed for them. lois loved to find herself sitting there. she felt like a little white pigeon, high up on a perch, able to see over the heads of all the people below, and able even to look down on the grave faces of the ministers opposite. the row of broad-brimmed hats and coal-scuttle bonnets looked entirely different and much more attractive, seen from above, than when she looked up at them in meeting at home. then, when some one rose to speak, lois liked to watch the ripple that passed over the heads beneath her, as all the faces turned towards the speaker. or when everybody, moved by the same impulse, stood up during a prayer or sat down at its close, it was as fascinating to watch them gently rise and gently sit down again as it was to watch the wind sweep over the sea, curling it up into waves or wavelets, or the breeze rippling over a broad field of blue-green june barley. lois never remembered the time when she was too small to enjoy those two sights. 'i do like watching something i can't see, moving something i can!' she used to think. to watch a meeting, from the loft at come-to-good, was rather like that, she felt; though years had to pass before she found out the reason why._ _out of doors, when the quiet hour of worship was over, other delights were waiting. the small old white meeting-house is surrounded by a yet older, small green burial-ground, where long grasses, and flowers innumerable, cover the gentle slopes. the soft mounds cluster closely around the walls; as if those who were laid there had wished that their bodies might rest as near as possible to the house of peace where their spirits had rested while on earth._ _further off the mounds are fewer; the grassy spaces between them grow wider; till it becomes difficult to tell which are graves and which are just grassy hillocks. further still, the old burial-ground dips down, and loses itself entirely, and becomes first a wood, then frankly an orchard that fills up the bottom of the valley, through which a clear brown stream goes wandering._ _yet, midway on the hilly slope above, half hidden gravestones can still be discerned, among the grass and flowers; shining through them, like a smile that was once a sorrow. small, grey, perfectly plain stones they are, all exactly alike, as is the custom in friends' graveyards, where to be allowed a headstone at all, was, at one time, considered 'rather gay'! each stone bears nothing but a name upon it and sometimes a date. 'honor magor' is the name carved on one of the oldest stooping stones, and under it a date nearly years old. that is all. lois used to wonder who honor magor was,--an old woman? a young one? or possibly even a little girl? where did she live when she was alive? how did she come to be buried there? but there are no answers to any of these questions; and there is no need to know more than that the tired body of honor magor has been resting peacefully for nearly a century, hidden under the tangle of waving grasses and ever-changing flowers at come-to-good._ _ever-changing flowers? yes; because the changing of the seasons is more marked there than at other places. for come-to-good lies so many miles from any town, the tide of life has ebbed away so far from this quiet pool, that, for a long time past, meetings have only been held here four times in the year. summer, autumn, winter, and spring,--each season brings its own sunday. then, and for a week or two beforehand, the topmost bar of every wooden gate in the neighbourhood bears a modest piece of white paper announcing that 'a friends' meeting will be held at come-to-good on the following first day morning, at eleven o'clock, when the company of any who are inclined to attend will be acceptable.'_ _august sunday brings deep, red roses tossing themselves up, like a crimson fountain, against the grey thatched roof. november sunday has its own treasures: sweet, late blackberries, crimson and golden leaves, perhaps even a few late hazel nuts and acorns still hiding down in the wood. in february, the first gummy stars of the celandine are to be seen peeping out from under the hedge, while a demure little procession of white and green snowdrops walks primly up the narrow path to meeting. the 'fair maids of february' seem to have an especial love for this quiet spot._ _but in may--ah! may is the best sunday of all. in may not only is the whole valley knee-deep in grass and ferns and flowers and bluebells. there is something still better! in may the burial-ground is all singing and tinkling silently with fairy spires of columbines. garden flowers in most other places, they are quite wild here. purple and deep-blue and pale-pink columbines are growing up everywhere; each flower with its own little pairs of twin turtle-doves hidden away inside. even white columbine, rarest of all, has been found in that magic valley. i am afraid lois thought longingly, all through the silence on a may sunday, of the nosegay of columbines she meant to gather afterwards. directly meeting was over, the children pelted down very fast from the loft. numbers of little feet flew across the sunlit grass, while the elder friends were walking sedately down the path to the gate._ _'o columbine, open your folded wrapper, where two twin turtle-doves dwell,'_ _chanted the children as they frolicked about, forgetting that they had been stiff with sitting so long in meeting, as they gathered handfuls of their treasures._ _all too soon they would hear the call: 'come, children! it is time to be going.' and then they would scamper back, their hands full of their dear dove flowers. no wonder they felt that in leaving this sunny spot they were leaving one of the happiest places on earth. if only they could stay there! if only some one could be enjoying it always! what a pity that on the forty-eight other sundays of the year it should all be deserted, shut up and forsaken! there might be numbers of other wonderful flowers that nobody ever saw. there the old meeting-house stays all by itself the whole year round, except on those four sundays, even as a lonely pool of clear water remains high up on the rocks, showing that the great sea itself did come there once, long ago, flowing in mightily, filling up all the bare chinks and crannies._ _will such a high tide ever come back again to come-to-good? is that tide perhaps beginning to flow in, noiselessly and steadily, even now?_ _some things look rather as if it might be; for new friends' meeting-houses are being built in crowded cities to-day where even the high tide of long ago never came. but then, in lonely country places like come-to-good, scattered up and down all over england, there are many of these deserted meeting-houses, where hardly anybody comes now or only comes out of curiosity. yet the high tide did fill them all once long ago, full to overflowing, when people met within their walls constantly, seeking and finding god._ * * * * * _the stories in this book about our 'quaker saints' show at what a cost these deserted places were won for us by our brave forefathers. they, with their health and their lives gladly given in those terrible prisons of long ago, gained for us our liberty to meet together 'in numbers five or more,' to practise a 'form of worship not authorised by law'; that is to say, without any prayer-book or set form of service being used._ _is our simple quaker way of worship really worth the price they paid for it? or is it merely a quaint and interesting relic of a by-gone age, something like the 'friend's bonnet' that lois' grandmother wore as a matter of course, which now is never used, but lies in a drawer, carefully covered with tissue paper and fragrant with lavender?_ _is our quaker faith like that? is it something antiquated and interesting, but of no real use to us or to anybody to-day? or did these 'quaker saints' of whom we have heard, did they, and many other brave men and women, whose stories are not written here, really and truly make a big discovery? did they, by their living and by their dying, remind the world of a truth that it had been in danger of forgetting? a truth that may still be in danger of being forgotten if quite ordinary, everyday people are not faithful now in their turn?_ [illustration: a friends' meeting] _is it really and truly true, that where two or three humble human souls are gathered together in his name, in the simplest possible fashion, without any priest, or altar, or visible signs to help them, yet our lord is there? can he be indeed among them still to-day? and will he be forever, as he promised? feeding them himself with the true bread of life, satisfying their thirst with living water, baptizing their souls with power and with peace?--_ _children dear, you must answer these questions for yourselves, fearlessly and honestly. no one else can answer them for you. the answers may seem long in coming, but do not be in a hurry. they will come in time, if you seek steadfastly and humbly. only remember one thing, as you think over these questions. even if this is our way, the right way for us, this very simple quaker way that our forefathers won for us at such a cost, still that does not necessarily make it the right way for all other people too. god's world and god's plans are much bigger than that. he brings his children home by numbers of different paths, but for each child of his, god's straight way for that child is the very best._ _the wise old persians had a proverb, 'the ways unto god are as the number of the souls of the children of men.' let us remember this, if we ever want to try to force other people to think about things exactly as we do. let us remember, too, that rivalry and pride, that saying, or even thinking, 'my way is the only right way, and a much better way than your way,' is the only really antiquated kind of worship. the sooner we all learn to lay that aside, not in lavender and tissue paper, but to cast it away utterly and forget that it ever existed,--the better._ _it is not a bit of an excuse for us when we are inclined to judge other people critically, to read in these stories that some of the early friends did and said harsh and intolerant things. they lived in a much harsher, more intolerant age than ours. the seventeenth century, as we know, has been called 'a dreadfully ill-mannered century.' let us do our very best not to give any one an excuse for saying the same of this twentieth century in which we live. thus, in reading of these quaker saints, let us try to copy, not their harshness or their intolerance, but their unflinching courage, their firm steadfastness, their burning hope for every man; above all, their unconquerable love._ _remember the old lesson of the daisies. each flower must open itself as wide as ever it can, in order to receive all that the sun wants to give to it. but, while each daisy receives its own ray of sunshine thankfully and gladly, it must rejoice that other very different rays, at very different angles, can reach other flowers. yet the sun heart from which they all come is one and the same. all the different ways of worship are one too, when they meet in the centre._ _therefore it is not strange that at little secluded come-to-good, where the blue doves of the columbines keep watch over the quiet graves, i should remember a message that came to me in another, very different, house of god--a magnificent cathedral far away in south italy. there, high up, above the lights and pictures and flowers and ornaments of the altar, half hidden at times by the clouds of ascending incense, i caught the shining of great golden letters. gradually, as i watched, they formed themselves into these three words of old latin:_ deus absconditus heic. _and the golden message meant:_ '_god is hidden here._' _that is the secret all these different ways of worship are meant to teach us, if we will only learn. let us not judge one another, not ever dream of judging one another any more. only, wherever our own way of worship leads us, let us seek to follow it diligently, dutifully, humbly, and to the end. then, not only when we are worshipping with our brothers and sisters around us, in church, chapel, great cathedral, or quiet meeting-house, but also (perhaps nearest and closest of all) in the silence of our own hearts, we shall surely find in truth and with thankfulness that_ god is hidden here. historical notes historical notes note.--the references throughout are to the cambridge edition of george fox's journal, except where otherwise stated. the spelling has been modernised and the extracts occasionally abridged. 'stiff as a tree, pure as a bell.' historical; described as closely as possible from george fox's own words in his journal, vol. ii. pp. , - . 'pure foy, ma joye.' historical. see george fox's journal (ellwood edition), pp. - . see also sewel's 'history of the quakers,' and 'beginnings of quakerism,' by w.c. braithwaite. see 'george fox,' by thomas hodgkin (leaders of religion series), for description of fenny drayton village, manor house, church, and neighbourhood. see also w. penn's preface to george fox's journal (ellwood edition), pp. xxiv and xxv, for details of parentage, childhood, and youth. 'the angel of beverley.' this is a purely imaginary story, written for a ten-year-old listener who begged for 'more of a story about him when he was young.' the connection of a member of the purefoy family with the 'great lady of beverley' has no foundation in fact. on visiting fenny drayton, since writing the story, i find, however, that there were a brother and sister edward and joyce purefoy, who lived a few years earlier than the date of this tale. they may still be seen in marble on a tomb in the north aisle with their father, the colonel purefoy of that day, who does wear a ruff as described in the story. it is not impossible that the colonel purefoy of george fox's journal may also have had a son and daughter of the same names as described in my account, but i have no warrant for supposing this and am anxious that this imaginary tale should not be supposed to possess the same kind of authenticity as most of the other stories. priest stephens' remark about george fox, and the scenes in beverley minster and at justice hotham's house, are, however, historical. 'taming the tiger.' historical. see george fox's journal (ellwood edition), pp. , , - , , for the different incidents. 'the man in leather breeches.' expanded, with imaginary incidents and consequences, from a few paragraphs in george fox's journal, i. . 'the shepherd of pendle hill.' expanded from george fox's journal, i. . n.b.--the shepherd, who is the speaker, is a wholly imaginary person. 'the people in white raiment' and 'a wonderful fortnight.' historical. taken from various sources, chiefly george fox's journal, vol. i. pp. - , and two unpublished papers by ernest e. taylor, describing the lives and homes of the westmorland seekers: 'a great people to be gathered' and 'faithful servants of god.' see also his 'cameos from the life of george fox,' sewel's 'history of the quakers,' and 'beginnings of quakerism,' by w.c. braithwaite. 'under the yew-trees.' expanded from george fox's journal, i. , , . the conversation among the girls is of course imaginary, but many details are taken from 'margaret fox of swarthmoor hall,' by helen g. crosfield, a most helpful book that has been constantly used in all these stories about swarthmoor. 'bewitched!' historical. see sewel's history, i. . george fox's journal, i. . 'testimony of margaret fox' (ellwood edition of above, p. xliv). 'margaret fox of swarthmoor hall,' p. . also 'england under the stuarts,' by g.m. trevelyan (for witchcraft). 'the judge's return.' historical. see 'testimony of margaret fox' (ellwood edition of g. fox's journal), p. xlv. sewel's history, i. . 'strike again!' historical. see george fox's journal, i. - . sewel's history, i. - . 'magnanimity.' historical. see george fox's journal, i. - . sewel's history, i. - . 'miles halhead and the haughty lady.' historical. see sewel's history, i. - , and george fox's journal, i. , , for george fox's sermon. 'scattering the seed.' historical. details taken from george fox's journal, i. , , ; , ; , . see also chapter viii. 'the mission to the south,' in 'beginnings of quakerism,' by w.c. braithwaite. also 'first publishers of truth,' for accounts of the work in the different counties mentioned. 'wrestling for god.' historical. see 'beginnings of quakerism,' chapter viii. also 'letters from the early friends,' by a.r. barclay. 'piety promoted,' i. - . 'story of quakerism,' by e.b. emmott, for description of old london. see also 'memorials of the righteous revived,' by c. marshall and thomas camm, and note that i have followed t. camm's account in this book of his father's journey south with e. burrough. w.c. braithwaite in 'beginnings of quakerism,' following 'first publishers of truth,' thinks it, however, more probable that f. howgill was e. burrough's companion throughout the journey, and that the two friends reached london together. 'little james and his journeys' and 'the first quaker martyr.' mainly historical. details taken largely from 'life of james parnell,' by c. fell smith. see also 'james parnell,' by thomas hodgkin, in 'the trial of our faith.' also 'beginnings of quakerism,' chapter ix. and sewel's history. the discourse of the two baptists on carlisle bridge and james's association with them is imaginary, but they are themselves historical characters, and the incidents they describe are narrated in george fox's journal, i. , , - ; , . for 'the first quaker martyr,' see 'the lamb's defence against lyes, a true testimony concerning the sufferings and death of james parnell. .' 'the children of reading meeting.' see emmott's 'story of quakerism,' p. . also 'letters of the early friends.' a very graphic but fictitious account of this incident is given in 'the children's meeting,' by m.e. england, now out of print. see also 'lessons from early quakerism in reading,' by w.c. braithwaite. my account is founded on history, but i have described imaginary children. the list of scents used on sir william armorer's wig is borrowed from a genuine one of a slightly later period. 'the saddest story of all.' historical. see sewel's history, i. , - , - , , . also 'beginnings of quakerism,' chapter xi. 'nayler's fall.' also james nayler's collected books and papers, published in . 'pale windflowers.' see account of dewsbury in 'beginnings of quakerism.' also 'the faithful testimony of that antient servant of the lord, and minister of the everlasting gospel, william dewsbury.' also 'testimony to mary samm,' p. , same volume. the details given are as far as possible historical, but the setting, the walk, and the windflowers are imaginary. the prison scene is as far as possible historical. the testimony to little mary tells the sequel to her 'happy evening,' and a few paragraphs from it are given here. testimony to mary samm, . the first day of the second month, , it pleased the lord to afflict her with a violent fever, that brought her very low in a little time, and great was her exercise of spirit, as to her condition and state with god, many times weeping when she was alone.... she said, 'if this distemper do not abate, i must die, but my soul shall go to eternal joy, eternal, eternal and everlasting life and peace with my god for ever: oh! praises, praises to thy majesty, oh, my god! who helpeth me to go through with patience, what i am to endure.' then after some time she said. 'friends, we must all go hence one after another, and they that live the longest know and endure the greatest sorrow: therefore, o lord, if it be thy will, take me to thyself, that my soul may rest in peace with thee, and not any one to see me here any more. oh! praises, praises be unto thy holy name for ever in thy will being done with me, to take me to thyself, where i shall be in heavenly joy, yea, in heavenly joy for ever and for evermore.'... and many times would she be praying to the lord day and night, 'o lord, lay no more upon me, than thou givest me strength to bear, and go through with patience, that thy will may be done, that thy will may be done' (many times together). 'oh! help me, help me, o my god! that i may praise thy holy name for ever.' and so continued, very often praising the name of the lord with joyful sounds, and singing high praises to his holy name for ever and for evermore; she being much spent with lifting up her voice in high praises to god, through fervency of spirit, and her body being weak, her grandfather went into the room, and desired her to be as still as possibly she could, and keep her mind inward, and stayed upon the lord, and see if she could have a little rest and sleep: she answered, 'dear grandfather, i shall die, and i cannot but praise the name of the lord whilst i have a being; i do not know what to do to praise his name enough whilst i live; but whilst there is life there is hope; but i do believe it is better for me to die than live.' and so continued speaking of the goodness of the lord from day to day; which caused many tears to fall from the eyes of them that heard her. her grandfather coming to her, asked her how she did? she said to him and to her mother, 'i have had no rest this night nor to-day; i did not know but i should have died this night, but very hardly i tugged through it; but i shall die to-day, and a grave shall be made, and my body put into a hole, and my soul shall go to heavenly joy, yea, heavenly joy and everlasting peace for evermore.' then she said, 'dear grandfather, i do believe thou wilt not stay long behind me, when i am gone.' he answered, 'dear granddaughter, i shall come as fast as the lord orders my way.' then she praised the name of the lord with high praises and joyful sounds for a season, and then desired her mother to let her be taken up a little time; saying, 'it may be it will give me some ease.' then they sent for her grandfather, who said to her, 'if this be thy last day, and thereon thou art to die, it is not safe for thee to be taken forth of thy bed: dear mary, thou shalt have all attendance that is convenient, as to set thee up in thy bed, and to lay thee down again; but "to take thee up" we are not willing to do it.' she answered, 'well, grandfather, what thou seest best for me, i am willing to have it so.' then her mother and aunt set her up in her bed; she said it did refresh her and give her some ease: and as they were ordering what was to be done about her bed, she said, 'oh! what a great deal of do is here in ordering the bed for one that is upon their death-bed.' her aunt, joan dewsbury, said, 'mary, dost thou think thou art upon thy death-bed?' she answered, 'yea, yea, i am upon my death-bed, i shall die to-day, and i am very willing to die, because i know it is better for me to die than live.' her aunt replied, 'i do believe it is better for thee to die than live.' she said, 'yea, it is well for me to die.'... 'and, dear mother, i would have thee remember my love to my dear sisters, relations, and friends; and now i have nothing to do, i have nothing to do.' a friend answered, 'nothing, mary, but to die.' then she said to her mother, 'i desire thee to give me a little clear posset drink, then i will see if i can have a little rest and sleep before i die.' when the posset drink came to her, she took a little.... then she said to her mother, 'i have a swelling behind my ear, but i would not have anything done to it, nor to my sore throat nor mouth, for all will be well enough when i am in my grave.' then she asked what time of day it was? it being the latter part of the day, her grandfather said, 'the chimes are going four;' she said, 'i thought it had been more; i will see if i can have a little rest and sleep before i die.' and so she lay still, and had a sweet rest and sleep; and then she awaked without any complaint, and in a quiet peaceable frame of spirit laid down her head in peace, when the clock struck the fifth hour of the th day of the nd month, . we whose names are under-written were eye and ear witnesses of what is before expressed, as near as could be taken, and does not much vary from what she declared, as the substance (though much more sweet and comfortable expressions passed from her, but for brevity sake are willing this only to publish) who stood by her when she drew her last breath. william dewsbury, her grandfather. mary samm, her mother. joan dewsbury, her aunt. hannah whitthead, a friend. 'an undisturbed meeting.' i first heard this story graphically told by ernest e. taylor. his intimate knowledge of the neighbourhood, and minute historical researches into the lives of the early friends in this district, made the whole scene vivid to his listener. in writing down my own account from memory, some months later, i find i have unintentionally altered some of the details, and have in particular allowed too long a time for the soldiers' carouse, and have substituted a troop of horse for militia. for these lapses from strict historical accuracy i alone am responsible; but it has seemed better to leave the story as it was written and to append the following note from the ancient ms. account of the sufferings at sedbergh, to show exactly what did occur: ' . friends being met at john blaykling's at draw-well, lawrence hodgson of dent, an ensign to the militia, came into the meeting with other militia men, cursing and swearing that if friends would not depart and disperse, he would kill them and slay and what not. then as friends did not disperse they pulled them out of doors and so broke up the meeting. the ensign thereupon went off, expecting friends to have followed him, but they sat down and stood together at the house end [? and] on the hill-side. so the ensign came back and with his drawn sword struck at several friends and cut some in the hat and some in the clothes, and so forced and drove them to sedbergh town, where after some chief men of the parish had been spoken with, friends were let go home in peace.'--_sedbergh mss. sufferings._ it was of course the gathering together 'in numbers more than five' and 'refusing to disperse' that was at this time illegal and made the friends liable to severe punishment. there is still a tradition in the neighbourhood that the quakers were to be taken not to ingmire hall, but to the house of another justice at thorns. 'butterflies in the fells.' see 'bygone northumberland,' by w. andrews. 'piety promoted,' i. - . w.c. braithwaite's 'beginnings of quakerism,' p. . 'the society of friends in newcastle,' by j.w. steel. 'the victory of amor stoddart.' see george fox's journal, i. , , , ; ii. . sewel's history, i. . 'beginnings of quakerism,' p. . 'the marvellous voyage of the good ship "woodhouse."' taken from robert fowler's own account: 'a true relation of the voyage undertaken by me robert fowler with my small vessel called the "woodhouse" but performed by the lord like as he did noah's ark, wherein he shut up a few righteous persons and landed them safe, even at the hill ararat,' published in the 'history of the society of friends in america.' the scenes on bridlington quay and in london are not strictly historical, but may be inferred from the above account. 'richard sellar and the "merciful man."' taken from richard sellar's own narrative: 'an account of the sufferings of richard seller of keinsey, a fisherman who was prest in scarborough piers, in the time of the two last engagements between the dutch and english, in the year ,' published in besse's 'sufferings of the quakers,' vol. ii. pp. - . 'two robber stories--west and east.' ( ) leonard fell and the highwayman, taken from 'the fells of swarthmoor hall,' by m. webb, p. . ( ) on the road to jerusalem. taken from george robinson's own account, published in 'a brief history of the voyage of katharine evans and sarah cheevers.' pp. ad fin. 'silver slippers.' mainly historical. see sewel's history, i. , ; ii. . see also 'history of the quakers,' by g. croese, for some additional particulars. the best account of mary fisher and her adventurous journey is given in 'quaker women,' by mabel r. brailsford, chapters v. and vi., entitled 'mary fisher' and 'an ambassador to the grand turk.' i am indebted to miss brailsford for permission to draw freely from her most interesting narrative, and also to quote from her extracts from paul rycaut's history. the only historical foundation for the 'silver slippers' is the statement by one historian that before mary fisher's interview with the sultan she was allowed twenty-four hours to rest and to 'arrange her dress.' h.m. wallis has kindly supplied me with some local colouring and information about adrianople. 'fierce feathers.' a historical incident, with some imaginary actors. the outlines of this story are given in 'historical anecdotes' by pike. several additional particulars and the copy of a painting of the indians at meeting are to be found in the friends' reference library at devonshire house. for some helpful notes about the locality i am indebted to h.p. morris of philadelphia, u.s.a. 'the thief in the tanyard.' historical. the facts and the words of the speakers are taken almost verbatim from pike's 'historical anecdotes.' i have only supplied the setting for the story. 'how a french noble became a friend.' entirely historical. all the facts are taken from the autobiography of stephen grellet. 'preaching to nobody.' this story is not to be found in stephen grellet's autobiography. it appeared in 'the american friend,' november , and is now included in the penny 'life of stephen grellet' in the friends ancient and modern series. the actual words of stephen grellet's sermon have not been recorded. those in the text are expanded from a sentence in another discourse of his, given here in quotation marks. the incident of the cracked mug is not historical. the end printed in great britain by r. & r. clark, limited, edinburgh. * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | page : thinkng replaced with thinking | | page : twelye replaced with twelve | | page : thoughout replaced with throughout | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) on singing and music. to be had at friends' book store, no. arch street, philadelphia. . at a yearly meeting of friends held in philadelphia from the th of the fourth month to the th of the same, inclusive, . an essay on singing and music contained in the minutes of the meeting for sufferings was now read, setting forth the spiritual nature of true worship, the danger of depending on outward forms in religious meetings, and the disadvantages connected with the practice of singing and music as an amusement. much unity was expressed with the essay, and it was concluded that it should be published and distributed for information and warning to our own members and others. desires were felt that in thus issuing a renewed testimony to the principles of our society, we may be individually aroused to the necessity of so living in communion with the father of spirits, and in subjection to the revelations of his light in our hearts, that our meetings may truly be held under the overshadowing of the divine power. taken from the minutes. joseph walton, _clerk_. on singing and music. we have been brought under a feeling of religious concern that the ancient testimony of the society of friends to the true nature of spiritual worship may be fully maintained by all who claim that name; and that they may be watchful against the introduction of practices which will undermine the support of this testimony, and thus lead those who profess to be the children of the light, back into a dependence upon forms, out of which their forefathers in the truth were brought by that remarkable outpouring of grace and spiritual power which marked the rise of friends as a distinct people. the fundamental doctrine declared by our saviour, when he said, "it is the spirit that quickeneth, the flesh profiteth nothing," was steadily kept in view by george fox and his fellow laborers. they clearly saw that christ had ended the jewish law, with its outward and ceremonial observances, and had introduced a spiritual dispensation, under which he, by his heavenly and eternal light or spirit, was to be the leader, guide and helper of his people; that all was now to be done in and by him; and that this was especially true of religious worship, which depends upon the enlightening, quickening power of his holy spirit. all confidence in the flesh,--in the natural abilities of man,--was removed; and they were taught to distinguish between that which is of man and that which is of god,--between that stirring up of the natural feelings which can be produced by the skilful use of outward means, such as music, pictorial representations and architectural grace and grandeur; and that solemn covering of the heart which is a fruit and an evidence of the extension of divine help and power. hence these divinely enlightened men and women laid aside the forms in which they had been educated, and which many of them had sincerely and zealously practised, and, in their private retirements before the lord, and when they assembled for the performance of public worship, they sat in silence before him, seeking to draw near in spirit, in living exercise of mind, that they might feel the arising of his power, and be enabled to offer acceptable worship. as that power arose in any, and under its influence, they were led to utter words of prayer or praise to the almighty, or exhortation to their fellow believers; they were comforted or edified in proportion as they could feel the spirit bearing witness to the life that accompanied the vocal expressions. thus their dependence was not placed on man, but on the spirit that quickeneth. there was no desire to limit the operation of the spirit, or to lay down any rule which would prohibit in times of worship any act which truly proceeded from its motions; but there was a jealous care that none of these outward things should be done as formal matters; that people should not look upon them as essential to the holding of meetings for worship, and that they should not in any manner be led away from their dependence on the fresh extension of divine life and light to their souls, as the very foundation of true worship. the writings of the early members of our society abound in evidences of their watchful care in this respect. among them, one of the most earnest and effective laborers for the spread of the gospel, was edward burrough, whose efforts in london were blessed to a large number. over the converts in that city he watched with anxious love; and, when absent in the service of his master in other parts, frequently visited them by epistles, in which he gave much sound and practical advice. from these epistles are taken the following passages, referring to the manner in which these meetings for worship were to be held. "we charge and command you in the presence of the lord, whose power is dreadful, that you meet together in silence, and wait, and none to speak a word but what he is moved to speak, a word from the lord."--_e. burrough's works, ed. , p. ._ "we charge by the lord that none speak without eternal [divine] motion; for if you do, the false prophet speaks, and his words eat as a canker, and darken and vail them that hearken to it."--_id., p. ._ the nature of this spiritual worship is clearly portrayed by robert barclay; see the th proposition of his apology, particularly in sections and , to which we desire the reader to refer. * * * * * we have viewed with much concern the gradual creeping into the meetings of friends, in some parts of the country, of latter years, of reading the scriptures, and of singing, practices which, until within a few years, were almost unknown amongst us. we believe that these changes are an evidence of a departure from that dependence on the lord for ability to worship him aright, which was so conspicuous a testimony of this society; and that they are connected with a shrinking from patient waiting upon the lord, and from the humbling exercise of mind which is often felt in endeavoring to draw near in spirit to him. friends do not assemble in their meetings for divine worship for the sake of listening to any outward performances. if this principle is once departed from, there is no tenable ground to prevent a gradual lapse into a full adoption of those forms out of which our society was brought in the beginning. if the scriptures are to be read in our meetings, how easy is it to conclude that a careful selection, such as is provided in the liturgies of some religious bodies, would be preferable to the choice likely to be made by persons of less education, or who have given less time and thought to the subject. if singing by tune is to be practised, why should not the highest style of art, aided by musical instruments, be made use of, so as more effectively to stimulate the emotions of the listeners? if preaching is essential to the proper holding of a meeting, it may be asked, would it not be better to employ persons of marked ability, who have been regularly trained to such an employment, and who may reasonably be supposed to be better prepared than others to interest and instruct an audience? if vocal prayer is always in place, without regard to the immediate promptings of him who only knows the conditions and needs of those assembled, it might be asked, why not use some of those beautiful and comprehensive forms which are found in the prayer-books of other societies? thus, there is reason to fear, the language of the prophet might become applicable to our society. "i had planted thee a noble vine, wholly a right seed; how then art thou turned into the degenerate plant of a strange vine unto me?" * * * * * we think the danger we have endeavored to point out is peculiarly great as respects music and singing, owing to the power over the natural sensibilities, which sweet sounds possess; and it is easy to mistake the emotions thus produced for the tenderness of mind and the softening influence of "the spirit that quickeneth." the distinction between these is very clearly pointed out by the late thomas chalmers, a distinguished clergyman of the presbyterian church of scotland, a man eminent for his abilities, and whose position gave him abundant opportunities for observing that of which he speaks. he says: "you easily understand how a taste for music is one thing, and a real submission to the influence of religion is another; how the ear may be regaled by the melody of sound, and the heart may utterly refuse the proper impression of the sense that is conveyed by it; how the sons and daughters of the world may, with their every affection devoted to its perishable vanities, inhale all the delights of enthusiasm, as they sit in crowded assemblage, around the deep and solemn oratorio." "it is a very possible thing, that the moral and the rational and the active man, may have given no entrance into his bosom for any of the sentiments, and yet so overpowered may he be by the charm of vocal conveyance through which they are addressed to him, that he may be made to feel with such an emotion, and to weep with such a tenderness, and to kindle with such a transport, and to glow with such an elevation, as may one and all carry upon them the semblance of sacredness."--_chalmers' works, phila., , p. - ._ in speaking of the connection between music and worship, another person, not a member of the society of friends, observes: "i firmly believe" "that if we seek to affect the mind by the aid of architecture, painting or music, the impression produced by these adjuncts is just so much subtracted from the worship of the unseen jehovah. if the outward eye is taken up with material splendor, or forms of external beauty, the mind sees but little of him who is invisible; the ear that is entranced with the melody of sweet sounds, listens not to the still small voice by which the lord makes his presence known." "true spiritual access unto god," says another writer, "is not at all furthered by the excitement of the animal or intellectual frame. it is most commonly known, where in abstraction from outward things, the mind, in awful quietude, finds itself gathered into a sense of the presence of infinite purity." "by the power of imagination; by the influence of eloquent words; by a stirring swell of elevated music, the mind may be excited; the feelings may be tendered, and we may pour forth verbal supplication, whilst the heart is unchanged." edward burrough thus instructively describes the changes which followed the declension of the primitive church from its original state of life and purity. "when the gift of the ministry through the holy ghost was lost and no more received, men began to make ministers by learning arts and languages and human policy. they began to study from books and writings what to preach, not having the holy ghost, without which none are the ministers of christ." "having lost the sense of god's true worship, which is in spirit and in truth, they began to worship in outward observances, which is not the worship of god, but superstitious and idolatrous." "when singing in the spirit and with the understanding ceased, then people began to introduce the form of singing david's experiences, in rhyme and metre; and thus, in the apostacy, the form grew as a substitute for that which the saints had enjoyed in power; shadows were set up instead of the substance, and death instead of life." the same writer in an appeal to the professors of his day to test their religious profession by the scriptures, says: "likewise you sing and give to sing david's psalms in rhyme and metre, professing it is to the glory and honor of god. ye practise this as an ordinance of god, as a part of his worship, and as a part of your religion; but this practice and profession also are manifest not to be according to the scriptures; because it was never commanded; neither is there any precedent for this practice in the scriptures in gospel times." robert barclay says, "we confess this [singing of psalms] to be a part of god's worship, and very sweet and refreshing when it proceeds from a true sense of god's love in the heart, and arises from the divine influence of the spirit." but he condemns "the formal, customary way of singing," which was practised by professors in his day, and has been continued down to the present time, as having "no foundation in scripture, nor any ground in true christianity." he concludes his remarks on this subject in the following words: "as to their artificial music, either by organs or other instruments, or voice, we have neither example nor precept for it in the new testament." * * * * * independently of that harmony of sound which is the result of musical skill, there is a modulation of the voice which is an index of the feelings of the mind. where the heart is melted under a sense of divine goodness and love, and thanksgiving to the author of all our blessings flows from it, true melody is often shown in the tones of the voice; and this is sometimes apparent even when no words are distinctly uttered. it is to such a state of mind we understand the apostle paul to refer when he speaks to the ephesians, of "making melody in your heart to the lord." when an outward harmony, depending upon "invented tunes, such as please the carnal mind," and upon words which have been committed to memory in order to be sung therewith, takes the place of that expression which comes from the heart and is uttered under a sense of the divine requiring, then those who take part therein fall into that "formal," "customary," "artificial" way of singing, against which the society of friends has borne a steady testimony from its rise. * * * * * these observations apply to vocal religious exercises in the family as well as in more public gatherings. * * * * * we believe the tendency of this artificial music on the mind, even when attuned to the expression of religious sentiment, and accompanied by the language of divine worship, is to "lead the soul almost insensibly to substitute a pleasing emotion which ends in self, for those spiritual sacrifices which are acceptable to god by jesus christ, even a broken and contrite heart, and that communion with the father and the son which results from loving god and keeping his commandments." * * * * * in congregational singing, there is an added inconsistency. for, it is in the highest degree improbable that those assembled on such occasions will be in such a frame of mind as will fit them properly and truthfully to join in the offering of the prayers or praises expressed in the hymns which may be given out to be sung. this objection is pointed out by barclay in his apology, where, after stating that "the formal customary way of singing hath no foundation in scripture, nor any ground in true christianity," he adds, "all manner of wicked, profane persons take upon them to personate the experiences and conditions of blessed david; which are not only false as to them, but also to some of more sobriety, who utter them forth." "such singing doth more please the carnal ears of men, than the pure ears of the lord, who abhors all lying and hypocrisy." (_prop. xi, sect. ._) this difficulty has been felt by many sincere persons who were not members of our society, and has prevented some of them from joining in such performances. john spalding, while still a member of the established church of england, was so convinced of its inconsistency, that he addressed a letter to those who met at the place of worship which he was accustomed to attend, in which he says: "i appeal to the witness of god in every heart, considering the variety of conditions, the different subjects of praise, adoration, confession, petitioning, &c., contained in every collection of hymns, whether in the fear of the lord any one, in whatever state or condition he may be at the time, can with propriety be ready to sing whatever may be given out." john spalding further testifies as to the effect of formal singing in worship. "from my own experience i can say it has a tendency to divert the mind from solemn, serious reflections. i am now speaking more particularly concerning those, who have attained to a measure of the grace of god. ask yourselves, is outward singing intended or calculated to please the carnal ears of men, or a holy god? why such anxiety about tunes, voices, and music? is the lord to be pleased with such poor things? oh, no, you cannot suppose it. consider from what root it springs; from the old man or the new; and remember the axe is laid to the root to destroy all that is of the earth, of our fleshly nature. i have considered those passages in the new testament where the subject is mentioned, and am confirmed by them in my opinion of the inconsistency of public singing. the apostle speaks of singing with grace in the heart; of making melody in the heart to the lord, not making a noise with the tongue, unless that proceeds from the heart." in a memorial concerning edward cobb of maine, issued by falmouth monthly meeting, there is preserved some account of his religious experience before he became a member of the society of friends, which took place in . in this he states: "when quite young, i learned the rules and was very fond of what is called sacred music, sparing no pains to attend schools for that purpose; and the prayer of my heart to be directed aright regarding worship, seemed to receive the first intelligible answer by the way of reproof in this exercise; and when, at the head of a choir of singers, words have occurred that, through the enlightening influence of heavenly goodness, (which had long been operating on my mind), appeared evidently inconsistent with my own state, i have often, to be unobserved by the company, kept the tune along; while i feared that taking the words into my mouth, and uttering them as worship to him who requires worship of his creature man in spirit and in truth, could be nothing short of solemn mockery from that mind which had been so far enlightened as to believe that nothing could be acceptable worship to almighty god but what came from him, and, through the medium of his own spirit, was breathed out to him again as that spirit should dictate, whether in prayer or in praises to his great name." in confirmation of the fact that those who were convinced of the principles of friends, when they joined in membership, were constrained to lay aside their former practices of reading and singing in meetings for divine worship, it may be mentioned, that although the writings of those who were mainly instrumental in gathering the society at the time of its rise, contain many advices, cautions and encouragements to its members, as to the exercise of the ministry, and as to worship, yet they are almost totally silent as to these practices. * * * * * in expressing these views, our object is to guard our own members from sliding into the adoption of views and practices which are inconsistent with, and lead away from the standard of spiritual religion and worship believed in by us, and thus cause us to lose that post in his militant church which was assigned us by its holy head. * * * * * we have been concerned also at the increase of instruments of music and the practice of singing in the families of our members, as a means of amusement. even under the jewish dispensation a woe was pronounced upon those who in a wanton and unconcerned state of mind invented unto themselves instruments of music like david, but who were not grieved for the afflictions of joseph--that is, for the exercises and sufferings of the righteous seed. george fox declares that he was led to cry out against all sorts of music; and the advices of our society down to modern times have been uniformly in the same direction. it has been felt that the time required to become a proficient in its practice was improperly taken from more important uses; that the emotions it produces have no tendency to strengthen the intellectual or moral character; that the most melodious sounds that human instruments can make have no power to implant principles, give strength to resist temptation or eradicate selfishness; that the love of music often leads into associations which are corrupting in their character, as is shown by its use in promoting the frivolity of the ball-room, and the dissipation of the drinking-saloon, and especially in exciting the passions and drowning the sensibilities of those engaged in the awful conflicts of the battle-field; and that it is often resorted to to dispel the feelings of sadness and inquietude which are spread over the mind at times by the holy spirit, and are the merciful visitations of our compassionate redeemer, designed to draw the thoughts away from earthly things, and to fix them upon the alone source of never ending happiness. instead of quietly and patiently abiding under these dispensations, with the mind stayed on the lord, in order to experience their full benefit, if any of these visited ones should resort to instruments of music and other means of dissipating the impressions on their minds, it will be likely to mar the blessing designed by this extension of the mercy of god to their souls. the same kind of reasoning, which would defend the use of music and singing as amusements, may also be urged in support of dancing, attending theatrical exhibitions, and other indulgences, which, in the aggregate, distinguish the man of the world from the self-denying follower of christ. we desire, therefore, renewedly to call the attention of friends to this subject; and to caution them against indulging themselves or their families in any practice, however pleasing to the natural taste, which will weaken their hands in supporting in its purity our ancient testimony to the nature of spiritual worship; or which will have the effect of retarding their own progress in the self-denying path that leads to the kingdom of heaven. the redemption of david corson by charles frederic goss the bowen-merrill company _to my friend william harvey anderson_ contents i. this other eden ii. and satan came also iii. the egyptians iv. the woman v. the light that lies vi. the trail of the serpent vii. the chance word viii. a broken reed ix. where paths converge x. a poisoned spring xi. the flesh and the devil xii. the moth and the flame xiii. found wanting xiv. turned tempter xv. the snare of the fowler xvi. the derelicts xvii. the shadow of death xviii. a fugitive and a vagabond xix. alienation xx. the inevitable hour xxi. a signal in the night xxii. heart hunger xxiii. where i might find him xxiv. safe haven xxv. the little lad xxvi. out of the shadow xxvii. if thine enemy hunger xxviii. a man crossed with adversity xxix. as a tale that is told xxx. out of the jaws of death xxxi. the great refusal xxxii. the end of exile xxxiii. a self-imposed expiation xxxiv. fasting in the wilderness xxxv. a forest idyl xxxvi. the supreme test xxxvii. paradise regained chapter i. this other eden "this other eden, demi-paradise, this fortress built by nature." --richard ii. hidden away in this worn and care-encumbered world, scarred with its frequent traces of a primeval curse, are spots so quiet and beautiful as to make the fall of man seem incredible, and awaken in the breast of the weary traveler who comes suddenly upon them, a vague and dear delusion that he has stumbled into paradise. such an eden existed in the extreme western part of ohio in the spring of eighteen hundred and forty-nine. it was a valley surrounded by wooded hills and threaded by a noisy brook which hastily made its way, as if upon some errand of immense importance, down to the big miami not many miles distant. a road cut through a vast and solemn forest led into the valley, and entering as if by a corridor and through the open portal of a temple, the traveler saw a white farm-house nestling beneath a mighty hackberry tree whose wide-reaching arms sheltered it from summer sun and winter wind. a deep, wide lawn of bluegrass lay in front, and a garden of flowers, fragrant and brilliant, on its southern side. stretching away into the background was the farm newly carved out of the wilderness, but already in a high state of cultivation. all those influences which stir the deepest emotion of the heart were silently operating here--quiet, order, beauty, power, life. it affected one to enter it unprepared in much the same way, only with a greater variety and richness of emotion, as to push through dense brush and suddenly behold a mountain lake upon whose bosom there is not so much as a ripple, and in whose silver mirror surrounding forests, flying water-fowl and the bright disk of the sun are perfectly reflected. in this lovely valley, at the close of a long, odorous, sun-drenched day in early may, the sacred silence was broken by a raucous blast from that most unmusical of instruments, a tin dinner horn. it was blown by a bare-legged country boy who seemed to take delight in this profanation. by his side, in the vine-clad porch of the white farm-house stood a woman who shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked toward a vague object in a distant meadow. she was no longer young, but had exchanged the exquisite beauty of youth for the finer and more impressive beauty of maturity. as the light of the setting sun fell full upon her face it seemed almost transparent, and even the unobserving must have perceived that some deep experience of the sadness of life had added to her character an indescribable charm. "thee will have to go and call him, stephen, for i think he has fallen into another trance," the woman said, in a low voice in which there was not a trace of impatience, although the evening meal was waiting and the pressing work of the household had been long delayed. the child threw down his dinner horn, whistled to his dog and started. springing up from where he had been watching every expression of his master's face, the shaggy collie bounded around him as he moved across the lawn, while the woman watched them with a proud and happy smile. they had scarcely entered the long lane leading to the pasture, when a woodchuck shambled out of the corner of the fence and ran lumbering into his burrow. rushing excitedly after him the child clapped his hands and shouted: "dig him out! dig him out, shep!" tearing up the ground with his paws and thrusting his head down into the subterranean chamber, the obedient collie yelped and whined. then backing out and plunging in once more, he yelped and whined again. the hole was too deep or the time too short and the boy became discouraged. moving reluctantly away he chidingly summoned his companion to follow him. the dog, humiliated by his failure, obeyed, and sheepishly licked his mouth with his long, red tongue. by this time the sun's disk had sunk behind the hills, its trailing glory lingering above their summits while slowly in the sky faded continents, mountains and spires. the day had died regretfully upon a couch o'erhung with gorgeous canopies, and the ensanguined bier still seemed to tremble with his last sigh. birds in the tops of trees and crickets beneath the sod were giving expression to the emotions of the sad heart of the great earth in melancholy evening songs. the odors of peach and apple blossoms, wafted by gentle breezes from distant orchards, made the valley fragrant as an oriental garden. the soothing influence of the approaching night subdued the effervescent spirits of the lad, and he began to walk softly, as do nuns in the aisles of dim cathedrals or deer in the pathways of the moonlit forest. these few moments between twilight and dark are pregnant with a mysterious holiness and it is doubtful if the worst of men could find the courage to commit a crime while they endure. unutterable and incomprehensible emotions were awakened in the soul of the boy by the stillness and beauty of the evening world. his senses were not yet dulled nor his feelings jaded. through every avenue of his intelligence the mystery of the universe stole into his sensitive spirit. if a breeze blew across the meadow he turned his cheek to its kiss; if the odor of spearmint from the brookside was wafted around him he breathed it into his nostrils with delight. he saw the shadow of a crow flying across the field and stopped to look up and listen for the swish of her wings and her loud, hoarse caw as she made her way to the nesting grounds; then he gazed beyond her, into the fathomless depths of the blue sky, and his soul was stirred with an indescribable awe. everything filled him with surprise, with wonder and with ecstasy,--the glowing sky above the western hills, the new pale crescent of the silver moon, the heavy-laden honey bees eagerly hastening home, the long shadows lying across his path, the trees with branches swaying in the evening breeze, the cows with bursting udders lowing at the bars. but it was not so much the objects themselves as the spirit pervading them, which stirred the depths of the child's mind. the little pantheist saw god everywhere. we bestow the gift of language upon a child, but the feelings which that language serves only to interpret and express exist and glow within him even if he be dumb. and this gift of language is often of questionable value, and had been so with him. things he had heard said about god often made the boy hate him. all that he felt, filled him with love. to him the valley was heaven, and through it invisibly but unmistakably god walked, morning, noon and evening. to the child sauntering dreamily and wistfully along, the object dimly seen from the farm-house door began gradually to dissolve itself into a group of living beings. two horses were attached to a plow; one standing in the lush grass of the meadow, and the other in a deep furrow traced across its surface. the first, an old gray mare, was breathing heavily, her sides expanding and contracting like a bellows. her wide nostrils opened and closed with spasmodic motions. her eyes were shut and she seemed to be asleep. the other, a young and slender filly doing this season the first real service of her life, pawed the ground restlessly, snorted, shook her mane, rattled the harness chains and looked angrily over her shoulder at the driver. the plowshare was buried deep in the rich, alluvial soil, and a ribbon of earth rolled from its blade like a petrified sea billow, crested with a cluster of daisies white as the foam of a wave. between the handles of the plow and leaning on the crossbar, his back to the horses, stood a young quaker. his broad-brimmed hat, set carelessly on the back of his head, disclosed a wide, high forehead; his flannel shirt, open at the throat, exposed a strong, columnar neck, and a deep, broad chest; his sunburned and muscular arms were folded across his breast; figure and posture revealed the perfect concord of body and soul with the beauty of the world; his great blue eyes were fixed upon the notch in the hills where the sun had just disappeared; he gazed without seeing and felt without thinking. the boy approached this statuesque figure with a stealthy tread, and plucking a long spear of grass tickled the bronzed neck. the hand of the plowman moved automatically upward as if to brush away a fly, and at this unconscious action the child, seized by a convulsion of laughter and fearing lest it explode, stuffed his fists into his mouth. in the opinion of this irreverent young skeptic his uncle dave was in a "tantrum" instead of a "trance," and he thought such a disease demanded heroic treatment. for several years this quaker youth had been the subject of remarkable emotional experiences, in explanation of which the rude wits of the village declared that he had been moon-struck; the young girls who adored his beauty thought he was in love, and the venerable fathers and mothers of this religious community believed that in him the scriptural prophecy, "your young men shall see visions," had been literally fulfilled. david corson himself accepted the last explanation with unquestioning faith. he no more doubted the existence of a spiritual than of a material universe. he did not even conceive of their having well-defined boundaries, but seemed to himself to pass from one to the other as easily as across the lines of adjoining farms. in this respect he resembled many a normal youth, except that this impression had lingered with him a little longer than was usual; for faith is always instinctive, while skepticism is the result of experience and reflection. having as yet only wandered around the edges of the sacred groves of wisdom where these pitiless teachers break the sweet shackles of their pupils, he still thought the thoughts of childhood and instinctively obeyed the injunction of emerson, to "reverence the dreams of our youth," and the admonition of richter, that "when we cease to do so, then dies the man in us." whatever might have been the real nature of these emotional experiences, no one doubted that they possessed a genuine reality of some kind or other, for it was a matter of history in this little community that david corson had often exercised prophetic, mesmeric and therapeutic powers. the life of this young man had been pure and uneventful. existence in this frontier region, once full of the tragedy of indian warfare, had been gradually softened by peace and religion. the passions slowly kindling in the struggle over slavery had not yet burst into flame, and this particular valley was even more quiet than others because it had been settled by a colony of quakers. into it the rude noises of the great outside world floated only in softened echoes, and what knowledge young corson had acquired of that vague and shadowy realm had come mainly through traveling preachers, and this, because of their simplicity and unworldliness, was not unlike hearing the crash of arms through silken portieres or seeing the flash of lightning through the stained-glass windows of a cathedral. in such a sequestered region books and papers were scarce, and he had access only to a few volumes written by quietists and mystics, and to that great mine of sacred literature, the holy bible. the seeds of knowledge sown by these books in the rich soil of this young heart were fertilized by the society of noble men, virtuous women, and natural surroundings of exquisite beauty. but however limited his knowledge of men and affairs, the young mystic had acquired an extraordinary familiarity with the operations of the divine life which animates the universe. he seemed to have found the pass-key to nature's mysteries, and to have acquired a language by which he could communicate with all her creatures. he knew where the rabbits burrowed, where the partridges nested, and where the wild bees stored their honey. he could foretell storms by a thousand signs, possessed the homing instinct of the pigeons, knew where the first violets were to be found, and where the last golden-rod would bloom. the squirrels crept down the trunks of trees to nibble the crumbs which he scattered for them. he could fold up his hands like a cup and at his whistle birds would drop into them as into a nest. his was a beautiful soul, and what novalis said of spinoza might have been said of him, "he was a god-intoxicated man." he was in that blissful period of existence when the interpretations of life imparted to him by his elders solved the few simple problems of thought and action pressed upon him by his environment. he had never seriously questioned any of the ideas received from his instructors. he was often conscious of the infinite mystery lying beyond his ken, but never of those frightful inconsistencies and contradictions in nature and life by which the soul is sooner or later paralyzed or at least bewildered. and so his outlook upon the universe was serene and untroubled. as he stood there in the deepening twilight he differed from the child who had approached him in this, that while the boy reveled in the beauty around him because he did not try to comprehend it, the youth was intoxicated by the belief that he possessed the clue to all these mysteries, and had a working theory of all the phenomena in the natural and spiritual world in which he moved. to such mystical natures this confidence is unavoidable anywhere through the period of the pride of adolescence; but it was heightened in this case by the simplicity of life's problems in this narrow valley, and in the provincial little village which was the metropolis of this sparsely settled region. to him "the cackle of that bourg was the murmur of the world," and his theories of a life lacking the complexities of larger aggregations of men seemed adequate, because he had never seen them thoroughly tested, to meet every emergency arising for reflection or endeavor. in this mental attitude of serene and undisturbed confidence that he knew the real meaning of existence, and was in constant contact with the divine mind through knowledge or through vision, every avenue of his spirit was open to the influences of nature. through all that gorgeous day of may he had been drawing these influences into his being as the vegetation drew in light and moisture, until his soul was drenched through and through, and at that perfect hour of dusk, when the flowers and grasses exhaled the gifts they had received from heaven and earth in a richer, finer perfume like an evening oblation, the young dreamer was also rendering back those gifts bestowed by heaven in an incense of purest thought and aspiration. it was one of those hours that come occasionally in that sublime period of unshattered ideals and unsullied faith, for which pharaoh and cæsar would have exchanged their thrones, croesus and lucullus bartered their wealth, solomon and aristotle forgotten their learning. every imaginative youth who has been reared in pure surroundings experiences over again in these rare and radiant hours all the bliss that adam knew in eden. to his joyous, eager spirit, the world appears a new creation fresh from the hand of god. he hears its author walking in the garden at eventide, and murmuring: "behold it is very good." a single element of disquietude, a solitary, vague unrest disturbs him. he awaits his eve with longing, but has no dread of the serpent. at sight of this young man the most superficial observer would have paused to take a second look; an artist would have instinctively seized his pencil or his brush; a scientist would have paused to inquire what mysterious influences could have produced so finely proportioned a nature; a philosopher to wonder what would become of him in some sudden and powerful temptation. none of these reflections disturbed the mind of the barefooted boy. having suppressed his laughter, he tickled the sunburnt neck again. once more the hand rose automatically, and once more the boy was almost strangled with delight. the dreamer was hard to awaken, but his tormentor had not yet exhausted his resources. no genuine boy is ever without that fundamental necessity of childhood, a pin, and finding one somewhere about his clothing, he thrust it into the leg of the plowman. the sudden sting brought the soaring saint from heaven to earth. in an instant the mystic was a man, and a strong one, too. he seized the unsanctified young reprobate with one hand and hoisted him at arm's length above his head. "oh, uncle dave, i'll never do it again! never! never! let me down." still holding him aloft as a hunter would hold a falcon, the reincarnated "spirit" laughed long, loud and merrily, the echoes of his laughter ringing up the valley like a peal from a chime of bells. the child's fear was needless, for the heart and hands that dealt with him were as gentle as a woman's. the youth, resembling some old norse god as he stood there in the gathering gloom, lowered the child slowly, and printing a kiss on his cheek, said: "thee little pest, thee has no reverence! thee should never disturb a child at his play, a bird on his nest nor a man at his prayers." "but thee was not praying, uncle dave," the boy replied. "thee was only in another of thy tantrums. the supper has grown cold, the horses are tired and shep and i have walked a mile to call thee. grandmother said thee had a trance. tell me what thee has seen in thy visions, uncle dave?" "god and his angels," said the young mystic softly, falling again into the mood from which he had been so rudely awakened. "angels!" scoffed the young materialist. "if thee was thinking of any angel at all, i will bet thee it was dorothy fraser." "tush, child, do not be silly," replied the convicted culprit. for it was easier than he would care to admit to mingle visions of beauty with those of holiness. "i am not silly. thee would not dare say thee was not thinking of her. she thinks of thee." "how does thee know?" "because she gives me bread and jam if i so much as mention thy name." this did not offend the young plowman, to judge by the expression of his face; but he said nothing, and, stooping down, loosened the chains of the whiffletree and turned the faces of the tired horses homeward. the cavalcade moved on in silence for a few moments, but nothing can repress the chatter of a boy, and presently he began again. "uncle dave, was it really up this very valley that mad anthony wayne marched with his brave soldiers?" "this very valley." "i wish i could have been with him." "it is an evil wish. thee is a child of peace. thy father and thy father's fathers have denied the right of men to war. thee ought to be like them, and love the things that make for peace." "well, if i can not wish for war, i will wish that a runaway slave would dash up this valley with a pack of bloodhounds at his heels. oh, uncle dave, tell me that story about thy hiding a negro in the haystack, and choking the bloodhounds with thine own hands." "i have told thee a hundred times." "but i want to hear it again." "use thy memory and thy imagination." "oh, no, please tell me. i like to hear some one tell something." "thee does? then listen to the whip-poor-will, the cricket or the brook." "i hear them, but i do not know what they say. tell me." "tell thee! no one can tell thee, child, if thee can not understand for thyself. the message differs for the hearers, and the difference is in the ear and not the sound." they both paused for a moment, and listened to those soothing lullabies with which nature sings the world to sleep. so powerful was the tide that floated the mystic out on the ocean of dreams, he would have drifted away again if the child had not suddenly recalled him. "i can not make out what they say," he cried, "and anyhow there is no time to try. come, let us go. everybody is waiting for us." "thee is right," answered his uncle. "go and let down the bars and we will hurry home." the child, bounding forward, did as he was told, and the tired procession entered the barnyard. the plowman fed his horses, and stopped to listen for a moment to their deep-drawn sighs of contentment, and to the musical grinding of the oats in their teeth. his imaginative mind read his own thoughts into everything, and he believed that he could distinguish in these inarticulate sounds the words, "good-night. good-night." "good-night," he said, and stroking their great flanks with his kind hand, left them to their well-earned repose. on his way to the house he stopped to bathe his face in the waters of a spring brook that ran across the yard, and then entered the kitchen where supper was spread. "thee is late," said the woman who had watched and waited, her fine face radiant with a smile of love and welcome. "forgive me, mother," he replied. "i have had another vision." "i thought as much. thee must remember what thee has seen, my son," she said, "for all that thee beholds with the outer eye shall pass away, while what thee sees with the inner eye abides forever. and had thee a message, too?" "it was delivered to me that on the holy sabbath day i should go to the camp in baxter's clearing and preach to the lumbermen." "then thee must go, my son." "i will," he answered, taking her hand affectionately, but with quaker restraint, and leading her to the table. the family, consisting of the mother, an adopted daughter dorothea, the daughter's husband jacob and son stephen, sat down to a simple but bountiful supper, during which and late into the evening the young mystic pondered the vision which he believed himself to have seen, and the message which he believed himself to have heard. in his musings there was not a tremor or a doubt; he would have as soon questioned the reality of the old farm-house and the faces of the family gathered about the table. of the susceptibility of the nerves to morbid activity, or the powers of the overdriven brain to objectify its concepts, he had never even dreamed. he was a credulous and unsophisticated youth, dwelling in a realm of imagination rather than in a world of reality and law. he had much to learn. his education was about to begin, and to begin as does all true and effective education, in a spiritual temptation. the ghebers say that when their great prophet ahriman was thrown into the fire by the order of nimrod, the flames into which he fell turned into a bed of roses, upon which he peacefully reclined. this innocent quaker youth had been reclining upon a bed of roses which now began to turn into a couch of flames. chapter ii. and satan came also "it is the little rift within the lute that by and by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all." --tennyson. at the moment when stephen was sounding the horn to summon the young mystic to his supper, a promiscuous crowd of loafers with chairs tilted against the wall of the village tavern received a shock. they heard the tinkle of bells in the distance, and looking in the direction of this unusual sound, saw a team of splendid coal-black horses dash round a corner and whirl a strange vehicle to the door of the inn. there were two extraordinary figures on the front seat of the wagon. the driver was a sturdy, thick-set man whose remarkable personal appearance was fixed instantly and ineradicably in the mind of the beholder by an enormous moustache whose shape, size and color suggested a crow with outstretched wings. as if to emphasize the ferocious aspect lent him by this hairy canopy which completely concealed his mouth, nature had duplicated it in miniature by brows meeting above his nose and spreading themselves, plume-like, over a pair of eyes which gleamed so brightly that they could be felt, altho' they were so deep-set that they could scarcely be seen. this fierce and buccaneerish person summoned the dozing hostler in a coarse, imperative voice, flung him the reins, sprang from his seat, and assisted his companion to alight. she gave him her hand with an air of utter indifference, bestowed upon him neither smile nor thanks, and dropped to the ground with a light flutter like a bird. turning instantly toward the tavern, she ascended the steps of the porch under a fusillade of glances of astonishment and admiration. young and beautiful, dressed in a picturesque and brilliant spanish costume, she carried herself with the ease and dignity of a princess, and looked straight past, or rather through the staring crowd, fastened like inverted brackets to the tavern wall. her great, dreamy eyes did not seem to note them. when she and her companion had entered the hall and closed the door behind them, every tilted chair came down to the floor with a bang, and many voices exclaimed in concert, "who the devil is she?" curiosity was satisfied at eight o'clock in the evening, for at that hour doctor paracelsus aesculapius, as he fantastically called himself, opened the doors of his traveling apothecary shop and exposed his "universal panacea" for sale, while at the same time, "pepeeta, the queen of fortune tellers," entered her booth and spread out upon a table the paraphernalia by which she undertook to discover the secrets of the future. when the evening's work was ended, pepeeta at once retired; but the doctor entered the bar-room, followed by a curious and admiring crowd. he was in a happy and expansive frame of mind, for he had done a "land office" business in this frontier village which he was now for the first time visiting. "have a drink, b-b-boys?" he asked, looking over the crowd with an air of superiority and waving his hand with an inclusive gesture. the motley throng of loafers sidled up to the bar with a deprecatory and automatic movement. they took their glasses, clinked them, nodded to their entertainer, muttered incoherent toasts and drank his health. the delighted landlord, feeling it incumbent upon him to break the silence, offered the friendly observation: "s-s-see you s-s-stutter. s-s-stutter a little m-m-my own self." "shake!" responded the doctor, who was in too complacent a mood to take offence, and the worthies grasped hands. "don't know any w-w-way to s-s-stop it, do you?" asked the landlord. "no, i d-d-don't; t-t-tried everything. even my 'universal p-p-panacea' won't do it, and what that can't do can't be d-d-done. incurable d-d-disease. get along all right when i go slow like this; but when i open the throttle, get all b-b-balled up. bad thing for my business. give any man a thousand d-d-dollars that'll cure me," the quack replied, slapping his trousers pocket as if there were millions in it. "co-co-couldn't go q-q-quite as high as that; but wouldn't mind a hu-hu-hundred," responded the landlord cordially. "ever hear the story about the landlord's troubles in the mexican war?" asked one of the by-standers turning to the quack. "tell it," he responded laconically. several members of the group looked at each other and exchanged significant winks as the narrator began his tale. "they made him sergeant of a company, but had to reduce him to the ranks, because when he was drilling the boys one day they all marched into the river and got drowned before he could say h-h-halt." the doctor laughed and the others joined him out of courtesy, for the story was worn threadbare in the bar-room. "tell about his going on picket duty," suggested some one. "captain ordered him out on the line," said the first speaker, "and he refused. 't-t-tain't no use,' says he. "'why not?' says the captain. "'c-c-cause,' says he, 'if some d-d-dirty mexican g-g-greaser should c-c-come along, he'd run me through the g-g-gizzard before i could ask him for the c-c-countersign.'" more tipsy laughter followed. "tell you what it is, b-b-boys," said the quack, growing communicative under the influence of the liquor and the fellowship, "if it wasn't for this b-b-blankety-blanketed impediment in my s-s-speech, i wouldn't need to work more'n about another y-y-year!" "how's that?" asked someone in the crowd. "c-c-cause if i could talk as well as i c-c-can think, i could make a fortune 'side of which old john jacob astor's would look like a p-p-penny savings b-b-bank!" "you could?" "you bet your sweet life i c-c-could. and i'm just keeping my eyes open for some young f-f-fellow to help me. for 'f i can find a man that can do the t-talking (i mean real talk, you know; talk a crowd blind as b-b-bats), i've got something better'n a california g-g-gold mine." "better get dave corson," said the village wag from the rear of the crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter. "who's d-d-dave corson?" asked the doctor. "quaker preacher. young feller 'bout twenty years old." "can he t-t-talk?" "talk! he kin talk a mule into a trottin' hoss in less'n three minutes." "he's my man!" exclaimed the doctor, at which the crowd laughed again. "what the d-d-deuce are you laughing at?" he asked, turning upon them savagely, his loud voice and threatening manner frightening those who stood nearest, so that they instinctively stepped back a pace or two. "no offence, doc," said one of them; "but you couldn't get him." "couldn't get him! why couldn't i g-g-get him?" "he's pious." "pious! what do _i_ care?" "well, these here pious quakers are stiff in their notions. but you kin jedge fer yourself 'bout his talkin', fer there's goin' ter be an appinted quaker meetin' to-morrow night, and he'll speak. you kin go an' listen, if you want to." "i'll be there, boys, and d-d-don't you forget it. i'll hook him! never saw anything i couldn't buy if i had a little of the p-p-proper stuff about me. drink to my l-l-luck, boys, and watch me!" the landlord filled their glasses once more, and low gurglings, smothered swallows, and loud smacking of lips filled the interim of interrupted conversation. "i say, doc, that daughter of yours knows her biz when it comes to telling fortunes," ventured a young dandy, whose head had been turned by pepeeta's beauty. "d-d-daughter!" snapped the quack, turning sharply upon him; "she's not my daughter, she's my wife!" "wife! gosh! you don't say?" exclaimed the crestfallen dandy. "yes, wife! and i'll j-j-just warn any of you young f-f-fellers that if i catch you trying to p-p-plow with my heifer, you'll be food for buzzards before sun-up!" he swept his eyes savagely round the circle as he spoke, and the subject dropped. the conversation turned into other channels, and flowed in a maudlin, sluggish manner far into the night. every member of the bibulous party was as happy as he knew how to be. the landlord's till was full of money, the loafers were full of liquor, and the doctor's heart was full of vanity and trust in himself. chapter iii. the egyptians "steal! to be sure they may; and egad, serve your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children,--disfigure them to make them pass for their own." --sheridan. in order to comprehend the relationship of this strangely mated pair, we must go back five or six years to a certain day when this same doctor aesculapius rode slowly down the main street of a small city in western pennsylvania, and then out along a rugged country highway. a couple of miles brought him to the camp of a band of gypsies. a thin column of smoke ascending from a fire which seemed almost too lazy to burn, curled slowly into the air. around this campfire was a picturesque group of persons, all of whom, with a single exception, vanished like a covey of quail at the approach of the stranger. the man who stood his ground was a truly sinister being. he was tall, thin and angular; his clothing was scant and ragged, his face bronzed with exposure to the sun. a thin moustache of straggling hairs served rather to exaggerate than to conceal the vicious expression of a hare-lipped mouth. he stood with his elbow in the palm of one hand and his chin in the other, while around his legs a pack of wolf-like dogs crawled and growled as the traveler drew near. throwing himself lightly to the ground the intruder kicked the curs who sprang at him, and as the terrified pack went howling into the door of the tent, said cheerily. "good-morning, baltasar." the gypsy acknowledged his salutation with a frown. "i wish to sell this horse," the traveler added, without appearing to notice his cold reception. the gypsy swept his eye over the animal and shook his head. "if you will not buy, perhaps you will trade," the traveler said. "come," was the laconic response, and so saying, the gypsy turned towards the forest which lay just beyond the camp. the "doctor" obeyed, and the dogs sneaked after him, still growling, but keeping a respectful distance. a moment later he found himself in a sequestered spot where there was an improvised stable; and a dozen or more horses glancing up from their feed whinnied a welcome. "look zem over," said the gypsy, again putting his elbow in his left hand and his chin in his right--a posture into which he always fell when in repose. the quack, moving among the animals with an easy, familiarity, glanced them over quickly but carefully, and shook his head. "what!" exclaimed the gypsy with well feigned surprise; "ze señor doez not zee ze horse he wanz?" "horses!" exclaimed the quack; "these are not horses. these are boneyards. every one of them is as much worse than mine as mine is than the black stallion you stole in pittsburg on the twenty-first day of last october." "worze zan yourz! it eez impozzeeble!" answered the gypsy, as if he had not heard the accusation. "ziz horze ov yourz eez what you call a crow-zcare! zhe eez two hunner year ol'. her teeth are fell oud. zhe haz ze zpavins. zhe haz ze ringa bonze. but, señor," growing suddenly respectful, and spreading out his hands in open and persuasive gestures, "ere eez a horze zat eez a horze. ee knowz more zan a man! ee gan work een ze arnez, ee gan work een ze zaddle; ee gan drot; ee can gallop; ee gan bead ze winz!" the gypsy had played his part well and concealed with consummate art whatever surprise he might have felt at the charge of theft. his attitude was free, his look was bold and his manner full of confidence. the demeanor of the quack suddenly altered. from that of an easy nonchalance, it turned to savage determination. "baltasar," he said, his face white and hard; "let us stop our acting. where is that stallion?" "whad ztallion?" asked the imperturbable gypsy, with an expression of child-like innocence. "i will not even take time to tell you, but if you do not take me to him this instant there will be a dead gypsy in these woods," said the quack fiercely. "ze zdranger jesz!" the gypsy answered blandly, showing his teeth and spreading out the palms of his hands. the quack reached into his bosom, drew forth a pistol, pointed it at the right eye of the gypsy, and said: "look into the mouth of that and tell me whether you see a bullet lying in its throat!" "i zink zat ze señor an' heez piztol are boz lying in zeir zroats," he answered with easy irony. "good! but i am not here to match wits with you. i want that horse, and lie or no lie, i will have it. take me to it, or i swear i will blow out your brains as sure as they are made of bacon and baby flesh!" the gypsy vouchsafed no reply, but turned on his heel and led the way into the forest. after a walk of a hundred yards or more they came to a booth of boughs, through the loose sides of which could be seen a black stallion. "lead him out," said the doctor imperatively; and the gypsy obeyed. the magnificent animal came forth snorting, pawing the ground and tossing his head in the air. the eye of the quack kindled, and after regarding the noble creature for a moment in silent admiration he turned to the gypsy and said, "baltasar, do not misunderstand me, i am neither an officer of the law nor in any other way a minister of justice. i have as few scruples as you as to how i get a horse; but we differ from each other in this, that if you were in my place you would take the horse without giving an equivalent. now i am a man of mercy, and if you will ask a fair price you shall have it. but mark me! do not overreach yourself and kill the goose that is about to lay the golden egg." "wat muz be, muz be," the gypsy answered, shrugging his shoulders as if in the presence of an inexorable fate, and added: "ze brice iz zwo hunner and viftee dollars, wiz ze mare drown een." putting his pistol back into his pocket with an air of triumph, the doctor said: "there seems to be persuasive power in cold lead. stretch forth your palm and i will cross it for you." the gypsy did so, and into that tiger-like paw he counted the golden coin; at the musical clink of each piece the eye of the gypsy brightened, and when he closed his hand upon them and thrust them into his pocket his hair-lip curled with a cynical smile. the stranger took the bridle and saddle from his mare, placed them on the stallion and mounted. as they moved forward through the silent forest the gypsy sang softly to himself: "the romany chal to his horse did cry as he placed the bit in his jaw, kosko gry, romany gry, muk, man, kuster, tute knaw." he was still humming this weird tune when they emerged into the open fields, and there the traveler experienced a surprise. a little rivulet lay across their path, and up from the margin of it where she had been gathering water cresses there sprang a young girl, who cast a startled glance at him, then bounded swiftly toward the tent and vanished through the opening. now it happened that this keen admirer of horses was equally susceptible to the charms of female beauty, and the loveliness of this young girl made his blood tingle. in her hand she carried a bunch of cresses still dripping with the water of the brook. a black bodice was drawn close to a figure which was just unfolding into womanhood. the color of this garment formed a striking contrast to a scarlet skirt which fell only a little below her knees. on her feet were low-cut shoes, fastened with rude silver buckles. a red kerchief had become untied and let loose a wave of black hair, which fell over her half bare shoulders. her face was oval, her complexion olive, her eyes large, eager and lustrous. all this the man who admired women even more than he admired horses, saw in the single instant before the girl dashed toward the tent and disappeared. so swift an apparition would have bewildered rather than illumined the mind of an ordinary man. but the quack was not an ordinary man. he was endowed with a certain rude power of divination which enabled him to see in a single instant, by swift intuition, more than the average man discovers by an hour of reasoning. by this natural clairvoyance he saw at a glance that this face of exquisite delicacy could no more have been coined in a gypsy camp than a fine cameo could be cut in an indian wigwam. he knew that all gypsies were thieves, and that these were spanish gypsies. what was more natural than that he should conclude with inevitable logic that this child had been stolen from people of good if not of noble blood! he who had coveted the horse with desire, hungered for the maiden with passion; and with him, to feel an appetite, was to rush toward its gratification, as fire rushes upon tow. "baltasar!" he said. the gypsy turned. "you are a girl-thief as well as a horse-thief." if the gypsy had felt astonished before, he was now terrified in the presence of a man who seemed to read his inmost thoughts; and for the first time in his life acknowledged to himself that he had met his master in cunning. bewildered as he was by this new charge, he still remembered that if speech was silver, silence was golden, and answered not a word. "baltasar," continued the strange man on horseback, rightly judging from the gypsy's confusion that he had hit the mark and determining to take another chance shot; "you stole this girl from the family of a spanish nobleman. i am the representative of this family and have followed your trail for years. you thought i had come to get the horse. you were mistaken; it was the girl!" "perdita!" exclaimed the gypsy, taken completely off his guard. "lost indeed," responded the quack, scarcely able to conceal his pride in his own astuteness. and then he added slowly: "she must be a burden to you, baltasar. you evidently never have been able or never have dared to take her back and claim the ransom which you expected. i will pay you for her and take her from your hands. it is the child i want and not vengeance." "ze caballero muz be a duquende (spirit)," gasped the gypsy. "at any rate i want the child. you were reasonable about the horse. be reasonable about her, and all will be well." "ze caballero muz be made of gol'." the horseman drew a silver coin from his pocket and flipped it into the waters of the brook. the gypsy's face gleamed with avarice and springing into the water he began to scrape among the stones where it had fallen. the stranger watched him for awhile with an expression of mingled amusement and contempt, and finally said: "baltasar, i am in haste. you can search for that trifle after i am gone. let us finish our business. what will you take for the girl?" still standing in the water, which he seemed reluctant to leave, he shrugged his shoulders and replied: "we muz azk chicarona. zhe eez my vife." "and master?" asked the quack, smiling sardonically. the gypsy did not answer, but, stepping from the brook and looking backward, reluctantly led the way to the tent. "chicarona! chicarona!" he cried as they approached it. the flap of the tent was thrown suddenly backward, and three figures emerged--a tall and stately woman, a little elfish child; and an old hag, wrinkled, toothless and bent with the weight of unrecorded years. the woman was the mother of the little child and the daughter of the old hag. "chicarona," said the gypsy, "ze gacho az byed ze ztallion for zwo hunner an' viftee dollars, an' now he wanz to buy pepeeta." "wad vor?" she asked. "berhabs he zinkz zhe eez a prinzez, i dunno," he answered, digging the toe of his bare foot nervously into the sand. "zen dell 'im zat he zhold not look vor ztrawberries in ze zea, nor red herring in ze wood," she said with a look of scorn. the eyes of the stranger and the gypsy met. they confronted each other like two savage beasts who have met on a narrow path and are about to fight for its possession. it was not an unequal match. the man's eyes regarded the woman with a proud and masterful determination. the woman's seemed to burn their way into the inmost secrets of the man's soul. chicarona was a remarkable character. in her majestic personality, the virtues and the vices of the spanish gypsy fortune-teller were incarnate. the vices were legion; the virtues were two--the love of kindred, and physical chastity--the chastity of the soul itself being unknown. "we are wasting time gazing at each other like two sheep in a pasture. will you sell the girl?" the horseman asked, impatiently. "i will nod!" she answered, with proud defiance. "then i will take her by force!" "ah! what could nod ze monkey do, if he were alzo ze lion!" "i am the lion, and therefore i must have this lamb!" "muz? say muz to ze clouds; to ze winz; to ze lightningz; but not to chicarona!" "if you do not agree to accept a fair offer for this girl, you will be in jail for kidnapping her in less than one hour!" at this threat, the brilliant black eyes emitted a shower of angry sparks, and she exclaimed in derision, "ze buzno will dake us do brizon, ha! ha! ha!" "ze buzno will dake us do brizon, hee! hee! hee!" giggled the little impish child who tugged at her skirts. the old woman pressed forward and mumbled, "'ol' oud your 'an', my pretty fellow. crozz ze ol' gypsy's palm, and zhe will dell your fortune." with every new refusal, the resolute stranger became still more determined. "pearls are not to be had without a plunge," he murmured to himself, and dismounted. throwing the bridle of his horse over the limb of a tree, he approached the woman with a threatening gesture. as he did so, the three female figures began to revolve around him in a circle, pointing their fingers at him and hissing like vipers. as the old woman passed before his face she threw a handful of snuff in his eyes--an act which has been, from time immemorial, the female gypsy's last resort. had he been less agile than he was, it would have proved a finishing stroke, but there are some animals that can never be caught asleep, or even napping, and he was one. he winked and dodged, and, quicker than a flash, brought the old crone a sharp cut across her knuckles with his riding whip. as he did so, baltasar sprang at his throat, but he once more drew his pistol and leveled it at the gypsy's head. his patience had been exhausted. "fool!" he cried, "bring this woman to reason. this is a wild country, and a family of gypsies would be missed as little as a litter of blind puppies! bring her to reason, i say, or i will murder every one of you!" once more shrugging those expressive shoulders which seemed to have a language of their own, the gypsy said "chicarona, you do not luf ze leedle pindarri. zell 'er to ze buzno. ee eez made of gol'." as baltasar uttered these words, he approached his wife and whispered something in her ear at which she started. turning with a sudden motion to the stranger, she fixed her piercing eyes upon him and exclaimed, "you zay you know ze parenz of zis chil'?" "i do." "you lie!" "how, then, did i know that you had stolen her?" "you guezz zat! any vool gan guezz zat! i zdole 'er, but who i zdole 'er vrom, you do not know any more zan you know why ze frogs zdop zinging when ze light zhines." "ah! you did steal her, did you? why do gypsies steal children when they have so many of their own, and it is so easy to raise more, chicarona?" "azk ze tiger why it zpringz, or ze lightning why it zdrikes! i will alzo azk ze caballero a queztion. what doez he wan' wiz zis leedle gurrl?" "to be a father to her!" he answered, with a sly wink at baltasar. "alzo' i am dressed in wool, i am no sheep! tell me," she cried, stamping her foot. "why should i tell secrets to one who can read the future?" he asked banteringly. chicarona's mood was changing. it was evident from her looks, either that she was defeated in the contest by this wily and resistless combatant or that she had succumbed to the temptation of his money. "how much will you gif vor zis chil'?" she asked. "one hundred dollars," he replied. "one hunner dollars! you paid more zan twize as much vor ze horze! eez nod a woman worth more zan a horze?" "she will be, when she is a woman. she is a child now." "let me zee ze color of your money!" he drew a leather wallet from his pocket and held it tantalizingly before her eyes. its influence was decisive upon her avaricious soul, and she clutched at it wildly. "put it into my han'!" she cried. "put pepeeta into mine," he said. "pepeeta! pepeeta!" she called. "pepeeta! pepeeta!" shrilled the old crone. out of the door of the tent she came, her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her fingers picking nervously at the tinsel strings which fastened her bodice. "gif me ze money and take her," said chicarona. he counted out the gold, and then approached the child. for the first time in his life he experienced an emotion of reverence. there was something about her beauty, her helplessness and his responsibility that made a new appeal to his heart. yielding to the gentle pressure of his hand, she permitted herself to be led away. not a goodbye was said. chicarona's feeling toward her had been fast developing from jealousy into hatred as the child's beauty began to increase and attract attention. the others loved her, but dared not show it. not a sign of regret was exhibited, except by the old crone, who approached her, gave her a stealthy caress, and secretly placed a crumpled parchment in her hand. the doctor lifted the child upon the horse's back and climbed into the saddle. as they turned into the highway, he heard chicarona say, "bring me my pajunda, baltasar, and i will sing a grachalpa." the beautiful child trembled, for the words were those of hatred and triumph. she trembled, but she also wept. she was parting from those whose lives were base and cruel; but they were the only human beings that she knew. she was leaving a wagon and a tent, but it was the only home that she could remember. in a vague and childish way, she felt herself to be the sport of mysterious powers, a little shuttlecock between the battledores of fortune. whatever her destiny was to be, there was no use in struggling, and so she sobbed softly and yielded to the inevitable. her little hands were folded across her heart in an instinctive attitude of submission. folded hands are not always resigned hands; but pepeeta's were. she submitted thus quietly not because she was weak, but because she was strong, not because she was contemptible, but because she was noble. in proportion to the majesty of things, is the completeness of their obedience to the powers that are above them. gravitation is obeyed less quietly by a grain of dust than by the rivers and planets. those half-suppressed sobs and hardly restrained sighs would have softened a harder heart than that of this young man of thirty years. he was rude and unscrupulous, but he was not unkind. his breast was the abiding place of all other passions and it was not strange that the gentlest of all should reside within it, nor that it should have been so quickly aroused at the sight of such loveliness and such helplessness. to have a fellow-being completely in our power makes us either utterly cruel or utterly kind, and all that was gentle in that great rough nature went out in a rush of tenderness toward the little creature who thus suddenly became absolutely dependent upon his compassion. after they had ridden a little way, he began in his rough fashion to try to comfort her. "don't cry, pepeeta! you ought to be thankful that you have got out of the clutches of those villains. you could not have been worse off, and you may be a great deal better! they were not always kind to you, were they? i shouldn't wonder if they beat you sometimes! but you will never be beaten any more. you shall have a nice little pony, and a cart, and flowers, and pretty clothes, and everything that little girls like. i don't know what they are, but whatever they are you shall have them. so don't cry any more! what a pretty name pepeeta is! it sounds like music when i say it. i have got the toughest name in the world myself. it's a regular jaw-breaker--doctor paracelsus aesculapius! what do you think of that, pepeeta! but then you need not call me by the whole of it! you can just call me doctor, for short. now, look at me just once, and give me a pretty smile. let me see those big black eyes! no? you don't want to? well, that's all right. i won't bother you. but i want you to know that i love you, and that you are never going to have any more trouble as long as you live." these were the kindest words the child had ever had spoken to her, or at least the kindest she could remember. they fell on her ears like music and awakened gratitude and love in her heart. she ceased to sigh, and before the ride to town was ended had begun to feel a vague sense of happiness. * * * * * the next few years were full of strange adventures for these singular companions. the quack had discovered certain clues to the past history of the child whom he had thus adopted, and was firmly persuaded that she belonged to a noble family. he had made all his plans to take her to spain and establish her identity in the hope of securing a great reward. but just as he was about to execute this scheme, he was seized by a disease which prostrated him for many months, and threw him into a nervous condition in which he contracted the habit of stammering. on his recovery from his long sickness he found himself stripped of everything he had accumulated; but his shrewdness and indomitable will remained, and he soon began to rebuild his shattered fortune. during all these ups and downs, pepeeta was his inseparable and devoted companion. the admiration which her childish beauty excited in his heart had deepened into affection and finally into love. when she reached the age of sixteen or seventeen years, he proposed to her the idea of marriage. she knew nothing of her own heart, and little about life, but had been accustomed to yield implicit obedience to his will. she consented and the ceremony was performed by a justice of the peace in the city of cincinnati, a year or so before their appearance in the quaker village. an experience so abnormal would have perverted, if not destroyed her nature, had it not contained the germs of beauty and virtue implanted at her birth. they were still dormant, but not dead; they only awaited the sun and rain of love to quicken them into life. the quack had coarsened with the passing years, but pepeeta, withdrawing into the sanctuary of her soul, living a life of vague dreams and half-conscious aspirations after something, she knew not what, had grown even more gentle and submissive. as she did not yet comprehend life, she did not protest against its injustice or its incongruity. the vulgar people among whom she lived, the vulgar scenes she saw, passed across the mirror of her soul without leaving permanent impressions. she performed the coarse duties of her life in a perfunctory manner. it was her body and not her soul, her will and not her heart which were concerned with them. what that soul and that heart really were, remained to be seen. chapter iv. the woman "one woman is fair, yet i am well; another is wise, yet i am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace."--much ado about nothing. true to his determination, the doctor devoted the night following his advent into the little frontier village to the investigation of the quaker preacher's fitness for his use. he took pepeeta with him, the older habitues of the tavern standing on the porch and smiling ironically as they started. the meeting house was one of those conventional weather-boarded buildings with which all travelers in the western states are familiar. the rays of the tallow candles by which it was lighted were streaming feebly out into the night. the doors were open, and through them were passing meek-faced, soft-voiced and plain-robed worshipers. the silhouettes of the men's broad hats and the women's poke bonnets, seen dimly against the pale light of the windows as they passed, plainly revealed their sect. the similarity of their garments almost obliterated the personal identity of the wearers. the two strangers, so different in manners and dress, joined the straggling procession which crept slowly along the road and chatted to each other in undertones. "what queer people," said pepeeta. "beat the dutch, and you know who the d-d-dutch beat!" "what sort of a building is that they are going into?" "that's a church." "what is a church for?" "ask the marines! never b-b-been in one more'n once or twice. g-g-g-guess they use 'em to p-p-pray in. never pray, so never go." "why have you never taken me?" "why should i?" "we go everywhere else, to theaters, to circuses, to races." "some sense in going there. have f-f-fun!" "don't they have any fun in churches?" "fun! they think a man who laughs will go straight to the b-b-bow-wows!" "what are they for, then, these churches?" "for religion, i tell you." "what is religion?" "don't you know?" "no." "your education has been n-n-neglected." "tell me what it is!" "d-d-d-don't ask so many questions! it is something for d-d-dead folks." "how dark the building looks." "like a b-b-barn." "how solemn the people seem." "like h-h-hoot owls." "it scares me." "feel a little b-b-bit shaky myself; but it's too late to b-b-back out now. i'm going if they roast and eat me. if this f-f-feller can talk as they say he can, i am going to get hold of him, d-d-d-dead or alive. i'll have him if it takes a habeas c-c-corpus." at this point of the conversation they arrived at the meeting-house. keeping close together, pepeeta light and graceful, the doctor heavy and awkward, both of them thoroughly embarrassed, they ascended the steps as a bear and gazelle might have walked the gang-plank into the ark. they entered unobserved save by a few of the younger people who were staring vacantly about the room, and took their seats on the last bench. the quaker maidens who caught sight of pepeeta were visibly excited and began to preen themselves as turtle doves might have done if a bird of paradise had suddenly flashed among them. one of them happened to be seated next her. she was dressed in quiet drabs and grays. her face and person were pervaded and adorned by simplicity, meekness, devotion; and the contrast between the two was so striking as to render them both self-conscious and uneasy in each other's presence. the visitors did not know at all what to expect in this unfamiliar place, but could not have been astonished or awed by anything else half so much as by the inexplicable silence which prevailed. if the whole assemblage had been dancing or turning somersaults, they would not have been surprised, but the few moments in which they thus sat looking stupidly at the people and then at each other seemed to them like a small eternity. pepeeta's sensitive nature could ill endure such a strain, and she became nervous. "take me away," she imploringly whispered to the doctor, who sat by her side, ignorant of the custom which separated the sexes. he tried to encourage her in a few half-suppressed words, took her trembling hand in his great paw, pressed it reassuringly, winked humorously, and then looked about him with a sardonic grin. to pepeeta's relief, the silence was at last broken by an old man who rose from his seat, reverently folded his hands, lifted his face to heaven, closed his eyes and began to speak. she had never until this moment listened to a prayer, and this address to an invisible being wrought in her already agitated mind a confused and exciting effect; but the prayer was long, and gave her time to recover her self-control. the silence which followed its close was less painful because less strange than the other, and she permitted herself to glance about the room and to wonder what would happen next. her curiosity was soon satisfied. david corson, the young mystic, rose to his feet. he was dressed with exquisite neatness in that simple garb which lends to a noble person a peculiar and serious dignity. standing for a moment before he began his address, he looked over the audience with the self-possession of an accomplished orator. the attention of every person in the room was at once arrested. they all recalled their wandering or preoccupied thoughts, lifted their bowed heads and fixed their eyes upon the commanding figure before them. this general movement caused pepeeta to turn, and she observed a sudden transformation on the countenance of the dove-like quaker maiden. a flush mantled her pale cheek and a radiance beamed in her mild blue eyes. it was a tell-tale look, and pepeeta, who divined its meaning, smiled sympathetically. but the first word which fell from the lips of the speaker withdrew her attention from every other object, for his voice possessed a quality with which she was entirely unfamiliar. it would have charmed and fascinated the hearer, even if it had uttered incoherent words. for pepeeta, it had another and a more mysterious value. it was the voice of her destiny, and rang in her soul like a bell. the speech of the young quaker was a simple and unadorned message of the love of god to men, and of their power to respond to the divine call. the thoughts to which he gave expression were not original, but simply distillations from the words of madam guyon, fenelon, thomas à kempis and st. john; and yet they were not mere repetitions, for they were permeated by the freshness and the beauty of his own pure feelings. "we are all," said he, "the children of a loving father whom the heaven of heavens cannot contain, who yet dwells in every contrite human heart as the light of the great sun reproduces itself in every drop of dew. to have god dwell thus in the soul is to enjoy perfect peace. this life is a life of bitterness to those who struggle against god, a world of sorrow to those who doubt him, and of darkness to those who refuse his sweet illumination. but the sorrow and the struggle end, and the darkness becomes the dawn to every one who loves and trusts the heavenly father, for he bestows upon all a divine gift. this gift is the 'inner light,' the light which shines within the soul itself and sheds its rays upon the dark pathway of existence. this god of love is not far from every one of us and we may all know him. he is to be loved, not hated; trusted, not feared! why should men tremble at the consciousness of his presence? does the little sparrow in its nest feel any fear when it hears the flutter of its parent's wings? does the child shudder at its mother's approaching footsteps?" as he uttered these words, he paused and awaited an answer. each sentence had fallen into the sensitive soul of the fortune teller like a pebble into a deep well. she was gazing at him in astonishment. her lips were parted, her eyes were suffused and she was leaning forward breathlessly. "if we would live bravely, hopefully, tranquilly," he continued, "we must be conscious of the presence of god. if we believe with all our hearts that he knows our inmost thoughts, we shall experience comfort beyond words. this life of peace, of aspiration, of communion, is possible to all. the evil in us may be overthrown. we may reproduce the life of christ on earth. we may become as he was--one with god. as the little water drop poured into a large measure of wine seems to lose its own nature entirely and take on the nature and the color of both the water and the wine; or as air filled with sunlight is transformed into the same brightness so that it does not appear to be illuminated by another light so much as to be luminous of itself; so must all feeling toward the holy one be self-dissolved and wholly transformed into the will of god. for how shall god be all in all, if anything of man remains in man?" in words and images like these the young mystic poured forth his soul. there were no flights of oratory, and only occasional bursts of anything that could be called eloquence. but in an inexplicable manner it moved the heart to tenderness and thrilled the deepest feelings of the soul. much of the effect on those who understood him was due to the truths he uttered; but even those who, like the two strangers, were unfamiliar with the ideas advanced, or indifferent to them, could not escape that nameless influence with which all true orators are endowed, and were thrilled by what he said. in our ignorance we have called this influence by the name of "magnetism." whatever it may be, this young man possessed it in a very high degree, and when to it was added his personal beauty, his sincerity, and his earnestness, it became almost omnipotent over the emotions, if not over the reason. it enslaved pepeeta completely. it was impossible that in so small a room a speaker should be unconscious of the presence of strangers. david had noticed them at once, and his glance, after roaming about the room, invariably returned and fixed itself upon the face of the fortune teller. their fascination was mutual. they were so drawn to each other by some inscrutable power, that it would not have been hard to believe that they had existed as companions in some previous state of being, and had now met and vaguely remembered each other. when at length david stopped speaking, it seemed to pepeeta as if a sudden end had come to everything; as if rivers had ceased to run and stars to rise and set. she drew a long, deep breath, sighed and sank back in her seat, exhausted by the nervous tension to which she had been subjected. the effect upon the quack was hardly less remarkable. he, too, had listened with breathless attention. he tried to analyze and then to resist this mesmeric power, but gradually succumbed. he felt as if chained to his seat, and it was only by a great effort that he pulled himself together, took pepeeta by the arm and drew her out into the open air. for a few moments they walked in silence, and then the doctor exclaimed: "p-p-peeta, i have found him at last!" "found whom?" she asked sharply, irritated by the voice which offered such a rasping contrast to the one still echoing in her ears. "found whom? as if you didn't know! i mean the man of d-d-destiny! he is a snake charmer, pepeeta! he just fairly b-b-bamboozled you! i was laughing in my sleeve and saying to myself, 'he's bamboozled pepeeta; but he can't b-b-bamboozle me!' when he up and did it! tee-totally did it! and if he can bamboozle me, he can bamboozle anybody." "did you understand what he said?" pepeeta asked. "understand? well, i should say not! the d-d-devil himself couldn't make head nor tail out of it. but between you and me and the town p-p-pump it's all the better, for if he can fool the people with that kind of g-g-gibberish, he can certainly f-f-fool them with the balm of the b-b-blessed islands! first time i was ever b-b-bamboozled in my life. feels queer. our fortune's made, p-p-pepeeta!" his triumph and excitement were so great that he did not notice the silence and abstraction of his wife. his ardent mind invariably excavated a channel into which it poured its thoughts, digging its bed so deep as to flow on unconscious of everything else. exulting in the prospect of attaching to himself a companion so gifted, never doubting for a moment that he could do so, reveling in the dreams of wealth to be gathered from the increased sales of his patent medicine, he entered the hotel and made straight for the bar-room, where he told his story with the most unbounded delight. pepeeta retired at once to her room, but her mind was too much excited and her heart too much agitated for slumber. she moved restlessly about for a long time and then sat down at the open window and looked into the night. for the first time in her life, the mystery of existence really dawned upon her. she gazed with a new awe at the starry sky. she thought of that being of whom david had spoken. questions which had never before occurred to her knocked at the door of her mind and imperatively demanded an answer. "who am i? whence did i come? for what was i created? whither am i going?" she asked herself again and again with profound astonishment at the newness of these questions and her inability to answer them. for a long time she sat in the light of the moon, and reflected on these mysteries with all the power of her untutored mind. but that power was soon exhausted, and vague, chaotic, abstract conceptions gave place to a definite image which had been eternally impressed upon her inward eyes. it was the figure of the young quaker, idealized by the imagination of an ardent and emotional woman whose heart had been thrilled for the first time. she began timidly to ask herself what was the meaning of those feelings which this stranger had awakened in her bosom. she knew that they were different from those which her husband inspired; but how different, she did not know. they filled her with a sort of ecstasy, and she gave herself up to them. exhausted at last by these vivid thoughts and emotions, she rested her head upon her arms across the window sill and fell asleep. it must have been that the young quaker followed her into the land of dreams, for when her husband aroused her at midnight a faint flush could be seen by the light of the moon on those rounded cheeks. there are all the elements of a tragedy in the heart of a woman who has never felt the emotions of religion or of love until she is married! chapter v. the light that lies "oh! why did god create at last this novelty on earth, this fair defect of nature, and not till the world at once with men as angels, without feminine?" --paradise lost. on the following morning the preacher-plowman was afield at break of day. the horses, refreshed and rested by food and sleep, dragged the gleaming plowshare through the heavy sod as if it were light snow, and the farmer exulted behind them. that universal life which coursed through all the various forms of being around him, bounded in tides through his own veins. the fresh morning air, the tender light of dawning day, the odors of plants and songs of birds, filled his sensitive soul with unutterable delight. in the midst of all these beauties and wonders, he existed without self-consciousness and labored without effort. his heart was pure and his oneness with the natural world was complete. whatever was beautiful and gentle in the manifold operations of the divine spirit in the world around him, he saw and felt. to all that was horrible and ferocious, he was blind as a child in paradise. he did not notice the hawk sweeping upon the dove, the swallow darting upon the moth, nor the lizard lying in wait for the fly; or, if he did, he saw them only as he saw the shadows flitting across the sunny landscape. his soul was like a garden full of light, life, perfume, color and the music of singing birds and whispering leaves. before his inward eye the familiar figures of his daily life passed and repassed, but among them was also a new one. it was the figure that had arrested his attention and inspired him the night before. for hours he followed the plow without the consciousness of fatigue, but at length he paused to rest the horses, who were beginning to pant with their hard labor. he threw back his head, drew in deep inspirations of pure air, glanced about and felt the full tide of the simple joy of existence roll over him. life had never seemed sweeter than in those few moments in which he quaffed the brimming cup of youth and health which nature held to his lips. not a fear, not an apprehension of any danger crossed his soul. his glances roved here and there, pausing a moment in their flight like hummingbirds, to sip the sweetness from some unusually beautiful cloud or tree or flower, when he suddenly caught sight of a curious equipage flying swiftly down the road at the other side of the field. the spirited horses stopped. a man rose from the seat, put his hands to his mouth like a trumpet, uttered a loud "hallo," and beckoned. david tied the reins to the plow handles and strode across the fresh furrows. vaulting the fence and leaping the brook which formed the boundary line of the farm, he ascended the bank and approached the carriage. as he did so the occupants got out and came to meet him. to his astonishment he saw the strangers whom he had noticed the night before. the man advanced with a bold, free demeanor, the woman timidly and with downcast eyes. "good morning," said the doctor. david returned his greeting with the customary dignity of the quakers. "my name is dr. aesculapius." "thee is welcome." "i was over to the m-m-meeting house last night, and heard your s-s-speech. didn't understand a w-w-word, but saw that you c-c-can talk like a united states senator." david bowed and blushed. "i came over to make you a p-p-proposition. want you to yoke up with me, and help me sell the 'b-b-balm of the blessed islands.' you can do the t-t-talking and i'll run the b-b-business; see?" he put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, spread his feet apart, squared himself and smiled like a king who had offered his throne to a beggar. david regarded him with a look of astonishment. "what do you s-s-say?" gravely, placidly, the young quaker answered: "i thank thee, friend, for what thee evidently means as a kindness, but i must decline thy offer." "decline my offer? are you c-c-crazy? why do you d-d-decline my offer?" "because i have no wish to leave my home and work." although his answer was addressed to the man, his eyes were directed to the woman. his reply, simple and natural enough, astounded the quack. "what!" he exclaimed. "do you mean that you p-p-prefer to stay in this p-p-pigstye of a town to becoming a citizen of the g-g-great world?" "i do." "but listen; i will pay you more money in a single month than you can earn by d-d-driving your plow through that b-b-black mud for a whole year." "i have no need and no desire for more money than i can earn by daily toil." "no need and no desire for money! b-b-bah! you are not talking to sniveling old women and crack-b-b-brained old men; but to a f-f-feller who can see through a two-inch plank, and you can't p-p-pass off any of your religious d-d-drivel on him, either." this coarse insult went straight to the soul of the youth. his blood tingled in his veins. there was a tightening around his heart of something which was out of place in the bosom of a quaker. a hot reply sprang to his lips, but died away as he glanced at the woman, and saw her face mantled with an angry flush. calmed by her silent sympathy, he quietly replied: "friend, i have no desire to annoy thee, but i have been taught that 'the love of money is the root of all evil,' and believing as i do i could not answer thee otherwise than i did." it was evident from the look upon the countenance of the quack that he had met with a new and incomprehensible type of manhood. he gazed at the quaker a moment in silence and then exclaimed, "young man, you may mean what you say, b-b-but you have been most infernally abused by the p-p-people who have put such notions in your head, for there is only one substantial and abiding g-g-good on earth, and that is money. money is power, money is happiness, money is god; get money! get it anywhere! get it anyhow, but g-g-get it." instead of mere resentment for a personal insult, david now felt a tide of righteous indignation rising in his soul at this scorn and denial of those eternal principles of truth and duty which he felt to be the very foundations of the moral universe. "sir," said he, with the voice and mien of an apostle, "i perceive that thou art in the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity. thy money perish with thee. the god of this world hath blinded thine eyes." the quack, who now began to take a humorous view of the innocence of the youth, burst into a boisterous guffaw. "well, well," he said in mingled scorn and pity, "reckon you are more to be pitied than b-b-blamed. fault of early education! talk like a p-p-parrot! what can a young fellow like you know about life, shut up here in this seven-by-nine valley, like a man in a b-b-barrel looking out of the b-b-bung-hole?" offended and disgusted, the quaker was about to turn upon his heel; but he saw in the face of the man's beautiful companion a look which said plainly as spoken words, "i, too, desire that you should go with us." this look changed his purpose, and he paused. "listen to me now," continued the doctor, observing his irresolution. "you think you know what life is; but you d-d-don't! do you know what g-g-great cities are? do you know what it is to m-m-mix with crowds of men, to feel and perhaps to sway their p-p-passions? do you know what it is to p-p-possess and to spend that money which you d-d-despise? do you know what it is to wear fine clothes, to d-d-drink rare wines, to see great sights, to go where you want to and to do what you p-p-please?" "i do not, nor do i wish to. and thee must abandon these follies and sins, if thee would enter the kingdom of god," david replied, fixing his eyes sternly upon the face of the blasphemer. "god! ha, ha, ha! who is he, anyhow? same old story! fools that can't enjoy life, d-d-don't want any one else to! ever hear 'bout the fox that got his tail b-b-bit off? wanted all the rest to have theirs! what the d-d-deuce are we here in this world for? t-t-tell me that, p-p-parson!" "to do the will of our father which is in heaven." "to do the will of our father in heaven! i know but one will, and it is the w-w-will of doctor p-p-paracelsus aesculapius. i'm my own lord and law, i am." "know thou that for all thy idle words, god will bring thee to judgment?" david answered solemnly. "rot!" muttered the doctor, disgusted beyond endurance, and concluding the interview with the cynical farewell, "good-bye, d-d-dead man! i have always hated c-c-corpses! i am going where men have red b-b-blood in their veins." with these words he turned on his heel and started toward the carriage, leaving david and pepeeta alone. neither of them moved. the gypsy nervously plucked the petals from a daisy and the quaker gazed at her face. during these few moments nature had not been idle. in air and earth and tree top, following blind instincts, her myriad children were seeking their mates. and here, in the odorous sunshine of the may morning, these two young, impressionable and ardent beings, yielding themselves unconsciously to the same mysterious attraction which was uniting other happy couples, were drawn together in a union which time could not dissolve and eternity, perhaps, cannot annul. having stalked indignantly onward for a few paces, the doctor discovered that his wife had not followed him, and turning he called savagely: "pepeeta, come! it is folly to try and p-p-persuade him. let us leave the saint to his prayers! but let him remember the old p-p-proverb, 'young saint, old sinner!' come!" he proceeded towards the carriage; but pepeeta seemed rooted to the ground, and david was equally incapable of motion. while they stood thus, gazing into each other's eyes, they saw nothing and they saw all. that brief glance was freighted with destiny. a subtle communication had taken place between them, although they had not spoken; for the eye has a language of its own. what was the meaning of that glance? what was the emotion that gave it birth in the soul? he knew! it told its own story. to their dying day, the actors in that silent drama remembered that glance with rapture and with pain. pepeeta spoke first, hurriedly and anxiously: "what did you say last night about the 'light of life?' tell me! i must know." "i said there is a light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world." "and what did you mean? be quick. there is only a moment." "i meant that there is a light that shines from the soul itself and that in this light we may walk, and he who walks in it, walks safely. he need never fall!" "never? i do not understand; it is beautiful; but i do not understand!" "pepeeta!" called her husband, angrily. she turned away, and david watched her gliding out of his sight, with an irrepressible pain and longing. "i suppose she is his daughter," he said to himself, and upon that natural but mistaken inference his whole destiny turned. something seemed to draw him after her. he took a step or two, halted, sighed and returned to his labor. but it was to a strangely altered world that he went. its glory had vanished; it was desolate and empty, or so at least it seemed to him, for he confounded the outer and the inner worlds, as it was his nature and habit to do. it was in his soul that the change had taken place. the face of a bad man and of an incomprehensible woman followed him through the long furrows until the sun went down. he was vaguely conscious that he had for the first time actually encountered those strenuous elements which draw manhood from its moorings. he felt humiliated by the recognition that he was living a dream life there in his happy valley; and that there was a life outside which he could not master so easily. that confidence in his strength and incorruptibility which he had always felt began to waver a little. his innocence appeared to him like that of the great first father in the garden of eden, before his temptation, and now that he too had listened to the voice of the serpent and had for the first time been stirred at the description of the sweetness of the great tree's fruit, there came to him a feeling of foreboding as to the future. he was astonished that such characters as those he had just seen did not excite in him loathing and repulsion. why could he not put them instantly and forever out of his mind? how could they possess any attractiveness for him at all--such a blatant, vulgar man or such an ignorant, ah! but beautiful, woman; for she was beautiful! yes--beautiful but bad! but no--such a beautiful woman could not be bad. see how interested she was about the "inner light." she must be very ignorant; but she was very attractive. what eyes! what lips! thoughts which he had always been able to expel from his mind before, like evil birds fluttered again and again into the windows of his soul. for this he upbraided himself; but only to discover that at the very moment when he regretted that he had been tempted at all, he also regretted that he had not been tempted further. all day long his agitated spirit alternated between remorse that he had enjoyed so much, and regret that he had enjoyed so little. never had he experienced such a tumult in his soul. he struggled hard, but he could not tell whether he had conquered or been defeated. it was not until he had retired to his room at night and thrown himself upon his knees, that he began to regain peace. there, in the stillness of his chamber, he strove for the control of his thoughts and emotions, and fell asleep after long and prayerful struggles, with the sweet consciousness of a spiritual triumph! chapter vi. the trail of the serpent "every man living shall assuredly meet with an hour of temptation, a critical hour which shall more especially try what metal his heart is made of"--south. it was long after he had awakened in the morning before the memory of the adventure of yesterday recurred to david's mind. his sleep had been as deep as that of an infant, and his rest in the great ocean of oblivion had purified him, so that when he did at last recall the experience which had affected him so deeply, it was with indifference. the charm had vanished. even the gypsy's beauty paled in the light of the holy sabbath morning. he could think of her with entire calmness, and so thoroughly had the evil vanished that he hoped it had disappeared forever. but he had yet to learn that before evil can be successfully forgotten it must be heroically overcome. he did not yet realize this, however, and his bath, his morning prayer, a passage from the gospel, the hearty breakfast, the kind and trustful faces of his family, dispelled the last cloud from the sky of his soul. having finished the round of morning duties, he made himself ready to visit the lumber camp, there to discharge the sacred duty revealed to him in the vision. the confidence reposed by the genuine quaker in such intimations of the spirit is absolute. they are to him as imperative as the audible voice of god to moses by the burning bush. "farewell, mother, i am off," he said, kissing her upon the white forehead. "thee is going to the lumber camp, my son?" she asked, regarding him with ill-concealed pride. "i am, and hope to press the truth home to the hearts of those who shall hear me," replied the young devotee, his face lighting up with the blended rapture of religious enthusiasm, youth and health. "the lord be with thee and make thy ministrations fruitful," his mother said, and with this blessing he set off. as the young mystic had yesterday thought the world dark and stormy because of the tempest in his soul, so now he thought it still and peaceful, because of his inward calm. the very intensity of his recent struggles had rendered his soul acutely sensitive, like a delicate musical instrument which responded freely to the innumerable fingers wherewith nature struck its keys. her manifold forms, her gorgeous colors, her gigantic forces thrilled and intoxicated him. that sense of fellowship with all the forms of life about him, which is characteristic of all our moments of deepest rapture in the embrace of nature, filled his soul with joy. he accosted the trees as one greets a friend; he chatted with the brooks; he held conversation with the little lambs skipping in the pastures, and with the horses that whinnied as he passed. such opulent moments come to all in youth; moments when the soul, unconscious of its chains because they have not been stretched to their limits, roams the universe with god-like liberty and joy. had he been asked to analyze these exquisite emotions, the young quaker would have said that they were the joys of the indwelling of the divine spirit. he did not realize how much of his exhilaration came from the feelings awakened by the experiences of the day before. one might almost say that a spiritual fragrance from the woman who had crossed his path was diffusing itself through the chambers of his soul. it was like the odor of violets which lingers after the flowers themselves are gone. up to this time, he had never felt the mighty and mysterious emotion of love. more than once, when he had seen the calm face of dorothy fraser, soft and tender feelings had arisen in his heart; but they were only the first faint gleams of that conflagration which sooner or later breaks forth in the souls of men like him. it was this confusion of the sources of his happiness which made him oblivious to the struggle that was still going on within his mind. the question had been raised there as to whether he had chosen wisely in turning his back upon the joys of an earthly life for the joys of heaven. it had not been settled, and was waiting an opportunity to thrust itself again before his consciousness. in the meantime he was happy. never had he seemed to himself more perfectly possessed by the divine spirit than at the moment when he reached the summit of the last hill, and looked down into the valley where lay the lumber-camp. he paused to gaze upon a scene of surpassing loveliness, and was for a moment absorbed by its beauty; but a sudden discovery startled and disturbed him. there was no smoke curling from the chimneys. there were no forms of men moving about in their brilliant woolen shirts; he listened in vain for voices; he could not even hear the yelp of the ever-watchful dogs. "can it be possible that i have been deceived by my vision?" he asked himself. it was the first real skepticism of his life, and crowding it back into his heart as best he could, he pressed on, excited and curious. as he approached the rude structure, the signs of its desertion became indubitable. he called, but heard only the echo of his own voice. he tried the door, and it opened. through it he entered the low-ceiled room. on every hand were evidences of recent departure; living coals still glowed in the ashes and crumbs were scattered on the tables. there could be no longer any doubt that the lumbermen had vanished. the last and most incontrovertible proof was tacked upon the wall in the shape of a flat piece of board on which were written in a rude scrawl these words: "we have gone to the big miami." the face so bright and clear a moment ago was clouded now. he read the sentence over and over again. he sat down upon a bench and meditated, then rose and went out, walking around the cabin and returning to read the message once more. if he had spoken the real sentiment of his heart he would have said: "i have been deceived." he did not speak, however, but struggled bravely to throw off the feelings of surprise and doubt; and so, reassuring his faith again and again by really noble efforts, took from his pocket the lunch his mother had prepared, and ate it hungrily although abstractedly. as he did so, he felt the animal joy in food and rest, and his courage and confidence revived. "it is plain," he said to himself, "that god has sent me here to try my faith. all he requires is obedience! it is not necessary that i should understand; but it is necessary that i should obey!" the idea of a probation so unique was not distasteful to his romantic nature, and he therefore at once addressed himself to the business upon which he had come. he had been sent to preach, and preach he would. drawing from the inner pocket of his coat a well-worn bible, he turned to the fourteenth chapter of the gospel of saint john, rose to his feet and began to read. it was strange to be reading to this emptiness and silence, but after a moment he adjusted himself to the situation. the earnest effort he was making to control his mind achieved at least a partial success. his face brightened, he conjured up before his imagination the forms and faces of the absent men. he saw them with the eye of his mind. his voice grew firm and clear, and its tones reassured him. having finished the lesson, he closed the volume and began to pray. now that his eyes were shut, the strangeness of the situation vanished entirely. he was no longer alone, for god was with him. the petition was full of devotion, tenderness and faith, and as he poured it forth his countenance beamed like that of an angel. when it was finished he began the sermon. the first few words were scarcely audible. the thoughts were disconnected and fragmentary. he suffered an unfamiliar and painful embarrassment, but struggled on, and his thoughts cleared themselves like a brook by flowing. each effort resulted in a greater facility of utterance, and soon the joy of triumph began to inspire him. the old confidence returned at last and his soul, filled with faith and hope and fervor, poured itself forth in a full torrent. he began to be awed by the conjecture that his errand had some extraordinary although hidden import. who could tell what mission these words were to accomplish in the plans of god? he remembered that the waves made by the smallest pebble flung into the ocean widen and widen until they touch the farthest shore, and he flung the pebbles of his speech into the great ocean of thought, transported by the hope of sometime learning that their waves had beat upon the shores of a distant universe. suddenly, in the midst of this tumultuous rush of speech, he heard, or thought he heard, a sound. it seemed to him like a sob and there followed stumbling footsteps as of some one in hurried flight, but he was too absorbed to be more than dimly conscious of anything save his own emotions. and yet, slight as was this interruption, it served to agitate his mind and bring him down from the realms of imagination to the world of reality. his thoughts began to flow less easily and his tongue occasionally to stammer; the strangeness of his experience came back upon him with redoubled force; the chill influence of vacancy and emptiness oppressed him; his enthusiasm waned; what he was doing began to seem foolish and even silly. just at that critical moment there occurred one of those trifling incidents which so often produce results ridiculously disproportionate to their apparent importance. through the open door to which his back was turned, a little snake had made its way into the room, and having writhed silently across the floor, coiled itself upon the hearth-stone, faced the speaker, looked solemnly at him with its beady eyes, and occasionally thrust out its forked tongue as if in relish of his words. that fixed and inscrutable gaze completed the confusion of the orator. he suddenly ceased to speak, and stood staring at the serpent. his face became impassive and expressionless; the pupils of his eyes dilated; his lips remained apart; the last word seemed frozen on his tongue. not a shade of thought could be traced on his countenance and yet he must have been thinking, for he suddenly collapsed, sank down on a rude bench and rested his head on his hands as if he had come to some disagreeable, and perhaps terrible conclusion. and so indeed he had. the uneasy suspicions which had been floating in his mind in a state of solution were suddenly crystallized by this untoward event. the absurdity of a man's having tramped twenty miles through an almost unbroken wilderness to preach the gospel to a garter snake, burst upon him with a crushing force. this grotesque denouement of an undertaking planned and executed in the loftiest frame of religious enthusiasm, shook the very foundation of his faith. "it is absurd, it is impossible, that an infinite spirit of love and wisdom could have planned this repulsive adventure! i have been misled! i am the victim of a delusion!" he said to himself, in shame and bitterness. to him, christianity had been not so much a system of doctrines based upon historical proofs, as emotions springing from his own heart. he believed in another world not because its existence had been testified to by others, but because he daily and hourly entered its sacred precincts. he had faith in god, not because he had spoken to apostles and prophets, but because he had spoken to david corson. having received direct communication from the divine spirit, how could he doubt? what other proof could he need? suddenly, without warning and without preparation, the foundation upon which he had erected the superstructure of his faith crumbled and fell. he had been deceived! the communications were false! they had originated in his own soul, and were not really the voice of god. through this suspicion, as through a suddenly-opened door, the powers of hell rushed into his soul and it became the theater of a desperate battle between the good and evil elements of life. doubt grappled with faith; self-gratification with self-restraint; despair with hope; lust with purity; body with soul. he heard again the mocking laughter of the quack, and the stinging words of his cynical philosophy once more rang in his ears. what this coarse wretch had said was true, then! religion was a delusion, and he had been spending the best portion of his life in hugging it to his bosom. much of his youth had already passed and he had not as yet tasted the only substantial joys of existence,--money, pleasure, ambition, love! he felt that he had been deceived and defrauded. a contempt for his old life and its surroundings crept upon him. he began to despise the simple country people among whom he had grown up, and those provincial ideas which they cherished in the little, unknown nook of the world where they stagnated. during a long time he permitted himself to be borne upon the current of these thoughts without trying to stem it, till it seemed as if he would be swept completely from his moorings. but his trust had been firmly anchored, and did not easily let go its hold. the convictions of a lifetime began to reassert themselves. they rose and struggled heroically for the possession of his spirit. had the battle been with the simple abstraction of philosophic doubt, the good might have prevailed, but there obtruded itself into the field the concrete form of the gypsy. the glance of her lustrous eye, the gleam of her milk-white teeth, the heaving of her agitated bosom, the inscrutable but suggestive expression of her flushed and eager face, these were foes against which he struggled in vain. a feverish desire, whose true significance he did not altogether understand, tugged at his heart, and he felt himself drawn by unseen hands toward this mysterious and beautiful being. she seemed to him at that awful moment, when his whole world of thought and feeling was slipping from under his feet, the one only abiding reality. she at least was not an impalpable vision, but solid, substantial, palpitating flesh and blood. like continuously advancing waves which sooner or later must undermine a dyke, the passions and suspicions of his newly awakened nature were sapping the foundations of his belief. at intervals he gained a little courage to withstand them, and at such moments tried to pray; but the effort was futile, for neither would the accustomed syllables of petition spring to his lips, nor the feelings of faith and devotion arise within his heart. he strove to convince himself that this experience was a trial of his faith, and that if he stood out a little longer, his doubt would pass away. he lifted his head and glanced at the serpent still coiled upon the hearth. its eyes were fixed upon him in a gorgon-like stare, and his doubts became positive certainties, as disgust became loathing. the battle had ended. the mystic had been defeated. this sudden collapse had come because the foundations of his faith had been honeycombed. the innocent serpent had been, not the cause, but the occasion. influences had been at work, of which the quaker had remained unconscious. he had been observing, without reflecting upon, many facts in the lives of other men, experiences in his own heart, and apparent inconsistencies in the bible. there was also a virus whose existence he did not suspect running in his very blood! and now on top of the rest came the bold skepticism of the quack, and the bewildering beauty of the gypsy. yes, the preliminary work had been done! we never know how rotten the tree is until it falls, nor how unstable the wall until it crumbles. and so in the moral natures of men, subtle forces eat their way silently and imperceptibly to the very center. a summer breeze overthrows the tree, the foot of a child sets the wall tottering; a whisper, a smile, even the sight of a serpent, is the jar that upsets the equilibrium of a soul. the quaker rose from his seat in a fever of excitement. he seized the bible lying open on the table, hurled it frantically at the snake and flung himself out of the open door into the sunshine. a wild consciousness of liberty surged over him. "i am free," he exclaimed aloud. "i have emancipated myself from superstition. i am going forth into the world to assert myself, to gratify my natural appetites, to satisfy my normal desires. it was for this that life was given. i have too long believed that duty consisted in conquering nature. i now see that it lies in asserting it. i have too long denied myself. i will hereafter be myself. that man was right--there is no law above the human will." chapter vii. the chance word "a man reforms his habits altogether or not at all." --bacon. david was not mistaken in his vague impression that he had heard a sob and footsteps outside the cabin door. the little band of lumbermen abandoning their camp in the early light of the morning for another clearing still farther in the wilderness, had already covered several miles of their journey when their leader suddenly discovered that he had forgotten his axe, and with a wild volley of oaths turned back to get it. even in that region, where new types of men sprang up like new varieties of plants after a fire has swept over a clearing, there was not to be found a more unique and striking personality than andy mcfarlane. in physique he was of gigantic proportions, his hair and beard as red as fire, his voice loud and deep, his eyes blue and piercing. clad in the gay-colored woolen shirt, the rough fur cap, and the high-topped boots of a lumberman, his appearance was bold and picturesque to the last degree. nor were his mental powers inferior to his physical. although unable to read or write, he could both reason and command. his keen perceptions, his ready wit, his forcible logic and his invincible will had made him a leader among men and the idol of the rude people among whom he passed his days. repelled and disgusted with those manifestations of the religious life with which alone he was familiar, he was still an unconscious worshiper. the woods, the hills, the rivers and the stars awoke within him a response to the beautiful, the sublime and awe-inspiring in the natural universe. but because of ignorance, the mysteries of existence which ought to have made him devout had only rendered him superstitious, though, all unknown to himself, his bosom was full of inflammable materials of a deeply religious life. a spark fell upon them that sunday morning and kindled them into a conflagration. nothing else can so enrage a nature like his as having to retrace its steps. he could have walked a hundred miles straight forward without a feeling of fatigue or a sense of hardship; but every backward step of his journey had put him more out of temper. he reached the clearing in a towering passion and was bewildered at hearing in what he supposed to be a deserted room, the sound of a human voice in whose tones there was a peculiar quality which aroused his interest and perhaps excited his superstition. he crept toward the rude cabin on his tiptoes, paused and listened. what he heard was the voice of the young mystic, pouring out his heart in prayer. for the first time in his life mcfarlane gave serious attention to a petition addressed to the supreme being. other prayers had disgusted him because of their vulgar familiarity with the deity, or repelled him by their hypocrisy; but there was something so sincere and simple in the childlike words which issued from the cabin as to quicken his soul and turn his thoughts upon the mysteries of existence. he had received the gift of life as do the eagles and the lions--without surprise. had any one asked him: "andy mcfarlane, what is life?" he would have answered: "life? why it is just life." but suddenly a voice, heard in the quiet of a wilderness, a voice full of tenderness and pathos, issuing from unknown and invisible lips and ascending into the vast and illimitable spaces of air, threw wide open the gates of mystery. his heart was instantly emptied of its passions; his soul grew calm and his whole nature became as impressionable as wax. when at length the prayer had ended and the sermon began, every power of his mind was strained to its utmost capacity, and he listened as if for life. the buried germs of desires and aspirations of which he had never dreamed were quickened into life with the rapidity of the outburst of vegetation in a polar summer. words and phrases which had hitherto seemed to him the utterances of fools or madmen, became instinct with a marvelous beauty and a wondrous meaning. they flashed like balls of fire. they pierced like swords. they aroused like trumpets. such was the susceptibility of this great soul, and such was the power of that simple eloquence. andy mcfarlane, the child of poverty, the rude lumberman, the hardy frontiersman, was by nature a poet and a seer, and this was his new birth into his true inheritance. those eyes which had never wept, swam in tears. those knees which had never trembled before the visible, shook in the presence of the unseen. the emotions have their limitations as well as the thoughts, and mcfarlane had endured all that he was capable of sustaining. with a profound sob, in which he uttered the feelings he could not speak, he turned and fled. it was this sob and these footsteps which david heard. plunging into the depths of the forest as a wounded animal would have done, he cast himself upon the bosom of the earth at the foot of a great tree, to find solitude and consolation. there are wounds in the soul too deep to be healed by the balm which exudes from the visible elements of nature. there are longings and aspirations which the palpable and audible cannot satisfy. not what he sees and touches, but what he hopes and trusts, can save man in these dark moments from the final despair and terror of existence. upon such an hour as this the lumberman had fallen. god had thrust himself upon his attention. instead of being compelled to seek a religious experience, he found it impossible to escape it. the religious experiences of men in any such epoch possess a certain general similarity. sometimes thought, sometimes action and sometimes emotion furnish the all-pervasive element. whatever this peculiar characteristic may be, its manifestations are always most vivid and violent in ignorant periods, and along the uncultivated frontiers of advancing civilization. in those rude days and regions, the victims (if one might say so) of religion experienced nervous excitations and emotional transports which not infrequently terminated in convulsions. days and nights, weeks and even months, were often spent by them in struggles which were always painful and often terrible. andy mcfarlane had often enough witnessed and despised these experiences; but through those almost inexorable laws of association and imitation, they were more than likely to reproduce themselves in him. and so indeed they did. under the influence of these new thoughts that had seized him with such power, he writhed in agony on the ground. a profound "conviction of sin" took possession of his soul and he felt himself to be hopelessly and forever lost. that hell at which he had so often scoffed suddenly opened its jaws beneath his feet, and although he shuddered at the thought of being engulfed in its horrors, he felt that such a doom would be the just desert of a life like his. hours passed in which his calmest thoughts were those of complete bewilderment and helplessness, and in which he seemed to himself to be floating upon a wide and shoreless sea, or wandering in a pathless wilderness or winging his way like a lost bird through the trackless heavens. however large an element of unreality and absurdity there may have been in such experiences, it is certain that changes of the most startling and permanent character were often wrought in the natures of those who passed through them, and when mcfarlane at last emerged from this spiritual excitement he was a strangely altered man. he seemed to find himself in another and more beautiful world. looking around him with a childlike wonder, he rose and made his way back to the cabin. he listened at the door, but heard no sound. he entered, found the room empty, and gave himself up to rude and unscientific speculation as to the nature of this mysterious adventure. nothing helped to solve the problem, until at last he discovered the bible, which the quaker had hurled at the snake, lying upon the hearthstone. it did not explain everything, but it served to connect the inexplicable with the real and human, and he carried the book with him when he returned to his companions with his recovered axe. that bible became a "lamp to his feet and a light to his path." by patient labor he learned to read it, and soon grew to be so familiar with its contents, that he was able not only to communicate its matter to others, in the new and beautiful life which he began to live, but to give it new power for those men in the plain and homely language of which he had always been a master. the lion had become a lamb, the eagle a dove. he moved among his men, the incarnation of gentleness and truth. under his powerful influence the camp passed through a marvelous transformation. from this limited sphere of influence, his fame began to extend into a larger region. he was sent for from far and near to tell the story of his strange conversion, and in time abandoned all other labor and gave himself entirely to the preaching of the gospel. it was as if the spirit of love and faith which had departed from the quaker had entered into the lumberman. chapter viii. a broken reed "superstition is a senseless fear of god." --cicero. the address of the young quaker in the meeting house and the interview with him by the roadside had opened a new epoch in the life of the fortune teller. her idea of the world was a chaos of crude and irrational conceptions. the superstitions of the gypsies by whom she had been reared were confusedly blended with those practical but vicious maxims which governed the conduct of her husband. for her, the world of law, of order, of truth, of justice had no existence. the quack cared little what she thought, and had neither the ability nor the interest to penetrate to the secrets of her soul. she had lived the dream life of an ignorant child up to the moment when david had awakened her soul, and now that she really began to grapple with the problems of existence, she had neither companion nor teacher to help her. the two objects about which her thoughts had begun to hover helplessly were the god of whom david had spoken and the quaker himself. both of them had profoundly agitated her mind and heart, and still haunted her thoughts. during all of saturday after the interview, through the evening which she had passed in her booth, and far into the night, she had revolved in her mind the words she had heard, and attempted to weave these two mysterious beings into her confused scheme of thought. her disappointment at david's refusal to accompany them in their wandering life had been bitter. she did not comprehend the nature of her feeling for him; but his presence gave her so exquisite a happiness that the thought of never seeing him again had become intolerable. for the first time she, who had been for years, as she thought, disclosing the future to other people, was seized with a burning curiosity as to her own. up to this crisis of her experience she had lived in the present moment; but now she must look into to-morrow and see if the quaker was ever to cross her path again. for so important, so delicate and so difficult a discovery it seemed to her that the ordinary instruments of her art were pitifully inadequate. the playing cards, the lines upon her hands, the leaves in her tea cup would not do. she would resort to that charm which the old gypsy had given her at parting, and which she had reserved for some great and critical moment of life. that moment had arrived. as she enjoyed the most perfect freedom in all her movements, she snatched an early and hurried breakfast sunday morning, told her husband that she was going to the woods for wild flowers, and set forth upon an errand pregnant with destiny. with an instinct like that of a wild creature she made her way swiftly towards the great forest which lay at a little distance from the outskirts of the village. her ignorance, her inexperience, her sadness and her beauty would have stirred the hardest heart to compassion. arrived at the point where she was to confront the great spiritual problems of existence, she might almost as well have been the first woman who had ever done so, for she knew nothing of the experiences of others who had encountered them, and she had scarcely heard an echo of the great life-truths which seers have been ages in discovering. she had to sound her way across the perilous sea of thought without any other chart than the faded parchment of the gypsy, and those few incomprehensible words which she had heard from the lips of the young quaker. it is good for us that upon this vast and unknown sea of life, god's winds and waves are wiser and stronger than the pilots, and often bring our frail crafts into havens which we never sought! perhaps the act which pepeeta was about to perform had more ethical and spiritual value than the casual observer would suppose, because of the perfect sincerity with which she undertook its performance. no priestess ever entered an oracle, no vestal virgin a temple, nor saint a shrine with more reverence than she felt, as she passed into the silence of this primeval forest. neither david nor pepeeta knew anything of each other's movements, but they started upon their different errands at almost the same moment and were pursuing parallel courses with only a low ridge of hills between them. each was following the brightest light that had shone upon the pathway of life. both were absorbed with the highest thoughts of which they were capable. as invisible planets deflect the stars from their orbits, these two were imperceptibly diverting each other from the way of duty. the experiences of this beautiful morning were to color the lives of both forever. as soon as pepeeta had escaped from the immediate environments of the village, she gave herself wholly to the task of gathering those ingredients which were to constitute the mixture she planned to offer to her god. she first secured a cricket, a lizard and a frog, and then the herbs and flowers which were to be mingled with them. thrusting them all into a little kettle which swung on her arm, she surrendered herself to the silent and mysterious influences of the forest. at the edge of the primeval wilderness a solemn hush stole over her. she entered its precincts as if it were a temple and she a worshiper with a votive offering. threading her way through the winding aisles of the great cathedral, she was exalted and transported. the fitful fever cooled in her veins. she absorbed and drew into her own spirit the calm and silence of the place, and she was in turn absorbed and drawn into the majestic life around her. the distinctively human seemed to slip from her like a garment, and she was transformed into a creature of these solitudes. her movements resembled those of a fawn. her great, gazelle-like eyes peered hither and thither, as if ever upon the watch for some hidden foe. it was as if her life in the habitations of men had been an enforced exile, and she had now returned to her native haunts. as she penetrated more and more deeply into the wood, her confidence increased; she stepped more firmly, removed her hat, shook out her long black tresses, listened to the songs of birds piping in the tops of trees, and exulted in the consciousness of freedom and of kinship with these natural objects. with a sudden and impulsive movement, she drew near to the smooth trunk of a great beech, put her arms around it, laid her cheek against it and kissed the bark. she was prompted by the same instinct which made st. francis de assisi call the flowers "our little sisters,--" an inexplicable sense of companionship and fraternity with living things of every kind. her swift footsteps brought her at last to the summit of a low line of hills, and she glided down into an unpeopled and shadow-haunted valley through which ran a crystal stream. perceiving the fitness of the place for her purpose, she hastened forward smiling, and, heated with her journey, threw herself down by the side of the brook and plunged her face into its cool and sparkling waters. then she lifted her head and carried the water to her lips in the palm of her dainty hand, and as she drank beheld the image of her face on the surface of a quiet little pool. small wonder that she stooped to kiss the red lips which were mirrored there! so did the fair greek maidens discover and pay tribute to their own loveliness, in the pure springs of hellas. refreshed by the cooling draught, the priestess now addressed herself to her task. gazing for an instant around the majestic temple in which her act of worship was to be performed, she began like some child of a long gone age to rear an altar. selecting a few from the many boulders that were strewn along the edge of the stream, she arranged them so as to make an elevated platform upon which she heaped dry leaves, brushwood and dead branches. over it she suspended a tripod of sticks, and from this hung her iron kettle. drawing from her pocket flint and steel, she struck them together, dropped a spark upon a piece of rotten wood, purred out her pretty cheeks and blew it into a flame. as the fire caught in the dry brushwood and began to leap heavenward, she followed it with her great brown eyes until it vanished into space. her spirit thrilled with that same sense of awe and reverence which filled the souls of primitive men when they traced the course of the darting flames toward the sky. in the presence of fire, some form of worship is inevitable. before conflagrations our reveries are transformed into prayers. the silently ascending tongues of flame carry us involuntarily into the presence of the infinite. filling her kettle with water from the running brook, she stirred into it the herbs, the berries, the lizard, the frog and the cricket. this part of her work completed, she sat down upon a bed of moss, drew forth the sacred parchment and read its contents again and again. "when the cauldron steams, dance about the fire and sing this song. as the last words die away matizan will leap from the flames and reveal to thee the future." credulous child that she was, not the faintest shadow of a doubt floated across her mind. she thrust the parchment back into her bosom, and as the water began to bubble, leaped to her feet, threw her arms above her head, sprang into the air, and went whirling away in graceful curves and bacchantean dances. there were in these movements, as in every dance, mysterious and perhaps incomprehensible elements. who can tell whether they have their origin in the will of the dancer alone, or in some outside force? the daisies in the meadow and the waves of the sea dance because they are agitated by the wind. the little cork automaton upon the sounding board of a piano dances because it is agitated by the vibrations of the strings. the little children in the alleys of a great city seem to be agitated in the same way by the hurdy-gurdy! perhaps the rhythmic beating of the feet upon the ground surcharges the body with electrical force, as by the touch of a magnet. there is a mystery in the simplest phenomena of life. pepeeta, dancing upon the green moss beneath the great beech trees, seemed to be in the hands of some external power, and could scarcely have been distinguished from an automaton! she had brought her tambourine, and holding it on high with her left hand or extending it far forward, she tapped it with her fingers or her knuckles, until all its brazen disks tingled and its little bells gave out a sweet and silvery tintinnabulation. the dancer's movements were alternately sinuous, undulatory and gliding. at one moment her supple form, bending humbly toward the earth, resembled the stem of a lily over-weighted with its blossom; the next, a branch of a tree flung upward by a tempest; the next, a column of autumn leaves caught up by a miniature whirlwind and sent spinning along a winding path. her eyes glowed, her cheeks burned and her bosom heaved with excitement. she seemed either to have caught from nature her own mood, or else to have communicated hers to it, for while she danced all else danced with her, the water in the brook, the squirrels in the tree-tops, the shadows on the moss, and the leaves on the branches. following the directions of the parchment, she continued to spin and flutter around the fire until the water in the kettle began to boil. at the first ebullitions, she stood poised for an instant upon her toe, like the famous statue of mercury, and so lightly that she seemed to be sustained by undiscoverable wings, or to float, like a bubble, of her own buoyancy. settling down at length as if she were a hummingbird lighting upon a flower, she began to circle slowly around the fire and sing. the melody was in a minor key and full of weird pathos. the words were these: "god of the gypsy camp, matizan, matizan, open the future to me-- me thy true worshiper, here in this solitude, offering this incense to thee. "matizan, matizan, god of the future days, come in the smoke and the fire; kaffaran, kaffaran, muzsubar, zanzarbee; bundemar, omadar, zire." as the last syllable fell from her lips, the loathsome decoction boiled over, and the singer, pausing as if suddenly turned to marble, stood in statuesque beauty, her arms extended, her lips parted, her eyes fixed. expectancy gave place to surprise, surprise to disappointment, disappointment to despair. the lips began to quiver, the eyes to fill with tears; her girlish figure suddenly collapsed and sank upon the ground as the sail of a vessel falls to the deck when a sudden blast of wind has snapped its cordage. while the broken-hearted and disillusioned priestess lay prostrate there, the fire spluttered, the birds sang cheerfully in the treetops, and the brook murmured to the grasses at its marge. no unearthly voice disturbed the tranquillity of the forest, and no unearthly presence appeared upon the scene. the great world spirit paid no more attention to the prone and weeping woman than to the motes, that were swimming gaily in the sunbeams. as for her, poor child, her life faith had been dissipated in a single instant, and the whole fabric of her thought-world demolished in a single crash. what had happened to the quaker in the lumber camp, had befallen the gypsy in the forest. but while in his case the disappearance of faith had been followed by a sudden eruption of evil passions, in hers a vanished superstition had given place to a nascent spiritual life. the seed of religious truth sown by his hand in the fertile soil of her heart already struck its roots deep down. she did not in any full degree comprehend his words; but that reiterated statement that "there is a light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world" had made an indelible impression upon her mind and was destined to accomplish great results. as she lay crushed and desolate in her disillusionment, her mind began of its own accord suddenly to feed upon this new hope. she could not be said to have been reasoning, as david was doing in the cabin. her nature was emotional rather than intellectual, or at least her powers of reason had never been developed. she could not therefore think her way through these pathless regions over which she was now compelled to pass; she could only feel her way. the thoughts which began to course through her mind did not originate in any efforts of the will, but issued spontaneously from the depths of her soul, and as they arose without volition, so did they flow on until they finally became as pure and clear as the waters of the brook by whose banks she lay. when her emotions had expended their force and she arose, an experience befell her which revealed the immaturity of her mind. the idea of that "inner light" had taken complete possession of her soul, and so when she suddenly perceived a long bright path of gold which a beam of the setting sun had thrown along the floor of the forest, like a shining track in the direction of the village, she thought it had emerged from the depths of her own spirit. without a moment's hesitation she entered this golden highway and sped along! not for another instant did she regret the failure of the gypsy god to meet her. she knew well enough, now, the way to find her path amid the mysteries of life! she had but to follow this light! the shining pathway led her to the summit of the hill; and as she began to descend the other slope, it vanished with the sun. but she was not troubled, for she saw at a glance that the brook to whose banks she was coming was the one flowing through the farm of the quaker. "perhaps i shall see him again," she said to herself, and the hope made her tumultuously happy. she had lost all consciousness of the flight of time, and now noticed with surprise that it was evening. the crows were winging their way to their nesting ground; the rabbits were seeking their burrows; the whole animal world was faring homeward. some universal impulse seemed to be driving them along their predestined paths, as it drove the brooks and the clouds, and pepeeta appeared, as much as they, to be borne onward by a power above herself. she was but little more conscious of choosing her path than the doe who at a little distance was hurrying home to her mate; so completely were all her volitional powers in abeyance to the emotional elements of her soul. chapter ix. where paths converge "if we do meet again, we'll smile indeed; if not, 'tis true this parting was well made." --julius caesar. violent emotions, like the lunar tides, must have their ebb because they have their flow. the feelings do not so much advance like a river, as oscillate like a pendulum. striding homeward after his downfall in the log cabin, david's determination to join his fortunes to those of the two adventurers began to wane. he trembled at an unknown future and hesitated before untried paths. already the strange experience through which he had just passed began to seem to him like a half-forgotten dream. the refluent thoughts and feelings of his religious life began to set back into every bay and estuary of his soul. with a sense of shame, he regretted his hasty decision, and was saying to himself, "i will arise and go to my father," for all the experiences of life clothed themselves at once in the familiar language of the scriptures. it is more than likely that he would have carried out this resolution, and that this whole experience would have become a mere incident in his life history, if his destiny had depended upon his personal volition. but how few of the great events of life are brought about by our choice alone! just at sunset, he crossed the bridge over the brook which formed the boundary line of the farm, and as he did so heard a light footstep. lifting his eyes, he saw pepeeta, who at that very instant stepped out of the low bushes which lined the trail she had been following. her appearance was as sudden as an apparition and her beauty dazzled him. her face, flushed with exercise, gleamed against the background of her black hair with a sort of spiritual radiance. when she saw the quaker, a smile of unmistakable delight flashed upon her features and added to her bewitching grace. she might have been an oread or a dryad wandering alone through the great forest. what bliss for youth and beauty to meet thus at the close of day amid the solitudes of nature! had nature forgotten herself, to permit these two young and impressionable beings to enjoy this pleasure on a lonely road just as the day was dying and the tense energies of the world were relaxed? there are times when her indifference to her own most inviolable laws seems anarchic. there are moments when she appears wantonly to lure her children to destruction. they gazed into each other's eyes, they knew not how long, with an incomprehensible and delicious joy, and then looked down upon the ground. having regained their composure by this act, they lifted their eyes and regarded each other with frank and friendly smiles. "i thought thee had gone," said david. "we stayed longer than we expected," pepeeta replied. "has thee been hunting wild flowers?" he asked, observing the bouquet which she held in her hand. "i picked them on the way." "has thee been walking far?" "i have not thought." "it is easy to walk in these spring days." "i must have found it so, for i have been out since sunrise, and am not tired." "thee does love the woods?" "oh, so much! i am a sort of wild creature and should like to live in a cave." "i am afraid thee would always turn thy face homeward at dusk, as thee is doing now," he said with a smile. "oh, no! i am not afraid! i go because i must." "i will join thee, if i may. the same path will take us toward our different destinations." "oh, i shall be glad, for i want to ask you many questions. i can think of nothing else but what i heard you say in the meeting house." "i fear i have said some things which i do not understand myself," he replied, with a flush, remembering the experience through which he had just passed. the path was wide enough for two, and side by side they moved slowly forward. the somber garb in which he was dressed, and the brilliant colors of her apparel, afforded a contrast like that between a pheasant and a scarlet tanager. color, form, motion--all were perfect. they fitted into the scene without a jar or discord, and enhanced rather than disturbed the harmony of the drowsy landscape. as they walked onward, they vaguely felt the influence of the repose that was stealing upon the tired world; the intellectual and volitional elements of their natures becoming gradually quiescent, the emotions were given full sway. they felt themselves drawn toward each other by some irresistible power, and, although they had never before been conscious of any incompleteness of their lives, they suddenly discovered affinities of whose existence they had never dreamed. their two personalities seemed to be absorbed into one new mysterious and indivisible being, and this identity gave them an incomprehensible joy. over them as they walked, nature brooded, sphynx-like. their young and healthy natures were tuned in unison with the harmonies of the world like perfect instruments from which the delicate fingers of the great musician evoked a melody of which she never tired, reserving her discords for a future day. on this delicious evening she permitted them to be thrilled through and through with joy and hope and she accompanied the song their hearts were singing with her own multitudinous voices. "be happy," chirped the birds; "be happy," whispered the evening breeze; "be happy," murmured the brook, running along by their side and looking up into their faces with laughter. the whole world seemed to resound with the refrain, "be happy! be happy! for you are young, are young, are young!" pepeeta first broke the silence. "i had never heard of the things about which you talked," she said. "thee never had? how could that be? i thought that every one knew them!" "i must have lived in a different world from yours." "what sort of a world has thee lived in?" "a world of fairs and circuses, of traveling everywhere and never stopping anywhere." "has thee never been in a church?" "never until that night." "and thee knows nothing of god?" "nothing except the gypsy god, and he was not like yours." "and thee was happy?" "i thought so until i heard what you said. since then i have been full of care and trouble. i wish i knew what you meant! but i have seen that wonderful light!" "thee has seen it?" "yes, to-day! and i followed it; i shall always follow it." "when does thee leave the village?" david asked, fearing the conversation would lead where he did not want to go. "to-morrow," she said. "does thee think that the doctor would renew his offer to take me with him?" "do i think so? oh! i am sure." "then i will go." "you will go? oh! i am so happy! the doctor was very angry; he has not been himself since. you don't know how glad he will be." "but will not thee be happy, too?" he asked. "happier than you could dream," she answered with all the frankness of a child. "but what made you change your mind?" "i will tell thee sometime; it is too late now. there is my home and i have much work to do before dark." "home!" she echoed. "i never had a home, or at least i cannot remember it. we have always led a roving life, here to-day and gone to-morrow. it must be sweet to have a home!" "thee has always led a roving life and wishes to have a home? i have always had a home, and wish to lead a roving life," said david. they looked at each other and smiled at this curious contradiction. they smiled because they were not yet old enough to weep over the restlessness of the human heart. having reached the edge of the woods, where their paths separated, they paused. "we must part," said david. "yes; but we shall meet to-morrow." "we shall meet to-morrow." "you are sure?" "i am sure." "you will not change your mind?" "i could not if i would." "good-bye." "good-bye." at the touch of their hands their young hearts were swayed by tender and tumultuous feelings. a too strong pressure startled them, and they loosened their grasp. the sun sank behind the hill. the shadows that fell upon their faces awakened them from their dreams. again they said goodbye and reluctantly parted. once they stopped and, turning, waved their hands; and the next moment pepeeta entered the road which led her out of sight. in this interview, the entire past of these two lives seemed to count for nothing. if pepeeta had never seen anything of the world; if she had issued from a nunnery at that very moment, she could not have acted with a more utter disregard of every principle of safety. it was the same with david. the fact that he had been reared a quaker; that he had been dedicated to god from his youth; that he had struggled all his days to be prepared for such a moment as this, did not affect him to the least degree. the seasoning of the bow does not invariably prevent it from snapping. the drill on the parade ground does not always insure, courage for the battle. nothing is more terrible than this futility of the past. such scenes as this discredit the value of experience, and attach a terrible reality to the conclusion of coleridge, that "it is like the stern-light of a vessel--illuminating only the path over which we have traveled." nor did the future possess any more power over their destinies than the past. not a conscious foreboding disturbed their enjoyment of that brief instant which alone can be called the present. and yet, no moment in their after lives came up more frequently for review than this one, and in the light of subsequent events they were forced to recognize that during every instant of this scene there was an uneasy but unacknowledged sense of danger and wrong thrilling through all those emotions of bliss. it is seldom that any man or woman enters into the region of danger without premonitions. the delicate instincts of the soul hoist the warning signals, but the wild passions disregard them. it was to this moment that their consciences traced their sorrows; it was to that act of their souls which permitted them to enjoy that momentary rapture that they attached their guilt; it was at that moment and in that silent place that they planted the seeds of the trees upon which they were subsequently crucified. chapter x. a poisoned spring "it was the saying of a great man, that if we could trace our descents, we should find all slaves to come from princes and all princes from slaves!"--seneca. early the next morning the two adventurers took their departure. the jovial quack lavished his good-byes upon the landlord and the "riff-raff" who gathered to welcome the coming or speed the parting guest at the door of the country tavern. he drove a pair of beautiful, spirited horses, and had the satisfaction of knowing that he excited the envy of every beholder, as he took the ribbons in his hand, swung out his long whip and started. if her husband's heart was swelling with pride, pepeeta's was bursting with anxiety. an instinct which she did not understand had prevented her from telling the doctor of her interview with the quaker. long before the farmhouse came in sight she began to scan the landscape for the figure which had been so vividly impressed upon her mind. the swift horses, well fed and well groomed, whirled the light wagon along the road at a rapid pace and as they passed the humble home of the quaker, pepeeta saw a little child driving the cows down the long lane, and a woman moving quietly among the flowers in the garden; but david himself was not to be seen. "he has gone," she said to herself joyously. on through the beech grove, around the turn of the road, into full view of the bridge, they sped. it was empty! and yet it was there that he had agreed to meet them! a tear fell from her eye, and her chin quivered. with the utmost effort of her will she could not repress these evidences of her disappointment, and with a spasmodic motion she clutched the arm of the driver as if it were that of destiny and she could hold it back. so sudden and so powerful was the grasp of her young hand, that it turned the horses out of the road and all but upset the carriage. with a violent jerk of the reins, the astonished driver pulled them back, and exclaimed with an oath: "you little wild cat, if you ever d-d-do that again, i will throw you into the d-d-ditch!" "excuse me!" she answered humbly, cowering under his angry glances. "what in the d-d-deuce is the matter?" he asked more kindly, seeing the tears in her eyes. "i do not know. i am nervous, i guess," she answered sadly. "nervous? p-p-pepeeta aesculapius nervous? i thought her nerves were m-m-made of steel? what is the m-m-matter?" he asked, looking at her anxiously. his gentleness calmed her, and she answered: "i am sorry to leave a place where i have been so happy. oh! why cannot we settle down somewhere and stay? i get so tired of being always on the wing. even the birds have nests to rest in for a little while. are we never going to have a home?" "nonsense, child! what do we want with a h-h-home? it is better to be always on the go. i want my liberty. it suits me best to fly through the heavens like a hawk or swim the deep sea like a shark. a home would be a p-p-prison. i should tramp back and forth in it like a polar bear in a c-c-cage." pepeeta answered with a sigh. "cheer up, child," he cried in his hearty fashion. "your voice sounds like the squeak of a mouse! b-b-be gay! be happy! how can you be sad on a morning like this? look at the play of the muscles under the smooth skins of the horses! remember the b-b-bright shining dollars that we coaxed out of the tightly b-b-buttoned breeches pockets of the gray-backed q-q-quakers. what more do you ask of life? what else can it g-g-give?" "it does not make me happy! i shall never be happy until i have a home," she said, still sobbing, and trying to conceal the cause of her grief from herself as well as from her husband. nothing could have astonished the great, well-fed animal by her side more than this confession. in all his life he had never heaved a sigh. his contentment was like that of a lion in a forest full of antelopes. but if he was fierce and cruel to others, he was at least kind to his mate, and he now put his great paw around her little shoulders and gave her one of his leonine kisses. "you are as melancholy as an unstrung d-d-drum," he said. "i must cheer you up. how would you like a s-s-song? what shall it be? 'love's young d-d-dream'? all right. here g-g-goes." and at the word, he opened his great mouth and stuttered it forth in stentorian tones that went bellowing among the hills like the echoes of thunder. pepeeta smiled at his kindness and was grateful for his clumsy efforts at consolation; but they did not dispel her sadness. her spirits sank lower and lower. the light seemed to have faded out of the world, and the streams of joy to have run dry. she sighed again in spite of herself, and in that sigh exhaled the hope which had sprung from her heart at the prospects of a new and sweet companionship. she had divined the cause of her disappointment with an unerring instinct. it was exactly as she thought. at the last instant, david's heart had failed him. on the preceding evening, he had hurried through his "chores," excused himself from giving an account of the adventures of the day on the ground of fatigue, and retired to his room to cherish in his heart the memories of that beautiful face and the prospects of the future. he could not sleep. for hours he tossed on his bed or sat in the window looking out into the night, and when at last he fell into an uneasy slumber his dreams were haunted by two faces which struggled ceaselessly to crowd each other from his mind. one was the young and passionate countenance of the gypsy, and the other was that of his beautiful mother with her pale, carven features, her snow-white hair, her pensive and unearthly expression. they both looked at him, and then gazed at each other. now one set below the horizon like a wan, white moon, and the other rose above it like the glowing star of love. now the moon passed over the glowing star in a long eclipse and then disappearing behind a cloud left the brilliant star to shine alone. when he awoke the gray dawn revealed in vague outline the realities of the world, and warned him that he had but a few moments to execute his plans. he sprang from his couch strong in his purpose to depart, for the fever of adventure was still burning in his veins, and the rapturous looks with which pepeeta had received his promise to be her companion still made his pulses bound. he hurriedly put a few things into a bundle and stole out of the house. as he moved quietly but swiftly away from the familiar scenes, his heart which had been beating so high from hope and excitement began to sink in his bosom. he had never dreamed of the force of his attachment to this dear place, and he turned his face toward the old gray house again and again. every step away from it seemed more difficult than the last, and his feet became heavy as lead. but he pressed on, ashamed to acknowledge his inability to execute his purpose. he came to the last fence which lay between him and the bridge where he had agreed to await the adventurers, and then paused. he was early. there was still time to reflect. had the carriage arrived at that moment he would have gone; but it tarried, and the tide of love and regret bore him back to the old familiar life. "i cannot go. i cannot give it up," he murmured to himself. torn by conflicting emotions, inclining to first one course and then another, he finally turned his face away from the bridge and fled, impelled by weakness rather than desire. he did not once look back, but ran at the top of his speed straight to the old barn and hid himself from sight. there, breathless and miserable, he watched. he had not long to wait. the dazzling "turn-out" dashed into view. on the high seat he beheld pepeeta, saw the eager glance she cast at the farm house, followed her until they arrived at the bridge, beheld her disappointment, raved at his own weakness, rushed to the door, halted, returned, rushed back again, returned, threw himself upon the sweet smelling hay, cursed his weakness and indecision and finally surrendered himself to misery. from the utter wretchedness of that bitter hour, he was roused by the ringing of the breakfast bell. springing to his feet, he hastened to the spring, bathed his face, assumed a cheerful look and entered the house. for the first time in his life he attempted the practice of deception, and experienced the bitterness of carrying a guilty secret in his bosom. how he worried through the morning meal and the prayer at the family altar, he never knew, and he escaped with inexpressible relief to the stable and the field to take up the duties of his daily life. he found it plodding work, for the old inspirations to endeavor had utterly vanished. he who had hitherto found toil a beatitude now moved behind the plow like a common drudge. tired of the pain which he endured, he tried again and again to forget the whole experience and to persuade himself that he was glad the adventure had ended; but he knew in his heart of hearts that he had failed to follow the gypsy, not because he did not really wish to, but because he did not wholly dare. the consciousness that he was not only a bad man but a coward, added a new element to the bitterness of the cup he was drinking. each succeeding day was a repetition of the first, and became a painful increment to his load of misery and unrest. the very world in which he lived seemed to have undergone a transformation. the sunlight had lost its glory, the flowers had become pale and odorless, the songs of the birds dull and dispiriting. what had really changed was the soul of the young recluse and mystic. the consciousness of god had vanished from it; the visions of the spiritual world no longer visited it; he ceased to pray in secret, and the petitions which he offered at the family altar were so dull and spiritless as even to excite the observation and comment of his little nephew. "uncle dave," remarked that fearless critic, "you pray as if you were talking down a deep well." no wonder that the child observed the fact upon which he alone had courage to comment, for there is as great a difference between a prayer issuing from the heart and one merely falling from the lips as between water gushing from a fountain and rain dripping from a roof. some men pass their lives in the midst of environments where insincerity would not have been so painful; but in a home and a community where sham and hypocrisy were almost unknown these perpetual deceptions became more and more intolerable with every passing hour. nothing could be more certain than that in a short time, like some foreign substance in a healthy body, his nature would force him out of this uncongenial environment. with some natures the experience would have been a slow and protracted one, but with him the termination could not be long delayed. it came in a tragedy at the close of the next sabbath. the day had been dreary, painful and exasperating beyond all endurance, and he felt that he could never stand the strain of another. and so, having detained his mother in the sitting room after the rest of the family had retired, he paced the floor for a few moments, and after several unsuccessful attempts to introduce the subject gently, said bluntly: "mother, i am chafing myself to death against the limitations of this narrow life." "my son," she said calmly, "this has not come to me as a surprise." he moved uneasily and looked as if he would ask her "why?" "because," she said, as if he had really spoken, "a mother possesses the power of divination, and can discern the sorrows of her children, by a suffering in her own bosom." the consciousness that he had caused her pain rendered him incapable of speech, and for a moment they sat in silence. "what is thy wish and purpose, my son?" she asked at last, with an effort which seemed to exhaust her strength. "i wish to see the world," he answered, his eye kindling as he spoke. this reply, foreseen and expected as it was, sent a shiver through her. she turned paler, if possible, than before; but summoning all the powers of self-control resident in that disciplined spirit, she replied with an enforced tranquillity: "my son, does thee know what this world is which thee fain would see?" "i have seen it in my dreams. i have heard its distant voices calling to me. my spirit chafes to answer their summons. i strain at my anchor like a great ship caught by the tide." "shall i tell thee what this world of which thee has dreamed such dreams is really like, my son?" she asked, struggling to maintain her calm. "how should thee know?" "i have seen it." "thee has seen it? i thought that thee had passed thy entire life among the quakers," he answered with surprise. "i say that i have seen it. shall i tell thee what it is?" she resumed, as if she had not heard him. "if thee will," he answered, awed by a strange solemnity in her manner. her quick respirations had become audible. small but intensely red spots were burning on either cheek. her white hands trembled as they clutched the arms of the old rocking chair in which she sat. "i will!" she said, regarding him with a look which seemed to devour him with yearning love. "this world whose voices thee hears calling is a fiction of thine own brain. that which thee thinks thee beholds of glory and beauty thee hast conjured up from the depths of a youthful and disordered fancy, and projected into an unreal realm. that world which thee has thus beheld in thy dreams will burst like a pin-pricked bubble when thee tries to enter it. it is not the real world, my son. how shall i tell thee what that real world is? it is a snare, a pit-fall. it is a flame into which young moths are ever plunging. it promises, only to deceive; it beckons, only to betray; its smiles are ambushes; it is sunlight on the surface, but ice at the heart; it offers life, but it confers death. i bid thee fear it, shun it, hate it!" she leaned far forward in her chair, and her face upon which the youth had never seen any other look but that of an almost unearthly calm, was glowing with excitement and passion. "mother," he exclaimed, "what does thee know of this world, thee who has passed thy life in lonely places and amongst a quiet people?" she rose and paced the floor as if to permit some of her excitement to escape in physical activity, and pausing before him, said: "my only and well-beloved son, thee does not know thy mother. a veil has been drawn over that portion of her life which preceded thy birth, and its secrets are hidden in her own heart. she has prayed god that she might never have to bring them forth into the light; but he has imposed upon her the necessity of opening the grave in which they are buried, in order that, seeing them, thee may abandon thy desires to taste those pleasures which once lured thy mother along the flower-strewn pathway to her sin and sorrow." her solemnity and her suffering produced in the bosom of her son a nameless fear. he could not speak. he could only look and listen. "thee sees before thee," she continued, "the faded form and features of a woman once young and beautiful. can thee believe it?" he did not answer, for she had seemed to him as mothers always do to children, to have been always what he had found her upon awakening to consciousness. he could not remember when her hair was not gray. something in her manner revealed to the startled soul of the young quaker that he was about to come upon a discovery that would shake the very foundation of his life; for a moment he could not speak. the silence in which she awaited the answer to her question became profound and in it the ticking of the old clock sounded like the blows of a blacksmith's hammer, the purring of the cat like the roar of machinery, and the beating of his heart like the dull thud of a battering ram. as if reading his inmost thoughts, the white-faced woman said: "and so thee thought that i was always old and gray?" as she uttered these words in a tone of indescribable sadness, a faint smile played around the corners of her mouth--such a marble smile as might have appeared upon the face of niobe. in an instant more it had composed itself into its former sadness, as a sheet of pure water resumes its calmness, after having been lightly stirred by a summer wind. so long did she stand regarding him with looks of unutterable love that he could not endure the strain of the withheld secret, but exclaimed hoarsely: "go on! mother, for god's sake, go on! if thee has something to disclose, reveal it at once!" it seemed impossible for her to speak. the opening of the secrets of her heart to god before the bar of judgment could have cost her no greater effort than this confession to her son. "david," she said, in a voice that sounded like an echo of a long-dead past, "the fear that the sins of thy parents should be visited upon thee has tormented every hour of my life. i have watched thee and prayed for thee as no one but a mother who has drunk the bitter cup to its dregs could ever do. i have trembled at every childish sin. in every little fault i have beheld a miniature of the vices of thy mother and thy father--thy father! oh! david, my son--my son!" the white lips parted, but no sound issued from them. she raised her white hand and clutched at her throat as if choking. then she trembled, gasped, reeled, and fell forward into his arms. in a moment more, the agitated heart had ceased to beat, and the secret of her life was hidden in its mysterious silence. the sudden, inexplicable and calamitous nature of this event came near unsettling the mental balance of the sensitive and highly organized youth. coming as it did upon the very heels of the experiences which had so thoroughly shaken his faith in the old life, he felt himself to be the target for every arrow in the quiver of misfortune. he seemed to himself not so much like a boat that had sprung a single leak, as like one out of which every nail had been pulled and the joints left open to the inrushing waters. into the unfilled gap in his mother's narrative, ten thousand suspicions crept, each displacing the other and leaving him more and more in darkness and in dread with regard to the origin of his own life. wherever he went and whatever he did these confused suspicions resounded in his ears like the murmur in a seashell. he did not dare communicate this story even to his sister; for if she knew nothing he feared to poison her existence by telling her, and if she knew all he had not the courage to listen to the sequel. perhaps no other experience in life produces a more profound shock than a discovery like that upon which david had so suddenly stumbled. it leads to despair or to melancholy, and many a life of highest promise has been suddenly wrecked by it. while he brooded over this mystery the days slipped past the young mystic almost unnoted; he wandered about the farm, passing from one fit of abstraction into another, doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking everything. the world was shrouded in a gloom through whose shifting mists a single star shone now and then, emitting a brilliant and dazzling ray. it was the figure of a gypsy. in his heavy, aching heart thoughts of her alone aroused an emotion of joy. as other objects lost their power to attract or charm, she more and more filled all his horizon. her name was whispered by each passing breeze. it was syllabled by every singing bird. the old clock ticked it on the stairway. the hoofs of his horse which he rode recklessly over the country uttered it to the hard roads on which they fell--"pepeeta, pepeeta, pepeeta." whenever he really tried to banish the temptations which haunted his soul, they always returned to the swept and garnished chamber bringing with them seven spirits worse than themselves. he tried to look forward to the future with hope. but how can a man hope for harvests, when all his seed corn has been destroyed? if his father was bad, what hope was there that he could be better? he made innumerable resolves to take up the duties of life where he had laid them down, but they were all like birds which die in the nest where they are born. pepeeta was drawing him irresistibly to herself; he was like a man in the outer circle of a vortex, of which she was the center. the touch of her soft hand which he could still feel, the farewell glance of eyes which still glowed before his imagination, attracted him like a powerful magnet. it was true that he did not know where she was; but he felt that he could find her in the uttermost parts of the earth by yielding himself to the impulse which she had awakened in his heart. "a dark veil of mystery hangs over my past. my present is full of misery and unrest. i will see if the future has any joys in store for me," he said to himself at the close of one of his restless days. without so much as a word of farewell, he crept out of the house in the gathering dusk, and started in pursuit of the bright object that floated like a will-o'-the-wisp before his inner eye. a feeling of exultation and relief seized him as he left the place made dark and dreadful by the memory of that tragic scene through which he had so recently passed; the quiet of the evening soothed his perturbed spirits, and the tranquil stars looked down upon him with eyes that twinkled as if in sympathy. it is an old tradition of the monks, that when the sap begins to run in the vines on sunny slopes, a revolt and discontent thrills in the bottles imprisoned in the darkness of the wine vaults. such a discontent and fever had been thrilling in david's veins during these warm spring days, when the whole world had been in a ferment of life, and he had been bottled up in the gloom and narrowness of the little country village; and yielding himself to the emotions that seethed in his breast, he broke all the tender ties of the past and went blindly into the future. he had been suddenly fascinated by a beautiful woman and bewildered by an unscrupulous man; he had felt the foundations of his religious faith shaken, and discovered that his own life had sprung from an illicit passion. these are violent blows, and many a man has gone down before a single one of them. if the blows had been delivered singly at long intervals he might have survived the shock; but following each other in swift succession like great tidal waves they had literally swept him from his moorings. such collapses fill us with horror and questioning. how do they come about? can they be prevented? these are the deepest problems of life, and our psychology is still impotent to solve them. we can detect and measure the dross in metals or the poison in drugs; but we have no solvent that will reduce a complex nature like david's into its original elements and enable us to differentiate a son's responsibility from that of his father. we make bold guesses and confident affirmations as to the comparative influence of heredity and environment. we enter into learned disputations as to the blessing or the bane of an education such as his. but every such case is still a profound and insoluble mystery. the most comprehensive laws and the most careful generalizations meet with too many exceptions to enable us to form a science. the children of the good are too often bad and the children of the bad too often good to permit us to dogmatize about heredity. we learn as our experience deepens and our horizon widens to regard such collapses with a compassionate sympathy and a humbled consciousness of our own unfitness to judge and condemn. whether we create our individuality or only bring it to light--is the question that makes us stumble! but while we move in the midst of uncertainties in this realm, there is another in which we walk in the glare of noonday. we know beyond the peradventure of a doubt that whatever may be the origin of such weakness as that of the young mystic, the results are always inevitable! nature never asks any questions nor makes any allowances. to her mind, sin is sin! whatsoever a man sows--that shall he also reap. whether he yield to evil voluntarily or be driven into it by resistless force; whether he sin because of a self-originating propensity or because his father sinned before him, is all one to those resistless executors of nature's law, sickness, sorrow, disaster, death! no man ever defeated nature! no man ever will! from the instant when he turned his back upon his home, david's fate was sealed. he was playing against a certainty and he knew it. but he ought to have remembered it! it was of this that he ought to have been thinking, and not of the gypsy's eyes! sometimes such men escape from the final catastrophe of the long series; but not from the intermediate lashings! this brutal, idiotic step of corson's looks like a final plunge; a fatal fall; a hopeless retrogression. but we must not judge prematurely. "man advances; but in spiral lines," said goethe. the river goes forward, in spite of its eddies. you can complete a geometric circle from a minute portion of its curve; but not a human cycle. we can not predict the final issue of a human life until the last sigh is drawn. chapter xi. the flesh and the devil "to tell men they cannot help themselves is to fling them into recklessness and despair."--froude. although david did not know the exact route the quack had laid out for his journey, he was certain that it would be easy enough to trace him in that sparsely-settled region, and so he turned his face in the direction in which the equipage vanished when he watched it from the barn. his movements did not seem to come from his own volition but to originate in something external. he had a sense of yielding to necessity. there are heroic moments in our lives, when that subtle force we call our "will" demonstrates, or at all events persuades us, that we are "_free_." there are others, like those through which the young adventurer was now passing, when we experience a feeling of utter helplessness amidst cosmic forces and believe ourselves to be straws in a mighty wind or ill-fated stars borne along a predestined orbit. surrendering himself to the current of events, the recalcitrant quaker escaped for a time the painful consciousness of personal responsibility. the tranquil stars above him seemed to look down upon the wanderer in silent approval. the night birds chanted their congratulations from the tree tops, and reading his own thoughts into their songs he imagined he heard them saying, "let each one find his mate; let each one find his mate." the cool night breeze caressed and kissed him as it hurried by on silent wings, and for an hour or two he tramped along with a peace in his heart which seemed to be a reflection from the outside world. but gradually a change came over the face of nature, and this, too, reflected itself in the mirror of his soul. in the heavens above him the clouds commenced to gather like hostile armies. they skirmished, sent out their flying battalions and then fell upon each other in irresistible fury. great, jagged flashes of lightning, like sword thrusts from gigantic and hidden hands rent the sky; wild crashes of thunder pealed through the reverberating dome of heaven; the rain fell in torrents; the elements of nature seemed to have evaded their master, vaulted their barriers and precipitated themselves in a furious struggle. the lonely pilgrim perceived the resemblance which his conflicting emotions bore to this wild scene, and smiled grimly. he found in all this tumult a justification for the tempest in his soul. it was not until the light of morning struggled through this universal gloom, that the weary and bedraggled traveler entered the outskirts of the then straggling but growing and busy village of hamilton. tired in body and benumbed in mind, he made his way to the hotel, conscious only of his desire and determination to look once more upon the face of the woman whose image was so indelibly impressed upon his mind. approaching the desk he nervously asked if the doctor was among the guests, flushed at the answer, demanded a room, ascended the steep staircase, and was soon in bed and asleep. fatigued by his long tramp, he did not awaken until after noon, and then, having bathed, dressed and broken his long fast, he knocked at the door of the room occupied by the doctor and his wife. there was a quick but gentle step in answer to his summons, and at the music of that footfall his heart beat tumultuously. the door opened, and before him stood the woman who had brought about this mysterious train of events in his life. she started back as she saw him, with an involuntary and timid motion, but so great was her surprise and joy that she could not control her speech or action sufficiently to greet him. "who is there?" cried the doctor, in his loud, imperative voice. "mr. corson," she answered in tones that were scarcely audible. "corson? who the d-d-deuce is corson, and what the deuce does he want?" he asked, rising and approaching the door. the instant his eyes fell on the countenance of the quaker, he threw up both hands and uttered a prolonged whistle of astonishment. "the preacher!" he exclaimed. "the lost is found. the p-p-prodigal has returned. come in, and let us k-k-kill the fatted calf!" coarse as the welcome was, it was full of sincerity, and its heartiness was like balm to the wounded spirit of the youth. he grasped the extended hand and permitted himself to be drawn into the room. pepeeta, who had recovered from the first shock of surprise and delight, came forward and greeted him with a shy reserve. she gave him her hand, and its gentle touch reanimated his soul. she smiled at him,--a gracious smile, and its light illumined the darkness of his heart. his sadness vanished. he once more felt an emotion of joy. the excitement of their meeting having subsided they seated themselves, david in an easy chair, the doctor on the broad couch, and pepeeta on a little ottoman at his feet. vivid green curtains partially obscured the bright sunshine which beat upon the windows. the wall-paper was cheap, vulgar, faded. on the floor was an old ingrain carpet full of patches and spattered with ink stains. a blue-bottle fly buzzed and butted his head against the walls, and through the open casement hummed the traffic of the busy little town. nothing could have been more expressive of triumph and delight than the face of the quack. whenever his feelings were particularly bland and expansive, he had a way of taking the ends of his enormous moustache and twirling them between his spatulate thumbs and fingers. he did this now, and twisted them until the coarse hairs could be heard grating against each other. "well, well!" he said, "so you could not resist the temptation? ha! ha! ha! no wonder! it's not every young fellow behind the p-p-plow-tail that has a fortune thrust under his nose. shows your g-g-good sense. i was right. i always am. i knew you were too bright a man to hide your light under a half b-b-bushel of a village like that. in those seven-by-nine towns, all the sap dries out of men, and before they are forty they begin to rattle around like peas in a p-p-pod. in such places young men are never anything but milk sops, and old men anything but b-b-bald-headed infants! you needed to see the world, young man. you required a teacher. you have put yourself into good hands, and if you stay with me you shall wear d-d-diamonds." "whatever the results may be, i have determined to make the experiment," said david, shrugging his shoulders. "right you are. but what b-b-brought you round? you were as stiff as a ramrod when i left you." "circumstances over which i had no control, and which i want to forget as soon as possible. my old life has ended and i have come to seek a new one." "a new life? that's good. well--we will show it to you, p-p-pepeeta and i! we will show you." "the sooner the better. what am i to do?" "not too fast! there are times when it is better to g-g-go slow, as the snail said to the lightning. we must make a b-b-bargain." "make it to suit yourself." "you d-d-don't expect me to stick to my old offer, i reckon. when i made it, mahomet went to the m-m-mountain, and now the mountain comes to mahomet; see?" "do as you please, i am in no mood to split hairs, nor pennies. all i ask is a chance to put my foot upon the first round of the ladder and if i do not get to the top, i shall not hold you responsible," david replied, dropping the "thees" of his quaker life, in his determination to divest himself of all its customs as rapidly as he could. "hi! hi! there's fire in the flint! good thing! you don't want to split pennies! well, if you d-d-don't, i don't. you take me on the right side, d-d-davy. i'll do the square thing by you--see if i d-d-don't. let's have a drink. bring the bottle, pepeeta!" she went to the mantel and returned with a flask and two glasses. the quack filled them both and passed one to david. it was the first time in his life that he had ever even smelt an intoxicant. he recoiled a little; but having committed himself to his new life, he determined to accept all that it involved. he lifted the fiery potion to his lips, and drank. "hot, is it, my son?" cried the doctor, laughing uproariously at his wry face. "you quakers drink too much water! freezes inside of you and t-t-turns you into what you might call two-p-p-pronged icicles. give me men with red blood in their veins! and there's nothing makes b-b-blood red like strong liquors!" the whisky revived the courage and loosened the tongue of the youth. the repugnance which he had instinctively felt for the vulgar quack began to mellow into admiration. he asked and answered many questions. "what part am i to take in this business?" he asked. "what part are you to take in the business? that's good, 'never put off till to-morrow what you can d-d-do to-day.' 'business first and then pleasure.' 'the soul of business is dispatch.' these are good mottoes, my lad. i learned them from the wise men; but if i had not learned them, i should have invented them. what's your p-p-part of the business, says you; listen! you are to be its m-m-mouth-piece. that tongue of yours must wag like the tail of a d-d-dog; turn like a weather-vane; hiss like a serpent, drip with honey and poison, be tipped with p-p-persuasion; tell ten thousand t-t-tales, and every tale must sell a bottle of p-p-panacea!" he paused, and looked rapturously upon the face of his pupil. "this panacea--has it merits? will it really cure?" asked david. the doctor laughed long and loud. "has it merits? will it really cure? ho! ho! 'is thy bite good for the b-b-backache?' said the sick mouse to the cat. what difference does it make whether it will cure or not? success in b-b-business is not based upon the quality of the m-m-merchandise, my son." "upon what, then?" said david. "upon the follies, the weaknesses and the p-p-passions of mankind! since time began, a universal panacea' has been a sure source of wealth. it makes no difference what the panacea is, if you only have the b-b-brains to fool the people. there are only two kinds of people in the world, my son--the fools and f-f-foolers!" even whisky could not make david listen to this cold-blooded avowal without a shudder. the keen eye of the quack detected it; but instead of adulterating his philosophy, he doubled his dose. "shocks you, does it? you will g-g-get over that. we are not angels! we are only men. remember what old jack falstaff said? 'if adam fell in a state, of innocency, what shall i d-d-do in a state of villainy?'" the boldness of the man and the radicalness of his philosophy dazzled and fascinated the inexperienced youth. this was what the astute and unscrupulous instructor expected, and he determined to pursue his advantage and effect, if possible, the complete corruption of his pupil in a single lesson; and so he continued: "got to live, my son! self-p-p-preservation is the first law, and so we must imitate the rest of the b-b-brute creation, and live off of each other! the big ones must feed upon the little and the strong upon the weak. 'every man for himself and the d-d-devil take the hindmost!' that's my religion." "you may be right," said david, "but i cannot say that i take to it kindly. i do not see how a man can practice this cruelty and injustice without suffering." "suffering! idea of suffering is greatly exaggerated. ever watch a t-t-toad that was being swallowed by a snake? looks as if he positively enjoyed it. it's his mission. born to be eaten! if there was as much pain in the world as p-p-people say, do you think anybody could endure it! isn't the d-d-door always open? can't a man quit when he wants to? suffering! pshaw! do i look as if i suffered? does pepeeta look as if she suffered? and yet she b-b-bamboozles them worse than i do." the head of the gypsy bent lower and lower over her crocheting. "she plays upon them like a fife! they d-d-dance when she whistles! next to wanting a universal panacea for pain, the idiots want a knowledge of the future! everybody but me wants to know what kind of a to-morrow god almighty has made for him. i make my own to-morrows! i don't ask to have my destiny made up for me like a t-t-tailor coat. i make my own destiny. if things d-d-don't come my way, i just pull them! people talk about 'following providence!' i follow providence as an irishman follows his wheel-barrow. i shove it! see? but that is not the way of the rest of them, thank fortune! and so pepeeta gathers them in! strange fish g-g-get into her net, davy. back there in your own little t-t-town she caught some of your long-faced old quakers, b-b-big fellows with broad-brimmed hats, drab coats and ox eyes, regular meetin'-goers! and there was that little d-d-dove-eyed girl. what was it she wanted to know, p-p-pepeeta? tell him. ha! ha! tell him and we will see him b-b-blush." "she asked me if her father was going to send her to philadelphia this winter," she answered, without lifting her eyes. "i don't mean that!" "she asked me whether i could tell them where to find the spotted heifer." "the d-d-deuce, child! why don't you tell me what she asked you 'bout d-d-davy?" "it is time for us to go to supper or we shall be late," she replied, laying aside her work and rising. "sure enough!" cried the doctor, springing to his feet. "the q-q-quaker has knocked everything out of my head. come on!" he rose and began bustling about the room. when pepeeta glanced up from her work she saw in david's eye a grateful appreciation of her courtesy and tact, and his look filled her with a new happiness. the disgust awakened in the quaker's mind by the coarseness of the quack was more than offset by the beauty and grace of the gypsy. when he looked at her, when he was even conscious of her presence, he felt a happiness which compensated for all that he had suffered or lost. he did not stop to ask what its nature was. he had cast discretion to the winds. he had in these few hours since his departure broken so utterly with the past that he was like a man who had been suddenly awakened from a long lapse of memory. his old life was as if it had never been. he felt himself to be in a vacuum, where all his ideas must be newly created. this epoch of his experience was superimposed upon the other like a different geological formation. like the old monks in their cells, he was deliberately trying to erase from the parchment of his soul all that had been previously written, in order that he might begin a new life history. chapter xii. the moth and the flame "misled by fancy's meteor-ray by passion driven: but yet the light that led astray was light from heaven." --burns. a little before dusk the three companions started upon their evening's business. the horses and carriage were waiting at the door and they mounted to their seats. david was embarrassed by the novelty of the situation, and pepeeta by his presence; but the quack was in his highest spirits. he saluted the bystanders with easy familiarity, ostentatiously flung the hostler a coin, flourished his whip and excited universal admiration for his driving. during the turn which they took around the city for an advertisement, he indoctrinated his pupil with the principles of his art. "people to-day are just what they were centuries ago. g-g-gull 'em just as easy. make 'em think the moon is made of g-g-green cheese--way to catch larks is to p-p-pull the heavens down--extract sunbeams from c-c-cucumbers and all the rest! there's one master-weakness, davy. they all think they are sick, or if they d-d-don't, you can make 'em!" "what! make a well man think he is sick?" the quaker asked in astonishment. "sure! that's the secret of success. i can pick out the strongest man in the c-c-crowd and in five minutes have pains shooting through him like g-g-greased lightning. they are all like jumping-jacks to the man that knows them. you watch me pull the string and you-you'll see them wig-wig-wiggle." "it seems a pity to take advantage of such weakness in our fellow men," said david, whose heart began to suffer qualms as he contemplated this rascality and his own connection with it. "fellow men! they are no fellows of mine. they are nuts for me to c-c-crack. they are oysters for me to open!" responded the quack, as he drove gaily into the public square and checked the horses, who stood with their proud necks arched, champing their bits and looking around at the crowd as if they shared their master's contempt. pepeeta descended from the carriage and made her way hastily into the tent which had already been pitched for her. the doctor lighted his torch and set his stock of goods in order while david, obeying his directions, began to move among the people to study their habits. elbowing his way here and there, he contemplated the crowd in the light of the quack's philosophy, and as he did so received a series of painful mental shocks. "the first principle in the art of painting a picture is to know where to sit down;" in other words, everything depends upon the point of view. now that david began to look for evidences of the weaknesses and follies of his fellow men, he saw them everywhere. for the first time in his life he observed that startling prevalence of animal types which always communicates such a shock to the mind of him who has never discovered it before. every countenance suddenly seemed to be the face of a beast, but thinly and imperfectly veiled. there were foxes and tigers and wolves, there were bulldogs and monkeys and swine. he had always seen, or thought he saw, upon the foreheads of his fellow men some evidence of that divinity which had been communicated to them when god breathed into the great first father the breath of life; but now he shuddered at the sight of those thick lips and drooping jaws, those dull or crafty eyes, those sullen, sodden, gargoyle features, as men do at beholding monstrosities. a few weeks ago he would have felt a profound pity at this discovery, but so rapid and radical had been the alteration in his feelings that he was now seized by a sudden revulsion and contempt. "are these creatures really men?" he asked himself. he stood there among them taller, straighter, keener, handsomer than them all, and the old feelings that have made men aristocrats and tyrants in every age of the world, surged in his heart and hardened it against them. by this time the quack had finished his few simple preparations, and, standing erect before his audience, began the business of the evening. having observed the habits of the game, david now chose a favorable position to study those of the hunter. he watched with an almost breathless interest every expression upon that sinister face and listened with a boundless interest to every word that fell from those treacherous lips. he was not long in justifying the quack's honest criticism of his own oratory. his voice lacked the vibrant tones of a musical instrument and his rhetoric that fluency, without which the highest effects of eloquence can never be attained. by speaking very slowly and deliberately he avoided stammering, but this always acted like a dragging anchor upon the movement of his thought. these were radical defects, but in every other respect he was a consummate artist. he arrested the attention of his hearers with an inimitable skill and held it with an irresistible power. his piercing eye noted every expression on the faces of his hearers, and seemed to read the inmost secrets of their hearts. he perceived the slightest inclination to purchase, and was as keen to see a hand steal towards a pocket-book as a cat to see a mouse steal out of its hole. he coaxed, he wheedled, he bantered, he abused,--he even threatened. he fulfilled his promise to the letter, "to make the well men think that they were sick," and many a stalwart frontiersman whose body was as sound as an ox, began to be conscious of racking pains. nor were those legitimate arts of oratory the only ones which this arch-knave practiced. "i gave you two dollars, and you only gave me change for one," cried a thin-faced, stoop-shouldered, helpless-looking fellow, who had just purchased a bottle of the "balm of the blessed islands." with lightning-like legerdemain the quack had shuffled this bill to the bottom of his pile, and lifting up the one that lay on top, exposed it to the view of his audience. "that's a lie!" he said, in his slow, impressive manner. "there is always such a man as this in every crowd. some one is always trying to take advantage of those who, like myself, are living for the public good. gentlemen, you saw me lay the b-b-bill he gave me down upon the top! here it is; judge for yourselves. that is a bad man! beware of him!" the bold effrontery of the quack silenced the timid customer, who could only blush and look confused. his blushes and confusion condemned him and the crowd hustled him away from the wagon. they believed him guilty and he half believed it of himself. david, who had seen the bill and knew the victim's innocence but not the doctor's fraud, pressed forward to defend him. the quack stopped and silenced him with an inimitable wink, and then instantly and with consummate art diverted his auditors with a series of droll stories which he always reserved for emergencies like this. they were old and thread-bare, but this was the reason he chose them. he had one for every circumstance and occasion. there was a man standing in an outer circle of the crowd around whose forehead was a bandage. "come here, my friend," said the quack. "how did you get this wound? don't want to tell? oh! well, that is natural. a horse kicked him, no doubt; never got it in a row! no! no! couldn't any one hit him! reminds me of the man who saw a big black-and-blue spot on his boy's forehead. 'my son,' said he, 'i thought i told you not to fight? how did you get this wound?' 'i bit it, father,' replied the boy. "'bit it!' exclaimed the old man in astonishment, 'how could you bite yourself upon the forehead?' "'i climbed onto a chair,' says he. "and have you been climbing on a chair to bite your forehead, too, my friend?" he asked with humorous gravity, while a loud guffaw went up from the crowd. "well," he continued soothingly, "whether you did it or not, just let me rub a little of this b-b-balm upon it, and by to-morrow morning it will be well. there! that's right. one dollar is all it costs. you don't want it? what the d-d-deuce did you let me open the b-b-bottle for? i'll leave it to the crowd if that is fair? there, that is right. pay for it like a man. it's worth double its price. thank you. by to-morrow noon you will b-b-be sending me a testimonial to its value. do you want to hear some of my testimonials, gentlemen?" the crowd shuffled and stood over on its other foot. the doctor, putting an enormous pair of spectacles upon his nose, took up a piece of paper and pretended to read slowly and carefully to avoid stammering: "'dr. aesculapius. "'dear sir: i was wounded in the mexican war. i have been unable to walk without crutches for many years; but after using your liniment, i ran for office!' think of it, gentlemen, the day of miracles has not passed. 'i lost my eyesight four years ago, but used a bottle of your "wash" and saw wood.' saw wood, gentlemen, what do you think of that? he saw wood! 'some time ago i lost the use of both arms; but a kind friend furnished me with a box of your pills, and the next day i struck a man for ten dollars.' there is a triumph of the medical art, my friends. and yet even this is surpassed by the following: 'i had been deaf for many years, stone deaf; but after using your ointment, i heard that my aunt had died and left me ten thousand dollars.' think of it, gentlemen, ten thousand dollars! and a written guarantee goes with every bottle, that the first thing a stone-deaf man will hear after using this medicine will be that his aunt has died and left him ten thousand dollars." during all these varied operations, david had never taken his eyes from the face of the quack. even his quick wit had often been baffled by the almost superhuman adroitness of this past grandmaster of his art. the novelty of the scene, the skill of the principal actor, the rapid growth of the piles of coin and bills, the frantic desire of the people to be gulled, all served to obscure those elements which were calculated to appeal to the quaker's conscience. he felt like one awakened from a dream. while he was still in the half dazed condition of such an awakening, the quack gave him a sign that this part of his lesson was ended, and following the direction of the thumb which he threw over his shoulder towards pepeeta's tent, he eagerly took his way thither. before the door stood several groups of young men and maidens, talking under their breath as if in the presence of some august deity. now and then a couple disentangled itself from the crowd, and with visible trepidation entered. as they reappeared, their friends gathered about them and besought them to disclose the secrets they had discovered. some of them giggled and simpered, others laughed boisterously and skeptically, while others still, looked scared and anxious. it was evident that even those who tried to make light of what they had seen and heard were moved by something awe-inspiring. david listened to their silly talk, observed their bold demeanor and their vulgar manners, while the impression of weakness, of stupidity, of the lowness and beastiality of humanity made upon his mind by the aged and the mature, was intensified by his observation of the young and callow. he did not anywhere see a spark of true nobility. he did not hear a word of wisdom. everything was moving on a low, material and animal plane. he felt that manhood and womanhood was not what he had believed it to be. from the outside of the gypsy's tent, he could make but few discoveries of her method; and he waited impatiently until the last curious couple had departed. when they had disappeared, he entered. at the opposite side of the tent and reclining upon a low divan was the gypsy. above her head a tallow candle was burning dimly. before her was a rough table covered with a shawl, upon which were scattered cups of tea with floating grounds, ivory dice, cards, coins and other implements of the "black art." pepeeta sprang to her feet when she saw who her visitor was, and exhibited the clearest signs of agitation. david's own emotions were not less violent, for although the gypsy's surroundings were poor and mean, they served rather to enhance than to diminish her exquisite beauty. her shoulders and arms were bare, and on her wrists were gold bracelets of writhing serpents in whose eyes gleamed diamonds. on her fingers and in her ears were other costly stones. her dress was silk, and rustled when she moved, with soft and sibilant sounds. "the doctor has sent me here to study the methods by which you do your work," said david approaching the table and gazing at her with undisguised admiration. "you should have come before. how can you study my methods when i am not practicing them? and any way, you have no faith in them. have you? i always had until i heard your sermon in the little meeting house." "and have you lost it now?" "it has been sadly shaken." "you can at least show me how you practice the art, even if you have lost your faith in it. i too have lost a faith; but we must live. what are these cards for?" "if you wish me to show you, you may shuffle and cut them, but i would rather tell your fortune by your hand, for i have more faith in palmistry than in cards." he extended his hand; she took it, and with her right forefinger began to trace the lines. her gaze had that intensity with which a little child peers into the mechanism of a watch or an astronomer into the depths of space. a thrill of emotion shot through the frame of the quaker at the touch of those delicate and beautiful fingers. the contrast between his own hands and hers was marked enough to be almost ridiculous. hers were tiny, soft and white. his were large, brown and calloused. he thought to himself, "it is as if two little white mice were playing about an enormous trap which in a moment may seize them." neither of them, spoke. the delicate finger of the gypsy moved over the lines of the palm like that of a little school-girl over the pages of a primer. they did not realize how dangerous was that proximity, nor how fatal that touch. through those two poles of nature's most powerful battery, the magnetic and mysterious current of love was passing. "what do you see?" said david, at last. "shall i tell you?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his. "if you please," he said. "i will do so if you wish; but if the story of your life is really written in the palm of your hands, it is sad indeed, and you would be happier if you knew it not." "but it is not written there. i do not believe it, nor do you." "let us hope that it is not," she answered, and began the following monologue in a low musical monotone: "marked as it is with the signs of toil, this hand has still retained all those characteristics that an artist would choose as a model. it is perfect in its form. the palm is of medium size, the fingers without knots, the third phalanges are all long and pointed, and the thumb is beautifully shaped. whoever possesses a hand like this must be guided by ideals. he is a worshiper of the sublime and beautiful. he disdains small achievements, embarks enthusiastically upon forlorn hopes, and is spurred to victory by the fervor of his desires. "see this thumb! how finely it is pointed. the first phalanx is short, and indicates that above all other things he is a man of heart and will be dominated by his affections. he will yield to temptations, perhaps; but the second phalanx is long and reveals a power of reason and logic which will probably triumph at last." not a single word of all this had david heard. her voice sounded to him like the low droning of bees in a meadow, and he had been watching the movements of her fingers, as he used to watch the dartings of the minnows in the pools of the brook which ran through his farm. "how smooth the fingers are! and how they taper to the cone," continued pepeeta. "here is this one of jupiter, for example. how plainly it tells of religiousness and perhaps of fanaticism! the sun finger is not long. nay, it is not long enough. there is too little love of glory here. and the saturnian finger is too long. the life is too much under the dominion of fate or destiny. the mercurial finger is short. he will be firm in his friendships. the moons all correspond. they, also, are too large. the mount of venus, here at the base of the thumb, is excessively developed, and indicates capacity for gentleness, for chivalry, for tenderness and love. the mount of the moon is small. that is good. there will be no disturbance of the brain, no propensity towards lunacy. mars is not excessive, but it is strong, and he will be bold and courageous, but not quarrelsome." the pleasant murmur of the voice, the gentle pressure of her hand, her nearness and her beauty, had rendered the quaker absolutely oblivious to her words. "let me now examine the lines," she continued. "here is the line of the heart. it passes clear across the palm. it is well marked at every point and is most pronounced upon the upper side. the love will not be a sensual passion, but look! it is joined to the head below the finger of saturn. it is the sign of a violent death! heavens!" as she uttered this exclamation, she pressed the hand convulsively between her own, and looked up into his face. the involuntary and sudden action recalled him to his consciousness. "what did you say?" he asked. "have you not been listening?" she replied, repressing both her anxiety and her annoyance. "no; was it a good story or a bad one which you were reading?" "it was both." "well--it is no matter, those accidental marks can have no significance." "do you think so?" "i am sure." "you do not believe in any signs?" "none." "you know that the traveler on the desert told the bedouin that he did not, and yet from the foot prints of the camels the bedouin deciphered the whole history of a caravan." astonished at her reply, david did not answer. "and then, you know," she continued, "there are the weather signs." "yes--that is so." "and what are the letters of a book but signs?" "you are right again." "and is not hardness a sign of something in a stone, and heat of something in fire? and are not deeds the sign of some quality in a man's soul, and the expressions of his face signs of emotions of his heart?" "they are." "so that by his gait and gestures each man says: 'i am a farmer--a quack--a quaker--a soldier--a priest'?" "this, too, is true." "why, then, should not the character and destiny of the man disclose itself in signs and marks upon his hands?" david was too much astonished by these words to answer. they revealed a mental power which he had not even suspected her of possessing. he discovered that while she was as ignorant as a child in the realms of thought to which she had been unaccustomed, in her sphere of experience and reflection she was both shrewd and deep. "you have thought much about this matter," he said. "too much, perhaps." "it is deeper than i knew." "and so is everything deeper than we know. tell me, if you can, why it is that having met you i have lost faith in my art, and having met me you have lost faith in your religion." "it is strange." "something must be true. do you not think so?" "i have begun to doubt it." "i believe that what _you_ said is true." as they stood thus confronting each other, they would have presented a study of equal interest to the artist or to the philosopher. there was both a poem and a picture in their attitude. grace and beauty revealed themselves on every feature and in every movement. they had arrived at one of those dramatic points in their life-journey, where all the tragic elements of existence seem to converge. agitated by incomprehensible and delicious emotions, confronting insoluble problems, longing, hoping, fearing, they hovered over the ocean of life like two tiny sparrows swept out to sea by a tempest. the familiar objects and landmarks had all vanished. as children rise in the morning to find the chalk lines, inside of which they had played their game of "hop-scotch," washed out by the rain, they had awakened to find that the well known pathways and barriers over which and within which they had been accustomed to move had all been obliterated. they had nothing to guide them and nothing to restrain them except what was written in their hearts, and this mysterious hieroglyph they had not yet learned to decipher. they were awakened from their reveries by the footsteps of the quack, and by his raucous voice summoning them back into the world of realities from which they had withdrawn so completely. "well, little wife," he said, "how is b-b-business?" "fair," she said, gathering up a double hand-full of change and passing it over to him indifferently. the question fell upon the ears of the quaker like a thunder bolt. it was to him the first intimation that pepeeta was not the daughter of the quack. "his wife!" the heart of the youth sank in his bosom. here was a new and unexpected complication. what should he do? it was too late to turn back now. the die had been cast, and he must go forward. the doctor rattled on with an unceasing flow of talk, while the mind of the quaker plunged into a series of violent efforts to adjust itself to this new situation. he tried to force himself to be glad that he had been mistaken. he for the first time fully admitted the significance of the qualms which he felt at permitting himself to regard this strolling gypsy with such feelings as had been in his heart. "but now," he said to himself, "i can go forward with less compunction. i can gratify my desire for excitement and adventure with perfect safety. i will stay with them for a while, and when i am tired can leave them without any entanglements." when the situation had been regarded for a little while from this point of view, he felt happier and more care-free than for weeks. he solaced his disappointment with the reflection that he should still be near pepeeta, but no longer in any danger. at this profound reflection of the young moth hovering about the flame, let the satirist dip his pen in acid, and the pessimist in gall! there is enough folly and stupidity in the operations of the human mind to provoke the one to contempt and the other to despair. the cuttle-fish throws out an inky substance to conceal itself from its enemies; but the soul ejects an opaque vapor in which to hide from itself! in this mist of hallucination which rises and envelopes us, the whole appearance of life alters. passion and desire repress the judgment and pervert the conscience. conclusions that are illogical, expectations that are irrational and confidences that are groundless to the most final and fatal absurdity seem as natural and reasonable as intuitions. it is not in human nature to escape this perversion of thought and feeling under the stress of temptation. one may as well try to prevent the rise of temperature in the blood in the rage of fever. there are times when even the upright in heart must withdraw to the safe covert of the inner sanctuary and there fervently put up the master prayer of the soul, "lord, lead me not into temptation!" but if necessity or duty calls them out into the midst of life's dangers, let them remember that what they feel in the calm retreat, is not what will surge through their disordered intellects and their bounding pulses when they come within the reach of those fearful fascinations! it was such a prayer that david had need of when he gave his hand to the gypsy. chapter xiii. found wanting "how oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!"--king john. the spring and summer had passed, autumn had attained the fullness of its golden beauty, and the inevitable had happened. david and pepeeta had passed swiftly though not unresistingly through all the intervening stages between a chance acquaintance and an impassioned love. any other husband than the quack would have foreseen this catastrophe; but there is one thing blinder than love, and that is egotism such as his. his colossal vanity had not even suspected that a woman who possessed him for her husband could for a single instant bestow a thought of interest on any other man. astute student of men, penetrating judge of motive and conduct that he was, he daily beheld the evolution of a tragedy in which he was the victim, with all the indifference of a lamb observing the preparations for its slaughter. because of this ignorance and indifference, the fellowship of these two young people had been as intimate as that of brother and sister in a home, and this new life had wrought an extraordinary transformation in the habits and character of both. david had abandoned the quaker idiom for the speech of ordinary men, and discarded his former habiliments for the most conventional and stylish clothes. contact with the world had sharpened his native wit, and given him a freedom among men and women, that was fast descending into abandon. success had stimulated his self-confidence and made him prize those gifts by which he had once aroused the devotion of adoring worshipers in the quaker meeting house; he soon found that they could be used to victimize the crowds which gathered around the flare of the torch in the public square. that which his friends had once dignified by the name of spiritual power had deteriorated into something but little above animal magnetism. he had learned to cherish a profound contempt for men and morals, and the shrewd maxims which the quack had instilled into his mind became the governing principles of his conduct. those qualities which he had inherited from his dissolute father, and which had been so long submerged, were upheaved, while all that he had received from his mother by birth and education sank out of sight and memory. three elemental passions assumed complete possession of his soul--the love of admiration, of gambling and of the gypsy. a transformation of an exactly opposite character had been taking place in pepeeta. under the sunshine of david's love, and the dew of those spiritual conceptions which had fallen upon her thirsty spirit, the seeds of a beautiful nature, implanted at her birth, germinated and developed with astonishing rapidity. walking steadily in such light as fell upon her pathway and ever looking for more, her spiritual vision became clearer and clearer every day; and while this affection for god purified her soul, her love for david expanded and transformed her heart. her unbounded admiration for him blinded her to that process of deterioration in his character which even the quack perceived. to her partial eye a halo still surrounded the head of the young apostate. but while these two new affections wrought this sudden transformation in the gypsy and filled her with a new and exquisite happiness, the circumstances of her life were such that this illumination could not but be attended with pain, for it brought ever new revelations of those ethical inconsistencies in which she discovered herself to be deeply if not hopelessly involved. there was, in the first place, the inevitable conflict between her new sense of duty, and the life of deception which she was leading. the practice of her art of fortune-telling was daily becoming a source of unendurable pain as she saw more and more clearly the duty of leaving the future to god and living her daily life in humble, child-like faith. and in the second place, she was slowly awaking to the terrifying consciousness that her affection for david was producing a violent and ungovernable disgust for her husband. by the flood of sorrows which poured from these two discoveries, she seemed to be completely overwhelmed and if, like a diver, she rose to the sunlight now and then, it was only to seize a few breaths of air by which she might be able to endure her existence in the depths to which she was compelled to return. no wonder that life became a mystery to this poor child. it seemed as if its difficulties increased in a direct ratio with her wish to discharge its duties; as if the darkness gained upon the light, and the burden grew heavy, faster than her shoulders grew strong. the discovery of the nature of that affection which she felt for david had been slow and unwelcome, coming to her even before david's protestations of his love; yet one day the passionate feelings of their hearts found expression in wild and startling confessions. they were terrified at what they told each other; but it became necessary therefore to seek the comfort of still other confessions and confidences. their interviews had steadily become more ardent and more dangerous; and the doctor's negligence giving them the utmost freedom, they often spent hours together in wandering about the cities they visited, or the fields and woods lying near. on one of these tramps, their relationship reached a critical stage. it was the early morning of a beautiful autumn day that they strolled up broadway in the city of cincinnati, turned into the reading road, and sauntered slowly out into the country. "in which direction shall we go?" asked david. "let us wander without thought or purpose, like those beautiful clouds," pepeeta answered, pointing upward. david watched them silently for a moment and then said, "pepeeta, men and women are like those clouds. they either drift apart forever, or meet and mingle into one. it must be so with us." she walked silently by his side, sobered by the seriousness of his voice and words. "perhaps," he continued, "it makes but little difference what becomes of us, for our lives are like the clouds, a morning mist, a momentary exhalation. and yet, how filled with joy or woe is this moment of parting or commingling! pepeeta, i have decided that this day must terminate my suspense. i cannot endure it any longer. i must know before night whether our lives are to be united or divided. you have told me that you love me, and yet you will not give yourself to me. what am i to think of this?" "my friend," she cried with an infinite pain in her voice, "how can you force me to such a decision when you know all the difficulties of my life? how can you thus forget that i have a husband?" "i do not forget it," he answered bitterly, "i cannot forget it. it is an eternal demonstration of the madness of faith in any kind of providence. it makes me hate an order which unites a lion to a lamb, and marries a dove to a hawk! you say that you loathe this man! then leave him and come with me! the world lies before us. we are as free as those clouds!" "we are not free, and neither are they," she answered. "something binds them to their pathway, as it binds me to mine. i cannot leave it. i must tread it even though i have to tread it alone." "you can leave it if you will; but if you will not, i must know the reason why." "oh! why will you not see? i have tried so hard to show you! i have told you that there is a voice which speaks within my soul, that to it i must listen and that the inward light of which you told me shines upon the path and i must follow it." "i could curse that inward light! must i be always confronted by the ravings of my youth? all my life long must the words of my credulous childhood hang about my neck like a millstone? there is no inward light. you are living a delusion. you are restrained by the conventionalities of life and are the slave of the customs of society. because the miserable herd of mankind is willing to submit to that galling yoke of marriage, does it follow that you must? by what right can society demand that men and women who abhor each other should be doomed to pass their lives in hopeless agony? against such laws i protest! i defy those customs. the path of life is short. we go this way but once! who is to refuse us all the joy that we can find? there will be sorrow enough, any way!" "oh! my friend, do not talk so! do not break my heart! have pity on me. i know that it is hard for you; but it is i who have to suffer most. it is i who must continually exert this terrible resistance which alone keeps us from being swept away. have mercy, david! spare me a little longer. spare me this one day at least. if any troubled heart had ever need of the rest and peace of such a day as this, it is mine! let us give ourselves up to these soothing influences. let us wander. let us dream and let us love." "love! this accursed platonic affection is not love," he answered savagely. "david," she said with an enforced calmness, "you must not speak so. it will do no good. there is something in me stronger than this passion. from the bottom of my soul there has come a sense of duty to a power higher than myself and i will be true to it. i believe that it is god who speaks. you may appeal to my mind, and i cannot answer you, but my heart has reasons of its own higher than the reason itself. it was you who told me this! you told me when you were so beautiful, so good, so true that i know you were right, and i shall never doubt it. i am not what i was. i am, oh! so different. i cannot understand; but i am different." there was in this delicate and ethereal girl who spoke so fearlessly something which held the man, strong in his physical might, in an inexplicable and irresistible awe. before a mountain, beside the sea, beneath the stars and in the presence of a virtuous woman, emotions of wonder and reverence possess the souls of men. subdued by this influence, david said, with more gentleness: "but what are we to do? we cannot live in this way. we have been forced into a situation from which we must escape, even if we have to act against our consciences." "i do not think that this is so! i do not believe that any one can be placed against his will in a situation that is opposed to his conscience! there must be some other way to do. a door will open. let us wait and hope a little longer. let us have another happy day at least," pepeeta said. heaving a sigh and shrugging his shoulders as if to throw off a burden, david answered, "well, let it be as you wish. i have had to suffer so much that perhaps i can endure it a little longer. i do not want to make you unhappy. i will try." "oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times; that is like yourself!" pepeeta said, her face aglow with gratitude. it was a light from the soul itself that shone through the thin transparency of that face, pale with thought and suffering, and gave it its new radiance. the world around them was steeped in autumn beauty. a gigantic smile was on the face of nature. fleecy, fleeting clouds were chasing each other across the blue dome of the heavens. the hazy atmosphere of the indian summer softened the landscape and lent it a mystical and unearthly charm. the forests were resplendent with those brilliant colors which appear like a last flush of life upon the dying face of summer, as she sinks into her wintry grave. the autumn birds were singing; the autumn flowers were blooming; yellow golden rod and scarlet sumach glowed in the corners of the fences; locusts chirped in treetops; grasshoppers stridulated in the meadows, one or two of them making more noise than a whole drove of cattle lying peacefully chewing their cud beneath an umbrageous elm and lifting up their great, tranquil, blinking eyes to the morning sun. here and there boys and girls could be seen in the vineyards and orchards gathering grapes and apples. farmers were cutting their grain and stacking it in great brown shocks, digging potatoes, or plowing the fertile soil. now and then a traveler met or passed them, clucking to his horses and hurrying to the city with his produce. amid these gracious influences, life gradually lost its stern reality and took on the characteristics of a pleasant dream. the fever and unrest abated, burdens weighed less heavily, sorrow became less poignant; the finer joys of both the waking and sleeping hours of existence were mysteriously blended. sharp and irritating as the encounter had been between the two lovers, the momentary antipathy passed away as they moved along. they drew nearer together; they lifted their eyes furtively; their glances met; they smiled; they spoke; their sympathies flowed back into the old channel; their hopes and affections mingled. they gave themselves up to joy with the abandon of youth, falling into that mood in which everything pleases and delights. nature did not need to tell them her secrets aloud, for they comprehended her whispers and grasped her meaning from sly hints. they melted into her moods. what joys were theirs! to be young; to be drawn together by an affinity which produced a mysterious and ineffable happiness; to wander aimlessly over the earth; to yield to every passing fancy; to dream; to hope; to love. it was the culminating hour of their lives. passing through the little village since called avondale, they turned down what is now the clinton springs road, climbed a hill, descended its other slope, and came upon an old spring house where, as they paused to drink, david scratched their names with his penknife on one of the stones of the walls, where they may be read to-day. leaving the turnpike, they entered a grove through which flowed a noisy stream; cast themselves upon a bank, bathed their faces, ate their lunch and rested. there for a few moments, in the tranquil and uplifting influence of the silence and the solitude, all that was best in their natures came to the surface. pepeeta nestled down among the roots of a great beech tree, her hat flung upon the ground by her side, her arms folded across her bosom, her face upturned like a flower drinking in the sunshine or the rain. at her feet her lover reclined, his head upon his arms and his gaze fixed upon the canopy of leaves which spread above them and through which as the branches swayed in the breeze he caught glimpses of the sky. pepeeta broke the silence. "i could stay here forever," she said. "i nestle here in the roots of this great tree like a little child in the arms of its mother. i feel that everything around me is my friend. i feel, not as if i were different from other things, but as if i were a part of them. do you comprehend? do you feel that way?" "more than at any time since leaving home," he said. "that was the way i always felt in the old days--how far away they seem! i could then sit for hours beside a brook like this, and thoughts of god would flow over my soul like water over the stones; and now i do not think of him at all! it was by a brook like this that we first met. do you remember, pepeeta?" "i shall never forget." "are you sure?" "as certain as that i live." "sure--certain! of what are we sure but the present moment? into it we ought to crowd all the joys of existence." her feminine instinct discovered the return of his thoughts into the old dangerous channel, and her quick wit diverted them. "tell me more about your home, and how you felt when you used to sit like this and think." he determined to yield himself for a little while longer to her will, and said: "in those days nature possessed for me an irresistible fascination; but the spell is broken now. i then thought that i was face to face with the eternal spirit of the universe. how far i have drifted away from the world in which i then existed! i could never return to it. i am like a bird which has broken its shell and which can never be put back again. i have found another face into which i now look with still deeper wonder than into that of nature, and which exerts a still deeper fascination. it is the face of a woman, in whom all the beauties of nature seem to be mirrored. she is everything to me; she is the entire universe embodied in a gentle heart." he gazed at her with a look that made her pulses beat; but she was determined not to permit him to drift back into that dangerous mood from which she had drawn him with such difficulty. "one time you told me," she said, "that the birds and squirrels were such good friends to you, that if you called them they would come to you like your dog. i should love to see that. look! there is a squirrel sitting on the limb of this very tree! how saucy he looks! how shy! bring him to me! i command you! you have said that i am your mistress; go, slave!" rising to her feet she pointed to the squirrel. her lithe form was outlined against the green background of the forest in a pose of exquisite grace and beauty, her eyes glowed with animation, and her lips smiled with the consciousness of power. it was impossible to resist her. he rose, looked in the direction toward which she pointed, and saw the squirrel cheeping among the branches. imitating its cries, he began to move slowly toward it. the little creature pricked up its ears, cocked its head on one side, flirted its bushy tail and watched the approaching figure suspiciously. as it drew nearer and nearer, he began to creep down the branches. stopping now and then to reconnoiter, he started forward again; paused; retreated; returned, and still continued to advance, until he was within a foot or two of david's hand, which he examined first with one eye and then the other and made a motion as if to spring upon it. suddenly the spell was broken. with a wild flirt of his tail and a loud outcry, he sprang up the tree and disappeared in the foliage. david watched him until he had vanished, and then turned toward pepeeta with a look of disappointment and chagrin. "it is too bad," she cried, hastening toward him sympathetically, "but see, there is a redbird on the top of that old birch tree. try again! you will have better success this time, i am sure you will." he determined to make another experiment. the brilliant songster was pouring out his heart in that fine cry of strength and hope which he sends resounding over hill and vale. suddenly hearing his own voice repeated to him in an echo sweet and pure as his own song, he fluttered his wings, peered this way and that, and sang again. once more the answering call resounded, true as an image in a mirror. david now began to move with greater caution than before toward the little creature, who looked at him with curious glances. back and forth resounded the sweet antiphonal, and the bird hopped down a branch or two. neither of the actors in this woodland drama removed his eyes from the other, and the spectator watched them both with breathless interest. presently david lifted his hands--the palms closed together in the form of a cup or nest. the songster bent farther forward on the twig, and suddenly with a downward plunge shot straight toward them; but just as his tiny feet touched the fingers, turned as the squirrel had done, and uttering a loud cry of terror flew away. david dropped his hands and his eyes. "i have lost my power," he said sadly. "you are out of practice, you must exercise it oftener. it will all come back," pepeeta responded cheerfully. they walked slowly and silently back to the place where they had been sitting, and david began tossing pebbles into the brook. "three times to-day," he said, pausing and turning toward pepeeta, "i have opened my hands and my heart, and each time the object whose love i sought has fluttered away from me in terror or repugnance." "oh! no, not in terror and repugnance," she said eagerly. "am i then incapable of exciting love?" he asked. "you will break my heart if you speak so. i love you more than i love my own life." "i do not believe it. can i believe that the squirrel and the redbird love me, when they flee from me? if they had loved me, they would have come to me and nestled to my heart. and so would you. i have come back to the old subject. i cannot refrain any longer. will you go with me, or will you not?" "oh! david," she cried, wringing her hands, "why, why will you break my heart? why can you not permit me to finish this day in peace? wait until some other time. why can you not enjoy this present moment? i could wish it to last forever, if you were only kind. if the flight of time could be stopped, if we could be forever what we are just now, i could not ask for any other thing. see how beautiful the world is. see how happy we are. see how everything hangs just like a balance! do not speak, do not move; one unkind word would jar and spoil it all." "it is impossible," he cried roughly, "you must leave your husband and come with me. you cannot put me off any longer. i am desperate." he was looking at her with eyes no longer full of pleading, but of determination and command. "what will you do?" he asked. "oh!" she answered, trembling, "why will you compel me to act? let something happen! wait! it is not necessary always to act! sometimes it is better to sit still! we are in god's hands. let us trust him. has he not awakened this love in our hearts? he has not made us love and long for each other only to thwart us!" "thwart us! who coaxes the flowers from the ground, only that the frost may nip them? who opens the bud only to permit it to be devoured by the worm? who places the babe in its mother's arms only to let it be snatched away by the hand of death? you cannot appeal to me in that way," he retorted, bitterly. "do not speak so," she exclaimed with genuine terror. "it is wicked to say such things in this quiet and holy place. oh! why have you lost that faith you once possessed? what has blinded your eyes to the light that you taught me to see? i see it now! all will be well! something says to me in my heart, 'all will be well,' if we only follow the light!" nothing could have given stronger proof that inspiration and intuition are as natural and legitimate functions of the spiritual nature as sensation and sense perception are of the physical, than her words and looks. they would have convinced and mastered him, except for the self-denial which they demanded of his love! but he was now far past all reason. "pepeeta," he cried, approaching her, "you must be mine and mine alone! i can no longer endure the thought of your being the wife of another man. you must come with me. i will not take 'no' for an answer. i command you to leave this man and go with me. it is a worse crime for you to live with him when you hate him than to leave him! come, let us go! i have money! there are horses to be had. he does not know where we are. let us fly!" it was evident that he had brooked her refusal as long as he could. the man was mad. he seized her by the arm. in a single instant this gentle creature passed through an incredible transformation. she wrenched her arm from his hand and stood before him fearless, resolute, magnificent! her gypsy training stood her in good stead now. young as she was when a pupil in that hard school, she had learned from her wild teachers the cardinal principle of their code--_loyalty to her marriage vows_. they had taught her to believe that this breach was the one unpardonable sin. she drew a little stiletto from the folds of her dress, placed its point upon her heart and said: "it is not necessary that a gypsy should live; but it is necessary that she should be virtuous!" her resplendent beauty, her fearless courage, her invincible determination quenched the wild impulses of the reckless youth in a single instant. all the manhood, all the chivalry of his better nature rose within him and did homage. he threw himself on his knees and frantically besought her pardon. in an instant the fierce light died from her eyes. she stooped down, laid her hand on his arm, and with an all-forgiving charity lifted him to his feet. they stood regarding each other in silence. all that their souls could reveal had been manifested in actions. the brief scene was terminated by a common impulse. they turned their faces toward the city and walked quietly, each reflecting silently upon the struggle that had been enacted and the denouement which was yet to come. in her ignorance and inexperience, pepeeta hoped that a scene so dreadful would quench the madness in her lover's soul; but this revelation of the grandeur of her nature only inflamed his desires the more. the momentary feeling of shame and penitence passed away. his determination to possess her became more fixed than ever and during the homeward walk assumed a definite form. for a long time a sinister purpose had been rolling about in his soul. that purpose now crystallized into resolution. he determined to commit a crime if need be in order to gain his end. nothing can be more astonishing than the rapidity and ease with which the mind becomes habituated to the presence of a criminal intention. the higher faculties are at first disturbed, but they soon become accustomed to the danger, and permit themselves to be destroyed one after another, with only feeble protestations. chapter xiv. turned tempter "all men have their price." --walpole. the plan which david had chosen to compel pepeeta to abandon her husband was not a new one. for its execution he had already made a partial preparation in an engagement to meet the justice of the peace who had performed her marriage ceremony. the engagement was conditioned upon his failure to persuade the gypsy to accompany him of her own free will. immediately after supper he took his way to the place appointed for the meeting. this civil officer had been a companion of the quack's for many years. his natural capacity, which was of the highest order, had secured him one place of honor after another; but he had lost them through the practice of many vices, and had at last sunk to that depth of degradation in which he was willing to barter his honor for almost any price. the place at which he had agreed to meet david was a low saloon in one of the most disreputable parts of the city, and to this spot the infatuated youth made his way. now that he was alone with his thoughts, he could not contemplate his purpose without a feeling of dread, and yet he did not pause nor seriously consider its abandonment. his movements, as he elbowed his way among the outcasts who infested this degraded region, were those of a man totally oblivious to his surroundings. "curse him," he muttered in an undertone, and did not know that he had spoken. to talk to one's self is so often a premonitory symptom of either insanity or crime, that a policeman standing on the corner eyed him closely and followed him down the street. having reached the door of the saloon, david cast a glance about him, as if ashamed of being observed, and entered. it was a fitting place to hatch an evil deed. the floor was covered with filthy sawdust; the air was rank with the fumes of sour beer and adulterated whisky; the lamps were not yet lighted, and his eyes blinked as he entered the dirty dusk of the interior. against the wall were rude shelves strewn with bottles, decanters, jugs and glasses. the landlord was leaning against the inside of the bar glaring about him like an octopus. the habitues of the place, looking more like scarecrows than men, stood opposite him with their blear eyes uplifted in ecstasy, draining into their insatiable throats the last precious drops from their upturned glasses. at a table four human shapes which seemed to be operated by some kind of clumsy mechanical motors rather than animated by sentient spirits were playing a game of chance and slapping the greasy cards down upon the table to the accompaniment of coarse laughter and hideous profanity. the quaker, who was not yet thoroughly enough corrupted to witness this spectacle without horror, hurried through the room like a man who has suddenly found himself in a pest-house. the door which he pushed open admitted him to a parlor scarcely less dirty and disgusting that the saloon itself, at the opposite end of which, wreathed in a cloud of tobacco smoke, he beheld the object of his search. "well, i see you are here," he said, drawing a chair to the table. "and waiting," a deep and rich but melancholy voice replied. "can't we have a couple of candles? these shadows seem to crawl up my legs and take me by the throat. i feel as if some one were blindfolding and gagging me," said david, looking uneasily about. the judge ordered the candles, and while they were waiting observed: "you had better accustom yourself to shadows, young man, for you will find plenty of them on the road you are traveling. they deepen with the passing years, along every pathway; but the one on which you are about to set your feet leads into the hopeless dark." these unexpected words agitated the soul of the young plotter, but while he was still shuddering the barkeeper entered with the candles and set them down on the table between the two men, who found themselves vis-a-vis in the flickering gleams. they leaned on their elbows and looked into each other's faces. the contrast was remarkable. the countenance of the judge had unquestionably once been noble, and perhaps also beautiful; but the massive features were now coarsened by dissipation. a permanent curl of scorn had wreathed itself around the mouth. a look of ennui brooded over his features. one would as soon expect to see a flower in the crater of a volcano as a smile on the lips of this extinct man. david's face was young and beautiful. the features were still those of a saint, even if the aureole had for a time been eclipsed by a cloud. these two human beings gazed incredulously at each other for a moment. "i was once like this youth," the judge was saying to himself with a sigh. "i shall never be like this beast," thought david with a shudder of repulsion and disgust. the "justice" (grotesque parody) broke the silence. "did you succeed?" he asked. "no," said david, sullenly. "she would not yield, then?" "no more than adamant or steel." "you should have pressed her harder." "i used my utmost skill." "you are a novitiate, perhaps. an adept would have succeeded." "not with her." "ah! who ever caught a trout at the first cast? what you need is experience." "what i want is help." "and so you have appealed to me? you wish me to go to this woman and tell her that her marriage was a fraud?" "i do." "there have been pleasanter tasks." "will you do it, or will you not?" "suppose she will not believe me?" "you must compel her." "young man, have you no compunctions about this business?" said the judge, leaning forward and looking earnestly into the blue eyes. "compunctions?" said david, in a dry echo of the question. "yes, compunctions," replied the judge, repeating the word again. "oh! some. but for every compunction i have a thousand desperate determinations. were you ever in love, judge?" "yes, i have been in love, such love as yours, and that is why i am what i am now." as he uttered these words, he lifted the glass which his hand had been toying with, drained it to the dregs, fixed his eyes on david once more, and after regarding him a moment with a look of pity, said slowly and solemnly: "young man, i am about to give you good advice. you smile? no wonder! but i beg you to listen to me. sometimes a shipwrecked sailor makes the best captain, for he knows the force of the tempest. i have no conscience for myself, but some unaccountable emotion impels me to bid you abandon this project. somehow, as i look at you, i cannot bear to have you become what i am. you seem so young and innocent that i would like to have you stay as you are. i wish to save you. how strange it is. when i look at you, i seem to behold myself as i was at your age." as he spoke these words the whole expression of his countenance altered, and faint traces of an almost extinguished manhood appeared. it was as if beauty, sunk below the horizon, had been thrown up in a mirage. so tender an appeal would have broken a heart like david's, except for the madness of illicit love. "judge!" he cried, striking the table with his fist, "i did not come here for advice, i came for help. i am determined to have this woman. she is mine by virtue of my desire and my capacity to acquire her! i must have her! i will have her, by fair means or foul. and, judge, in this case, the foulest means are fair. what seems an act of injustice is in reality an act of mercy. you know her husband, and you know as well as i do that her life with him will be her ruin. you know that the complacency with which she once regarded him has already turned to disgust, and that it is only a single step from disgust to hate and another from hate to murder. she will kill him some day! she cannot help it. it is human nature and if she doesn't i will! come now, judge, you will help me, won't you?" a cynical smile wreathed itself around the mouth of the old roué. in his debauched nature, the oil of sympathy had long ago been exhausted. this was a last despairing flicker. a wick cannot burn alone. "help you?" he said languidly. "oh, yes, i will help you. there is no use trying to save you. you are only another moth! you want the fire, and you will have it! you will burn your wings off as millions have done before you and as millions will do after you. what then? wings are made to be burned! i burned mine. probably if i had another pair i would burn them also. it is as useless to moralize to a lover as to a tiger. i am a fool to waste my breath on you. let us get down to business. you say that she loves you, and that she will be glad to learn that she is free?" "i do! her heart is on our side. she will believe you, easily!" "yes, she will believe me easily! she will believe me too easily! for six thousand years desire has been a synonym for credulity. all men believe what they want to, except myself. i believe everything that i do not want to, and nothing that i do! but no matter. how much am i to get for this job?" they haggled a while over the price, struck a bargain and shook hands--the same symbol being used among men to seal a compact of love or hate, virtue or vice. "be at the spencer house at eleven o'clock," said david, rising. "you will find us on the balcony. the doctor is to spend the night in a revel with the captain of the mary ann, and we shall be uninterrupted. be an actor. be a great actor, judge. you are to deal with a soul which possesses unusual powers of penetration." "do not fear! she will be no match for me, for she is innocent--and when was virtue ever a match for vice? she is predestined to her doom! farewell! fare-ill, i mean," he muttered under his breath, as david passed from the room. he gazed after him with his basilisk eyes, drank another glass of whisky and relapsed into reveries. the mind of the lover was full of tumultuous emotions. on the thin ice of his momentary joy, he hovered like an inexperienced skater over the great deeps of sin which were waiting to engulf him. there was still an hour before the time when he would have to take his part in the business of the evening. he determined to walk off his excitement, and chose the way along the edge of the river. it was now quite dark. the stars were shining in the sky and lamps were twinkling in the windows. the streets were almost deserted; the citizens, wearied with the toils of the day, were eating their evening meal, or resting on the balconies and porches. here and there on the surface of the swift-flowing river a huge steamer swept past, or little ferry-boats shot back and forth like shuttles. his thoughts composed a strangely blended web of good and evil. at the same moment in which he reiterated his resolve to prosecute this deed he consecrated himself to a life of tenderness and devotion to the woman whom he loved with all the energy of his nature! of such inconsistencies is the soul capable! it seemed an easy matter to him to control the august forces which he was letting loose! he was like a little child who wanders through a laboratory uncorking bottles and mixing explosives. having regained his calmness by a long walk, he hurried back and reached the open space along the river front where peddlers, mountebanks and street venders plied their crafts, just in time to meet the doctor as he drove up with his horses. chapter xv. the snare of the fowler "thinks thou there are no serpents in the world but those who slide along the grassy sod and sting the luckless foot that presses them? there are those who in the path of social life do bask their skins in fortune's sun and sting the soul." --joanna baillie. that evening's business was one of unprecedented success. never had the young orator been so brilliant. all the faculties of his mind seemed wrought up to their highest pitch and all its resources under perfect control. the boisterous crowd laughed itself hoarse at his humor, wept itself silly at his pathos, and laid its shekels at his feet. it is no wonder that such scenes and others like them have generated both satirists and saviors, and that while men like savonarola have been ready to die for the redemption of such creatures other men, like juvenal, have sneered. the three companions returned to the hotel and counted their ill-gotten gains. pepeeta was sober, david exultant and the doctor hilarious. he pulled out the ends of his long black mustache to their utmost limit, twisted them into ropes, rubbed his hands together, slapped his great thigh and laughed long and loud. "david, my son," he exclaimed, "you have the touch of midas; g-g-give us a few years more and we will outrank the fabled croesus. we shall yet be masters of the world. we shall ride upon its neck as if it w-w-were an ass! how about the old farm life now? do you want to return to the p-p-plow-tail? would you rather milk the b-b-brindle cow than the b-b-bedeviled people? this has been a g-g-great night, and i must go and finish it in the c-c-cabin of the mary ann with the captain, his mate and the judge. they will know how to appreciate it! such a t-t-triumph must not be allowed to p-p-pass without a celebration." he bustled about the room a few moments, kissed his wife, shook hands with david and hastened away. after he had vanished, david and pepeeta passed down the long corridor and out upon the balcony of the old spencer house, to the place appointed for the interview of the judge. the night was bright; a refreshing breeze was blowing up from the river and the frequent intermissions in the gusts of wind that swept over the sleeping city gave the impression that nature was holding her breath to listen to the tales of love that were being told on city balconies and in country lanes. under the mysterious influence of the full moon, and of the silence, for the noises of the city had died away, their imaginations were aroused, their emotions quickened, their sensibilities stirred. it seemed impossible that life could be seriously real. their conceptions of duty and responsibility were sublimated into vague and misty dreams, and the enjoyment of the moment's fleeting pleasures seemed the only reality and end of life. the two lovers placed their chairs close to the railing and leaning over it looked down into the deserted street or off toward the distant hills swimming like islands on a sea of light, or up to the infinite sky in the immensity of which their individual being seemed to be swallowed up, or down into each other's eyes, in the depths of which they discovered realities which they had never before perceived, and lost sight of those in which they had always believed. for a long time they sat in silence. afterwards, there came a few whispered interchanges of feeling, as the stillness of a grove is broken by gentle agitations among the leaves, and finally david said, "pepeeta, you have long promised to tell me all you knew of your early life; will you do it now?" "of what possible interest can it be to you?" she asked. "it seems to me," he replied, "that i could linger forever over the slightest detail. it is not enough to know what you are. i wish to know how you came to be what you are." "you must reconcile yourself to ignorance; the origin of my existence is lost in night." "did not the doctor discover anything at all from the people in whose possession he found you?" "nothing. they kept silence like the grave. he heard from a gypsy in another camp that my parents belonged to a noble family in spain, and has often said that when he becomes very rich he will go with me to my native land and find them. but i believe, myself, that the veil will never be lifted from the past. i must be content!" "but you can tell me something of that part of your childhood that you do remember?" "it is too sad! i do not want to think of anything that happened before i met you. my life began from that moment. before, i had only dreamed." he was intoxicated with her beauty and her love; but he carried himself carefully, for he was playing a desperate game and must keep himself under control. "and do you think," he said, "that having awakened from this dream you can ever fall asleep again?" "can the bird ever go back into the shell or the butterfly into the chrysalis? no, no, it is impossible." "but would you, if you could?" "perhaps i ought to want to; but i cannot." "and do you think that we can drift on forever as we are going?" "i do not know. i do not dare to think. i only live from day to day." "and you still refuse to take your future into your own hands?" "it is not mine. i must accept what has been appointed." "and you still believe that some door will be opened through which we may escape?" "with all my heart." "i wish i could share your faith." they ceased to speak, and sat silently gazing into each other's faces, the heart of the woman rent with a conflict between desire and duty, that of the man by a tempest of evil passions. at that moment, a slow and heavy step was heard in the hallway. they looked toward the door, and in the shadows saw a man who contemplated them silently for a moment and then advanced. david rose to meet him. "i beg your pardon," he said, feigning embarrassment, "i had an errand with the lady, and hoped i should find her alone." "you may speak, for the gentleman is the friend of my husband and myself," pepeeta said. "i will begin, then," he responded, "by asking if you recognize me?" and at that he stepped out into the moonlight. pepeeta gave him a searching glance and exclaimed in surprise, "you are the judge who married me." he let his head fall upon his breast with well-assumed humility, remained a moment in silence, looked up mournfully and said, "i would to god that i had really married you, for then i should not have been bearing this accursed load of guilt that has been crushing me for months." at these words, pepeeta sprang from her seat and stood before him with her hands clasped upon her breast. "be quick! go on!" she cried, when she had waited in vain for him to proceed. "prepare yourself for a revelation of treachery and dishonor. i can conceal my crime no longer. if i hold my peace the very stones in the street will cry out against me." "make haste!" pepeeta exclaimed, imperatively. "madam," continued the strange man, "i have betrayed you." "you have betrayed me?" "yes, i have betrayed you. do you understand? you are not married to your husband. i deceived you as i was bribed to do. i was not a justice. i had no right to perform that ceremony. it was a solemn farce. your false lover desired to possess the privileges without assuming the responsibilities of marriage." these words, spoken slowly, solemnly, and with a simulation of candor which would have deceived her even if she had not desired to believe them, produced the most profound impression upon the mind of pepeeta. she approached the judge and cried: "sir, i beg you in the name of heaven not to trifle with me! is what you have told me true?" "alas, too true." "if it is true, you will say it before the god in heaven? raise your right hand!" before an appeal so solemn and a soul so pure a man less corrupt would have faltered; but without a moment's hesitation this depraved, remorseless creature did as she commanded. "i swear it," he said. "oh! sir," she cried, "you cannot understand; but this is the happiest moment of my life!" "madam?" he exclaimed, interrogatively and with consummate art. "it is not necessary for you to know why," she answered; "but on my knees i thank you." he lifted her up. "what can it mean? i implore you to tell me," he said. "do not ask me!" she replied. "i cannot tell you now! my heart is too full." "but does this mean that i have nothing to regret and that you have forgiven me?" "it does. for it is against god only you have sinned! as for myself, i bless you from the bottom of my heart!" she gave him her hand. he took it in his own and held it, looking first at her and then at david with an expression of such surprise as to deceive his accomplice scarcely less than his victim. young, inexperienced, innocent in this sin at least, she stood between them--helpless. it is one thing for a woman deliberately to renounce her marriage vows to taste the sweets of forbidden pleasure, but quite another for a heart so loyal to duty, to be betrayed into crime by an ingenuity worthy of devils. child of misfortune that she was, victim of a series of untoward and fatal circumstances, she had reason all her life to regret her credulity; but never to reproach herself for wrong intentions. her heart often betrayed her; but her soul was never corrupted. she ought to have been more careful--alas, yes, she ought--but she meant no sin. now that the confidence of pepeeta had been secured, david's part in this drama became comparatively easy. he listened to the brief conversation in which by a well-constructed chain of fictitious reasonings the judge riveted upon the too eager mind of the child-wife the conclusion that she was free. when this arch villain had concluded his arguments every suspicion had vanished from her soul, and as he rose to depart she took him by the hand and bade him a kindly and almost affectionate farewell. "do not afflict yourself with this painful memory," she said gently. "i shall not need to afflict myself," he replied; "my memory will afflict me, for i am as guilty as if the result had been what i expected; and if in the coming years you find a moment now and then in which you can lift up a prayer for a man who has forfeited his claim to mercy, i beg you to devote it to him who from the depths of his heart wishes you joy. good-bye." with many assurances of her pardon, pepeeta followed him to the door and bade him farewell. when she returned to david her face was luminous with happiness, and although he had begun already to experience a reaction and to suffer remorse for his successful infamy, it was only like a drop of poison in the ocean of his joy. "did i not tell you that all would be well?" she cried, approaching him and extending both her hands. "but how sudden and how strange it is. it is too good to be true. i cannot realize that i am free. i am like a little bird that hops about its cage, peeps through the door which its mistress' hand has opened, and knows not what to think. it wishes to go; but it is frightened. what shall it do, david? tell it! shall it fly?" "i also am too bewildered to act and almost too bewildered to think," he said with unaffected excitement and anxiety, for now that the time and opportunity for him to take so momentous a step had come, his heart failed him. it was only with the most violent effort and under a most pressing necessity that he pulled himself together and continued, "the little bird must fly, and its mate must fly with it. there are too few hours before daylight and we must not lose a single one. but are you sure that you are quite ready? is your mind made up? will you go with me trustfully? will you accept whatever the future has in store?" she took him in her strong young arms, printed her first kiss upon his lips, and said: "i will go with you to the ends of the earth! i will go with you through water and through fire! the future cannot bring me anything from which i shall shrink, if it lets us meet it hand in hand!" silently and swiftly they gathered together the few necessities of a sudden journey, stole out of the quiet building and hurried away to a livery stable. in a few moments they were rattling down the rough cobble-stone pavement to the river. the ferryman, who had been retained for this very purpose, pretended to be asleep. they aroused him, drove onto the platform of his primitive craft and floated out upon the stream. as the boat swung clear of the shore they heard music issuing from the cabin windows of a steamer under whose stern they were passing. it was the "mary ann." they listened. the music ceased for a moment and a deep voice called out "b-b-bravo! another song!" they recognized it instantly, and pepeeta pressed close to the side of her lover. "you hear it for the last time," he whispered. "thank god," she said. that name uttered in the darkness of the night startled him. the idea that he had cast a shuttle of crime into the great loom upon which the fabric of his life was being woven, took complete possession of his mind. with unerring prescience, he saw that it began to be entangled in the mysterious meshes. a consciousness that he was no longer the master but the victim of his destiny seized him and he shuddered. pepeeta perceived the shudder through the arm which embraced her. "you are cold, my love," she said. "my joy has made me tremble," he replied. she pressed the hand which was holding hers and looked up into his face with ineffable love. the swift current seized the boat, twisting it hither and thither till it seemed to the now trembling fugitive a symbol of the stream of tendencies upon which he had launched the frail bark containing their united lives. "i wonder if i am strong enough to stem it?" he asked himself. pepeeta continued to press his hand and that gentle sign of love revived his drooping courage. perhaps there is no other act so full of reassuring power as the pressure of a human hand. neither a glance from the eye nor a word from the lips can equal it. the fainting pilgrim, the departing friend, the discouraged toiler, the returning prodigal welcome it beyond all other symbols of helpfulness or love, and the dying saint who leans the hardest on the "rod and the staff of god" as he goes down into the dark valley finds a comfort scarcely less sweet in the warm clasp of a human hand. just as the courage of this daring navigator of the sea of crime had been restored by this signal of his loved one's trust, the boat grated on the beach. "can we find a minister who will marry us at this time of night?" david said to the ferryman, although he had been careful to ask this question before. "two blocks south and three east, second door on the right hand side," he answered laconically, as he received the fare. such adventurers passed often through his hands and their ways were nothing new. the fugitives drove hurriedly to the designated house, knocked at the door, were admitted and in a few moments the final act which sealed their fate had been performed. chapter xvi. the derelicts "born but to banquet and to drain the bowl." --homer. the "mary ann" had just returned from a trip to new orleans, and while waiting for her cargo lay moored at the foot of broadway. as the quack ascended her gang-plank the captain and mate rose to greet him. there was not on the entire river, where so many extraordinary characters have been evolved, a more remarkable pair. the captain was five feet four inches in height, round, ruddy, mellow and jocund. a complete absence or suppression of moral sense, together with health as perfect as an animal's, had rendered him insensible to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. he had never shed a tear save in excessive laughter, and sorrow had never yet struck a dart through the armor of fat in which he was sheathed. the mate was his counterpart and foil. six feet and three inches tall, he was long-legged, lantern-jawed and goggle-eyed. bilious in his constitution, he was melancholic in his temperament, had been crossed in love and soured at twenty, betrayed and bankrupted at thirty, and at forty had turned his back upon the world, forswearing all its amusements but those of the table, which his poor digestion made more painful than pleasurable, all of its ambitions but those of getting money and all friendships but those of the captain, to whom he was attached like a limpet to a rock. such were the leading characteristics of the two worthies who rose from their deck-stools to meet the doctor as he rolled up the gangway. "howdy, doctor?" said the mate, in the peculiar drawling vernacular of the poor whites of the south, extending a hand as cold and hard as an anchor. "welcome, prince of quacks! for a man who has made so many others walk the plank with poison drugs, you do it but poorly yourself," cried the captain, merrily. "you will d-d-draw your last breath with a joke, as a d-d-drunkard sips his last drop with a sigh," responded the doctor. "the captain was born with the corners of his mouth turned up like a dead man's toes," drawled the lugubrious mate. "where is the judge?" asked the doctor, hitting the captain a hearty slap on the back. "he will be here a little later," the host replied. the three boon companions seated themselves by the gunwale of the vessel, basking in the mellow light of the moon and quaffing the liquor which a negro brought them. while they were drinking and recalling the many revels which they had held together, an hour passed by, and at its close a form was seen coming leisurely down the sloping bank of the river. it was the justice of the peace, come to make merry with the husband of the woman he had just betrayed. upon that cynical countenance a close observer might have noted even in the pale light of the moon an expression of sardonic pleasure when he returned the hearty greetings with which his coming was hailed. "i am sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "we have all the b-b-better appetite," responded the doctor. "if, as the old saw says, the time to eat is when the stomach rings the bell, i am ready!" the captain piped, in his high-pitched voice. "diogenes being asked what time a man ought to eat, responded, 'the rich, when he is hungry, and the poor, when he has food,'" said the judge, whose mind threw up old scraps of classical knowledge as the ocean throws up shells. "as for hunger, my appetite is sharper than a scythe; but my indigestion is duller than a whetstone," said the mate, to whom a feast was always prophetic of subsequent fasting. "good digestion waits on appetite; but waits too long, eh?" the judge replied. the captain led the way to the cabin. it was a low, dingy room, but ruddy with the light of a dozen tallow candles. on the table was spread a feast that would have tempted the palates of the epicures who gathered about the festive board of the immortal lucullus. there was neither art nor display in the accompaniments of the food, but every luxury that an ample market could supply had been prepared by a cook who could have won immortality in a paris restaurant, and the finest whisky that could be distilled in old kentucky, the rarest wines that could be imported from the rhine or from sunny italian slopes, were ready to flow. four slaves received the banqueters and then took their places behind the chairs at the table. the captain's face was shining like a full moon; the doctor's was swarthy, sinister and piratical; the judge's possessed the dignity of a splendid ruin; the mate's was haunted by an expression of unsatisfied and insatiable desire. observing it and calling the attention of the others, the justice remarked, "like the old romans, we have a skeleton at our table to remind us of death." "you would look like death yourself if you had to sit staring at these bounties like a muzzled dog in a market," snarled the mate. "be like the dyspeptic who was about to be hanged," said the doctor. "the sheriff asked him to make his last request. 'i will have a dozen hot waffles well b-b-buttered; and let there be a _full_ dozen, for i shall not suffer from the cramps t-t-this time,' says he." the first few courses of the feast were eaten in almost uninterrupted silence; but as the keen edge of their appetites became a little dulled, the tongues of the banqueters were unloosed and a torrent of talk began to flow, interlarded with oaths and stories of a more than questionable character. corks popped from bottles with loud explosions, the darkies greeted the sallies of wit with boisterous laughter and surreptitiously emptied the glasses. the fun grew fast and furious, the thoughts of the revelers flowing in the usual channels of such feasts. at a certain pitch of this wild frenzy, a desire for music invariably recurs and so at a signal from the captain the slaves who performed the functions of deck-hands, waiters or musicians as the exigencies of the occasion demanded, brought in their musical instruments and the rafters were soon ringing with their simple melodies to the accompaniment of banjos and guitars. the deep rich voices blended harmoniously with the tingle of the stringed instruments and the clicking of the bones. plantation songs were followed by revival hymns, and these by coarse and licentious ditties. at a second stage of every orgie, desire for the dance is kindled by music, and so, at the command of their master, two of the slaves began to execute a "double shuffle." the clatter and the beating of negro feet to the accompaniment of the banjo and the bones, and the shouting of the spectators gave vent to the boisterous emotions of the revelers. even the melancholy mate caught the enthusiasm, and for a time at least forgot his misery. of them all, the judge alone preserved his gravity. he sat looking unmoved at these wild antics, and murmured to himself: "if music be the food of love, play on. give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die. that strain again! it had a dying fall. o, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets stealing and giving odor." nothing could be more horrible than the sight of this gifted man herding with these beasts. it was like a lion devouring carrion with wolves. aside from the pleasure of the palate, his enjoyment of the scene was derived from the cynical contempt with which he regarded it. having descended to the lowest depths of human degradation, he had arrived at a point where he drew his keenest relish from the inconsistencies, the absurdities and the sufferings of his fellow-men. in order that he might behold a scene in which all the elements of the horribly grotesque were combined, he determined to provoke the egotism and complacency of the quack to the very highest activity at this moment when his fortunes and his hopes were being undermined. after the excitement of the dance had abated, the concluding phase of all such orgies came in its inevitable sequence, and they began to drink great bumpers to each other's health. after all had been pledged, the judge proposed a toast to the "gypsy bride." the tongue of the quack was loosened in an instant and he poured forth an extravagant eulogy of her beauty and her devotion. "if she were mine, i should be on the ragged edge with jealousy every hour of the day and night," said the judge, as they set their glasses down. "y-y-you'd have reason to! b-b-but i'm a horse of a different c-c-color, old boy! w-w-women have p-p-preferences," the doctor replied, pulling out the ends of his mustache and winking at the captain and his mate, who stupidly nodded their appreciation of the hit. "when honeysuckles close their petals to hummingbirds, venus will shut the door on adonis," responded the judge, draining his glass and smiling into its depths. the quack was too far gone in his cups to comprehend or even to be curious as to the significance of this sneer and went on sounding his own virtues and pepeeta's beauty while the judge provoked him to the fullest exhibition of his colossal vanity. he took a sinister delight in drawing him out. it was the pleasure of a cat playing with the mouse, which it is about to devour, or of savages mocking the man who is about to run the gauntlet. he exulted in the contrast of this proud man's present confidence, and the humiliation which awaited him within the next few hours. the quack was an easy victim. his career of prosperity had met with but a single serious interruption and he had so entirely forgotten his dangerous sickness in his perfect health that he was seldom troubled by foreboding as to the future. never had he possessed more confidence of life than at the very moment when all his hopes, all his confidence, all his faith, were about to be shattered. our misfortunes draw a train of shadows behind them; but they often project a glowing light before them. sickness is often preceded by the most bounding health, failure by unexampled success, misery by irrepressible emotions of exultation. too bright a sunshine as well as too dark a shadow is often the herald of a storm upon the sea of life. but ebullitions of happiness and confidence did not excite the apprehension of the quack. each bumper of wine was followed by a new outburst of vanity. the captain and the mate had already succumbed to the potent influence of the liquors which they had been drinking, and amidst his maudlin speeches the quack's tongue was becoming hopelessly tangled. the judge was as sober as at the beginning of the feast and with a smile upon his lips in which cynicism was incarnate, waited until the doctor had just begun to snore and then aroused him by another question. "who is this paragon of virtue to whom you so confidently trust the chastity of your wife?" "this w-w-what?" "this paragon of virtue--this ice-cold adonis?" "say whatcher mean." "who is this pure young man with whom the beautiful pepeeta is so safe? what is it you call him, david crocker?" "'tain't his real name." "what is his real name?" "d'n i ever t-t-tell you?" "no." "real name's c-c-corson--david corson." "what?" cried the judge, springing to his feet. "c-c-corson--i tell you," stuttered the quack, too drunk to notice the peculiar effect of his announcement. "what do you know about him?" the judge asked with ill-suppressed excitement. "keep still--wan' go sleep." "wake up and tell me what you know about him, i say." "he' squaker." "a quaker?" "yes, squaker." "great heavens!" speaking under his breath and trembling visibly. "what else do you know?" "illegitimate child." "what?" passing around the table, seizing him by the collar and shaking him. "say that again." "'s true--s' help me! what you c-c-care?" "how do you know he is an illegitimate child--i say?" "i know--that's nuf! sh'tup and lemme g-g-go sleep." "tell me, curse you!" shaking him until his teeth rattled. he was too far gone to answer and fell under the table. the judge kicked him, and with a muttered curse took up a glass of whisky, and tossing it down his throat, hurriedly left the cabin, and began to pace the deck in violent agitation. this man who had so ruthlessly set a pitfall for his neighbor had suddenly tumbled into one which retributive justice had dug deep for himself! "it must be true," he was saying. "it accounts for the strange feeling i had toward him when he asked me to help him do that infernal deed. i could not understand it then, but it is plain enough now. he is my son! and i have not only transmitted a tainted life to him, but helped to damn him in its possession! god! what irony! of course the quack never knew that i, too, am living under a false name! i wonder if it is too late to stop him? yes--it's done, and he is miles away! it's almost daybreak now! whewwwh! it's horrible!" he dashed his clenched fist on the railing of the vessel. while he stood there, his mind ran back into the past. he lived over again those passionate days when he had won and betrayed a young, beautiful, impressionable girl. his heart beat with a swifter stroke as he remembered the excitement of their hurried flight from her parents, and the wild joy of their adventurous lives, and then sank again to its steady, hopeless throb as he recalled her penitence and misery after the birth of the boy, his consenting to marry her, the ceremony, the respite from self-reproach, the few happy months, the relapse into old bad habits, the sobered mother becoming a devout and faithful member of a quaker church, his disgust at this, his quarrels with her and finally his desertion of her. and then the whole subsequent series of adventures and disasters passed before him--a moving panorama of dishonor and crime! he paced the deck again; then he paused and leaned over the gunwale, listening to the water lapping the sides of the vessel. nothing could have been more astonishing to him than the sudden activity of his conscience. it had been so long since he had experienced remorse that he believed himself incapable of it. but suddenly a fierce and unendurable pang seized him. to a man who had been long accustomed to feeling nothing in the contemplation of his deeds, but a dull consciousness of unworthiness, this sharp and terrible attack of shame and guilt was startling indeed. he could not understand it. the pain seemed disproportionate to the sin; but he could not resist the repugnance and horror with which it filled him! and this is an element in the moral life with which bad men forget to deal! because conscience ceases to remonstrate and remorse to torment, they think the exemption permanent. they do not know that at any moment, in some unforeseen emergency--this abused faculty of the soul may spring into renewed life. this elemental power, this primal endowment, can no more be permanently dissociated from the soul than heat from fire! it may smoulder unobserved, but a breath will fan it into flame! without it, the soul would cease to be a soul; its permanent eradication would be equivalent to annihilation! if conscience can be eliminated, man has nothing to brag of over a tadpole! we are no more safe from it than from memory! who can be sure that what he has forgotten has ceased to survive? the sweet perfume of a violet may revive a bitter memory dormant for fifty years! at a word, a look, a glance, conscience--abused, suppressed, despised, inoperative--may rise in all her majesty and fill the heart with torment and despair! this corrupted judge, this faithless lover, this dishonorable parent, had become accustomed to dull misery; but this fierce onslaught of an avenging sense of personal unworthiness and dread of divine justice was more than he could bear. life had long since lost its charms and he had more than once seriously contemplated suicide. "there seems to be no use in trying to beat nature in any other way, and so i will try the dernier resort," he said aloud. opening his pocket knife, he cut a piece of rope from the flagstaff, looked around, found a heavy bar of iron, and fastened rope and weight together. in one end of the rope he made a noose, slipped it over his neck, approached the railing and leaned upon it to reflect. his mind now went back into the still more remote past; he was a boy again, and at his mother's knee. half audibly and half unconsciously, he began murmuring, "now i lay me down to sleep, i pray--no--i'll be consistent," he added, with a sigh. "i have lived without the mummery of prayer, and i will die without it." and then by one of those strange freaks of the mind that make people do the most absurd things at the most sacred times--mourners laugh at funerals, and soldiers in the thick of battles long for puddings--he began to say over that old doggerel which he used to repeat when shivering on the spring-board over the cold waters of the hudson river: "one, two, three, the bumble bee, the rooster crows and away she goes!" the absurdity of so trivial a memory at such a serious moment excited his sense of humor, and he smiled. by this time the violence of his remorse had begun to subside and proved to be only a fitful, fleeting protest of that abused and neglected moral sense. something more terrible than even this discovery of the wrong done to his own son would have to come. there was plenty of time! nature was in no haste! this was only a warning, a little danger signal. by a short, swift revulsion, his feelings changed from horror to indifference. "after all, why should i care?" he said. "the boy is nothing to me, and at any rate he would have gained his end in some other way. let him have his fling; i have had mine. if he didn't break that old impostor's heart, he would probably break a better one! and as for the gypsy--it's only a question of who and when. what a fool i have made of myself! who would believe that such a trifle could give me such a shock? there is something to live for yet. i must see what sort of a face the quack makes when he takes his medicine to-morrow." he threw the iron weight into the water, entered the cabin, took another drink, smiled contemptuously at the drunken wretches under the table, crossed the deck, descended the gang-plank and climbed the steep path to the city. against his inheritance from such a nature as this, the young mystic had to make his life struggle. chapter xvii. the shadow of death "there are moral as well as physical assassinations."--voltaire. when he awoke the next morning, the poor bedeviled doctor crawled back to the hotel as best he could, his head throbbing with pain, his wits dull and his temper wild. stumbling up the long flight of stairs which seemed to him to reach the sky, he burst open his door and entered the room. it was empty. the bed had not been occupied. pepeeta was nowhere to be seen. it took him some moments to comprehend that he did not comprehend. then he called, "pepeeta! pepeeta!" the silence at first bewildered, then aroused hims and crossing the corridor he entered david's room. it, too, was empty. he was now thoroughly astonished and awake. recrossing the hall he once more entered his room and began in earnest to seek an explanation of this mystery. it did not take him long, for on the table were lying the jewels in which he had invested his profits and which he had confided to pepeeta--and beside them a piece of paper on which he slowly spelled out these startling words: "i have discovered your treachery and fled." "pepeeta." he drew his hand across his eyes, took a piece of his cheek between his thumb and first finger and pinched it to see if he were awake, then read the words again, this time aloud: "i have discovered your treachery and fled. pepeeta." "treachery?" he said. "what t-t-treachery? whose t-t-treachery? fled? fled with whom, fled where? i wonder if i am still d-d-drunk?" laying the paper down, he went to the wash-stand, filled the bowl with water, plunged his head into it and expected to find that he had been suffering some sort of hallucination. but when he returned to the table and again took up the missive, the same words stared him in the face. at last, and almost with the rapidity of a stroke of lightning, the whole mystery solved itself. it flashed upon his mind that pepeeta had abandoned him, and in company with the man he had so implicitly trusted. the serpent he had nourished in his bosom had at last stung him! tearing the paper into shreds, and stamping upon the floor, he cursed and raved. "i see it all," he cried. "fool, ass, bat, mole! curse me! yes, curse me! but curse them also! oh! g-g-god, help me to avenge this wrong!" as soon as a god is necessary to the atheist he invents one, and in a single instant this hopeless skeptic had become a firm believer in the deity. it seemed for a few moments as if his passions would destroy him by their internal violence; but their first ebullition was soon expended and he began to grow calm. the electric fires of his anger were no longer permitted to play at random, but were gathered up into a thunderbolt to be hurled at his foe; this half-crazed man suddenly became as cool and calculating as he was desperate and determined. a purpose shaped itself instantly in his mind, and he began its execution without delay. he made no confidant, took no advice; but having smoothed his ruffled clothing and combed his disheveled hair so as to excite no comment and provoke no question, he passed through the hotel corridor and office, greeting his acquaintances with his accustomed ease, and made his way to the livery stable. he went at once to the stalls where his famous team was accustomed to stand, and to his astonishment and delight found his horses both there. "tom," he said to the hostler, "did you hire a horse and b-b-buggy to a young couple last night?" "i did not," answered the surly groom. "tell me the truth," said the doctor in a voice that made every word sound like the crack of a rifle. "what do you take me for?" asked the stableman, trying to appear indignant and innocent. "you're a l-l-liar, and i am in no mood for trifling. out with it, you scoundrel!" he cried, seizing him by the throat. with a sign of terror the groom indicated his readiness to come to terms, and the doctor relaxed his grip. still trembling, he told the truth. "do you know which road they took?" he waved his hand toward kentucky. "put a saddle on hamlet--no, on romeo," he ordered, tersely. the groom entered a box stall and led out the black beauty. the doctor glanced him over and smiled. and well he might, for every muscle, every motion betokened speed, intelligence, endurance. the pursuer made a single stop on his way to the river and that was at a gun store, from which he emerged carrying a pair of saddle bags on his arm. in the holsters were two loaded pistols. he smiled as he mounted, having already consummated vengeance in his heart. once across the river and safe upon the louisville pike, he loosened the reins. the horse, whose sympathetic heart had already been imbued with the spirit of his rider, shook his long black mane, plunged forward and pounded along the hard turnpike. his hoof-beats--sharp, sonorous, rhythmical--seemed to be crying for vengeance; for hoof-beats have a language, and always utter the thoughts of a rider. now that he was well on his way the outraged husband had time to reflect, and the past few months rose vividly before him. he saw his own folly and did not spare himself in his condemnation; but this folly did not for an instant modify the guilt of the two fugitives. every moment his injuries seemed more colossal, more unpardonable, more unendurable. he had been wounded in his affections and also in his vanity, which was far more dreadful, and an agonizing thirst for vengeance overpowered him. the great veins began to swell in his neck. he would have choked, had he not violently torn off his collar and cravat and flung them into the dust. his thirst for blood outstripped his fleet horse, who seemed to him, in his impetuous haste, to be creeping like a snail. he drove his spurs deep into the sides of the frightened animal, which almost leaped through his girth. a less expert horseman would have been unseated; but an earthquake could not have thrown this centaur out of his saddle. the forests, hills and houses flowed past him like a river. occasionally he halted an instant to inquire of some lonely traveler if he had seen a horse and buggy passing that way, but he was cunning enough to conceal his anxiety and to hide his joy as every answer made him more certain that he was on the trail of the fugitives. the road was perfectly familiar. he had traversed it a hundred times, and not having to inquire the way he had only to remember and to reflect. an undercurrent of speculation had been flowing through his mind as to where he should overtake the fugitives. "they will have arrived almost at the edge of the great forest and i will let them enter," he said to himself. having reached the foot of a long hill, he dismounted, led his horse to a little brook and permitted him to drink. when the noble animal had quenched his thirst, the quack patted his neck, picked him a little wisp of grass and talked to him as if he were a man. "we will rest ourselves a little now, for we shall need all our strength and nerve. one more b-b-burst of speed and we shall overhaul them. have you got your wind, romeo? come then, let us be off!" once more he sprang into the saddle, the restive horse pawing the ground and leaping forward before he was seated. his master held him back while they ascended the long slope of the hill, and stopped him as they gained its summit. the descent was a gradual one, down into a beautiful valley. for a mile or two the road was perfectly straight and the rider, shading his eyes, glanced along it. in the distance a moving object attracted his attention, and as he gazed at it, long and strainingly, the terrible smile once more wreathed his white lips. he opened the holsters, drew out the pistols, examined them carefully, replaced them, felt of the stirrup straps, tightened the girth, settled himself in the saddle and shouted "go!" the command electrified the horse, and he dashed forward again faster than ever. as they tore down the slope of the hill, it occurred to the doctor that he had not formed any definite plan as to what he should do to pepeeta! "shall i kill her, also?" he asked himself. the thought sent a shudder through him and he instinctively pulled on the bridle. "my heart will tell me," he cried aloud, and loosened the reins of his horse and of his passions. the very semblance of humanity seemed to be suddenly obliterated from his countenance. this was no longer a man, but an agent of destruction rushing like a missile projected from a cannon. there were only two things present to his consciousness--the carriage upon which he was swiftly gaining, and the fierce smiting of the horse's hoofs which seemed to be echoing the cries of his heart for vengeance. on he swept, nearer, nearer, nearer. he was now within hailing distance, and his brain reeled; he forgot his discretion and his plan. "halt," he screamed, in a voice that cut the silent air like a knife. a face appeared above the top of the buggy, and looked back. it was his foe. with a howl of rage, he snatched a pistol from the holster and fired. the bullet went wide of the mark and the next instant he saw the whip-lash cut the air and descend on the flank of the startled mare. the buggy lurched forward, and for an instant drew rapidly away. overwhelmed by the fear that he might be baffled in his vengeance, he drew the other pistol and fired again more wide of the mark than before. with a wild oath he flung the smoking weapons into the road, and again drove the spurs into the steaming sides of his horse. there could be no doubt as to the result of the chase after that. the half-maddened animal was overhauling the fugitives perceptibly at every enormous stride, and in a few moments more shot by the buggy and up to the head of the terrified mare. as he did so, his rider reached out his left hand and caught the mare by her bridle, reined up his own horse and threw both of the animals back upon their haunches. in another instant the two men stood confronting each other on the road, the quack black and terrible, the quaker white and calm. not a word was spoken, and like two wild beasts emerging from a jungle they sprang at each other's throats. they were oddly, but not unequally, matched, for while the doctor was short, thick-set and muscular, but clumsy and awkward like a bear, david was tall and slim, but lithe and sinewy as a panther. locked in each other's arms, they seemed like a single hideous monster in some sort of convulsion. as it was impossible for them in this deadly embrace to strike, they wrestled rather than fought, and bit with teeth and tore with hands with equal ferocity. at the instant when the two infuriated men seized each other in this deadly grip, pepeeta fainted, while the terrified mare backed the buggy into the bushes by the roadside. romeo, snorting and pawing the ground, approached the combatants, snuffed at them a moment as if profoundly concerned at their strange maneuvers, then, turning away, began to crop the rich blue grass in entire indifference to the results of this mad quarrel between two foolish men. the combatants surged and swayed back and forth along the dusty road, tripping and stumbling in vain efforts to throw each other to the ground. their danger lent them strength, and their hatred skill. at last, after protracted efforts, they fell and rolled over and over, now one on top, now the other. suddenly and as if by a single impulse changing their tactics, their right hands unclasped and began to feel each for the other's throat. a sudden slip of david's hold permitted the doctor to turn him over, and sprawling across his breast he pinioned him to the earth. his great hand stole toward the throat of his prostrate foe and fastened upon it with the grip of an iron vise. the beautiful face turned pale, then grew purple. this would have been the last moment in the life of the quaker had not his right hand, convulsively clawing the road, touched a piece of broken rock. it was as if a life-line had swung up against the hand of a drowning man. through the body which had seemed to be emptied of all its resources, a tide of reserve energy swelled, under the impulse of which the exhausted youth untwisted the grip of the iron hand, flung off the heavy body, mounted upon it, crowded the great head with its matted hair and staring eyes down into the dust, seized the stone with his right hand, raised it, and struck. the effect of the blow was twofold--paralyzing the brain of the smitten and the arm of the smiter. across the low forehead of the quack it left a great gaping wound like a bloody mouth. a death-like pallor spread itself over his countenance, the lids dropped back and left the eyes staring hideously up into the face above them. david's arm, spasmodically uplifted for a second blow, was suspended in air. he did not move for a long time; and when at length his scattered senses began to return he threw down the stone, rose to his feet and exclaimed in accents of terror, "my god! i have killed him." he could not overcome the fascination of the lifeless face and wide-staring eyes. they drew him towards them; he stooped down and felt for the pulse, which was imperceptible; laid his hand upon the heart, but could not feel it beat; he raised an arm, and it fell back limp and lifeless. suddenly one elemental passion gave place to another. horror had displaced anger, and now in its turn gave way to the instinct of self-preservation. he looked toward the carriage and saw that pepeeta had fallen into a swoon. "perhaps she has not seen what has happened," he said to himself, and a cunning smile lit up his pale face. stooping down, he seized the loathsome object lying there in the dust of the road and dragged it off into the thick shrubbery. stumbling along, he came to a hollow made by the roots of an upturned tree. into this he flung the thing, hastily; covered it with moss and leaves, and stood staring stupidly at the rude sepulchre. he experienced a momentary feeling of relief that the hideous object was out of sight; but the consciousness of his guilt and his danger soon surged back upon him like a flood. in such moments the mind works wildly, like a clock with a broken spring, but sometimes with an astonishing accuracy and wisdom. it occurred to him that if he left the body where it was and it should be eventually discovered, it would afford the gravest suspicions of foul play; but that if he dragged it back again to the road and laid it with its face in the dust, against the rock with which the deed was done, it might pass for an accident. once more that hideous smile of cunning lit up the face which in these few moments had undergone a mysterious deterioration. he hastily removed the heap of rubbish, shuddered as he saw the loathsome thing once more exposed to view, but seized it, dragged it back, and placed it with consummate art in the position which his criminal prescience had suggested. as it lay there in the road nothing could have seemed more natural than that it had fallen from the horse; he felt another momentary relief from terror, in which he cunningly conceived a still more sagacious plan, on noticing romeo. they were the best of friends; it was easy to catch him. he did so, removed the saddle, broke the girth and placed it near the prostrate figure of the quack. nothing could have more perfectly resembled an accident. an adept in crime could not have performed this task with finer skill, and he was free now to turn to the rest of the work that he must do to conceal this ghastly deed. approaching the buggy, he found to his immense relief that pepeeta was still unconscious. with swift and silent movements he freed the mare, led her out into the road and drove hurriedly away. the wood through which they were passing was wide and somber. the shadows of the evening had already begun to creep up the tree-trunks and lurk gloomily among the branches. plaintive bird songs were heard from the treetops, and among them those of the mourning dove, whose solemn, funereal note sent shudders through the heart of the trembling fugitive. but all had gone successfully so far, and he actually began to cherish hope that he would escape detection. there still remained, however, the uneasy fear that pepeeta herself had been a witness of the deed. horrible as was his own consciousness of his crime, he dared to hope that he could stand it, if only she did not know! he dreaded to have her waken, and yet it seemed as if he could not endure the suspense until he found whether she had seen the deed or not. without trying to rouse her, he drove rapidly forward, and just as he emerged from the wood came to another brook, so similar to the one by the side of which the struggle had occurred, that he conceived the idea of stopping by its side and awakening pepeeta from her stupor there. "she will not notice the difference," he said to himself; "and if she did not witness the fatal blow i can persuade her that i overpowered the doctor and forced him to return while she was in her swoon." stopping the horse, he lifted her inanimate form from the carriage, bore it to the side of the brook, laid it gently upon the bank and dashed a handful of the cold water into her white face. she gasped, opened her eyes, and, sitting up, looked about her with an expression of terror. "where am i?" she asked. "do you not remember? you are here in the wood where the doctor overtook us," he replied. "and where is he?" "he has returned." "has something dreadful happened?" "nothing." "but i saw you clench with each other, and it was awful! what happened then? i must have fainted. did i?" "yes, you fainted. were you so frightened?" "oh, terribly! i thought that you would kill each other! it was horrible, horrible! but where is he now?" "he has returned." "returned? do you mean that he has gone back without me? how did you persuade him to do that?" "how did i persuade him? ha! ha! i persuaded him with my fists. you should have seen me, pepeeta! are you quite sure that you did not see me? i should like you to know what a coward he was at last, and how he went home like a whipped puppy." "but did he acknowledge that he had deceived me?" "he did indeed, upon his knees." "and do you think he has gone, never to return?" "yes, he has gone, never to return," he answered, shuddering at the double meaning of his words. "he made his confession and relinquished his claim, and i made him swear that he would renounce you forever. and so we have nothing to do but forget him and be happy. are you feeling better now?" "yes, i am better; but i am not well; i cannot shake it off. it seems too dreadful to have been real. and yet how much better it is than if one of you had been killed! oh! i wish i could stop seeing it" (putting her hands over her eyes). "let us go! let us leave this gloomy wood. let us get out into the sunshine. see! it is getting dark. we must not stay here any longer." "yes, let us go," he said, rising, lifting her gently from the ground and leading her back to the buggy in which they took their seats and drove rapidly forward. in a few moments they emerged from the forest. the sun was still a little way above the horizon; its cheerful beams partially restored pepeeta's spirits, and david felt a momentary pleasure as he saw a slight smile upon her pale countenance. "do you feel happier now?" he said. "yes, a little," she answered, looking into his face with eyes suffused with tears. "and i am so thankful that you are safe!" "and so you fainted before we fell?" he asked, compelled to reassure himself. "did you fall?" she said, trembling again and laying her hand upon his arm. "there, there," he answered gently; "i ought not to have asked you. we must never allude to it again. we must forget it. will you try?" "yes, i will try, but it is hard. it belongs to the past, and we must live in the present and in the future. i will try. i love you so, and i am so thankful that you are safe." as she said this, she took his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her breast. this tender caress produced a revulsion in his heart and he shuddered. pepeeta observed it. "what makes you tremble so?" she asked. "nothing," he answered, regaining his self-control. "it is only that i have been very angry, and i cannot recover from it at once." "no wonder," she said, taking his hand again and kissing it. in the distance they saw the steeple of a church. "look," said david, "there must be a village near. we will top and rest here to-night, and in the morning we will push on toward new orleans and forget the past." they rode in silence. pepeeta's thoughts were full of gladness; and david's full of agony--they rushed tumultuously back and forth through his mind like contrary winds through a forest. "was it not enough that i should be an adam, and fall? must i also become a cain and go forth with the brand of a murderer on my forehead?" he kept saying to himself. his life seemed destined to reproduce that whole series of archetypal experiences, whose records make the hebrew scriptures the inspired mirror of human life. chapter xviii. a fugitive and a vagabond "that is the bitterest of all,--to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing!"--daniel deronda. the morning after the fight david and pepeeta hurried on to louisville, and from there took a steamer to new orleans. however hard it is to find stepping-stones when one wishes to rise, those by which he can descend have been skilfully planted at every stage of life's journey, and satanic ingenuity could not have devised an instrument better fitted to complete the destruction of the young mystic's moral nature than a mississippi steamboat, such as he found lying at the wharf. he had been subjected to the fascination of love, now he was to be tried by that of money. it is by a series of such consecutive assaults upon every avenue of approach to the soul that it is at last reduced to ruin. pepeeta was radiant with joy as they embarked. "how happy i am!" she cried. "it seems as if i had left my old life and the old world behind me!" "and i am happy to see you glad," answered the wretched youth, whose heart lay in his bosom like lead and whose conscience was writhing with a torture of whose like he had never even dreamed. they embarked unknown and unobserved; but as soon as the first confusion had passed, their singular beauty and unusual appearance made them the cynosure of every eye. "who is that splendid fellow?" women asked each other, as david passed with pepeeta on his arm, while under their breaths men swore that his companion was the loveliest woman who had ever set foot on a mississippi steamer. the pilot forgot to turn his wheel and the stevedores to put out the gang plank when she stood looking at them. love, and her freedom, had transfigured her. she was radiant with health, happiness and hope, and entered into the novelty and excitement of this floating world with the ardor of a child. all was gaiety and animation oh board the vessel. people from countries widely separated mingled with each other and chatted with the greatest freedom on every subject of human interest. acquaintances were made without the formality of an introduction, and it was not long before the two adventurers were drawn into conversation. "i have traveled all over the world," said a gentleman of foreign air, "but i have never seen anything so picturesque as this boat. look at the variegated colors and styles of these costumes, at the manifold types of countenance, at the blending of races--black and white and red! listen to the discordant but altogether charming sounds, the ringing of the great bell, the roar of the whistle, the splash of the paddlewheels, the songs of the negroes, and the clatter of dishes in the cabins! it is a hurly-burly of noise! then what varied scenery, what constant excitement at the landing, what a hodge-podge, a pot-pourri of merchandise! there is nothing like it in the world." "wait until you see a race with another steamer," said an officious yankee, who rejoiced in a knowledge which frequent trips had given him. "are they exciting?" asked the foreigner. "well i should say! i have seen horse races and prize fights in my day, but i never ran against anything that shook up my nerves like a race between two of these river boats! every pound of steam is crowded on, the engines groan like imprisoned devils, a darkey sits on the safety valve, the stokers jam the furnaces, the passengers crowd the gunwales, everybody yells at the top of his voice until pandemonium is mere silence compared to it! and then the betting! lord, you never saw betting if you never saw a river race." "they bet, do they?" "bet? they don't do anything else! just got on at louisville? oh! well, you'll see sights in the cabin to-night that will open your eyes. isn't that so?" he asked, turning to a southern planter who had been edging his way toward pepeeta. "reckon the gentleman'll see a little gambling, sah, if that's what you refeh to. i've heard those that ought to know say that a mississippi river boat is the toughest spot on top of earth for little games of pokah and that soht of thing, sah. 'spect the gentleman can be accommodated if he likes a lively game of chance." "i don't expect to be surprised in that line," the foreigner said, with the air of one who knew a thing or two; "for i have been in monte carlo, carlsbad and every famous gambling place in europe." "well, sah, i don't know; i have never been in those places myself, but i have heard those who have say that what they play there is mere 'penny ante' to what goes on in one of these yere mississippi boats. like a little game now and then myself, sah. glad to have you join me." while these men and others pretended to address their remarks to david or to each other, their free glances were more and more directed to pepeeta who began to be embarrassed by them and gently drew david away to more retired places. he went with her reluctantly, for he was in need of excitement. the thought of his crime was constantly agitating his heart, the prostrate form of the doctor with the bloody wound on his forehead was never absent from his mind, and through all the ceaseless rumble around him he could hear the dull thud of the stone upon the hard skull. the efforts which he made to throw off these horrible weights that crushed him were like those of a man awakening from a nightmare. he scarcely dared to speak for fear of uttering words which would betray him and which seemed to tremble on his lips. had he been on shore he would have fled to the solitude of a forest; but here he was resistlessly impelled to that other solitude--a crowd. the necessity of being gay with his beautiful bride and of concealing every trace of his terror and remorse taxed his resources to their utmost limit, and in his nervousness he kept pepeeta moving with him all day long. at its close she was completely exhausted, and retired early to her stateroom. freed from her company and craving relief from thought, david made his way straight to the gambling tables where the nightly games were in full swing. the claim of the southerner that the excitement at those tables, when the river traffic was at its height, had never been surpassed in the history of games of chance, was no exaggeration. not a semblance of restraint was put upon the players, and experts from all over the world gathered to pluck the exhaustless supply of victims, as buzzards assemble to feed on carrion. fortunes were made and lost in a night. men sat down to play worth thousands of dollars, and rose paupers! they staked and lost their money, their slaves, their business and their homes. in the wild frenzy which such misfortunes kindle the most shocking crimes were committed, but the criminals were never called to account, for the law was powerless. what the fugitive sought was diversion, and he found it! tragedies became commonplace in those cabins. men crowded into single hours the experience and excitement of months. it was this very night that an encounter occurred which is still a tradition on the river. an old planter approached a table where his son, who did not know of his father's presence on the boat, was playing. he stood in the background and watched a gambler strip the boy of his last penny, and when the young fellow rose from his chair, white as a sheet, he turned to look into the whiter face of his father. the enraged parent did not speak a word, but took the seat left vacant by the boy and commenced playing. rage at the financial loss, mortification at the boy's defeat, and old scores to be settled with this very gambler, conspired to rouse him to a frenzy. his terrible earnestness paralyzed the dealer, who seemed to form some premonition of a tragic termination and lost his nerve. in a little while, in the presence of a crowd of excited spectators, the father won back the exact amount his son had lost, and then rising from his chair sprang at the gambler, seized him, dragged him from the cabin and flung him into the river. terrible as was the furor which this tragedy aroused, it subsided almost as soon as the ripples of the water which closed over the drowning man, and the players returned to their games as if nothing had happened. in the months which they had spent together the quack had indoctrinated david into all the best-known secrets of this vice, and besides this, had familiarized him with the use of a certain "hold out" of his own invention, with which he had achieved incredible results and which was new to the fraternity of the river. having watched the players for a long time, david convinced himself that he could employ this trick successfully, and took his place at the table. the young man's nerves were tested by the circumstances in which he found himself, if nerves are tested to tension anywhere, for he faced the most experienced masters of the craft who could be found anywhere in the world, and staked not only his little fortune, but his existence, for, as he had just seen, these determined and reckless men thought no more of taking life than of taking money. david felt his way along with a coolness that astonished himself, and his very first experiment with the delicate apparatus concealed in his sleeve was such a brilliant triumph that he saw it was undetected. with a strengthened confidence, he made the stakes larger and larger, and his winnings increased so rapidly as to make him the center of attention. the crowd swarmed round the table. the spectators became breathless. the gamblers were first astonished, then bewildered. as their nerve failed them, david's assurance increased, and when day broke ten thousand dollars lay upon the table before him as the result of his skilful and desperate efforts. their loss astonished and enraged the gamblers to such a degree that with a preconcerted signal they sprang at their opponent, determined to regain their money by violence. the move was not unexpected, nor was he unprepared. he fought as he had played, and so won the sympathies of the bystanders that in an instant there was a general melée in which he was helped to escape with the winnings. he was the hero of the trip, and a career had opened before him. satellites began to circle around him and to solicit his friendship and patronage. when he disembarked at new orleans he had already entered into a partnership with one of the most notable members of the gambling fraternity, and purchased an interest in one of those "palaces" where games of chance attracted and destroyed their thousands. the newspapers made the gay throngs of that gayest of all cities familiar with the incidents of david's advent. he and pepeeta became the talk of the town. they rented a fashionable house, and swung out into the current of the mad life of the metropolis of the south. for a little while this excitement and glory softened the pain in the heart of the man who believed himself to be a murderer and encouraged him to hope that it might eventually pass away. he played recklessly but successfully, for he was a transient favorite of the fickle goddess. when gambling lost its power to drown the voice of conscience, there was the race, the play and the wine cup! to each of them appealing in turn, he went whirling madly around the outer circles of the great maelstrom in which so many brilliant youths were swallowed in those ante-bellum days. chapter xix. alienation "there can never be deep peace between two spirits, never mutual respect, until, in their dialogue, each stands for the whole world."--emerson. for two years david and pepeeta lived together in new orleans. they were years full of import, and of trouble. a baby came to them, lingered a few weeks, and then died. david pursued the occupation he had chosen, with the vicissitudes of fortune usually attending the votaries of games of chance, and the moral and spiritual deterioration which they invariably develop. pepeeta altered strangely. her bloom disappeared and an expression of sadness became habitual on her face. she was surrounded by luxuries of every kind, but they did not give her peace. with an ambition which never flagged she sought self improvement, and attained it to a remarkable degree. endowed with an inherited aptitude for culture, she read and studied books, observed and imitated elegant manners, and rapidly absorbed the best elements of such higher life as she had access to, until her natural beauty and charm were wonderfully enhanced. yet she was not happy, for her life with david had brought her nothing but surprise and disappointment; something had come between them, she knew not what. "dey des growed apaht," said the old negro "mammy," who was with them during those two years. "seemed to des tech each other like mahbles at a single point, stade of meltin' togedder lak two drops of watah runnin' down a window pane. mars' david, he done went he own way, drinkin', gamblin' and cussin'; he lak a madman when he baby die. he seem skeered when he see miss pepeeta. she look at him wid her big black eyes full of wonder and s'prise, stretch out her li'l han's, and when he run away or struck her, she des go out to the li'l baby's grave, creeping along lak a shadder through the gyahden, soft lak and still. dar she des set down all alone and sigh lak de breeze in de ole pine tree. some days she gone away all alone and de brack folks say she wanner all aroun' in de woods. when sunday come, she des slip into de churches lak a li'l mouse and nibble up de gospel crumbs and den run away before de priests cotch her. dark days dose, in de ole ballantrae mansion! and den come de night when dey pahted. you done heah about dat?" the old colored mammy was right. "they just grew apart," as it was inevitable that they should. perfect self-manifestation is the true principle and law of love, and when a guilty secret comes between two lovers, suspicion and fear inevitably result. they become incomprehensible to each other. david's secret preyed upon him night and day like that insect which, having once entered the brain of an elk, gnaws ceaselessly at it until the miserable victim's last breath is drawn. while he retained for pepeeta a devotion which tormented him with its intensity, his guilt made him tremble in her presence. he shuddered when he approached her, like a worshiper who enters a shrine with a stolen offering. instead of calming and soothing him as she would have done had he only suffered some misfortune instead of committing a sin, she filled him with an unendurable agitation. if the nerves are diseased, a flute can rasp them as terribly as a file. as for pepeeta, she must have been bewildered by this phenomenon which she could not possibly comprehend, for while she saw her lover swayed from his orbit she could not see the planet which produced the disturbance. feeling that he had not given her his full confidence she resented his distrust, and as his melancholy and irritability increased, withdrew more and more into herself, and in that solitude sought the companionship of god. it was a frightful discipline; but she was sanctified by it. day by day she became more patient, gentle and resigned, and in proportion as she grew in these graces, her lover's awe and fear increased, and so they drifted farther and farther apart. such relationships cannot continue forever, and they generally terminate in tragedy. after the first few months' excitement of his new life, david's conscience began to torment him anew. he became melancholy, then moody, and finally fell into the habit of sitting for hours among the crowds which swarmed the gambling rooms, brooding over his secret. from stage to stage in the evolution of his remorse he passed until he at last reached that of superstition, which attacks the soul of the gambler as rust does iron. and so the wretched victim of many vices sat one evening at the close of the second year with his hat drawn down over his eyes, reflecting upon his past. "what's the matter, davy?" asked a player who had lost his stake, and was whistling good-humoredly as he left the room. "nothing," he muttered. "brace up, old man! there is no use taking life so hard! you've got everything, and i've got nothing; and i am happy and you are miserable. brace up, i say!" and with that he slapped him familiarly on the shoulder. "leave me alone," david growled, and reached for a glass mug containing a strong decoction to which he was resorting more and more as his troubles grew intolerable. a strange thing happened! as he put it to his lips its bottom dropped upon the table and the contents streamed into his lap and down to the floor. it was the straw that broke the camel's back, for it had aroused a superstitious terror. with a smothered cry he sprang to his feet and gazed around upon his companions. they, too, had observed the untoward accident, and to them as well as to him it was a symbol of disaster. not one of them doubted that the bottom would fall out of his fortunes as out of his glass, for by such signs as these the gambler reads his destiny. he pulled himself together and made a jest of the accident, but it was impossible for him to dissipate the impression it had made on the minds of his companions or to banish the gloom from his own soul. and so after a few brave but futile efforts to break the spell of apprehension, he slipped quietly away, opened the door and passed out into the night. chapter xx. the inevitable hour "how shall i lose the sin yet keep the sense, and love th' offender, yet detest the offense?" --pope. after wandering aimlessly about the city for awhile the half-crazed gambler turned his footsteps toward home. he longed for and yet dreaded its quiet and repose. the forces of attraction and repulsion were so nearly balanced that for a long time he oscillated before his own door like a piece of iron hung between the opposite poles of a battery. at last he entered, both hoping and fearing that pepeeta would be asleep. he had a vague presentiment that he was on the verge of some great event. the guilty secret so long hidden in the depths of his soul seemed to have festered its way dangerously near to the surface, and he felt that if anything more should happen to irritate him he might do something desperate. so quiet had been his movements that he stood at pepeeta's door before she knew that he had entered the house, and when he saw her kneeling by her bedside he stamped his foot in rage. the worshiper, startled by the interruption, although she was momentarily expecting it, hastily arose. as she turned toward him, he saw that there was a light on her pale countenance which reflected the peace of god to whom she had been praying, as worshipers always and inevitably reflect, however feebly, the character of what they worship. her beauty, her humility, her holiness goaded him to madness. he hated her, and yet he loved her. he could either have killed her or died for her. she smiled him a welcome which revealed her love, but did not conceal her sadness nor her suffering, and, approaching him, extended her hands for an embrace. he pushed her aside and flung himself heavily into a chair. "you are tired," she said soothingly, and stroked his hair. he did not answer, and her caress both tranquilized and frenzied him. she placed before him the little lunch which she always prepared with her own hands and kept in readiness for his return. "take it away," he said. she obeyed, and returning seated herself upon an ottoman at his feet. the silence was one which it seemed impossible to break, but which at last became unendurable. "how often have i told you never to let me find you on your knees when i come home?" he at last asked, brutally. "oh! my beloved," she exclaimed, "you will at least permit me to kneel to you! see! i am here in an attitude of supplication! listen to me! answer me! what is the matter? do you not love me any more? tell me!" he drew away his hands which she had clasped, and folded them across his breast. "what has come between us?" she continued. "tell me why it is that instead of growing together, we are continually drawing apart? sometimes i feel that we are drifting eternally away from each other. i can no longer get near to you. an ocean seems to roll between us! what does it mean? is this the nature of love? does it only last for a little time? do you not love me any more? will you never love me again?" he still gazed sullenly at the floor. "will you not answer me?" she begged imploringly. "i cannot endure it any longer. my heart will break. i am a woman, you must remember that! i need love and sympathy so much. it is my daily bread. what is the matter? i beseech you to tell me! is it your business? do you feel, as i do, that it is wrong? i have sometimes thought so, and that you were worried by it and would be glad to give it up but for the fear that it might deprive me of some of these luxuries. is it that? oh! you do not know me. you do not know how happy i should be to leave these things forever, and to go out into the street this very night a pauper. it is wrong, david. i see it now. i feel it in the depths of my heart." "wrong, is it," he cried savagely, "and whose fault is it that i am in this wrong business?" "it is mine," she said, "mine! i own it. it was i who led you astray. how often and how bitterly have i regretted it! how strange it is, that love like mine could ever have done you harm. i do not understand this. i cannot see how love can do harm. i have loved you so truly and so deeply, and i would give my life for you, and yet this love of mine has been the cause of all your trouble! it would seem that love ought to bless us. would you not think so?" he sat silent; any one but pepeeta could have seen that this silence would soon be broken by an explosion. "speak to me, my love!" she pleaded, "speak to me. i confess that i have wronged you. but is there not something that i can do to make you happy? surely a wrong like this cannot be irreparable. tell me something that i can do to make you happy!" with a violent and convulsive effort, he pushed her away and exclaimed fiercely, "leave me! do not touch me! i hate you!" "hate me?" she cried, "hate me? oh! david. you cannot mean it. you cannot mean that you hate me?" "but i do!" he exclaimed bitterly. "i hate you. you have ruined me, and now you confess it. from the time that i first saw you i have never had a moment's peace. why did you ever cross my path? could you not have left me alone in my happiness and innocence? look at me now. see what you have brought me to. i am ruined! but i am not alone. you have pulled yourself down with me. what will you say when i tell you that you are involved in a crime that must drag us both to hell?" "a crime?" she cried, clasping her hands in terror. "yes, a crime. you need not look so innocent. you are as guilty as i, or at least you are as deeply involved. we are bound together in misery. we are doomed." "doomed! doomed! what do you mean? tell me, i implore you--- do not speak in riddles!" "tell you? do you wish to know? are you in earnest? then i will! you are not my wife! there! it is out at last!" pepeeta sprang to her feet and stood staring at him in horror. "not your wife?" she gasped. "no, not my wife," he said, repeating the bitter truth. "i deceived you. you were married to your beast of a husband lawfully enough; but as you would not leave him willingly, i determined that you should leave him any way. and so i bribed the justice to deceive you." "you-bribed-the-justice-to-deceive-me?" "yes, bribed him. do you understand? you see now what your cursed beauty has brought you to?" she stood before him white and silent. he had risen, and they were confronting each other with their sins and their sorrows between them. it was as if a flash of lightning had in an instant lit up the darkness of her whole existence, and she saw in one swift glance not only her misery, but her sin. he was cruel; but he was right. she had been ignorant; but she had not been altogether innocent. there was a period in this tragedy when she had gone against the vague but powerful protest of her soul. with a swift and true perception she traced her present sorrow to that moment in the twilight when, against that protest, she besought david to accompany them on their travels. she felt, but did not observe nor heed that admonition. she had even forgotten it, but now it rose vividly before her memory. these moments of revision, when the logic of events throws into clear light the vaguely perceived motives of the soul, are always dramatic and often terrible. it was pepeeta who broke the silence following david's outburst. in a voice preternaturally calm, she said, "we are in the presence of god, and i demand of you the truth. is what you have told me true?" "as true as life. as true as death. as true as hell," he answered bitterly. "this, then," she said, "is the clue to all this mystery. the tangled thread has begun to unravel. many times this suspicion has forced itself upon my mind; but it was too terrible to believe! and yet i, who could not endure the suspicion, must now support the reality." they had not taken their eyes from each other and were trying to penetrate each other's minds, but realized that it was impossible. there was in each something that the other could not comprehend. the strain on his overwrought nerves soon became unendurable to david, and he sank into a chair. "well," he said, as he did so, "what are you going to do about it?" she had not at first realized that the emergency called for action, but this inquiry awakened her to the consciousness that she was in a situation from which she must escape by an effort of her will. she was before a horrible dilemma and upon one horn or the other she must be cruelly impaled. but david, who asked the question, had not realized this necessity at all. "do?" she said, "do? must i do something? yes, you are right. we cannot go on as we are. something must be done. but what? is it possible that i must return to my husband? how can i do that--i who cannot think of him without loathing! what is the matter? why do you tremble so? is it then as terrible to you as to me? i see from your emotion that i am right. and yet i cannot see what good it will do! how can it undo the wrong? it will be a certain sort of reparation, but it cannot bring him happiness, for i cannot give him back my heart. to whom will it bring happiness? has happiness become impossible? are we all three doomed to eternal misery? oh! david, why have you done this?" he did not reply, but sat cowering in his chair. "forgive me," she cried, when she noticed his despair, "i did not mean to reproach you, but i am so bewildered! and yet i see my duty! if he is my husband, i must go back to him. a wife's place is by her husband's side. i do not see how i can do it, but i must. how hard it is! i cannot realize it. the very thought of seeing him again makes me shudder! and yet i must go!" "it is impossible," gasped the trembling creature to whom she looked for confirmation. "why impossible?" "because, because--he--is--dead," he whispered, through his dry lips. "dead? did you say dead?" pepeeta cried. "when did he die? how did he die?" "i killed him," he shouted, springing to his feet and waving his hands wildly. "there! it has told itself. i knew it would. it has been eating its way out of my heart for months. i should have died if i had kept it secret for another moment. i feel relieved already. you do not know what it means to guard a secret night and day for years, do you? oh, how sweet it is to tell it at last. i killed him! i killed him! i struck him with a stone. i crushed his skull and turned him face downward in the road and left him there so that when they found him they would think that he had fallen from his horse. it was well done, for one who had had no training in crime! no one has suspected it. i am in no danger. and yet i could not keep the secret any longer. explain that, will you? if my tongue had been torn out by the roots, my eyes would have looked it, and if my eyes had been seared with a red-hot iron, my hands would have written it. a crime can find a thousand tongues! and now that i have told it, i feel so much happier. you would not believe it, pepeeta. i am like myself again. i feel as if i should never be unkind or irritable any more. the load has fallen from my heart. come, now, and kiss me. let me take you in my arms." extending his hands, he approached her. as he did so, the look of horror with which she had regarded him intensified and she retreated before him until she reached the wall, looking like a sea-bird hurled against a precipice by a storm. such dread was on her face that he dared not touch her. "what is the matter?" he said. "are you afraid of me?" she did not reply, but gazed at him as if he were some monster suddenly risen from the deep. he endured the glance for a single moment, and then, realizing the crime which he had committed had excited an uncontrollable repulsion for him in her soul, he staggered backward and sank once more into his chair, the picture of helpless and hopeless despair. for a long time pepeeta gazed at him without moving or speaking. and then, as she beheld his misery, the look of horror slowly melted into one of pity, until she seemed like an angel who from some vast distance surveys a sinful man. gradually she began to realize that he who had committed this dreadful deed was her own lover, and that it was the result of that guilty affection which they bore each other. the consciousness of her own complicity softened her. she moved towards him; she spoke. "forgive me," she said, "for seeming even for a moment to despise and abhor you. it was all so sudden. i do not mean to condemn you. i do not mean to act or feel as if i were any less guilty than you are in all this wrong. but when one has to face something awful without preparation, it is very hard. no wonder that we do not know what to do. who but god can extricate us from this trouble? we are both guilty, david. i think that it is because i have had so large a share in all the rest that has been wrong that i cannot now feel towards you as i think i ought. it is true that you have injured me terribly and irretrievably. it is true that your hands are stained with blood, and yet i love you! my heart yearns for you this moment as never before since we have known each other. i long to take you in my arms." he interrupted her by springing from his chair and attempting to embrace her; but she waved him back with a strange majesty in her mien, and continued. "i long to take you to my heart and comfort you. i could live with you or i could die with you. but there is a voice within my soul that tells me that we must part. lives cannot be bound together by crime. while misfortunes and mistakes may knit the hearts of lovers together, evil deeds must force them apart! we are not lawfully married, and so--" "but we can be!" he exclaimed. "no," she answered, in a voice that sounded to him like that of destiny. "no, we cannot. no one would marry us if the facts were known. and if we concealed them from others, we could not hide them from ourselves! we have no right to each other. we could not respect and therefore we could not truly love each other. into every moment of our lives this guilty secret would intrude. no, it is impossible. i see it clearly. every passing moment only makes it more plain. it is terrible, but it is necessary, and what must be, must!" "we shall not part!" he cried, springing towards her and seizing her by the wrist. "god has bound us together and no man shall put us asunder! we are as firmly linked by vice as by virtue. this secret will draw us together! we cannot keep away from each other. i should find you if you were in heaven and i in hell. you are mine! mine, i say! nothing shall part us. have i not suffered for you and sinned for you? what better title is there than that? it was not the sin, but the secret which has alienated us, and now that i am not compelled to guard it any longer, there can be no more trouble between us. the deed has passed unsuspected. we should have heard of it long ago if any one had ever doubted that it was an accident. let the dead past bury its dead! let us be happy." he looked down upon her as if his will were irresistible; but she remained unmoved and immovable, and gazed at him with deep, sad eyes in which he saw his doom. "no," she answered, calmly, "it is impossible. you need not argue. you cannot change my mind. i see it all too clearly. we must part." "oh! pity me," he cried, falling on his knees. "what shall i do? i cannot bear this burden alone. it will crush me. have mercy, pepeeta. do not drive me away. i cannot endure to go forth with this brand of cain upon my forehead and realize that i shall never hear from your lips another word of love or comfort. pity me. you are not god. he has not put justice into your hands for execution. you are only human!" "alas," she cried, "and all too human. but, my beloved, i am not acting for myself. it is not my mind or heart that speaks. it is god speaking through me. i feel myself to be acting under an influence apart from myself. we have resisted these voices and this influence too long. now we must obey them." "but, pepeeta," he continued, "you do not really think that you have the power to suppress the love you feel for me?" "i shall not try," she answered. "but can you not see that this passion of ours will bring us together again? sooner or later, love will conquer. it conquers or crushes. everything gives way to it at last. it disrupts the most solemn contracts. it burns the strongest bonds like tow. always and everywhere, men and women who love will come together. it is the law of life, it is destiny. we cannot remain apart, we are linked together for time and eternity." she listened to him calmly until he had finished and then said, "nevertheless, i must go. and i will go now; delay is useless. i see only too clearly that as long as i am near, you must steadily get worse instead of better. while you possess the fruits of your sin you will not truly repent. you must either surrender them or be deprived of them. we can never become accustomed to this awful secret. our lives are doomed to loneliness and sorrow; we must accept our destiny; we must go forth alone to seek the forgiveness of god. good-bye; but remember, david, in every hour of trial, wherever you may be, there will be a never-ceasing prayer ascending to god for you. my life shall be devoted to supplication. i shall never lose hope; i shall never doubt. love like that i bear you must in some way be redemptive in its nature. all will be well. once more, good-bye." she smiled on him with unutterable tenderness, and with her eyes still fixed upon his haggard face began to move slowly toward the door. he did not stir; he could not move, but remained upon his knees with his hands extended towards her in supplication. like some exalted figure in a dream he saw her vanish from his sight; the world became empty and dark; his powers of endurance had been overtaxed; he lost all consciousness, and fell forward on the floor. chapter xxi. a signal in the night "how far that little candle throws his beams!" --merchant of venice. a month of dangerous and almost fatal sickness followed. when at last, through the care of a faithful negro "mammy," the much-enduring man crept out from the valley of the shadow of death, he learned that pepeeta had secured a little room in a tenement house and was supporting herself with her needle, in the use of which she had become an expert in those glad hours when she made her baby's clothes, and those sad ones when she sat far into the night awaiting david's return. on the morning of the first day in which he was permitted to leave the house he made his way to pepeeta's new quarters. "and so this is to be her home," he said with a shudder as he looked up to the attic window. every day this pale young man was seen, by the curious neighbors, hovering about the place. as for the object of his love and solicitude, she began at once to be a bread-winner. the delicate girl who never in her life until now had experienced a care about the necessities of existence began to struggle for bread in company with the thousands of poor and needy, creatures by whom she found herself surrounded. the only hunger she experienced was that of the heart. she soon became conscious of david's presence, and derived from it a pleasure which only added to her pain. she avoided him as best she could, and her determination and her sanctity prevented him from approaching her. david could never remember how many days were passed in this way, for he lost count of time, and lived more like a man in a dream than like one in a world of life and action. but as his strength slowly returned, he grew more and more restive under the restraint which pepeeta's will imposed upon him. and so, while he did not dare to approach her in person, he determined to put his case to a final test, and if he could not win her back to leave forever a place in which he was doomed to suffer perpetual torment. in the execution of this purpose, he wrote her a letter in which, after passionately pleading for her love, he asked her to give him a sign of willingness to take him once more back into her life. "if i may cherish hope of your ultimate relenting," he wrote, "place your candle on the window sill. i will wait until midnight, and if you extinguish it then, i shall accept your decision as final, and you will be responsible for what follows. i am a desperate man, and life without you has become intolerable." with this letter in his hand, he waited until the street was quiet and the halls of the tenement house deserted, and then crept up the long staircase with trembling knees. on tiptoe he picked his way across the corridor and slipped the note under the door. so quietly did he step that he did not hear his own footfall; but it did not escape the ears of the woman who sat stitching her life into the garment lying upon her knees. there is often in a footfall music sweeter than bird songs or harp tones. having thrust the letter under the door, david fled hastily down the stairway and into the street, where he began to pace back and forth like a sentry on his beat, never for a single instant losing sight of the window whence streamed the feeble rays of the candle from which he was to receive the signal of hope or despair. never did a condemned felon in a cell watch for the coming of a messenger of pardon with more wildly beating heart than his as he gazed at that window up in the wall of the gloomy tenement house. never did a mariner on a storm-tossed vessel keep his eye more resolutely fixed on beams from a distant lighthouse. it was then ten o'clock, and as he watched the slow-moving hands upon the moonlit dial in the church tower, it seemed to him they were held back by invisible fingers, and there came to his mind a forgotten story of a man who, having been accidentally imprisoned in a sepulchre, suffered in the twenty minutes which elapsed before his release all the pangs of starvation, so powerfully was his imagination excited. this story which he had once discredited he now believed, for it seemed to him as if eternities were being crowded into single moments. he had also heard that drowning men could review their entire lives in the few instants that preceded their loss of consciousness, and he acquired a new comprehension of this mystery. all the experiences of his entire existence swept through his mind again and again with a rapidity and a distinctness that astonished him. like a great shuttle darting back and forth through a fabric, his mind seemed to be passing again and again forward and backward through all the scenes of the past. finally, and after what seemed uncounted ages, the great clock struck the hour of midnight. one, two, three--he stood like a man rooted to the ground,--four, five, six--his heart beat louder than the bell,--seven, eight, nine--the blood seemed bursting through his temples,--ten, eleven, twelve!--the light went out! the universe seemed to have been instantaneously swallowed up in darkness. he could not see the figure that crept to the window and gazed down upon him from behind the drapery of the curtains. he did not know that pepeeta had fallen upon her knees in an agony deeper than his own, and was gazing down at him through streaming tears. in those few succeeding moments the sense of his personal loss was displaced by a sudden and overpowering sense of his personal guilt. the full consciousness of his sin burst upon him. he saw the selfishness of his love and the wickedness of his lust in a light brighter than day. there is a kind of rhododendron about trebizond of which the bees make a honey that drives people mad! he saw that illicit love was that honey of trebizond! he felt, as he had never felt before, the pressure of that terrible power that over all and through all the discords and sins of life makes resistlessly for righteousness. he perceived that a system of wheels is attached to every thought and act, and that, each one sets in motion the entire machinery of justice. he felt that every sleepless starry eye in heaven penetrated the guilty secrets of his soul and was pledged to the execution of judgment. these perceptions confounded him with fear. his thoughts ceased to move in order, tossing and teasing each other like straws in the wind. they ceased to illumine the depths of his soul and only hung like flickering candles above a dark mine. whether he looked up or down, without or within, he saw no hope, but it was not until after the lapse of many and unnoted moments that the disturbed machinery of his mind began to move. he awakened as from a nightmare, drew his hands across his eyes and looked this way and that as if to get his bearings. "what next?" he said aloud, as if speaking to some one else. receiving no answer, he turned instinctively toward his gambling house, and went stumbling along through the deserted streets. what is a man, after all, but a stumbling machine? progress is made by falling forward over obstacles! the poor stumbler tottered across his own threshold into that brilliant room where he had always received an enthusiastic welcome, but which he had not visited since his sickness. if ever a man needed kindness and encouragement it was he; but his sensitive spirit instantly discovered that all was changed. his superstitious companions had not forgotten the broken glass, and had heard of his subsequent calamities. with them the lucky alone were the adorable! the gods of the temples of fortunes are easily and quickly dethroned and the worshipers had already prostrated themselves before other shrines. the coldness of his greeting sent a chill to his already benumbed heart and increased his desperation. he was nervous, excited, depressed, and feeling the need of something to distract his thought from his troubles, he sat down and began to play; but from the first deal he lost--lost steadily and heavily. the habitués of the place exchanged significant glances as much as to say, "i told you so!" whispered phrases passed from lip to lip. "he is playing wild." "he has lost his nerve." "his luck has turned." and so indeed it had! within a few short hours he had staked his entire fortune and lost it. it had gone as easily and as quickly as it had come. "i guess that is about all," he said, pushing himself wearily back from the table at which he had just parted with the title to his desolated home. "shall i stake you, davy?" asked one of his friends, touched by the pathos of the haggard face and hopeless voice. "no," he answered, rising. "i have played enough. i am going away. good-bye, boys." without another word, he left them and passed out of the door. "good-bye," they cried, as he vanished, scarcely raising their eyes from the tables. even in a crowd like that there will generally be found some heart which still retains its tenderness. the young man who had offered to stake him, followed the ruined gambler into the street. "where are you going, old man?" he said kindly, slipping his hand through david's arm. "i don't know," he answered absently. "are you dead broke, davy?" "dead broke," in a lifeless echo. "will you accept a little loan? you can't go far without money." "it's no use." "take it! i wouldn't have had it if it hadn't been for you, and i won't have it long whether you take it or not." as he spoke he slipped a roll of bills into his friend's pocket. "thanks!" said david. "don't mention it," he replied. "good-bye." "good-bye." the sun was just rising as they parted. the first faint stir of life was perceptible in the city streets; the green-grocers were coming in with their fresh vegetables; the office boys were opening the doors and putting away the shutters; there was a bright, morning look on the faces which peered into the haggard countenance of the gambler as he crept aimlessly along, but the fresh, sweet light gave him neither brightness nor joy. his heart was cold and dead; he had not even formed a purpose. and so he drifted aimlessly until the current that was setting toward the levee caught him and bore him on with it. the sight of a vessel just putting out to sea communicated to his spirit its first definite impulse and he ascended the gang-plank without even inquiring its destination. in a few moments the boat swung loose and turned its prow down the river. the bustle of the embarkation distracted him. he watched the hurrying sailors, gazed at the piles of merchandise, walked up and down the deck, listened to the fresh breeze that began to play upon the great, sonorous harp of the shrouds and the masts, and when at last the vessel glided out into the waters of the gulf he lay down in a hammock and fell into a long and dreamless sleep. chapter xxii. heart hunger "only; i discern infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn." --browning. for a moment after she had read the note which david thrust beneath her door, pepeeta held her breath; then sinking to her knees, she prostrated herself before that august being to whom all men bow in last extremities; her head resting upon arms pathetically crossed on the low window sill--bruised but not broken, cast down, but not destroyed--she drank the cup of sorrow to its dregs. men hang birds in dark rooms, sometimes, until they learn to sing, and it was to a kindred discipline of her heavenly father's that pepeeta was being subjected. in that supreme hour of trial she performed the greatest feat of which the soul is capable. she defied her own nature; she committed an act of sacred violence against the most clamorous propensities of her heart. what that struggle cost her no mortal mind can know. that in her decision she chose the better part some will doubt. the most common justification of our conduct is that we have followed the "dictates of our natures." but because those natures are double, and the good and evil perpetually struggle for the mastery, we are sometimes compelled to reverse their most strenuous demands. those lofty souls who are enabled to perceive their duty clearly and to commit bravely this act of sacred violence must always remain a mystery to those who meanly live upon a lower plane of existence. it was as certain when this pure soul entered upon her renewed struggle to find the path of duty that she would succeed, as that the carrier pigeon, launched into an unknown region, will find the homeward way; but for a little time she fluttered her wings in ignorance and despair; she found no rest for the soles of her feet, and the ark of refuge was nowhere to be seen. the nearness of her lover, she could see him in the street; his sorrow, she could behold his white face even by the pale light of the moon; his tender love, whose real depth she had never for a moment doubted; his bitter agony, which she knew she could terminate in a single instant, all appealed to her with an indescribable power. her own sorrow and loneliness were eclipsed by the consciousness of the sorrow and loneliness of the man whom she loved more than life. she felt the pain in his bosom far more than in her own; but this feeling which added so much to her suffering became a clear interpreter of her duty. she acted from a single, undivided impulse; it was to do him good and bring to him the final beatitude of life. she saw as clearly as when the facts about this tragedy were flashed upon her that her presence in david's life would be a perpetual source of irritation, and that so long as he possessed her he would never be able to face the truly spiritual problems which remained to be solved. how she acquired those powers of divination is a mystery. such women possess a certain prescience that cannot wholly be accounted for. what pepeeta did was right because she was pepeeta. it does not follow that because such natures see so clearly that they act with less pain than others. indeed, the more clear those spiritual perceptions, the more poignant are the sufferings which they involve; life can scarcely afford a situation more pathetic than hers. alone in a great city, young and beautiful, capable of enjoying happiness with a singular appreciation, the victim of a complicated set of circumstances for the comprehension and management of which her early life had afforded no training; guilty of a great sin, but if one could say so, innocently guilty, and penitent; consecrated to duty, but torn asunder by conflicting emotions as if upon a wheel--of what deeper sorrow is the soul capable? when she extinguished that candle she extinguished the sun of her human happiness; but it happened to her as it has happened to countless others, that in the darkness which ensued she saw a myriad beautiful stars. the next morning pepeeta resolutely took up the heavy burden of her life and bore it uncomplainingly, adjusting herself as the brave and patient have ever done, to the necessities of her daily existence. her little attic room became a sort of sanctuary, and began to take upon itself a reflection of her nature. she built it to fit her own character and needs, as a bird builds its nest to fit its bosom. it may be said of most of us that we secrete our homes as the snails do their shells. they become a sort of material embodiment of our spirits, a physical expression of our whole thought about life. before long flowers were blooming in pepeeta's window; a mocking bird was singing in a cage above it; on the wall hung the old tambourine and one after another many little inexpensive but brightening bits and scraps of things such as women pick up by instinct found their places in this simple attic. she seldom left it for the outside world, except when she went to deliver the work she had finished, and on sundays when she spent the morning wandering from one church to another. as a consequence of these brief but regular pilgrimages her beautiful face became familiar to the residents of some of the side streets where the women and children made her low courtesies and the men doffed their hats by that divine instinct of reverence which we all feel in the presence of the beautiful and the good. a double craving devours our human hearts--for solitude and for companionship. as there are hours when we thirst to be alone, there are others when we hunger for the touch of a human hand, the glance of a human eye, a smile from human lips. even gross, material things like food and drink lose half their flavor when taken in solitude. pepeeta needed friends and found them. we never know how small a part of ourselves that fraction may be which we have taken for the whole! we come to know ourselves by struggle and endeavor, more than by thought and meditation. we have only to do our work each day in hope and trust. we can only find rest in effort. it is not in repose, but in activity--not in joy, but in sorrow, that the soul comes to its second birth. pepeeta needed labor and suffering, and they were sent her. she accepted all that followed her supreme decision without a question and without a murmur for many months, and then--a reaction came! the draughts upon her physical and emotional nature had been too great. chapter xxiii. where i might find him "attempt the end, and never stand to doubt, nothing's so hard but search will find it out." --herrick. during several months of loneliness and sorrow a great change had been taking place in the mind of the patient sufferer, of which she was only vaguely conscious. purposes are often formed in the depths of our souls, of which we know nothing until they suddenly emerge into full view. such a purpose had been slowly evolving in the heart of pepeeta. the strain which she had been undergoing began at last to exhaust her physically. her vital force became depleted, her step grew feeble, the light died out of her eyes, she drooped and crept feebly about her room. the determination which she had so resolutely maintained to live apart from her guilty lover slowly ebbed away. she was, after all, a woman, not a disembodied spirit, and her woman's heart yearned unquenchably for the touch of her lover's hand, for the kisses of his lips, for the comfort of his presence. this longing increased with every passing hour. fatigue, weariness, loneliness, steadily undermined her still struggling resistance to those hungerings which never left her, till at last, when the failing resources of her nature were at their lowest point, all her remaining strength was concentrated into a single passionate desire to look once more upon the face which glowed forever before her inner eye, or at least to discover what had befallen the wanderer in his sin and wretchedness. slowly the diffused longing crystallized into a fixed purpose, to resist which was beyond her power. having nobly conquered temptation while she had strength, and yielded only when her physical nature itself was exhausted, she gathered up the few possessions she had accumulated, sold them for what they would bring, and, with a heart palpitating wildly, broke every tie she had formed with the life around her and turned her face toward the little village where her happiness and sorrows had begun. it was a long and tedious journey from new orleans to cincinnati in those days, and it told terribly upon the weakened constitution of the wayfarer. her heart beat too violently in her bosom; a fierce fever began to burn in her veins; she trembled with terror lest her strength fail her before she reached her journey's end. it was not of death himself that she was afraid; but that he should overtake her before she had seen her lover! husbanding her strength as shipwrecked sailors save their bread and water, she counted the days and the miles to the journey's end, and having arrived at the wharf of the queen city, the pale young traveler who had excited the compassion of the passengers, but who would neither communicate the secret of her sorrow nor accept of any aid, took her little bundle in her thin hand and started off on the last stage of her weary pilgrimage. it was the hardest of all, for her money was exhausted and there was nothing for her to do but walk. it was a cold december day. gray clouds lowered, wintry winds began to moan, and she had proceeded but a little way when light flakes of snow began to fall. the chill penetrated her thin clothing and shook her fragile form. she moved more like a wraith than a living woman. her tired feet left such slight impressions in the snow that the feathery flakes obliterated one almost before she had made another, and she was haunted by the thought that every trace of her passage through life was thus to disappear! ignorant of the distance or the exact direction, and stopping occasionally to inquire the way, she plodded on, the exhaustion of hunger and weariness becoming more and more unendurable. all that she did now was done by the sheer force of will; but yield she would not. she would die cheerfully when she had attained her object, but not before. the winds became more wild and boisterous; they loosened and tossed her black hair about her wan face; they beat against her person and drove her back. every step seemed the last one possible; but suddenly, just as she descended the slope of a steep hill, she saw the twinkling lights of the village and the feeble rays shot new courage into her heart. under this accession of power she pushed forward and made her way toward the old quaker homestead. the night had now deepened around her; but every foot of the landscape had been indelibly impressed upon her memory, and even in the gathering gloom she chose the road unerringly. there were only a few steps more, and reeling toward the door yard fence she felt her way to the gate, opened it, staggered forward up the path in the rays of light that struggled out into the darkness, and with one final effort fell fainting upon the threshold. the scene within the house presented a striking contrast to that without. in a great open fireplace the flames of the beech logs were wavering up the chimney. seated in the radiance of their light, on a low stool, was a young boy with his elbows upon his knees and his cheeks in the palms of his hands. his mother sat by his side stroking his hair and gazing at him in fond, brooding love. the father was bending over a bible lying open on the table; it was the hour of prayer. he was reading a lesson from the twenty-fifth chapter of st. matthew, and had just articulated in slow and reverent tones the words of jesus, "i was a stranger and ye took me in," when they heard a sound at the door. father, mother and son sprang to their feet and, hurrying towards the door, flung it open and beheld a woman's limp form lying on the threshold. it was but a child's weight to the stalwart quaker who picked it up in his great arms and carried it into the radiance of the great fireplace, and in an instant he and dorothea his wife were pushing forward the work of restoration. they forced a cordial between the parted lips, chafed the white hands, warmed the half-frozen feet, and in a few moments were rewarded by discovering feeble signs of life. the color came back in a faint glow to the marble face, the pulses fluttered feebly, the bosom heaved gently, as if the refluent tide of life had surged reluctantly back, and the tired heart began once more to beat. she had regained her life but not her consciousness, and lay there as white and almost as still as death. the little boy stood gazing wonderingly at her from a distance. the calm features of the quaker were agitated with emotion. his wife knelt by the side of the pale sleeper, and her tears dropped silently on the hand which she pressed to her lips. chapter xxiv. safe haven "the human heart finds shelter nowhere but in human kind." --george eliot. for many days pepeeta's life hung in the balance, her spirit hovering uncertainly along the border land of being, and it was only love that wooed it back to life. when at length, through careful nursing, she really regained her consciousness and came up from those unfathomable abysses where she had been wandering, she opened her eyes upon the walls of a little chamber that looked out through an alcove into the living room of the quaker house. dorothea had finished her afternoon's work and was seated before the great fireplace, while by her side stood steven, speaking to her in whispers, and looking often toward the cot on which pepeeta lay. an almost sacred stillness was in the room, for since the advent of the sufferer, even the quiet of that well-ordered household had deepened and softened. the silence was suddenly broken by a voice feeble and tremulous, but very musical and sweet. it was pepeeta, who gazed around her in bewilderment and asked in vague alarm, "where am i?" dorothea was by her side in an instant, and taking the thin fingers in her strong hands, replied: "thee is among friends." pepeeta looked long into the calm face above her, and gathered reassurance; but her memory did not at once return. "have i ever been in this place before? have i ever seen your face? has something dreadful happened? tell me," she entreated, gazing with agitation into the calm eyes that looked down into hers. "i cannot tell thee whether thee has ever seen us before, but we have seen thee so much for a few days that we feel like old friends," said dorothea, pressing the hand she held, and smiling. pepeeta's eyes wandered about the room restlessly for a moment, and then some dim remembrance of the past came back. "did i come here in a great storm?" she asked. "thee did, indeed. the night was wild and cold." "did i fall on the threshold?" "upon the very threshold, and let us thank god for that, because if thee had fallen at the gate or in the path we should never have heard thee." pepeeta struggled to a sitting posture as her memory clarified, fixed her wide open eyes upon dorothea and asked, pathetically, "where is he?" "i do not know who thee means," said dorothea, laying her hand on the invalid's shoulders and trying gently to push her back upon her pillow. "david!" she exclaimed, "david. tell me if you know, for it seems to me i shall die if i do not hear." "i do not know, my love. it is a long time since we have heard from david. but thee must lie down. thee is not strong enough to talk." she did not need to force her now. the muscles relaxed, and pepeeta sank back upon her pillow, sobbing like a little child, while dorothea stroked her forehead. the soothing touch of her hand and her gentle presence calmed the agitated and disappointed heart. the sobs became less frequent, the tears ceased to flow, and sleep, coming like a benediction, brought the balm of oblivion. the boy, with his great brown eyes, looked wonderingly from the face of the invalid to that of his mother, who sat silently weaving in her imagination the story of this life, from the few strands which she had seized in this brief and broken conversation. the next morning when pepeeta awakened she was not only rested and refreshed by this natural sleep, but was restored to the full possession of her consciousness and her memory. when dorothea came in from her morning duties to see how her patient fared, she was startled by the change, for the invalid had recovered that calm self-possession which she had lost before beginning her journey, and now that her uncertainty was ended had already begun to face disappointment with fortitude and resolution. the nurse seated herself by the patient, who said humbly: "may i talk now?" "if thee feels strong enough and can do it without exciting thyself, thee may. but if thee cannot, thee had better wait a little longer. thee is very weak." "but i am much better, am i not?" "yes, thee is much better, but thee is far from well." "yes, i am far from well; but it will do me good to talk. i have much to tell, and i cannot rest until i tell it all." "thee need not hurry--need thee?" "yes--i feel in haste. i have no right to all this kindness, for i have done this household a great wrong and i must confess it. it is a sad, sad story. will you listen to it now?" "if it will do thee good instead of harm, i will." "then prop me up in bed, if you please. place me so that i can talk freely. there, thank you. you are so gentle and so kind. i have never in all my life had any one touch me so gently. and now, if you are ready, be seated in the great chair and turn your face to the wall." "to the wall?" "yes, to the wall. i cannot bear to see the reproaches that must fill those kind eyes." "but, my dear, thee shall not see any reproaches in my eyes. who am i that i should judge thee? we are commanded in the holy bible to judge not, lest we be judged again. tell thy story without fear. thee shall tell it to ears that shall hear thee patiently, and a heart that is not devoid of pity." "i cannot, cannot," cried pepeeta, "do as i pray! look out of the window. look anywhere but at my face. let me lie here and look up. let me tell my story as if to god alone. it will be easy for me to do that, for i have told it to him again and again." fearing to agitate her, dorothea did as she desired. "are we alone?" "yes, all alone." "well, then, i will begin," pepeeta said, and in a voice choked with emotion, the poor sufferer breathed out the tale of her sin and her sorrow. she told all. she did not shield herself, and everywhere she could she softened the wrong done by david. it was a long story, and was interrupted only by the ticking of the great clock in the hallway, telling off the moments with as little concern as when three years before it had listened to the story told to david by his mother. when the confession was ended a silence followed, which dorothea broke by asking gently: "may i look, now?" "if you can forgive me," pepeeta answered. the tender-hearted woman rose, approached the bedside and kissed the quivering lips. "have you forgiven me?" pepeeta asked, seizing the face in her thin hands and looking almost despairingly into the great blue eyes. "as i hope to be forgiven," dorothea answered, kissing her again and again. a look of almost perfect happiness diffused itself over the pale countenance. "it is too much--too much. how can it be? it was such a great wrong!" she exclaimed, "yes, it was a great wrong. thee has sinned much, but much shall be forgiven if thee is penitent, and i think thee is. no love nor pardon should be withheld from those who mourn their sins. our god is love! and we are so ignorant and frail. it is a sad story, as thee says, but it is better to be led astray by our good passions than by our bad. i have noticed that it is sometimes by our holiest instincts that we are betrayed into our darkest sins! it was heaven's brightest light--the light of love--that led thee astray, my child, and even love may not be followed with closed eyes! but thee does not need to be preached to." astonished at such an almost divine insight and compassion, pepeeta exclaimed, "how came you to know so much of the tragedy of human life, so much of the soul's weakness and guilt; you who have lived so quietly in this happy home?" "by consulting my own heart, dear. we do not differ in ourselves so much as in our experiences and temptations. but thee has talked enough about thy troubles. tell me thy name? what shall we call thee?" "my name is pepeeta." "and mine is dorothea." "oh! dorothea," pepeeta exclaimed, "do you think we shall ever see him again?" "i cannot tell. we had made many inquiries and given up in despair. and now when we least expected news, thee has come! we will cherish hope again. we were discouraged too easily." "oh! how strong you are--how comforting. yes, we will cherish hope, and when i am well i will start out, and search for him everywhere. i shall find him. my heart tells me so." "but thee is not well enough, yet," dorothea said, with a kind smile, "and until thee is, thee must be at rest in thy soul and, abiding here with us, await the revelation of the divine will." "oh, may i stay a little while? it is so quiet and restful here. i feel like a tired bird that has found a refuge from a storm. but what will your husband say, when he hears this story?" "thee need not be troubled about that. his door and heart are ever open to those who labor and are heavy laden. the christ has found a faithful follower in him, pepeeta. it was he who first divined thy story." "then you knew me?" "we had conjectured." "then i will stay, oh, i will stay a little while, and perhaps, perhaps--who knows?" she clasped her hands, her soul looked out of her eyes, and a smile of genuine happiness lit up her sad face. "yes, who knows?" said dorothea, gently, rearranging the pillows and bidding the invalid fall asleep again. chapter xxv. the little lad "better to be driven out from among men, than to be disliked of children." --dana. pepeeta took her place in this hospitable household as an orphan child might have done. just as a flower unfolding from a plant, or a bird building its nest in a tree is almost instantly "at home," so it was with pepeeta. when she was strong enough to work, she began to assume domestic cares and to discharge them in a quiet and beautiful way which brought a sweet relief to the full hands of the overburdened housewife. and her companionship was no less grateful to dorothea than her help, for life in a frontier household in those pioneer days was none too full of animation and brightness, even for a quiet nature like hers. to steven she soon became a companion; and jacob, the father, yielded no less quickly and easily to the charms of this strange guest than did mother and child. he was a man of earnest piety and of deep insight into human nature. he had, as dorothea said, made shrewd guesses at pepeeta's story before she told it, and had formed his own theories as to her nature and her errand. "i tell thee, dorothea, she is a lady," were the words in which he had uttered his conclusions to his wife, in one of their many conversations about the mysterious stranger. "what makes thee think so?" she asked. "every feature of that delicate face tells its own history. these three years of contact with david and a different life could never have so completely wiped out the traces of the vulgar breeding of a gypsy camp and the low education of a rogue's society, unless there were good blood in those veins. mark my word, there is a story about that life that would stir the heart if it were known." "no wonder david loved her," said the wife. "no wonder, indeed. but if it is as it seems, there is a mystery in their influence on each other that would confound the subtlest student of life." "to what does thee refer?" "two such natures ought to have made each other better instead of worse by contact. you can predict what frost and sunlight, water and oil, seed and soil will do when they meet; but not men and women! two bads sometimes make a good, and two goods sometimes make a bad." "thee thinks strange thoughts, jacob, and i do not always follow thee, but even if it be wrong, i cannot help wishing that our dear david could have had her for his lawful wife," said dorothea. "the tale is not all told yet," responded her husband, opening his book and beginning to read. with feelings like these in their hearts, they could not but extend to pepeeta that sympathy which alone could soothe the sorrow of her soul. the sweet atmosphere of this home; the consciousness that she was among friends; the knowledge that they would do all they could to find the wanderer whom every one loved with such devotion, gave to pepeeta's overwrought feelings an exquisite relief. her natural spirits and buoyant nature, repressed so long, began to reassert themselves, and soon burst forth in gladness. the change was slow, but sure, and by the time the spring days came and it was possible to get out into the open air, the color had come back to the pale face and the light to the dimmed eyes. she was like a flower transplanted from some dark corner into an open, sunny spot in a garden. but that which, more than all else, tended to develop within her graces still unfolded, was her constant contact with steven. a subtle sympathy had been established between them from their very first meeting and they gradually became almost inseparable comrades. their common love of outdoor life took them on long walks into the woods, from which they came burdened with the first blossoms of the springtime, or they would return from the river, laden with fish, for steven insisted upon making pepeeta his companion in every excursion; nor was it hard to persuade her to join him, she was so naturally a creature of the open air and sunlight. among the many happy days thus passed, one was especially memorable. steven had told her much of a famous fishing place in the big miami, several miles away, and had promised that if she would go with him on the next saturday he would show it to her and also reveal a secret which no one knew but himself and in which she could not but take the greatest interest. the day dawned bright and clear, and while the dew was still on the grass they started. one of pepeeta's sources of enjoyment in these excursions was the constant prattle of the boy about that uncle whose long absence had served rather to increase than to diminish the idolatry of his heart. this morning, so like the one on which pepeeta had seen david by the side of the brook when first they met, awakened all the fervor of her love and she could think of nothing else. "you must point out to me all the places where you and your uncle have ever been together, little brother," she said to him, as they crossed the field where she had first caught sight of david at the plow. "why does thee care to know so much about him?" he asked, näively looking up into her face. "do you not know?" she inquired. "no, i have asked father and mother, but they will not tell me." "if i tell you, will you be true to me?" "won't i, though? i love thee. i would fight for thee, if i were not a quaker's son! perhaps i would fight for thee anyway." "you will not need to fight for me, dearest. i could tell you a story about fighting that would make you wish never to fight again. perhaps i will, sometime; but not now, for this must be a happy day and i do not want to sadden it by telling you too much about the shadows that cloud my life." he looked up with a pained expression. "has thee had troubles?" he asked. "great troubles, and they are not ended yet. i should be very wretched, but for you and your dear parents. you are but a child, and yet it would comfort me to tell you that i love your uncle with a love that can never die. and so when i ask you about him you will tell me everything you know, will you not? and remember that in doing so you are helping to make happy a poor heart that carries heavy burdens. there, that will do. i have told you more, perhaps, than i ought; but although you are young, i am sure that you are brave and true. and so, if there is any story about your uncle which you have never told me, let me hear it now. and if there is not, tell me one that you have told me over and over again." "did i ever tell thee how he saved a little lamb from drowning?" "no! did he do that?" "yes, he did! thee knows that when the snow melts, this little brook swells up into a great river and sometimes it happens so suddenly that even the grown people are scared. it did that day, and came just pouring out of those woods and through the meadow where our old maisie was playing with two little lambs. one of them was bounding around her, and it slipped over the edge of the bank and fell into the bed of the creek. it wasn't a very high bank, you know; but the lamb was little, and it just stood bleating in the bed, and its mother stood bleating on the bank. well, uncle david heard them and started to see what was the matter, and though the rain had begun to fall, he ran across the field as hard as he could. but by the time he reached the place the flood caught up the little lamb and rolled it over and over like a ball. uncle dave didn't even wait to take off his coat, but plunged right into that water, boiling like a soap kettle, and swam out and grabbed that little lamb and hung to it until he landed down there on a high bank a quarter of a mile away. what does thee think of that, pepeeta?" her eyes kindled; pride swelled in her heart, and her spirits rose with that wild feeling of joy with which women always hear of the bold deeds of those they love. "how beautiful and noble he is," she cried. "and strong!" added the boy, to whose youthful imagination physical prowess was still the greatest grace of life. and as he said it they reached a little rivulet so swollen by the spring rains as to be a formidable obstacle to their progress. steven had not considered it in laying out their route and stood before it in dismay. "how is thee ever going to get across?" he asked, and then under the impulse of a sudden inspiration rushed to the fence, took off the top rail and hurrying to the side of the brook flung it across for a bridge, with all the gallantry of a sir walter raleigh. but the spirits of his companion were too high to accept of aid! the strength of her lover had communicated itself to her, and with a light, free bound, she leaped to the other side. the boy's first feeling was one of chagrin at having his offer so proudly scorned; but his second was that of boundless pride at a feat so worthy of the hero whose praises they had just been sounding. "hurrah!" he cried, bounding after her and flinging his hat into the air. "thee is as good a jumper as a man," he exclaimed, regarding her with astonishment and admiration. as they moved forward nature wove her spells around them and they gave themselves utterly to her charms, pausing to look and listen, rapt in an ecstasy of communion and sympathy. pepeeta's familiarity with the flowers was greater than steven's, but she knew little about birds, and propounded many questions to the young naturalist whose knowledge of the inhabitants of field, forest and river seemed to be communicated by the objects themselves, rather than by human teachers. "hark! what is that bird, singing on the top of that tall stake?" she asked, pausing to listen, her hand lifted as if to invoke silence. "that? why, it's a meadow lark," said steven. "and there is another, 'way up in the top of that tall tree. oh! how sweet and rich his song is. what is his name?" "that's a red bird, and if thee listens thee can hear a brown thrasher over there in the woods." they paused and drank in the rich music until each of these voices was silenced, and out of a copse of dense shade by the brookside there began to bubble a spring of melody so liquid, so clear, and withal of such beauty, that pepeeta trembled with delight, hearing in that audible melody the unheard songs of the soul itself. "what is it, steven?" she asked in a whisper. "why, that is a cat bird! doesn't thee know a cat bird? i cannot remember when i did not know what that song was! it is such a crazy bird! it has only two tunes and is like our teacher at school. she either praises or else scolds us. and that is the way with the cat bird. it is either talking love to its mate, or else abusing it! i don't like such people or such birds; i like those who have more tunes. now thee has a lot of tunes, pepeeta!" this quaint reflection and delicate compliment broke the bird's spell and made pepeeta laugh,--a laugh as musical and sweet as the song of the bird itself. it passed through the fringe of trees along the river bank, rippled across it over against the smooth face of a cliff and came back sweetly on the spring air. "oh! did you hear the echo?" pepeeta exclaimed. "that is what i brought thee here for!" he said. "uncle david taught me how to make it answer and told me what it was. it frightened me at first. let us get close up to the water and listen!" he took her by the hand and drew her along. "is it here that you are to tell me the secret?" she asked. "oh, no," he said. "the echo tells its secrets! it is nothing but a blab any way. but i do not tell mine until the right time comes! thee must wait." they came out upon the edge of the river which makes a sweep around a sharp corner on the opposite side of which was "echo rock." there they stood and shouted and laughed as their voices came back upon the still air softened and etherealized. becoming tired of this sport at last, the boy picked up a flat stone from the river's edge and said, "can thee skip a stone, pepeeta? i never saw a girl that could skip a stone." "but i am not a girl," she said. "oh, but thee was a girl once, and if thee did not learn then thee cannot do it now. come, let me see thee try. here is a stone, and a beauty, too; round, flat and smooth. that stone ought to make sixteen jumps!" "but you must show me how," she said. "all right, i will," he replied, and sent one skimming along the smooth surface of the water. "beautiful," she said, clapping her hands as it bounded in ever diminishing saltations and with a finer skill than that of giotto, drew perfect circles on the watery canvas. delighted with the applause, the child found another stone and gave it to pepeeta. she took it, drew her hand back and tossed it awkwardly from her shoulder. it sank with a dull plunge into the stream, while out of the throat of the lad came a great and joyous shout of laughter. "i knew thee could not," he said. "no girl that ever lived could skip a stone!" and then he threw another and another, and they stood enchanted as the beautiful circles widened away from their centers and crossed each other in ever-increasing complexity of curve. steven did his best to teach pepeeta this very simple art; but after many failures, she exclaimed: "oh dear, i shall never learn! i am nothing but a woman after all! let us hasten to the fishing pool, perhaps i shall do better there." "don't be discouraged. thee can learn, if thee tries long enough!" steven said encouragingly, and led the way to a deep pool a few rods farther up the river. it was a cool, sequestered, lovely spot. great trees overhung it, dark waters swirled swiftly but quietly round the base of a great rock jutting out into it; little bubbles of froth glided dreamily across it and burst on its edges; kingfishers dropped, stone-like, into it from the limbs of a dead sycamore, and the low, deep murmurs of the flood, as it hurried by, whispered inarticulately of mysteries too deep for the mind of man to comprehend. except for this ceaseless murmur, silence brooded over the place, for the song-birds had hidden themselves in the wood, and the two intruders upon the sacred privacy, by an unconscious sense of fitness, spoke in whispers. "beautiful!" said pepeeta. "hush! see there!" steven exclaimed, in an undertone, and pointing to a spot where a fish had broken the still surface as he leaped for a fly and plunged back again into the depths. his eye glowed, and his whole figure vibrated with excitement. "and did your uncle david used to bring you here?" pepeeta asked. "well, i should say," he whispered. "he used to bring me here when i was such a little fellow that he sometimes had to carry me on his back. he was the greatest fisherman thee ever saw. i cannot fish so well myself!" and with this ingenuous avowal, at which pepeeta smiled appreciatively, they laid their baskets down, and steven began preparing the rude tackle. "did thee ever bait a hook, pepeeta?" he asked under his breath. "i never did, but i think i can," she answered doubtfully. and then he laughed again, not loudly, but in a fine chuckle which gave vent to his joy and expressed his incredulity in a manner fitting such solitude. "if thee cannot skip a stone i should like to know what makes thee think that thee can bait a hook," he said, still speaking in low whispers. "i have seen lots of girls try it, but i never saw one succeed. just the minute they touch the worm they begin to squeal, and when they try to stick it on the hook, they generally, have a sort of fit. so i guess thee had better not try. just let me do it for thee; i'll fix it just as my uncle david used to for me when i was a little fellow, and helpless like a girl." pepeeta laughed, and steven laughed with her, although he did not know for what, and they took their poles and sat down by the side of the stream, the child intent on the sport and the woman intent on the child. he was an adept in that gentle art which has claimed the devotion of so many elect spirits, and gave his soul up to his work with an entire abandon. the waters were seldom disturbed in those early days when the country was sparsely settled, and the fish took the bait recklessly. one after another the boy flung them out upon the bank with smothered exclamations of delight, with which he mingled reproaches and sympathy for pepeeta's lack of success. she was catching fish he knew not of, drawing them one by one out of the deep pools of memory and imagination. there is one thing dearer to a boy than catching fish. that is cooking and eating them. hunger began at last to gnaw at steven's vitals and to make itself imperatively felt. he looked up at the sun as if to tell the time by its location, though in reality he regulated his movements by that infallible horologue ticking beneath his jacket. "it must be after twelve," he said, although it was not yet eleven. "where are we going to have our dinner?" pepeeta asked. "come, and i will show thee," he replied, flinging down his pole and gathering his fish together. pepeeta followed him as he led the way up from the river's side to a ledge of rocks that frowned above it. rounding a cliff, they came suddenly upon the mouth of a cave where steven threw down the fish, assumed an air of secrecy, took pepeeta by the hand and led her toward it, whispering: "this is the robbers' cave." "and is it within its dark recesses that we are to eat our dinner?" pepeeta asked, imitating his melodramatic manner. "yes! no one in the world knows of it, but uncle dave and me. we always used to cook our dinner here, and play we were robbers." pepeeta saw the ashes of fires which had been built at the entrance, an old iron kettle hanging on a projecting root, a coffee pot standing on a ledge of a rock, and fragments of broken dishes scattered about, and entered with all her heart into an adventure so suddenly recalling the vanished scenes of her gypsy childhood. the eyes of the boy glistened with delight as he perceived the unmistakable evidences of her enjoyment. "and so this is your secret!" she exclaimed. "not by a good deal!" he answered, "thee is not to know the real secret until we have had our dinner. i will build the fire and clean the fish, and if thee knows how, thee can cook them." "oh, you need not think i don't know anything--just because i cannot skip stones and bait hooks," pepeeta said gaily, and with that they both bustled about and before long the smoke was curling up into the still air, and the fragrant odor of coffee was perfuming the wilderness. while they were waiting for the fish to fry, pepeeta regaled her enchanted listener with such fragments of the story of her gypsy life as she could piece together out of the wrecks of that time. he was overpowered with astonishment, and the idea that he was sitting opposite to a real gypsy, at the mouth of a cave, filled up the measure of his romantic fancy and perfected his happiness. he hung upon her words and kept her talking until the last crust had been devoured and she had repeated again and again the most trivial remembrances of those far off days. the boy's bliss had reached its utmost limit, and yet had not surpassed the woman's. the vigorous walk through the woods; the silent ministrations of nature; the simple food; the sweet imaginative associations with david; but above all that most recreative force in nature,--the presence and prattle of a child,--filled her sad heart with a happiness of which she had believed herself forever incapable. they sat for a few moments in silence, after pepeeta had finished one of her most charming reminiscences, and then steven, springing to his feet, exclaimed: "why, pepeeta, we have forgotten the secret! come and i will show it to thee." she took his proffered hand and was led into the depths of the cavern. "thee must shut thy eyes," he said. "oh! but i am so frightened," she answered, pretending to shudder and draw back. "thee need not be afraid. i will protect thee," he said, reassuringly. she obeyed him, and they moved forward. "are thy eyes shut tight? how many fingers do i hold up?" he asked, raising his hand. "six," she answered. "all right; there were only two," he said, convinced and satisfied. he led her along a dozen steps or so, and then halted. "turn this way," swinging her about; "do not open thy eyes till i tell thee. there--now!" for an instant the darkness seemed impenetrable; but there was enough of a faint light, rather like pale belated moonbeams than the brightness of the sun, to enable her to read her own name carved upon the smooth wall of rock. "ah! little deceiver, when did you do this?" she asked, touched by his gallantry. "do this! why, pepeeta, i did not do it," he answered, surprised and taken back by her misunderstanding. "you did not do it?" she asked, astonished in her turn. "who did it if you did not?" "why--can't thee guess?" he asked. and then it slowly dawned upon her that it was the work of her lover, done in those days when he wandered about the country restless and tormented by his passion. his own dear hand had traced those letters on the rock! she kissed them, and burst into tears. this was an indescribable shock to the child, who had anticipated a result so different, and he sprang to her side, embraced her in his young arms and cried: "what is the matter, pepeeta? i did not mean to make thee sad; i meant to make thee happy! oh, do not cry!" "you have made me a thousand times glad, my dear boy," she said, kissing him gratefully. "you could not in any other way in the world give me such happiness as this. but did you not know that we can cry because we are glad as well as because we are sad?" "i have never heard of that," he answered wonderingly. she did not reply, for her attention reverted to the letters on the wall and she stood feeding her hungry eyes upon that indubitable proof of the devotion of her lover. the child's instinct taught him the sacredness of the privacy of grief and love. he freed himself from her embrace, slipped out of the cave and left her alone. she laid her cheek against the rude letters, patted them with her hand, and kissed them again and again. it was bliss to know that she had inspired this passion, although it was agony to know that it was only a memory. the remembrance of feasts once eaten is not only no solace to physical hunger, but adds unmitigated torment to it. it is different with the hunger of the heart, which finds a melancholy alleviation in feeding upon those shadows which reality has left. the food is bitter-sweet and the alleviation is not satisfaction, but neither is it starvation! probably a real interview with a living, present lover, would not have given to pepeeta that intense, though poignant, happiness which transfigured her face when she came forth into the daylight world, and which subdued and softened the noisy welcome of the boy. chapter xxvi. out of the shadow "until the day break and the shadows flee away." --song of solomon. in due time the vessel upon which david had embarked arrived at her destination, the city of new york, and the lonely traveler stepped forth unnoticed and unknown into the metropolis of the new world. with, an instinct common to all adventurers, he made his way to the bowery, that thoroughfare whose name and character dispute the fame of the corso, the strand and the rue de rivoli. amid its perpetual excitements and boundless opportunities for adventure, david resumed the habits formed during that period of life upon which the doors had now closed. his reputation had followed him, and the new scenes, the physical restoration during the long voyage, the necessity of maintaining his fame, all conspired to help him take a place in the front rank of the devotees of the gambling rooms. he did his best to enter into this new life with enthusiasm, but it had no power to banish or even to allay his grief. he therefore spent most of his time in wandering about among the wonders of the swiftly-growing city, observing her busy streets, her crowded wharfs, her libraries, museums and parks. this moving panorama temporarily diverted his thoughts from that channel into which they ever returned, and which they were constantly wearing deeper and deeper, and so helped him to accomplish the one aim of his wretched life, which was to become even for a single moment unconscious of himself and of his misery. he had long ceased to ponder the problems of existence, for his philosophy of life had reached its goal at the point where he was too tired and broken-hearted to think. he could hardly be said to "live" any longer, and his existence was scarcely more than a vegetation. like a somnambulist, he received upon the pupils of his eye impressions which did not awaken a response in his reason. if any general conceptions at all were being formed he was unconscious of them. what he really thought of the phenomena of life upon which he thus blindly stared, he could not have definitely told; but in some vague way he felt as he gazed at the multitudes of human beings swarming through the streets, that all were, like himself, the victims of some insane folly which had precipitated them into some peculiar form of misery or crime. and so, as he peered into their faces, he would catch himself wondering what wrong this man had done, what sin that woman had committed, and what sorrow each was suffering. that all must be in some secret way guilty and miserable, he could not doubt, for it seemed to him impossible that in this world of darkness and disorder, any one should have been able to escape being deceived and victimized. "no man," he thought, "can pick his way over all these hot plowshares without stepping on some of them. none can run this horrible gauntlet without being somewhere struck and wounded. what has befallen me, has in some form or other befallen them all. they are trying, just as i am, to conceal their sorrows and their crimes from each other. there is nothing else to do. there is no such thing as happiness. there is nothing but deception. some of the keener ones see through my mask as i see through theirs. and yet some of them smile and look as gay as if they were really happy. perhaps i can throw off this weight that is crushing me, as they have thrown off theirs--if i try a little harder." such were the reflections which revolved ceaselessly within his brain. but his efforts were in vain. in this life he had but a single consolation, and that was in a friendship which from its nature did not and could not become an intimacy. among the many acquaintances he had made in that realm of life to which his vices and his crimes had consigned him, a single person had awakened in his bosom emotions of interest and regard. there was in that circle of silent, terrible, remorseless parasites of society, a young man whose classical face, exquisite manners and varied accomplishments set him apart from all the others. he moved among them like a ghost,--mysterious, uncommunicative and unapproachable. he had inspired in his companions a sort of unacknowledged respect, from the superiority of his professional code of ethics, for he never preyed upon the innocent, the weak, or the helpless, and gambled only with the rich or the crafty. he victimized the victimizers, and signalized his triumph with a mocking smile in which there was no trace of bitterness, but only a gentle and humorous irony. from the time of their first meeting he had treated david in an exceptional manner. in unobserved ways he had done him little kindnesses, and proffered many delicate advances of friendship, and not many months passed before the two lonely, suspicious and ostracized men united their fortunes in a sort of informal partnership and were living in common apartments. the most marked characteristic of this restricted friendship was a disposition to respect the privacy of each other's lives and thoughts. in all their intercourse through the year in which they had been thus associated they had never obtruded their personal affairs upon each other, nor pried into each other's secrets. there was in foster mantel a sort of sardonic humor into which he was always withdrawing himself. in one of their infrequent conversations the two companions had grown unusually confidential and found themselves drifting a little too near that most dangerous of all shoals in the lives of such men--the past. with a swift, instinctive movement both of them turned away. each read in the other's face consciousness of the impossibility of discussing those experiences through which they had come to be what they were. such men guard the real history of their lives and the real emotions of their hearts as jealously as the combinations of their cards. the old, ironical smile lighted up mantel's features, and he said: "we seem to have a violent antipathy to thin ice, davy, and skate away from it as soon as it begins to crack a little beneath our feet." "yes," said his friend, shrugging his shoulders, "it is not pleasant to fall through the crust of friendship. there is a sub-element in every life a too sudden plunge into which might result in a fatal chill. we had all better keep on the surface. i am frank enough to say that the less any one knows about my past, the better i shall be satisfied." "i wish that i could keep my own self from invading that realm as easily as i can keep others! why is it that no man has ever yet been able to 'let the dead past bury its dead'? it seems a reasonable demand." "he is a poor sexton--this old man, the past. i have watched him at his work, and he is powerless to dig his own grave, however many others he may have excavated!" "the present seems as helpless as the past. i wonder if the future will heap enough new events over old ones to hide them from view?" "let a shadow bury the sun! let a wave bury the sea," answered david bitterly. "i am afraid you take life too seriously," said mantel, on whose face appeared that inexplicable smile behind which he constantly retired. "for, after all, life is nothing but a jest--a grim one, to be sure, but still a jest. the great host who entertains us in the banqueting hall of the universe must have his fun as well as any one, and we must laugh at his jokes even when they are at our expense. this is the least that guests can do." "what, even when they writhe with pain?" "why not? we all have our fun! you used to scare timid little girls with jack-lanterns, put duck eggs under the old hen, and tie tin cans to dogs' tails. where did you learn these tricks, if not from the great trickmaster himself? humor is hereditary! we get it from a divine original, and the archetypal joker must have his fun. it is better to take his horseplay in good part. we cannot stop him, and we may as well laugh at what amuses him. there is just as much fun in it as a fellow is able to see!" "then there is none, for i cannot see any. but if you get the comfort you seem to out of this philosophy of yours, i envy you. what do you call it? there ought to be a name for a metaphysic which seems to comprehend all the complex phenomena of life in one single, simple, principle of humor!" "how would 'will-o'-the-wispism' do? there is a sort of elusive element in life, you see. nature has no goal, yet leads us along the pathway by shows, enchantments and promises. she pays us in checks which she never cashes. she holds out a glittering prize, persuades us that it is worth any sacrifice, and when we make it, the bubble bursts, the sword descends, and you hear a low chuckle." "you have described her method well enough, but how is it that you get your fun out of your knowledge?" "it is the illusion itself! the boy chasing the rainbow is happier than the man counting his gold!" "but what of that dreadful day of disenchantment when the illusion no longer deceives?" "ha! ha! why, just put on your mask and smile. you can 'make believe' you are happy, can't you?" "i have got beyond that," david answered savagely. "i am not sitting for my picture to this great, grim artist friend of yours, who first sticks a knife into me, and then tells me to look pleasant that he may photograph me for his gallery of fools! i am tired of shams and make-believes. life is a hideous mockery, and i say plainly that i loathe and abhor it!" "tush, tush, whatever else you do or do not do, keep sweet, david! whom the gods would destroy they first make mad! you take yourself and your life too seriously, i tell you. everything will go its own way whether you want it to or not! i used to read the classics, once, and some fragments of those old fellows' sublime philosophy are still fresh in my memory. there is a scrap in one of the greek tragedies--the oedipus, i think, that has always kept running through my head: "'why should we fear, when chance rules everything, and foresight of the future there is none? 'tis best to live at random as we can! but thou, fear not that marriage with thy mother! many, ere now, have dreamed of things like this, but who cares least about them, bears life best!' "there is wisdom for you! 'who cares least about them bears life best!' it's my philosophy in a nut-shell." "look here, mantel," said david, "your philosophy may be all right, provided a man has not done a--provided--provided a man has not committed a-a crime! i don't care anything about your past in detail; but unless you have done some deed that hangs around your neck like a mill-stone, you don't know anything about the subject you are discussing." mantel dropped his eyes, and sat in silence. for the first time since david had known him, his fine face gave some genuine revelation of the emotions of his soul. great tears gathered in his eyes, and his lips trembled. in a moment, he arose, took his hat, laid his hand gently upon the arm of his friend, and said "david, my dear fellow, we are skating on that thin ice again. we shall fall through if we are not careful, and get that chill you were talking about. let's go out and take a walk. life is too deep for either you or me to fathom. i gave it up as a bad job long ago. what you just said about having a knife stuck into you comes the nearest to my own notion. i feel a good deal as i fancy a butterfly must when he has been intercepted in a gay and joyous flight and stuck against the wall with a sharp pin, among a million other specimens which the great entomologist has gathered for some purpose which no one but himself can understand. all i try to do is to smile enough to cover up my contortions. come, let us go. we need the air." they went down into the streets and lost themselves in the busy crowd of care-encumbered men. half unconscious of the throngs which jostled them, they strolled along broadway, occasionally pausing to gaze into a shop window, to rest on a seat in a park, to listen to a street musician, or to watch some passing incident in the great panorama which is ever unrolling itself in that brilliant and fascinating avenue. suddenly mantel was startled by an abrupt change in the manner of his companion, who paused and stood as if rooted to the pavement, while his great blue eyes opened beyond their natural width with a fixed stare. following the direction of their gaze, mantel saw that they were fixed on a blind beggar who sat on a stool at the edge of the sidewalk, silent and motionless like an old snag on the bank of a river--the perpetual stream of human life forever flowing by. his head was bare; in his outstretched hand he held a tin cup which jingled now and then as some compassionate traveler dropped him a coin; by his side, looking up occasionally into his unresponsive eyes, was a little terrier, his solitary companion and guide in a world of perpetual night. the face of the man was a remarkable one, judged by almost any standard. it was large in size, strong in outline, and although he was a beggar, it wore an expression of power, of independence and resolution like that of another belisarius. but the feature which first arrested and longest held attention, was an enormous mustache. it could not have been less than fourteen inches from tip to tip, was carefully trimmed and trained, and although the man himself was still comparatively young, was white as snow. occasionally he set his cup on his knee and with both hands twisted the ends into heavy ropes. it was a striking face and exacted from every observer more than a passing look; but remarkable as it was, mantel could not discover any reason for the strained and terrible interest of his companion, who stood staring so long and in such a noticeable way, that he was in danger of himself attracting the attention of the curious crowd. seeing this, mantel took him by the arm. "what is the matter?" he asked. david started. "my god," he cried, drawing his hand over his eyes like a man awakening from a dream; "it is he!" "it is who? are you mad! come away! people are observing you. if there is anything wrong, we must move or get into trouble." "let me alone!" david replied, shaking off his hand. "i would rather die than lose sight of that man." "then come into this doorway where you can watch him unobserved, for you are making a spectacle of yourself. come, or i shall drag you." with his eyes still riveted on that strange countenance, david yielded to the pressure of his friend's hand and they retired to a hallway whence he could watch the beggar unobserved. his whole frame was quivering with excitement and he kept murmuring to himself: "it is he. it is he! i cannot be mistaken! nature never made his double! but how he has changed! how old and white he is! it cannot be his ghost, can it? if it were night i might think so, but it is broad daylight! this man is living flesh and blood and my hand is not, after all, the hand of a mur--" "hush!" cried mantel; "you are talking aloud!" "yes, i am talking aloud," he answered, "and i mean to talk louder yet! i want you to hear that i am not a murderer, a murderer! do you understand? i am going to rush out into the streets to cry out at the top of my voice--i am not a murderer!" terrified at his violence, mantel pushed him farther back into the doorway; but he sprang out again as if his very life depended upon the sight of the great white face. "be quiet!" mantel cried, seizing his arm with an iron grip. the pain restored him to his senses. "what did i say?" he asked anxiously. "you said, 'i am not a murderer,'" mantel whispered. "and it is true! i am not!" he replied, with but little less violence than before. "look at this hand, mantel! i have not looked at it myself for more than three years without seeing spots of blood on it! and now it looks as white as snow to me! see how firm i can hold it! and yet through all those long and terrible years, it has trembled like a leaf. tell me, am i not right? is it not white and firm?" "yes, yes. it is; but hush. you are in danger of being overheard, and if you are not careful, in a moment more we shall be in the hands of the police!" "no matter if i am," he cried, almost beside himself, and rapturously embracing his friend. "nothing could give me more pleasure than a trial for my crime, for my victim would be my witness! he is not dead. he is out there in the street. mantel, you don't know what happiness is! you don't know how sweet it is to be alive! a mountain has been taken from my shoulders. i no longer have any secret! i will tell you the whole story of my life, now." "not now; but later on, when we are alone. let us leave this spot and go to our rooms." "no, no! don't stir! we might lose him, and if we did, i could never persuade myself that this was not a dream! we will stay here until he leaves, and then we will follow him and prove beyond a doubt that this is a real man and not the vision of an overheated brain. we will follow him, i say, and if he is really flesh and blood, and not a poor ghost, we will help him, you and i. poor old man! how sad he looks! and no wonder! you don't know of what i robbed him!" david had now grown more quiet, and they stood patiently waiting for the time to come when the old beggar should leave his post and retire to his home, if home he had. at last he received his signal for departure. a shadow fell from the roof of the tall building opposite, upon the pupil of an eye, which perhaps felt the darkness it could not see. the building was his dial. like millions of his fellow creatures, he measured life by advancing shadows. he arose, and in his mien and movements there was a certain majesty. placing his hat upon his storm-beaten head, he folded the camp-chair under his arm, took the leading string in his hand and followed the little dog, who began picking his way with fine care through the surging crowd. behind him at a little distance walked the two gamblers, pursuing him like a double shadow. a bloodhound could not have been more eager than david was. he trembled if an omnibus cut off his view for a single instant, and shuddered if the beggar turned a corner. unconscious of all this, the dog and his master wended their way homeward. they crawled slowly and quietly across a street over which thundered an endless procession of vehicles; they moved like snails through the surf of the ocean of life. arriving at length at the door of a wretched tenement house, the blind man and his dog entered. as he noted the squalor of the place, david murmured to himself, "poor old man! how low he has fallen!" several minutes passed in silence, while he stood reflecting on the doctor's misery, his own new happiness and the opportunities and duties which the adventure had opened and imposed. at last he said to his friend, "do you know where we are? i was so absorbed that i didn't notice our route at all." "yes," mantel answered. "i have marked every turn of the way." "could you find the place again?" "without the slightest difficulty." "be sure, for if you wish to help me, as i think you do, you will have to come often. i have made my plans in the few moments in which i have been standing here, and am determined to devote my life, if need be, to this poor creature whom i have so wronged. i must get him out of this filthy hole into some cheerful place. i will atone for the past if i can! atone! what a word that is! with what stunning force its meaning dawns upon me! how many times i have heard and uttered it without comprehension. but somehow i now see in it a revelation of the sweetest possibility of life. oh! i am a changed man; i will make atonement! come, let us go. i am anxious to begin. but no, i must proceed with caution. how do i know that this is his permanent home? he may be only lodging for the night, and when you come to-morrow, he may be gone! go in, mantel, and make sure that we shall find him here to-morrow. go, and while you find out all you can about him, i will begin to search for such a place as i want to put him in. we will part for the present; but when we meet to-night we shall have much to talk about. i will tell you the whole of this long and bitter story. i am so happy, mantel. you can't understand! i have something to live for now. i will work, oh, you do not know how i will work to make this atonement. what a word it is! it is music to my ears. atonement!" and so in the lexicon of human experience he had at last discovered the meaning of one of the great words of our language. after all, experience is the only exhaustive dictionary, and the definitions it contains are the only ones which really burn themselves into the mind or fully interpret the significances of life. to every man language is a kind of fossil poetry, until experience makes those dry bones live! words are mere faded metaphors, pressed like dried flowers in old and musty volumes, until a blow upon our heads, a pang in our hearts, a strain on our nerves, the whisper of a maid, the voice of a little child, turns them into living blossoms of odorous beauty. chapter xxvii. if thine enemy hunger "whatever the number of a man's friends, there will be times in his life when he has one too few; but if he has only one enemy, he is lucky indeed if he has not one too many." --bulwer-lytton. the blow struck by david had stunned the doctor, but had not killed him. he lay in the road until a slave, passing that way, picked him up and carried him to a neighboring plantation, where he fell into the hands of people who in the truest sense of the word were good samaritans. their hospitality was tested to the utmost, for he lay for weeks in a stupor, and when he recovered consciousness his reason had undergone a strange eclipse. for a long time he could not recall a single event in his history and when at last some of the most prominent began to re-present themselves to his view it was vaguely and slowly, as mountain-peaks and hill-tops break through a morning mist. this was not the only result of the blow which his rival had struck him; it had left him totally blind. nothing could have been more pitiful than the sight of this once strong man, more helpless than an infant, sitting in the sun where kind hands had placed him. months elapsed before he regained anything that could be called a clear conception of the past. it did at length return, however. slowly, but with terrible distinctness he recalled the events which preceded and brought about this tragedy. and as he reflected upon them, jealousy, hatred and revenge boiled in his soul and finally crystallized into the single desperate purpose to find and crush the man who had wrecked his life. he kept his story to himself; but made furtive inquiries of his new-found friends and of the slaves and neighbors, none of which enabled him to discover the slightest clue to the fugitives. so far as he could learn, the earth might have opened and swallowed them, and so when he had exhausted the sources of information in the region where the accident occurred, he determined to go elsewhere. refusing the kind offers of a permanent refuge in the home of these hospitable kentuckians, he made his way back to cincinnati, where he hoped not only to find traces of the fugitives, but to recover the jewels which pepeeta had left behind her on the table, and which in his frantic haste he had forgotten to take with him. he learned the history of the jewels in a few short hours. not long after his own sudden disappearance and that of david and pepeeta, the judge had called at the hotel with an order for his property. the unsuspecting landlord had honored it, and the judge not long afterward left for parts unknown. this discovery not only turned his rage to frenzy, but increased his difficulties a hundred fold. without friends and without money, he set himself to attain revenge. before a purpose so resolute, many obstacles at once gave way, and although he could find no traces of david and pepeeta, he discovered that the judge had fled to new york city, and thither he determined to go. procuring a little terrier, through the charity of strangers, he trained him to be his guide, and started on his pilgrimage. many weeks were consumed in the journey and many more in hopeless efforts to discover the thief. through the aid of an old cincinnati friend whom he accidentally encountered he located the fugitive at last; but in a cemetery! ill-gotten wealth had precipitated the final disaster, for having turned the diamonds into money the fugitive entered upon a debauch which terminated in a horrible death. at the side of a grave in the potter's field, the sexton one day saw a blind man leaning on a cane. after a long silence, he stooped down, felt carefully over the low ground as if to assure himself of something, then rose, lifted his cane to heaven, waved it wildly, muttered what sounded like imprecations, and soon after followed a little terrier to the gate of the cemetery and disappeared. it was the doctor. one of his enemies had escaped him forever, and the trail of the others seemed hopelessly lost in the darkness which had settled down upon him. there was nothing left for him but to beg his living and impotently nourish his hate. chapter xxviii. a man crossed with adversity "one sole desire, one passion now remains to keep life's fever still within his veins, vengeance! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast o'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast." --lalla rookh. it was late in the evening when david returned to his apartments, excited, triumphant, eager. "well," he cried, rushing impetuously up to mantel, who stood waiting for him. "is he still there? is that place really his home?" "yes," his friend answered; "he has lived there for more than a year, in solitude and poverty. his health is very poor and he is growing steadily weaker. he has declined so much recently that now he does not venture out until the afternoon." "feeble, is he? poor old man!" exclaimed david. "but at least he is not dead, and while there is life there is hope! i am not a murderer, and there is a possibility of my making atonement! how i cling to that idea, mantel! in a single hour i have enjoyed more happiness than i thought a whole lifetime could contain. but even in this indescribable happiness there is a strange element of unrest, for it seems too good to last. is all great gladness haunted by this apprehension of evanescence? but at any rate, i am happy now!" "and i am almost happy in your happiness," responded his friend, his face lighted up by an altogether new and beautiful smile. "sit down, then," said david, giving him a chair and standing opposite to him, "and i will tell you my story." words cannot describe the emotion, nay the passion, with which he poured that tragic narrative into the ears of his eager and sympathetic listener. never was a story told to a more attentive and appreciative auditor. there must have been some buried sorrow in that heart which had rendered it sensitive to the griefs of others. hours were consumed by this narrative and by the questions which had to be asked and answered, and it was long after midnight when david found time to say, "and now shall i tell you my plans for the future?" "yes, if you will," said mantel. "well, i have rented a sunny room in a lodging house in a quiet street, and to-morrow, if you are willing, you shall go and lead him to it. i must lean upon you, mantel; i dare not make myself known to him. he would never accept my aid if he knew by whom it was bestowed, for he is proud and revengeful and would give himself no rest night or day until he had my life, if he knew i was within reach. i do not fear him; but what good could come of his wreaking vengeance on me, richly as i deserve it? it would only make his destiny more dark and dreadful, and defeat the one chance i have of making an atonement. you do not think i ought to make myself known, do you?" "i do not. i think with you that an atonement is the most perfect satisfaction of justice." "thank you, thank you, my dear friend. you do not know how glad i am to have you think i am doing right. you will go to him to-morrow, then, and you will tell him that some one who has seen him on the streets has taken compassion on him. you will do this, will you not?" "nothing could give me greater pleasure. i half feel as if i had participated with you in the wrong done to the old man, and that i shall be blessed with you in trying to make it right." "that is good in you, mantel. how much nobility lies buried in every human heart! it may be that even such men as you and i are capable of some sort of rescue and redemption. i am going to spend my best strength in working for this poor old blind beggar whom i have wronged. i mean to toil for him like a galley slave, and mark me, mantel, it is going to be honest toil!" "honest, did you say?" asked mantel, lifting his eyebrows incredulously. "yes," david answered, "honest. this hope that has come to me has wrought a great change in my heart. it has revived old feelings which i thought long dead. if there is a god in heaven who has decided to give me one more chance to set myself right, i am going to take it! and listen; if this great hope can come to me, why not to you?" mantel leaned his head on his hand a moment, and then answered with a sigh, "perhaps--but," and paused. there are moments when these two indefinite words contain the whole of our philosophy of existence. "i am going to seek the great perhaps!" said rabelais, as he breathed his last. david looked at him sympathetically and said, "well, it is not strange that you cannot feel as i do. it is not by what befalls others, but by what befalls ourselves, that we learn to hope and trust." the silence that came between them was broken by mantel, who looked up at him with a trace of the old ironical smile on his face. "your plans are all right as far as they go, but it seems to me the hardest part of the tangle still remains to be unraveled." "what do you mean?" asked david. "what are you going to do about this beautiful pepeeta?" "oh, i have settled that, too! you do not know how clearly i see it all. it is as if a fog had lifted from the ocean, and the sailor had found himself inside the harbor. i shall write and tell her all." "do you mean that you will tell her that her husband is alive?" "i do." "and perhaps you will advise her to return to him!" "you are right, i shall." mantel shook his head. "you do not think it best?" said david. "i do not know." "but there is nothing else to do." "it is natural that i should see only the difficulties." "what difficulties can there be?" "will you do anything more than destroy her by binding her once more to the man she loathes?" "you do not know pepeeta." "it is true, i only know human nature." "but she is more than human!" "and are you?" "not i!" "then how will you endure to see her once more the wife of your enemy and rival?" "mantel," said david, pausing in his restless walk across the room, "i do not wonder that you ask this. it was the first question that i asked myself. it struck my heart like the blow of a hammer. but i have settled it. i have weighed the pains which i have suffered in a just and even balance. i know i cannot escape suffering, whichever way i turn. i have felt the pains of doing wrong, and i now deliberately choose the pains of doing right, let them be what they will!" "it is easy to scorn the bitterness of an untasted cup." "no matter! i have settled it. it must be done." mantel shrugged his shoulders and said, "i am afraid that the great joker of whom we were talking yesterday is about to perpetrate another of his jests." "you think it absurd, then?" "i regard it as impossible." "but why?" "because you are making a plan to act as if you were a disembodied conscience. you have forgotten that you still have the passions of a man. i fear there will be another tragedy as dark as the first. but if you are determined, i must obey you. i never know how to act for myself; but if some one wishes me to act for him i can do so without fear, even if i am compelled to do so without hope." david resumed his walk for a moment, and then pausing again before his friend, said, "mantel, a few years ago my soul was so sensitive to truth and duty that i was accustomed to regard its intuitions as the will of god revealed to me in some sort of supernatural way. i acted on the impulses of my heart without the slightest question or hesitation, and during that entire period of my life i cannot remember that i was ever for a single time seriously mistaken or misled. while i obeyed those intuitions and followed that mysterious light, i was happy. when i turned my back on that light it ceased to shine. it has been more than two years since i have thought i heard the voice of god or felt any assurance that i was in the path of duty. but now the departed vision has returned! i have had as clear a perception of my duty as was ever vouchsafed me in the old sweet days, and i shall obey it if it costs me my life." so deep was his earnestness that mantel seemed to catch his enthusiasm and be convinced. but in another instant the old mocking smile had returned. "would you be so tractable and obedient if the old beggar were in better health?" he said, opening and shutting the leaves of a book which was lying on the table, and looking out from under half-lifted eyelids. at this insinuation david winced, and for a moment seemed about to resent it. but he restrained himself and replied gently, "the same distrust of my motives has arisen in my own mind. i more than half suspect that if, as you say, the old beggar were young and strong, my heart would fail me. but the knowledge that i could not do my duty if the doctor were going to live cannot be any reason for my not doing it when i believe that he is likely to die! i am not called upon to do wrong simply because i see that i am not wholly unselfish in doing right. i am not asked to face a supposition, but a fact. i shall not pride myself on any righteousness that i do not possess; but i must not be kept from doing my duty because i am not a perfect man." "you are right," said mantel, but his assent seemed more like a concession than a conviction. he had grown to regard the passing panorama of life as a great spectacular exhibition. the actors seemed swayed by powers external to themselves, their movements exhibiting such gross inconsistencies as to make it impossible to predict, and almost impossible to guess them. he looked on with more curiosity than interest, as at the different combinations in a kaleidoscope. he could not conceive that david, or any one, could so come under the dominant influence of a conviction as to act coherently and consistently upon it through any or all emergencies. but he was kind and sympathetic, and his heart responded to the passionate earnestness of his friend with a new interest and pleasure. chapter xxix. as a tale that is told "first our pleasures die--and then our hopes and then our fears--and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust, and we die too." --shelley. the next few weeks were passed by these two subdued and altered friends in devoted efforts to make the blind man comfortable and happy. true to his determination, david sought and found a place to work, and after reserving enough of his wages to supply the few necessities of his daily life, dedicated the rest to the purchase of comforts for the poor invalid. mantel acted as his almoner, and by his delicate tact and gentle manners persuaded the proud and revengeful old man to accept the mysterious charity. the moment the strain of perpetual beggary was taken from him, the physical ruin which the terrible blow of the stone, the subsequent illness, and the ensuing poverty and wretchedness had wrought, became manifest. he experienced a sudden relapse, and began to sink into an ominous decline. even had he not known the secret of his sorrow, it would have soon become plain to his acute and watchful nurse that some hidden trouble was gnawing at his heart, for he was taciturn, abstracted and sometimes morose. he manifested no curiosity as to the benefactor upon whose charity he was living, but received the alms bestowed by that unknown hand as children receive the gifts of god--unsolicited, uncomprehended and unobserved. his mind, aroused by the conversation of his untiring nurse to the realities of the present existence, would sink back by a sort of irresistible gravity into the realm of memory. there, in the impenetrable privacy of his soul, he brooded over his wrongs and counted his prospects of righting them, as a miser reckons his coins. the spasmodic workings of his countenance, the convulsive gripping of his hands, the grinding of his great white teeth, the scalding tears which sometimes fell from his sightless eyes, revealed to the mind of his patient and watchful observer the passions secretly and ceaselessly working in his soul. mantel became fascinated by the study of this subjective drama. he used to sit and watch the expressive curtain behind which these dark scenes were being enacted, and fancy that he could follow the soul as, in the spirit world, it tracked its foe, fell upon him and exacted its terrible revenge. at times he imagined that he could actually see the enraged thoughts issue from the body as if it were a den or cave, and they, living beasts of prey ranging abroad by day and night, and returning with their booty to devour it; or, if they had failed to take it, to brood over the failure of their hunt. in all this time he asked for nothing, he complained of nothing, commented on nothing. mantel would have concluded that his heart was dead had it not been for his pathetic demonstrations of affection for the little terrier who had so faithfully guided him from his lodging to the places where he sat and begged. the dog reciprocated these attentions with a devotion and a gratitude which were human in their intensity and depth. it was as beautiful as it was pathetic, to see these two friends bestowing upon each other their few but expressive signs of love. not until many weeks had passed did mantel succeed in really engaging his patient in anything like a conversation, and even after he had begun to thaw a little under those tactful ministrations of love, whenever the past was even hinted at the old recluse relapsed instantly into silence. mantel might have been discouraged had he not determined at all hazards to enter into the secrets of this life, and to pave the way for the forgiveness of his friend. he therefore persisted in his efforts, and one bright day when the invalid was feeling unusually strong ventured to press home his inquiries. "i cannot help thinking," he said, "that you could soon be reasonably well again if you did not brood so much. i fear there is some trouble gnawing at your heart." "there is," he was answered, icily. "have you wronged some one, then, and are these thoughts which vex you feelings of remorse and guilt?" "wronged some one!" the sick man fairly roared, gripping the arms of his chair and gasping for breath in the excitement which the question brought on. "not i! i have been wronged! no one has ever b-b-been wronged as i have. i have nourished vipers in my b-b-bosom and been stung by them. i have sown love and reaped hate. i have been robbed, deceived and betrayed! my wife is gone! my health is gone! my sight is gone! he has skinned me like a sheep, c-c-curse him! my heart has turned to a hammer which knocks at my ribs and cries revenge! it ch-ch-chokes me!" he gasped, grew purple in the face and clutched at his collar as if about to strangle. after a little the paroxysm passed away, and mantel determined once more to try and assuage this implacable hatred. to his own unbounded astonishment this young man who had long ago abandoned his faith in christianity, began to plead like an apostle for the practice of its central and fundamental virtue. "my friend," he said, with a new solemnity in his manner, "you are on the threshold of another world; how dare you present yourself to the judge of all the earth with a passion like this in your heart?" in the momentary rest the beggar had recovered strength enough to reply: "it is t-t-true. i am on the threshold of another world! i didn't use to b-b-believe there was one, but i do now. there must be! would it b-b-be right for such d-d-devils as the one that wrecked my life to g-g-go unpunished? not if i know anything! they get away from us here, but if eternity is as long as they s-s-say it is, i'll find d-d-dave corson if it t-t-takes the whole of it, and when i f-f-find him--" he paused again, gasping and strangling. mantel's pity was deeply stirred, and he would gladly have spared him had he dared; but he did not, and permitting him to regain his breath, he said: "and so you really mean to die without bestowing your pardon upon those who have wronged you?" "i swear it!" "have you ever heard the story of the crucifixion of jesus christ?" asked mantel, trembling at the name and at his own temerity in pronouncing it. it was a strange situation into which this young skeptic had been forced by the logic of circumstances. as the old beggar felt the ethical necessity of another life, the young gambler felt the ethical necessity of the crucifixion. it seemed to him that if the redemption of this hate-smitten man hung on the capacity of his own heart to empty itself of its bitterness, there was about as much hope as of a serpent expelling the poison from its fangs! he had never before seen a man under the absolute and unresisted power of one of the basal passions, and neither he nor any one else has ever understood life until he has witnessed that fearful spectacle. a summer breeze conveys no more idea of a tornado, nor a burning chimney of a volcano, than ordinary vices convey of that fearful ruin which any elemental passion works when permitted to devastate a soul, unrestrained. the sight filled mantel with terror, and he felt himself compelled by some invincible necessity to plead with the man in the name of the saviour of the world. long and earnestly he besought him to forgive as christ forgave; but all in vain! so long had he brooded over his wrongs that his mind had either become hopelessly impotent or else irretrievably hardened. the conversation had so angered and exhausted the invalid that he presently crawled over to his bed, threw himself upon it and sank almost instantly into a deep sleep. with a heavy heart, mantel left him and hurried home to report the interview to david. he found him just returning from his work, and conveyed his message by the gloom of his countenance. "has anything, gone wrong?" david inquired, anxiously, as they entered their room. casting himself heavily into a seat and answering abstractedly, mantel replied, "each new day of life renders it more inexplicable. a man no sooner forms a theory than he is compelled to abandon it. i fear it is a labyrinth from which we shall none of us escape." "do not speak in parables," david exclaimed, impatiently, "if anything is the matter, tell me at once. do not leave me in suspense. i cannot endure it. is he worse? is he dying?" "he is both, and more," mantel answered, still unable to escape from the gloom which enveloped him. "more? what more? speak out. i cannot bear these indirections." "i have at last drawn from him a brief but terrible allusion to the tragedy of your lives." "what did he say? quick, tell me!" "he said that he had been wronged by those whom he had benefited." "it is too true, god knows; but what else did he say?" "that he would spend eternity in revenging his wrongs." "horrible!" cried david, sinking into a chair. "yes, more horrible than you know." "did he show no mercy? was there no sign of pardon?" "none! granite is softer than his heart. ice is warmer." david rose and paced the floor. pausing before mantel, he said, piteously, "perhaps he will relent when pepeeta comes!" "perhaps! have you heard from her?" "no, but her answer cannot be much longer delayed, for i have written again and again." "something may have happened," said mantel, who had lost all heart and hope. "do not say it," david exclaimed, beseechingly. "well, but why does she not reply?" "it is a long distance. she may have changed her residence. she may never go to the postoffice. she may be sick." "or dead!" said mantel, giving expression in two words to the fullness of his despair. "impossible!" exclaimed david, his face blanching at this sudden articulation of the dread he had been struggling so hard to repress. "you do not know her!" he continued. "if you had ever seen her, you could not speak of death. she was not made to die. i beg you to abandon this mood. you will drive me to despair. i cannot live another moment without the hope that i shall be forgiven by this old man whom i have so terribly wronged, and i know that he will not forgive me unless i put back into his hands the treasure of which i robbed him." "corson," said mantel, rising and taking david by the hand, "you must give up this dream of receiving the old man's pardon." "i cannot!" "you must! he will not grant it even if pepeeta comes. the knife has gone too deep! his heart is broken, and his mind, i think, is deranged. and more than this, he will not live until pepeeta comes unless she hastens on the wings of the wind. he is dying, corson, dying. you cannot imagine how he has withered away since you saw him. it is like watching a candle flicker in its socket. you must abandon this hope, i say." "and i say that it is impossible." "but you must. what difference can it possibly make whether he forgives you or not? the wrong is done. it cannot be undone." "what difference? what difference, did you say? is it possible that you do not know? do you think a man could endure this life, hard enough at the best, if he were haunted by a dead man's curse?" "thousands have had to do so--millions; but do not let us talk about it any more. we are nervous and unstrung. you will never be persuaded until you see for yourself. if you wish to make the effort, you must do it soon; in fact you must do it now. i have come to tell you that his physician says he will not live until morning." "then let us go!" cried david, seizing his hat and starting for the door, white to the lips and trembling violently. they passed out into the night together and hurried away to the beggar's room. each was too burdened for talk and they walked in silence. arriving at the house, they ascended the stairs on tiptoe and paused to listen at the door. "i will leave it ajar, so you may hear what he says, and then you can judge if i am right," said mantel, entering quietly. he approached the table and turned up the lamp which he had left burning dimly. by its pale light david could see the great head lying on the pillow, the chin elevated, the mouth partially open, the breast heaving with the painful efforts to catch a few last fluttering inspirations. nestling close to the ashen face and licking the cheek now and then with his little red tongue, was the terrier. mantel's footfall, quiet as it was, disturbed the sleeper, who moved, turned his head toward the sound and asked in a husky and but half-audible voice, "who is there?" "it is i. how are you now? a little better?" said mantel, laying his soft, cool hand upon the broad forehead, wet already with the death-damp. "i am getting weaker. it won't--last--long," he answered painfully. "do you think so?" "i know it." "are you satisfied?" "it can't--be--helped." "no, it can't be helped. the doctor has told me you cannot live through the night." "the--sooner--the--better!" "i do not want to bother you, but i cannot bear to have you die without talking to you again about your future; i must try once more to persuade you not to die without sending some kind word to the people who have wronged you." the expression of the white face underwent a hideous transformation. "if you do not feel like talking to me about a matter so sacred and personal, would you not like to have me send for some minister or priest?" the head moved slowly back and forth in a firm negation. "in every age, and among all men, it has seemed fitting that those who were about to die should make some preparation to meet their god. have you no desire to do this?" a fierce light shone upon the emaciated countenance and the thin lips slowly articulated these words: "i--myself--will--settle--with--god! he--will--have--to--account--to--me--for--all--he--has--made--me--suffer!" the listener at the door leaned against the wall for support. "is there absolutely no word of pardon or of kindness which you wish to send to those who have injured you, as a sort of legacy from the grave?" "none!" he whispered fiercely. "suppose that your enemy should come to see you. suppose that a great change had come over him; that he, too, had suffered deeply; that your wife had discovered his treachery and left him; that he had bitterly repented; that he had made such atonement as he could for his sin; that it was he who has been caring for you in these last hours, could you not pardon him?" these words produced an extraordinary effect on the dying man. for the first time he identified his enemy with his friend, and as the discovery dawned upon his mind a convulsion seized and shook his frame. he slowly and painfully struggled to a sitting posture, lifted his right hand above his head and said in tones that rang with the raucous power of by-gone days: "curse him! if i had known that i was eating his b-b-bread, it would have choked me! send him to me! where is he?" "i am here," said david, quietly entering the door. "i am here to throw myself on your mercy and to beg you, for the love of god, to forgive me." as he heard the familiar voice, the beggar trembled. he made one last supreme effort to look out of his darkened eyes. an expression of despairing agony followed the attempt, and then, with both his great bony hands, he clutched at the throat of his night robe as if choking for breath, tore it open and reaching down into his bosom felt for some concealed object. he found it at last, grasped it and drew it forth. it was a shining blade of steel. mantel sprang to take it from his hand; but david pushed him back and said calmly, "let him alone." "yes, let me alone," cried the blind man, trembling in every limb, and crawling slowly and painfully from the bed. the movements of the dying man were too slow and weak to convey any adequate expression of the tempest raging in his soul. it was incredible that a tragedy was really being enacted, and that this poor trembling creature was thirsting for the lifeblood of a mortal foe. david did not seek to escape. he did not even shudder. there was a singular expression of repose on his features, for in his desperation he solaced himself by the reflection that he was about to render final satisfaction for a sin whose atonement had become otherwise impossible. he therefore folded his arms across his breast and stood waiting. the contorted face of the furious beggar afforded a terrible contrast to the tranquil countenance of the penitent and unresisting object of his hatred. the opaque flesh seemed to have become transparent, and through it glowed the baleful light of hatred and revenge. the lips were drawn back from the white teeth, above which the great mustache bristled savagely. the lids were lifted from the hollow and expressionless eyes. balancing himself for an instant he moved forward; but the emaciated limbs tottered under the weight of the body. he reeled, caught himself, then reeled once more, and lunged forward in the direction from which he had heard the voice of his enemy. again mantel strove to intercept him, and again david forced him back. uncertain as to the exact location of the object of his hatred, he raised his knife and struck at random; but the blow spent itself in air. the futility and helplessness of his efforts crazed him. "where are you? g-g-give me some sign!" he cried. "i am here," said david in a voice whose preternatural calmness sent a shudder to the heart of his friend. with one supreme and final effort, the dying man lurched forward and threw himself wildly toward the sound. his hand, brandishing the dagger, was uplifted and seemed about to descend on his foe; but at that very instant, with a frightful imprecation upon his lips, the gigantic form collapsed, the knife dropped from the hand, and he plunged, a corpse, into the arms of his intended victim. david received the dead weight upon the bosom at which the dagger had been aimed, and the first expression of his face indicated a certain disappointment that a single blow had not been permitted to end his troubles, as well as terror at an event so appalling. he stood spellbound for a moment, supporting the awful burden, and then, overpowered with the horror of the situation, cried out, "take him, mantel! take him! help me to lay him down! quick, i cannot stand it; quick!" they laid the lifeless form on the bed, while the little dog, leaping up beside his dead master, threw his head back and emitted a series of prolonged and melancholy howls. chapter xxx. out of the jaws of death "men deal with life as children with their play, who first misuse, then cast their toys away." --cowper. bewildered by the scene through which he had just passed, corson returned to his rooms and spent the night in a sort of stupor. what happened the next day he never knew; but on the following morning he accompanied mantel to the cemetery where, with simple but reverent ceremony, they committed the body of the doctor to the bosom of earth. just as they were about to turn away, after the conclusion of the burial service, a strange thing happened. the limb of a great elm tree, which had been tied back to keep it out of the way of the workmen, was released by the old sexton and swept back over the grave. it produced a similar impression upon the minds of both the subdued spectators. they glanced at each other, and mantel said, "it was like the wing of an angel!" "yes," added david with a sigh, "and seemed to brush away and obliterate all traces of his sorrow and his sins." they did not speak during their homeward journey, and when they reached their rooms david paced uneasily backward and forward until the shadows of evening had fallen. when he suddenly observed that it was dusk, he took his hat and went out into the streets. there was something so restless and unnatural about his movements as to excite the suspicion of his friend, who waited for a single moment and then hurried after him. the night was calm and clear, the autumn stars were shining in a cloudless sky, and the tide of life which had surged through the busy streets all day was ebbing like the waters from the bays and estuaries along the shore of the ocean. the sounds the people made in tramping over the stone pavements or hurriedly driving over the hard streets, possessed a strangely different quality from the monotonous and grinding roar of the daylight. they were sharp, clear, resonant and emphatic. a single footfall attracted the attention of a listener more than the previous shuffle of a thousand feet. david's,--soft and subdued as it was,--resounded loudly, echoing from the buildings on either side of him as he slowly paced along. it was evident to every one who met him that he was moving aimlessly. now and then some keen-eyed pedestrian stopped to take a second look and, turning to do so, felt an instinctive pity for this burdened, care-encumbered man, wending his way through the almost deserted streets. this gaze was unreturned and this sympathy unperceived. he was in one of those fits of abstraction when the whole external universe with all its beauties and sublimities has ceased to exist. his cup of misery was full, he had lost all clue to the meaning of life and a single definite idea had taken complete possession of his mind. it was that he was doomed to pass his existence under a curse. by the very nature of its being, the soul is keenly sensitive to blessings and curses, and it is not alone the benediction of the mitred priest that thrills the heart! that of the pauper upon whom we have bestowed alms sometimes awakens in our bosom a hope and gladness out of all proportion to the insignificant source from which it has proceeded. nor do we need to be cursed by the great and the powerful to feel a pang of terror in our souls! let but some helpless wretch whom we have wronged commit his cause to heaven in a single syllable, and we shudder as if we already heard the approach of those avenging feet which the ancients said were shod with wool. the curse of the dead and impotent beggar rang in the ears of the fugitive like the strokes of an alarm bell. that deep sense of justice which had been formed in his early life had been revivified and endowed with a resistless power. at such moments as these through which he was passing man experiences no doubt as to the nature and origin of conscience. he is as sure that the terror aroused in his heart is the echo of the decision of some real and awful tribunal as that the wave upon the shore is produced by some real though invisible storm at sea, or the shadow on the mountain by some palpable object between it and the sun. the conscience is not only "a secretion in the brain," it is not only the "accumulated observations of the universal man upon the phenomena of the moral life," it is not only his study of the laws of cause and effect distilled into maxims and forebodings; it is this, but it is more than this--as every total is more than any of its parts. for every man has something which is in him, but not of him. it resides within his intelligence, but it is not so much the offspring of his intelligence as an emissary that has taken up its residence there! this obscure something is stronger than he. he does not subordinate it to himself, but is subordinated by it. he can rebel against it, but he cannot overthrow it. he can fly from it, but he cannot escape it. this sublime and mysterious power had at last obtained complete ascendency in the soul of david corson. he no longer argued and he no longer resisted. he saw no way of escape from the spiritual anaconda which was tightening its folds around him. this was all the more strange because the way to the satisfaction of the irrepressible hunger of his heart was now open. pepeeta's husband was dead, and although he was not innocent of a great crime, he was at least not a murderer. pepeeta still loved him, if she were still alive. of this he had no more doubt than of his love for her. why then did he thus give up to despair? why did he not fly to her arms and claim from life that happiness which had hitherto escaped his grasp? he did not try to solve these problems, nor to comprehend his own despair. he only knew that he had been baffled at every turn of his life by powers with which he was unable to cope, and that he was tired of the struggle. he would give himself up to the mighty stream of events and be borne along. if he was exercising any volition in the choice of the path he was following, he was doing it unconsciously. that path was leading him direct to the harbor. it was a pathway well-worn by tired feet like his own. the miserable creatures who had preceded him seemed to have formed a sort of wake by which he was being drawn along to that "wandering grave" in the deep sea. at last he reached the water's edge, and started as he heard the waves splashing among the wooden piles. the soft, sibilant sounds seemed like kisses on the lips of the victims of their treacherous caresses. the deed of which they whispered seemed but the logical conclusion of his entire career. he put his foot upon the edge of the wharf and looked down into the dark abyss. it was at this critical instant that his faithful friend extended his hand to save him; but at the same instant another and mightier hand was also extended from the sky. from a remote part of the battery a sound cut the silent air. it was a human voice, masculine, powerful, tender and pleading, lifted in a sacred song. that sound was the first element of the objective world which had penetrated the consciousness of the tortured and desperate would-be suicide. he turned and listened--and as he did so, mantel sprang back among the shadows just in time to escape his observation. the full-throated music, floating on the motionless air, fell upon his ear like a benediction. he listened, and caught the words of a hymn with which he had been familiar in his childhood: "light of those whose dreary dwelling borders on the shades of death! rise on us, thy love revealing, dissipate the clouds beneath. thou of heaven and earth creator-- in our deepest darkness rise, scattering all the night of nature, pouring day upon our eyes." by the spell of this mysterious music he was drawn back into the living world--drawn as if by some powerful magnet. pain and sorrow had become tired of vexing him at last, and now stretched forth their hands in a ministry of consolation. with his eyes fixed on the spot from which the music issued, he moved unconsciously toward it, mantel following him. a few moments' walking brought him to a weird spectacle. a torch had been erected above a low platform on which stood a man of most unique and striking personality. he looked like a giant in the wavering light of the torch. he was dressed in the simple garb of a quaker; his head was bare; great locks of reddish hair curled round his temples and fell down upon his shoulders. his massive countenance bespoke an extraordinary mind, and beamed with rest and peace. as he sang the old familiar hymn, he looked around upon his audience with an expression such as glowed, no doubt, from the countenance of the christ when he spoke to the multitudes on the shores of lake genessaret. close to the small platform was a circle of street arabs, awed into silence and respect by the charm of this remarkable personality. next to them came a ring of women--some of them old and gray, with haggard and wrinkled countenances upon which time, with his antique pen, had traced many illegible hieroglyphs; some of them young and bedizened with tinsel jewelry and flashy clothing; not a few of them middle-aged, wan, dispirited and bearing upon their hips bundles wrapped in faded shawls, from which came occasionally that most distressing of sounds, the wail of an ill-fed and unloved infant, crying in the night. outside of this zone of female misery and degradation, there was a belt of masculine stupidity and crime; men with corpulent bodies, bull necks, double chins, pile-driving heads; men of shrunken frames, cadaverous cheeks, deep-set and beady eyes--vermin-covered, disease-devoured, hope-deserted. they clung around him, these concentric circles of humanity, like rings around a luminous planet, held by they knew not what resistless attraction. the simple melody, borne upon the pinions of that resonant and cello-like voice, attained an almost supernatural influence over their perverted natures. when it ceased, an audible sigh arose, an involuntary tribute of adoration and of awe. as soon as he had finished his hymn, this consecrated apostle to the lost sheep of the great city opened a well-worn volume. the passage which he read, or rather chanted, was the fifty-third chapter of isaiah, the awe-inspiring sentences sending through the circles of humanity which were tightening about him visible vibrations. when he finished his reading, he began an address full of homely wit and pathos, in which, with all the rich and striking imagery culled from a varied life in the wildernesses of the great forests and the great cities of our continent, he appealed to that consciousness of "the true, the beautiful and the good" which he believed to lie dormant, but capable of resurrection, in the soul of every man. a few of his auditors were too far gone with fatigue or intoxication to follow him, and elbowing their way through the crowd shot off into the night upon their various tangents of stupidity or crime; but most of the spectators listened with a sort of rapt and involuntary attention. the influence which he exerted over the mind of the young man whom he had unconsciously saved from suicide was as irresistible as it was inscrutable. his language had the charm of perfect familiarity. every word and phrase had fallen from his own lips a hundred times in similar exhortations. in fact, they seemed to him strangely like the echo of his own voice coming back upon him from the dim and half-forgotten past. his interest and excitement culminated in an incident for which the listener was totally unprepared. the speaker who had been exhorting his audience upon the testimony of prophet and apostle now appealed to his own personal experience. "look at me!" he said, laying his great hand on his broad chest. "i was once as hardened and desperate a man as any of you; but god saved me! see this book!" he added, holding up the old volume. "i will tell you a story about it. i found it in a log cabin away out in the frontier state of ohio. listen, and i will tell you how. i had left a lumber camp with a company of frontiersmen one sunday morning, to go to a new clearing which 'we were making in the wilderness, when i suddenly discovered that i had forgotten my axe. swearing at my misfortune, i returned to get it. as i approached the cabin which i had left a few minutes before, i heard a human voice. i paused in surprise, crept quietly to the door and listened. some one was talking in almost the very language in which i have spoken to you. i was frightened and fled! escaping into the depths of the forest, i lay down at the root of a great tree, and for the first time in my life i made a silence in my soul and listened to the voice of god. i know not how long i lay there; but at last when i recovered my consciousness i returned to the cabin. it was silent and empty; but on the floor i found this book." "good god!" exclaimed a voice. so rapt had been the attention of the hearers that at this unexpected interruption the women screamed and the men made a wide path for the figure that burst through them and rushed toward the platform. the speaker paused and fixed his eye upon the man who pressed eagerly toward him. "tell me whether a red line is drawn down the edge of that chapter, and a hand is pointing toward the fifth and sixth verses!" he cried. "it is," replied the lumberman. "then let me take it!" exclaimed david, reaching out his trembling hands. "what for?" "because it is mine! i am the man who proclaimed the holy faith, and, god forgive me, abandoned it even as you received it!" the astonished lumberman handed him the bible, and he covered it with kisses and tears. in the meantime, the crowd, excited by the spectacular elements of the drama, surged round the actors, and the preacher, reaching down, took david by the arm and raised him to the platform. "be quiet, my friends," he said with a gesture of command, "and when this prodigal has regained his composure we will ask him to tell us his story." of what was transpiring around him, david seemed to be entirely unconscious and at last the fickle crowd became impatient. "what's de matter wid you?" said a sarcastic voice. "speak out! don't snuffle," exclaimed another. "tip us your tale," cried a fourth. "go on. go on. we're waiting," called many more. these impatient cries at last aroused david from his waking dream, he drew his hand over his eyes, and began his story. for a time the strange narrative produced a profound impression. heads drooped as if in meditation upon the mystery and meaning of life; significant glances were exchanged; tears trembled in many eyes; these torpid natures received a shock which for a moment awakened them to a new life. but it was only for a moment. they were incapable of the sustained effort of thought, of ambition, or of will. impressions made upon their souls were like those made on the soft folds of a garment by the passing touch of a hand. to their besotted perceptions this scene was like a play in a bowery theater, and now that the dramatic denouement had come, they lost their interest and sauntered away singly or in little groups. in a few moments there were only three figures left in the light of the flaming torch, they were those of the lumberman, david, and mantel, who now drew near, took his friend by the hand and pressed it with a gentle sympathy. "where did you come from?" asked david in surprise, as he for the first time recognized his companion. "i have followed you all the evening," mantel replied. "then you have heard the story of this book?" "i have, and i could not have believed it without hearing." "can you spare us a little of your time?" said david, turning to the lumberman. "i owe you all the time you wish and all the service i can render," he replied. "you have more than paid your debt by what you have done for me to-night, but who are you?" "i am only another voice crying in the wilderness." "is this your only business in life--to speak to the outcast and the wretched as you did to-night?" "this is all." david looked his admiration. "how do you support yourself?" asked mantel, to whom such a man was a phenomenon. "we do not any of us support ourselves so much as we are supported," he replied. "and this life of toil and self-denial had its origin in those words i spoke in the empty lumber camp?" asked david, incredulously. "it is not a life of self-denial, but that was its beginning." "it is a mystery. i lost my faith and you found it, and now perhaps you are going to give it back again!" david said. the lumberman turned his searching eyes kindly on mantel's face and said, "and how is it with thee, my friend; hast thou the peace of god?" the directness of the question startled the gambler. "i have, no peace of any kind; my heart is full of storms and my life is a ruin," he answered sadly. "did thee never notice," said the lumberman gently, "how nature loves to reclaim a ruin?" "in what way?" "by covering it with vines and moss." the unexpected nature of this answer and the implied encouragement produced a deep impression on the mind of the gambler, but he answered: "i shall never be reclaimed. i have gone too far. i have often tried to find the true way of life, and prayed for a single glimpse of light! have you ever heard how zeyd used to spend hours leaning against the wall of the kaaba and praying, 'lord, if i knew in what manner thou wouldst have me adore thee, i would obey thee; but i do not! oh! give me light!' i have prayed that prayer with all that agony, but, to me, the universe is dark as hell!" "there is light enough! it is eyes we need!" said the evangelist. "light! who has it? many think they have, but it is mere fancy. they mistake the shining of rotten wood for fire!" "and sometimes men have walked in the light without seeing it, as fish swimming in the sea and birds flying in the air, might say, 'where is the sea?' 'where is the air?'" "but what comfort is it, if there is light, and i cannot see it? there might as well be no light at all!" "the bird never knows it has wings until it tries them! we see, not by looking for our eyes, but by looking out of them. we say of a little child that it has to 'find its legs.' some men have to find their eyes." "it is an art, then, to see?" "i would even call it a trick, if i dared." "can you impart that capacity and teach that art?" "no, it must be acquired by each man for himself. we can only tell others 'we see.'" "i only know that i wish i could see!" "we see by faith." "and what is faith?" "it is a power of the soul as much higher than reason as reason is higher than sense." "some men may possess such power, but i do not." "you at least have an imagination." "yes." "well, faith is but the imagination spiritualized." mantel regarded the man who spoke in these terse and pregnant sentences with astonishment. "this," said he, "is not the same language in which you addressed the people in the battery. this is the language of a philosopher! do all lumbermen in the west speak thus?" the evangelist began to reply, but was interrupted by david, who now burst out in a sudden exclamation of joy and gratitude. he had been too busy with reflections and memories to participate actively in the conversation, for this startling incident had disclosed to him the whole slow and hidden movement of the providence of his life towards this climax and opportunity. he was profoundly moved by a clear conviction that a divine hand must have planned and superintended this whole web of events, and had intentionally led him from contemplating the tragic issue of his sinful deeds and desires, to this vision of the good he had done in the better moments of his life. this strange coincidence, to a mind like his, could leave no room for doubt that the hand of god was on him, and that, after all, he had been neither abandoned nor forgotten. the lumberman had been sent at this critical moment to save him! there was still hope! with that instantaneous movement in which his disordered conceptions of life invariably re-formed themselves, the chaotic events of the past shifted themselves into a purposeful and comprehensible series, and revealed beyond peradventure the hand of god. and as this conclusion burst upon him, he broke into the conversation of mantel and the lumberman with the warmest exclamations of gratitude and happiness. they talked a long time in the quiet night, asking and answering questions. the two friends besought the evangelist to accompany them to their rooms, but he said: "i have given you my message and must pass on. my work is to bear testimony. i sow the seed and leave its cultivation and the harvest to others." chapter xxxi. the great refusal "but when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful." too busy with their own thoughts to talk on the way home, on entering their rooms mantel threw himself into a chair, while david nervously began to gather his clothes together and crowd them hastily into a satchel. "what's up?" asked mantel. "i'm off in the morning." "which way are you going?" "there is only one way. i am going to find pepeeta." "do you really expect to succeed?" "expect to! i am determined!" "it's a sudden move." "sudden! everything is sudden. events have simply crashed upon me lately! when i think of the fluctuations of hope and despair, of certainty and uncertainty through which i have gone in the past few hours, i am stupefied." "and i never go through any! my life is like a dead and stagnant sea--nothing agitates it. if i could once be upheaved from the bottom or churned into a foam from the top, i think i might amount to something." "you ought to quit this business, mantel, and come with me. i am going to find pepeeta, take her back to that quiet valley where i lived, and get myself readjusted to life. i need time for reflection, and so do you. what do you say? will you join me? i cannot bear to leave you? you have been a friend, and i love you!" "thanks, corson, thanks. you have come nearer to stirring this dead heart of mine than any one since--well, no matter. i reciprocate your feeling. i shall have a hard time of it after you have gone." "then join me." "it is impossible." "but why? this life will destroy you sooner or later." "oh--that's been done already." "no, it hasn't. there are more noble things in you than you realize. what you need is to give them scope and let them out." "you don't know me. what you see is all on the surface. if i ever had any power of decision or action it has gone. i am the victim, and not the master of my destiny. i am drifting along like a derelict, with no compass to guide, rudder to steer or anchor to grip the bottom." "make another effort, old man, do! look at me. i was in as bad a fix as you are only a little while ago." "yes; but see what has happened to you! circumstances have tumbled you out of the nest, and of course you had to fly. i wish something would happen to me! i would almost be glad to have lightning strike me." "what you say is true in a way, of course. i know i don't deserve any credit for breaking out of this life. but don't you think a man can do it alone, without any such frightful catastrophes to help him? it seems to me, now, that i could. i feel as if i could burst through stone walls." "of course you do, my dear fellow, and you can. but something has put strength into you! that's what i need." "well, let me put it into you! lean on me. i can't bear to leave you here and see you go down! come, brace up. make an effort. decide. tear yourself away!" "you actually make my heart flutter, davy; i feel as if i would really like to do it. but i can't. it's no use. i shouldn't get across the ferry before i'd begin to hang back." "but you don't belong to this life. you are above it, naturally. you ought to be a force for good in the world. society needs such men as you are, and needs them badly. come! if i can break these meshes you can." "no, my dear fellow, that's a non-sequitur. there is different blood flowing in our veins, and we have had a different environment and education. as far back as i know anything about them, my people have all lived on the surface of life, and i have floated along with them. but, by heavens--i have at least seen down into the depths!" "well, i have my inheritance of bad blood also. i had a father who was not only weak but wicked." "yes, but think of your mother." "mantel, you are carrying this too far. a man is something more than the mere chemical product of his ancestor's blood and brains! every one has a new and original endowment of his own. he must live and act for himself." "maybe so, but everything seems, at least, to be a fixed and inevitable consequence of what has gone before. i don't want to disparage this last act of yours, but see how far back its roots reach into the past. see what a chain of events led up to it, and what frightful causes have been operating to bring you up to the sticking point! how long ago was it that you were just as ready to throw up the game?" "horrible! don't speak of it! it makes me tremble. i am not worthy to defend or even advocate a life of endeavor and victory, mantel, and i will not try; but i know that i am right." "yes, dave, you are right; i know it as well as you. i am only talking to ease my conscience. i know i ought to snap these cords, and i know i can. but i also know that i am grinding here in this devil's mill while every bad man makes sport and every good man weeps! and i know that i shall keep on grinding while you and thousands of other noble fellows with less brains, perhaps, and fewer chances than mine, make wild dashes for liberty and do men's work in the world. but here i am, cold and dead, and here i remain." "can nothing persuade you--not love? i love you, mantel! come, let us go together. who knows what we can do if we try? i must persuade you!" "i am like a ship in a sea of glue. you touch me, but you don't persuade me! it's no use. i cannot budge. the aspirations you awaken in my soul leap up above the surface like little fishes from a pond, and as quickly fall back again! no, i cannot go. don't press me--it makes me feel like the young man in the gospel, who made what dante calls 'the great refusal;' he saw that young man's 'shade' in hell." they were sitting on the sill of a deep window in what had once been one of the most fashionable mansions of the city. the sash was raised, and the light of the moon fell full upon their young faces. they ceased speaking after mantel had uttered those solemn words, and looked out over the housetops to the water of the great river. it was long after midnight, and not a sound broke the stillness. fleecy clouds were drifting across the sky, and a vessel under full sail was going silently down the river toward the open sea. they had involuntarily clasped each other's hands, and as their hearts opened and disclosed their secrets they were drawn closer and closer together until their arms stole about each other's necks. for a few brief moments they were boys again. the vices that had hardened their hearts and shut their souls up in lonely isolation relaxed their hold. that sympathy which knit the hearts of david and johnathan together made their's beat as one. david broke the silence. "i cannot bear to leave you, mantel. join me. such feelings as these which stir us so deeply to-night do not come too often. it must be dangerous to resist them. i suppose there are slight protests and aspirations in the soul all the time, but these to-night are like the flood of the tide." "yes," said mantel; "the nile flows through egypt every day, but flows over it only once a year." "and this is the time to sow the seed, isn't it?" "so they say. but you must remember that you feel this more deeply than i do, davy. i am moved. i have a desire to do better, but it isn't large enough. it is like a six-inch stream trying to turn a seven-foot wheel. "don't make light of it, mantel!" "i don't mean to, but you must not overestimate the impressions made on me. i am not so good as you think." "i wish you had the courage to be as good as you are." "but there is no use trying to be what i am not. if i should start off with you, i should never be able to follow you. my old self would get the victory. in the long run, a man will be himself. 'nature is often hidden, sometimes overcome--seldom extinguished.'" "what a mood you are in, mantel! it makes me shiver to hear you talk so. here i am, full of hope and purpose; my heart on fire; believing in life; confident of the outcome; and you, a better man by nature than i am, sitting here, cold as a block of ice, and the victim of despair! i ought to be able to do something! sweet as life is to me to-night, i feel that i could lay it down to save you." "dear fellow!" said mantel, grasping his hands and choking with emotion; "you don't know how that moves me! it can't seem half so strange to you as it does to me; but i must be true to myself. if i told you i would take this step i should not be honest. no! not to-night! sometime, perhaps. i haven't much faith in life, but i swear i don't believe, bad man as i am, that anybody can ever go clear to the bottom, without being rescued by a love like that! i'll never forget it, davy; never! it will save me sometime; but you must not talk any more, you are tired out. go to bed, friend, brother, the only one i ever really had and loved. you will need your sleep. leave me alone, and i will sit the night out and chew the bitter cud." it was not until daybreak that david ceased his supplications and lay down to snatch a moment's rest. when he awoke, he sprang up suddenly and saw mantel still sitting before the open window where he left him, smoking his cigar and pondering the great problem. "i have had a wonderful dream," he said. "what was it?" asked mantel. "i dreamt that i was swimming alone in a vast ocean,--weary, exhausted, desperate and sinking,--but just as i was going down a hand was thrust out of the sky, and although i could not reach it, so long as i kept my eyes on it i swam with perfect ease; while, just the moment i took them off, my old fatigue came back and i began to sink. when i saw this, i never looked away for even a second, and the sea seemed to bear me up with giant arms. i swam and swam as easily as men float, day after day and year after year, until i reached the harbor." "whose hand was it?" "i couldn't tell." "well, swim on and look up, davy, and god bless you." they parted at dawn, one to break through the meshes and escape, and the other--! in australia, when drought drives the rabbits southward, the ranchmen, terrified at their approach, have only to erect a woven wire fence on the north side of their farms to be perfectly safe, for the poor things lie down against it and die in droves--too stupid to go round, climb over, or dig under! it is a comfort to see one of them now and then who has determined to find the green fields on the southward side--no matter what it costs! weak and bad as he had been, david at least took the first path which he saw leading up to the light. chapter xxxii. the end of exile "every one goes astray, and the least imprudent is he who repents soonest." --voltaire. the steamer on which corson embarked after his overland journey from new york city to pittsburg, had descended the ohio almost as far as cincinnati, before other thoughts than those which were concerned with pepeeta and his spiritual regeneration could awaken any interest in his mind. but as the boat approached cincinnati, the places, the persons and the incidents of his childhood world began to present themselves to his consciousness. an irrepressible longing to look once more upon the place of his birth and the friends of his youth took possession of his mind. he found, on inquiry, that the boat was to remain at the wharf in cincinnati for several hours, and that there would be time enough for him to make the journey to his old home and back before she proceeded down the river. he decided to do so, and observed with satisfaction that those painful gropings for the next stepping stone across the streams of action which had been so persistent and painful a feature of his recent life had given place to the swift intuitions of his youth. he saw his way as he used to when a boy, and made his decisions rapidly and executed them fearlessly. the discovery of this fact gave a new zest and hope to life. in a few moments after he had landed at the familiar wharf he was mounted upon a fleet horse, rushing away over those beautiful rolling hills which fill the mind of the traveler with uncloying delight in their variety, their fertility and their beauty. it was the first time since he had left the farm that his mind had been free enough from passion or pain to bestow its full attention upon the charms of nature; they dawned on him now like a new discovery. the motion of the horse,--so long unfamiliar, so easy, so graceful, so rhythmical,--seemed of itself to key his spirits to his environment, for it is an elemental pleasure to be seated in the saddle and feel the thrill of power and rapid motion. the rider's eyes brightened, his cheeks glowed, his pulses bounded. he gathered up the beauties of the world around him in great sheaves of delicious and thrilling sensations. long-forgotten odors came sweeping across the fields, rich with the verdure of the vernal season, and brought with them precious accompaniments of the almost-forgotten past. the rich and varied colors of field and sky and forest fed his starved soul with one kind of beauty; and the sweet sounds of the outdoor world intoxicated him with another. the low of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the crowing of chanticleers, the cackling of hens, the gobble of turkeys, the multitudinous songs of the birds enveloped him in a sort of musical atmosphere. for the first time since his restoration to hope, the past seemed like a dream, and these few blissful moments became a prophecy of a new and grander life. "for, if the burden can fall off for a single moment, why not for many moments?" so he said to himself, as the consciousness of his past misery and his unknown future thrust their disturbing faces into the midst of these blissful emotions. the vague joys which had been surging through his soul became vivid and well-defined as the details of the landscape around his old home began gradually to be revealed. at first he had recognized only the larger and more general features like the lines of hills, the valleys, the rivers; but now he began to distinguish well-known farms and houses, streams in which he had fished, groves in which he had hunted, roads over which he had driven; and the pleasure of reviving old memories and associations increased with every step of progress. at last he began to ascend the high hill which hid the house of his childhood from view. he reached the summit; there lay the village fast asleep in the spring sunshine. he recognized it, but with astonishment, for it looked like a miniature of its former self. the buildings that once appeared so grand had shrunk to playhouses. the broad streets had contracted and looked like narrow lanes. he rubbed his eyes to see if they were deceiving him. an unreality brooded mysteriously over everything. it was the same, yet not the same, and he paused a moment to permit his mind to become accustomed to these alterations; to ponder upon the reasons for this change; to realize the joy and sadness which mingled in his heart; and then he turned into a side road to escape any possible encounter with old acquaintances. the route which he had chosen did not lead to the farm house, but to the cemetery where the body of his mother lay wrapped in her dreamless sleep; that neglected grave was drawing him to itself with a magnetic force. he who, for a year, had thought of her scarcely at all, now thought of nothing else. the last incident in her life, the face white with its intolerable pain of confession, the gasp for breath, the sudden fall, the quiet funeral, his own responsibility for this tragic death--he lived it all over and over again in an instant of time as grief, regret, remorse, successively swept his heart. tying his horse outside the lonely burying ground, he threaded his way among the myrtle-covered graves to the low mound which marked her resting place, approached it, removed his hat and stood silently, reverently, by its side. there come to us all hours or moments of sudden and unexpected disclosures of the hidden meaning of life. such an one came to david, there by that lowly grave. he saw, as in the light of eternity, the grandeur and beauty of that character which the story of her sin and suffering had made him in his immaturity, misinterpret and despise! he did not comprehend that tragic story when she told it; it was impossible that he should, for he had no knowledge or experience adequate to furnish him the clew. nothing is more inconceivable and impossible to a child than the possibility of his parents dying or doing wrong. when he awakens to consciousness he finds around him eternal things,--rocks, hills, rivers, stars, parents! they all seem to belong to the same order of indestructible existence, and he would as soon expect to see the sun blotted from heaven as a parent removed from earth! and when his ethical perceptions awake, he has another experience of a similar character. his father and mother stand to him for the very moral order itself! to his mind, it is inconceivable that they should ever err, and the bare suggestion that those august and venerable beings can really sin, fills him with horror and incredulity. if he, therefore, sometime learns that they have committed a trifling indiscretion, he trembles, and if, in some tragic moment, irresistible proof is brought to bear on him that they have been guilty of a dark and desperate deed, the whole moral system seems to undergo a sudden and final collapse! there is no longer any standing-ground beneath his feet and he could not be driven into a deeper despair if god himself had yielded to temptation. this discovery and this despair had fallen to the lot of david, and he had cherished the impressions, formed in that dark hour, through all these many months. but now, returning to the scenes of his boyhood and bringing back his burdens of care and sin, bringing back also his deepened experience of life and his enlarged ability, to comprehend its difficulties and sorrows, he suddenly saw the conduct and character of his mother in a new light. he, too, had met temptation, had fallen, had gone down into the depths, and in that awful and interpretative experience, comprehended the victory which his mother had won on the field of dishonor and defeat! he was now enabled to reconstruct, by the aid of his enlightened imagination, a true picture of the events which she had sketched so imperfectly in those few brief words. he realized what she must have had to struggle against, and could measure the whole weight of guilt and despair that must have rested on her heart. he knew only too well how easy was the road into darkness, and how rugged the one leading up into the light; yet this frail woman had followed it and scaled those heights! she had been able to put that past into the background, and keep it where it belonged. she had hidden her sorrows in her heart; nothing had daunted her; no discouragement had cast her down. by a wonderful grace she had concealed her sin from some, and made others fear even to whisper the knowledge they possessed. she had made that sin a torch to illumine her future. she had used it as a stepping stone to ascend into purity and holiness. he could not remember in all those long years of devotion and of love, that she had ever permitted him to feel a moment's distrust of her perfect purity and goodness; and this seemed to him a miracle! that purity and goodness must have been real! so protracted an hypocrisy would have been impossible. whence, then, had she derived the power thus to rise superior to her past? she had shown its terrific spell over her sensibilities by dying with shame when she at last proclaimed it, and yet for twenty years she had kept it under her feet like a writhing dragon, while she calmly fought her fight. it was incredible, sublime! as he stood there by her grave, measuring this deep and tragic experience with his new divining rod of sympathy, there rushed upon him an overmastering desire to reveal his appreciation to that suffering heart beyond the skies. a feeling of bitterness at his inability to do this frenzied him; a new consciousness of the irony of life in permitting him to make these discoveries when they could do her no good plunged him suddenly into a struggle with the darker problems of being which for a little while had ceased to vex him. "do all the appreciations of heroism come too late?" he asked his sad heart. "do we acquire wisdom only when we, can no longer be guided by it? do we achieve self-mastery and real virtue only to be despised by our children? where is the clue to this tangle? oh! mother, mother, if i could only have one single hour to ask thee what thou didst learn about this awful mystery in those lonely years of struggle! if i could only tell thee of my penitence, of my admiration, my love! but it is too late--too late." with this despairing cry on his lips, he flung himself upon the grave, buried his face in the green turf and burst into a convulsive passion of tears, such tears as come once or twice, perhaps, in the lives of most men, when they are passing through the awful years of adjustment to the incomprehensible and apparently chaotic experiences of existence. like a thunderstorm, these convulsions clear the atmosphere and give relief to the strained tension of the soul. at length, when his emotion had spent itself in long-drawn sighs, david rose in a calm and tender frame of mind, plucked a bunch of violets from the grave and reluctantly turned away. on foot, and leading his horse, he entered a quiet and secluded path which led past the rear of the farm. he had not consciously determined what he should do next; but his heart impelled him irresistibly toward that little bridge where he had encountered pepeeta on his return from the lumber camp. it was at that place and that hour, perhaps, that he had passed through the deepest experience of his whole life, for it was there that the full power of the beauty of the woman in whom he had met his destiny had burst upon him, and it was there that for the first time he had consciously surrendered himself to those rich emotions which love enkindles in the soul. perhaps our spiritual enjoyments are capable of an ever-increasing development and intensity; but those pleasures that belong to the earthly life and are excited by the things of time and sense, however often they may recur, by an inviolable law of nature attain their climax in some one single experience, just as there is in the passage of a star across the sky a single climactic moment, and in the life of a rose an instant when it reaches its most transcendent beauty. they all attain their zenith and then begin to wane; that one brilliant but transitory instant of perfect bliss can no more be recalled than the passing stroke of a bell, the vanished glory of a sunset, or the last sigh of a dying friend; and many of the vainest and most unsatisfying struggles of life are expended in the effort to reproduce that one evanescent and forevermore impossible ecstasy. possibly david hoped that he could live that perfect moment over again by standing on that bridge! it was thither he bent his steps, and as he approached it there did come back faint echoes, little refluent waves; his lively imagination reproduced the scene; the dazzling figure really seemed once more to emerge from the secluded forest path; he almost heard the sound of her voice! he threw the horse's bridle over the limb of a tree, leaned over the handrail of the bridge and looked down into the water. the stillness of the world, the slumber-song of the stream, the haunting power of the past superinduced a mood of abstraction so common in other, happier days. oblivious to all the objects and events of that outside world, he stood there dreaming of the past. while he did so, pepeeta, following her daily custom, left the farm-house to take an evening walk. she also sought the little bridge. perhaps she was summoned to this spot by some telepathic message from her lover; perhaps it was habit that impelled her, perhaps it was some fascination in the place itself. she moved forward with the quiet step peculiar to natures which are sensitive to the charm of the great solitudes of the world, and came noiselessly out from the low bushes behind the lonely watcher. as she stepped out into the road, she caught sight of the solitary figure and her heart, anticipating her eye in its swift recognition, throbbed so violently that she placed her hand on her bosom as if to still it. "david!" she said in a low whisper. she paused to observe him for a moment and, as he did not stir, began to move quietly towards him as he stood there motionless--a silhouette against the background of the darkening sky. she drew near enough to touch him; but so profound was his reverie that he was oblivious of her presence. it could not have been long that pepeeta waited, although it seemed ages before he moved, sighed and breathed her name. she touched him on the arm. he turned, and so met her there, face to face. it was an experience too deep for language, and their emotions found expression in a single simple act. they clasped each other's hands and stood silently looking into each other's eyes. after many moments of silence david asked: "why do you not speak to me, pepeeta?" "my eyes have told you all," she said. "but what they say is too good to be believed! you must confirm their mute utterance with a living word," he cried. "i love you, love you, love you," she replied. "you love me! i bless you for it, pepeeta, but there is something else that i must know." "what can it be? is not everything comprehended in that single word? it is all-embracing as the air! it enfolds life as the sky enfolds the world!" "ah! pepeeta, you loved me when we parted, but you did not forgive me!" she dropped her eyes. "have you forgiven me now?" "it is not true that i did not forgive you," she replied, looking up at his face again. "there has never been in my heart for a single moment any sense of a wrong which i could not pardon. it has been one of the awful mysteries of this experience that i could not feel that wrong! when i tried to feel it most, my heart would say to me, 'you are not sorry that he loved you, pepeeta! you would rather that all this agony should have befallen you than that he should not have loved you at all!' it is this feeling that has bewildered me, david. explain it to me. let me know how i could have such feelings in my heart and yet be good. it seems as if i ought to hate you; but i cannot. i love you, love you, love you." "but, pepeeta, if you loved me, why did you leave me? i do not comprehend. how could you let me stand in the darkness under your window and then turn away from it into the awful blackness and solitude to which i fled?" "do not reproach me, i thought it was my duty, david." "i do not reproach you. i only want to know your inmost heart." "i do not know! there has been all the time something stronger than myself impelling me. i grew too weak to reason. i felt that the heart had reasons of its own, too deep for the mind to fathom, and i yielded to them. i was only a woman after all, david. love is stronger than woman! oh! it was i who wronged you. i ought not to have forsaken you. ought i? i do not know, even now. who can tell me what is right? who can lead me out of this frightful labyrinth? if i did wrong in seeking you, i humbly ask the pardon of god, and if i did wrong in abandoning you, i ask forgiveness in all lowliness and meekness from the man i wronged." "no, pepeeta, you have never wronged me; i alone have been to blame. the result could not have been really different, no matter what course you took. the scourge would have fallen anyway! all that has happened has been inevitable. justice had to be vindicated. if it had not come in one way, it would in another, for there are no short cuts and evasions in tragedies like this! every result that is attached to these causes must be drawn up by them like the links in a chain, and one never knows when the end has come." his solemn manner and earnest words alarmed pepeeta. "oh, david," she cried, "it cannot, cannot be so awful. such consequences cannot hang upon the deeds we commit in the limitations and ignorance of this earthly life." "forgive me, pepeeta, i should not talk so. these are the fears of my darker moments. i have brighter thoughts and hopes. there is a quiet feeling in my heart about the future that grows with the passing days. god is good, and he will give us strength to meet whatever comes. we must live, and while we live we will hope for the best. life is a gift, and it is our duty to enjoy it." "oh! it is good to hear you say that! it comforts me. i think it cannot be possible that we should not be able to escape from this darkness if we are willing to follow the divine light." "i think so, too," he said. his words were spoken with such assurance as to awaken a vague surmise that he had reasons which he had not told. she pressed his hands and besought him to explain. "oh! tell me," she said eagerly; "is there anything new? has anything happened?" "pepeeta," he answered slowly, "we have been strangely and kindly dealt with. it is not quite so bad as it seemed, for i did not kill him." "you did not kill him! what do you mean?" "no, it is a strange story! i thought i had killed him. i knew murder was in my heart. it was no fault of mine that the blow was not fatal. i left him in the road for dead. but, thank god, he did not die; he did not die then!" "he did, not die then? have you seen him? is he dead now? tell me! tell me!" quietly, gently, briefly as he could, he narrated the events of the past few months, and as he did so she drew in short breaths or long inspirations as the story shifted from phase to phase, and when at last he had finished, she clasped her hands and gazed up into the depths of the sky with eyes that were swimming in tears. "poor doctor, poor old man," pepeeta sighed at last. "oh! how we have wronged him, how we have made him suffer. he was always kind! he was rough, but he was kind. oh! why could i not have loved him? but i did not, i could not. my heart was asleep. it had never once waked from its slumber until it heard your voice, david. and, afterwards,--well i could not love him! but why should we have wronged him so? how base it was! how terrible! i pity him, i blame myself--and yet i cannot wish him back. listen to me, david. i am afraid i am glad he is dead. what do you think of that? oh! what a mystery the human heart is! how can these terrible contradictions exist together? i would give my life to undo that wrong, and yet i should die if it were undone. all this is in the heart of a woman--so much of love, so much of hate, for i should have hated him, at last! i cannot understand myself. i cannot understand this story. what does all this mean for us, david? perhaps you can see the light now, as you used to! i think from your face and your voice that you are your old self again. oh! if you can see that inner light once more, consult it. ask it if there is any reason why we cannot be happy now? tell it that your pepeeta is too weak to endure this separation any longer. i am only a woman, david! i cannot any longer bear life alone. i love you too deeply. i cannot live without you." waiting long before he answered, as if to reflect and be sure, david said quietly but confidently, "pepeeta, i cannot see any reason why we should not begin our lives over again, starting at this very place from which we made that false beginning three long years ago. we cannot go back, but, in a sense, we can begin again." "but can we really begin again?" she asked. "how is it possible? i do not see! we are not what we were. there is so much of evil in our hearts. we were pure and innocent three years ago. is it not necessary to be pure and innocent? and how can we be with all this fearful past behind us? we cannot become children again!" "i have thought much and deeply about it," david responded. i know not what subtle change has taken place within me, but i know that it has been great and real. my heart was hard, but now it is tender. it was full of despair, and now it is full of hope. i am not as innocent as i was that night when you heard me speak in the old quaker meeting-house, or rather i am not innocent in the same way. my heart was then like a spring among the mountains; it had a sort of virgin innocence. i had sinned only in thought, and in the dreamy imaginations of unfolding youth. it is different now; a whole world of realized, actualized evil lies buried in the depths of my soul. it is there, but it is there only as a memory and not as a living force. there must in some way, i cannot tell how, be a purity of guilt as well as of innocence, and perhaps it is a purity of a still higher and finer kind. there was a peace of mind which i had as an innocent boy, which i do not possess now; but i have another and deeper peace. there was a childish courage; but it was the courage of one who had never been exposed to danger. there is another courage in my heart now, and it is the courage of the veteran who has bared his bosom to the foe! i know not by what strange alchemy these diverse elements of evil can have become absorbed and incorporated into this newer and better life, but this i do know, and nothing can make me doubt it--that while i am not so good, yet i am better; while i am not so pure, yet i am purer. yes, pepeeta, i think we can go back on our track. we can be born again! we can once more be little children. i feel myself a little child to-night--i who, a few days ago, was like an old man, bowed and crushed under a load of wretchedness and misery! god seems near to me; life seems sweet to me. let us begin again, pepeeta. we have traveled round a circle, and have come back to the old starting point. let us begin again." "oh! david," she said, kissing the hands she held; "how like your old self you are to-night. your words of hope have filled my soul with joy. is it your presence alone that has done it, or is it god's, or is it both? a change has come over the very world around us. all is the same, and yet all is different. the stars are brighter. the brook has a sweeter music. there is something of heaven in this intoxicating cup you have put to my lips! i seem to be enveloped by a spiritual presence! hush! do you hear voices?" the excitement had been too intense for this sensitive woman to endure with tranquillity. her heart, her conscience, her imagination had suffered an almost unendurable strain. she flung herself into the arms of her lover and trembled upon his breast, and he held her there until she had regained her composure. "do you really love me yet?" she asked, at length, raising her face and gazing up into his with an expression in which the simple affection of a little child was strangely blended with the passionate love of an ardent and adoring woman. "love you!" he cried; "your face has been the last vision upon which i gazed when i fell into a restless slumber, and the first which greeted returning consciousness, when i waked from my troubled dream. my life has been but a fragment since we parted; a part of my individuality seemed to have been torn away. i have always felt that neither time nor space could separate us for--" at that instant the horse which had stood patiently beside them on the bridge, shook his head, rattled his bridle and whinnied. "poor fellow! i had forgotten all about him in my joy!" said david, starting at the sound, and patting his shoulder. "you have had a hard run, and are tired and hungry. i must get you to the barn and feed you. they will miss you at the stable to-night, but i will send you back to-morrow, or ride you myself, that is if pepeeta wishes to be rid of me." he said this teasingly, but smiled at her,--a tender and confident smile. "oh! you shall never leave me again--not for a moment," she cried, pressing his arm against her heart. he paused a moment and looked down as if a new thought had struck him. "what is the matter?" she asked. "do you think they will welcome me at home?" he said, with a penitence and humility that touched her deeply. "welcome you home?" she exclaimed; "you do not know them, david. they talk of nothing else. they have sent messages to you in every direction. the door is never locked, and there has never been a night since you disappeared that a candle has not burned to its socket on the sill of your window; what do you think of that? you do not know them, david. they are angels of mercy and goodness. i have been selfish in keeping you so long to myself. come, let us hasten." just at that instant a loud halloo was heard--"pepeeta, pepeeta, pepeeta!" "it is steven--the dear boy! he has missed me. you have a dangerous rival, david." she said this with a merry laugh and cried out, "steven, steven, steven!" "where are you?" he called. "i am here by the bridge!" she cried, in her silvery treble. "she is here by the bridge!" the deep bass voice of her lover went rolling through the woods. there was silence for a moment, and then they heard a joyous shout, "uncle david! uncle david! oh! mother, father, it is uncle david." there was a crashing in the bushes, and the great half-grown boy bounded through them and flung himself into the arms extended to him, with all the trust, all the love, all the devotion of the happy days of old. chapter xxxiii. a self-imposed expiation "man-like is it to fall into sin, fiend-like is it to dwell therein, christ-like is it for sin to grieve, god-like is it all sin to leave." --friedrich von logau. david's welcome home was quiet, cordial and heartfelt. the quaker life is calm; storms seldom appear on its surface, even though they must sometimes agitate its depths; mind and heart are brought under remarkable control; sympathy and charity are extended to the erring; hospitality is a duty and an instinct; domestic love is deep and powerful. when david had frankly told his story, he was permitted to resume his place in the life of the old homestead as if nothing had happened. he expressed to his brother and sister his love for pepeeta, and his determination to make her his wife in lawful marriage. they assented to his plans, and at the earliest possible moment the minister and elders of the little congregation of friends were asked to meet, in accordance with their custom, to "confer with him about a concern which was on his mind." they came, and heard his story and his intention, told with straightforward simplicity. they, too, touched with sympathy and moved to confidence, agreed that there was no obstacle to the union. the date of the wedding was placed at the end of the month, which, by their ecclesiastical law, must elapse after this avowal, and an evening meeting was appointed for the ceremony. in the meantime david remained quietly at home, and took up his old labors as nearly as possible where he had laid them down. such a life as he had been leading induces a distaste for manual labor, and sometimes he chafed against it. again and again he felt his spirit faint within him when he recalled the scenes of excitement through which he had passed, and looked forward to years of this unvaried drudgery; but he never permitted his soul to question his duty! he had decided in the most solemn reflections of his life that he would conquer himself in the place where he had been defeated, perform the tasks which he had so ignominiously abandoned, and then, when he had demonstrated his power to live a true life himself, devote his strength to helping others. the charms of this pastoral existence gradually came to his support in his heroic resolution. the unbroken quiet of the happy valley which had irritated him at first, grew to be more and more a balm to his wounded spirit. the society of the animal world lent its gracious consolation; the great horses, the ponderous oxen, the doves fluttering and cooing about the barnyard, the suckling calves, the playful colts, all came to him as to a friend, and in giving him their confidence and affection awakened his own. above all pepeeta was ever near him. it was no wonder that her beauty threw its spell over david's spirit. it had been enhanced by sorrow, for the human countenance, like the landscape, requires shadow as well as sunshine to perfect its charms. but the burst of sunshine which had come with david's return had brought it a final consummation which transfigured even the quaker dress she had adopted. her bonnet would never stay over her face but fell back on her shoulders, her animated countenance emerging from this envelope like the bud of a rose from its sheath. she was as a butterfly at that critical instant when it is ready to leave its chrysalis and take wing. she was a soul enmeshed in an ethereal body, rather than a body which ensheathed a soul. quietly and sedately the lovers met each other at the table, or at the spring, or at the milking. and when the labors of the day had ended, they sat beneath the spreading hackberry trees, or wandered through the garden, or down the winding lane to the meadow, and reviewed the past with sadness or looked forward to the future with a chastened joy. their spirits were subdued and softened, their love took on a holy rather than a passionate cast, they felt themselves beneath the shadow of an awful crime, and again and again when they grew joyous and almost gay they were checked by the irrepressible apprehension that out from under the silently revolving wheels of judgment some other punishment would roll. tenderly as they loved each other, and sweet as was that love, they could not always be happy with such a past behind them! in proportion to the soul's real grandeur it must suffer over its own imperfections. this suffering is remorse. in proud and gloomy hearts which tell their secrets only to their own pillows, its tears are poison and its rebukes the thrust of daggers. but in those which, like theirs, are gentle and tender by nature, remorseful tears are drops of penitential dew. david and pepeeta suffered, but their suffering was curative, for pure love is like a fountain; by its incessant gushing from the heart it clarifies the most turbid streams of thought or emotion. each week witnessed a perceptible advance in peace, in rest, in quiet happiness, and at last the night of their marriage arrived, and they went together to the meeting house. the people gathered as they did at that other service when david made the address to which pepeeta had listened with such astonishment and rapture. the entire community of friends was there, for even quakers cannot entirely repress their curiosity. there was evidence of deep feeling and even of suppressed excitement. the men in their broad-brimmed hats, the women in their poke bonnets, moved with an almost unseemly rapidity through the evening shadows. the pairs and groups conversed in rapid, eager whispers. they did not linger outside the door, but entered hastily and took their places as if some great event were about to happen. there was a preliminary service of worship, and according to custom, opportunity was given for prayer or exhortation. but all minds were too intent upon what was to follow to enable them to take part with spirit. the silences were frequent and tedious. the young people moved restlessly on their seats, and their elders rebuked them with silent glances of disapproval. all were in haste, but nothing can really upset the gravity of these calm and tranquil people, and it was not until after a suitable time had elapsed that the leader of the meeting arose and said: "the time has arrived when david and pepeeta are at liberty to proceed with their marriage, unless there be some one who can show just cause why this rite should not be solemnized." a flutter ran through the assembly, and a moment of waiting ensued; then david rose, while every eye was fixed on him. "my friends," he said, in a voice whose gentleness and sweetness stirred their hearts; "you have refrained from inquiring into the story of my life during the three years of my absence. i would be glad if i could withhold it from your knowledge; but i feel that i must make a confession of my sins." in the death-like stillness he began. the narrative was in itself dramatic, but the deep feeling of him who told it, his natural oratory and the hearers' intent interest, lent to it a fascination that at times became almost unendurable. sighs were often heard, tears were furtively wiped away, criticism was disarmed, and the tenderness of this illicit but passionate and determined love, blinded even those calm and righteous listeners to its darker and more desperate phases. by an almost infallible instinct we discover true love amid fictitious, unworthy and evil elements; and when seen there is something so sublimely beautiful that we prostrate ourselves before it and believe against evidence, even, that sooner or later it will ennoble and consecrate those who feel it. when david had completed the narrative he continued as follows: "it is now necessary that i should convince you, if i can, that with my whole soul i have repented of this evil that i have done, and that i have sought, and i hope obtained, pardon for what is irreparable, and am determined to undo what i can. it is with awe and gratitude, my friends, that i acknowledge the aid of heaven. from the logical and well-deserved consequences of this sin i did not escape alone! i was snatched from it like a brand from the burning! no mortal-mind could have planned or executed my salvation. it is marked by evidences of divine power and wisdom. through a series of experiences almost too strange to be credible, i have been drawn back here to the scenes of my childhood, to encounter the one i have wronged and to find myself, so far as i know, able not only to make reparation, but to enjoy the bliss of a love of which i am unworthy. if i were wise enough, i would set before you the spiritual meaning of this terrible experience, but i am not. three years ago i stood here in boyish confidence and boldly expounded the mysteries of our human life. it is only when we know nothing of life that we feel able to interpret it! now that i have seen it, tasted it, drunk the cup almost to the dregs--i am speechless. three facts, however, stand out before my vision--sin, punishment, pardon! i have sinned; i have suffered; i have been forgiven. i have been fully pardoned, but i feel that i have not been fully punished! there are issues of such an experience as this that cannot be brought to light in a day, a year, perhaps not in a lifetime. whatever they are, i must await them and meet them; but as it is permitted a man to know his own mind, when he is determined so to do, i know that i have turned upon this sin with loathing! i know that i am ready to take up my burden where i left it years ago. i know that i would do anything to atone for the evil which i have wrought to others. i mean, if it seem good to you, here and now to claim as my bride her into whose life i have brought a world of sorrow. i mean, if god permits me, to live quietly and patiently among you until i have so recruited my spiritual strength that i can go forth into the great world of sorrow and of sin which i have seen, and extend to others a hand of helpfulness such as was stretched out to me at the moment of my need; but if there is any one here to whom god has given a message for me, whether it be to approve or condemn my course, i trust that i shall have grace to receive it meekly." he took his seat, and it seemed for a few moments that every person in the room had yielded heart and judgment to this noble and modest appeal. but there was among them one whose stern and unyielding sense of justice had not been appeased. he was a man who had often suffered for righteousness sake and who attached more value to the testimony of a clear conscience than to any earthly dignity. he slowly and solemnly rose. his form was like that of a prophet of ancient days. his deep-set eyes glowed like two bright stars under the cloudy edge of his broad-brimmed hat. his face was emaciated with a self-denial that bordered upon asceticism, and wan with ceaseless contemplations of the problems of life, death and immortality. not a trace of tender emotion was evident on features, which might have been carved in marble. it was impossible to conceive that he had ever been young, and there seemed a bitter irony in the effort of such a man to judge the cause of a love like that which pleaded for satisfaction in the hearts of david and pepeeta, and to pronounce upon the destinies of those whose souls were still throbbing with passion. but such was the purpose of the man. his first words sounded on the stillness like an alarm bell and shook the souls of listeners with a sort of terror. "we did not seek to try this cause," he said. "it was brought before us by the wish of this sinful man himself. but if we must judge, let us judge like god! we read of him--that he 'lays righteousness to the line and judgment to the plummet.' let us do the same. that a great wrong hath been done is evident to every mind. it is not meet that such wrongs should go unpunished! these two transgressors have suffered; but who believes that such wrongs may justly be so soon followed by felicity? it would be an encouragement to evil-doers and a premium upon vice! who would refrain from violently rending the marriage bonds or sundering any sacred tie, if in a few short months the fruit of the guilty deed might be eaten in peace by the culprit? what assurance may we have that the lesson which has been but superficially graven on this guilty heart may not be obliterated in the enjoyment of triumph? why should these youths make such unseemly haste? if they are indeed in earnest to seek the truth and lay to heart the meaning of this experience into which their sinful hearts have led them, let them of their own accord and out of their humble and contrite hearts devote a year to meditation and prayer. let them show to others they have learned that to live righteously and soberly, and not to grasp ill-gotten gains or enjoy unhallowed pleasures, is the chief end of human life! the hour is ripe for such a demonstration. we have seen other evidences among us of an unholy hungering after the unlawful pleasures of life. it is time that a halt were called. if this community is dedicated to righteousness, then let us exalt the standard. it is at critical moments like this that history is made and character formed. if we weaken now, if we permit our hearts to overpower our consciences, god will smite us with his wrath, vice will rush upon us like a flood, and we shall be given over to the lust of the flesh and the pride of life! 'to the law and to the testimony, my brethren.'" with his long arm extended and his deep-set eyes glowing, he repeated from memory the solemn words: "'behold ye trust in lying words that cannot profit. will ye steal, murder and commit adultery and swear falsely, and burn incense to baal, and walk after other gods whom ye know not, and come and stand before me in this house which is called by my name and say, "we are delivered to do all these abominations?" is this house which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your eyes? behold, even i have said it, saith the lord. but go ye now into my place which was shiloh, where i set my name at the first, and see what i did to it for the wickedness of my people israel! and now because ye have done all these works, saith the lord--and i spake unto you (rising up early and speaking), but ye heard not, and i called you but ye answered not--therefore will i do unto this house which is called by my name (wherein ye trust) and unto the place which i gave unto you and your fathers, as i have done to shiloh! and i will cast you out of my sight--even the whole people of ephraim! therefore pray not thou for this people, neither lift up cry nor prayers for them, neither make intercession to me--for i will not hear thee!' * * * * * "this is my message! this is the advice ye have invited! wait a year! watch and pray! fit yourselves for the enjoyment of your love by repentance." the impression made by these solemn words was tremendous. it was as if eternity had suddenly dawned in that dim-lit room, and the leaves of the book of doom had been opened. there had been stillness before, but now there was the silence of the grave, and at this dramatic moment one of the tallow candles whose feeble light had served but to render the darkness visible, spluttered, went out, and intensified the silence with a meaningless and exasperating sound. no one knew how to break the spell which these intense and terrible words had cast over them. their limbs and faculties were both benumbed. upon pepeeta this message had fallen like a thunderbolt. her oriental imagination, her awakened conscience, her throbbing heart had all been thrilled. she did not move; her eyes were still fixed on the prophet; her face was white; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. david leaned forward in his seat and listened like a culprit hearing sentence from a judge. those who were closely observing his noble countenance saw it suddenly light up with the glow of a spiritual ecstasy, and rightly conjectured that he was burning with the zeal of martyrdom. he saw his way, for the first time, to a worthy expiation of his sin. the prophet had interpreted the purpose of god and pointed out the path of duty. he started to his feet, but at the same instant over in the corner of the room rose the figure of a man whose full form, benignant countenance and benevolent manner afforded the most marked contrast to that of the jeremiah who had electrified them by his appeal to righteousness. he moved toward one of the half dozen candles which were still burning, and stood within the narrow circle of its feeble rays. drawing from the inner pocket of his coat a well-worn volume he opened it, held it up to the light and began to read. the tones of his voice were clear and mellifluous, his articulation slow and distinct, and his soul seemed permeated with the wondrous depth and beauty of what is perhaps the most exquisite passage in the literature of the world. it was the story of the prodigal son. as he proceeded, and that brief but perfect drama unfolded itself before the imagination of his hearers, it was as if they had never heard it before, or at least as if its profound import had never been revealed to their dull minds. intimations and suggestions which had never been disclosed to them came out like lines written in sensitive ink, under the influence of light and heat. the living medium through which they were uttered seemed slowly to melt away, and as in a dissolving view, the sublime teacher, the humble galilean stood before them, and they heard his voice! the last words died away; the reader took his seat without uttering a single comment. not a person moved. each heart in that silent room was thrilled with emotions which were common to all. but there was one which had a burden all its own. the demure quaker maiden who had looked love out of her dove-like eyes three years ago when pepeeta appeared for the first time among these quiet folk, was in her old familiar seat. her life had never been the same since that hour, for the man whom she loved with all the deep intensity of which a heart so young, so pure, so true was capable, had been suddenly stolen from her by a stranger. her thwarted love had never found expression, and she had borne her pain and loss as became the child of a religion of silence, patience and fortitude. but the wound had never healed, and now she was compelled to be a sad and hopeless spectator of another scene which sealed her fate and made her future hopeless. her bonnet hid the sad face from view, as her heart hid its secret. the turn which had been given to the emotions of these quiet people by the reading of the parable had been so sudden and so powerful that perhaps not a single person in the room doubted that david and pepeeta would at once rise and enter into that holy contract for which the way seemed to have been so easily opened by the tender story of the father's love for the prodigal son. but it was the unexpected which happened. the soul of david corson had passed through one of those genuine and permanent revolutions which sometimes take place in the nature of man. he had completed the cycle of revolt and anarchy to which he had been condemned by his inheritance from a wild and profligate father. whether that fever had run its natural course or whether as david himself believed, he had been rescued by an act of divine intervention, it is certain that the change was as actual as that which takes place when a grub becomes a butterfly. it was equally certain that from this time onward it was the mental and spiritual characteristics of his mother which manifested themselves in his spiritual evolution. he became his true self--a saint, an ascetic, a mystic, a potential martyr. when he rose to his feet a moment after the reader had finished, his face shining with an inward light and glowing with a sublime purpose, all believed that he was about to summon pepeeta to their marriage. what was the astonishment, then, when in rapt words he began: "god has spoken to us, my friends. we have heard his voice. it is too soon for me to enjoy this bliss! yes, i will wait! i will dedicate this year to meditation and prayer. pepeeta, wilt thou join me in this resolution? if thou wilt, let the betrothal of this night be one of soul to soul and both our souls to god! give me thine hand." still under the spell of strange spiritual emotions to which her sensitive spirit vibrated like the strings of an Æolian harp, pepeeta rose, and placing her hands in those of her lover, looked up into his face with a touching confidence, an almost adoring love. it was more like the bridal of two pure spirits than the betrothal of a man and woman! not one of those who saw it has ever forgotten that strange scene; it is a tradition in that community until this day. they felt, and well they might, those strange people who had dedicated themselves and their children to the divine life, that in this scene their little community had attained the zenith of its spiritual history. no wonder that from an english statesman this eulogy was once wrung: "by god, sir, we cannot afford to persecute the quakers! their religion may be wrong, but the people who cling to an idea are the very people we want. if we must persecute--let us persecute the complacent!" chapter xxxiv. fasting in the wilderness "so great is the good i look for, that every hardship delights me." --st. francis. the period of our country's history in which these characters were formed was one of tremendous moral earnestness. in that struggle in which man pitted himself against primeval forest and aboriginal inhabitant, the strongest types of manhood and womanhood were evolved, and those who conceived the idea of living a righteous life set themselves to its realization with the same energy with which they addressed themselves to the conquest of nature itself. to multitudes of them, this present world took a place that in the fullest sense of the word was secondary to that other world in which they lived by anticipation. david corson was only one of many who, to a degree which in these less earnest or at least more materialistic times appears incredible, had determined to trample the world under their feet. he awoke next morning with an unabated purpose and at an early hour set resolutely about its execution. he bade a brave farewell to pepeeta, exhorted her to seek with him that preparation of heart which alone could fit them for the future, and then with a bag of provisions over his shoulder and an axe in his hand started forth to carry out a plan which he had formed in the night. at the head of the little valley where pepeeta had built her gypsy fire, and experienced her great disillusionment, was a piece of timber land belonging to his mother's estate. he determined to make a clearing there and establish a home for himself and pepeeta. he wisely calculated that the accomplishment of this arduous task would occupy his mind and strength through the year of expiation which he had condemned himself to pass. it is one of the most impressive spectacles of human life to see a man enter a primeval forest and set himself to subdue nature with no implement but an axe! those of us who require so many luxuries and who know how to maintain existence only by the use of so many curious and powerful pieces of mechanism would think ourselves helpless indeed in the center of a wilderness with nothing but an axe or a rifle! no such apprehensions troubled the heart of the young woodsman, for from his earliest childhood he had handled that primitive implement and knew its exhaustless possibilities. he was young and strong, for reckless as his recent life had been, the real sources of his physical vitality had not been depleted. when david had passed out of sight of the house and entered the precincts of the quiet forest, there surged up from his heart those mighty impulses and irresistible tides of energy which are the sublime inheritance of youth. he counted off the months and they seemed to him like days. already he heard the monarchs of the forest fall beneath his blows, already he saw the walls of his log cabin rising in an opening of the vast wilderness, already he beheld pepeeta standing in the open door. the vast panorama of this virgin world began to unroll itself to his delighted vision. the splendid spectacle of a morning as new and wonderful as if there had never been another, drew his thoughts away from himself and his cares. the dew was sparkling on the grass; the meadow larks were singing from every quarter of the fields through which he was passing; the great limbs of the trees were tossed by the fresh breezes of june. everywhere were color, music, fragrance, motion. the burden rolled from his heart; remorse and guilt faded like dreams; the sad past lost its hold; the present and the future were radiant! to even the worst of men, in such surroundings, there come moments of exemption from the ennui and shame of life, and to this deep soul which had issued, purified, from the fires through which it had passed, they lengthened into glorious hours, hours such as kindled on the lips of the poet those exultant and exquisite words: "the year's at the spring and day's at the morn; morning's at seven; the hillside's dew-pearled; "the lark's on the wing; the snail's on the thorn; god's in his heaven-- all's right with the world!" he climbed a steep hillside, descended into a secluded and beautiful valley, pressed his way through dense underbrush, and while the day was still young stood on the spot where he had determined to lay the foundation of his cabin. two ranges of hills came together and enclosed it as if in giant arms. two pure crystal springs issued from clefts in the bases of these hills, and after flowing towards each other for perhaps a quarter of a mile, mingled their waters in a brawling brook. it was at the point of their junction that david had determined to erect that primitive structure which has afforded a home to so many families in our american wildernesses. he threw his bundle down and gazed with admiration on the scene. here was the virgin and unprofaned loveliness of nature. he felt her charm and prostrated himself before her shrine. but he rendered to that invisible spirit of which these forms were only an imperfect manifestation, a worship deeper still, and by an instinct of pure adoration lifted his face toward the sky. having refreshed his soul by this communion, he drank a deep draught of the sparkling water at the point where the rivulets met. then he threw off his coat, took his axe in hand and selected a tree on which to begin his attack. it was an enormous oak which, with roots struck deep into the soil and branches lifted high and spread wide in the air, had maintained itself successfully against innumerable foes for perhaps a thousand years. he reflected long before he struck, for to him as to all lovers of nature there is a certain inviolable sacredness about a tree. "should you see me at the point of death," said rousseau, "carry me under the shade of an oak and i am persuaded i shall recover." david was a lover of trees. from the summits of the hills he had often gazed down upon the forests and observed how "all the tree tops lay asleep like green waves on the sea." he had harvested the fruits of the apple and peach, clubbed the branches of the walnut, butternut and beach, and boiled the sap of the maple. he had seen the trees offer their hospitable shelter to the birds and the squirrels, had basked beneath their umbrageous shadows and had listened to their whispers in the summer, and to their wild music "when winter, that grand old harper, smote his thunder-harp of pines." it cost him pain to lay violent hands on a thing so sacred; nevertheless he swung his axe in the air and a loud reverberating blow broke the immense solitude. there are many kinds of music; but there is none fuller of life and power and primal energy than the ring of the woodsman's axe as blow after blow, through hour after hour, falls rhythmically upon the wound which he cuts in the great hole of a forest monarch. the gash deepened and widened, the chips flew in showers and the woodchopper's craft, long unpracticed, came back to him with every stroke. the satisfying consciousness of skill and power filled him with a sort of ecstasy. just as the sun reached the zenith and looked down to see what devastation was being wrought in this solitude, the giant trembled; the blade had struck a vital place; he reeled, leaned forward, lurched, plunged headlong, and with a roar that resounded through the wide reaches of the forest, fell prone upon the ground. the woodsman wiped the perspiration from his brow and smiled. the appetite of the pioneer had been whetted with his work. he kindled a fire, boiled a pot of coffee, fried a half dozen slices of bacon, remembered his sickly appetite in the luxurious restaurants of great cities, and laughed aloud for joy--wild, unbounded joy--the joy of primitive manhood, of health, of strength, of hope. and then he stretched himself on the ground and looked up into the blue sky through the opening he had made in the green canopy above him and through which the sun was gazing with bold, free glances on the face of the modest valley and whispering amorously of its love. those glances fell soft and warm on his own upturned countenance, and the rays of life-giving power penetrated the inmost core of his being, finding their way by some mysterious alchemy through the medium of matter into the very citadel of the spirit itself. they imparted a new life. he basked in them until he fell asleep, and when he awakened he felt anew the joy of mere physical existence; he rose, shook himself like a giant, and resumed his work. he now began to prepare for himself a temporary booth which should shelter him until he had erected his cabin; and the rest of the day was consumed in this enterprise. at its close this simple task was done, so easy is it to provide a shelter for him who seeks protection and not luxury! having once more satisfied his hunger, he built a fire in front of his rude booth, and lay down in its genial rays, his head upon a pillow of moss. the stillness of the cool, quiet evening was broken only by the crackling of the flames, the quiet murmurs of the two little rills which whispered to each other startled interrogations as to the meaning of this rude invasion, the hoot of owls in the tall tree tops, and the stealthy tread of some of the little creatures of the forest who prowled around, while seeking their prey, to discover, if possible, the meaning of this great light, and the strange noises with which their forest world had resounded. there came to the recumbent woodsman a deep and quiet peace. he felt a new sense of having been in some way taken back into the fraternity of the unfallen creatures of the universe, and into the all-embracing arms of the great father. he fell asleep with pure thoughts hovering over the surface of his mind, like a flock of swallows above a crystal lake. and nature did take him back into that all-enfolding heart where there is room and a welcome for all who do not alienate themselves. her latchstrings are always out, and forests, fields, mountains, oceans, deserts even, have a silent, genial welcome for all who enter their open doors with reverence, sympathy and yearning. a man asleep alone in a vast wilderness! how easy it would be for nature to forget him and permit him to sleep on forever! what gives him his importance there amid those giant trees? why should sun, moon, stars, gravity, heat, cold, care for him? how can the hand that guides the constellations--those vast navies of the infinite sea--pause to touch the eyelids of this atom when the time comes for him to rise? chapter xxxv. a forest idyl "stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs no school of long experience, that the world is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares to tire thee of it, enter this wild wood and view the haunts of nature. the calm shade shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze that makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm to thy sick heart." --bryant. when the sleeper woke, refreshed and rested, in the morning, it was to take up the routine of duties which were to be only slightly varied for many months to come. one after another the great trees succumbed to the blows of his axe and from their prostrate forms he carefully selected those which were best adapted to the structure of his cabin, while over the others he piled the limbs and brush and left them to dry for the conflagration which at the end of the hot summer should remove them from the clearing. when the rainy days came he spent his time in the shelter of his little arbor cutting the "shakes," or shingles, which were to furnish the roof of pepeeta's home. the days and weeks fled by and the opening in the forest grew apace. he measured it by night with a celestial arithmetic, using the stars for his triangulations, and as one after another of them became visible where before they had been obscured by the foliage of the trees, he smiled, and felt as if he were cutting his farm out of heaven instead of earth. it was really cut out of both! his sundays were spent at the old homestead with his loved ones, and once every week pepeeta came with steven to bring him luxuries which her own hands had prepared, and to pass the afternoon with him at his work in the "clearing." those were memorable hours, possessing that three-fold existence with which every hour can be endowed by the soul of man--anticipation--realization--recollection. in this way a single moment sometimes becomes almost synchronous with eternity. it would have been impossible to tell which of the three was happiest, but pepeeta was always the center of interest, attention and devotion. her whole nature seemed to be aroused and called into play; all her countless charms were incessantly evoked; her inimitable laughter resounded through the woods and challenged the emulous birds to unsuccessful competition. seriousness alternated with gaiety, coquetry with gravity. some of the time she spent in gathering flowers to adorn her lover's booth, and some in carrying to the rubbish pile such limbs and branches as her strength would permit her to handle. nothing could have been more charming than the immense efforts that she put forth with such grace, to lift with all her might some branch that her lover had tossed aside with a single hand! the attitudes into which these efforts threw her body were as graceful as those into which the water threw the cresses by its ceaseless flow, or the wind bent the tree tops by its fitful gusts. steven was frantic with delight at the free, open life of the woods. he chased the squirrels and rabbits, he climbed the trees to gaze into the nests of the birds, and caught the butterflies in his hat. david entered into all their pleasures, but with a chastened and restrained delight, for he could never forget that he was an exile and a penitent. there were two days in the season when the regular routine of the woodsman's work was interrupted by functions which possess a romantic charm. one was when the friends and neighbors from a wide region assembled to help him "raise" the walls of his cabin. from all sides they appeared, in their picturesque costumes of homespun or fur. suddenly, through the ever-open gates of the forest, teams of horses crashed, drawing after them clanking log chains, and driven by men who carried saws and "cant hooks" on their broad shoulders. loud halloos of greeting, cheerful words of encouragement, an eager and agreeable bustle of business, filled the clearing. log by log the walls rose, as the horses rolled them into place with the aid of the great chains which the pioneers wrapped around them. it was only a rude log cabin they built--with a great, wide opening through the middle, a room on either side, and a picturesque chimney at either end; but it was not to be despised even for grace, and when warmth and comfort and adaptability to needs and opportunities are considered, there have been few buildings erected by the genius of man more justly entitled to admiration. when this single day's work was ended there remained nothing for david to do but chink and daub the walls with mud, cover the rude rafters of the roof with his shakes, build the chimneys out of short sticks, cob-house fashion, and cement them on the inside with clay to protect them from the flames. the other day was the one on which, at the close of the long and genial summer, when the mass of timber and brushwood had been thoroughly seasoned by the hot suns, he set his torches to the carefully constructed piles. steven and pepeeta were to share with him in the excitement of this conflagration, and david had postponed it until dusk, in order that they might enjoy its entire sublimity. he had taken the precaution to plow many furrows around the cabin and also around the edge of the clearing, so the flames could neither destroy his house nor devastate the forest. such precautions were necessary, for nothing can exceed the ferocity of fire in the debris which the woodsmen scatter about them. when the dusk had settled down on this woodland world and long shadows had crept across the clearing, wrapping themselves round the trees at its edge and scattering themselves among the thick branches till they were almost hid from view, david lighted a pine torch and gave it into the hands of the eager boy, who seized it and like a young prometheus started forth. a single touch to the dry tinder was enough. with a dull explosion, the mass burst into flame. shouting in his exultation, the little torch-bearer rushed on, igniting pile after pile, and leaving behind him almost at every step a mighty conflagration. at each new instant, as the night advanced, a new outburst of light illumined the darkness, until ten, twenty, fifty great heaps were roaring and seething with flames! great jets spouted up into the midnight heavens as if about to kiss the very stars, and suddenly expired in the illimitable space above them. immense sparks, shot out from these bonfires as from the craters of volcanoes, went sailing into the void around them and fell hissing into the water of the brooks or silently into the new-plowed furrows. the clouds above the heads of the subdued and almost terrified beholders, for no one is ever altogether prepared for the absolute awfulness of such a spectacle, were glowing with the fierce light which the fires threw upon them. weird illuminations played fantastic tricks in the foliage from which the startled shadows had vanished. the roar of the ever-increasing fires became louder and louder, until in very terror pepeeta crept into david's arms for protection, while the child who had fearlessly produced this scene of awful grandeur and destruction shouted with triumph at his play. "thee's a reckless little fire-eater!" said david, watching his figure as it appeared and disappeared. "how youth trifles with forces whose powers it can neither measure nor control! it was well that i drew a furrow around our cabin or it would have been burned." his gaze was fixed on the little cabin which seemed to dance and oscillate in the palpitating light; and touched by the analogies and symbols which his penetrating eye discovered in the simple scenes of daily life, he continued to soliloquize, saying, "i should have drawn furrows around my life, before i played with fire!" "nay, david," replied pepeeta, "we should never have played with fire at all." "how wise we are--too late!" "shall we walk any more cautiously when the next untried pathway opens?" he added, somewhat sadly, as he recalled the errors of the past. "we ought to, if experience has any value," said pepeeta. "but has it? or does it only interpret the past, and not point out the future?" "something of both, i think." "well we must trust it." "but not it alone. there is something, better and safer." "what is that, my love?" "the path-finding instinct of the soul itself." "do you believe there is such an instinct?" "as much as i believe the carrier pigeon has it. it is the inner light of which you told me. you see, i remember my lesson like an obedient child." "why, then, are we so often misled?" he asked, tempting her. "because we do not wholly trust it!" she said. "but how can we distinguish the true light from the false, the instinct from imagination or desire? if the soul has a hundred compasses pointing in different ways, what compass shall lead the bewildered mariner to know the true compass?" "he who will know, can know." "are you speaking from your heart, pepeeta?" "from its depths." "and have you no doubts that what you say is true?" "none, for i learned it from a teacher whom i trust, and have justified it by my own experience." "and now the teacher must sit at the feet of the pupil! oh! beautiful instructress, keep your faith firm for my sake! i have dark hours through which i have to pass and often lose my way. the restoration of my spiritual vision is but slow. how often am i bewildered and lost! my thoughts brood and brood within me!" "put them away," she said, cheerily. "we live by faith and not by sight. we need not be concerned with the distant future. let us live in this dear, divine moment. i am here. you are here! we are together; our hands touch; our eyes meet; our hearts are one; we love! let us only be true to our best selves, and to the light that shines within! oh! i have learned so much in these few months, among these people of peace, david! they know the way of life! we need go no farther to seek it. it lies before us. let us follow it!" "angel of goodness," he exclaimed, clasping her hand, "it must be that supreme love reigns over all the folly and madness of life, or to such a one as i, a gift so good and beautiful would never have been given!" she pressed his hand for response, for her lips quivered and her heart was too full for words. and now, through the ghastly light which magnified his size portentously and painted him with grotesque and terrible colors, the child reappeared, begrimed with smoke and wild with the transports of a power so vast and an accomplishment so wonderful. the three figures stood in the bright illumination, fascinated by the spectacle. the flames, as if satisfied with destruction, had died down, and fifty great beds of glowing embers lay spread out before them, like a sort of terrestrial constellation. the wind, which had been awakened and excited to madness as it rushed in from the great halls of the forest to fan the fires, now that it was no longer needed, ceased to blow and sank into silence and repose. little birds, returning to their roosts, complained mournfully that their dreams had been disturbed, and a great owl from the top of a lofty elm hooted his rage. it was saturday night. the labors of the week were over. the time had come for them to return to the farm house. they turned away reluctantly, leaving nature to finish the work they had begun. chapter xxxvi. the supreme test "not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat." --longfellow. the emotions of the woodsman's heart had been in the main cheerful and full of hope during the springtime and the summer; but when the autumn came, with its wailing winds, its dying vegetation, and falling leaves, new moods were superinduced in his sensitive soul. it is impossible even for the good and innocent to behold this universal dissolution and decay without remembering that they themselves must pass through some such temporary experience. but upon those who carry guilty secrets in their hearts these impressions descend with crushing weight. david felt them to the full when at last the winter set in; when the days were shortened and he was compelled to forego his toil at an early hour and retire to his cabin! there he was confronted by all the problems and temptations of a soul battling with the animal nature and striving to emancipate the spirit from its thraldom. at the close of one cold, blustering day, when his evening meal had been eaten in solitude, he sat down before the great fire which roared in the chimney. he read awhile, but grew tired of his book and threw it down. the melancholy which he had suppressed so long rose at last, and there burst on him the apparent uselessness of the task he had gratuitously assigned himself. why had he ever done it? why should he be sitting there alone in his cabin when by his side there might be that radiant woman whose presence would dispel instantly and forever the loneliness which ceaselessly gnawed at his heart? what, after all, was to be gained by this self-sacrifice? life is very short, and there are few pleasures to be had, at best. why should he not seize them as fast as they came within his reach? had he not suffered enough already? who had ever suffered more? it was only an unnecessary cruelty that had even suggested such agony as he was now experiencing. he was being cheated out of legitimate pleasures, and that by the advice of an old ascetic whose own capacity for enjoyment had been dried up, and who was envious of the happiness of others! as these thoughts rushed through his soul, he could not but perceive that he had been forced once more to enter the arena and to fight over the old battle which he had lost in the lumberman's cabin three years before! and he found to his dismay how much harder it was to fight these foes of virtue when they come to us not as vague imaginations of experiences which we have never tried, but as vivid memories of real events. then he had only dreamed of the sweet fruits of the knowledge of good and evil: but now the taste was in his mouth, to whet his appetite and increase his hunger. the slumbering selfhood of his soul woke and clamored for its rights. it was chateaubriand who affirmed that the human heart is like one of those southern pools which are quiet and beautiful on the surface, but in the bottom of which there lies an alligator! however calm the surface of the exile's soul appeared, there was a monster in its depth, and now it rose upon him. in his struggles with it he paced the floor, sank despairingly into his chair, and fell on his knees by turns. animal desires and brute instincts grappled with intellectual convictions and spiritual aspirations; flesh and blood with mind and spirit; skepticism with trust; despair with hope. the old forest had been the theater of many combats. in earth, air and water, birds, animals and fishes had struggled with each other for supremacy and existence. beasts had fought with indians and indians with white men; but no battle had been more significant or tragic than the one which was taking place in the quiet cabin. there was no noise and no bloodshed, but it was a struggle to the death. it was no new strife, but one which has repeated itself in human hearts since they began to beat. it cannot be avoided by plunging into the crowds of great cities, nor by fleeing to the solitudes of forests, for we carry our battleground with us. the inveterate foes encamp upon the fields, and when they are not fighting they are recuperating their strength for struggles still to come. but although neither combatant in this warfare is ever wholly annihilated, there is in every life a waterloo. there comes a struggle in which, if we are not victorious, we at least remain permanent master of the field. this was the night of david's waterloo. a true history of that final conflict in the soul of this hermit would not have disgraced the confessions of saint augustine! he wrestled to keep his thoughts pure and his faith firm, until the sweat stood in beads on his forehead. he felt that to yield so much as the fraction of an inch of ground in his battle against doubt and sin this night was to be lost! and still the conflict went against him. it turned upon another of those trivial incidents of which there had been a series in his life. his attention was arrested by a sound in the woods which summoned his consciousness from the inner world of thought and feeling to the great external world of action and endeavor. his huntsman's ear detected its significance at once, and springing to the corner of the room he seized his rifle, threw open the cabin door and stood on the threshold. a full moon shone on the snow and in that white and ghostly light his quick eye caught sight of a spectacle that made his pulses leap. a fawn bounded out into the open field and headed for his cabin, attracted by the firelight gleaming through the window and door. behind her and snapping almost at her heels, came a howling pack of a half dozen wolves whose red, lolling tongues, white fangs and flaming eyes were distinctly visible from where he stood. coolly raising his rifle he aimed at the leader and pulled the trigger. there was a quick flash, a sharp report, and the wolf leaped high in the air, plunged headlong, tumbled into the snow, and lay writhing in the pangs of death. there was no time to load again, and there was no need, for the terrified fawn, impelled by the instinct of self-preservation, chose the lesser of two dangers and with a few wild bounds toward the cabin, flung herself through the wide-open door. david had detected her purpose and stepped aside; and instantly she had entered closed and bolted the door upon the very muzzles of her pursuers. they dashed themselves against it and whined with baffled rage, while the half-frantic deer crawled trembling to the side of her preserver, licked his hands and lay at his feet gasping for breath. to some men an incident like this would have been an incident and nothing more; but souls like corson's perceive in every event and experience of life, elements which lie beneath the surface. not only was he saved from the spiritual defeat of which he was on the verge, by being summoned instantly from the subjective into the objective world; but the rescue of the deer became a beautiful and holy symbol of life itself, and so revealed and illustrated life's main end "the help of the helpless,"--that he was at once elevated from a region of struggle and despair into one of triumph and hope. he remained in it until he fell asleep. he awoke in it on the morrow. from that high plane he did not again descend so low as he had been. the courage that had been kindled and the purposes which had been crystallized by the joy of this rescue and the gratitude of the deer remained permanently in his heart. he lived in dreams of other acts like this, in which the objects saved by his strength were not the beasts of the field, but the hunted and despairing children of a heavenly father. the fawn became to him a continual reminder of this spiritual struggle and victory, for he kept it in his cabin, made it a companion, trained it to follow him about his work, and finally presented it to pepeeta. there were many beautiful things to be seen in the winter woods; snow hanging in plumes from the trees, the smoke of the cabin curling into the still air, rabbits browsing on the low bushes, the woodsman standing in triumph over a fallen tree; but when, on the days of her visits to the exile, pepeeta entered the clearing and the deer, perceiving her approach, ran to greet her in flying leaps, bounded around her, looked up into her face with its gentle eyes, ate the food she offered and licked the hand of its mistress--david thought that there was nothing more beautiful in the world. chapter xxxvii. paradise regained "the loves that meet in paradise shall cast out fear, and paradise hath room for you and me and all." --christina rossetti. at last--the springtime came! the potent energy of the sun opened all the myriad veins of the great trees, wakened the hibernating creatures of the dens and burrows from their protracted sleep, caused the seeds to swell and burst in the bosom of earth, and sent the blood coursing through david's veins, quickening all his intellectual and spiritual powers. and then, the end of his exile was near! in a few weeks he would have vindicated the purity of his purpose to attain the divine life, and have proved himself worthy to claim the hand of pepeeta! all the winter long he had plied his axe. once more, now that the snow had vanished, he set fire to the debris which he had strewn around him, and saw with an indescribable feeling of triumph and delight the open soil made ready for his plow. he yoked a team of patient oxen to it and set the sharp point deep into the black soil. never had the earth smelled so sweet as now when the broad share threw it back in a continuously advancing wave. never had that yeoman's joy of hearing the ripping of roots and the grating of iron against stones as the great oxen settled to their work, strained in their yokes and dragged the plow point through the bosom of the earth, been half so genuine and deep. it was good to be alive, to sleep, to eat, to toil! cities had lost their charm. david's sin was no longer a withering and blasting, but a chastening and restraining memory. his clearing was a kingdom, his cabin a palace, and he was soon to have a queen! he had reserved his sowing for the last day of his self-imposed seclusion, which ended with the month of may. on the day following, having accomplished his vow, he would go to the house of god and claim his bride! this day he would devote to that solemn function of scattering the sacred seed of life's chief support into the open furrow! no wonder a feeling of devotion and awe came upon him as he prepared himself for his task; for perhaps there is not a single act in the whole economy of life better calculated to stir a thoughtful mind to its profoundest depths than the sowing of those golden grains which have within them the promise and potency of life. year after year, century after century, millions of men have gone forth in the light of the all-beholding and life-giving sun to cast into the bosom of the earth the sustenance of their children! it is a sublime act of faith, and this sacrifice of a present for a future good, an actual for a potential blessing, is no less beautiful and holy because familiar and old. the divine master himself could not contemplate it without emotion and was inspired by it to the utterance of one of his grandest parables. and then the field itself inspired solemn reflections and noble pride in the mind of the sower. it was his own! he had carved it out of a wilderness! here was soil which had never been opened to the daylight. here was ground which perhaps for a thousand, and not unlikely for ten thousand years, should bring forth seed to the sower; and he had cleared it with his own hands! generations and centuries after he should have died and been forgotten, men would go forth into this field as he was doing to-day, to sow their seed and reap their harvests. he slung his bag of grain over his shoulder and stepped forth from his cabin at the dawn of day. the clearing he had made was an almost perfect circle. all around it were the green walls of the forest with the great trunks of the beeches, white and symmetrical, standing like vast corinthian columns supporting a green frieze upon which rested the lofty roof of the immense cathedral. from the organ-loft the music of the morning breeze resounded, and from the choirs the sweet antiphonals of birds. odors of pine, of balsam, of violets, of peppermint, of fresh-plowed earth, of bursting life, were wafted across the vast nave from transept to transept, and floated like incense up to heaven. the priest, about to offer his sacrifice, the sacrifice of a broken heart and contrite spirit, about to confess his faith; in the beautiful and symbolic act of sacrificing the present for the future, stepped forth into the open furrow. his open countenance, bronzed with the sun, was lighted with love and adoration; his lips smiled; his eyes glowed; he lifted them to the heavens in an unspoken prayer for the benediction of the great life-giver; he drew into his nostrils the sweet odors, into his lungs the pure air, into his soul the beauty and glory of the world, and then, filling his hand with the golden grain, he flung it into the bosom of the waiting earth. all day long he strode across the clearing and with rhythmical swinging of his brawny arm lavishly scattered the golden grain. as the sun went down and the sower neared the conclusion of his labor, his emotions became deeper and yet more deep. he entered more and more fully into the true spirit and significance of his act. he felt that it was a sacrament. thoughts of the operation of the mighty energies which he was evoking; of the divine spirit who brooded over all; of the coming into this wilderness of the woman who was to be the good angel of his life; of the ceremony that was to be enacted in the little meeting house; of the work to which he was dedicated in the future, kindled his soul into an ecstasy of joy. he ceased to be conscious of his present task. the material world loosened its hold upon his senses. his thoughts became riveted upon the elements of that spiritual universe that lay within and around him, and that seemed uncovered to his view as to the apostle of old. "whether he was in the body, or out of the body, he could not tell!" finally he ceased to move; his hand was arrested and hung poised in mid-air with the unscattered seed in its palm; he eyes were fixed on some invisible object and he stood as he had stood when we first caught sight of him in the half-plowed meadow--lost in a trance. how long he stood he never knew, but he was wakened, at last, as it was natural and fitting he should be. fulfilling her agreement to come and bring him home on the eve of their wedding day, pepeeta emerged like a beautiful apparition from an opening in the green wall of the great cathedral. she saw david standing immovable in the furrow. for a few moments she was absorbed in admiration of the grace and beauty of the noble and commanding figure, and then she was thrilled with the consciousness that she possessed the priceless treasure of his love. but these emotions were followed by a holy awe as she discovered that the soul of her lover was filled with religious ecstasy. she felt that the place whereon she stood was holy ground, and reverently awaited the emergence of the worshiper from the holy of holies into which he had withdrawn for prayer. but the rapture lasted long and it was growing late. the shadows from the summits of the hills had already crept across the clearing and were silently ascending the trunks of the trees on the eastern side. it was time for them to go. she took a step toward him, and then another, moving slowly, reverently, and touched him on the arm. he started. the half-closed hand relaxed and the seed fell to the ground, the dreamer woke and descended from the heaven of the spiritual world into that of the earthly, the heart of a pure and noble woman. "i have come," she said simply. he took her in his arms and kissed her. "thee is not through yet?" "so it seems! i must have lost myself." "i think thee rather found thyself." "perhaps i did; but i must finish my labor. it will never do for me to let my visions supplant my tasks. they will be hurtful, save as incentives to toil. i must be careful!" "let me help thee. there are only a few more furrows. i am sure that i can sow," she said, extending her hand. he placed some of the seed in her apron and she trudged by his side, laughing at her awkwardness but laboring with all her might. her lover took her hand in his and showed her how to cast the seed, and so they labored together until every open furrow was filled. it was dark when they were done. they lingered a little while to put the cabin in order, and then turned their faces towards the old farmhouse. the two little brooks were singing their evening song as they mingled their waters together in front of that wilderness home. the lovers stood a moment at their point of junction, as pepeeta said, "it is a symbol of our lives." they listened to the low murmur, watched the crystal stream as it sparkled in the moonlight, stole away into the distance, chanting its own melodious lay of love. it led them out of the clearing and into the depths of the forest. they moved like spirits passing through a land of dreams. the palpable world seemed stripped of its reality. the creatures that stole across their path or started up as they passed, the crickets that chirped their little idyls at the roots of the great trees, the fire-flies that kindled their evanescent fires among the bushes, the night owls that hooted solemnly in the tree tops, the rustle of the leaves in the evening breeze, the gurgle of the waters over the stones in the bed of the brook, their own muffled footfalls, the patches of moonlight that lay like silver mats on the brown carpet of the woods, the flickering shadows, the ghostly trunks of the trees, the slowly swaying, plume-like branches, sounded only like faint echoes or gleamed only like soft reflections of a fairy world! "it was here," pepeeta said, pausing at the roots of a great beech tree, "that i came the day after we had first seen each other, to inquire of the gypsy goddess the secrets of the future. i have learned many lessons since!" "it was here," said david, as they emerged from the forest into the larger valley, "that thee stood, a little way from the doctor's side, stroking the necks of his horses and peeping at us stealthily from under thy long dark lashes on the day when he tried to persuade me to join him in his roving life." "it was here," pepeeta said, as they approached the little bridge, "that we met each other and yielded our hearts to love." "and met again after our tragedy and our suffering, to find that love is eternal," david added. they stood for a few moments in silence, recalling that bitter past, and then the man of many sins and sorrows said, "give me thy hand, pepeeta. how small it seems in mine. let me fold thee in my arms; it makes my heart bound to feel thee there! we have walked over rough roads together, and the path before us may not be always smooth. we have tasted the bitter cup between us, and there may still be dregs at the bottom. it is hard to believe that after all the wrong we have done we can still be happy. god is surely good! it seems to me that we must have our feet on the right path. he paused for a moment and then continued: "i have brought thee many sorrows, sweetheart." "and many joys." "i mean to bring thee some in the future! the love i bear thee now is different from that of the past. i cannot wait until to-morrow to pledge thee my troth! listen!" she did so, gazing up into his face with dark eyes in which the light of the moon was reflected as in mountain lakes. there was something in them which filled his heart with unutterable emotion, and his words hung quivering upon his lips. "speak, my love, for i am listening," she said. "i cannot," he replied. a list of recent fiction of the bowen-merrill company one quarter million copies have been sold of this great historical love-story of princess mary tudor, sister of henry viii price, $ . when knighthood was in flower ask your bookseller for it a vivacious romance of revolutionary days. * * * * * alice of old vincennes by maurice thompson * * * * * mr. thompson, whose delightful writings in prose and verse have made his reputation national has achieved his master stroke of genius in this historical novel of revolutionary days in indiana.--_the atlanta constitution_. there are three great chapters of fiction: scott's tournament on ashby field, general wallace's chariot race, and now maurice thompson's duel scene and the raising of alice's flag over old fort vincennes.--_denver daily news_. more original than "richard carvel," more cohesive than "to have and to hold," more vital than "janice meredith," such is maurice thompson's superb american romance, "alice of old vincennes." it is in addition, more artistic and spontaneous than any of its rivals.--_chicago times-herald_. mo. with five illustrations and a frontispiece in color, drawn by f.c. yohn, price $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis sweepers of the sea the story of a strange navy by claude h. wetmore * * * * * [from the _st. louis mirror_.] the recital of the deeds of the "sweepers of the sea" is a breathless one. the romance is heightened by the realism of the technique of naval warfare, by the sureness and voluminosity of nautical knowledge. imaginary sea fights are told with all the particularity of real events, and at the same time the descriptions have a breezy swing that hurries the reader along to most startling catastrophes. much of the material is evidently worked over from actual fact into the texture of romance. the romance is evidently modern in action, but the motives are the grand and noble motives of a mysterious and splendid antiquity. the decendants of the incas, moved by the inca traditions, are not at all out of harmony with modern war-ships, or with a very modern war-correspondent, who is touched up a little to heroic proportions. the book is pleasurable all the way through, and some of the descriptive passages are specimens of first-class writing. the work bears every evidence of having been carefully done, and yet the story reels off as naturally and easily as if it were a running record of fact. that the general public will take to the book is a safe conclusion. it is just different enough from the ordinary, romantic novel to be essentially new. illustrated price, $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis the story of an american crucifixion. * * * * * the penitentes by louis how. * * * * * to describe the customs of this band of intensely religious people without laying on the color too thickly and without melodramatic exaggeration, to retain all the color and picturesqueness of the original scene without excess, was the difficult task which mr. how had to accomplish, and it is one which he has done well.--_chicago record_. "the penitentes" abounds in dramatic possibilities. it is full of action, warm color, and variety. the denouement at the little church of san rafael, when the soldiers surprise the penitentes at mass in the early dawn of their fete day, appeals strongly to the dramatizer.--_chicago tribune_. mr. how has done a truly remarkable piece of work . . . any hand, however practiced, might well be proud of the marvelously good descriptions, the dramatic, highly unusual story, the able characterizations. if "the penitentes" does not make its author notable it will not be for lack of every "promising" condition.--_the interior_. mo. cloth, ornamental price $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis a story of the morgan raid, during the war of the rebellion. * * * * * the legionaries by henry scott clark. * * * * * "the legionaries" is pervaded with what seems to be the true spirit of artistic impartiality. the hero, to be sure, is a secessionist, but the author, at least in this book, is simply a narrator. he stands aside, regarding with equal eye all the issues involved and the scales dip not in his hands. to sum up, the first romance of the new day on the ohio is an eminently readable one--a good yarn well spun.--_cincinnati commercial tribune_. the appearance of a new novel in the west marks an epoch in fiction relating to the war between the sections for the preservation of the union. "the legionaries," by an anonymous writer, said to be a prominent lawyer of the hoosier state, concerns the raid made by the intrepid morgan through the southeastern corner of indiana, through lower ohio and to the borders of west virginia, where his depleted command ran into a trap set by the federal authorities. it is a remarkable book, and we can scarcely credit the assurance that it is the work of a new writer.--_rochester herald_. the scene is laid in kentucky and indiana, and the backbone of the story is morgan's great raid--one of the most romantic and reckless pieces of adventure ever attempted in the history of the world. mr. clark's description of the "ride of the three thousand" is a piece of literature that deserves to live; and is as fine in its way as the chariot race from "ben hur."--_memphis commercial appeal_. mo. illustrated price $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis another successful historical novel. * * * * * the black wolf's breed by harris dickson. * * * * * a vigorous tale of france in the old and new world during the reign of louis xiv.--_boston globe_. as delightfully seductive as certain mint-flavored beverages they make down south.--_philadelphia press_. the sword-play is great, even finer than the pictures in "two have and to hold."--_los angeles herald_. as fine a piece of sustained adventure as has appeared in recent fiction.--_san francisco chronicle_. there is action, vivid description and intensely dramatic situations.--_st. louis globe-democrat_. so full of tender love-making, of gallant fighting that one regrets it's no longer.--_indianapolis news_. mo., illustrated by c.m. relyea, price $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis a fine story of the cowboy at his best. * * * * * with hoops of steel by florence finch kelly. * * * * * "the friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel." "with hoops of steel," is issued in handsome style, with several striking pictures in colors by dan smith, by the bowen-merrill company of indianapolis, a western publishing house that has a long record of recent successes in fiction. this firm seems to tell by instinct what the public wants to read, and in mrs. kelly's case it is safe to say that no mistake has been made. western men and women will read because it paints faithfully the life which they know so well, and because it gives us three big, manly fellows, fine types of the cowboy at his best. eastern readers will be attracted by its splendid realism.--_san francisco chronicle_. mrs. kelly's character stands out from the background of the new mexican plains, desert and mountain with all the distinctness of a remington sketch or of the striking colored illustrations drawn for the book by dan smith. it is not alone in the superb local coloring or the vivid character work that "with hoops of steel" is a notable book. the incidents are admirably described and full of interest, and the movement of the story is continuous and vigorous. the action is spirited and the climaxes dramatic. the plot is cleverly devised and carefully unfolded. after finishing the book one feels that he has just seen the country, has mingled with the characters and has been a witness of the incidents described.--_denver times_. mo. with six illustrations, in color, by dan smith price, $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis a novel of early new york. * * * * * patroon van volkenberg by henry thew stephenson. * * * * * the action of the story begins when new york was a little city of less than , inhabitants. the conflict between the law-abiding citizens, led by the governor, earl bellamont, and the merchants, headed by patroon van volkenberg, is at its height. the governor has forbidden the port to the free traders or pirate ships, which infested the atlantic and sailed boldly under their own flag; while the patroon and his merchant colleagues not only traded openly with the buccaneers, but owned and managed such illicit craft. the atmosphere of the tale is fresh in fiction, the plot is stirring and well knit, and the author is possessed of the ability to write forceful, fragrant english. mo., illustrated in color by c.m. relyea, price $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis fun from bob burdette. * * * * * chimes from a jester's bells * * * * * a volume of humorous and pathetic stories and sketches. by robert j. burdette. beautifully illustrated, bound in uniform style with bill nye's "a guest at the ludlow." mo., cloth ornamental, illustrated. price $ . the bowen-merrill company, indianapolis this ebook was produced by david widger the weavers by gilbert parker book iii. xv. soolsby's hand upon the curtain xvi. the debt and the accounting xvii. the woman of the cross-roads xviii. time, the idol-breaker xix. sharper than a sword xx. each after his own order xxi. "there is nothing hidden which shall not be revealed" xxii. as in a glass darkly xxiii. the tents of cushan xxiv. the questioner xxv. the voice through the door xxvi. "i owe you nothing" xxvii. the awakening chapter xv soolsby's hand upon the curtain faith raised her eyes from the paper before her and poised her head meditatively. "how long is it, friend, since--" "since he went to egypt?" "nay, since thee--" "since i went to mass?" he grumbled humorously. she laughed whimsically. "nay, then, since thee made the promise--" "that i would drink no more till his return--ay, that was my bargain; till then and no longer! i am not to be held back then, unless i change my mind when i see him. well, 'tis three years since--" "three years! time hasn't flown. is it not like an old memory, his living here in this house, soolsby, and all that happened then?" soolsby looked at her over his glasses, resting his chin on the back of the chair he was caning, and his lips worked in and out with a suppressed smile. "time's got naught to do with you. he's afeard of you," he continued. "he lets you be." "friend, thee knows i am almost an old woman now." she made marks abstractedly upon the corner of a piece of paper. "unless my hair turns grey presently i must bleach it, for 'twill seem improper it should remain so brown." she smoothed it back with her hand. try as she would to keep it trim after the manner of her people, it still waved loosely on her forehead and over her ears. and the grey bonnet she wore but added piquancy to its luxuriance, gave a sweet gravity to the demure beauty of the face it sheltered. "i am thirty now," she murmured, with a sigh, and went on writing. the old man's fingers moved quickly among the strips of cane, and, after a silence, without raising his head, he said: "thirty, it means naught." "to those without understanding," she rejoined drily. "'tis tough understanding why there's no wedding-ring on yonder finger. there's been many a man that's wanted it, that's true--the squire's son from bridgley, the lord of axwood manor, the long soldier from shipley wood, and doctors, and such folk aplenty. there's where understanding fails." faith's face flushed, then it became pale, and her eyes, suffused, dropped upon the paper before her. at first it seemed as though she must resent his boldness; but she had made a friend of him these years past, and she knew he meant no rudeness. in the past they had talked of things deeper and more intimate still. yet there was that in his words which touched a sensitive corner of her nature. "why should i be marrying?" she asked presently. "there was my sister's son all those years. i had to care for him." "ay, older than him by a thimbleful!" he rejoined. "nay, till he came to live in this hut alone older by many a year. since then he is older than me by fifty. i had not thought of marriage before he went away. squire's son, soldier, or pillman, what were they to me! he needed me. they came, did they? well, and if they came?" "and since the egyptian went?" a sort of sob came into her throat. "he does not need me, but he may--he will one day; and then i shall be ready. but now--" old soolsby's face turned away. his house overlooked every house in the valley beneath: he could see nearly every garden; he could even recognise many in the far streets. besides, there hung along two nails on the wall a telescope, relic of days when he sailed the main. the grounds of the cloistered house and the fruit-decked garden-wall of the red mansion were ever within his vision. once, twice, thrice, he had seen what he had seen, and dark feelings, harsh emotions, had been roused in him. "he will need us both--the egyptian will need us both one day," he answered now; "you more than any, me because i can help him, too--ay, i can help him. but married or single you could help him; so why waste your days here?" "is it wasting my days to stay with my father? he is lonely, most lonely since our davy went away; and troubled, too, for the dangers of that life yonder. his voice used to shake when he prayed, in those days when davy was away in the desert, down at darfur and elsewhere among the rebel tribes. he frightened me then, he was so stern and still. ah, but that day when we knew he was safe, i was eighteen, and no more!" she added, smiling. "but, think you, i could marry while my life is so tied to him and to our egyptian?" no one looking at her limpid, shining blue eyes but would have set her down for twenty-three or twenty-four, for not a line showed on her smooth face; she was exquisite of limb and feature, and had the lissomeness of a girl of fifteen. there was in her eyes, however, an unquiet sadness; she had abstracted moments when her mind seemed fixed on some vexing problem. such a mood suddenly came upon her now. the pen lay by the paper untouched, her hands folded in her lap, and a long silence fell upon them, broken only by the twanging of the strips of cane in soolsby's hands. at last, however, even this sound ceased; and the two scarce moved as the sun drew towards the middle afternoon. at last they were roused by the sound of a horn, and, looking down, they saw a four-in-hand drawing smartly down the road to the village over the gorse-spread common, till it stopped at the cloistered house. as faith looked, her face slightly flushed. she bent forward till she saw one figure get down and, waving a hand to the party on the coach as it moved on, disappear into the gateway of the cloistered house. "what is the office they have given him?" asked soolsby, disapproval in his tone, his eyes fixed on the disappearing figure. "they have made lord eglington under-secretary for foreign affairs," she answered. "and what means that to a common mind?" "that what his government does in egypt will mean good or bad to our egyptian," she returned. "that he can do our man good or ill?" soolsby asked sharply--"that he, yonder, can do that?" she inclined her head. "when i see him doing ill--well, when i see him doing that"--he snatched up a piece of wood from the floor--"then i will break him, so!" he snapped the stick across his knee, and threw the pieces on the ground. he was excited. he got to his feet and walked up and down the little room, his lips shut tight, his round eyes flaring. faith watched him in astonishment. in the past she had seen his face cloud over, his eyes grow sulky, at the mention of lord eglington's name; she knew that soolsby hated him; but his aversion now was more definite and violent than he had before shown, save on that night long ago when david went first to egypt, and she had heard hard words between them in this same hut. she supposed it one of those antipathies which often grow in inverse ratio to the social position of those concerned. she replied in a soothing voice: "then we shall hope that he will do our davy only good." "you would not wish me to break his lordship? you would not wish it?" he came over to her, and looked sharply at her. "you would not wish it?" he repeated meaningly. she evaded his question. "lord eglington will be a great man one day perhaps," she answered. "he has made his way quickly. how high he has climbed in three years--how high!" soolsby's anger was not lessened. "pooh! pooh! he is an earl. an earl has all with him at the start--name, place, and all. but look at our egyptian! look at egyptian david--what had he but his head and an honest mind? what is he? he is the great man of egypt. tell me, who helped egyptian david? that second-best lordship yonder, he crept about coaxing this one and wheedling that. i know him--i know him. he wheedles and wheedles. no matter whether 'tis a babe or an old woman, he'll talk, and talk, and talk, till they believe in him, poor folks! no one's too small for his net. there's martha higham yonder. she's forty five. if he sees her, as sure as eggs he'll make love to her, and fill her ears with words she'd never heard before, and 'd never hear at all if not from him. ay, there's no man too sour and no woman too old that he'll not blandish, if he gets the chance." as he spoke faith shut her eyes, and her fingers clasped tightly together--beautiful long, tapering fingers, like those in romney's pictures. when he stopped, her eyes opened slowly, and she gazed before her down towards that garden by the red mansion where her lifetime had been spent. "thee says hard words, soolsby," she rejoined gently. "but maybe thee is right." then a flash of humour passed over her face. "suppose we ask martha higham if the earl has 'blandished' her. if the earl has blandished martha, he is the very captain of deceit. why, he has himself but twenty-eight years. will a man speak so to one older than himself, save in mockery? so, if thee is right in this, then--then if he speak well to deceive and to serve his turn, he will also speak ill; and he will do ill when it may serve his turn; and so he may do our davy ill, as thee says, soolsby." she rose to her feet and made as if to go, but she kept her face from him. presently, however, she turned and looked at him. "if he does ill to davy, there will be those like thee, soolsby, who will not spare him." his fingers opened and shut maliciously, he nodded dour assent. after an instant, while he watched her, she added: "thee has not heard my lord is to marry?" "marry--who is the blind lass?" "her name is maryon, miss hylda maryon: and she has a great fortune. but within a month it is to be." "thee remembers the woman of the cross-roads, her that our davy--" "her the egyptian kissed, and put his watch in her belt--ay, kate heaver!" "she is now maid to her lord eglington will wed. she is to spend to-night with us." "where is her lad that was, that the egyptian rolled like dough in a trough?" "jasper kimber? he is at sheffield. he has been up and down, now sober for a year, now drunken for a month, now in, now out of a place, until this past year. but for this whole year he has been sober, and he may keep his pledge. he is working in the trades-unions. among his fellow- workers he is called a politician--if loud speaking and boasting can make one. yet if these doings give him stimulant instead of drink, who shall complain?" soolsby's head was down. he was looking out over the far hills, while the strips of cane were idle in his hands. "ay, 'tis true--'tis true," he nodded. "give a man an idee which keeps him cogitating, makes him think he's greater than he is, and sets his pulses beating, why, that's the cure to drink. drink is friendship and good company and big thoughts while it lasts; and it's lonely without it, if you've been used to it. ay, but kimber's way is best. get an idee in your noddle, to do a thing that's more to you than work or food or bed, and 'twill be more than drink, too." he nodded to himself, then began weaving the strips of cane furiously. presently he stopped again, and threw his head back with a chuckle. "now, wouldn't it be a joke, a reg'lar first-class joke, if kimber and me both had the same idee, if we was both workin' for the same thing-- an' didn't know it? i reckon it might be so." "what end is thee working for, friend? if the public prints speak true, kimber is working to stand for parliament against lord eglington." soolsby grunted and laughed in his throat. "now, is that the game of mister kimber? against my lord eglington! hey, but that's a joke, my lord!" "and what is thee working for, soolsby?" "what do i be working for? to get the egyptian back to england--what else?" "that is no joke." "ay, but 'tis a joke." the old man chuckled. "'tis the best joke in the boilin'." he shook his head and moved his body backwards and forwards with glee. "me and kimber! me and kimber!" he roared, "and neither of us drunk for a year--not drunk for a whole year. me and kimber--and him!" faith put her hand on his shoulder. "indeed, i see no joke, but only that which makes my heart thankful, soolsby." "ay, you will be thankful, you will be thankful, by-and-by," he said, still chuckling, and stood up respectfully to show her out. chapter xvi the debt and the accounting his forehead frowning, but his eyes full of friendliness, soolsby watched faith go down the hillside and until she reached the main road. here, instead of going to the red mansion, she hesitated a moment, and then passed along a wooded path leading to the meetinghouse, and the graveyard. it was a perfect day of early summer, the gorse was in full bloom, and the may and the hawthorn were alive with colour. the path she had taken led through a narrow lane, overhung with blossoms and greenery. by bearing away to the left into another path, and making a detour, she could reach the meeting-house through a narrow lane leading past a now disused mill and a small, strong stream flowing from the hill above. as she came down the hill, other eyes than soolsby's watched her. from his laboratory--the laboratory in which his father had worked, in which he had lost his life--eglington had seen the trim, graceful figure. he watched it till it moved into the wooded path. then he left his garden, and, moving across a field, came into the path ahead of her. walking swiftly, he reached the old mill, and waited. she came slowly, now and again stooping to pick a flower and place it in her belt. her bonnet was slung on her arm, her hair had broken a little loose and made a sort of hood round the face, so still, so composed, into which the light of steady, soft, apprehending eyes threw a gentle radiance. it was a face to haunt a man when the storm of life was round him. it had, too, a courage which might easily become a delicate stubbornness, a sense of duty which might become sternness, if roused by a sense of wrong to herself or others. she reached the mill and stood and listened towards the stream and the waterfall. she came here often. the scene quieted her in moods of restlessness which came from a feeling that her mission was interrupted, that half her life's work had been suddenly taken from her. when david went, her life had seemed to shrivel; for with him she had developed as he had developed; and when her busy care of him was withdrawn, she had felt a sort of paralysis which, in a sense, had never left her. then suitors had come--the soldier from shipley wood, the lord of axwood manor, and others, and, in a way, a new sense was born in her, though she was alive to the fact that the fifteen thousand pounds inherited from her uncle benn had served to warm the air about her into a wider circle. yet it was neither to soldier, nor squire, nor civil engineer, nor surgeon that the new sense stirring in her was due. the spring was too far beneath to be found by them. when, at last, she raised her head, lord eglington was in the path, looking at her with a half-smile. she did not start, but her face turned white, and a mist came before her eyes. quickly, however, as though fearful lest he should think he could trouble her composure, she laid a hand upon herself. he came near to her and held out his hand. "it has been a long six months since we met here," he said. she made no motion to take his hand. "i find days grow shorter as i grow older," she rejoined steadily, and smoothed her hair with her hand, making ready to put on her bonnet. "ah, do not put it on," he urged quickly, with a gesture. "it becomes you so--on your arm." she had regained her self-possession. pride, the best weapon of a woman, the best tonic, came to her resource. "thee loves to please thee at any cost," she replied. she fastened the grey strings beneath her chin. "would it be costly to keep the bonnet on your arm?" "it is my pleasure to have it on my head, and my pleasure has some value to myself." "a moment ago," he rejoined laughing, "it was your pleasure to have it on your arm." "are all to be monotonous except lord eglington? is he to have the only patent of change?" "do i change?" he smiled at her with a sense of inquisition, with an air that seemed to say, "i have lifted the veil of this woman's heart; i am the master of the situation." she did not answer to the obvious meaning of his words, but said: "thee has done little else but change, so far as eye can see. thee and thy family were once of quaker faith, but thee is a high churchman now. yet they said a year ago thee was a sceptic or an infidel." "there is force in what you say," he replied. "i have an inquiring mind; i am ever open to reason. confucius said: 'it is only the supremely wise or the deeply ignorant who never alter.'" "thee has changed politics. thee made a 'sensation, but that was not enough. thee that was a rebel became a deserter." he laughed. "ah, i was open to conviction! i took my life in my hands, defied consequences." he laughed again. "it brought office." "i am under-secretary for foreign affairs," he murmured complacently. "change is a policy with thee, i think. it has paid thee well, so it would seem." "only a fair rate of interest for the capital invested and the risks i've taken," he answered with an amused look. "i do not think that interest will increase. thee has climbed quickly, but fast climbing is not always safe climbing." his mood changed. his voice quickened, his face lowered. "you think i will fail? you wish me to fail?" "in so far as thee acts uprightly, i wish thee well. but if, out of office, thee disregards justice and conscience and the rights of others, can thee be just and faithful in office? subtlety will not always avail. the strong man takes the straight course. subtlety is not intellect." he flushed. she had gone to the weakest point in his defences. his vanity was being hurt. she had an advantage now. "you are wrong," he protested. "you do not understand public life, here in a silly quaker village." "does thee think that all that happens in 'public life' is of consequence? that is not sensible. thee is in the midst of a thousand immaterial things, though they have importance for the moment. but the chief things that matter to all, does thee not know that a 'silly quaker village' may realise them to the full--more fully because we see them apart from the thousand little things that do not matter? i remember a thing in political life that mattered. it was at heddington after the massacre at damascus. does thee think that we did not know thee spoke without principle then, and only to draw notice?" "you would make me into a demagogue," he said irritably. "thee is a demagogue," she answered candidly. "why did you never say all this to me long ago? years have passed since then, and since then you and i have--have been friends. you have--" he paused, for she made a protesting motion, and a fire sprang into her eyes. her voice got colder. "thee made me believe--ah, how many times did we speak together? six times it was, not more. thee made me believe that what i thought or said helped thee to see things better. thee said i saw things truly like a child, with the wisdom of a woman. thee remembers that?" "it was so," he put in hastily. "no, not for a moment so, though i was blinded to think for an instant that it was. thee subtly took the one way which could have made me listen to thee. thee wanted help, thee said; and if a word of mine could help thee now and then, should i withhold it, so long as i thought thee honest?" "do you think i was not honest in wanting your friendship?" "nay, it was not friendship thee wanted, for friendship means a giving and a getting. thee was bent on getting what was, indeed, of but little value save to the giver; but thee gave nothing; thee remembered nothing of what was given thee." "it is not so, it is not so," he urged eagerly, nervously. "i gave, and i still give." "in those old days, i did not understand," she went on, "what it was thee wanted. i know now. it was to know the heart and mind of a woman--of a woman older than thee. so that thee should have such sort of experience, though i was but a foolish choice of the experiment. they say thee has a gift for chemistry like thy father; but if thee experiments no more wisely in the laboratory than with me, thee will not reach distinction." "your father hated my father and did not believe in him, i know not why, and you are now hating and disbelieving me." "i do not know why my father held the late earl in abhorrence; i know he has no faith in thee; and i did ill in listening to thee, in believing for one moment there was truth in thee. but no, no, i think i never believed it. i think that even when thee said most, at heart i believed least." "you doubt that? you doubt all i said to you?" he urged softly, coming close to her. she drew aside slightly. she had steeled herself for this inevitable interview, and there was no weakening of her defences; but a great sadness came into her eyes, and spread over her face, and to this was added, after a moment, a pity which showed the distance she was from him, the safety in which she stood. "i remember that the garden was beautiful, and that thee spoke as though thee was part of the garden. thee remembers that, at our meeting in the cloistered house, when the woman was ill, i had no faith in thee; but thee spoke with grace, and turned common things round about, so that they seemed different to the ear from any past hearing; and i listened. i did not know, and i do not know now, why it is my duty to shun any of thy name, and above all thyself; but it has been so commanded by my father all my life; and though what he says may be in a little wrong, in much it must ever be right." "and so, from a hatred handed down, your mind has been tuned to shun even when your heart was learning to give me a home--faith?" she straightened herself. "friend, thee will do me the courtesy to forget to use my christian name. i am not a child-indeed, i am well on in years"--he smiled--"and thee has no friendship or kinship for warrant. if my mind was tuned to shun thee, i gave proof that it was willing to take thee at thine own worth, even against the will of my father, against the desire of david, who knew thee better than i--he gauged thee at first glance." "you have become a philosopher and a statesman," he said ironically. "has your nephew, the new joseph in egypt, been giving you instructions in high politics? has he been writing the epistles of david to the quakers?" "thee will leave his name apart," she answered with dignity. "i have studied neither high politics nor statesmanship, though in the days when thee did flatter me thee said i had a gift for such things. thee did not speak the truth. and now i will say that i do not respect thee. no matter how high thee may climb, still i shall not respect thee; for thee will ever gain ends by flattery, by subtlety, and by using every man and every woman for selfish ends. thee cannot be true-not even to that which by nature is greatest in thee.". he withered under her words. "and what is greatest in me?" he asked abruptly, his coolness and self- possession striving to hold their own. "that which will ruin thee in the end." her eyes looked beyond his into the distance, rapt and shining; she seemed scarcely aware of his presence. "that which will bring thee down--thy hungry spirit of discovery. it will serve thee no better than it served the late earl. but thee it will lead into paths ending in a gulf of darkness." "deborah!" he answered, with a rasping laugh. "continuez! forewarned is forearmed." "no, do not think i shall be glad," she answered, still like one in a dream. "i shall lament it as i lament--as i lament now. all else fades away into the end which i see for thee. thee will live alone without a near and true friend, and thee will die alone, never having had a true friend. thee will never be a true friend, thee will never love truly man or woman, and thee will never find man or woman who will love thee truly, or will be with thee to aid thee in the dark and falling days." "then," he broke in sharply, querulously, "then, i will stand alone. i shall never come whining that i have been ill-used, to fate or fortune, to men or to the almighty." "that i believe. pride will build up in thee a strength which will be like water in the end. oh, my lord," she added, with a sudden change in her voice and manner, "if thee could only be true--thee who never has been true to any one!" "why does a woman always judge a man after her own personal experience with him, or what she thinks is her own personal experience?" a robin hopped upon the path before her. she watched it for a moment intently, then lifted her head as the sound of a bell came through the wood to her. she looked up at the sun, which was slanting towards evening. she seemed about to speak, but with second thought, moved on slowly past the mill and towards the meeting-house. he stepped on beside her. she kept her eyes fixed in front of her, as though oblivious of his presence. "you shall hear me speak. you shall listen to what i have to say, though it is for the last time," he urged stubbornly. "you think ill of me. are you sure you are not pharisaical?" "i am honest enough to say that which hurts me in the saying. i do not forget that to believe thee what i think is to take all truth from what thee said to me last year, and again this spring when the tulips first came and there was good news from egypt." "i said," he rejoined boldly, "that i was happier with you than with any one else alive. i said that what you thought of me meant more to me than what any one else in the world thought; and that i say now, and will always say it." the old look of pity came into her face. "i am older than thee by two years," she answered quaintly, "and i know more of real life, though i have lived always here. i have made the most of the little i have seen; thee has made little of the much that thee has seen. thee does not know the truth concerning thee. is it not, in truth, vanity which would have me believe in thee? if thee was happier with me than with any one alive, why then did thee make choice of a wife even in the days thee was speaking to me as no man shall ever speak again? nothing can explain so base a fact. no, no, no, thee said to me what thee said to others, and will say again without shame. but--but see, i will forgive; yes, i will follow thee with good wishes, if thee will promise to help david, whom thee has ever disliked, as, in the place held by thee, thee can do now. will thee offer this one proof, in spite of all else that disproves, that thee spoke any words of truth to me in the cloistered house, in the garden by my father's house, by yonder mill, and hard by the meeting-house yonder-near to my sister's grave by the willow-tree? will thee do that for me?" he was about to reply, when there appeared in the path before them luke claridge. his back was upon them, but he heard their footsteps and swung round. as though turned to stone, he waited for them. as they approached, his lips, dry and pale, essayed to speak, but no sound came. a fire was in his eyes which boded no good. amazement, horror, deadly anger, were all there, but, after a moment, the will behind the tumult commanded it, the wild light died away, and he stood calm and still awaiting them. faith was as pale as when she had met eglington. as she came nearer, luke claridge said, in a low voice: "how do i find thee in this company, faith?" there was reproach unutterable in his voice, in his face. he seemed humiliated and shamed, though all the while a violent spirit in him was struggling for the mastery. "as i came this way to visit my sister's grave i met my lord by the mill. he spoke to me, and, as i wished a favour of him, i walked with him thither--but a little way. i was going to visit my sister's grave." "thy sister's grave!" the fire flamed up again, but the masterful will chilled it down, and he answered: "what secret business can thee have with any of that name which i have cast out of knowledge or notice?" ignorant as he was of the old man's cause for quarrel or dislike, eglington felt himself aggrieved, and, therefore, with an advantage. "you had differences with my father, sir," he said. "i do not know what they were, but they lasted his lifetime, and all my life you have treated me with aversion. i am not a pestilence. i have never wronged you. i have lived your peaceful neighbour under great provocation, for your treatment would have done me harm if my place were less secure. i think i have cause for complaint." "i have never acted in haste concerning thee, or those who went before thee. what business had thee with him, faith?" he asked again. his voice was dry and hard. her impulse was to tell the truth, and so for ever have her conscience clear, for there would never be any more need for secrecy. the wheel of understanding between eglington and herself had come full circle, and there was an end. but to tell the truth would be to wound her father, to vex him against eglington even as he had never yet been vexed. besides, it was hard, while eglington was there, to tell what, after all, was the sole affair of her own life. in one literal sense, eglington was not guilty of deceit. never in so many words had he said to her: "i love you;" never had he made any promise to her or exacted one; he had done no more than lure her to feel one thing, and then to call it another thing. also there was no direct and vital injury, for she had never loved him; though how far she had travelled towards that land of light and trial she could never now declare. these thoughts flashed through her mind as she stood looking at her father. her tongue seemed imprisoned, yet her soft and candid eyes conquered the austerity in the old man's gaze. eglington spoke for her. "permit me to answer, neighbour," he said. "i wished to speak with your daughter, because i am to be married soon, and my wife will, at intervals, come here to live. i wished that she should not be shunned by you and yours as i have been. she would not understand, as i do not. yours is a constant call to war, while all your religion is an appeal for peace. i wished to ask your daughter to influence you to make it possible for me and mine to live in friendship among you. my wife will have some claims upon you. her mother was an american, of a quaker family from derbyshire. she has done nothing to merit your aversion." faith listened astonished and baffled. nothing of this had he said to her. had he meant to say it to her? had it been in his mind? or was it only a swift adaptation to circumstances, an adroit means of working upon the sympathies of her father, who, she could see, was in a quandary? eglington had indeed touched the old man as he had not been touched in thirty years and more by one of his name. for a moment the insinuating quality of the appeal submerged the fixed idea in a mind to which the name of eglington was anathema. eglington saw his advantage. he had felt his way carefully, and he pursued it quickly. "for the rest, your daughter asked what i was ready to offer--such help as, in my new official position, i can give to claridge pasha in egypt. as a neighbour, as minister in the government, i will do what i can to aid him." silent and embarrassed, the old man tried to find his way. presently he said tentatively: "david claridge has a title to the esteem of all civilised people." eglington was quick with his reply. "if he succeeds, his title will become a concrete fact. there is no honour the crown would not confer for such remarkable service." the other's face darkened. "i did not speak, i did not think, of handles to his name. i find no good in them, but only means for deceiving and deluding the world. such honours as might make him baronet, or duke, would add not a cubit to his stature. if he had such a thing by right" --his voice hardened, his eyes grew angry once again--"i would wish it sunk into the sea." "you are hard on us, sir, who did not give ourselves our titles, but took them with our birth as a matter of course. there was nothing inspiring in them. we became at once distinguished and respectable by patent." he laughed good-humouredly. then suddenly he changed, and his eyes took on a far-off look which faith had seen so often in the eyes of david, but in david's more intense and meaning, and so different. with what deftness and diplomacy had he worked upon her father! he had crossed a stream which seemed impassable by adroit, insincere diplomacy. she saw that it was time to go, while yet eglington's disparagement of rank and aristocracy was ringing in the old man's ears; though she knew there was nothing in eglington's equipment he valued more than his title and the place it gave him. grateful, however, for his successful intervention, faith now held out her hand. "i must take my father away, or it will be sunset before we reach the meeting-house," she said. "goodbye-friend," she added gently. for an instant luke claridge stared at her, scarce comprehending that his movements were being directed by any one save himself. truth was, faith had come to her cross-roads in life. for the first time in her memory she had seen her father speak to an eglington without harshness; and, as he weakened for a moment, she moved to take command of that weakness, though she meant it to seem like leading. while loving her and david profoundly, her father had ever been quietly imperious. if she could but gain ascendency even in a little, it might lead to a more open book of life for them both. eglington held out his hand to the old man. "i have kept you too long, sir. good-bye--if you will." the offered hand was not taken, but faith slid hers into the old man's palm, and pressed it, and he said quietly to eglington: "good evening, friend." "and when i bring my wife, sir?" eglington added, with a smile. "when thee brings the lady, there will be occasion to consider--there will be occasion then." eglington raised his hat, and turned back upon the path he and faith had travelled. the old man stood watching him until he was out of view. then he seemed more himself. still holding faith's hand, he walked with her on the gorse-covered hill towards the graveyard. "was it his heart spoke or his tongue--is there any truth in him?" he asked at last. faith pressed his hand. "if he help davy, father--" "if he help davy; ay, if he help davy! nay, i cannot go to the graveyard, faith. take me home," he said with emotion. his hand remained in hers. she had conquered. she was set upon a new path of influence. her hand was upon the door of his heart. "thee is good to me, faith," he said, as they entered the door of the red mansion. she glanced over towards the cloistered house. smoke was coming from the little chimney of the laboratory. chapter xvii the woman of the cross-roads the night came down slowly. there was no moon, the stars were few, but a mellow warmth was in the air. at the window of her little sitting-room up-stairs faith sat looking out into the stillness. beneath was the garden with its profusion of flowers and fruit; away to the left was the common; and beyond-far beyond--was a glow in the sky, a suffused light, of a delicate orange, merging away into a grey-blueness, deepening into a darker blue; and then a purple depth, palpable and heavy with a comforting silence. there was something alluring and suggestive in the soft, smothered radiance. it had all the glamour of some distant place of pleasure and quiet joy, of happiness and ethereal being. it was, in fact, the far-off mirror of the flaming furnace of the great heddington factories. the light of the sky above was a soft radiance, as of a happy arcadian land; the fire of the toil beneath was the output of human striving, an intricate interweaving of vital forces which, like some titanic machine, wrought out in pain--a vast destiny. as faith looked, she thought of the thousands beneath struggling and striving, none with all desires satisfied, some in an agony of want and penury, all straining for the elusive enough; like sisyphus ever rolling the rock of labour up a hill too steep for them. her mind flew to the man kimber and his task of organising labour for its own advance. what a life-work for a man! here might david have spent his days, here among his own countrymen, instead of in that far-off land where all the forces of centuries were fighting against him. here the forces would have been fighting for him; the trend was towards the elevation of the standards of living and the wider rights of labour, to the amelioration of hard conditions of life among the poor. david's mind, with its equity, its balance, and its fire--what might it not have accomplished in shepherding such a cause, guiding its activity? the gate of the garden clicked. kate heaver had arrived. faith got to her feet and left the room. a few minutes later the woman of the cross-roads was seated opposite faith at the window. she had changed greatly since the day david had sent her on her way to london and into the unknown. then there had been recklessness, something of coarseness, in the fine face. now it was strong and quiet, marked by purpose and self-reliance. ignorance had been her only peril in the past, as it had been the cause of her unhappy connection with jasper kimber. the atmosphere in which she was raised had been unmoral; it had not been consciously immoral. her temper and her indignation against her man for drinking had been the means of driving them apart. he would have married her in those days, if she had given the word, for her will was stronger than his own; but she had broken from him in an agony of rage and regret and despised love. she was now, again, as she had been in those first days before she went with jasper kimber; when she was the rose-red angel of the quarters; when children were lured by the touch of her large, shapely hands; when she had been counted a great nurse among her neighbours. the old simple untutored sympathy was in her face. they sat for a long time in silence, and at length faith said: "thee is happy now with her who is to marry lord eglington?" kate nodded, smiling. "who could help but be happy with her! yet a temper, too--so quick, and then all over in a second. ah, she is one that'd break her heart if she was treated bad; but i'd be sorry for him that did it. for the like of her goes mad with hurting, and the mad cut with a big scythe." "has thee seen lord eglington?" "once before i left these parts and often in london." her voice was constrained; she seemed not to wish to speak of him. "is it true that jasper kimber is to stand against him for parliament?" "i do not know. they say my lord has to do with foreign lands now. if he helps mr. claridge there, then it would be a foolish thing for jasper to fight him; and so i've told him. you've got to stand by those that stand by you. lord eglington has his own way of doing things. there's not a servant in my lady's house that he hasn't made his friend. he's one that's bound to have his will. i heard my lady say he talks better than any one in england, and there's none she doesn't know from duchesses down." "she is beautiful?" asked faith, with hesitation. "taller than you, but not so beautiful." faith sighed, and was silent for a moment, then she laid a hand upon the other's shoulder. "thee has never said what happened when thee first got to london. does thee care to say?" "it seems so long ago," was the reply. . . . "no need to tell of the journey to london. when i got there it frightened me at first. my head went round. but somehow it came to me what i should do. i asked my way to a hospital. i'd helped a many that was hurt at heddington and thereabouts, and doctors said i was as good as them that was trained. i found a hospital at last, and asked for work, but they laughed at me-- it was the porter at the door. i was not to be put down, and asked to see some one that had rights to say yes or no. so he opened the door and told me to go. i said he was no man to treat a woman so, and i would not go. then a fine white-haired gentleman came forward. he had heard all we had said, standing in a little room at one side. he spoke a kind word or two, and asked me to go into the little room. before i had time to think, he came to me with the matron, and left me with her. i told her the whole truth, and she looked at first as if she'd turn me out. but the end of it was i stayed there for the night, and in the morning the old gentleman came again, and with him his lady, as kind and sharp of tongue as himself, and as big as three. some things she said made my tongue ache to speak back to her; but i choked it down. i went to her to be a sort of nurse and maid. she taught me how to do a hundred things, and by-and-by i couldn't be too thankful she had taken me in. i was with her till she died. then, six months ago i went to miss maryon, who knew about me long before from her that died. with her i've been ever since-- and so that's all." "surely god has been kind to thee." "i'd have gone down--down--down, if it hadn't been for mr. claridge at the cross-roads." "does thee think i shall like her that will live yonder?" she nodded towards the cloistered house. "there's none but likes her. she will want a friend, i'm thinking. she'll be lonely by-and-by. surely, she will be lonely." faith looked at her closely, and at last leaned over, and again laid a soft hand on her shoulder. "thee thinks that--why?" "he cares only what matters to himself. she will be naught to him but one that belongs. he'll never try to do her good. doing good to any but himself never comes to his mind." "how does thee know him, to speak so surely?" "when, at the first, he gave me a letter for her one day, and slipped a sovereign into my hand, and nodded, and smiled at me, i knew him right enough. he never could be true to aught." "did thee keep the sovereign?" faith asked anxiously. "ay, that i did. if he was for giving his money away, i'd take it fast enough. the gold gave father boots for a year. why should i mind?" faith's face suffused. how low was eglington's estimate of humanity! in the silence that followed the door of her room opened, and her father entered. he held in one hand a paper, in the other a candle. his face was passive, but his eyes were burning. "david--david is coming," he cried, in a voice that rang. "does thee hear, faith? davy is coming home!" a woman laughed exultantly. it was not faith. but still two years passed before david came. chapter xviii time, the idol-breaker lord windlehurst looked meditatively round the crowded and brilliant salon. his host, the foreign minister, had gathered in the vast golden chamber the most notable people of a most notable season, and in as critical a period of the world's politics as had been known for a quarter of a century. after a moment's survey, the ex-prime-minister turned to answer the frank and caustic words addressed to him by the duchess of snowdon concerning the under-secretary for foreign affairs. presently he said: "but there is method in his haste, dear lady. he is good at his dangerous game. he plays high, he plunges; but, somehow, he makes it do. i've been in parliament a generation or so, and i've never known an amateur more daring and skilful. i should have given him office had i remained in power. look at him, and tell me if he wouldn't have been worth the backing." as lord windlehurst uttered the last word with an arid smile, he looked quizzically at the central figure of a group of people gaily talking. the duchess impatiently tapped her knee with a fan. "be thankful you haven't got him on your conscience," she rejoined. "i call eglington unscrupulous and unreliable. he has but one god--getting on; and he has got on, with a vengeance. whenever i look at that dear thing he's married, i feel there's no trusting providence, who seems to make the deserving a footstool for the undeserving. i've known hylda since she was ten, and i've known him since the minute he came into the world, and i've got the measure of both. she is the finest essence the middle class can distil, and he, oh, he's paraffin-vin ordinaire, if you like it better, a selfish, calculating adventurer!" lord windlehurst chuckled mordantly. "adventurer! that's what they called me--with more reason. i spotted him as soon as he spoke in the house. there was devilry in him, and unscrupulousness, as you say; but, i confess, i thought it would give way to the more profitable habit of integrity, and that some cause would seize him, make him sincere and mistaken, and give him a few falls. but in that he was more original than i thought. he is superior to convictions. you don't think he married yonder queen of hearts from conviction, do you?" he nodded towards a corner where hylda, under a great palm, and backed by a bank of flowers, stood surrounded by a group of people palpably amused and interested; for she had a reputation for wit--a wit that never hurt, and irony that was only whimsical. "no, there you are wrong," the duchess answered. "he married from conviction, if ever a man did. look at her beauty, look at her fortune, listen to her tongue. don't you think conviction was easy?" lord windlehurst looked at hylda approvingly. she has the real gift-- little information, but much knowledge, the primary gift of public life. information is full of traps; knowledge avoids them, it reads men; and politics is men--and foreign affairs, perhaps! she is remarkable. i've made some hay in the political world, not so much as the babblers think, but i hadn't her ability at twenty-five." "why didn't she see through eglington?" "my dear betty, he didn't give her time. he carried her off her feet. you know how he can talk." "that's the trouble. she was clever, and liked a clever man, and he--!" "quite so. he'd disprove his own honest parentage, if it would help him on--as you say." "i didn't say it. now don't repeat that as from me. i'm not clever enough to think of such things. but that eglington lot--i knew his father and his grandfather. old broadbrim they called his grandfather after he turned quaker, and he didn't do that till he had had his fling, so my father used to say. and old broadbrim's father was called i-want- to-know. he was always poking his nose into things, and playing at being a chemist-like this one and the one before. they all fly off. this one's father used to disappear for two or three years at a time. this one will fly off, too. you'll see! "he is too keen on number one for that, i fancy. he calculates like a mathematician. as cool as a cracksman of fame and fancy." the duchess dropped the fan in her lap. "my dear, i've said nothing as bad as that about him. and there he is at the foreign office!" "yet, what has he done, betty, after all? he has never cheated at cards, or forged a cheque, or run away with his neighbour's wife." "there's no credit in not doing what you don't want to do. there's no virtue in not falling, when you're not tempted. neighbour's wife! he hasn't enough feeling to face it. oh no, he'll not break the heart of his neighbour's wife. that's melodrama, and he's a cold-blooded artist. he will torture that sweet child over there until she poisons him, or runs away." "isn't he too clever for that? she has a million!" "he'll not realise it till it's all over. he's too selfish to see--how i hate him!" lord windlehurst smiled indulgently at her. "ah, you never hated any one--not even the duke." "i will not have you take away my character. of course i've hated, or i wouldn't be worth a button. i'm not the silly thing you've always thought me." his face became gentler. "i've always thought you one of the wisest women of this world--adventurous, but wise. if it weren't too late, if my day weren't over, i'd ask the one great favour, betty, and--" she tapped his arm sharply with her fan. "what a humbug you are--the great pretender! but tell me, am i not right about eglington?" windlehurst became grave. "yes, you are right--but i admire him, too. he is determined to test himself to the full. his ambition is boundless and ruthless, but his mind has a scientific turn--the obligation of energy to apply itself, of intelligence to engage itself to the farthest limit. but service to humanity--" "service to humanity!" she sniffed. "of course he would think it 'flap-doodle'--except in a speech; but i repeat, i admire him. think of it all. he was a poor irish peer, with no wide circle of acquaintance, come of a family none too popular. he strikes out a course for himself--a course which had its dangers, because it was original. he determines to become celebrated--by becoming notorious first. he uses his title as a weapon for advancement as though he were a butter merchant. he plans carefully and adroitly. he writes a book of travel. it is impudent, and it traverses the observations of authorities, and the scientific geographers prance with rage. that was what he wished. he writes a novel. it sets london laughing at me, his political chief. he knew me well enough to be sure i would not resent it. he would have lampooned his grandmother, if he was sure she would not, or could not, hurt him. then he becomes more audacious. he publishes a monograph on the painters of spain, artificial, confident, rhetorical, acute: as fascinating as a hide-and-seek drawing-room play-- he is so cleverly escaping from his ignorance and indiscretions all the while. connoisseurs laugh, students of art shriek a little, and ruskin writes a scathing letter, which was what he had played for. he had got something for nothing cheaply. the few who knew and despised him did not matter, for they were able and learned and obscure, and, in the world where he moves, most people are superficial, mediocre, and 'tuppence coloured.' it was all very brilliant. he pursued his notoriety, and got it." "industrious eglington!" "but, yes, he is industrious. it is all business. it was an enormous risk, rebelling against his party, and leaving me, and going over; but his temerity justified itself, and it didn't matter to him that people said he went over to get office as we were going out. he got the office- and people forget so soon. then, what does he do--" "he brings out another book, and marries a wife, and abuses his old friends--and you." "abuse? with his tongue in his cheek, hoping that i should reply. dev'lishly ingenious! but on that book of electricity and disease he scored. in most other things he's a barber-shop philosopher, but in science he has got a flare, a real talent. so he moves modestly in this thing, for which he had a fine natural gift and more knowledge than he ever had before in any department, whose boundaries his impertinent and ignorant mind had invaded. that book gave him a place. it wasn't full of new things, but it crystallised the discoveries, suggestions, and expectations of others; and, meanwhile, he had got a name at no cost. he is so various. look at it dispassionately, and you will see much to admire in his skill. he pleases, he amuses, he startles, he baffles, he mystifies." the duchess made an impatient exclamation. "the silly newspapers call him a 'remarkable man, a personality.' now, believe me, windlehurst, he will overreach himself one of these days, and he'll come down like a stick." "there you are on solid ground. he thinks that fate is with him, and that, in taking risks, he is infallible. but the best system breaks at political roulette sooner or later. you have got to work for something outside yourself, something that is bigger than the game, or the end is sickening." "eglington hasn't far to go, if that's the truth." "well, well, when it comes, we must help him--we must help him up again." the duchess nervously adjusted her wig, with ludicrously tiny fingers for one so ample, and said petulantly: "you are incomprehensible. he has been a traitor to you and to your party, he has thrown mud at you, he has played with principles as my terrier plays with his rubber ball, and yet you'll run and pick him up when he falls, and--" "'and kiss the spot to make it well,'" he laughed softly, then added with a sigh: "able men in public life are few; 'far too few, for half our tasks; we can spare not one.' besides, my dear betty, there is his pretty lass o' london." the duchess was mollified at once. "i wish she had been my girl," she said, in a voice a little tremulous. "she never needed looking after. look at the position she has made for herself. her father wouldn't go into society, her mother knew a mere handful of people, and--" "she knew you, betty." "well, suppose i did help her a little--i was only a kind of reference. she did the rest. she's set a half-dozen fashions herself--pure genius. she was born to lead. her turnouts were always a little smarter, her horses travelled a little faster, than other people's. she took risks, too, but she didn't play a game; she only wanted to do things well. we all gasped when she brought adelaide to recite from 'romeo and juliet' at an evening party, but all london did the same the week after." "she discovered, and the duchess of snowdon applied the science. ah, betty, don't think i don't agree. she has the gift. she has temperament. no woman should have temperament. she hasn't scope enough to wear it out in some passion for a cause. men are saved in spite of themselves by the law of work. forty comes to a man of temperament, and then a passion for a cause seizes him, and he is safe. a woman of temperament at forty is apt to cut across the bows of iron-clad convention and go down. she has temperament, has my lady yonder, and i don't like the look of her eyes sometimes. there's dark fire smouldering in them. she should have a cause; but a cause to a woman now-a-days means 'too little of pleasure, too much of pain,' for others." "what was your real cause, windlehurst? you had one, i suppose, for you've never had a fall." "my cause? you ask that? behold the barren figtree! a lifetime in my country's service, and you who have driven me home from the house in your own brougham, and told me that you understood--oh, betty!" she laughed. "you'll say something funny as you're dying, windlehurst." "perhaps. but it will be funny to know that presently i'll have a secret that none of you know, who watch me 'launch my pinnace into the dark.' but causes? there are hundreds, and all worth while. i've come here to-night for a cause--no, don't start, it's not you, betty, though you are worth any sacrifice. i've come here to-night to see a modern paladin, a real crusader: "'then felt i like some watcher of the skies, when a new planet swims into his ken.'" "yes, that's poetry, windlehurst, and you know i love it-i've always kept yours. but who's the man--the planet?" "egyptian claridge." "ah, he is in england?" "he will be here to-night; you shall see him." "really! what is his origin?" he told her briefly, adding: "i've watched the rise of claridge pasha. i've watched his cause grow, and now i shall see the man--ah, but here comes our lass o' london!" the eyes of both brightened, and a whimsical pleasure came to the mask- like face of lord windlehurst. there was an eager and delighted look in hylda's face also as she quickly came to them, her cavaliers following. the five years that had passed since that tragic night in cairo had been more than kind to her. she was lissome, radiant, and dignified, her face was alive with expression, and a delicate grace was in every movement. the dark lashes seemed to have grown longer, the brown hair fuller, the smile softer and more alluring. "she is an invaluable asset to the government," lord windlehurst murmured as she came. "no wonder the party helped the marriage on. london conspired for it, her feet got tangled in the web--and he gave her no time to think. thinking had saved her till he came." by instinct lord windlehurst knew. during the first year after the catastrophe at kaid's palace hylda could scarcely endure the advances made by her many admirers, the greatly eligible and the eager ineligible, all with as real an appreciation of her wealth as of her personal attributes. but she took her place in london life with more than the old will to make for herself, with the help of her aunt conyngham, an individual position. the second year after her visit to egypt she was less haunted by the dark episode of the palace, memory tortured her less; she came to think of david and the part he had played with less agitation. at first the thought of him had moved her alternately to sympathy and to revolt. his chivalry had filled her with admiration, with a sense of confidence, of dependence, of touching and vital obligation; but there was, too, another overmastering feeling. he had seen her life naked, as it were, stripped of all independence, with the knowledge of a dangerous indiscretion which, to say the least, was a deformity; and she inwardly resented it, as one would resent the exposure of a long-hidden physical deformity, even by the surgeon who saved one's life. it was not a very lofty attitude of mind, but it was human--and feminine. these moods had been always dissipated, however, when she recalled, as she did so often, david as he stood before nahoum pasha, his soul fighting in him to make of his enemy--of the man whose brother he had killed--a fellow-worker in the path of altruism he had mapped out for himself. david's name had been continually mentioned in telegraphic reports and journalistic correspondence from egypt; and from this source she had learned that nahoum pasha was again high in the service of prince kaid. when the news of david's southern expedition to the revolting slave-dealing tribes began to appear, she was deeply roused. her agitation was the more intense because she never permitted herself to talk of him to others, even when his name was discussed at dinner-tables, accompanied by strange legends of his origin and stranger romances regarding his call to power by kaid. she had surrounded him with romance; he seemed more a hero of history than of her own real and living world, a being apart. even when there came rumblings of disaster, dark dangers to be conquered by the quaker crusader, it all was still as of another life. true it was, that when his safe return to cairo was announced she had cried with joy and relief; but there was nothing emotional or passionate in her feeling; it was the love of the lower for the higher, the hero-worship of an idealist in passionate gratitude. and, amid it all, her mind scarcely realised that they would surely meet again. at the end of the second year the thought had receded into an almost indefinite past. she was beginning to feel that she had lived two lives, and that this life had no direct or vital bearing upon her previous existence, in which david had moved. yet now and then the perfume of the egyptian garden, through which she had fled to escape from tragedy, swept over her senses, clouded her eyes in the daytime, made them burn at night. at last she had come to meet and know eglington. from the first moment they met he had directed his course towards marriage. he was the man of the moment. his ambition seemed but patriotism, his ardent and overwhelming courtship the impulse of a powerful nature. as lord windlehurst had said, he carried her off her feet, and, on a wave of devotion and popular encouragement, he had swept her to the altar, the duchess held both her hands for a moment, admiring her, and, presently, with a playful remark upon her unselfishness, left her alone with lord windlehurst. as they talked, his mask-like face became lighted from the brilliant fire in the inquisitorial eyes, his lips played with topics of the moment in a mordant fashion, which drew from her flashing replies. looking at her, he was conscious of the mingled qualities of three races in her--english, welsh, and american-dutch of the knickerbocker strain; and he contrasted her keen perception and her exquisite sensitiveness with the purebred englishwomen round him, stately, kindly, handsome, and monotonously intelligent. "now i often wonder," he said, conscious of, but indifferent to, the knowledge that he and the brilliant person beside him were objects of general attention--"i often wonder, when i look at a gathering like this, how many undiscovered crimes there are playing about among us. they never do tell--or shall i say, we never do tell?" all day, she knew not why, hylda had been nervous and excited. without reason his words startled her. now there flashed before her eyes a room in a palace at cairo, and a man lying dead before her. the light slowly faded out of her eyes, leaving them almost lustreless, but her face was calm, and the smile on her lips stayed. she fanned herself slowly, and answered nonchalantly: "crime is a word of many meanings. i read in the papers of political crimes--it is a common phrase; yet the criminals appear to go unpunished." "there you are wrong," he answered cynically. "the punishment is, that political virtue goes unrewarded, and in due course crime is the only refuge to most. yet in politics the temptation to be virtuous is great." she laughed now with a sense of relief. the intellectual stimulant had brought back the light to her face. "how is it, then, with you-- inveterate habit or the strain of the ages? for they say you have not had your due reward." he smiled grimly. "ah, no, with me virtue is the act of an inquiring mind--to discover where it will lead me. i began with political crime-- i was understood! i practise political virtue: it embarrasses the world, it fogs them, it seems original, because so unnecessary. mine is the scientific life. experiment in old substances gives new--well, say, new precipitations. but you are scientific, too. you have a laboratory, and have much to do--with retorts." "no, you are thinking of my husband. the laboratory is his." "but the retorts are yours." "the precipitations are his." "ah, well, at least you help him to fuse the constituents! . . . but now, be quite confidential to an old man who has experimented too. is your husband really an amateur scientist, or is he a scientific amateur? is it a pose or a taste? i fiddled once--and wrote sonnets; one was a pose, the other a taste." it was mere persiflage, but it was a jest which made an unintended wound. hylda became conscious of a sudden sharp inquiry going on in her mind. there flashed into it the question, does eglington's heart ever really throb for love of any object or any cause? even in moments of greatest intimacy, soon after marriage, when he was most demonstrative towards her, he had seemed preoccupied, except when speaking about himself and what he meant to do. then he made her heart throb in response to his confident, ardent words--concerning himself. but his own heart, did it throb? or was it only his brain that throbbed? suddenly, with an exclamation, she involuntarily laid a hand upon windlehurst's arm. she was looking down the room straight before her to a group of people towards which other groups were now converging, attracted by one who seemed to be a centre of interest. presently the eager onlookers drew aside, and lord windlehurst observed moving up the room a figure he had never seen before. the new-comer was dressed in a grey and blue official dress, unrelieved save by silver braid at the collar and at the wrists. there was no decoration, but on the head was a red fez, which gave prominence to the white, broad forehead, with the dark hair waving away behind the ears. lord windlehurst held his eye-glass to his eye in interested scrutiny. "h'm," he said, with lips pursed out, "a most notable figure, a most remarkable face! my dear, there's a fortune in that face. it's a national asset." he saw the flush, the dumb amazement, the poignant look in lady eglington's face, and registered it in his mind. "poor thing," he said to himself, "i wonder what it is all about--i wonder. i thought she had no unregulated moments. she gave promise of better things." the foreign minister was bringing his guest towards them. the new-comer did not look at them till within a few steps of where they stood. then his eyes met those of lady eglington. for an instant his steps were arrested. a swift light came into his face, softening its quiet austerity and strength. it was david. chapter xix sharper than a sword a glance of the eye was the only sign of recognition between david and hylda; nothing that others saw could have suggested that they had ever met before. lord windlehurst at once engaged david in conversation. at first when hylda had come back from egypt, those five years ago, she had often wondered what she would think or do if she ever were to see this man again; whether, indeed, she could bear it. well, the moment and the man had come. her eyes had gone blind for an instant; it had seemed for one sharp, crucial moment as though she could not bear it; then the gulf of agitation was passed, and she had herself in hand. while her mind was engaged subconsciously with what lord windlehurst and david said, comprehending it all, and, when lord windlehurst appealed to her, offering by a word contribution to the 'pourparler', she was studying david as steadily as her heated senses would permit her. he seemed to her to have put on twenty years in the steady force of his personality--in the composure of his bearing, in the self-reliance of his look, though his face and form were singularly youthful. the face was handsome and alight, the look was that of one who weighed things; yet she was conscious of a great change. the old delicate quality of the features was not so marked, though there was nothing material in the look, and the head had not a sordid line, while the hand that he now and again raised, brushing his forehead meditatively, had gained much in strength and force. yet there was something--something different, that brought a slight cloud into her eyes. it came to her now, a certain melancholy in the bearing of the figure, erect and well-balanced as it was. once the feeling came, the certainty grew. and presently she found a strange sadness in the eyes, something that lurked behind all that he did and all that he was, some shadow over the spirit. it was even more apparent when he smiled. as she was conscious of this new reading of him, a motion arrested her glance, a quick lifting of the head to one side, as though the mind had suddenly been struck by an idea, the glance flying upward in abstracted questioning. this she had seen in her husband, too, the same brisk lifting of the head, the same quick smiling. yet this face, unlike eglington's, expressed a perfect single-mindedness; it wore the look of a self-effacing man of luminous force, a concentrated battery of energy. since she had last seen him every sign of the provincial had vanished. he was now the well-modulated man of affairs, elegant in his simplicity of dress, with the dignified air of the intellectual, yet with the decision of a man who knew his mind. lord windlehurst was leaving. now david and she were alone. without a word they moved on together through the throng, the eyes of all following them, until they reached a quiet room at one end of the salon, where were only a few people watching the crowd pass the doorway. "you will be glad to sit," he said, motioning her to a chair beside some palms. then, with a change of tone, he added: "thee is not sorry i am come?" thee--the old-fashioned simple quaker word! she put her fingers to her eyes. her senses were swimming with a distant memory. the east was in her brain, the glow of the skies, the gleam of the desert, the swish of the nile, the cry of the sweet-seller, the song of the dance-girl, the strain of the darabukkeh, the call of the skis. she saw again the ghiassas drifting down the great river, laden with dourha; she saw the mosque of the blue tiles with its placid fountain, and its handful of worshippers praying by the olive-tree. she watched the moon rise above the immobile sphinx, she looked down on the banqueters in the palace, david among them, and foorgat bey beside her. she saw foorgat bey again lying dead at her feet. she heard the stir of the leaves; she caught the smell of the lime-trees in the palace garden as she fled. she recalled her reckless return to cairo from alexandria. she remembered the little room where she and david, nahoum and mizraim, crossed a bridge over a chasm, and stood upon ground which had held good till now--till this hour, when the man who had played a most vital part in her life had come again out of a land which, by some forced obliquity of mind and stubbornness of will, she had assured herself she would never see again. she withdrew her hand from her eyes, and saw him looking at her calmly, though his face was alight. "thee is fatigued," he said. "this is labour which wears away the strength." he made a motion towards the crowd. she smiled a very little, and said: "you do not care for such things as this, i know. your life has its share of it, however, i suppose." he looked out over the throng before he answered. "it seems an eddy of purposeless waters. yet there is great depth beneath, or there were no eddy; and where there is depth and the eddy there is danger--always." as he spoke she became almost herself again. "you think that deep natures have most perils?" "thee knows it is so. human nature is like the earth: the deeper the plough goes into the soil unploughed before, the more evil substance is turned up--evil that becomes alive as soon as the sun and the air fall upon it." "then, women like me who pursue a flippant life, who ride in this merry- go-round"--she made a gesture towards the crowd beyond--"who have no depth, we are safest, we live upon the surface." her gaiety was forced; her words were feigned. "thee has passed the point of danger, thee is safe," he answered meaningly. "is that because i am not deep, or because the plough has been at work?" she asked. "in neither case i am not sure you are right." "thee is happily married," he said reflectively; "and the prospect is fair." "i think you know my husband," she said in answer, and yet not in answer. "i was born in hamley where he has a place--thee has been there?" he asked eagerly. "not yet. we are to go next sunday, for the first time to the cloistered house. i had not heard that my husband knew you, until i saw in the paper a few days ago that your home was in hamley. then i asked eglington, and he told me that your family and his had been neighbours for generations." "his father was a quaker," david rejoined, "but he forsook the faith." "i did not know," she answered, with some hesitation. there was no reason why, when she and eglington had talked of hamley, he should not have said his own father had once been a quaker; yet she had dwelt so upon the fact that she herself had quaker blood, and he had laughed so much over it, with the amusement of the superior person, that his silence on this one point struck her now with a sense of confusion. "you are going to hamley--we shall meet there?" she continued. "to-day i should have gone, but i have business at the foreign office to-morrow. one needs time to learn that all 'private interests and partial affections' must be sacrificed to public duty." "but you are going soon? you will be there on sunday?" "i shall be there to-morrow night, and sunday, and for one long week at least. hamley is the centre of the world, the axle of the universe--you shall see. you doubt it?" he added, with a whimsical smile. "i shall dispute most of what you say, and all that you think, if you do not continue to use the quaker 'thee' and 'thou'--ungrammatical as you are so often." "thee is now the only person in london, or in england, with whom i use 'thee' and 'thou.' i am no longer my own master, i am a public servant, and so i must follow custom." "it is destructive of personality. the 'thee' and 'thou' belong to you. i wonder if the people of hamley will say 'thee' and 'thou' to me. i hope, i do hope they will." "thee may be sure they will. they are no respecters of persons there. they called your husband's father robert--his name was robert. friend robert they called him, and afterwards they called him robert denton till he died." "will they call me hylda?" she asked, with a smile. "more like they will call thee friend hylda; it sounds simple and strong," he replied. "as they call claridge pasha friend david," she answered, with a smile. "david is a good name for a strong man." "that david threw a stone from a sling and smote a giant in the forehead. the stone from this david's sling falls into the ocean and is lost beneath the surface." his voice had taken on a somewhat sombre tone, his eyes looked away into the distance; yet he smiled too, and a hand upon his knee suddenly closed in sympathy with an inward determination. a light of understanding came into her face. they had been keeping things upon the surface, and, while it lasted, he seemed a lesser man than she had thought him these past years. but now--now there was the old unschooled simplicity, the unique and lonely personality, the homely soul and body bending to one root-idea, losing themselves in a wave of duty. again he was to her, once more, the dreamer, the worker, the conqueror--the conqueror of her own imagination. she had in herself the soul of altruism, the heart of the crusader. touched by the fire of a great idea, she was of those who could have gone out into the world without wallet or scrip, to work passionately for some great end. and she had married the earl of eglington! she leaned towards david, and said eagerly: "but you are satisfied--you are satisfied with your work for poor egypt?" "thee says 'poor egypt,'" he answered, "and thee says well. even now she is not far from the day of rameses and joseph. thee thinks perhaps thee knows egypt--none knows her." "you know her--now?" he shook his head slowly. "it is like putting one's ear to the mouth of the sphinx. yet sometimes, almost in despair, when i have lain down in the desert beside my camel, set about with enemies, i have got a message from the barren desert, the wide silence, and the stars." he paused. "what is the message that comes?" she asked softly. "it is always the same: work on! seek not to know too much, nor think that what you do is of vast value. work, because it is yours to be adjusting the machinery in your own little workshop of life to the wide mechanism of the universe and time. one wheel set right, one flying belt adjusted, and there is a step forward to the final harmony--ah, but how i preach!" he added hastily. his eyes were fixed on hers with a great sincerity, and they were clear and shining, yet his lips were smiling--what a trick they had of smiling! he looked as though he should apologise for such words in such a place. she rose to her feet with a great suspiration, with a light in her eyes and a trembling smile. "but no, no, no, you inspire one. thee inspires me," she said, with a little laugh, in which there was a note of sadness. "i may use 'thee,' may i not, when i will? i am a little a quaker also, am i not? my people came from derbyshire, my american people, that is--and only forty years ago. almost thee persuades me to be a quaker now," she added. "and perhaps i shall be, too," she went on, her eyes fixed on the crowd passing by, eglington among them. david saw eglington also, and moved forward with her. "we shall meet in hamley," she said composedly, as she saw her husband leave the crush and come towards her. as eglington noticed david, a curious enigmatical glance flashed from his eyes. he came forward, however, with outstretched hand. "i am sorry i was not at the foreign office when you called to-day. welcome back to england, home--and beauty." he laughed in a rather mirthless way, but with a certain empressement, conscious, as he always was, of the onlookers. "you have had a busy time in egypt?" he continued cheerfully, and laughed again. david laughed slightly, also, and hylda noticed that it had a certain resemblance in its quick naturalness to that of her husband. "i am not sure that we are so busy there as we ought to be," david answered. "i have no real standards. i am but an amateur, and have known nothing of public life. but you should come and see." "it has been in my mind. an ounce of eyesight is worth a ton of print. my lady was there once, i believe"--he turned towards her--"but before your time, i think. or did you meet there, perhaps?" he glanced at both curiously. he scarcely knew why a thought flashed into his mind--as though by some telepathic sense; for it had never been there before, and there was no reason for its being there now. hylda saw what david was about to answer, and she knew instinctively that he would say they had never met. it shamed her. she intervened as she saw he was about to speak. "we were introduced for the first time to-night," she said; "but claridge pasha is part of my education in the world. it is a miracle that hamley should produce two such men," she added gaily, and laid her fan upon her husband's arm lightly. "you should have been a quaker, harry, and then you two would have been--" "two quaker don quixotes," interrupted eglington ironically. "i should not have called you a don quixote," his wife lightly rejoined, relieved at the turn things had taken. "i cannot imagine you tilting at wind-mills--" "or saving maidens in distress? well, perhaps not; but you do not suggest that claridge pasha tilts at windmills either--or saves maidens in distress. though, now i come to think, there was an episode." he laughed maliciously. "some time ago it was--a lass of the cross-roads. i think i heard of such an adventure, which did credit to claridge pasha's heart, though it shocked hamley at the time. but i wonder, was the maiden really saved?" lady eglington's face became rigid. "well, yes," she said slowly, "the maiden was saved. she is now my maid. hamley may have been shocked, but claridge pasha has every reason to be glad that he helped a fellow-being in trouble." "your maid--heaver?" asked eglington in surprise, a swift shadow crossing his face. "yes; she only told me this morning. perhaps she had seen that claridge pasha was coming to england. i had not, however. at any rate, quixotism saved her." david smiled. "it is better than i dared to hope," he remarked quietly. "but that is not all," continued hylda. "there is more. she had been used badly by a man who now wants to marry her--has tried to do so for years. now, be prepared for a surprise, for it concerns you rather closely, eglington. fate is a whimsical jade. whom do you think it is? well, since you could never guess, it was jasper kimber." eglington's eyes opened wide. "this is nothing but a coarse and impossible stage coincidence," he laughed. "it is one of those tricks played by fact to discredit the imagination. life is laughing at us again. the longer i live, the more i am conscious of being an object of derision by the scene-shifters in the wings of the stage. what a cynical comedy life is at the best!" "it all seems natural enough," rejoined david. "it is all paradox." "isn't it all inevitable law? i have no belief in 'antic fate.'" hylda realised, with a new and poignant understanding, the difference of outlook on life between the two men. she suddenly remembered the words of confucius, which she had set down in her little book of daily life: "by nature we approximate, it is only experience that drives us apart." david would have been content to live in the desert all his life for the sake of a cause, making no calculations as to reward. eglington must ever have the counters for the game. "well, if you do not believe in 'antic fate,' you must be greatly puzzled as you go on," he rejoined, laughing; "especially in egypt, where the east and the west collide, race against race, religion against religion, oriental mind against occidental intellect. you have an unusual quantity of quaker composure, to see in it all 'inevitable law.' and it must be dull. but you always were, so they say in hamley, a monument of seriousness." "i believe they made one or two exceptions," answered david drily. "i had assurances." eglington laughed boyishly. "you are right. you achieved a name for humour in a day--'a glass, a kick, and a kiss,' it was. do you have such days in egypt?" "you must come and see," david answered lightly, declining to notice the insolence. "these are critical days there. the problems are worthy of your care. will you not come?" eglington was conscious of a peculiar persuasive influence over himself that he had never felt before. in proportion, however, as he felt its compelling quality, there came a jealousy of the man who was its cause. the old antagonism, which had had its sharpest expression the last time they had met on the platform at heddington, came back. it was one strong will resenting another--as though there was not room enough in the wide world of being for these two atoms of life, sparks from the ceaseless wheel, one making a little brighter flash than the other for the moment, and then presently darkness, and the whirring wheel which threw them off, throwing off millions of others again. on the moment eglington had a temptation to say something with an edge, which would show david that his success in egypt hung upon the course that he himself and the weak foreign minister, under whom he served, would take. and this course would be his own course largely, since he had been appointed to be a force and strength in the foreign office which his chief did not supply. he refrained, however, and, on the moment, remembered the promise he had given to faith to help david. a wave of feeling passed over him. his wife was beautiful, a creature of various charms, a centre of attraction. yet he had never really loved her--so many sordid elements had entered into the thought of marriage with her, lowering the character of his affection. with a perversity which only such men know, such heart as he had turned to the unknown quaker girl who had rebuked him, scathed him, laid bare his soul before himself, as no one ever had done. to eglington it was a relief that there was one human being--he thought there was only one--who read him through and through; and that knowledge was in itself as powerful an influence as was the secret between david and hylda. it was a kind of confessional, comforting to a nature not self-contained. now he restrained his cynical intention to deal david a side-thrust, and quietly said: "we shall meet at hamley, shall we not? let us talk there, and not at the foreign office. you would care to go to egypt, hylda?" she forced a smile. "let us talk it over at hamley." with a smile to david she turned away to some friends. eglington offered to introduce david to some notable people, but he said that he must go--he was fatigued after his journey. he had no wish to be lionised. as he left the salon, the band was playing a tune that made him close his eyes, as though against something he would not see. the band in kaid's palace had played it that night when he had killed foorgat bey. chapter xx each after his own order with the passing years new feelings had grown up in the heart of luke claridge. once david's destiny and career were his own peculiar and self-assumed responsibility. "inwardly convicted," he had wrenched the lad away from the natural circumstances of his life, and created a scheme of existence for him out of his own conscience--a pious egoist. after david went to egypt, however, his mind involuntarily formed the resolution that "davy and god should work it out together." he had grown very old in appearance, and his quiet face was almost painfully white; but the eyes burned with more fire than in the past. as the day approached when david should arrive in england, he walked by himself continuously, oblivious of the world round him. he spoke to no one, save the wizened elder meacham, and to john fairley, who rightly felt that he had a share in the making of claridge pasha. with head perched in the air, and face half hidden in his great white collar, the wizened elder, stopping luke claridge in the street one day, said: "does thee think the lad will ride in pharaoh's chariot here?" there were sly lines of humour about the mouth of the wizened elder as he spoke, but luke claridge did not see. "pride is far from his heart," he answered portentously. "he will ride in no chariot. he has written that he will walk here from heddington, and none is to meet him." "he will come by the cross-roads, perhaps," rejoined the other piously. "well, well, memory is a flower or a rod, as john fox said, and the cross-roads have memories for him." again flashes of humour crossed his face, for he had a wide humanity, of insufficient exercise. "he has made full atonement, and thee does ill to recall the past, reuben," rejoined the other sternly. "if he has done no more that needs atonement than he did that day at the cross-roads, then has his history been worthy of hamley," rejoined the wizened elder, eyes shut and head buried in his collar. "hamley made him--hamley made him. we did not spare advice, or example, or any correction that came to our minds--indeed, it was almost a luxury. think you, does he still play the flute--an instrument none too grave, luke?" but, to this, luke claridge exclaimed impatiently and hastened on; and the little wizened elder chuckled to himself all the way to the house of john fairley. none in hamley took such pride in david as did these two old men, who had loved him from a child, but had discreetly hidden their favour, save to each other. many times they had met and prayed together in the weeks when his life was in notorious danger in the soudan. as david walked through the streets of heddington making for the open country, he was conscious of a new feeling regarding the place. it was familiar, but in a new sense. its grimy, narrow streets, unlovely houses, with shut windows, summer though it was, and no softening influences anywhere, save here and there a box of sickly geraniums in the windows, all struck his mind in a way they had never done before. a mile away were the green fields, the woods, the roadsides gay with flowers and shrubs-loveliness was but over the wall, as it were; yet here the barrack-like houses, the grey, harsh streets, seemed like prison walls, and the people in them prisoners who, with every legal right to call themselves free, were as much captives as the criminal on some small island in a dangerous sea. escape--where? into the gulf of no work and degradation? they never lifted their eyes above the day's labour. they were scarce conscious of anything beyond. what were their pleasures? they had imitations of pleasures. to them a funeral or a wedding, a riot or a vociferous band, a dog-fight or a strike, were alike in this, that they quickened feelings which carried them out of themselves, gave them a sense of intoxication. intoxication? david remembered the far-off day of his own wild rebellion in hamley. from that day forward he had better realised that in the hearts of so many of the human race there was a passion to forget themselves; to blot out, if for a moment only, the troubles of life and time; or, by creating a false air of exaltation, to rise above them. once in the desert, when men were dying round him of fever and dysentery, he had been obliged, exhausted and ill, scarce able to drag himself from his bed, to resort to an opiate to allay his own sufferings, that he might minister to others. he remembered how, in the atmosphere it had created--an intoxication, a soothing exhilaration and pervasive thrill-- he had saved so many of his followers. since then the temptation had come upon him often when trouble weighed or difficulties surrounded him --accompanied always by recurrence of fever--to resort to the insidious medicine. though he had fought the temptation with every inch of his strength, he could too well understand those who sought for "surcease of pain" "seeking for surcease of pain, pilgrim to lethe i came; drank not, for pride was too keen, stung by the sound of a name!" as the plough of action had gone deep into his life and laid bare his nature to the light, there had been exposed things which struggled for life and power in him, with the fiery strength which only evil has. the western heavens were aglow. on every hand the gorse and the may were in bloom, the lilacs were coming to their end, but wild rhododendrons were glowing in the bracken, as he stepped along the road towards the place where he was born. though every tree and roadmark was familiar, yet he was conscious of a new outlook. he had left these quiet scenes inexperienced and untravelled, to be thrust suddenly into the thick of a struggle of nations over a sick land. he had worked in a vortex of debilitating local intrigue. all who had to do with egypt gained except herself, and if she moved in revolt or agony, they threatened her. once when resisting the pressure and the threats of war of a foreign diplomatist, he had, after a trying hour, written to faith in a burst of passionate complaint, and his letter had ended with these words. "in your onward march, o men, white of face, in promise whiter, you unsheath the sword, and then blame the wronged as the fighter. "time, ah, time, rolls onward o'er all these foetid fields of evil, while hard at the nation's core eats the burning rust and weevill "nathless, out beyond the stars reigns the wiser and the stronger, seeing in all strifes and wars who the wronged, who the wronger." privately he had spoken thus, but before the world he had given way to no impulse, in silence finding safety from the temptation to diplomatic evasion. looking back over five years, he felt now that the sum of his accomplishment had been small. he did not realise the truth. when his hand was almost upon the object for which he had toiled and striven--whether pacifying a tribe, meeting a loan by honest means, building a barrage, irrigating the land, financing a new industry, or experimenting in cotton--it suddenly eluded him. nahoum had snatched it away by subterranean wires. on such occasions nahoum would shrug his shoulders, and say with a sigh, "ah, my friend, let us begin again. we are both young; time is with us; and we will flourish palms in the face of europe yet. we have our course set by a bright star. we will continue." yet, withal, david was the true altruist. even now as he walked this road which led to his old home, dear to him beyond all else, his thoughts kept flying to the nile and to the desert. suddenly he stopped. he was at the cross-roads. here he had met kate heaver, here he had shamed his neighbours--and begun his work in life. he stood for a moment, smiling, as he looked at the stone where he had sat those years ago, his hand feeling instinctively for his flute. presently he turned to the dusty road again. walking quickly away, he swung into the path of the wood which would bring him by a short cut to hamley, past soolsby's cottage. here was the old peace, the old joy of solitude among the healing trees. experience had broadened his life, had given him a vast theatre of work; but the smell of the woods, the touch of the turf, the whispering of the trees, the song of the birds, had the ancient entry to his heart. at last he emerged on the hill where soolsby lived. he had not meant, if he could help it, to speak to any one until he had entered the garden of the red mansion, but he had inadvertently come upon this place where he had spent the most momentous days of his life, and a feeling stronger than he cared to resist drew him to the open doorway. the afternoon sun was beating in over the threshold as he reached it, and, at his footstep, a figure started forward from the shadow of a corner. it was kate heaver. surprise, then pain showed in her face; she flushed, was agitated. "i am sorry. it's too bad--it's hard on him you should see," she said in a breath, and turned her head away for an instant; but presently looked him in the face again, all trembling and eager. "he'll be sorry enough to-morrow," she added solicitously, and drew away from something, she had been trying to hide. then david saw. on a bench against a wall lay old soolsby--drunk. a cloud passed across his face and left it pale. "of course," he said simply, and went over and touched the heaving shoulders reflectively. "poor soolsby!" "he's been sober four years--over four," she said eagerly. "when he knew you'd come again, he got wild, and he would have the drink in spite of all. walking from heddington, i saw him at the tavern, and brought him home." "at the tavern--" david said reflectively. "the fox and goose, sir." she turned her face away again, and david's head came up with a quick motion. there it was, five years ago, that he had drunk at the bar, and had fought jasper kimber. "poor fellow!" he said again, and listened to soolsby's stertorous breathing, as a physician looks at a patient whose case he cannot control, does not wholly understand. the hand of the sleeping man was suddenly raised, his head gave a jerk, and he said mumblingly: "claridge for ever!" kate nervously intervened. "it fair beat him, your coming back, sir. it's awful temptation, the drink. i lived in it for years, and it's cruel hard to fight it when you're worked up either way, sorrow or joy. there's a real pleasure in being drunk, i'm sure. while it lasts you're rich, and you're young, and you don't care what happens. it's kind of you to take it like this, sir, seeing you've never been tempted and mightn't understand." david shook his head sadly, and looked at soolsby in silence. "i don't suppose he took a quarter what he used to take, but it made him drunk. 'twas but a minute of madness. you've saved him right enough." "i was not blaming him. i understand--i understand." he looked at her clearly. she was healthy and fine-looking, with large, eloquent eyes. her dress was severe and quiet, as became her occupation --a plain, dark grey, but the shapely fulness of the figure gave softness to the outlines. it was no wonder jasper kimber wished to marry her; and, if he did, the future of the man was sure. she had a temperament which might have made her an adventuress--or an opera-singer. she had been touched in time, and she had never looked back. "you are with lady eglington now, i have heard?" he asked. she nodded. "it was hard for you in london at first?" she met his look steadily. "it was easy in a way. i could see round me what was the right thing to do. oh, that was what was so awful in the old life over there at heddington,"--she pointed beyond the hill, "we didn't know what was good and what was bad. the poor people in big working-places like heddington ain't much better than heathens, leastways as to most things that matter. they haven't got a sensible religion, not one that gets down into what they do. the parson doesn't reach them--he talks about church and the sacraments, and they don't get at what good it's going to do them. and the chapel preachers ain't much better. they talk and sing and pray, when what the people want is light, and hot water, and soap, and being shown how to live, and how to bring up children healthy and strong, and decent-cooked food. i'd have food- hospitals if i could, and i'd give the children in the schools one good meal a day. i'm sure the children of the poor go wrong and bad more through the way they live than anything. if only they was taught right --not as though they was paupers! give me enough nurses of the right sort, and enough good, plain cooks, and meat three times a week, and milk and bread and rice and porridge every day, and i'd make a new place of any town in england in a year. i'd--" she stopped all at once, however, and flushing, said: "i didn't stop to think i was talking to you, sir." "i am glad you speak to me so," he answered gently. "you and i are both reformers at heart." "me? i've done nothing, sir, not any good to anybody or anything." "not to jasper kimber?" "you did that, sir; he says so; he says you made him." a quick laugh passed david's lips. "men are not made so easily. i think i know the trowel and the mortar that built that wall! thee will marry him, friend?" her eyes burned as she looked at him. she had been eternally dispossessed of what every woman has the right to have--one memory possessing the elements of beauty. even if it remain but for the moment, yet that moment is hers by right of her sex, which is denied the wider rights of those they love and serve. she had tasted the cup of bitterness and drunk of the waters of sacrifice. married life had no lure for her. she wanted none of it. the seed of service had, however, taken root in a nature full of fire and light and power, undisciplined and undeveloped as it was. she wished to do something--the spirit of toil, the first habit of the life of the poor, the natural medium for the good that may be in them, had possession of her. this man was to her the symbol of work. to have cared for his home, to have looked after his daily needs, to have sheltered him humbly from little things, would have been her one true happiness. and this was denied her. had she been a man, it would have been so easy. she could have offered to be his servant; could have done those things which she could do better than any, since hers would be a heart-service. but even as she looked at him now, she had a flash of insight and prescience. she had, from little things said or done, from newspapers marked and a hundred small indications, made up her mind that her mistress's mind dwelt much upon "the egyptian." the thought flashed now that she might serve this man, after all; that a day might come when she could say that she had played a part in his happiness, in return for all he had done for her. life had its chances--and strange things had happened. in her own mind she had decided that her mistress was not happy, and who could tell what might happen? men did not live for ever! the thought came and went, but it left behind a determination to answer david as she felt. "i will not marry jasper," she answered slowly. "i want work, not marriage." "there would be both," he urged. "with women there is the one or the other, not both." "thee could help him. he has done credit to himself, and he can do good work for england. thee can help him." "i want work alone, not marriage, sir." "he would pay thee his debt." "he owes me nothing. what happened was no fault of his, but of the life we were born in. he tired of me, and left me. husbands tire of their wives, but stay on and beat them." "he drove thee mad almost, i remember." "wives go mad and are never cured, so many of them. i've seen them die, poor things, and leave the little ones behind. i had the luck wi' me. i took the right turning at the cross-roads yonder." "thee must be jasper's wife if he asks thee again," he urged. "he will come when i call, but i will not call," she answered. "but still thee will marry him when the heart is ready," he persisted. "it shall be ready soon. he needs thee. good-bye, friend. leave soolsby alone. he will be safe. and do not tell him that i have seen him so." he stooped over and touched the old man's shoulder gently. he held out his hand to her. she took it, then suddenly leaned over and kissed it. she could not speak. he stepped to the door and looked out. behind the red mansion the sun was setting, and the far garden looked cool and sweet. he gave a happy sigh, and stepped out and down. as he disappeared, the woman dropped into a chair, her arms upon a table. her body shook with sobs. she sat there for an hour, and then, when the sun was setting, she left the drunken man sleeping, and made her way down the hill to the cloistered house. entering, she was summoned to her mistress's room. "i did not expect my lady so soon," she said, surprised. "no; we came sooner than we expected. where have you been?" "at soolsby's hut on the hill, my lady." "who is soolsby?" kate told her all she knew, and of what had happened that afternoon--but not all. chapter xxi "there is nothing hidden which shall not be revealed" a fortnight had passed since they had come to hamley--david, eglington, and hylda--and they had all travelled a long distance in mutual understanding during that time, too far, thought luke claridge, who remained neutral and silent. he would not let faith go to the cloistered house, though he made no protest against david going; because he recognised in these visits the duty of diplomacy and the business of the nation--more particularly david's business, which, in his eyes, swallowed all. three times david had gone to the cloistered house; once hylda and he had met in the road leading to the old mill, and once at soolsby's hut. twice, also, in the garden of his old home he had seen her, when she came to visit faith, who had captured her heart at once. eglington and faith had not met, however. he was either busy in his laboratory, or with his books, or riding over the common and through the woods, and their courses lay apart. but there came an afternoon when hylda and david were a long hour together at the cloistered house. they talked freely of his work in egypt. at last she said: "and nahoum pasha?" "he has kept faith." "he is in high place again?" "he is a good administrator." "you put him there!" "thee remembers what i said to him, that night in cairo?" hylda closed her eyes and drew in a long breath. had there been a word spoken that night when she and david and nahoum met which had not bitten into her soul! that david had done so much in egypt without ruin or death was a tribute to his power. nevertheless, though nahoum had not struck yet, she was certain he would one day. all that david now told her of the vicissitudes of his plans, and nahoum's sympathy and help, only deepened this conviction. she could well believe that nahoum gave david money from his own pocket, which he replaced by extortion from other sources, while gaining credit with david for co-operation. armenian christian nahoum might be, but he was ranged with the east against the west, with the reactionary and corrupt against advance, against civilisation and freedom and equality. nahoum's christianity was permeated with orientalism, the christian belief obscured by the theism of the muslim. david was in a deadlier struggle than he knew. yet it could serve no good end to attempt to warn him now. he had outlived peril so far; might it not be that, after all, he would win? so far she had avoided nahoum's name in talks with david. she could scarcely tell why she did, save that it opened a door better closed, as it were; but the restraint had given way at last. "thee remembers what i said that night?" david repeated slowly. "i remember--i understand. you devise your course and you never change. it is like building on a rock. that is why nothing happens to you as bad as might happen." "nothing bad ever happens to me." "the philosophy of the desert," she commented smiling. "you are living in the desert even when you are here. this is a dream; the desert and egypt only are real. "that is true, i think. i seem sometimes like a sojourner here, like a spirit 'revisiting the scenes of life and time.'" he laughed boyishly. "yet you are happy here. i understand now why and how you are what you are. even i that have been here so short a time feel the influence upon me. i breathe an air that, somehow, seems a native air. the spirit of my quaker grandmother revives in me. sometimes i sit hours thinking, scarcely stirring; and i believe i know now how people might speak to each other without words. your uncle benn and you--it was so with you, was it not? you heard his voice speaking to you sometimes; you understood what he meant to say to you? you told me so long ago." david inclined his head. "i heard him speak as one might speak through a closed door. sometimes, too, in the desert i have heard faith speak to me." "and your grandfather?" "never my grandfather--never. it would seem as though, in my thoughts, i could never reach him; as though masses of opaque things lay between. yet he and i--there is love between us. i don't know why i never hear him." "tell me of your childhood, of your mother. i have seen her grave under the ash by the meeting-house, but i want to know of her from you." "has not faith told you?" "we have only talked of the present. i could not ask her; but i can ask you. i want to know of your mother and you together." "we were never together. when i opened my eyes she closed hers. it was so little to get for the life she gave. see, was it not a good face?" he drew from his pocket a little locket which faith had given him years ago, and opened it before her. hylda looked long. "she was exquisite," she said, "exquisite." "my father i never knew either. he was a captain of a merchant ship. he married her secretly while she was staying with an aunt at portsmouth. he sailed away, my mother told my grandfather all, and he brought her home here. the marriage was regular, of course, but my grandfather, after announcing it, and bringing it before the elders, declared that she should never see her husband again. she never did, for she died a few months after, when i came, and my father died very soon, also. i never saw him, and i do not know if he ever tried to see me. i never had any feeling about it. my grandfather was the only father i ever knew, and faith, who was born a year before me, became like a sister to me, though she soon made other pretensions!" he laughed again, almost happily. "to gain an end she exercised authority as my aunt!" "what was your father's name?" "fetherdon--james fetherdon." "fetherdon--james fetherdon !" involuntarily hylda repeated the name after him. where had she heard the name before--or where had she seen it? it kept flashing before her eyes. where had she seen it? for days she had been rummaging among old papers in the library of the cloistered house, and in an old box full of correspondence and papers of the late countess, who had died suddenly. was it among them that she had seen the name? she could not tell. it was all vague, but that she had seen it or heard it she was sure. "your father's people, you never knew them?" he shook his head. "nor of them. here was my home--i had no desire to discover them. we draw in upon ourselves here." "there is great force in such a life and such a people," she answered. "if the same concentration of mind could be carried into the wide life of the world, we might revolutionise civilisation; or vitalise and advance it, i mean--as you are doing in egypt." "i have done nothing in egypt. i have sounded the bugle--i have not had my fight." "that is true in a sense," she replied. "your real struggle is before you. i do not know why i say it, but i do say it; i feel it. something here"--she pressed her hand to her heart--"something here tells me that your day of battle is yet to come." her eyes were brimming and full of excitement. "we must all help you." she gained courage with each word. "you must not fight alone. you work for civilisation; you must have civilisation behind you." her hands clasped nervously; there was a catch in her throat. "you remember then, that i said i would call to you one day, as your uncle benn did, and you should hear and answer me. it shall not be that i will call. you--you will call, and i will help you if i can. i will help, no matter what may seem to prevent, if there is anything i can do. i, surely i, of all the world owe it to you to do what i can, always. "i owe so much--you did so much. oh, how it haunts me! sometimes in the night i wake with a start and see it all--all!" the flood which had been dyked back these years past had broken loose in her heart. out of the stir and sweep of social life and duty, of official and political ambition-heart-hungry, for she had no child; heart-lonely, though she had scarce recognised it in the duties and excitements round her--she had floated suddenly into this backwater of a motionless life in hamley. its quiet had settled upon her, the shackles of her spirit had been loosed, and dropped from her; she had suddenly bathed her heart and soul in a freer atmosphere than they had ever known before. and david and hamley had come together. the old impulses, dominated by a divine altruism, were swinging her out upon a course leading she knew not, reeked not, whither--for the moment reeked not. this man's career, the work he was set to do, the ideal before him, the vision of a land redeemed, captured her, carried her panting into a resolve which, however she might modify her speech or action, must be an influence in her life hereafter. must the penance and the redemption be his only? this life he lived had come from what had happened to her and to him in egypt. in a deep sense her life was linked with his. in a flash david now felt the deep significance of their relations. a curtain seemed suddenly to have been drawn aside. he was blinded for a moment. her sympathy, her desire to help, gave him a new sense of hope and confidence, but--but there was no room in his crusade for any woman; the dear egotism of a life-dream was masterful in him, possessed him. yet, if ever his heart might have dwelt upon a woman with thought of the future, this being before him--he drew himself up with a start! . . . he was going to egypt again in a few days; they might probably never meet again--would not, no doubt--should not. he had pressed her husband to go to egypt, but now he would not encourage it; he must "finish his journey alone." he looked again in her eyes, and their light and beauty held him. his own eyes swam. the exaltation of a great idea was upon them, was a bond of fate between them. it was a moment of peril not fully realised by either. david did realise, however, that she was beautiful beyond all women he had ever seen--or was he now for the first time really aware of the beauty of woman? she had an expression, a light of eye and face, finely alluring beyond mere outline of feature. yet the features were there, too, regular and fine; and her brown hair waving away from her broad, white forehead over eyes a greyish violet in colour gave her a classic distinction. in the quietness of the face there was that strain of the quaker, descending to her through three generations, yet enlivened by a mind of impulse and genius. they stood looking at each other for a moment, in which both had taken a long step forward in life's experience. but presently his eyes looked beyond her, as though at something that fascinated them. "of what are you thinking? what do you see?" she asked. "you, leaving the garden of my house in cairo, i standing by the fire," he answered, closing his eyes for an instant. "it is what i saw also," she said breathlessly. "it is what i saw and was thinking of that instant." when, as though she must break away from the cords of feeling drawing her nearer and nearer to him, she said, with a little laugh, "tell me again of my chicago cousin? i have not had a letter for a year." "lacey, he is with me always. i should have done little had it not been for him. he has remarkable resource; he is never cast down. he has but one fault." "what is that?" "he is no respecter of persons. his humour cuts deep. he has a wide heart for your sex. when leaving the court of the king of abyssinia he said to his majesty: 'well, good-bye, king. give my love to the girls.'" she laughed again. "how absurd and childish he is! but he is true and able. and how glad you should be that you are able to make true friends, without an effort. yesterday i met neighbour fairley, and another little old elder who keeps his chin in his collar and his eyes on the sky. they did little else but sing your praises. one might have thought that you had invented the world-or hamley." "yet they would chafe if i were to appear among them without these." he glanced down at the quaker clothes he wore, and made a gesture towards the broadbrimmed hat reposing on a footstool near by. "it is good to see that you are not changed, not spoiled at all," she remarked, smiling. "though, indeed, how could you be, who always work for others and never for yourself? all i envy you is your friends. you make them and keep them so." she sighed, and a shadow came into her eyes suddenly. she was thinking of eglington. did he make friends--true friends? in london--was there one she knew who would cleave to him for love of him? in england--had she ever seen one? in hamley, where his people had been for so many generations, had she found one? herself? yes, she was his true friend. she would do what would she not do to help him, to serve his interests? what had she not done since she married her fortune, it was his; her every waking hour had been filled with something devised to help him on his way. had he ever said to her: "hylda, you are a help to me"? he had admired her--but was he singular in that? before she married there were many--since, there had been many --who had shown, some with tact and carefulness, others with a crudeness making her shudder, that they admired her; and, if they might, would have given their admiration another name with other manifestations. had she repelled it all? she had been too sure of herself to draw her skirts about her; she was too proud to let any man put her at any disadvantage. she had been safe, because her heart had been untouched. the duchess of snowdon, once beautiful, but now with a face like a mask, enamelled and rouged and lifeless, had said to her once: "my dear, i ought to have died at thirty. when i was twenty-three i wanted to squeeze the orange dry in a handful of years, and then go out suddenly, and let the dust of forgetfulness cover my bones. i had one child, a boy, and would have no more; and i squeezed the orange! but i didn't go at thirty, and yet the orange was dry. my boy died; and you see what i am--a fright, i know it; and i dress like a child of twenty; and i can't help it." there had been moments, once, when hylda, too, had wished to squeeze the orange dry, but something behind, calling to her, had held her back. she had dropped her anchor in perilous seas, but it had never dragged. "tell me how to make friends--and keep them," she added gaily. "if it be true i make friends, thee taught me how," he answered, "for thee made me a friend, and i forget not the lesson." she smiled. "thee has learnt another lesson too well," she answered brightly. "thee must not flatter. it is not that which makes thee keep friends. thee sees i also am speaking as they do in hamley--am i not bold? i love the grammarless speech." "then use it freely to-day, for this is farewell," he answered, not looking at her. "this--is--farewell," she said slowly, vaguely. why should it startle her so? "you are going so soon--where?" "to-morrow to london, next week to egypt." she laid a hand upon herself, for her heart was beating violently. "thee is not fair to give no warning--there is so much to say," she said, in so low a tone that he could scarcely hear her. "there is the future, your work, what we are to do here to help. what i am to do. "thee will always be a friend to egypt, i know," he answered. "she needs friends. thee has a place where thee can help." "will not right be done without my voice?" she asked, her eyes half closing. "there is the foreign office, and english policy, and the ministers, and--and eglington. what need of me?" he saw the thought had flashed into her mind that he did not trust her husband. "thee knows and cares for egypt, and knowing and caring make policy easier to frame," he rejoined. suddenly a wave of feeling went over her. he whose life had been flung into this field of labour by an act of her own, who should help him but herself? but it all baffled her, hurt her, shook her. she was not free to help as she wished. her life belonged to another; and he exacted the payment of tribute to the uttermost farthing. she was blinded by the thought. yet she must speak. "i will come to egypt--we will come to egypt," she said quickly. "eglington shall know, too; he shall understand. you shall have his help. you shall not work alone." "thee can work here," he said. "it may not be easy for lord eglington to come." "you pressed it on him." their eyes met. she suddenly saw what was in his mind. "you know best what will help you most," she added gently. "you will not come?" he asked. "i will not say i will not come--not ever," she answered firmly. "it may be i should have to come." resolution was in her eyes. she was thinking of nahoum. "i may have to come," she added after a pause, "to do right by you." he read her meaning. "thee will never come," he continued confidently. he held out his hand. "perhaps i shall see you in town," she rejoined, as her hand rested in his, and she looked away. "when do you start for egypt?" "to-morrow week, i think," he answered. "there is much to do." "perhaps we shall meet in town," she repeated. but they both knew they would not. "farewell," he said, and picked up his hat. as he turned again, the look in her eyes brought the blood to his face, then it became pale. a new force had come into his life. "god be good to thee," he said, and turned away. she watched him leave the room and pass through the garden. "david! david!" she said softly after him. at the other end of the room her husband, who had just entered, watched her. he heard her voice, but did not hear what she said. "come, hylda, and have some music," he said brusquely. she scrutinised him calmly. his face showed nothing. his look was enigmatical. "chopin is the thing for me," he said, and opened the piano. chapter xxii as in a glass darkly it was very quiet and cool in the quaker meeting-house, though outside there was the rustle of leaves, the low din of the bees, the whistle of a bird, or the even tread of horses' hoofs as they journeyed on the london road. the place was full. for a half-hour the worshippers had sat voiceless. they were waiting for the spirit to move some one to speak. as they waited, a lady entered and glided into a seat. few saw, and these gave no indication of surprise, though they were little used to strangers, and none of the name borne by this lady had entered the building for many years. it was hylda. at last the silence was broken. the wizened elder, with eyes upon the ceiling and his long white chin like ivory on his great collar, began to pray, sitting where he was, his hands upon his knees. he prayed for all who wandered "into by and forbidden paths." he prayed for one whose work was as that of joseph, son of jacob; whose footsteps were now upon the sea, and now upon the desert; whose way was set among strange gods and divers heresies--"'for there must also be heresies, that they which are approved may be made manifest among the weak.'" a moment more, and then he added: "he hath been tried beyond his years; do thou uphold his hands. once with a goad did we urge him on, when in ease and sloth he was among us, but now he spurreth on his spirit and body in too great haste. o put thy hand upon the bridle, lord, that he ride soberly upon thy business." there was a longer silence now, but at last came the voice of luke claridge. "father of the fatherless," he said, "my days are as the sands in the hour-glass hastening to their rest; and my place will soon be empty. he goeth far, and i may not go with him. he fighteth alone, like him that strove with wild beasts at ephesus; do thou uphold him that he may bring a nation captive. and if a viper fasten on his hand, as chanced to paul of old, give him grace to strike it off without hurt. o lord, he is to me, thy servant, as the one ewe lamb; let him be thine when thou gatherest for thy vineyard!" "and if a viper fasten on his hand--" david passed his hand across his forehead and closed his eyes. the beasts at ephesus he had fought, and he would fight them again--there was fighting enough to do in the land of egypt. and the viper would fasten on his hand--it had fastened on his hand, and he had struck it off; but it would come again, the dark thing against which he had fought in the desert. their prayers had unnerved him, had got into that corner of his nature where youth and its irresponsibility loitered yet. for a moment he was shaken, and then, looking into the faces of the elders, said: "friends, i go again upon paths that lead into the wilderness. i know not if i ever shall return. howsoe'er that may be, i shall walk with firmer step because of all ye do for me." he closed his eyes and prayed: "o god, i go into the land of ancient plagues and present pestilence. if it be thy will, bring me home to this good land, when my task is done. if not, by thy goodness let me be as a stone set by the wayside for others who come after; and save me from the beast and from the viper. 'thou art faithful, who wilt not suffer us to be tempted above that we are able; but wilt with the temptation also make a way of escape, that we may be able to bear it!'" he sat down, and all grew silent again; but suddenly some one sobbed aloud-sobbed, and strove to stay the sobbing, and could not, and, getting up, hastened towards the door. it was faith. david heard, and came quickly after her. as he took her arm gently, his eyes met those of hylda. she rose and came out also. "will thee take her home?" he said huskily. "i can bear no more." hylda placed her arm round faith, and led her out under the trees and into the wood. as they went, faith looked back. "oh, forgive me, forgive me, davy," she said softly. three lights burned in hamley: one in the red mansion, one in the cloistered house, and one in soolsby's hut upon the hill. in the red mansion old luke claridge, his face pale with feeling, his white hair tumbling about, his head thrust forward, his eyes shining, sat listening, as faith read aloud letters which benn claridge had written from the east many years before. one letter, written from bagdad, he made her read twice. the faded sheet had in it the glow and glamour of the east; it was like a heart beating with life; emotion rose and fell in it like the waves of the sea. once the old man interrupted faith. "davy--it is as though davy spoke. it is like davy--both claridge, both claridge," he said. "but is it not like davy? davy is doing what it was in benn's heart to do. benn showed the way; benn called, and davy came." he laid both hands upon his knees and raised his eyes. "o lord, i have sought to do according to thy will," he whispered. he was thinking of a thing he had long hidden. through many years he had no doubt, no qualm; but, since david had gone to egypt, some spirit of unquiet had worked in him. he had acted against the prayer of his own wife, lying in her grave--a quiet-faced woman, who had never crossed him, who had never shown a note of passion in all her life, save in one thing concerning david. upon it, like some prophetess, she had flamed out. with the insight which only women have where children are concerned, she had told him that he would live to repent of what he had done. she had died soon after, and was laid beside the deserted young mother, whose days had budded and blossomed, and fallen like petals to the ground, while yet it was the spring. luke claridge had understood neither, not his wife when she had said: "thee should let the lord do his own work, luke," nor his dying daughter mercy, whose last words had been: "with love and sorrow i have sowed; he shall reap rejoicing--my babe. thee will set him in the garden in the sun, where god may find him--god will not pass him by. he will take him by the hand and lead him home." the old man had thought her touched by delirium then, though her words were but the parable of a mind fed by the poetry of life, by a shy spirit, to which meditation gave fancy and farseeing. david had come by his idealism honestly. the half-mystical spirit of his uncle benn had flowed on to another generation through the filter of a woman's sad soul. it had come to david a pure force, a constructive and practical idealism. now, as faith read, there were ringing in the old man's ears the words which david's mother had said before she closed her eyes and passed away: "set him in the garden in the sun, where god may find him--god will not pass him by." they seemed to weave themselves into the symbolism of benn claridge's letter, written from the hills of bagdad. "but," the letter continued, "the governor passed by with his suite, the buckles of the harness of his horses all silver, his carriage shining with inlay of gold, his turban full of precious stones. when he had passed, i said to a shepherd standing by, 'if thou hadst all his wealth, shepherd, what wouldst thou do?' and he answered, 'if i had his wealth, i would sit on the south side of my house in the sun all day and every day.' to a messenger of the palace, who must ever be ready night and day to run at his master's order, i asked the same. he replied, 'if i had all the effendina's wealth, i would sleep till i died.' to a blind beggar, shaking the copper in his cup in the highways, pleading dumbly to those who passed, i made similar inquisition, and he replied 'if the wealth of the exalted one were mine, i would sit on the mastaba by the bake-house, and eat three times a day, save at ramadan, when i would bless allah the compassionate and merciful, and breakfast at sunset with the flesh of a kid and a dish of dates.' to a woman at the door of a tomb hung with relics of hundreds of poor souls in misery, who besought the buried saint to intercede for her with allah, i made the same catechism, and she answered, 'oh, effendi, if his wealth were mine, i would give my son what he has lost.' 'what has he lost, woman?' said i; and she answered: 'a little house with a garden, and a flock of ten goats, a cow and a dovecote, his inheritance of which he has been despoiled by one who carried a false debt 'gainst his dead father.' and i said to her: 'but if thy wealth were as that of the ruler of the city, thy son would have no need of the little house and garden and the flock of goats, and a cow and a dovecote.' whereupon she turned upon me in bitterness, and said: 'were they not his own as the seed of his father? shall not one cherish that which is his own, which cometh from seed to seed? is it not the law?' 'but,' said i, 'if his wealth were thine, there would be herds of cattle, and flocks of sheep, and carpets spread, and the banquet-tables, and great orchards.' but she stubbornly shook her head. 'where the eagle built shall not the young eagle nest? how should god meet me in the way and bless him who stood not by his birth right? the plot of ground was the lad's, and all that is thereon. i pray thee, mock me not.' god knows i did not mock her, for her words were wisdom. so did it work upon me that, after many days, i got for the lad his own again, and there he is happier, and his mother happier, than the governor in his palace. later i did learn some truths from the shepherd, the messenger, and the beggar, and the woman with the child; but chiefly from the woman and the child. the material value has no relation to the value each sets upon that which is his own. behind this feeling lies the strength of the world. here on this hill of bagdad i am thinking these things. and, luke, i would have thee also think on my story of the woman and the child. there is in it a lesson for thee." when luke claridge first read this letter years before, he had put it from him sternly. now he heard it with a soft emotion. he took the letter from faith at last and put it in his pocket. with no apparent relevancy, and laying his hand on faith's shoulder, he said: "we have done according to our conscience by davy--god is our witness, so!" she leaned her cheek against his hand, but did not speak. in soolsby's hut upon the hill david sat talking to the old chair-maker. since his return he had visited the place several times, only to find soolsby absent. the old man, on awaking from his drunken sleep, had been visited by a terrible remorse, and, whenever he had seen david coming, had fled into the woods. this evening, however, david came in the dark, and soolsby was caught. when david entered first, the old man broke down. he could not speak, but leaned upon the back of a chair, and though his lips moved, no sound came forth. but david took him by the shoulders and set him down, and laughed gently in his face, and at last soolsby got voice and said: "egyptian! o egyptian!" then his tongue was loosened and his eye glistened, and he poured out question after question, many pertinent, some whimsical, all frankly answered by david. but suddenly he stopped short, and his eyes sank before the other, who had laid a hand upon his knee. "but don't, egyptian, don't! don't have aught to do with me. i'm only a drunken swine. i kept sober four years, as she knows--as the angel down yonder in the red mansion knows; but the day you came, going out to meet you, i got drunk--blind drunk. i had only been pretending all the time. i was being coaxed along--made believe i was a real man, i suppose. but i wasn't. i was a pillar of sand. when pressure came i just broke down --broke down, egyptian. don't be surprised if you hear me grunt. it's my natural speech. i'm a hog, a drink-swilling hog. i wasn't decent enough to stay sober till you had said 'good day,' and 'how goes it, soolsby?' i tried it on; it was no good. i began to live like a man, but i've slipped back into the ditch. you didn't know that, did you?" david let him have his say, and then in a low voice said: "yes, i knew thee had been drinking, soolsby." he started. "she told you--kate heaver--" "she did not tell me. i came and found you here with her. you were asleep." "a drunken sweep!" he spat upon the ground in disgust at himself. "i ought never have comeback here," he added. "it was no place for me. but it drew me. i didn't belong; but it drew me." "thee belongs to hamley. thee is an honour to hamley, soolsby." soolsby's eyes widened; the blurred look of rage and self-reproach in them began to fade away. "thee has made a fight, soolsby, to conquer a thing that has had thee by the throat. there's no fighting like it. it means a watching every hour, every minute--thee can never take the eye off it. some days it's easy, some days it's hard, but it's never so easy that you can say, 'there is no need to watch.' in sleep it whispers and wakes you; in the morning, when there are no shadows, it casts a shadow on the path. it comes between you and your work; you see it looking out of the eyes of a friend. and one day, when you think it has been conquered, that you have worn it down into oblivion and the dust, and you close your eyes and say, 'i am master,' up it springs with fury from nowhere you can see, and catches you by the throat; and the fight begins again. but you sit stronger, and the fight becomes shorter; and after many battles, and you have learned never to be off guard, to know by instinct where every ambush is, then at last the victory is yours. it is hard, it is bitter, and sometimes it seems hardly worth the struggle. but it is--it is worth the struggle, dear old man." soolsby dropped on his knees and caught david by the arms. "how did you know-how did you know?" he asked hoarsely. "it's been just as you say. you've watched some one fighting?" "i have watched some one fighting--fighting," answered david clearly, but his eyes were moist. "with drink, the same as me?" "no, with opium--laudanum." "oh, i've heard that's worse, that it makes you mad, the wanting it." "i have seen it so." "did the man break down like me?" "only once, but the fight is not yet over with him." "was he--an englishman?" david inclined his head. "it's a great thing to have a temptation to fight, soolsby. then we can understand others." "it's not always true, egyptian, for you have never had temptation to fight. yet you know it all." "god has been good to me," david answered, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder. "and thee is a credit to hamley, friend. thee will never fall again." "you know that--you say that to me! then, by mary the mother of god, i never will be a swine again," he said, getting to his feet. "well, good-bye, soolsby. i go to-morrow," david said presently. soolsby frowned; his lips worked. "when will you come back?" he asked eagerly. david smiled. "there is so much to do, they may not let me come--not soon. i am going into the desert again." soolsby was shaking. he spoke huskily. "here is your place," he said. "you shall come back--oh, but you shall come back, here, where you belong." david shook his head and smiled, and clasped the strong hand again. a moment later he was gone. from the door of the but soolsby muttered to himself: "i will bring you back. if luke claridge doesn't, then i will bring you back. if he dies, i will bring you--no, by the love of god, i will bring you back while he lives!" ........................... two thousand miles away, in a nile village, women sat wailing in dark doorways, dust on their heads, black mantles covering their faces. by the pond where all the people drank, performed their ablutions, bathed their bodies and rinsed their mouths, sat the sheikh-el-beled, the village chief, taking counsel in sorrow with the barber, the holy man, and others. now speaking, now rocking their bodies to and fro, in the evening sunlight, they sat and watched the nile in flood covering the wide wastes of the fayoum, spreading over the land rich deposits of earth from the mountains of abyssinia. when that flood subsided there would be fields to be planted with dourha and onions and sugar-cane; but they whose strong arms should plough and sow and wield the sickle, the youth, the upstanding ones, had been carried off in chains to serve in the army of egypt, destined for the far soudan, for hardship, misery, and death, never to see their kindred any more. twice during three months had the dread servant of the palace come and driven off their best like sheep to the slaughter. the brave, the stalwart, the bread-winners, were gone; and yet the tax-gatherer would come and press for every impost--on the onion-field, the date-palm, the dourha-field, and the clump of sugar- cane, as though the young men, the toilers, were still there. the old and infirm, the children, the women, must now double and treble their labour. the old men must go to the corvee, and mend the banks of the nile for the prince and his pashas, providing their own food, their own tools, their own housing, if housing there would be--if it was more than sleeping under a bush by the riverside, or crawling into a hole in the ground, their yeleks their clothes by day, their only covering at night. they sat like men without hope, yet with the proud, bitter mien of those who had known good and had lost it, had seen content and now were desolate. presently one--a lad--the youngest of them, lifted up his voice and began to chant a recitative, while another took a small drum and beat it in unison. he was but just recovered from an illness, or he had gone also in chains to die for he knew not what, leaving behind without hope all that he loved: "how has the cloud fallen, and the leaf withered on the tree, the lemon-tree, that standeth by the door. the melon and the date have gone bitter to the taste, the weevil, it has eaten at the core the core of my heart, the mildew findeth it. my music, it is but the drip of tears, the garner empty standeth, the oven hath no fire, night filleth me with fears. o nile that floweth deeply, hast thou not heard his voice? his footsteps hast thou covered with thy flood? he was as one who lifteth up the yoke, he was as one who taketh off the chain, as one who sheltereth from the rain, as one who scattereth bread to the pigeons flying. his purse was at his side, his mantle was for me, for any who passeth were his mantle and his purse, and now like a gourd is he withered from our eyes. his friendship, it was like a shady wood whither has he gone?--who shall speak for us? who shall save us from the kourbash and the stripes? who shall proclaim us in the palace? who shall contend for us in the gate? the sakkia turneth no more; the oxen they are gone; the young go forth in chains, the old waken in the night, they waken and weep, for the wheel turns backward, and the dark days are come again upon us-- will he return no more? his friendship was like a shady wood, o nile that floweth deeply, hast thou not heard his voice? hast thou covered up his footsteps with thy flood? the core of my heart, the mildew findeth it!" another-an old man-took up the strain, as the drum kept time to the beat of the voice with its undulating call and refrain: "when his footsteps were among us there was peace; war entered not the village, nor the call of war. now our homes are as those that have no roofs. as a nest decayed, as a cave forsaken, as a ship that lieth broken on the beach, is the house where we were born. out in the desert did we bury our gold, we buried it where no man robbed us, for his arm was strong. now are the jars empty, gold did not avail to save our young men, to keep them from the chains. god hath swallowed his voice, or the sea hath drowned it, or the nile hath covered him with its flood; else would he come when our voices call. his word was honey in the prince's ear will he return no more?" and now the sheikh-el-beled spoke. "it hath been so since nahoum pasha passed this way four months agone. he hath changed all. war will not avail. david pasha, he will come again. his word is as the centre of the world. ye have no hope, because ye see the hawks among the starving sheep. but the shepherd will return from behind the hill, and the hawks will flee away. ". . . behold, once was i in the desert. listen, for mine are the words of one who hath travelled far--was i not at damascus and palmyra and bagdad, and at medina by the tomb of mahomet?" reverently he touched the green turban on his head, evidence of his journey to mahomet's tomb. "once in the desert i saw afar off an oasis of wood and water, and flying things, and houses where a man might rest. and i got me down from my camel, and knelt upon my sheepskin, and gave thanks in the name of allah. thereupon i mounted again and rode on towards that goodly place. but as i rode it vanished from my sight. then did i mourn. yet once again i saw the trees, and flocks of pigeons and waving fields, and i was hungry and thirsty, and longed exceedingly. yet got i down, and, upon my sheep-skin, once more gave thanks to allah. and i mounted thereafter in haste and rode on; but once again was i mocked. then i cried aloud in my despair. it was in my heart to die upon the sheep-skin where i had prayed; for i was burned up within, and there seemed naught to do but say malaish, and go hence. but that goodly sight came again. my heart rebelled that i should be so mocked. i bent down my head upon my camel that i might not see, yet once more i loosed the sheep-skin. lifting up my heart, i looked again, and again i took hope and rode on. farther and farther i rode, and lo! i was no longer mocked; for i came to a goodly place of water and trees, and was saved. so shall it be with us. we have looked for his coming again, and our hearts have fallen and been as ashes, for that he has not come. yet there be mirages, and one day soon david pasha will come hither, and our pains shall be eased." "aiwa, aiwa--yes, yes," cried the lad who had sung to them. "aiwa, aiwa," rang softly over the pond, where naked children stooped to drink. the smell of the cooking-pots floated out from the mud-houses near by. "malaish," said one after another, "i am hungry. he will come again- perhaps to-morrow." so they moved towards the houses over the way. one cursed his woman for wailing in the doorway; one snatched the lid from a cooking-pot; one drew from an oven cakes of dourha, and gave them to those who had none; one knelt and bowed his forehead to the ground in prayer; one shouted the name of him whose coming they desired. so was david missed in egypt. chapter xxiii the tents of cushan "i saw the tents of cushan in affliction, and the curtains of the land of midian did tremble." a hurdy-gurdy was standing at the corner, playing with shrill insistence a medley of scottish airs. now "loch lomond" pleaded for pennies from the upper windows: "for you'll tak' the high road, and i'll tak' the low road, and i'll be in scotland before ye: but i and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of loch lomond!" the hurdy-gurdy was strident and insistent, but for a long time no response came. at last, however, as the strains of "loch lomond" ceased, a lady appeared on the balcony of a drawing-room, and, leaning over a little forest of flowers and plants, threw a half-crown to the sorry street-musician. she watched the grotesque thing trundle away, then entering the house again, took a 'cello from the corner of the room and tuned the instrument tenderly. it was hylda. something of the peace of hamley had followed her to london, but the poignant pain of it had come also. like melisande, she had looked into the quiet pool of life and had seen her own face, its story and its foreshadowings. since then she had been "apart." she had watched life move on rather than shared in its movement. things stood still for her. that apathy of soul was upon her which follows the inward struggle that exhausts the throb and fret of inward emotions, leaving the mind dominant, the will in abeyance. she had become conscious that her fate and future were suspended over a chasm, as, on the trapeze of a balloon, an adventurous aeronaut hangs uncertain over the hungry sea, waiting for the coming wind which will either blow the hazardous vessel to its doom or to safe refuge on the land. she had not seen david after he left hamley. their last words had been spoken at the meeting-house, when he gave faith to her care. that scene came back to her now, and a flush crept slowly over her face and faded away again. she was recalling, too, the afternoon of that day when she and david had parted in the drawing-room of the cloistered house, and eglington had asked her to sing. she thought of the hours with eglington that followed, first at the piano and afterwards in the laboratory, where in his long blue smock he made experiments. had she not been conscious of something enigmatical in his gaiety that afternoon, in his cheerful yet cheerless words, she would have been deeply impressed by his appreciation of her playing, and his keen reflections on the merits of the composers; by his still keener attention to his subsequent experiments, and his amusing comments upon them. but, somehow, that very cheerless cheerfulness seemed to proclaim him superficial. though she had no knowledge of science, she instinctively doubted his earnestness even in this work, which certainly was not pursued for effect. she had put the feeling from her, but it kept returning. she felt that in nothing did he touch the depths. nothing could possess him wholly; nothing inherent could make him self-effacing. yet she wondered, too, if she was right, when she saw his fox-terrier watching him, ever watching him with his big brown eyes as he buoyantly worked, and saw him stoop to pat its head. or was this, after all, mere animalism, mere superficial vitality, love of health and being? she shuddered, and shut her eyes, for it came home to her that to him she was just such a being of health, vitality and comeliness, on a little higher plane. she put the thought from her, but it had had its birth, and it would not down. he had immense vitality, he was tireless, and abundant in work and industry; he went from one thing to another with ease and swiftly changing eagerness. was it all mere force--mere man and mind? was there no soul behind it? there in the laboratory she had laid her hand on the terrier, and prayed in her heart that she might understand him for her own good, her own happiness, and his. above all else she wanted to love him truly, and to be loved truly, and duty was to her a daily sacrifice, a constant memorial. she realised to the full that there lay before her a long race unilluminated by the sacred lamp which, lighted at the altar, should still be burning beside the grave. now, as she thought of him, she kept saying to herself: "we should have worked out his life together. work together would have brought peace. he shuts me out--he shuts me out." at last she drew the bow across the instrument, once, twice, and then she began to play, forgetful of the world. she had a contralto voice, and she sang with a depth of feeling and a delicate form worthy of a professional; on the piano she was effective and charming, but into the 'cello she poured her soul. for quite an hour she played with scarce an interruption. at last, with a sigh, she laid the instrument against her knee and gazed out of the window. as she sat lost in her dream--a dream of the desert--a servant entered with letters. one caught her eye. it was from egypt--from her cousin lacey. her heart throbbed violently, yet she opened the official- looking envelope with steady fingers. she would not admit even to her self that news from the desert could move her so. she began to read slowly, but presently, with a little cry, she hastened through the pages. it ran: the soudan. dear lady cousin, i'm still not certain how i ought to style you, but i thought i'd compromise as per above. anyway, it's a sure thing that i haven't bothered you much with country-cousin letters. i figure, however, that you've put some money in egypt, so to speak, and what happens to this sandy-eyed foundling of the nile you would like to know. so i've studied the only "complete letter-writer" i could find between the tropic of capricorn and khartoum, and this is the contemptible result, as the dagos in mexico say. this is a hot place by reason of the sun that shines above us, and likewise it is hot because of the niggers that swarm around us. i figure, if we get out of this portion of the african continent inside our skins, that we will have put up a pretty good bluff, and pulled off a ticklish proposition. it's a sort of early christian business. you see, david the saadat is great on moral suasion--he's a master of it; and he's never failed yet--not altogether; though there have been minutes by a stop-watch when i've thought it wouldn't stand the strain. like the mississippi steamboat which was so weak that when the whistle blew the engines stopped! when those frozen minutes have come to us, i've tried to remember the correct religious etiquette, but i've not had much practise since i stayed with aunt melissa, and lived on skim-milk and early piety. when things were looking as bad as they did for dives, "now i lay me down to sleep," and "for what we are about to receive," was all that i could think of. but the saadat, he's a wonder from wondertown. with a little stick, or maybe his flute under his arm, he'll smile and string these heathen along, when you'd think they weren't waiting for anybody. a spear took off his fez yesterday. he never blinked--he's a jim-dandy at keeping cool; and when a hundred mounted heathens made a rush down on him the other day, spears sticking out like quills on a porcupine-- . on the shell-road the chargers were going--did he stir? say, he watched 'em as if they were playing for his benefit. and sure enough, he was right. they parted either side of him when they were ten feet away, and there he was quite safe, a blessing in the storm, a little rock island in the rapids--but i couldn't remember a proper hymn of praise to say. there's no getting away from the fact that he's got a will or something, a sort of force different from most of us, or perhaps any of us. these heathen feel it, and keep their hands off him. they say he's mad, but they've got great respect for mad people, for they think that god has got their souls above with him, and that what's left behind on earth is sacred. he talks to'em, too, like a father in israel; tells 'em they must stop buying and selling slaves, and that if they don't he will have to punish them! and i sit holding my sides, for we're only two white men and forty "friendlies" altogether, and two revolvers among us; and i've got the two! and they listen to his blarneying, and say, "aiwa, saadat! aiwa, saadat!" as if he had an army of fifty thousand behind him. sometimes i've sort of hinted that his canoe was carrying a lot of sail; but my! he believes in it all as if there wasn't a spear or a battle-axe or a rifle within a hundred miles of him. we've been at this for two months now, and a lot of ground we covered till we got here. i've ridden the gentle camel at the rate of sixty and seventy miles a day--sort of sweeping through the land, making treaties, giving presents, freeing slaves, appointing governors and sheikhs- el-beled, doing it as if we owned the continent. he mesmerised 'em, simply mesmerised 'em-till we got here. i don't know what happened then. now we're distinctly rating low, the laugh is on us somehow. but he--mind it? he goes about talking to the sheikhs as though we were all eating off the same corn-cob, and it seems to stupefy them; they don't grasp it. he goes on arranging for a post here and a station there, and it never occurs to him that it ain't really actual. he doesn't tell me, and i don't ask him, for i came along to wipe his stirrups, so to speak. i put my money on him, and i'm not going to worry him. he's so dead certain in what he does, and what he is, that i don't lose any sleep guessing about him. it will be funny if we do win out on this proposition--funnier than anything. now, there's one curious thing about it all which ought to be whispered, for i'm only guessing, and i'm not a good guesser; i guessed too much in mexico about three railways and two silvermines. the first two days after we came here, everything was all right. then there came an egyptian, halim bey, with a handful of niggers from cairo, and letters for claridge pasha. from that minute there was trouble. i figure it out this way: halim was sent by nahoum pasha to bring letters that said one thing to the saadat, and, when quite convenient, to say other things to mustafa, the boss-sheikh of this settlement. halim bey has gone again, but he has left his tale behind him. i'd stake all i lost, and more than i ever expect to get out of mexico on that, and maybe i'll get a hatful out of mexico yet. i had some good mining propositions down there. the saadat believes in nahoum, and has made nahoum what he is; and on the surface nahoum pretends to help him; but he is running underground all the time. i'd like to help give him a villa at fazougli. when the saadat was in england there was a bad time in egypt. i was in cairo; i know. it was the same bad old game--the corvee, the kourbash, conscription, a war manufactured to fill the pockets of a few, while the poor starved and died. it didn't come off, because the saadat wasn't gone long enough, and he stopped it when he came back. but nahoumhe laid the blame on others, and the saadat took his word for it, and, instead of a war, there came this expedition of his own. ten days later.--things have happened. first, there's been awful sickness among the natives, and the saadat has had his chance. his medicine-chest was loaded, he had a special camel for it--and he has fired it off. night and day he has worked, never resting, never sleeping, curing most, burying a few. he looks like a ghost now, but it's no use saying or doing anything. he says: "sink your own will; let it be subject to a higher, and you need take no thought." it's eating away his life and strength, but it has given us our return tickets, i guess. they hang about him as if he was moses in the wilderness smiting the rock. it's his luck. just when i get scared to death, and run down and want a tonic, and it looks as if there'd be no need to put out next week's washing, then his luck steps in, and we get another run. but it takes a heap out of a man, getting scared. whenever i look on a lot of green trees and cattle and horses, and the sun, to say nothing of women and children, and listen to music, or feel a horse eating up the ground under me, . in the sand, i hate to think of leaving it, and i try to prevent it. besides, i don't like the proposition of going, i don't know where. that's why i get seared. but he says that it's no more than turning down the light and turning it up again. they used to call me a dreamer in mexico, because i kept seeing things that no one else had thought of, and laid out railways and tapped mines for the future; but i was nothing to him. i'm a high-and-dry hedge-clipper alongside. i'm betting on him all the time; but no one seems to be working to make his dreams come true, except himself. i don't count; i'm no good, no real good. i'm only fit to run the commissariat, and see that he gets enough to eat, and has a safe camel, and so on. why doesn't some one else help him? he's working for humanity. give him half a chance, and haroun-al-raschid won't be in it. kaid trusts him, depends on him, stands by him, but doesn't seem to know how to help him when help would do most good. the saadat does it all himself; and if it wasn't that the poor devil of a fellah sees what he's doing, and cottons to him, and the dervishes and arabs feel he's right, he might as well leave. but it's just there he counts. there's something about him, something that's quaker in him, primitive, silent, and perceptive--if that's a real word--which makes them feel that he's honest, and isn't after anything for himself. arabs don't talk much; they make each other understand without many words. they think with all their might on one thing at a time, and they think things into happening--and so does he. he's a thousand years old, which is about as old-fashioned as i mean, and as wise, and as plain to read as though you'd write the letters of words as big as a date-palm. that's where he makes the running with them, and they can read their title clear to mansions in the skies! you should hear him talk with ebn ezra bey--perhaps you don't know of ezra? he was a friend of his uncle benn, and brought the news of his massacre to england, and came back with the saadat. well, three days ago ebn ezra came, and there came with him, too, halim bey, the egyptian, who had brought the letters to us from cairo. elm ezra found him down the river deserted by his niggers, and sick with this new sort of fever, which the saadat is knocking out of time. and there he lies, the saadat caring for him as though he was his brother. but that's his way; though, now i come to think of it, the saadat doesn't suspect what i suspect, that halim bey brought word from nahoum to our sheikhs here to keep us here, or lose us, or do away with us. old ebn ezra doesn't say much himself, doesn't say anything about that; but he's guessing the same as me. and the saadat looks as though he was ready for his grave, but keeps going, going, going. he never seems to sleep. what keeps him alive i don't know. sometimes i feel clean knocked out myself with the little i do, but he's a travelling hospital all by his lonesome. later.--i had to stop writing, for things have been going on-- several. i can see that ebn ezra has told the saadat things that make him want to get away to cairo as soon as possible. that it's nahoum pasha and others--oh, plenty of others, of course--i'm certain; but what the particular game is i don't know. perhaps you know over in england, for you're nearer cairo than we are by a few miles, and you've got the telegraph. perhaps there's a revolution, perhaps there's been a massacre of europeans, perhaps turkey is kicking up a dust, perhaps europe is interfering--all of it, all at once. later still.--i've found out it's a little of all, and the saadat is ready to go. i guess he can go now pretty soon, for the worst of the fever is over. but something has happened that's upset him- knocked him stony for a minute. halim bey was killed last night--by order of the sheikhs, i'm told; but the sheikhs won't give it away. when the saadat went to them, his eyes blazing, his face pale as a sheet, and as good as swore at them, and treated them as though he'd string them up the next minute, they only put their hands on their heads, and said they were "the fallen leaves for his foot to scatter," the "snow on the hill for his breath to melt"; but they wouldn't give him any satisfaction. so he came back and shut himself up in his tent, and he sits there like a ghost all shrivelled up for want of sleep, and his eyes like a lime-kiln burning; for now he knows this at least, that halim bey had brought some word from kaid's palace that set these arabs against him, and nearly stopped my correspondence. you see, there's a widow in cairo--she's a sister of the american consul, and i've promised to take her with a party camping in the fayoum--cute as she can be, and plays the guitar. but it's all right now, except that the saadat is running too close and fine. if he has any real friends in england among the government people, or among those who can make the government people sit up, and think what's coming to egypt and to him, they'll help him now when he needs it. he'll need help real bad when he gets back to cairo--if we get that far. it isn't yet a sure thing, for we've got to fight in the next day or two--i forgot to tell you that sooner. there's a bull-arab on the rampage with five thousand men, and he's got a claim out on our sheikh, mustafa, for ivory he has here, and there's going to be a scrimmage. we've got to make for a better position to-morrow, and meet abdullah, the bull-arab, further down the river. that's one reason why mustafa and all our friends here are so sweet on us now. they look on the saadat as a kind of mascot, and they think that he can wipe out the enemy with his flute, which they believe is a witch-stick to work wonders. he's just sent for me to come, and i must stop soon. say, he hasn't had sleep for a fortnight. it's too much; he can't stand it. i tried it, and couldn't. it wore me down. he's killing himself for others. i can't manage him; but i guess you could. i apologise, dear lady cousin. i'm only a hayseed, and a failure, but i guess you'll understand that i haven't thought only of myself as i wrote this letter. the higher you go in life the more you'll understand; that's your nature. i'll get this letter off by a nigger to-morrow, with those the saadat is sending through to cairo by some friendlies. it's only a chance; but everything's chance here now. anyhow, it's safer than leaving it till the scrimmage. if you get this, won't you try and make the british government stand by the saadat? your husband, the lord, could pull it off, if he tried; and if you ask him, i guess he'd try. i must be off now. david pasha will be waiting. well, give my love to the girls! your affectionate cousin, tom lacey. p. s.--i've got a first-class camel for our scrimmage day after to-morrow. mustafa sent it to me this morning. i had a fight on mules once, down at oaxaca, but that was child's play. this will be "slaughter in the pan," if the saadat doesn't stop it somehow. perhaps he will. if i wasn't so scared i'd wish he couldn't stop it, for it will be a way-up barbarian scrap, the tongs and the kettle, a bully panjandrum. it gets mighty dull in the desert when you're not moving. but "it makes to think," as the french say. since i came out here i've had several real centre thoughts, sort of main principles-key-thoughts, that's it. what i want now is a sort of safety-ring to string 'em on and keep 'em safe; for i haven't a good memory, and i get mighty rattled sometimes. thoughts like these are like the secret of a combination lock; they let you into the place where the gold and securities and title-deeds of life are. trouble is, i haven't got a safety-ring, and i'm certain to lose them. i haven't got what you'd call an intellectual memory. things come in flashes to me out of experiences, and pull me up short, and i say, "yes, that's it--that's it; i understand." i see why it's so, and what it means, and where it leads, and how far it spreads. it's five thousand years old. adam thought it after cain killed abel, or abel thought it just before he died, or eve learned it from lilith, or it struck abraham when he went to sacrifice isaac. sometimes things hit me deep like that here in the desert. then i feel i can see just over on the horizon the tents of moab in the wilderness; that yesterday and to-day are the same; that i've crossed the prairies of the everlasting years, and am playing about with ishmael in the wild hills, or fighting with ahab. then the world and time seem pretty small potatoes. you see how it is. i never was trained to think, and i get stunned by thoughts that strike me as being dug right out of the centre. sometimes i'd like to write them down; but i can't write; i can only talk as i'm talking to you. if you weren't so high up, and so much cleverer than i am, and such a thinker, i'd like you to be my safety-ring, if you would. i could tell the key-thoughts to you when they came to me, before i forgot them with all their bearings; and by-and-by they'd do me a lot of good when i got away from this influence, and back into the machinery of the western world again. if you could come out here, if you could feel what i feel here--and you would feel a thousand times as much--i don't know what you wouldn't do. it's pretty wonderful. the nights with the stars so white and glittering, and so near that you'd think you could reach up and hand them down; the dark, deep, blue beyond; such a width of life all round you, a sort of never-ending space, that everything you ever saw or did seems little, and god so great in a kind of hovering sense like a pair of wings; and all the secrets of time coming out of it all, and sort of touching your face like a velvet wind. i expect you'll think me sentimental, a first-class squash out of the pumpkin-garden; but it's in the desert, and it gets into you and saturates you, till you feel that this is a kind of middle space between the world of cities, and factories, and railways, and tenement-houses, and the quiet world to come--a place where they think out things for the benefit of future generations, and convey them through incarnations, or through the desert. say, your ladyship, i'm a chatterer, i'm a two-cent philosopher, i'm a baby; but you are too much like your grandmother, who was the daughter of a quaker like david pasha, to laugh at me. i've got a suit of fine chain-armour which i bought of an arab down by darfur. i'm wondering if it would be too cowardly to wear it in the scrap that's coming. i don't know, though, but what i'll wear it, i get so scared. but it will be a frightful hot thing under my clothes, and it's hot enough without that, so i'm not sure. it depends how much my teeth chatter when i see "the dawn of battle." i've got one more thing before i stop. i'm going to send you a piece of poetry which the saadat wrote, and tore in two, and threw away. he was working off his imagination, i guess, as you have to do out here. i collected it and copied it, and put in the punctuation--he didn't bother about that. perhaps he can't punctuate. i don't understand quite what the poetry means, but maybe you will. anyway, you'll see that it's a real desert piece. here it is: "the desert road "in the sands i lived in a hut of palm, there was never a garden to see; there was never a path through the desert calm, nor a way through its storms for me. "tenant was i of a lone domain; the far pale caravans wound to the rim of the sky, and vanished again; my call in the waste was drowned. "the vultures came and hovered and fled; and once there stole to my door a white gazelle, but its eyes were dread with the hurt of the wounds it bore. "it passed in the dusk with a foot of fear, and the white cold mists rolled in; "and my heart was the heart of a stricken deer, of a soul in the snare of sin. "my days they withered like rootless things, and the sands rolled on, rolled wide; like a pelican i, with broken wings, like a drifting barque on the tide. "but at last, in the light of a rose-red day, in the windless glow of the morn, from over the hills and from far away, you came--ah, the joy of the morn! "and wherever your footsteps fell, there crept a path--it was fair and wide: a desert road which no sands have swept, where never a hope has died. "i followed you forth, and your beauty held my heart like an ancient song; by that desert road to the blossoming plains i came-and the way was long! "so i set my course by the light of your eyes; i care not what fate may send; on the road i tread shine the love-starred skies-- the road with never an end." not many men can do things like that, and the other things, too, that he does. perhaps he will win through, by himself, but is it fair to have him run the risk? if he ever did you a good turn, as you once said to me he did, won't you help him now? you are on the inside of political things, and if you make up your mind to help, nothing will stop you--that was your grandmother's way. he ought to get his backing pretty soon, or it won't be any good. . . . i hear him at his flute. i expect he's tired waiting for me. well, give my love to the girls! t. l. as hylda read, she passed through phases of feeling begotten of new understanding which shook her composure. she had seen david and all that david was doing; egypt, and all that was threatening the land through the eyes of another who told the whole truth--except about his own cowardice, which was untrue. she felt the issues at stake. while the mention of david's personal danger left her sick for a moment, she saw the wider peril also to the work he had set out to do. what was the thing without the man? it could not exist--it had no meaning. where was he now? what had been the end of the battle? he had saved others, had he saved himself? the most charmed life must be pierced by the shaft of doom sooner or later; but he was little more than a youth yet, he had only just begun! "and the saadat looks as though he was ready for his grave--but keeps going, going, going.!" the words kept ringing in her ears. again: "and he sits there like a ghost all shrivelled up for want of sleep, and his eyes like a lime-kiln burning. . . . he hasn't had sleep for a fortnight. . . . he's killing himself for others." her own eyes were shining with a dry, hot light, her lips were quivering, but her hands upon the letter were steady and firm. what could she do? she went to a table, picked up the papers, and scanned them hurriedly. not a word about egypt. she thought for a moment, then left the drawing- room. passing up a flight of stairs to her husband's study, she knocked and entered. it was empty; but eglington was in the house, for a red despatch-box lay open on his table. instinctively she glanced at the papers exposed in the box, and at the letters beside it. the document on the top of the pile in the box related to cyprus--the name caught her eye. another document was half-exposed beneath it. her hand went to her heart. she saw the words, "soudan" and "claridge pasha." she reached for it, then drew back her hand, and her eyes closed as though to shut it out from her sight. why should she not see it? they were her husband's papers, husband and wife were one. husband and wife one! she shrank back. were they one? an overmastering desire was on her. it seemed terrible to wait, when here before her was news of david, of life or death. suddenly she put out her hand and drew the cyprus paper over the egyptian document, so that she might not see it. as she did so the door opened on her, and eglington entered. he had seen the swift motion of her hand, and again a look peculiar to him crossed his face, enigmatical, cynical, not pleasant to see. she turned on him slowly, and he was aware of her inward distress to some degree, though her face was ruled to quietness. he nodded at her and smiled. she shrank, for she saw in his nod and his smile that suggestion of knowing all about everything and everybody, and thinking the worst, which had chilled her so often. even in their short married life it had chilled those confidences which she would gladly have poured out before him, if he had been a man with an open soul. had there been joined to his intellect and temperament a heart capable of true convictions and abiding love, what a man he might have been! but his intellect was superficial, and his temperament was dangerous, because there were not the experiences of a soul of truth to give the deeper hold upon the meaning of life. she shrank now, as, with a little laugh and glancing suggestively at the despatch-box, he said: "and what do you think of it all?" she felt as though something was crushing her heart within its grasp, and her eyes took on a new look of pain. "i did not read the papers," she answered quietly. "i saw them in your fingers. what creatures women are--so dishonourable in little things," he said ironically. she laid a hand on his. "i did not read them, harry," she urged. he smiled and patted her arm. "there, there, it doesn't matter," he laughed. he watched her narrowly. "it matters greatly," she answered gently, though his words had cut her like a knife. "i did not read the papers. i only saw the word 'cyprus' on the first paper, and i pushed it over the paper which had the word 'egypt' on it 'egypt' and 'claridge,' lest i should read it. i did not wish to read it. i am not dishonourable, harry." he had hurt her more than he had ever done; and only the great matter at stake had prevented the lesser part of her from bursting forth in indignation, from saying things which she did not wish to say. she had given him devotion--such devotion, such self-effacement in his career as few women ever gave. her wealth--that was so little in comparison with the richness of her nature--had been his; and yet his vast egotism took it all as his right, and she was repaid in a kind of tyranny, the more galling and cruel because it was wielded by a man of intellect and culture, and ancient name and tradition. if he had been warned that he was losing his wife's love, he would have scouted the idea, his self- assurance was so strong, his vanity complete. if, however, he had been told that another man was thinking of his wife, he would have believed it, as he believed now that david had done; and he cherished that belief, and let resentment grow. he was the earl of eglington, and no matter what reputation david had reached, he was still a member of a quaker trader's family, with an origin slightly touched with scandal. another resentment, however, was steadily rising in him. it galled him that hylda should take so powerful an interest in david's work in egypt; and he knew now that she had always done so. it did not ease his vexed spirit to know that thousands of others of his fellow-countrymen did the same. they might do so, but she was his wife, and his own work was the sun round which her mind and interest should revolve. "why should you be so keen about egypt and claridge pasha?" he said to her now. her face hardened a little. had he the right to torture her so? to suspect her? she could read it in his eyes. her conscience was clear. she was no man's slave. she would not be any man's slave. she was master of her own soul. what right had he to catechise her--as though she were a servant or a criminal? but she checked the answer on her tongue, because she was hurt deeper than words could express, and she said, composedly: "i have here a letter from my cousin lacey, who is with claridge pasha. it has news of him, of events in the soudan. he had fever, there was to be a fight, and i wished to know if you had any later news. i thought that document there might contain news, but i did not read it. i realised that it was not yours, that it belonged to the government, that i had no right. perhaps you will tell me if you have news. will you?" she leaned against the table wearily, holding her letter. "let me read your letter first," he said wilfully. a mist seemed to come before her eyes; but she was schooled to self- command, and he did not see he had given her a shock. her first impulse was to hand the letter over at once; then there came the remembrance of all it contained, all it suggested. would he see all it suggested? she recalled the words lacey had used regarding a service which david had once done her. if eglington asked, what could she say? it was not her secret alone, it was another's. would she have the right, even if she wished it, to tell the truth, or part of the truth? or, would she be entitled to relate some immaterial incident which would evade the real truth? what good could it do to tell the dark story? what could it serve? eglington would horribly misunderstand it--that she knew. there were the verses also. they were more suggestive than anything else, though, indeed, they might have referred to another woman, or were merely impersonal; but she felt that was not so. and there was eglington's innate unbelief in man and woman! her first impulse held, however. she would act honestly. she would face whatever there was to face. she would not shelter herself; she would not give him the right in the future to say she had not dealt fairly by him, had evaded any inquest of her life or mind which he might make. she gave him the letter, her heart standing still, but she was filled with a regnant determination to defend herself, to defend david against any attack, or from any consequences. all her life and hopes seemed hanging in the balance, as he began to read the letter. with fear she saw his face cloud over, heard an impatient exclamation pass his lips. she closed her eyes to gather strength for the conflict which was upon her. he spoke, and she vaguely wondered what passage in the letter had fixed his attention. his voice seemed very far away. she scarcely understood. but presently it pierced the clouds of numbness between them, and she realised what he was saying: "vulgar fellow--i can't congratulate you upon your american cousin. so, the saadat is great on moral suasion, master of it--never failed yet--not altogether--and aunt melissa and skim-milk and early piety!' and 'the saadat is a wonder from wondertown'--like a side-show to a circus, a marvel on the flying trapeze! perhaps you can give me the sense of the letter, if there is any sense in it. i can't read his writing, and it seems interminable. would you mind?" a sigh of relief broke from her. a weight slipped away from her heart and brain. it was as though one in armour awaited the impact of a heavy, cruel, overwhelming foe, who suddenly disappeared, and the armour fell from the shoulders, and breath came easily once again. "would you mind?" he repeated drily, as he folded up the letter slowly. he handed it back to her, the note of sarcasm in his voice pricking her like the point of a dagger. she felt angered with herself that he could rouse her temper by such small mean irony. she had a sense of bitter disappointment in him--or was it a deep hurt?--that she had not made him love her, truly love her. if he had only meant the love that he swore before they had married! why had he deceived her? it had all been in his hands, her fate and future; but almost before the bridal flowers had faded, she had come to know two bitter things: that he had married with a sordid mind; that he was incapable of the love which transmutes the half- comprehending, half-developed affection of the maid into the absorbing, understanding, beautiful passion of the woman. she had married not knowing what love and passion were; uncomprehending, and innocent because uncomprehending; with a fine affection, but capable of loving wholly. one thing had purified her motives and her life--the desire to share with eglington his public duty and private hopes, to be his confidante, his friend, his coadjutor, proud of him, eager for him, determined to help him. but he had blocked the path to all inner companionship. he did no more than let her share the obvious and outer responsibilities of his life. from the vital things, if there were vital things, she was shut out. what would she not give for one day of simple tenderness and quiet affection, a true day with a true love! she was now perfectly composed. she told him the substance of the letter, of david's plight, of the fever, of the intended fight, of nahoum pasha, of the peril to david's work. he continued to interrogate her, while she could have shrieked out the question, "what is in yonder document? what do you know? have you news of his safety?" would he never stop his questioning? it was trying her strength and patience beyond endurance. at last he drew the document slowly from the despatch- box, and glanced up and down it musingly. "i fancy he won the battle," he said slowly, "for they have news of him much farther down the river. but from this letter i take it he is not yet within the zone of safety-- so nahoum pasha says." he flicked the document upwards with his thumb. "what is our government doing to help him?" she asked, checking her eagerness. his heart had gradually hardened towards egypt. power had emphasised a certain smallness in him. personal considerations informed the policy of the moment. he was not going to be dragged at the chariot-wheels of the quaker. to be passive, when david in egypt had asked for active interest; to delay, when urgency was important to claridge pasha; to speak coldly on egyptian affairs to his chief, the weak foreign secretary, this was the policy he had begun. so he answered now: "it is the duty of the egyptian government to help him--of prince kaid, of nahoum pasha, who is acting for him in his absence, who governs finance, and therefore the army. egypt does not belong to england." "nahoum pasha is his enemy. he will do nothing to help, unless you force him." "why do you say that?" "because i know nahoum pasha." "when did you know nahoum?" "in egypt, years ago." "your acquaintance is more varied than i thought," he said sarcastically. "oh, do not speak to me like that!" she returned, in a low, indignant voice. "do not patronise me; do not be sarcastic." "do not be so sensitive," he answered unemotionally. "you surely do not mean that you--that the government will not help him? he is doing the work of europe, of civilisation, of christianity there. he is sacrificing himself for the world. do you not see it? oh, but you do! you would realise his work if you knew egypt as i have seen it." "expediency must govern the policy of nations," he answered critically. "but, if through your expediency he is killed like a rat in a trap, and his work goes to pieces--all undone! is there no right in the matter?" "in affairs of state other circumstances than absolute 'right' enter. here and there the individual is sacrificed who otherwise would be saved --if it were expedient." "oh, eglington! he is of your own county, of your own village, is your neighbour, a man of whom all england should be proud. you can intervene if you will be just, and say you will. i know that intervention has been discussed in the cabinet." "you say he is of my county. so are many people, and yet they are not county people. a neighbour he was, but more in a scriptural than social sense." he was hurting her purposely. she made a protesting motion of her hand. "no, no, no, do not be so small. this is a great matter. do a great thing now; help it to be done for your own honour, for england's honour--for a good man's sake, for your country's sake." there came a knock at the door. an instant afterwards a secretary entered. "a message from the prime minister, sir." he handed over a paper. "will you excuse me?" he asked hylda suavely, in his eyes the enigmatical look that had chilled her so often before. she felt that her appeal had been useless. she prepared to leave the room. he took her hand, kissed it gallantly, and showed her out. it was his way--too civil to be real. blindly she made her way to her room. inside, she suddenly swayed and sank fainting to the ground, as kate heaver ran forward to her. kate saw the letter in the clinched hand. loosening it, she read two or three sentences with a gasp. they contained tom lacey's appeal for david. she lifted hylda's head to her shoulder with endearing words, and chafed the cold hands, murmuring to herself the while. chapter xxiv the questioner "what has thee come to say?" sitting in his high-backed chair, luke claridge seemed a part of its dignified severity. in the sparsely furnished room with its uncarpeted floor, its plain teak table, its high wainscoting and undecorated walls, the old man had the look of one who belonged to some ancient consistory, a judge whose piety would march with an austerity that would save a human soul by destroying the body, if need be. a crisis had come, vaguely foreseen, sombrely eluded. a questioner was before him who, poor, unheeded, an ancient victim of vice, could yet wield a weapon whose sweep of wounds would be wide. stern and masterful as he looked in his arid isolation, beneath all was a shaking anxiety. he knew well what the old chair-maker had come to say, but, in the prologue of the struggle before him, he was unwittingly manoeuvring for position. "speak," he added presently, as soolsby fumbled in his great loose pockets, and drew forth a paper. "what has thee to say?" without a word, soolsby handed over the paper, but the other would not take it. "what is it?" he asked, his lips growing pale. "read--if thee can read." the gibe in the last words made the colour leap into soolsby's face, and a fighting look came. he too had staved off this inevitable hour, had dreaded it, but now his courage shot up high. "doost think i have forgotten how to read since the day i put my hand to a writing you've hid so long from them it most concerns? ay, i can read, and i can write, and i will prove that i can speak too before i've done." "read--read," rejoined the old man hoarsely, his hands tightly gripping the chair-arm. "the fever caught him at shendy--that is the place--" "he is not dead--david is not dead?" came the sharp, pained interruption. the old man's head strained forward, his eyes were misty and dazed. soolsby's face showed no pity for the other's anxiety; it had a kind of triumph in it. "nay, he is living," he answered. "he got well of the fever, and came to cairo, but he's off again into the desert. it's the third time. you can't be tempting providence for ever. this paper here says it's too big a job for one man--like throwing a good life away. here in england is his place, it says. and so say i; and so i have come to say, and to hear you say so, too. what is he there? one man against a million. what put it in his head that he thinks he can do it?" his voice became lower; he fixed his eyes meaningly on the other. "when a man's life got a twist at the start, no wonder it flies off madlike to do the thing that isn't to be done, and leave undone the thing that's here for it to do. doost think a straight line could come from the crooked line you drew for him?" "he is safe--he is well and strong again?" asked the old man painfully. suddenly he reached out a hand for the paper. "let me read," he said, in a voice scarce above a whisper. he essayed to take the paper calmly, but it trembled in his hands. he spread it out and fumbled for his glasses, but could not find them, and he gazed helplessly at the page before him. soolsby took the paper from him and read slowly: ". . . claridge pasha has done good work in egypt, but he is a generation too soon, it may be two or three too soon. we can but regard this fresh enterprise as a temptation to fate to take from our race one of the most promising spirits and vital personalities which this generation has produced. it is a forlorn hope. most englishmen familiar with claridge pasha's life and aims will ask--" an exclamation broke from the old man. in the pause which followed he said: "it was none of my doing. he went to egypt against my will." "ay, so many a man's said that's not wanted to look his own acts straight in the face. if our man had been started different, if he'd started in the path where god a'mighty dropped him, and not in the path luke claridge chose, would he have been in egypt to-day wearing out his life? he's not making carpets there, he's only beating them." the homely illustration drawn from the business in which he had been interested so many years went home to claridge's mind. he shrank back, and sat rigid, his brows drawing over the eyes, till they seemed sunk in caverns of the head. suddenly soolsby's voice rose angrily. luke claridge seemed so remorseless and unyielding, so set in his vanity and self-will! soolsby misread the rigid look in the face, the pale sternness. he did not know that there had suddenly come upon luke claridge the full consciousness of an agonising truth--that all he had done where david was concerned had been a mistake. the hard look, the sternness, were the signals of a soul challenging itself. "ay, you've had your own will," cried soolsby mercilessly. "you've said to god a'mighty that he wasn't able to work out to a good end what he'd let happen; and so you'd do his work for him. you kept the lad hid away from the people that belonged to him, you kept him out of his own, and let others take his birthright. you put a shame upon him, hiding who his father and his father's people were, and you put a shame upon her that lies in the graveyard--as sweet a lass, as good, as ever lived on earth. ay, a shame and a scandal! for your eyes were shut always to the sidelong looks, your ears never heard the things people said--'a good- for-nothing ship-captain, a scamp and a ne'er-do-weel, one that had a lass at every port, and, maybe, wives too; one that none knew or ever had seen--a pirate maybe, or a slave-dealer, or a jail-bird, for all they knew! married--oh yes, married right enough, but nothing else--not even a home. just a ring on the finger, and then, beyond and away!' around her life that brought into the world our lad yonder you let a cloud draw down; and you let it draw round his, too, for he didn't even bear his father's name--much less knew who his father was--or live in his father's home, or come by his own in the end. you gave the lad shame and scandal. do you think, he didn't feel it, was it much or little? he wasn't walking in the sun, but--" "mercy! mercy!" broke in the old man, his hand before his eyes. he was thinking of mercy, his daughter, of the words she had said to him when she died, "set him in the sun, father, where god can find him," and her name now broke from his lips. soolsby misunderstood. "ay, there'll be mercy when right's been done our man, and not till then. i've held my tongue for half a lifetime, but i'll speak now and bring him back. ay, he shall come back and take the place that is his, and all that belongs to him. that lordship yonder-- let him go out into the world and make his place as the egyptian did. he's had his chance to help our man, and he has only hurt, not helped him. we've had enough of his second-best lordship and his ways." the old man's face was painful in its stricken stillness now. he had regained control of himself, his brain had recovered greatly from its first suffusion of excitement. "how does thee know my lord yonder has hurt and not helped him?" he asked in an even voice, his lips tightening, however. "how does thee know it surely?" "from kate heaver, my lady's maid. my lady's illness--what was it? because she would help our man, and, out of his hatred, yonder second son said that to her which no woman can bear that's a true woman; and then, what with a chill and fever, she's been yonder ailing these weeks past. she did what she could for him, and her husband did what he could against him." the old man settled back in his chair again. "thee has kept silent all these years? thee has never told any that lives?" "i gave my word to her that died--to our egyptian's mother--that i would never speak unless you gave me leave to speak, or if you should die before me. it was but a day before the lad was born. so have i kept my word. but now you shall speak. ay, then, but you shall speak, or i'll break my word to her, to do right by her son. she herself would speak if she was here, and i'll answer her, if ever i see her after purgatory, for speaking now." the old man drew himself up in his chair as though in pain, and said very slowly, almost thickly: "i shall answer also for all i did. the spirit moved me. he is of my blood--his mother was dead--in his veins is the blood that runs in mine. his father--aristocrat, spendthrift, adventurer, renegade, who married her in secret, and left her, bidding her return to me, until he came again, and she to bear him a child--was he fit to bring up the boy?" he breathed heavily, his face became wan and haggard, as he continued: "restless on land or sea, for ever seeking some new thing, and when he found it, and saw what was therein, he turned away forgetful. god put it into my heart to abjure him and the life around him. the voice made me rescue the child from a life empty and bare and heartless and proud. when he returned, and my child was in her grave, he came to me in secret; he claimed the child of that honest lass whom he had married under a false name. i held my hand lest i should kill him, man of peace as i am. even his father--quaker though he once became--did we not know ere the end that he had no part or lot with us, that he but experimented with his soul, as with all else? experiment--experiment--experiment, until at last an eglington went exploring in my child's heart, and sent her to her grave--the god of israel be her rest and refuge! what should such high- placed folk do stooping out of their sphere to us who walk in plain paths? what have we in common with them? my soul would have none of them--masks of men, the slaves of riches and titles, and tyrants over the poor." his voice grew hoarse and high, and his head bent forward. he spoke as though forgetful of soolsby's presence: "as the east is from the west, so were we separate from these lovers of this world, the self-indulgent, the hard-hearted, the proud. i chose for the child that he should stay with me and not go to him, to remain among his own people and his own class. he was a sinister, an evil man. was the child to be trusted with him?" "the child was his own child," broke in soolsby. "your daughter was his lady--the countess of eglington! not all the quakers in heaven or earth could alter that. his first-born son is earl of eglington, and has been so these years past; and you, nor his second-best lordship there, nor all the courts in england can alter that. . . . ay, i've kept my peace, but i will speak out now. i was with the earl--james fetherdon he called himself--when he married her that's gone to heaven, if any ever went to heaven; and i can prove all. there's proof aplenty, and 'tis a pity, ay, god's pity! that 'twas not used long ago. well i knew, as the years passed, that the earl's heart was with david, but he had not the courage to face it all, so worn away was the man in him. ah, if the lad had always been with him--who can tell?--he might have been different! whether so or not, it was the lad's right to take his place his mother gave him, let be whatever his father was. 'twas a cruel thing done to him. his own was his own, to run his race as god a'mighty had laid the hurdles, not as luke claridge willed. i'm sick of seeing yonder fellow in our man's place, he that will not give him help, when he may; he that would see him die like a dog in the desert, brother or no brother--" "he does not know--lord eglington does not know the truth?" interposed the old man in a heavy whisper. "he does not know, but, if he knew, would it matter to him! so much the more would he see our man die yonder in the sands. i know the breed. i know him yonder, the skim-milk lord. there is no blood of justice, no milk of kindness in him. do you think his father that i friended in this thing--did he ever give me a penny, or aught save that hut on the hill that was not worth a pound a year? did he ever do aught to show that he remembered?--like father like son. i wanted naught. i held my peace, not for him, but for her--for the promise i made her when she smiled at me and said: 'if i shouldn't be seeing thee again, soolsby, remember; and if thee can ever prove a friend to the child that is to be, prove it.' and i will prove it now. he must come back to his own. right's right, and i will have it so. more brains you may have, and wealth you have, but not more common sense than any common man like me. if the spirit moved you to hold your peace, it moves me to make you speak. with all your meek face you've been a hard, stiff- necked man, a tyrant too, and as much an aristocrat to such as me as any lord in the land. but i've drunk the mug of silence to the bottom. i've--" he stopped short, seeing a strange look come over the other's face, then stepped forward quickly as the old man half rose from his chair, murmuring thickly: "mercy--david, my lord, come--!" he muttered, and staggered, and fell into soolsby's arms. his head dropped forward on his breast, and with a great sigh he sank into unconsciousness. soolsby laid him on a couch, and ran to the door and called aloud for help. .......................... the man of silence was silent indeed now. in the room where paralysis had fallen on him a bed was brought, and he lay nerveless on the verge of a still deeper silence. the hours went by. his eyes opened, he saw and recognised them all, but his look rested only on faith and soolsby; and, as time went on, these were the only faces to which he gave an answering look of understanding. days wore away, but he neither spoke nor moved. people came and went softly, and he gave no heed. there was ever a trouble in his eyes when they were open. only when soolsby came did it seem to lessen. faith saw this, and urged soolsby to sit by him. she had questioned much concerning what had happened before the stroke fell, but soolsby said only that the old man had been greatly troubled about david. once lady eglington, frail and gentle and sympathetic, came, but the trouble deepened in his eyes, and the lids closed over them, so that he might not see her face. when she had gone, soolsby, who had been present and had interpreted the old man's look according to a knowledge all his own, came over to the bed, leaned down and whispered: "i will speak now." then the eyes opened, and a smile faintly flickered at the mouth. "i will speak now," soolsby said again into the old man's ear. chapter xxv the voice through the door that night soolsby tapped at the door of the lighted laboratory of the cloistered house where lord eglington was at work; opened it, peered in, and stepped inside. with a glass retort in his hand eglington faced him. "what's this--what do you want?" he demanded. "i want to try an experiment," answered soolsby grimly. "ah, a scientific turn!" rejoined eglington coolly--looking at him narrowly, however. he was conscious of danger of some kind. then for a minute neither spoke. now that soolsby had come to the moment for which he had waited for so many ,years, the situation was not what he had so often prefigured. the words he had chosen long ago were gone from his memory; in his ignorance of what had been a commonplace to soolsby's dark reflection so long, the man he had meant to bring low stood up before him on his own ground, powerful and unabashed. eglington wore a blue smock, and over his eyes was a green shade to protect them from the light, but they peered sharply out at the chair- maker, and were boldly alive to the unexpected. he was no physical coward, and, in any case, what reason had he for physical fear in the presence of this man weakened by vice and age? yet ever since he was a boy there had existed between them an antagonism which had shown itself in many ways. there had ever been something sinister in soolsby's attitude to his father and himself. eglington vaguely knew that now he was to face some trial of mind and nerve, but with great deliberation he continued dropping liquid from a bottle into the glass retort he carried, his eyes, however, watchful of his visitor, who involuntarily stared around the laboratory. it was fifteen years since soolsby had been in this room; and then he had faced this man's father with a challenge on his tongue such as he meant to speak now. the smell of the chemicals, the carboys filled with acids, the queer, tapering glasses with engraved measurements showing against the coloured liquids, the great blue bottles, the mortars and pestles, the microscopic instruments--all brought back the far-off, acrid scene between the late earl and himself. nothing had changed, except that now there were wires which gave out hissing sparks, electrical instruments invented since the earlier day; except that this man, gently dropping acids into the round white bottle upon a crystal which gave off musty fumes, was bolder, stronger, had more at stake than the other. slowly eglington moved back to put the retort on a long table against the wall, and soolsby stepped forward till he stood where the electric sparks were gently hissing about him. now eglington leaned against the table, poured some alcohol on his fingers to cleanse the acid from them, and wiped them with a piece of linen, while he looked inquiringly at soolsby. still, soolsby did not speak. eglington lit a cigarette, and took away the shade from his eyes. "well, now, what is your experiment?" he asked, "and why bring it here? didn't you know the way to the stables or the scullery?" "i knew my way better here," answered soolsby, steadying himself. "ah, you've been here often?" asked eglington nonchalantly, yet feeling for the cause of this midnight visit. "it is fifteen years since i was here, my lord. then i came to see the earl of eglington." "and so history repeats itself every fifteen years! you came to see the earl of eglington then; you come to see the earl of eglington again-- after fifteen years!" "i come to speak with him that's called the earl of eglington." eglington's eyes half closed, as though the light hurt them. "that sounds communistic, or is it pure quakerism? i believe they used to call my father friend robert till he backslided. but you are not a quaker, soolsby, so why be too familiar? or is it merely the way of the old family friend?" "i knew your father before you were born, my lord--he troosted me then." "so long? and fifteen years ago--here?" he felt a menace, vague and penetrating. his eyes were hard and cruel. "it wasn't a question of troost then; 'twas one of right or wrong--naught else." "ah--and who was right, and what was wrong?" at that moment there came a tap at the door leading into the living part of the house, and the butler entered. "the doctor--he has used up all his oxygen, my lord. he begs to know if you can give him some for mr. claridge. mr. claridge is bad to-night." a sinister smile passed over eglington's face. "who brings the message, garry?" "a servant--miss claridge's, my lord." an ironical look came into eglington's eyes; then they softened a little. in a moment he placed a jar of oxygen in the butler's hands. "my compliments to miss claridge, and i am happy to find my laboratory of use at last to my neighbours," he said, and the door closed upon the man. then he came back thoughtfully. soolsby had not moved. "do you know what oxygen's for, soolsby?" he asked quizzically. "no, my lord, i've never heerd tell of it." "well, if you brought the top of ben lomond to the bottom of a coal-mine --breath to the breathless--that's it. "you've been doing that to mr. claridge, my lord?" "a little oxygen more or less makes all the difference to a man--it probably will to neighbour claridge, soolsby; and so i've done him a good turn." a grim look passed over soolsby's face. "it's the first, i'm thinking, my lord, and none too soon; and it'll be the last, i'm thinking, too. it's many a year since this house was neighbourly to that." eglington's eyes almost closed, as he studied the other's face; then he said: "i asked you a little while ago who was right and what was wrong when you came to see my father here fifteen years ago. well?" suddenly a thought flashed into his eyes, and it seemed to course through his veins like some anaesthetic, for he grew very still, and a minute passed before he added quietly: "was it a thing between my father and luke claridge? there was trouble--well, what was it?" all at once he seemed to rise above the vague anxiety that possessed him, and he fingered inquiringly a long tapering glass of acids on the bench beside him. "there's been so much mystery, and i suppose it was nothing, after all. what was it all about? or do you know--eh? fifteen years ago you came to see my father, and now you have come to see me--all in the light o' the moon, as it were; like a villain in a play. ah, yes, you said it was to make an experiment--yet you didn't know what oxygen was! it's foolish making experiments, unless you know what you are playing with, soolsby. see, here are two glasses." he held them up. "if i poured one into the other, we'd have an experiment--and you and i would be picked up in fragments and carried away in a basket. and that wouldn't be a successful experiment, soolsby." "i'm not so sure of that, my lord. some things would be put right then." "h'm, there would be a new under-secretary for foreign affairs, and--" "and claridge pasha would come back from egypt, my lord," was the sharp interjection. suddenly soolsby's anger flared up, his hands twitched. "you had your chance to be a friend to him, my lord. you promised her yonder at the red mansion that you would help him--him that never wronged you, him you always wronged, and you haven't lifted hand to help him in his danger. a moment since you asked me who was right and what was wrong. you shall know. if you had treated him right, i'd have held my peace, and kept my word to her that's gone these thirty-odd years. i'll hold it no more, and so i told luke claridge. i've been silent, but not for your father's sake or yours, for he was as cruel as you, with no heart, and a conscience like a pin's head, not big enough for use. . . ay, you shall know. you are no more the earl of eglington than me. "the earl of eglington is your elder brother, called david claridge." as soolsby's words poured forth passionately, weighty, eglington listened like one in a dream. since this man entered the laboratory fifty reasons for his coming had flashed across his mind; he had prepared himself at many corners for defence, he had rallied every mental resource, he had imagined a dozen dangerous events which his father and luke claridge shared--with the balance against his father; but this thing was beyond all speculation. yet on the instant the words were said he had a conviction of their inevitable truth. even as they were uttered, kaleidoscopic memories rushed in, and david's face, figure, personal characteristics, flashed before him. he saw, he felt, the likeness to his father and himself; a thousand things were explained that could only be explained by this fatal fact launched at him without warning. it was as though, fully armed for his battle of life, he had suddenly been stripped of armour and every weapon, and left naked on the field. but he had the mind of the gamester, and the true gamester's self-control. he had taken chances so often that the tornado of ill-luck left him standing. "what proof have you?" he asked quietly. soolsby's explicit answer left no ground for doubt. he had not asked the question with any idea of finding gaps in the evidence, but rather to find if there were a chance for resistance, of escape, anywhere. the marriage certificate existed; identification of james fetherdon with his father could be established by soolsby and luke claridge. soolsby and luke claridge! luke claridge--he could not help but smile cynically, for he was composed and calculating now. a few minutes ago he had sent a jar of oxygen to keep luke claridge alive! but for it one enemy to his career, to his future, would be gone. he did not shrink from the thought. born a gentleman, there were in him some degenerate characteristics which heart could not drown or temperament refine. selfishness was inwoven with every fibre of his nature. now, as he stood with eyes fixed on soolsby, the world seemed to narrow down to this laboratory. it was a vacuum where sensation was suspended, and the million facts of ordinary existence disappeared into inactivity. there was a fine sense of proportion in it all. only the bare essential things that concerned him remained: david claridge was the earl of eglington, this man before him knew, luke claridge knew; and there was one thing yet to know! when he spoke his voice showed no excitement--the tones were even, colourless. "does he know?" in these words he acknowledged that he believed the tale told him. soolsby had expected a different attitude; he was not easier in mind because his story had not been challenged. he blindly felt working in the man before him a powerful mind, more powerful because it faced the truth unflinchingly; but he knew that this did not mean calm acceptance of the consequences. he, not eglington, was dazed and embarrassed, was not equal to the situation. he moved uneasily, changed his position. "does he know?" eglington questioned again quietly. there was no need for eglington to explain who he was. "of course he does not know--i said so. if he knew, do you think he'd be in egypt and you here, my lord?" eglington was very quiet. his intellect more than his passions were now at work. "i am not sure. you never can tell. this might not mean much to him. he has got his work cut out; he wasn't brought up to this. what he has done is in line with the life he has lived as a pious quaker. what good would it do to bring him back? i have been brought up to it; i am used to it; i have worked things out 'according to the state of life to which i was called.' take what i've always had away from me, and i am crippled; give him what he never had, and it doesn't work into his scheme. it would do him no good and me harm--where's the use? besides, i am still my father's son. don't you see how unreasonable you are? luke claridge was right. he knew that he and his belonged to a different sphere. he didn't speak. why do you speak now after all these years when we are all set in our grooves? it's silly to disturb us, soolsby." the voice was low, persuasive, and searching; the mind was working as it had never worked before, to achieve an end by peaceful means, when war seemed against him. and all the time he was fascinated by the fact that soolsby's hand was within a few inches of a live electric wire, which, if he touched, would probably complete "the experiment" he had come to make; and what had been the silence of a generation would continue indefinitely. it was as though fate had deliberately tempted him and arranged the necessary conditions, for soolsby's feet were in a little pool of liquid which had been spilled on the floor--the experiment was exact and real. for minutes he had watched soolsby's hand near the wire-had watched as he talked, and his talk was his argument for non-interference against warning the man who had come to destroy him and his career. why had fate placed that hand so near the wire there, and provided the other perfect conditions for tragedy? why should he intervene? it would never have crossed his mind to do soolsby harm, yet here, as the man's arm was stretched out to strike him, fate offered an escape. luke claridge was stricken with paralysis, no doubt would die; soolsby alone stood in his way. "you see, soolsby, it has gone on too long," he added, in a low, penetrating tone. "it would be a crime to alter things now. give him the earldom and the estates, and his work in egypt goes to pieces; he will be spoiled for all he wants to do. i've got my faults, but, on the whole, i'm useful, and i play my part here, as i was born to it, as well as most. anyhow, it's no robbery for me to have what has been mine by every right except the accident of being born after him. i think you'll see that you will do a good thing to let it all be. luke claridge, if he was up and well, wouldn't thank you for it--have you got any right to give him trouble, too? besides, i've saved his life to-night, and. . . . and perhaps i might save yours, soolsby, if it was in danger." soolsby's hand had moved slightly. it was only an inch from the wire. for an instant the room was terribly still. an instant, and it might be too late. an instant, and soolsby would be gone. eglington watched the hand which had been resting on the table turn slowly over to the wire. why should he intervene? was it his business? this thing was not his doing. destiny had laid the train of circumstance and accident, and who was stronger than destiny? in spite of himself his eyes fixed themselves on soolsby's hand. it was but a hair's breadth from the wire. the end would come now. suddenly a voice was heard outside the door. "eglington!" it called. soolsby started, his hand drew spasmodically away from the wire, and he stepped back quickly. the door opened, and hylda entered. "mr. claridge is dead, eglington," she said. destiny had decided. chapter xxvi "i owe you nothing" beside the grave under the willow-tree another grave had been made. it was sprinkled with the fallen leaves of autumn. in the red mansion faith's delicate figure moved forlornly among relics of an austere, beloved figure vanished from the apricot-garden and the primitive simplicity of wealth combined with narrow thought. since her father's death, the bereaved girl had been occupied by matters of law and business, by affairs of the estate; but the first pressure was over, long letters had been written to david which might never reach him; and now, when the strain was withdrawn, the gentle mind was lost in a grey mist of quiet suffering. in hamley there were but two in whom she had any real comfort and help--lady eglington and the old chair-maker. of an afternoon or evening one or the other was to be seen in the long high-wainscoted room, where a great fire burned, or in the fruitless garden where the breeze stirred the bare branches. almost as deep a quiet brooded in the cloistered house as in the home where mourning enjoined movement in a minor key. hylda had not recovered wholly from the illness which had stricken her down on that day in london when she had sought news of david from eglington, at such cost to her peace and health and happiness. then had come her slow convalescence in hamley, and long days of loneliness, in which eglington seemed to retreat farther and farther from her inner life. inquiries had poured in from friends in town, many had asked to come and see her; flowers came from one or two who loved her benignly, like lord windlehurst; and now and then she had some cheerful friend with her who cared for music or could sing; and then the old home rang; but she was mostly alone, and eglington was kept in town by official business the greater part of each week. she did not gain strength as quickly as she ought to have done, and this was what brought the duchess of snowdon down on a special mission one day of early november. ever since the night she had announced luke claridge's death to eglington, had discovered soolsby with him, had seen the look in her husband's face and caught the tension of the moment on which she had broken, she had been haunted by a hovering sense of trouble. what had soolsby been doing in the laboratory at that time of night? what was the cause of this secret meeting? all hamley knew--she had long known--how luke claridge had held the cloistered house in abhorrence, and she knew also that soolsby worshipped david and faith, and, whatever the cause of the family antipathy, championed it. she was conscious of a shadow somewhere, and behind it all was the name of david's father, james fetherdon. that last afternoon when she had talked with him, and he had told her of his life, she had recalled the name as one she had seen or heard, and it had floated into her mind at last that she had seen it among the papers and letters of the late countess of eglington. as the look in eglington's face the night she came upon him and soolsby in the laboratory haunted her, so the look in her own face had haunted soolsby. her voice announcing luke claridge's death had suddenly opened up a new situation to him. it stunned him; and afterwards, as he saw hylda with faith in the apricot-garden, or walking in the grounds of the cloistered house hour after hour alone or with her maid, he became vexed by a problem greater than had yet perplexed him. it was one thing to turn eglington out of his lands and home and title; it was another thing to strike this beautiful being, whose smile had won him from the first, whose voice, had he but known, had saved his life. perhaps the truth in some dim way was conveyed to him, for he came to think of her a little as he thought of faith. since the moment when he had left the laboratory and made his way to the red mansion, he and eglington had never met face to face; and he avoided a meeting. he was not a blackmailer, he had no personal wrongs to avenge, he had not sprung the bolt of secrecy for evil ends; and when he saw the possible results of his disclosure, he was unnerved. his mind had seen one thing only, the rights of "our man," the wrong that had been done him and his mother; but now he saw how the sword of justice, which he had kept by his hand these many years, would cut both ways. his mind was troubled, too, that he had spoken while yet luke claridge lived, and so broken his word to mercy claridge. if he had but waited till the old man died--but one brief half-hour--his pledge would have been kept. nothing had worked out wholly as he expected. the heavens had not fallen. the "second-best lordship" still came and went, the wheels went round as usual. there was no change; yet, as he sat in his hut and looked down into the grounds of the cloistered house, he kept saying to himself. "it had to be told. it's for my lord now. he knows the truth. i'll wait and see. it's for him to do right by our man that's beyond and away." the logic and fairness of this position, reached after much thinking, comforted him. he had done his duty so far. if, in the end, the "second-best lordship" failed to do his part, hid the truth from the world, refused to do right by his half-brother, the true earl, then would be time to act again. also he waited for word out of egypt; and he had a superstitious belief that david would return, that any day might see him entering the door of the red mansion. eglington himself was haunted by a spectre which touched his elbow by day, and said: "you are not the earl of eglington," and at night laid a clammy finger on his forehead, waking him, and whispering in his ear: "if soolsby had touched the wire, all would now be well!" and as deep as thought and feeling in him lay, he felt that fate had tricked him--fate and hylda. if hylda had not come at that crucial instant, the chairmaker's but on the hill would be empty. why had not soolsby told the world the truth since? was the man waiting to see what course he himself would take? had the old chair-maker perhaps written the truth to the egyptian--to his brother david. his brother! the thought irritated every nerve in him. no note of kindness or kinship or blood stirred in him. if, before, he had had innate antagonism and a dark, hovering jealousy, he had a black repugnance now--the antipathy of the lesser to the greater nature, of the man in the wrong to the man in the right. and behind it all was the belief that his wife had set david above him-- by how much or in what fashion he did not stop to consider; but it made him desire that death and the desert would swallow up his father's son and leave no trace behind. policy? his work in the foreign office now had but one policy so far as egypt was concerned. the active sophistry in him made him advocate non- intervention in egyptian affairs as diplomatic wisdom, though it was but personal purpose; and he almost convinced himself that he was acting from a national stand-point. kaid and claridge pasha pursued their course of civilisation in the soudan, and who could tell what danger might not bring forth? if only soolsby held his peace yet a while! did faith know? luke claridge was gone without speaking, but had soolsby told faith? how closely had he watched the faces round him at luke claridge's funeral, to see if they betrayed any knowledge! anxious days had followed that night in the laboratory. his boundless egotism had widened the chasm between hylda and himself, which had been made on the day when she fell ill in london, with lacey's letter in her hand. it had not grown less in the weeks that followed. he nursed a grievance which had, so far as he knew, no foundation in fact; he was vaguely jealous of a man--his brother--thousands of miles away; he was not certain how far hylda had pierced the disguise of sincerity which he himself had always worn, or how far she understood him. he thought that she shrank from what she had seen of his real self, much or little, and he was conscious of so many gifts and abilities and attractive personal qualities that he felt a sense of injury. yet what would his position be without her? suppose david should return and take the estates and titles, and suppose that she should close her hand upon her fortune and leave him, where would he be? he thought of all this as he sat in his room at the foreign office and looked over st. james's park, his day's work done. he was suddenly seized by a new-born anxiety, for he had been so long used to the open purse and the unchecked stream of gold, had taken it so much as a matter of course, as not to realise the possibility of its being withdrawn. he was conscious of a kind of meanness and ugly sordidness in the suggestion; but the stake--his future, his career, his position in the world--was too high to allow him to be too chivalrous. his sense of the real facts was perverted. he said to himself that he must be practical. moved by the new thought, he seized a time-table and looked up the trains. he had been ten days in town, receiving every morning a little note from hylda telling of what she had done each day; a calm, dutiful note, written without pretence, and out of a womanly affection with which she surrounded the man who, it seemed once--such a little while ago--must be all in all to her. she had no element of pretence in her. what she could give she gave freely, and it was just what it appeared to be. he had taken it all as his due, with an underlying belief that, if he chose to make love to her again, he could blind her to all else in the world. hurt vanity and egotism and jealousy had prevented him from luring her back to that fine atmosphere in which he had hypnotised her so few years ago. but suddenly, as he watched the swans swimming in the pond below, a new sense of approaching loss, all that hylda had meant in his march and progress, came upon him; and he hastened to return to hamley. getting out of the train at heddington, he made up his mind to walk home by the road that david had taken on his return from egypt, and he left word at the station that he would send for his luggage. his first objective was soolsby's hut, and, long before he reached it, darkness had fallen. from a light shining through the crack of the blind he knew that soolsby was at home. he opened the door and entered without knocking. soolsby was seated at a table, a map and a newspaper spread out before him. egypt and david, always david and egypt! soolsby got to his feet slowly, his eyes fixed inquiringly on his visitor. "i didn't knock," said eglington, taking off his greatcoat and reaching for a chair; then added, as he seated himself: "better sit down, soolsby." after a moment he continued: "do you mind my smoking?" soolsby did not reply, but sat down again. he watched eglington light a cigar and stretch out his hands to the wood fire with an air of comfort. a silence followed. eglington appeared to forget the other's presence, and to occupy himself with thoughts that glimmered in the fire. at last soolsby said moodily: "what have you come for, my lord?" "oh, i am my lord still, am i?" eglington returned lazily. "is it a genealogical tree you are studying there?" he pointed to the map. "i've studied your family tree with care, as you should know, my lord; and a map of egypt"--he tapped the parchment before him--"goes well with it. and see, my lord, egypt concerns you too. lord eglington is there, and 'tis time he was returning-ay, 'tis time." there was a baleful look in soolsby's eyes. whatever he might think, whatever considerations might arise at other times, a sinister feeling came upon him when eglington was with him. "and, my lord," he went on, "i'd be glad to know that you've sent for him, and told him the truth." "have you?" eglington flicked the ash from his cigar, speaking coolly. soolsby looked at him with his honest blue eyes aflame, and answered deliberately: "i was not for taking your place, my lord. 'twas my duty to tell you, but the rest was between you and the earl of eglington." "that was thoughtful of you, soolsby. and miss claridge?" "i told you that night, my lord, that only her father and myself knew; and what was then is now." a look of relief stole across eglington's face. "of course--of course. these things need a lot of thought, soolsby. one must act with care-- no haste, no flurry, no mistakes." "i would not wait too long, my lord, or be too careful." there was menace in the tone. "but if you go at things blind, you're likely to hurt where you don't mean to hurt. when you're mowing in a field by a school-house, you must look out for the children asleep in the grass. sometimes the longest way round is the shortest way home." "do you mean to do it or not, my lord? i've left it to you as a gentleman." "it's going to upset more than you think, soolsby. suppose he, out there in egypt"--he pointed again to the map--"doesn't thank me for the information. suppose he says no, and--" "right's right. give him the chance, my lord. how can you know, unless you tell him the truth?" "do you like living, soolsby?" "do you want to kill me, my lord?" there was a dark look in eglington's face. "but answer me, do you want to live?" "i want to live long enough to see the earl of eglington in his own house." "well, i've made that possible. the other night when you were telling me your little story, you were near sending yourself into eternity--as near as i am knocking this ash off my cigar." his little finger almost touched the ash. "your hand was as near touching a wire charged with death. i saw it. it would have been better for me if you had gone; but i shut off the electricity. suppose i hadn't, could i have been blamed? it would have been an accident. providence did not intervene; i did. you owe me something, soolsby." soolsby stared at him almost blindly for a moment. a mist was before his eyes; but through the mist, though he saw nothing of this scene in which he now was, he saw the laboratory, and himself and eglington, and eglington's face as it peered at him, and, just before the voice called outside, eglington's eyes fastened on his hand. it all flashed upon him now, and he saw himself starting back at the sound of the voice. slowly he got up now, went to the door, and opened it. "my lord, it is not true," he said. "you have not spoken like a gentleman. it was my lady's voice that saved me. this is my castle, my lord--you lodge yonder." he pointed down into the darkness where the lights of the village shone. "i owe you nothing. i pay my debts. pay yours, my lord, to him that's beyond and away." eglington kept his countenance as he drew on his great-coat and slowly passed from the house. "i ought to have let you die, soolsby. y'ou'll think better of this soon. but it's quite right to leave the matter to me. it may take a little time, but everything will come right. justice shall be done. well, good night, soolsby. you live too much alone, and imagination is a bad thing for the lonely. good night-good night." going down the hill quickly, he said to himself: "a sort of second sight he had about that wire. but time is on my side, time and the soudan-- and 'the heathen in his blindness. . . .' i will keep what is mine. i will keep it!" chapter xxvii the awakening in her heart of hearts hylda had not greatly welcomed the duchess of snowdon to hamley. there was no one whose friendship she prized more; but she was passing through a phase of her life when she felt that she was better apart, finding her own path by those intuitions and perceptions which belonged to her own personal experience. she vaguely felt, what all realise sooner or later, that we must live our dark hours alone. yet the frank downright nature of the once beautiful, now faded, duchess, the humorous glimmer in the pale-blue eyes, the droll irony and dry truth of her speech, appealed to hylda, made her smile a warm greeting when she would rather have been alone. for, a few days before, she had begun a quest which had absorbed her, fascinated her. the miner, finding his way across the gap of a reef to pick up the vein of quartz at some distant and uncertain point, could not have been more lost to the world than was the young wife searching for a family skeleton, indefinitely embodied in her imagination by the name, james fetherdon. pile after pile of papers and letters of the late earl and his countess had passed through her hands from chaos to order. as she had read, hour after hour, the diaries of the cold, blue-eyed woman, sybil eglington, who had lived without love of either husband or son, as they, in turn, lived without love of each other, she had been overwhelmed by the revelation of a human heart, whose powers of expression were smothered by a shy and awkward temperament. the late countess's letters were the unclothing of a heart which had never expanded to the eyes of those whose love would have broken up a natural reserve, which became at last a proud coldness, and gave her a reputation for lack of feeling that she carried to her grave. in the diaries which hylda unearthed--the countess had died suddenly-- was the muffled cry of a soul tortured through different degrees of misunderstanding; from the vague pain of suffered indifference, of being left out of her husband's calculations, to the blank neglect narrowing her life down to a tiny stream of duty, which was finally lost in the sands. she had died abroad, and alone, save for her faithful maid, who, knowing the chasm that lay between her mistress and her lord, had brought her letters and papers back to the cloistered house, and locked them away with all the other papers and correspondence which the countess had accumulated. among these papers was a letter to the late lord eglington written the day before she died. in the haste and confusion ensuing on her death, the maid had not seen it. it had never reached his hands, but lay in a pocket of the dead woman's writing-portfolio, which hylda had explored without discovering. only a few hours, however, before the duchess of snowdon came, hylda had found again an empty envelope on which was written the name, james fetherdon. the writing on the envelope was that of sybil lady eglington. when she discovered the envelope, a sense of mystery and premonition possessed her. what was the association between the countess of eglington and james fetherdon, the father of david claridge? in vain she searched among the voluminous letters and papers, for it would seem that the dead woman had saved every letter she received, and kept copies of numberless letters she had written. but she had searched without avail. even the diaries, curiously frank and without reserve, never mentioned the name, so far as she could find, though here and there were strange allusive references, hints of a trouble that weighed her down, phrases of exasperation and defiance. one phrase, or the idea in it, was, however, much repeated in the diaries during the course of years, and towards the last almost feverishly emphasised--"why should i bear it for one who would bear nothing for me, for his sake, who would do nothing for my sake? is it only the mother in me, not the love in me?" these words were haunting hylda's brain when the telegram from the duchess of snowdon came. they followed her to heddington, whither she went in the carriage to bring her visitor to hamley, and kept repeating themselves at the back of her mind through the cheerful rallying of the duchess, who spread out the wings of good-humour and motherly freedom over her. after all, it was an agreeable thing to be taken possession of, and "put in her proper place," as the duchess said; made to understand that her own affairs were not so important, after all; and that it was far more essential to hear the charming gossip about the new and most popular princess of wales, or the quarrel between dickens and thackeray. yet, after dinner, in the little sitting-room, where the duchess, in a white gown with great pink bows, fitter for a girl fresh from confirmation, and her cheeks with their fixed colour, which changed only at the discretion of her maid, babbled of nothing that mattered, hylda's mind kept turning to the book of life an unhappy woman had left behind her. the sitting- room had been that of the late countess also, and on the wall was an oil- painting of her, stately and distant and not very alluring, though the mouth had a sweetness which seemed unable to break into a smile. "what was she really like--that wasn't her quite, was it?" asked hylda, at last, leaning her chin on the hand which held the 'cello she had been playing. "oh, yes, it's sybil eglington, my dear, but done in wood; and she wasn't the graven image that makes her out to be. that's as most people saw her; as the fellow that painted her saw her; but she had another side to her. she disapproved of me rather, because i was squeezing the orange dry, and trying to find yesterday's roses in to-morrow's garden. but she didn't shut her door in my face--it's hard to do that to a duchess; which is one of the few advantages of living naked in the street, as it were, with only the strawberry leaves to clothe you. no, sybil eglington was a woman who never had her chance. your husband's forbears were difficult, my dear. they didn't exactly draw you out. she needed drawing out; and her husband drove her back into her corner, where she sulked rather till she died--died alone at wiesbaden, with a german doctor, a stray curate, and a stuttering maid to wish her bon voyage. yet i fancy she went glad enough, for she had no memories, not even an affaire to repent of, and to cherish. la, la! she wasn't so stupid, sybil there, and she was an ornament to her own sex and the despair of the other. his serene highness heinrich of saxe-gunden fancied the task of breaking that ice, and he was an adept and an apollo, but it broke his reputation instead. "no doubt she is happy now. i shall probably never see!" in spite of the poignant nature of the talk, hylda could not but smile at the last words. "don't despair," she rejoined; "one star differeth from another star in glory, but that is no reason why they should not be on visiting terms." "my dear, you may laugh--you may laugh, but i am sixty-five, and i am not laughing at the idea of what company i may be obliged to keep presently. in any case i'm sure i shall not be comfortable. if i'm where she is, i shall be dull; if i'm where her husband is, i'll have no reputation; and if there is one thing i want, it is a spotless reputation--sometime." hylda laughed--the manner and the voice were so droll--but her face saddened too, and her big eyes with the drooping lashes looked up pensively at the portrait of her husband's mother. "was it ever a happy family, or a lucky family?" she asked. "it's lucky now, and it ought to be happy now," was the meaning reply. hylda made no answer, but caught the strings of the 'cello lightly, and shook her head reprovingly, with a smile meant to be playful. for a moment she played, humming to herself, and then the duchess touched the hand that was drawing the bow softly across the strings. she had behind her garishness a gift for sympathy and a keen intuition, delicacy, and allusiveness. she knew what to say and what to leave unsaid, when her heart was moved. "my darling," she said now, "you are not quite happy; but that is because you don't allow yourself to get well. you've never recovered from your attack last summer; and you won't, until you come out into the world again and see people. this autumn you ought to have been at homburg or at aix, where you'd take a little cure of waters and a great deal of cure of people. you were born to bask in friendship and the sun, and to draw from the world as much as you deserve, a little from many, for all you give in return. because, dearest, you are a very agreeable person, with enough wit and humanity to make it worth the world's while to conspire to make you do what will give it most pleasure, and let yourself get most-- and that's why i've come." "what a person of importance i am!" answered hylda, with a laugh that was far from mirthful, though she caught the plump, wrinkled little hand of the duchess and pressed it. "but really i'm getting well here fast. i'm very strong again. it is so restful, and one's days go by so quietly." "yet, i'm not sure that it's rest you want. i don't think it is. you want tonics--men and women and things. monte carlo would do you a world of good--i'd go with you. eglington gambles here"--she watched hylda closely--"why shouldn't you gamble there?" "eglington gambles?" hylda's face took on a frightened look, then it cleared again, and she smiled. "oh, of course, with international affairs, you mean. well, i must stay here and be the croupier." "nonsense! eglington is his own croupier. besides, he is so much in london, and you so much here. you sit with the distaff; he throws the dice." hylda's lips tightened a little. her own inner life, what eglington was to her or she to eglington, was for the ears of no human being, however friendly. she had seen little of him of late, but in one sense that had been a relief, though she would have done anything to make that feeling impossible. his rather precise courtesy and consideration, when he was with her, emphasised the distance between "the first fine careless rapture" and this grey quiet. and, strange to say, though in the first five years after the cairo days and deeds, egypt seemed an infinite space away, and david a distant, almost legendary figure, now egypt seemed but beyond the door--as though, opening it, she would stand near him who represented the best of all that she might be capable of thinking. yet all the time she longed for eglington to come and say one word, which would be like touching the lever of the sluice-gates of her heart, to let loose the flood. as the space grew between her and eglington, her spirit trembled, she shrank back, because she saw that sea towards which she was drifting. as she did not answer the last words of the duchess, the latter said presently: "when do you expect eglington?" "not till the week-end; it is a busy week with him," hylda answered; then added hastily, though she had not thought of it till this moment: "i shall probably go up to town with you to-morrow." she did not know that eglington was already in the house, and had given orders to the butler that she was not to be informed of his arrival for the present. "well, if you get that far, will you come with me to the riviera, or to florence, or sicily--or cairo?" the other asked, adjusting her gold- brown wig with her babyish hands. cairo! cairo! a light shot up into hylda's eyes. the duchess had spoken without thought, but, as she spoke, she watched the sudden change in hylda. what did it mean? cairo--why should cairo have waked her so? suddenly she recalled certain vague references of lord windlehurst, and, for the first time, she associated hylda with claridge pasha in a way which might mean much, account for much, in this life she was leading. "perhaps! perhaps!" answered hylda abstractedly, after a moment. the duchess got to her feet. she had made progress. she would let her medicine work. "i'm going to bed, my dear. i'm sixty-five, and i take my sleep when i can get it. think it over, sicily--cairo!" she left the room, saying to herself that eglington was a fool, and that danger was ahead. "but i hold a red light--poor darling!" she said aloud, as she went up the staircase. she did not know that eglington, standing in a deep doorway, heard her, and seized upon the words eagerly and suspiciously, and turned them over in his mind. below, at the desk where eglington's mother used to write, hylda sat with a bundle of letters before her. for some moments she opened, glanced through them, and put them aside. presently she sat back in her chair, thinking--her mind was invaded by the last words of the duchess; and somehow they kept repeating themselves with the words in the late countess's diary: "is it only the mother in me, not the love in me?" mechanically her hand moved over the portfolio of the late countess, and it involuntarily felt in one of its many pockets. her hand came upon a letter. this had remained when the others had been taken out. it was addressed to the late earl, and was open. she hesitated a moment, then, with a strange premonition and a tightening of her heart-strings, she spread it out and read it. at first she could scarcely see because of the mist in her eyes; but presently her sight cleared, and she read quickly, her cheeks burning with excitement, her heart throbbing violently. the letter was the last expression of a disappointed and barren life. the slow, stammering tongue of an almost silent existence had found the fulness of speech. the fountains of the deep had been broken up, and sybil eglington's repressed emotions, undeveloped passions, tortured by mortal sufferings, and refined and vitalised by the atmosphere blown in upon her last hours from the hereafter, were set free, given voice and power at last. the letter reviewed the life she had lived with her husband during twenty-odd years, reproved herself for not speaking out and telling him his faults at the beginning, and for drawing in upon herself, when she might have compelled him to a truer understanding; and, when all that was said, called him to such an account as only the dying might make--the irrevocable, disillusionising truth which may not be altered, the poignant record of failure and its causes. ". . . i could not talk well, i never could, as a girl," the letter ran; "and you could talk like one inspired, and so speciously, so overwhelmingly, that i felt i could say nothing in disagreement, not anything but assent; while all the time i felt how hollow was so much you said--a cloak of words to cover up the real thought behind. before i knew the truth, i felt the shadow of secrecy in your life. when you talked most, i felt you most secretive, and the feeling slowly closed the door upon all frankness and sympathy and open speech between us. i was always shy and self- conscious and self-centred, and thought little of myself; and i needed deep love and confidence and encouragement to give out what was in me. i gave nothing out, nothing to you that you wanted, or sought for, or needed. you were complete, self-contained. harry, my beloved babe harry, helped at first; but, as the years went on, he too began to despise me for my little intellect and slow intelligence, and he grew to be like you in all things--and secretive also, though i tried so hard to be to him what a mother should be. oh, bobby, bobby--i used to call you that in the days before we were married, and i will call you that now when all is over and done--why did you not tell me all? why did you not tell me that my boy, my baby harry, was not your only child, that there had been another wife, and that your eldest son was alive? "i know all. i have known all for years. the clergyman who married you to mercy claridge was a distant relative of my mother's, and before he died he told me. when you married her, he knew you only as james fetherdon, but, years afterwards, he saw and recognised you. he held his peace then, but at last he came to me. and i did not speak. i was not strong enough, nor good enough, to face the trouble of it all. i could not endure the scandal, to see my own son take the second place--he is so brilliant and able and unscrupulous, like yourself; but, oh, so sure of winning a great place in the world, surer than yourself ever was, he is so calculating and determined and ambitious! and though he loves me little, as he loves you little, too, yet he is my son, and for what he is we are both responsible, one way or another; and i had not the courage to give him the second place, and the quaker, david claridge, the first place. why luke claridge, his grandfather, chose the course he did, does not concern me, no more than why you chose secrecy, and kept your own firstborn legitimate son, of whom you might well be proud, a stranger to you and his rights all these years. ah, eglington, you never knew what love was, you never had a heart--experiment, subterfuge, secrecy, 'reaping where you had not sowed, and gathering where you had not strawed.' always, experiment, experiment, experiment! "i shall be gone in a few hours--i feel it, but before i go i must try to do right, and to warn you. i have had such bad dreams about you and harry--they haunt me--that i am sure you will suffer terribly, will have some awful tragedy, unless you undo what was done long ago, and tell the truth to the world, and give your titles and estates where they truly belong. near to death, seeing how little life is, and how much right is in the end, i am sure that i was wrong in holding my peace; for harry cannot prosper with this black thing behind him, and you cannot die happy if you smother up the truth. night after night i have dreamed of you in your laboratory, a vague, dark, terrifying dream of you in that laboratory which i have hated so. it has always seemed to me the place where some native evil and cruelty in your blood worked out its will. i know i am an ignorant woman, with no brain, but god has given me clear sight at the last, and the things i see are true things, and i must warn you. remember that. . . ." the letter ended there. she had been interrupted or seized with illness, and had never finished it, and had died a few hours afterwards; and the letter was now, for the first time, read by her whom it most concerned, into whose heart and soul the words sank with an immitigable pain and agonised amazement. a few moments with this death-document had transformed hylda's life. her husband and--and david, were sons of the same father; and the name she bore, the home in which she was living, the estates the title carried, were not her husband's, but another's--david's. she fell back in her chair, white and faint, but, with a great effort, she conquered the swimming weakness which blinded her. sons of the same father! the past flashed before her, the strange likeness she had observed, the trick of the head, the laugh, the swift gesture, the something in the voice. she shuddered as she had done in reading the letter. but they were related only in name, in some distant, irreconcilable way--in a way which did not warrant the sudden scarlet flush that flooded her face. presently she recovered herself. she--what did she suffer, compared with her who wrote this revelation of a lifetime of pain, of bitter and torturing knowledge! she looked up at the picture on the wall, at the still, proud, emotionless face, the conventional, uninspired personality, behind which no one had seen, which had agonised alone till the last. with what tender yet pitiless hand had she laid bare the lives of her husband and her son! how had the neglected mother told the bitter truth of him to whom she had given birth! "so brilliant and able, and unscrupulous, like yourself; but, oh, sure of winning a great place in the world . . . so calculating and determined and ambitious. . . . that laboratory which i have hated so. it has always seemed to me the place where some native evil and cruelty in your blood worked out its will. . . ." with a deep-drawn sigh hylda said to herself: "if i were dying to-morrow, would i say that? she loved them so--at first must have loved them so; and yet this at the last! and i--oh, no, no, no!" she looked at a portrait of eglington on the table near, touched it caressingly, and added, with a sob in her voice: "oh, harry, no, it is not true! it is not native evil and cruelty in your blood. it has all been a mistake. you will do right. we will do right, harry. you will suffer, it will hurt, the lesson will be hard--to give up what has meant so much to you; but we will work it out together, you and i, my very dear. oh, say that we shall, that.... " she suddenly grew silent. a tremor ran through her, she became conscious of his presence near her, and turned, as though he were behind her. there was nothing. yet she felt him near, and, as she did so, the soul-deep feeling with which she had spoken to the portrait fled. why was it that, so often, when absent from him, her imagination helped her to make excuses for him, inspired her to press the real truth out of sight, and to make believe that he was worthy of a love which, but through some inner fault of her own, might be his altogether, and all the love of which he was capable might be hers? she felt him near her, and the feelings possessing her a moment before slowly chilled and sank away. instinctively her eyes glanced towards the door. she saw the handle turn, and she slipped the letter inside the portfolio again. the door opened briskly now, and eglington entered with what his enemies in the newspaper press had called his "professional smile"--a criticism which had angered his wife, chiefly because it was so near the truth. he smiled. smiling was part of his equipment, and was for any one at any time that suited him. her eyes met his, and he noted in her something that he had never seen before. something had happened. the duchess of snowdon was in the house; had it anything to do with her? had she made trouble? there was trouble enough without her. he came forward, took hylda's hand and kissed it, then kissed her on the cheek. as he did so, she laid a hand on his arm with a sudden impulse, and pressed it. though his presence had chilled the high emotions of a few moments before, yet she had to break to him a truth which would hurt him, dismay him, rob his life of so much that helped it; and a sudden protective, maternal sense was roused in her, reached out to shelter him as he faced his loss and the call of duty. "you have just come?" she said, in a voice that, to herself, seemed far away. "i have been here some hours," he answered. secrecy again--always the thing that had chilled the dead woman, and laid a cold hand upon herself --"i felt the shadow of secrecy in your life. when you talked most i felt you most secretive, and the feeling slowly closed the door upon all frankness and sympathy and open speech between us." "why did you not see me--dine with me?" she asked. "what can the servants think?" even in such a crisis the little things had place-- habit struck its note in the presence of her tragedy. "you had the duchess of snowdon, and we are not precisely congenial; besides, i had much to do in the laboratory. i'm working for that new explosive of which i told you. there's fame and fortune in it, and i'm on the way. i feel it coming"--his eyes sparkled a little. "i made it right with the servants; so don't be apprehensive." "i have not seen you for nearly a week. it doesn't seem--friendly." "politics and science are stern masters," he answered gaily. "they leave little time for your mistress," she rejoined meaningly. "who is my mistress?" "well, i am not greatly your wife," she replied. "i have the dregs of your life. i help you--i am allowed to help you--so little, to share so little in the things that matter to you." "now, that's imagination and misunderstanding," he rejoined. "it has helped immensely your being such a figure in society, and entertaining so much, and being so popular, at any rate until very lately." "i do not misunderstand," she answered gravely. "i do not share your real life. i do not help you where your brain works, in the plans and purposes and hopes that lie behind all that you do--oh, yes, i know your ambitions and what positions you are aiming for; but there is something more than that. there is the object of it all, the pulse of it, the machinery down, down deep in your being that drives it all. oh, i am not a child! i have some intellect, and i want--i want that we should work it out together." in spite of all that had come and gone, in spite of the dead mother's words and all her own convictions, seeing trouble coming upon him, she wanted to make one last effort for what might save their lives--her life- -from shipwreck in the end. if she failed now, she foresaw a bitter, cynical figure working out his life with a narrowing soul, a hard spirit unrelieved by the softening influence of a great love--even yet the woman in her had a far-off hope that, where the law had made them one by book and scrip, the love which should consecrate such a union, lift it above an almost offensive relation, might be theirs. she did not know how much of her heart, of her being, was wandering over the distant sands of egypt, looking for its oasis. eglington had never needed or wanted more than she had given him--her fortune, her person, her charm, her ability to play an express and definite part in his career. it was this material use to which she was so largely assigned, almost involuntarily but none the less truly, that had destroyed all of the finer, dearer, more delicate intimacy invading his mind sometimes, more or less vaguely, where faith was concerned. so extreme was his egotism that it had never occurred to him, as it had done to the duchess of snowdon and lord windlehurst, that he might lose hylda herself as well as her fortune; that the day might come when her high spirit could bear it no longer. as the duchess of snowdon had said: "it would all depend upon the other man, whoever he might be." so he answered her with superficial cheerfulness now; he had not the depth of soul to see that they were at a crisis, and that she could bear no longer the old method of treating her as though she were a child, to be humoured or to be dominated. "well, you see all there is," he answered; "you are so imaginative, crying for some moon there never was in any sky." in part he had spoken the truth. he had no high objects or ends or purposes. he wanted only success somehow or another, and there was no nobility of mind or aspiration behind it. in her heart of hearts she knew it; but it was the last cry of her soul to him, seeking, though in vain, for what she had never had, could never have. "what have you been doing?" he added, looking at the desk where she had sat, glancing round the room. "has the duchess left any rags on the multitude of her acquaintances? i wonder that you can make yourself contented here with nothing to do. you don't look much stronger. i'm sure you ought to have a change. my mother was never well here; though, for the matter of that, she was never very well anywhere. i suppose it's the laboratory that attracts me here, as it did my father, playing with the ancient forces of the world in these arcadian surroundings--arcady without beauty or arcadians." he glanced up at his mother's picture. "no, she never liked it--a very silent woman, secretive almost." suddenly her eyes flared up. anger possessed her. she choked it down. secretive--the poor bruised soul who had gone to her grave with a broken heart! "she secretive? no, eglington," she rejoined gravely, "she was congealed. she lived in too cold an air. she was not secretive, but yet she kept a secret--another's." again eglington had the feeling which possessed him when he entered the room. she had changed. there was something in her tone, a meaning, he had never heard before. he was startled. he recalled the words of the duchess as she went up the staircase. what was it all about? "whose secrets did she keep?" he asked, calmly enough. "your father's, yours, mine," she replied, in a whisper almost. "secret? what secret? good lord, such mystery!" he laughed mirthlessly. she came close to him. "i am sorry--sorry, harry," she said with difficulty. "it will hurt you, shock you so. it will be a blow to you, but you must bear it." she tried to speak further, but her heart was beating so violently that she could not. she turned quickly to the portfolio on the desk, drew forth the fatal letter, and, turning to the page which contained the truth concerning david, handed it to him. "it is there," she said. he had great self-control. before looking at the page to which she had directed his attention, he turned the letter over slowly, fingering the pages one by one. "my mother to my father," he remarked. instinctively he knew what it contained. "you have been reading my mother's correspondence," he added in cold reproof. "do you forget that you asked me to arrange her papers?" she retorted, stung by his suggestion. "your imagination is vivid," he exclaimed. then he bethought himself that, after all, he might sorely need all she could give, if things went against him, and that she was the last person he could afford to alienate; "but i do remember that i asked you that," he added--"no doubt foolishly." "read what is there," she broke in, "and you will see that it was not foolish, that it was meant to be." he felt a cold dead hand reaching out from the past to strike him; but he nerved himself, and his eyes searched the paper with assumed coolness-even with her he must still be acting. the first words he saw were: "why did you not tell me that my boy, my baby harry, was not your only child, and that your eldest son was alive?" so that was it, after all. even his mother knew. master of his nerves as he was, it blinded him for a moment. presently he read on--the whole page--and lingered upon the words, that he might have time to think what he must say to hylda. nothing of the tragedy of his mother touched him, though he was faintly conscious of a revelation of a woman he had never known, whose hungering caresses had made him, as a child, rather peevish, when a fit of affection was not on him. suddenly, as he read the lines touching himself, "brilliant and able and unscrupulous.... and though he loves me little, as he loves you little too," his eye lighted up with anger, his face became pale--yet he had borne the same truths from faith without resentment, in the wood by the mill that other year. for a moment he stood infuriated, then, going to the fireplace, he dropped the letter on the coals, as hylda, in horror, started forward to arrest his hand. "oh, eglington--but no--no! it is not honourable. it is proof of all!" he turned upon her slowly, his face rigid, a strange, cold light in his eyes. "if there is no more proof than that, you need not vex your mind," he said, commanding his voice to evenness. a bitter anger was on him. his mother had read him through and through-- he had not deceived her even; and she had given evidence against him to hylda, who, he had ever thought, believed in him completely. now there was added to the miserable tale, that first marriage, and the rights of david--david, the man who, he was convinced, had captured her imagination. hurt vanity played a disproportionate part in this crisis. the effect on him had been different from what hylda had anticipated. she had pictured him stricken and dumfounded by the blow. it had never occurred to her, it did not now, that he had known the truth; for, of course, to know the truth was to speak, to restore to david his own, to step down into the second and unconsidered place. after all, to her mind, there was no disgrace. the late earl had married secretly, but he had been duly married, and he did not marry again until mercy claridge was dead. the only wrong was to david, whose grandfather had been even more to blame than his own father. she had looked to help eglington in this moment, and now there seemed nothing for her to do. he was superior to the situation, though it was apparent in his pale face and rigid manner that he had been struck hard. she came near to him, but there was no encouragement to her to play that part which is a woman's deepest right and joy and pain in one--to comfort her man in trouble, sorrow, or evil. always, always, he stood alone, whatever the moment might be, leaving her nothing to do--" playing his own game with his own weapons," as he had once put it. yet there was strength in it too, and this came to her mind now, as though in excuse for whatever else there was in the situation which, against her will, repelled her. "i am so sorry for you," she said at last. "what do you mean?" he asked. "to lose all that has been yours so long." this was their great moment. the response to this must be the touchstone of their lives. a--half dozen words might alter all the future, might be the watch word to the end of all things. involuntarily her heart fashioned the response he ought to give--"i shall have you left, hylda." the air seemed to grow oppressive, and the instant's silence a torture, and, when he spoke, his words struck a chill to her heart--rough notes of pain. "i have not lost yet," were his words. she shrank. "you will not hide it. you will do right by--by him," she said with difficulty. "let him establish his claim to the last item of fact," he said with savage hate. "luke claridge knew. the proofs are but just across the way, no doubt," she answered, almost coldly, so had his words congealed her heart. their great moment had passed. it was as though a cord had snapped that held her to him, and in the recoil she had been thrown far off from him. swift as his mind worked, it had not seen his opportunity to win her to his cause, to asphyxiate her high senses, her quixotic justice, by that old flood of eloquence and compelling persuasion of the emotions with which he had swept her to the altar--an altar of sacrifice. he had not even done what he had left london to do--make sure of her, by an alluring flattery and devotion, no difficult duty with one so beautiful and desirable; though neither love of beauty nor great desire was strong enough in him to divert him from his course for an hour, save by his own initiative. his mother's letter had changed it all. a few hours before he had had a struggle with soolsby, and now another struggle on the same theme was here. fate had dealt illy with him, who had ever been its spoiled child and favourite. he had not learned yet the arts of defence against adversity. "luke claridge is dead," he answered sharply. "but you will tell--him, you will write to egypt and tell your brother?" she said, the conviction slowly coming to her that he would not. "it is not my duty to displace myself, to furnish evidence against myself--" "you have destroyed the evidence," she intervened, a little scornfully. "if there were no more than that--" he shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "do you know there is more?" she asked searchingly. "in whose interests are you speaking?" he rejoined, with a sneer. a sudden fury possessed him. claridge pasha--she was thinking of him! "in yours--your conscience, your honour." "there is over thirty years' possession on my side," he rejoined. "it is not as if it were going from your family," she argued. "family--what is he to me!" "what is any one to you?" she returned bitterly. "i am not going to unravel a mystery in order to facilitate the cutting of my own throat." "it might be worth while to do something once for another's sake than your own--it would break the monotony," she retorted, all her sense tortured by his words, and even more so by his manner. long ago faith had said in soolsby's but that he "blandished" all with whom he came in contact; but hylda realised with a lacerated heart that he had ceased to blandish her. possession had altered that. yet how had he vowed to her in those sweet tempestuous days of his courtship when the wind of his passion blew so hard! had one of the vows been kept? even as she looked at him now, words she had read some days before flashed through her mind--they had burnt themselves into her brain: "broken faith is the crown of evils, broken vows are the knotted thongs set in the hands of laughing devils, to scourge us for deep wrongs. "broken hearts, when all is ended, bear the better all after-stings; bruised once, the citadel mended, standeth through all things." suddenly he turned upon her with aggrieved petulance. "why are you so eager for proof?" "oh, i have," she said, with a sudden flood of tears in her voice, though her eyes were dry--"i have the feeling your mother had, that nothing will be well until you undo the wrong your father did. i know it was not your fault. i feel for you--oh, believe me, i feel as i have never felt, could never feel, for myself. it was brought on you by your father, but you must be the more innocent because he was so guilty. you have had much out of it, it has helped you on your way. it does not mean so much now. by-and-by another--an english-peerage may be yours by your own achievement. let it go. there is so much left, harry. it is a small thing in a world of work. it means nothing to me." once again, even when she had given up all hope, seeing what was the bent of his mind-- once again she made essay to win him out of his selfishness. if he would only say, "i have you left," how she would strive to shut all else out of her life! he was exasperated. his usual prescience and prudence forsook him. it angered him that she should press him to an act of sacrifice for the man who had so great an influence upon her. perversity possessed him. lifelong egotism was too strong for wisdom, or discretion. suddenly he caught her hands in both of his and said hoarsely: "do you love me--answer me, do you love me with all your heart and soul? the truth now, as though it were your last word on earth." always self. she had asked, if not in so many words, for a little love, something for herself to feed on in the darkening days for him, for her, for both; and he was thinking only of himself. she shrank, but her hands lay passive in his. "no, not with all my heart and soul--but, oh--!" he flung her hands from him. "no, not with all your heart and soul-- i know! you are willing to sacrifice me for him, and you think i do not understand." she drew herself up, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes. "you understand nothing--nothing. if you had ever understood me, or any human being, or any human heart, you would not have ruined all that might have given you an undying love, something that would have followed you through fire and flood to the grave. you cannot love. you do not understand love. self--self, always self. oh, you are mad, mad, to have thrown it all away, all that might have given happiness! all that i have, all that i am, has been at your service; everything has been bent and tuned to your pleasure, for your good. all has been done for you, with thought of you and your position and your advancement, and now--now, when you have killed all that might have been yours, you cry out in anger that it is dying, and you insinuate what you should kill another for insinuating. oh, the wicked, cruel folly of it all! you suggest--you dare! i never heard a word from david claridge that might not be written on the hoardings. his honour is deeper than that which might attach to the title of earl of eglington." she seemed to tower above him. for an instant she looked him in the eyes with frigid dignity, but a great scorn in her face. then she went to the door--he hastened to open it for her. "you will be very sorry for this," he said stubbornly. he was too dumfounded to be discreet, too suddenly embarrassed by the turn affairs had taken. he realised too late that he had made a mistake, that he had lost his hold upon her. as she passed through, there suddenly flashed before her mind the scene in the laboratory with the chairmaker. she felt the meaning of it now. "you do not intend to tell him--perhaps soolsby has done so," she said keenly, and moved on to the staircase. he was thunderstruck at her intuition. "why do you want to rob yourself?" he asked after her vaguely. she turned back. "think of your mother's letter that you destroyed," she rejoined solemnly and quietly. "was it right?" he shut the door, and threw himself into a chair. "i will put it straight with her to-morrow," he said helplessly. he sat for a half-hour silent, planning his course. at last there came a tap at the door, and the butler appeared. "some one from the foreign office, my lord," he said. a moment afterwards a young official, his subordinate, entered. "there's the deuce to pay in egypt, sir; i've brought the despatch," he said. glossary aiwa----yes. allah hu achbar----god is most great. al'mah----female professional singers, signifying "a learned female." ardab----a measure equivalent to five english bushels. backsheesh----tip, douceur. balass----earthen vessel for carrying water. bdsha----pasha. bersim----clover. bismillah----in the name of god. bowdb----a doorkeeper. dahabieh----a nile houseboat with large lateen sails. darabukkeh----a drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. dourha----maize. effendina----most noble. el azhar----the arab university at cairo. fedddn----a measure of land representing about an acre. fellah----the egyptian peasant. ghiassa----small boat. hakim----doctor. hasheesh----leaves of hemp. inshallah----god willing. kdnoon----a musical instrument like a dulcimer. kavass----an orderly. kemengeh----a cocoanut fiddle. khamsin----a hot wind of egypt and the soudan. kourbash----a whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. la ilaha illa-llah----there is no deity but god. malaish----no matter. malboos----demented. mastaba----a bench. medjidie----a turkish order. mooshrabieh----lattice window. moufettish----high steward. mudir----the governor of a mudirieh, or province. muezzin----the sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. narghileh----a persian pipe. nebool----a quarter-staff. ramadan----the mahommedan season of fasting. saadat-el-bdsha----excellency pasha. sdis----groom. sakkia----the persian water-wheel. salaam----eastern salutation. sheikh-el-beled----head of a village. tarboosh----a turkish turban. ulema----learned men. wakf----mahommedan court dealing with succession, etc. welee----a holy man or saint. yashmak----a veil for the lower part of the face. yelek----a long vest or smock. etext editor's bookmarks: a cloak of words to cover up the real thought behind antipathy of the lesser to the greater nature antipathy of the man in the wrong to the man in the right friendship means a giving and a getting he's a barber-shop philosopher monotonously intelligent no virtue in not falling, when you're not tempted of course i've hated, or i wouldn't be worth a button only the supremely wise or the deeply ignorant who never alter passion to forget themselves political virtue goes unrewarded she knew what to say and what to leave unsaid smiling was part of his equipment sometimes the longest way round is the shortest way home soul tortured through different degrees of misunderstanding the vague pain of suffered indifference there's no credit in not doing what you don't want to do tricks played by fact to discredit the imagination we must live our dark hours alone woman's deepest right and joy and pain in one--to comfort three apostles of quakerism, popular sketches of fox, penn and barclay, by b. rhodes, author of "john bright, statesman and orator," &c. with introduction by j. stoughton, d.d., author of "ecclesiastical history of england," "life of william penn," &c., &c. * * * * * "they pleaded only for broad, unfettered, spiritual christianity."--_j. j. gurney. memoirs, vol. ii, p. ._ * * * * * philadelphia: henry longstreth, no. sansom street. . introduction. i have been requested by the author of this volume to write a few introductory lines; with that request i cheerfully comply. having read the proof sheets, i can testify to the diligence, care, and ability, with which the work has been executed. the perusal has been to me very interesting and very pleasant; and i have felt much satisfaction at finding that the historical conclusions here presented are, in general, coincident with my own. it might be supposed that a book of this limited size, and intended for popular circulation, would be based chiefly, if not entirely, on the larger and best known biographies and histories relative to the men and the period described. but this is by no means the case. i find in these pages numerous signs of original research, and abundant evidence that the writer has formed an independent judgment of the questions coming before him in his enquiries. he has had access to some unpublished correspondence, of which he has made good use. fourteen letters, not printed before, are laid under contribution, and they add much to the value of the volume. mr. rhodes has evidently much sympathy with the life and labours of the early quakers; and not being a member of that society, he is free to judge impartially of certain points in their singular history. that judgment he has wisely exercised. i am fully persuaded in my own mind that quakerism was a salutary reaction against the formalities, and the hard theological systematising of the age; that it called attention to forgotten truths; and that its excitements, though clouded by some smoke, yet burnt with fire from heaven; also i quite concur with the writer in thinking that the society of friends have still a place for good amongst religious agencies at work in this nineteenth century. may they have grace successfully to accomplish their mission! i may add, that whilst all three of these biographical sketches are valuable contributions to our ecclesiastical literature, the last, which treats of robert barclay, is the fullest, most original, and best of all. john stoughton. preface. the demand of this busy age is for small books, containing the pith and marrow of important subjects. as regards my subject, i have endeavoured to meet this demand. i hope that the volume supplies at once sketches of three leaders in early quaker history, and an informal manual of the rise and tenets of the society. a few years ago, i was led to re-examine the journal of george fox, and i was surprised to find him an evangelist of a rare order, with a heart burning and throbbing with pity for sinners and with zeal for the master. his ardent nature was laid hold of by the gospel in its fulness, and the result was a spirituality at once delicate and strong. the same features attracted me in william penn. he also had many of the gifts of the evangelist. he could collect and hold a crowd almost as well as fox, and preach them as full a gospel. if other schemes had not claimed so large a share of his life, i think he might have done an evangelistic work equal to that done by george fox. robert barclay deserves to be highly honoured as one who truly devoted his all to christ. and he had much to devote--an honoured name and titled connections, rare intellectual gifts and great acquirements, social position and wealth. yet if i understand his life aright, there was no half-heartedness in his decision. but i miss in him that glowing and vigorous assertion of gospel truths which delights us in the pages of fox and penn. the pungent and arousing appeals which stud like gems the writings of his two brethren are not to be found in his pages. silent waiting on god is urged, entire self-surrender to god on the part of the christian is insisted on with great earnestness. but the reader will look in vain, even in passages which seem to invite them, for earnest calls to repentance or to diligent service of the gospel of christ. the quakerism of the eighteenth century followed barclay. the work of fox was dropped. no one continued his vigorous aggression, but repression of activity was advocated openly. to this i venture to trace the decline of the society in those days. in the quakerism of to-day, i think i see fox's spirit, and i would fain help the healthy reaction, however feebly, by these sketches. i hope they will also introduce to some christians of other denominations three beautiful examples of spiritual-mindedness. in the preparation of the sketches of penn and barclay, i have had access to numerous unpublished letters in the keeping of a member of the barclay family. for these i desire to express my warmest thanks. i have used them sparingly. a list of those from which i give extracts will be found on the next page. to the best of my knowledge these extracts have not been printed before. it is not probable that i shall continue the series of sketches to which this trio forms an appropriate introduction. but i am glad thus to acknowledge my indebtedness to a society to which i owe more than i can ever repay. none of its members long more fervently than i do that the spirit and labours of its first days may distinguish it again. batheaston, near bath. list of letters (hitherto unpublished). _from which extracts are given in this volume._ _from_ geo. fox to robert barclay, dated . x. , quoted pp. , " geo. keith to r. barclay, . iii. , " d. barclay to r. barclay do. " r. barclay to the princess elizabeth, . vii. " the princess elizabeth to r. barclay, dec. , do. do. mar. , do. do. july , " r. barclay to the princess elizabeth, . v. " the duke of york to r. barclay, june th, " geo. fox to r. barclay, . iv. " christian barclay to friends in aberdeen, . vi. " wm. penn to r. barclay, junr., . xii. " hy. gouldney to r. barclay, junr., . xii. " sir d. dalrymple to r. barclay, junr., july th, * * * * * r. barclay's "vindication" quoted pp. , , , . george fox, the first of the quakers. "this man, the first of the quakers, and by trade a shoemaker, was one of those to whom, under ruder or purer form, the divine idea of the universe is pleaded to manifest itself."--_carlyle._ "that nothing may be between you and god, but christ."--_george fox._ preface to the first edition. the author has long believed that a popular sketch of the life and work of george fox was wanted. his noble labours in the gospel, and the many excellences of his character are not known as they deserve to be. the story of his life is full of dramatic interest, and the author has endeavoured to tell it with sympathy and yet with faithfulness. too few outside the society of friends are aware of the great and happy change which has lately come over it. the cramping influence of custom and precedent is yielding to the free spirit which first made the society a power. in the present remodelling of its "practice and discipline," the study of its early days is of great importance. and for a fervent and constraining piety, for free and large-hearted devotion to "the truth" wherever it leads, few men are more worthy of study and imitation at the present day than george fox. should this effort prove a success, companion sketches of penn and barclay will shortly follow. the manse, batheaston, near bath; _september, _. preface to the present edition. that "a popular sketch of the life and work of george fox was wanted," was proved by the sale of copies of this pamphlet within six months of its publication. the opinions expressed by competent judges made me feel that i had not laboured in vain. ministers of various denominations wrote to thank me, and to confess that they had not understood george fox before. this second edition contains little that is new, but in the sketch of barclay will be found several extracts from fox's letters hitherto unpublished. george fox, the first of the quakers. the protestant reformation was at once a revolt against the claims of popery, and an assertion of the authority of the new testament. in neither particular did it satisfy the early quakers. in their opinion it retained some remnants of popery to its great disfigurement, whilst it was timid and halting in its acceptance of some of the teachings of the christian dispensation. they regarded it as their work to reject the forms and ceremonies and "priestly pretentions" that had been retained, in order to reproduce the spiritual worship and simple church life of the apostolic days. especially they believed themselves raised up to assert the living presence of christ with his church by his holy spirit. they protested that feeble life, however orthodox its creed, was as dishonouring to christ, and as unworthy of these days of the large outpouring of the holy ghost, as was formalism itself. the first and chief exponent of these views was george fox. george fox was born at fenny drayton, in leicestershire, in . his parents were pious members of the church of england, and he tells with satisfaction that his father was generally denominated "righteous christer," whilst his mother sprung from "the stock of the martyrs." his religious life seems to have commenced almost in infancy. his childhood and youth were marked by a sober bearing, a precocious thoughtfulness, and a love of solitude, which made many notice him; and it was proposed to make him a clergyman. accordingly, nathaniel stevens, the parish priest, seems to have regarded him hopefully, until his deepening experience made the youth aware how blind his guide was, when the former friend became a bitter persecutor. but as some of george's friends objected to his entering the church, he became, in the mingling of businesses so common in that day, shoemaker and shepherd, excelling in the latter contemplative employment, which his friend, william penn, regards as a fit emblem of his future work. though he had received only the plainest english education, yet the keen cravings of his strong mind, together with his earnest bible-reading and much careful thought, soon made him at home in christian truth, the great topic of conversation and theme of discussion in that age. a noble, severe truthfulness foreshadowed his future teachings, and indicated the stamp of the man. it "kept him to yea and nay," refusing all asseveration or other strengthening of his statements, excepting his favourite "verily." but people remarked that if george said "verily" it was impossible to move him. his own strict and pure life made him feel keenly the poor living of some who made great professions. but his great preparation for his future work was soon to begin. in his th year, his soul began to be racked with conflicts, the nature and source of which he could not understand. this crisis in fox's history is generally spoken of as his conversion. in some respects it resembles more the deepening and intensifying of a life which already existed. his spiritual nature was waking up to vigorous life. the slight and ill-grasped views which had satisfied the boy did not satisfy the man. they seemed to give no real and sufficient answer to his questionings. he wanted to understand the meaning of life, the plans of god, and his own part in them. in religion he felt that there should be the clearest and strongest mental grasp, insight into the very heart and core of things. he had only seen as in a mist. where was the seer that could show, by his apt and living words and his accent of conviction, that the veil had been lifted up for him, and that he had verily seen the shekinah? to such a one he would listen reverently if he could find him; all others seemed mere triflers to his earnest mood. then again, if god was a real father, he felt that real and close relations with him must be possible, but he sadly owned that he did not enjoy those relations, and asked himself and others "why am i thus?" he began to look facts intently in the face, to find out their meaning. he looked at himself and saw only sin; he looked into the professing church, and even there saw the same sad sight. it made him ask, was the gospel a mistake and christ powerless? or was he worse than others that his soul should be in such darkness and distress? was he worse than in former days when he enjoyed comfort, and when the lord shewed him some of his truth? had he sinned too deeply to be allowed to enjoy peace? had he sinned against the holy ghost? in his anguish, like a good churchman he went to his vicar, and asked him to explain his condition to him, but he could not. then he sought other clergymen, who had a name for strict living or wisdom, but they could give him no help, though he went as far as london in the quest. some of the advice which he received, he mentions with a pity that is keener than the severest sarcasm. one bade him sing psalms and chew tobacco; another wished to bleed him, but his large frame had been brought into such a condition by his distress, that no drop of blood would flow from him. such blindness was not peculiar to the clergy. his friends proposed to relieve his sorrows by excitement, and by diverting his attention. some recommended him to marry, but he sadly replied he was but a lad and must gain wisdom. others would have him enlist and seek diversion in the exciting events of the civil war; but says marsden, the historian of the puritans, "though the bravest man in england, perhaps, if moral courage is bravery, he detested the business of the soldier. far other thoughts possessed his mind. he had been religiously educated by puritan parents of the church of england, and he was now awaking to the consideration of his eternal state." meanwhile he fasted often and searched the scriptures with desperate earnestness. he wandered in solitary places, and spent hours in the trunks of hollow trees in meditation and prayer. disappointed in the clergy, he turned to the dissenters with no better success. evidently the thing was of god, for he missed men like baxter, who could have given him at least good counsel and christian sympathy. fox was for some time in coventry, in , when baxter was preaching there, one part of the day to the garrison, and the other to the civilians. but possibly if they had met, baxter's hatred of heresy might have overborne his charity, and obscured his spiritual vision, and he might have branded fox as a heretic, just as he afterwards dubbed his followers "malignants."[ ] [ ] a similar experience is to be found in the unpublished memoir of that pious and accomplished quakeress, miss p. h. gurney, p. . "i was painfully struck with the want of any sign of true devotion or spiritual mindedness in the several congregations i attended in london, both in preachers and hearers. had i gone, as i once felt some inclination to do, to that called st. mary woolnoth, (jno. newton's) i might have found an exception to this description; but being accidently prevented, i have sometimes thought it was in the ordering of providence that whatever of spiritual religion was then circulating in the national church, i was not permitted to find it, though i sought it with the most earnest desire of success." miss gurney took these facts as a proof that god intended that she should turn quakeress; but surely the true explanation of these providences is that god will have us look to him, and not rest unduly on any man or human system. he spoils our idols that we may worship only him. every experienced pastor must have met with such cases. until god satisfies the soul the words of men are vain; when his hour has come, the truth which brings light and peace is often one that has been explained and urged before. george fox had to learn that it is god's work to enlighten, that there is still to be enjoyed a real guidance of the holy spirit, resulting in the solution of difficulties and mysteries, in a clear apprehension of the truth, and a soul-satisfying sense of its power. and if the lesson was slowly and hardly learnt, it resulted in a clearer insight into the truth, and more fitness to deal with other tried souls. at times during these days of trial the dark clouds broke, and for a time the sun shone through. but until he learnt that christ was to be his teacher and comforter, it was but for a time. it was a short respite to gather strength, a brief foreshadowing of the coming joy. hear his touching thanksgiving for the goodness that did not break the bruised reed. "as i cannot declare the misery i was in, it was so great and heavy upon me, so neither can i set forth the mercies of god to me in my misery. oh! the everlasting love of god to my soul when i was in distress. when my torments and troubles were great, then was his love exceeding great. thou, lord, makest the fruitful field a wilderness, and a barren wilderness a fruitful field. thou bringest down and settest up. thou killest and makest alive. all honour and glory be to thee, o lord of glory. the knowledge of thee in the spirit is life." but the clouds finally passed away, and abiding sunshine settled on him, when christ revealed himself to him as the great physician, for whom he had been longing so earnestly. his troubles had lasted three years, and, no doubt, had been aggravated by his morbid fears and mistaken loneliness. but through life his nature was keenly susceptible; for example, the sins of the nation at the restoration made him blind and seriously ill with grief, in spite of active work and much society. no wonder then that his anguish wore him out at the time when his soul was in the dark, and when that which appeared to him alone worth living for seemed denied him. but now that he was weaned from trusting in an arm of flesh, came the time of divine deliverance. "when all my hopes in them (the dissenters) and in all men were gone, so that i had nothing outwardly to help me, nor could i tell what to do, then, o! then, i heard a voice which said, 'there is one, even jesus christ, that can speak to thy condition,' and when i heard it my heart did leap for joy. then the lord did let me see why there was none upon the earth that could speak to my condition, namely, that i might give him all the glory. for all are concluded in sin and shut up in unbelief as i had been, that jesus christ might have the pre-eminence, who enlightens and gives grace, faith, and power. thus when god doth work who shall let it? and this i knew experimentally. my desires after the lord grew stronger, and zeal in the pure knowledge of god and of christ alone, without the aid of any man, book, or writing. for though i read the scriptures that spake of christ and of god, yet i knew him not but by revelation, as he who hath the key did open, and as the father of life drew me to his son by his spirit." this discovery was to fox what the unfolding of the great doctrine of justification by faith was to luther. it was not only the commencement of a new life, it was the theme of his life-long ministry, and the special message which he was raised up to deliver to the world. in neither case was there the revelation of a new truth, only an old truth was to be emphasized, and to take its right place in the minds and hearts of men. to this grand truth, that christ is still with us to guide us by his holy spirit into all truth, fox henceforth trusted to clear up all doubts, and to unfold all truths, and to explain the holy scriptures. so in our day has mr. moody set forth prayer as the all-sufficient practical commentator on the bible. henceforth, fox expected divine prompting to every service and divine guidance in its performance, and without these he would not move. he had already been convinced of several points afterwards prominent in quakerism, especially that no place or building can properly be called "holy ground," and that a university training was not a sufficient qualification for the ministry. as to the last point, just as the modern quaker apostle, stephen grellet, said he could no more make a sermon than he could make a world, so did fox protest against a man-made minister. as he was ever the enlightened and persistent advocate of sound education, this contention must not be mistaken for a contempt of human learning in its right place. it was but an emphatic assertion that the only availing spiritual knowledge comes not through human teaching but through the teaching of the holy spirit; and that, on the other hand, where he calls a man to the office of the ministry, the absence of a scholastic training was an utterly insufficient reason for interfering with the call. the abundant blessing which attended the preaching of fox, bunyan and other "unlearned and ignorant men," gave emphasis to this doctrine in that age. to these views the other quaker "testimonies" were speedily added, and soon the whole scheme of doctrine was complete in his mind. two points must here be insisted upon:-- st, neither george fox nor any of the early friends, though their language is sometimes hazy, ever claimed to be inspired. says a recent authority, [fielden thorp, b. a., in the friends' quarterly examiner for april, ,] "it has often been a cause of satisfaction to us that nowhere in the authorised documents of our society is the word (inspiration) applied to the ministry of friends." secondly, notice that fox was most careful to note how his convictions corresponded with holy scripture. so he says, "when i had openings they answered one another, and answered the scriptures, for i had great openings of the scriptures."[ ] whilst, then, the fallibility of the ministry is acknowledged, and the infallibility of the bible asserted, surely the doctrine of the divine guidance is not perverted through insufficient safeguards. but we are not prepared in all points to defend fox's application of the doctrine. possibly he sometimes mistook the workings of his own mind for the promptings of the holy spirit. nor are his theology and his interpretations of scripture beyond criticism. his ideas on the divine in-dwelling took the form of the famous doctrine of the seed or light within. but though the teaching and guidance of the holy spirit are taught by friends as distinctly as ever, it is questionable whether the doctrine of the light within _in the precise form in which fox preached it, and barclay developed it theologically_, has obtained the general acceptance of the society. it certainly is not to be found in its authorised publications, such as the official "doctrine, practice and discipline." it speaks well for the independence of thought in the society, that the pet-child of its great leaders should be abandoned when it failed to secure their conscientious assent.[ ] [ ] the following passage from an american life of george fox, coming from a reliable quaker source, corroborates this assertion. speaking of the early friends the writer says:--"their belief in a divine communication between the soul of man and its almighty creator, through the medium of the holy spirit, by which the christian may be 'led into all truth,' did not at all lessen their regard for the authority of the holy scriptures _as the test of doctrines_. they constantly professed their willingness that all their principles and practices should be tried by them; and that whatsoever any, who pretended to the guidance of the spirit, either said or did which was contrary to their testimony, ought to be rejected as a satanic delusion; and also, that 'what is not read therein nor may be proved thereby, is not to be required of any man that it should be believed as an article of faith.'" page . [ ] the reader will not mistake this for an assertion that friends have surrendered the doctrine of the divine guidance and indwelling. for a fuller discussion of the question see the close of the sketch of barclay. since macaulay so grossly caricatured fox, it has been assumed that penn and barclay added to fox's ideas whatever was meritorious in quakerism. on the contrary, not only the theology of the society and its polity, but also its philanthropy and its enlightened views on religious liberty, must be ascribed to him as their chief exponent. if the quakers object to call him their founder, it is only because they wish to honour god, rather than the human instrument. they never hesitate to give him his due, nor do they falsify their own teachings by seeking to win favour for them by great names. there is no clearer testimony than that of penn, that fox's services received full recognition in the society during his life-time. indeed the position accorded him moved the envy of some, in spite of his own meekness and humble carriage. fox's personal spiritual experience may be regarded as the laying of the foundation-stone of quakerism. now let us turn to the rearing of the superstructure. having learnt where to look for help and enlightenment, his heart soon found rest. his bodily strength returned, and his mind as well as his soul received a vast impulse. he seemed to have a sympathetic insight not only into the hearts of men, but also into the secrets of nature, so that at one time he questioned whether he ought not to practice medicine. to the end of his life he remained an ardent lover of nature and of science, so that his friend, william penn, calls him "a divine and naturalist too, and all of god almighty's making." but soon he settled down to his true life-work as an itinerant preacher of the gospel. his patrimony was sufficient to enable him to devote himself freely to the work. in his wanderings in search of light, he had made the acquaintance of many anxious seekers after truth. to these he naturally went in the joy and ardour of his heart, to tell them what god had taught him; and many of them received "the truth." his first convert was a woman, elizabeth hooton, who also became the first lady preacher in the new society, and after much service died in the west indies, whilst accompanying fox and others on a preaching tour. soon we find him preaching in ordinary congregations, and in the conferences common in that day, and gaining a name for spiritual discernment. though but a youth of when he began to preach, there was a spiritual power attending his ministry that was remarkable. macaulay speaks of his "chant" in preaching; many welsh preachers now "chant" the gospel with great effect, and the recitative in mrs. fry's ministry was acknowledged to be wonderfully impressive. but it must not be supposed that it was deliberately chosen, it is probable that he fell into it unconsciously. the intensity of his emotion too added to the impression; his large frame quivered and shook with his strong feeling. charles lamb has given a vivid description of what he calls "the foxian orgasm:" probably the description would accurately apply to fox. we can judge from his journal how keen and penetrating his appeals must have been, and how exultant his praises and thanksgivings. then again he preached, not metaphysics, nor formal theology, but a living, present christ. he told his experience with pathos and power. no wonder that people wept and laughed for joy, for they felt it was true glad tidings that he brought. his word was literally "in power and in the holy ghost, and in much assurance," and many received it as the word of god to them. soon his converts were numbered by hundreds. in he first began to preach publicly, and in that and the next year several "meetings" were gathered. any one who passes along the east lancashire railway from colne to burnley, must be struck by the towering grandeur of pendle hill; and if he climbs it, he will be rewarded by a glorious panorama. whilst looking on this magnificent view, george fox tells us he had a vision, in which he saw that this region would be the home of thousands of quakers; and certainly nowhere did quakerism find such a stronghold, and receive such sturdy helpers and gifted preachers. alas! the glory has departed! partly as the result of extensive emigration, many of the meeting-houses then so full of devout worshippers are now empty, whilst in some others a formal few, whom fox would hardly acknowledge as his followers, meet in cold silence sabbath by sabbath. fox did not long work single-handed; in a few years, especially from this district on and about the penine range, a band of preachers gathered round him whom quakers still delight to honour. in he tells us there were sixty preaching in all parts of england and wales. some of his helpers had been ministers, like francis howgill and john audland. but it was not taken for granted that they would still preach, unless there was the manifest call. thus thomas lawson, a clergyman at ramside near ulverston, a man of considerable learning, seems to have relinquished preaching when he was converted by fox. he was a great botanist, and says sewel, "one of the most skilful herbalists in england," so he seems to have gained his livelihood by this skill and by tuition. yet the authoress of "the fells of swarthmoor hall" calls him a man of fervid eloquence, so that it was not lack of gifts that kept him from preaching, but it must have been the persuasion that he was not called to the work. so in our own day, that master of eloquence, john bright, though a man of strong religious feeling, never preaches, in spite of the freedom which quakerism allows. besides clergymen and other ministers, the converts included magistrates, like justice hotham and anthony pearson, author of "the great case of tithes;" and officers in the army like col. west and capt. pursloe, besides gentlemen of substance and standing like i. pennington, and scholars like samuel fisher and thomas lawson just mentioned. but among them all fox stood chief, not only as the father of the fathers among them, but also in his firm and clear grasp of the truth, his entire devotion, his gifts of leadership, his many labours and sufferings, and his god-given success. "i notice," says a contemporary letter, "that in any company when george is present all the rest are silent;" and a joint letter by edward burrough and francis howgill says, "oh but for one hour of his company! what a treasure it would be to us!" even those who had held similar views before they met with him, often gained from him more clearness of view and fulness of knowledge. the manner of conducting the quaker "meetings for worship," was the result of practical conviction rather than of theory. they thought that for christians to meet together in order to go through a stated form of service, was at once to cramp the outpouring of the heart to god, and to interfere with the holy spirit in his direction of the utterances of christ's ministers. when they met in silence, each could speak to god what was in his heart, and each could hear in his spirit "what god the lord would speak;" and if any one was "moved" to declare any truth, the way was clear. thus christ was owned practically as a present lord, and the holy spirit trusted as a real and practical guide. they read in their new testaments that when the saints met together, all the gifted might prophesy one by one as anything was revealed to them; and that each might contribute to the service his psalm of thanksgiving, or hymn of adoration, or edifying doctrine. it seemed to them that in the "apostacy" of the churches not only the rights of private christians, but the claims of the holy spirit had been interfered with by the "one-man ministry." and probably none of them, whatever his gift of discernment, imagined in those days of burning zeal and abundant labours, that the time would come when their simple system would prove a rigid bond, which would leave half their meetings without ministry of any kind. encouragement of a true ministry is as needful as discouragement of the spurious. very early in the history of the society, the distinguishing views of friends on the sacraments were clearly enunciated. in , fox sent out a manifesto clearly stating his views, especially on the lord's supper. he thought the outward rites were simply adaptations of jewish customs, temporary condescensions to the weakness of the converts from judaism until the destruction of jerusalem, and even during that period, optional, not obligatory. if the early christians kept up the old custom of sipping the wine and breaking the bread, then they must do it in remembrance of christ's death, and not of the deliverance from the bondage of egypt. but he believed the outward rite jewish in its style, and foreign to the pure spirituality of christianity. so also with regard to baptism.[ ] [ ] the other leading "testimonies" of friends were against all war, and against oaths, even in a court of justice. there were two kinds of service which the devoted leader rendered to christian truth--he preached it with zeal and unction, and he suffered for its sake. his sufferings were unquestionably often the result of his own unwisdom. many friends themselves now lament his want of a conciliatory spirit. he could not put himself in the place of others, so as to see how they viewed himself, his conduct and his claims. thus he was constantly led to impute dishonest and impure motives to others if they did not agree with him. all but his own unpaid ministers were "priests" and "hirelings" and so on. but nothing can justify the treatment he received, often through the connivance, sometimes from the instigation, of clergymen and magistrates. whitefield's hootings and peltings were nothing, in comparison with fox's stonings, and brutal beatings, and horrible imprisonments. as marsden says, "he rebuked sin with the authority of a prophet, and he met with a prophet's reward." we must remember in extenuation of his admitted faults that he aimed to be a reformer, appealing afresh to first principles in conduct, and seeking to arouse others to feel their force. he purposely set himself against mere conventionalism, especially when it fostered pride or cloaked some rottenness in society. when persecuted, he never resorted to flattery or depended on wheedling, but appealed to conscience and to the humane or christian feelings which ought to have been in the breast of the persecutor. he proved to the full the power of passive endurance. smitten on the one cheek, he literally turned the other. he believed that a large share of his work for the master was in the testimony of suffering, and he was more anxious to be obedient than to avoid what seemed to him the pains and penalties of obedience. he would not walk out of prison unless he could do it not only honourably, but conscientiously, satisfied that he was not flinching from his appointed testimony. he truly gloried in afflictions for christ's sake. while refusing to honour an unchristian statute by keeping it, he bore patiently and unresistingly the legal penalties, unshaken in his loyalty to the government and unsoured in his disposition towards mankind. but further, fox clearly saw that endurance was sure to end in victory, and he inspired his friends with the same conviction. "the more they imprison me," he writes triumphantly, "the more the truth spreads." in the same spirit said william penn at a later date, "i will weary out their malice. neither great nor good things were ever attained without loss and hardship. the man that would reap and not labour must perish in disappointment." no wonder that men grew weary of punishing those who endured in this spirit. no wonder that the lofty conscientiousness of the quakers was felt to be the salt which had a large share in counteracting the corruption of the stuart reigns, and in preserving our civil and religious liberties. says orme in his life of baxter, "the heroic and persevering conduct of the quakers in withstanding the interferences of government with the rights of conscience, by which they finally secured those peculiar privileges they so richly deserve to enjoy, entitles them to the veneration of all the friends of civil and religious liberty." and again he says, "had there been more of the same determined spirit among others which the friends displayed, the sufferings of all parties would sooner have come to an end. the government must have given way, as the spirit of the country would have been effectually roused. the conduct of the quakers was infinitely to their honour." meanwhile fox abounded in labours, sparing no exertions to make known the truth and to plead for righteousness. he sought a purer life as much as a purer faith. he went into public houses to plead for temperance, and into fairs to plead for uprightness and honesty, and into courts to plead for justice, as well as into churches to plead for spiritual religion. we must not forget that in those fermenting times it was no uncommon thing for questions and remarks to be thrown at the preacher during divine service, and it was considered quite in order for any one to address the people after the clergyman had finished his sermon. thus when fox was speaking in the ulverston church, justice sawrey cried, "take him away," but margaret fell interposed, "let him alone; why may not he speak _as well as any other_?" so that these interruptions were not considered so strange and disorderly then as they seem to us now. but public feeling was against the man and against the truths he preached, and to that public feeling he could not and would not yield. he could not take off his hat before the great, for that was an honour which he reserved for god alone. he felt bound to protest against all flattering titles and speeches, which, though the world counts them harmless civilities, seemed to his sober spirit and delicate conscience such as should neither be given nor received by the followers of the lowly nazarene. his "thee and thou," and plain speaking, and sober dress, and keen rebukes, brought on him a perfect storm of anger and abuse. he felt that he stood in the forefront of the battle against worldliness, and bore the brunt of it; and he was meekly thankful for such an honourable post. his first imprisonment was at nottingham, for interrupting divine service; but he had his triumph, the very sheriff was converted, and compelled by his new-found zeal to go forth into the market-place, and take up the imprisoned preacher's work. his second term soon followed at derby, on a charge of blasphemy. he believed in the doctrine of perfection, and told those who opposed him that they pleaded for sin. the derby magistrates asked him if he was sanctified, and he answered, "yes." "then they asked me if i had no sin? i answered 'christ my saviour has taken away my sin and in him there is no sin.' they asked how we knew that christ did abide in us? i said, 'by his spirit that he has given us.' they temptingly asked if any of us were christ? i answered, 'nay, we were nothing, christ is all.'" yet they found him guilty of blasphemy, confounding him with the fanatical, antinomian ranters. but if he taught perfection, oh! how he lived! let those that reject his teaching excel, or at least equal, his living. in derby, his jailer was converted, to strengthen and comfort him in his sufferings. whilst in prison his busy pen poured forth many letters of advice to friends, and "testimonies" against all forms of iniquity, including war and capital punishment. before he was , fox had passed through more varied experience than many have in a long life-time. honour and revilings, converts and imprisonments, love for the gospel's sake and cruel beatings by the mob, nearly ending in death--these had already been his portion. but his work was now bearing much fruit. in one twelve-months, - , he gained such staunch helpers as richard farnsworth, james nayler, william dewsbury, justice hotham, and captain purslow. soon afterwards the fells of swarthmoor were led to christ by his preaching and became the most devoted of adherents. soon his followers could be numbered by thousands. it was not the strength of his arguments that gained them; the age was overdone with reasoning. fox mocked their syllogisms with grim humour. there was a wonderful spiritual power about him. he spoke naturally, with simple, direct earnestness, and overwhelming vehemence, right to the conscience of the hearers. he made people both listen and understand him, and feel the power of the truth in a way which many did not like. he was a wonderful evangelist. what his cultured convert, isaac pennington, the rutherford of quakerism, said of friends generally, is applicable to him. they might offend his taste and move him to contempt by their intellectual poverty, but they compelled him to respect their spiritual power and their deep acquaintance with the things of god. then again the new society was a real brotherhood. the members stood shoulder to shoulder as fellow servants of the one master. their only emulation was which should do most and suffer most cheerfully. their great question was "lord, what wilt thou have me to do? where wilt thou have me to go?" the jesuit was ready to go at an hour's notice wherever the pope sent him. the quaker was as ready in his obedience to the voice within. not only great britain, but italy, turkey, syria, and egypt heard the truth before . john stubbs, "a remarkable oriental scholar," and henry fell, who was also "well versed in arabic and hebrew," set out for the land of prester john, but were stopped by the english consul at alexandria. their leader was chief simply through gifts and devotedness. so strongly were friends attached to him that when he was in launceston gaol, one of them went to cromwell and offered to lie in prison in his stead; which made the protector turn to those around him and ask, "which of you would do as much for me if i were in the same condition?" and fox showed himself worthy of such devotion by always seeking the post of danger and the most arduous work. urgent he might be, for he was tremendously in earnest, but to speak as hepworth dixon does of his "imperious instincts" simply shows ignorance of the man. for centuries no such zealous and noble-spirited evangelism had been seen. no wonder that it won its way. many who had been rich, like isaac pennington, were content to become poor by fines and distraints for "the truth's sake." most nobly did they help each other. if they did not insist on community of goods as a theory, they carried out the spirit of it in practice. there are two marked stages in fox's work; first the evangelistic stage, and then the organising stage, which was, of course, overlapt by the other. let us trace the salient points in his evangelistic work. in he was brought before cromwell, and made a good impression on that keen judge of men. his sincerity stood testing, his zeal for god was manifestly genuine, and the grand, though not faultless protector, learnt heartily to respect him. as he was turning to leave him, cromwell caught him by the hand and said, "come again to my house, for if thou and i were but an hour of a day together, we should be nearer one to the other." next year he visited him again, to lay before him the ill-treatment to which friends were subjected. the meetings now gathered, wherever "the man in leather breeches" went were immense. at one in bristol, he tells us, , people were present, and often or are mentioned as collecting to hear him. the energetic evangelist often had periods of grudged but not useless interruption of his labours by imprisonment. indeed, as mr. w. e. forster says, he "would have been qualified to draw up a report of the state of the gaols of the island, so universal and experimental was his acquaintance with them." but his imprisonments did not make him cease from labour. he wrote innumerable letters and tracts, and he preached the gospel to those that came to see him with such effect, that one of cromwell's chaplains said they could not do him a greater service for spreading his principles in cornwall, than to imprison him in launceston gaol. in occurred the sad episode of james nayler's fall. he had been one of the most popular of the quaker preachers, and had enjoyed the warm friendship of fox and other leaders. but extravagant praise turned his head so far that he listened to blasphemous songs and invocations addressed to him by excited women, allowed them to kneel before him, and even to welcome him to bristol with a horrible parody of our lord's triumphal entry into jerusalem. these miserable proceedings he did not like, but he excused them as honors done, not to him, but to christ his lord. the way in which fox and other friends acted in this matter was most praiseworthy. many of the enthusiasts who misled nayler were not truly friends at all, and yet the society was credited with fanaticism on account of their proceedings. their enemies exulted in a clear case against them, and the religious world seemed justified in regarding them with suspicion. but in spite of all this, the friends clung to the deluded man, and tried every means to open his eyes. george fox visited him in exeter gaol, and used every power of reason and persuasion, and at last finding he could do nothing with him, sadly gave him to understand that their friendship was at an end, and that friends could no longer regard him as one of them. yet still they visited him, and tried hard to gain the protector and parliament to their humane view of the right way of dealing with the case, and they had their reward. the cloud that obscured his mental vision passed away, and he deeply and truly repented of his sad error. he published a full recantation, took upon himself the whole blame, absolving the society from all share; and endeavoured in every way to undo the mischief he had done. but whilst their love and gentleness had thus conquered, the barbarous spirit of the age had vindicated orthodoxy, by passing and executing the horrible sentence of branding and tongue boring. and it is sad to think, that the man who endured this torture was already a repentant man, won by love, not by severity, to confess and renounce his sin. the quakers at once received him into full confidence and esteem, and helped him, in truly christian fashion, to bear the results of his fall. thus early in their history, in the midst of an age of much persecution and bigotry, were established those habits of loving christian discipline, which have so nobly distinguished the society ever since. but the reclaimed wanderer was not long allowed to continue his resumed preaching. in the summer of he was taken ill, and died in his th year. in the same year , fox tells us that more than friends were in prison for conscience sake. but though he had not been long out of prison, and was in continual danger of arrest, he would not relax his labours. he extended the range of his evangelistic efforts into wales, and gained a rich harvest there, as he had before amongst the equally fiery-souled cornish men. the style of his own preaching may be judged from his exhortation to his fellow-ministers, penned whilst in launceston gaol. "dwell in the power, life, wisdom and dread of the lord god of life and heaven and earth, spreading the truth abroad, awakening the witness, confounding the deceit, gathering up out of transgression into the life, the covenant of light and peace with god. let all the nations hear the sound by word or writing. spare no place, spare no tongue nor pen. go through the work, and be valiant for the truth upon earth." how like wesley's assertion that the world was his parish. like him, fox might have boasted that his followers were _all_ at work, and _always_ at it. like wesley, too, he wrote as he travelled, by which alone we can account for the wonderful amount that he wrote. he had no gift for literary composition; his spelling was erratic, and his sentences, like paul's, were long and involved, probably because they both dictated their letters hastily to some secretary. but if his letters bear marks of haste, they are pithy, and pointed, and full of gracious unction. any spiritually-minded christian may greatly enjoy his fervent appeals and powerful statements of gospel truth. his letters and tracts served the practical purpose for which they were intended, and he was satisfied. the year saw him enter scotland, where he had a presentiment that a glorious vintage was to be gathered. he was met by determined opposition from ministers and others, who smelt heresy in his teachings, especially as he was an arminian. what they hated in him may be seen from the following curses, which, in the fiery style of that age, were pronounced in kirk, the people pronouncing the response. "cursed is he that saith, every man hath a light within him sufficient to lead him to salvation: and let all the people say, amen. cursed is he that saith, faith is without sin: and let all the people say, amen. cursed is he that denieth the sabbath-day: and let all the people say, amen." but for all this terrorism, within ten years there was a body of friends in scotland, that, by their earnest piety, and solid consecrated learning, gladdened the heart of the devoted leader. the troubled times after the death of cromwell tried friends in many ways. the committee of public safety sought to induce them to join the army, many of them having been brave and efficient soldiers before their convincement, but they unanimously refused. attempts were made to identify them with the fifth monarchy men, and other disturbers of the public peace, for they were disliked by almost every one; but the prudence and energy of fox and others avoided these snares, and gained the confidence of the powers that were. when charles ii. ascended the throne he proved even more friendly than cromwell had been. dr. stoughton says, "charles had a sort of liking to the quakers for their harmlessness and their oddity. he was not afraid of their taking up arms against the throne, and to quiz them in their queer dresses and with their quaint speech, was to him a piece of good fun." it suited the merry monarch to have pretty quakeresses like sarah fell coming with their petitions, enduring his bantering demurely, and going away delighted with the clemency he so often showed. in he granted the release of george fox from the sentence of premunire. he had once before set him at liberty, only to fall again into the clutches of the law. in march, , fox had been brought before justice twisden, and after a sham trial that was an outrage on both law and humanity, the extreme sentence of the law in such cases, the sentence of premunire, was passed, and he languished in lancaster gaol and scarborough castle for nearly three years. but at last the royal ear was gained, and fox, ill with hard treatment in the foul cells at scarborough, was restored to his liberty, his property, and his civil rights. in prison he had been busy writing in exposition of the views of friends. after his release, for some time he was principally engaged in modelling the discipline and church government of the society. before passing on to consider the organisation of the quaker community into a compact and well regulated church, we must notice their conduct in the question of marriage. "marriage," said fox, "is god's ordinance," believing literally the common saying that marriages are made in heaven. but the solemn compact ought to be publicly ratified, and what more fitting than that public worship should attend that celebration. if fox denied that ministers could marry, if he insisted that the ceremony should consist simply of a mutual pledge publicly given, he was very careful that all should be done in good order. the marriage customs which obtain amongst quakers to-day represent his views. the young people must show that they are clear of other marriage engagements, and have the consent of their parents or guardians to their union. sufficient public notice must be given of the coming event, so as to prevent all scandal and disorder. then the marriage is celebrated during a week-day service. in the early days of the society the publication of the intended marriage was no easy matter. "many a joke must have passed through the merry crowd, when, from the market-cross of a country town, the expecting bridegroom proclaimed his forthcoming nuptials--but no arrangements of a loose or evasive character, would have saved the marriages of friends from the double brand of public opinion and of national law." in the legality of quaker marriages was tested in nottingham before justice archer, and the point was forever set at rest. now let us turn to the work of fox in the organisation of the society. that the organisation was principally planned and carried out by him is past all doubt. we will quote two out of numberless authorities. marsden says-- "to understand quakerism the reader must comprehend the character of george fox; for no institution ever carried more thoroughly impressed upon it the features of its chief."--_marsden's christian churches_, p. .[ ] [ ] for this quotation and other valuable matter the writer is indebted to the writings of alderman rowntree, of york, whose "two lectures on george fox" and prize essay on "quakerism, past and present" are standard works on quakerism. t. hancock says, in his prize essay on the causes of the decline of quakerism-- "the master spirit and chief builder of quakerism was undoubtedly george fox.... when we come to the second period, to the modelling of the quaker constitution and discipline to the society of friends, to quakerism as an _ism_, the hand of george fox is still more evident."--_the peculium_, pp. , . the views of fox as to the church polity were exceedingly simple. he had no intention of forming a sect; he only met the needs of his friends, as the exigences of the hour dictated. the less machinery the better; the simpler the arrangements the more they commended themselves to his judgment. his mind was not hampered by theories. his aim was to recognize the gifts of all, and not to have the life bound by man's rules. but there must be discipline in the church. the disorderly must be dealt with. the weak must be helped. many were thrown into prison or even banished; they must be relieved or cared for in the best way their circumstances allowed. many had lost all for conscience sake; they must not be allowed to want. none so full of pity for these sufferers, as he who suffered so readily himself. almost his last words were, "remember poor friends in ireland." the new testament was his only conscious rule, prayerful waiting upon god for light his only expositor of it. he might ask his learned friends for side-lights from church history, might ask them about the practice of the early church, or the history of the corrupting influence of certain false doctrines. but he was emphatically a man of one book, and he read that book with his heart, more than with his penetrating mind. that competent authority in all matters concerning quakerism, mr. j. s. rowntree, thus describes the origin and progress of the quaker discipline. "with the rapid growth of the society, george fox increasingly perceived the necessity for taking steps to repress the outbursts of fanatical and misguided zeal, and for placing the government of the church on a more systematic basis. this decision was undoubtedly expedited by the occurrence of a heresy fomented by john perrott.... he had the satisfaction of seeing most of perrott's adherents make a public acknowledgment of their error, and immediately afterwards, he initiated a national system of disciplinary meetings, to be held monthly. they consisted of the most experienced friends within a given district; and had the charge of the affairs of the body within such district. the quarterly meetings (many of which we have seen were already in existence) were gradually put on a different basis, and consisted henceforth of representatives from a number of associated monthly meetings, whose decisions in some cases were liable to revision by the superior meeting. it was not till a somewhat later date that a central body--the 'yearly meeting' of london--consisting of representatives from all the quarterly meetings in the country, was established as the top stone of this elaborate disciplinary system.... to the settlement of these monthly meetings, george fox most assiduously devoted himself in - ; and ere long, wherever meetings for the worship of god were held after the manner of friends, little church synods were also held, ministering to the wants of the poor, alleviating the sorrows of the prisoners, seeking to reclaim disorderly walkers, and when failing in this, disuniting them from the body." ("two lectures on macaulay's portraiture of george fox," pp. - .) it speaks volumes for the sagacity of fox that so little has needed to be added to or altered in the quaker polity since his day. in the barclays joined the society, and in the next year william penn was added to their number. the learning of robert barclay, and social position and administrative ability of william penn, were soon appreciated by the leader with whom they worked so loyally. in fox visited ireland, and in the same year he was married to margaret, widow of judge fell, of swarthmoor hall. she had been one of his early converts, and was one of his most vigorous helpers. she wrote almost as many letters, and printed almost as many appeals as her husband; she visited the imprisoned, and sent relief to their families. her house was the home of all quakers visiting the neighborhood, and her purse was at the service of all who needed money to serve the cause. her judgment was reliable and her energy untiring; she was the countess of huntingdon of the society. she even endured long imprisonments, and risked, and for a time endured, the loss of all her property by premunire for the truth's sake. she was therefore a fitting help-meet for george fox. she had four daughters who were ministers in the society, and the whole family regarded him with reverence, except the scapegrace elder son. he not only opposed the marriage, but with the basest ingratitude, he endeavoured, after it was accomplished, to turn his mother out of her own home; and he rests under at least grave suspicion of being a party to the plot to have her sentenced to premunire.[ ] [ ] the penalties of this sentence were, to be put out of the king's protection, to forfeit lands and goods to the king, and to be liable to imprisonment for life or at the king's pleasure. fox acted throughout this affair with the greatest prudence and magnanimity. he would not even be suspected of seeking worldly gain, but carefully secured to his wife and her family, the property which was hers before their marriage. no wedding could be more simple than his own. "afterwards," he says in his journal, "a meeting being appointed on purpose for the accomplishing thereof, in the public meeting-house at broadmead in bristol, [the site cannot now be certainly determined,] we took each other in marriage.... then was a certificate, relating both the proceedings and the marriage, openly read and signed by the relations, and by most of the ancient friends of that city, besides many other friends from divers parts of the nation." evidently the ceremony caused considerable excitement. his wife was ten years his senior. but of home life they had little enough; in little more than a week they parted, that the husband might continue his labours, and soon after, the wife was cast into prison, where she remained until . then through the intercession of her daughters with the king she was released, and the premunire, which had rested on her for ten years, was removed. they had a few days together before fox sailed for the west indies, and again on his return, and so on. men and women who give their most intense and sustained sympathies to christian enterprises, often have to suffer for it in their home relations. "we were very willing both of us," says mrs. fox after her husband's death, "to live apart for some years upon god's account and his truth's service, and to deny ourselves of that comfort which we might have in being together, for the sake of the service of the lord and his truth; and if any took occasion, or judged hard of us because of that, the lord will judge them, for we were innocent." in the summer of , george fox and some other friends visited the west indies and the continent of america, to push the work of evangelisation and of organising the societies there. they landed in barbadoes, after a voyage enlivened by constant dangers from the leakiness of the vessel, and once by an almost miraculous escape from capture by a sallee man-of-war. fox's son-in-law, john rous, was in the company, and on landing he was at once taken to the house of mr. rous, senior, who was a wealthy sugar planter. fox's health had been so injured by the ill-usage which he had endured at different times, and he suffered so keenly from the climate, that he had to remain at mr. rous's, whilst his friends held meetings all around. but though crippled in body his mind was vigorous. the marriage regulations and discipline of the society, and the duty of giving christian instruction to the negroes, engrossed his attention. the question of slavery stirred his heart to its depths; and his vigorous language and action not only did good then, but laid a right foundation for the future action of the society. when the time came that friends had to consider the question of the abolition of slavery, few things exerted so much influence in the right direction, as fox's clear statement of the issues involved. his words were quoted, his reasonings were expanded and enforced, and it was largely through his influence that abolitionist principles became identified with quakerism. here, as elsewhere, the doctrines of the society had been greatly misrepresented, so the famous letter to the governor of barbadoes was drawn up to explain them. it is still often quoted as an admirable statement of the views of the society. it is as near an approach to a creed as anything can be, which originated from a society which recognises only the bible as authoritative, and which objects to all human formularies. the society in barbadoes gained greatly in numbers and strength by this visit. jamaica, maryland, north carolina and virginia were next visited in the same manner and with similar results. large numbers were won to a christian life. the indians and negroes were recognised as having a claim to christian sympathy and religious instruction. the societies were weeded of unworthy members, and their organisation successfully accomplished. then the party returned in safety to england after an absence of a year and a half. in fox carried these operations into holland, having with him his illustrious friends, penn and barclay. "this visit of the three great apostles of quakerism," says hepworth dixon, "seems to have made a great sensation; scholars, merchants, government officers, and the general public crowded to hear them preach, and the houses of the most noble and learned men in the city of van der werf and erasmus were thrown open to them freely.... their journey through the country was like a prolonged ovation." the interesting episode of the interview with the enlightened and large-hearted princess elizabeth, granddaughter of james i., scarcely belongs to this sketch, as fox did not join in it. but he wrote a lengthy epistle of christian counsel, and sent it by his daughter-in-law, mrs. yeamans, and the princess returned him this brief but kindly reply:-- "dear friend, i cannot but have a tender love to those that love the lord jesus christ, and to whom it is given, not only to believe in him, but also to suffer for him; therefore your letter, and your friend's visit, have been both very welcome to me. i shall follow their and your counsel as far as god will afford me light and unction; remaining still your loving friend, elizabeth." he spent some time in amsterdam "writing in truth's account," and then returned home by harwich. in he paid another visit to holland, the last of his longer missionary journeys. after this, finding his health shattered by his long imprisonment and arduous labours, he settled down in london, quietly, though not uselessly, awaiting the end. his correspondence was most extensive, and he wrote many tracts and pamphlets as was his habit. one of his last letters was written to the lately-bereaved widow of barclay, the apologist, and is a model of christian consolation. he tells her:--"thou and thy family may rejoice that thou hadst such an offering to offer up unto the lord as thy dear husband; who, i know is well in the lord in whom he died, and is at rest from his labours, and his works do follow him." he signs himself one "who had a great love and respect for thy dear husband, for his work and service in the lord, who is content in the will of god, and all things that he doeth--and so thou must be." but besides this literary work, he laboured zealously in the pastoral work, visiting the sick and afflicted, and endeavouring to "bring into the way of truth such as had erred." he watched the passing of the toleration act with the deepest interest. it was a most welcome relief to friends, especially those in ireland. the losses sustained by the irish quakers were enormous. in one year ( ) they were estimated at £ , , many being stripped of all they had (see besse's sufferings). george fox not only collected such facts as these for publication, but, even in his last days of suffering and prostration, attended at the house of commons to interest the members in the sufferings of his brethren, and to see that the toleration act was "done comprehensively and effectually." he was equally zealous in his attendance on public worship. when so infirm that he could hardly sit through a service, he would not desist, and often afterwards had to lie down on a bed until recruited. he was determined, if possible, to die in harness, and god gave him his heart's desire. he was especially anxious lest spiritual religion should decline, now that persecution had ceased, and friends began to prosper in business. he wrote them an epistle of loving, but earnest expostulation, warning the young against the fashions of the world, and the old against the deceitfulness of riches. to the latter he pointedly says, "take heed that you are not _making your graves_ while you are alive outwardly." to some ministers who had gone to america he writes similar stirring words of counsel:--"and all grow in the faith and grace of christ, _that ye may not be like dwarfs_; for a dwarf shall not come near to offer upon god's altar, though he may eat of god's bread that he may grow by it." on the sunday preceding his death, he preached with great power at the meeting in gracechurch street, but soon afterwards had to take to bed, complaining of cold and weakness. his wife had been to see him some little time before, and finding him enjoying better health than usual, was unprepared for his death, so that no near relative seems to have been with him at the time of his decease. it was indeed a consecrated chamber. those who stood round him were struck with the triumph of faith over bodily weakness. he exulted in the power of christ. "all is well--the seed of god reigns over all, and over death itself." his thoughts were calmly fixed on the arrangement of society affairs; his mind was clear, his habitual disregard of his bodily sufferings still marked him. towards the last all pain left him. feeling death coming, he closed his own eyes and extended his limbs; and in sweet composure, resting on christ his saviour, his spirit entered into rest on tuesday, th december, (o.s.) three days after, some persons (one witness says ) gathered to lay him in his grave. for two hours they worshipped in that same meeting-house in gracechurch street, in which he had preached only on the previous sabbath. william penn, george whitehead, stephen crisp, and other leaders amongst them, thanked god for the gifts and services of their departed leader, and exhorted and encouraged each other to faith in that lord, who raised him up and sustained him in his work. then the body was conveyed to bunhill-fields, and interred in the friends' burial ground there. on the day of his death, william penn wrote to swarthmoor to tell the news of his decease. his letter reminds us of the inscription of the carthaginians on the tomb of hannibal. "we vehemently desired him in the day of battle." he sadly says to mrs. fox, "i am to be the teller to thee of sorrowful tidings, which are these:--that thy dear husband and my beloved friend, george fox, finished his glorious testimony this night about half-an-hour after o'clock, being sensible to the last breath. oh! he is gone, and has left us with a storm over our heads. surely in mercy to him, but an evidence to us of sorrows coming.... my soul is deeply affected with this sudden great loss. surely it portends to us evils to come. a prince indeed is fallen in israel to-day!" and in a postscript he adds, "he died as he lived, minding the things of god and his church to the last, in a universal spirit." fox's journal was published soon after his death, with a lengthy preface by his friend william penn, containing a warm tribute to his personal worth and christian labors. the journal gives us a better and more vivid idea of the man than any biography that has been written. an intelligent and liberal-minded baptist minister thus describes the impressions it left on his mind:-- rev. wm. rhodes to his wife: "'my dear heart in the truth and the life which are immortal and change not;' "so george fox usually addressed his wife. i have finished his life of folio pages since you have been gone. it afforded me much amusement, but its chief impression is that of the highest veneration and delight, for so holy and noble a servant of christ. i have hitherto regarded penn as the most beautiful character which that sect has produced, and perhaps it is the most beautiful, because his mind was more polished and cultivated than that of his friend; but fox's character is by far the most venerable and magnificent. he reminds me of the inspired tishbite in his stern majesty and fidelity, but he seems to have surpassed him in all the patient, gentle, compassionate, suffering, laborious virtues. if inspiration has been granted since the apostles departed from the world, i think he possessed it. i have read few things more truly sublime than some of his letters to charles ii."--_memoir of w. rhodes, jackson and walford, p. ._ ellwood, the friend of milton, has left us a glowing testimony to the value of george fox's life and work. but the eulogies of william penn and thomas ellwood are not portraits. one of the best estimates of his character ever given to the world is that by j. c. colquhoun in "short studies of some notable lives." in it he says (p. - ):-- "the truth is that fox's character had, like that of many others, two sides; and the contrast between these is so great that one can hardly believe them to belong to the same man. on the one side we have strange thoughts and words, fanciful imaginations, the illusions of an unlettered mind. but such things are not unusual. dr. johnson believed in second sight, in dreams and ghosts; and his case presents to us the credulity of a child, with the intellect of a giant. "but if we turn to the other side of fox's character, we find this man of fancies and visions confronted with controversialists, jesuits, and lawyers, puzzling them with his subtlety, and with his logic beating down their fence. now in a court of justice he confronts the judge, defies the bar, picks flaws in the indictment, quotes against them adverse statutes, and wrings from baffled judges a reluctant acquittal. then he is in the protector's court, to meet a man hard to dupe. there he plants himself, his hat on his head, at oliver's dressing table, engages him in long discourse, sets before him his duty, presses on him the policy of toleration, till the iron-hearted soldier, first surprised, then attentive, at length interested, extends his hand to the quaker, bids him repeat the visit, and tells him if they could meet oftener they would be firmer friends. "no less remarkable are his courage and skill. as storms thicken, he is always in the front of the battle; wherever the strife is vehement there he is; now in lancashire, now in leicester, in westmoreland or cornwall; meeting magistrates and judges, braving them at quarter sessions, vanquishing officers, governors of castles, and judges. then he sits down calmly to organise, with a forecast equal to that of wesley, the scheme of quaker polity which has lasted to our times. and if we smile at the oddity of his language, at the curious missives which he hurls at mayors and magistrates, jailors and judges, we find at times a caustic style worthy of hudibras or cobbett, in which he lashes the frippery of the court, or meets the casuistry of the jesuits or ultra-calvinists; and as we dwell on those words of wisdom in which he tells us of his faith, and cheers the heart of cromwell's daughter, we perceive that he is no common man, but one who, with strange training and singular notions, rose by the strength of genius and piety to a wide command over men." but though honoured by the society which he founded, fox has not received his due from the religious world in general, nor from the friends of civil and religious liberty. it is significant that whilst his friend, william penn, has found at least three respectable biographers outside his own sect, fox has found but one; and whilst penn has been defended again and again from macaulay's charges, the only defence of george fox against his groundless sneers that is well-known, is from the vigorous pen of mr. j. s. rowntree. fox has received scant justice from all but "friends;" _their_ loyalty, as we have seen, has been beautiful, unfaltering and enthusiastic. most writers seem to have been too much afraid of his peculiar views, and repelled by his uncouth style, to be just to his large heart and mind, and to his wonderful services as an evangelist. the man who advocated general education, who was anxious that philadelphia should have a botanical garden, who battled for perfect religious liberty, who pleaded for the rights of the negro and for the reform of prison discipline, who organised the polity of quakerism, and associated philanthropy inseparably with its system, was a remarkable man, far in advance of his age, and worthy of more regard from the country that has been so greatly blessed by his labours. lord macaulay has thought fit to speak of george fox as not mad enough for bedlam, but too mad for liberty, as "not morally or intellectually superior to ludovic muggleton or joanna southcote," he has termed his journal "absurd" and his letters "crazy." unfortunately, hepworth dixon, whilst correcting macaulay's gross misrepresentations of penn, has confirmed those concerning fox. he speaks of his spiritual struggles with a sneer, credits him with "imperious instincts," and is evidently ashamed that penn was in any way allied with him. it will, therefore, be simple justice to fox, to ask the reader who may be prejudiced against him, by the vigorous epithets and dashing portraiture of the historian, to set against his caricature some opinions of men less biassed, and well worthy of confidence. let him remember that if macaulay speaks with unmeasured contempt, kingsley, carlyle, and a host of others speak of fox with respect. and first, as to his journal, listen to the words of coleridge and sir james mackintosh. coleridge in his _biographia literaria_ observes:--"there exist folios on the human understanding and the nature of man which would have a far juster claim to the high rank and celebrity if in the whole huge volume there could be found as much fulness of heart and intellect as bursts forth in many a simple page of george fox." sir james mackintosh describes his "absurd" book as "one of the most extraordinary and instructive narratives in the world, which no reader of competent judgment can peruse without revering the virtue of the writer, pardoning his self-delusion, and ceasing to smile at his peculiarities."--_miscell's works_, vol. ii. p. . is not the testimony of these witnesses preferable to the manifest prejudice of macaulay? now as to george fox's powers of mind and high moral character, place against macaulay's sarcasm the good opinion of other competent judges. we will not quote the elaborate eulogy of ellwood, the friend of milton; of william penn's warm tribute we will only quote the saying that he had never seen him "out of his place, or not a match for every service or occasion." but these were personal friends. let us hear others. marsden in his "later puritans," speaks of his "penetrating intellect." the accomplished alfred vaughan speaks thus of fox, in what charles kingsley calls his "fair and liberal chapters on fox and the early quakers," in his "hours with the mystics:"-- "oppression and imprisonment awakened the benevolent, never the malevolent impulses of his nature,--only adding fervour to his plea for the captive and the oppressed. his tender conscience could know no fellowship with the pleasures of the world; his tender heart could know no weariness in seeking to make less its sum of suffering. he is a cato howard.... in the prison experiences of george fox are to be found the germs of that modern philanthropy in which his followers have distinguished themselves so nobly. in derby gaol he is 'exceedingly exercised' about the proceedings of the judges and magistrates, concerning their putting men to death for cattle, money, and small matters,--and is moved to write to them, showing the sin of such severity, and, moreover, what a hurtful thing it was that prisoners should lie so long in gaol; how that they learned badness one of another in talking of their bad deeds; and therefore speedy justice should be done.... as to doctrine again, consider how much religious extravagance was then afloat, and let us set it down to the credit of fox that his mystical excesses were no greater." the historian bancroft says:--"his fame increased; crowds gathered like flocks of pigeons to hear him. his frame in prayer is described as the most awful, living, and reverent ever felt or seen; and his vigorous understanding, soon disciplined by clear convictions to natural dialectics, made him powerful in the public discussions to which he defied the world.... the mind of george fox had the highest systematic sagacity."--_bancroft's history of the u. s._, vol. ii. pp. - . but finally let us appeal to the high authority of carlyle, who estimated truly the spirit and aim of fox's life. there was much in common between them in their sturdy love of truth and reality, leading to a hearty hatred of empty forms and mere conventionalities. both had a striking directness of thought and purpose, going right to the heart of things; an intense earnestness that did not stop nicely to weigh words, but hit hard at all unrighteousness. there was in both a strong sense of personal responsibility that made them indifferent what others might think or do. carlyle gives us in "sartor resartus" (popular edition, pp. , ) a striking eulogium on george fox, from which we will select the following characteristic passage:--"perhaps the most remarkable incident in modern history is not the diet of worms, still less the battle of austerlitz, waterloo, peterloo, or any other battle; but an incident passed carelessly over by most historians, and treated with some degree of ridicule by others; namely, george fox making to himself a suit of leather. this man, the first of the quakers, and by trade a shoemaker, was one of those to whom, under ruder or purer form, the divine idea of the universe is pleased to manifest itself; and across all the hulls of ignorance and earthly degradation, shine through in unspeakable awfulness, unspeakable beauty on their souls; who therefore are rightly accounted prophets, god-possessed, or even gods, as in some periods it has chanced." the length of these quotations needs some apology; but the influence of the vigor and cleverness of macaulay's caricature needs to be counteracted; and the confidence with which he pronounces judgment will doubtless lead many unwary readers to accept his opinion. it should at least be known that men equally able, and more competent to estimate a nature like fox's, have admired his character and valued his work. but after all the best testimony to his worth is contained in the devoted life which we have been endeavouring to sketch. william penn, the founder of pennsylvania. preface. the story of william penn has been told so often and so well that it is impossible to introduce novelty into it without introducing falsehood. this macaulay found out to his cost, his representations doing more to expose his liability to prejudice than to damage the stable reputation of penn. no wonder such a beautiful and eventful life has attracted many biographers. if clarkson did not possess all the information that is now in existence, he is accurate and sympathetic. hepworth dixon is brilliant but not always accurate, and he fails altogether in the religious portion of his story from utter want of sympathy and insight. in dr. stoughton both these qualities are joined to that broad acquaintance with the religious history of the age which is so essential to the just portraiture of such a man. he has added to the biography many interesting details. dixon complained that the memoirs of quakers are transcendental and lacking in human interest. no book can deserve the censure less than dr. stoughton's life of penn. william penn, the founder of pennsylvania. william penn was born in london, in . his father was the famous but time-serving admiral sir william penn; his mother, margaret jasper, the beautiful and intelligent daughter of a rotterdam merchant. his father's ambition was high. he had gained wealth and the royal favour by his daring and ability; his son should work out a grand career, and should be a peer, viscount weymouth. but man proposes, god disposes. the stout admiral lived to find the strong, handsome, quick-witted child, on whom he built so much, a very sword in his soul, the last stroke that brought down his proud self-willed nature to the very dust before god, and made him at last think seriously of that religion which he had despised when in health and gaiety. the child of such hopes received a careful training. first, he was sent to chigwell school in essex, which was near the home of his childhood at wanstead. after that, he entered christchurch college, oxford, where he met some of the friends of his after years, including robert spencer, afterwards earl of sunderland, and john locke. already, signs of strong religious feeling had manifested themselves in the boy. when a child at shangarry castle, a quaker preacher--thomas loe, destined to play such a prominent part in his history--came to cork. his father, little suspecting the results that would follow, invited him to the castle, and gathered the neighbours to hear him. his preaching deeply impressed the whole gathering; it made sir william weep freely, and left an impression on the mind of his child-hearer which was never effaced. that impression was deepened by a singular vision which he had at chigwell school. "alone in his chamber, being then eleven years old, he was suddenly surprised with an inward comfort, and, as he thought, an external glory in the room, which gave rise to religious emotions, during which he had the strongest convictions of the being of a god, and that the soul of man was capable of communication with him. he believed also, that the seal of divinity had been placed upon him at this moment, or that he had been awakened, or called upon to a holy life." again at oxford, he was greatly influenced by dr. owen, with whom penn corresponded when he was removed from his position as dean, to make way for a more pliable instrument of the schemes of the court. penn's attainments were already considerable for his years, yet his college course was doomed to be a failure. the most noteworthy occurrences in it were, his again hearing the quaker preacher, thomas loe, and his vigorous opposition to the ritualistic innovations of the stuarts. the authorities insisted on the gown being worn by all under-graduates. penn and others, recognising this as the thin end of the popish wedge, not only would not wear it themselves, but tore it from the backs of those who did. this led to his expulsion for rioting.[ ] his father was most annoyed at the disgrace attending the punishment, until he found that his son's conduct resulted from settled convictions, already firmly rooted. then the admiral at once understood the serious issues involved. he must vanquish these conscientious scruples or his ambitious plans would be ruined. he never planned a sea-fight more carefully. in the first moment of anger he had soundly whipped his son, and turned him out of doors; now he tried gentler and more insinuating means. like a true man of the world, he had full confidence in the power of a gay life to cast out such thoughts, and he sent his son to paris. the most interesting incident of the trip is his treatment of a french gallant, who insisted on fighting him over some supposed insult. in vain did penn politely explain that no insult had been offered. they must fight. penn not only excelled in athletics, but was a skillful fencer. he soon disarmed the man, but instead of then punishing him for his quarrelsomeness, he only returned him his sword with a polite bow. [ ] he tells us that his expulsion resulted from his writing a book, which "the priests and masters did not like." probably both reasons were combined. sir william penn, delighted with what he heard of the success of this expedient, determined that his son should finish his education in france, after which he destined him for the army. but in god's providence, the chosen tutor, the learned divine moses amyrault, if he did not deepen the gracious impressions already received, grounded him thoroughly in theological studies, which were very useful to him afterwards. leaving him, penn travelled for some time, and returned home, says pepys, "a fine gentleman." he then studied law awhile in lincoln's inn, and to good purpose, as we shall see. the great plague of drove him from london, and probably revived his serious thoughts, which were further strengthened by intercourse with serious people and the reading of serious books. his father again remarked the dreaded relapse, and again tried what change would do. this time he sent his son to ireland, to the sprightly court of the lord lieutenant, the duke of ormond. again, he reckoned without his host. there were quakers in ireland, and the very plan to which the astute admiral trusted to get his son out of danger, led to his joining their society. at first, indeed, nothing seemed less likely than such a result. he was beginning to despair of finding "the primitive spirit and church upon earth," and was ready recklessly to give himself up to the glory of the world. he was so flattered by the cordial recognition of the spirit and the success with which he assisted in quelling a petty insurrection, that he was inclined to fall in with his father's plan, and adopt the profession of arms. he even went so far as to apply for a captaincy. but god had other things in store for him. happening to hear that thomas loe, the quaker by whom he had been so impressed in oxford, was visiting in cork, he went to hear him. his ministry is said to have been singularly lively and convincing. the sermon was wonderfully suited to penn's case, and made him weep much. the opening sentence cut him to the quick: "there is a faith that overcomes the world, and there is a faith that is overcome by the world." from that night he determined that, by god's grace, his faith should not be overcome by the world. he began to attend quaker meetings regularly. at one of these, in november , a soldier came in, and made a great disturbance. penn, like phineas in "uncle tom's cabin," not having yet thoroughly subdued the old nature, took him by the collar, and would have thrown him down stairs, had not friends interfered. the soldier went away, and gave information to the authorities, who came and broke up the meeting, haling several, including penn, before the magistrates. his cavalier dress, so unlike that of his companions,[ ] led the mayor, before whom the party was taken, to offer to release him upon bond for his good behaviour. penn denied his right to demand such bond, and challenged the legality of the arrest. when committed, he appealed to his friend the earl of orrery, lord president of munster, by whom he was speedily set at liberty. but that gentleman wrote the news to his father, who at once summoned him home. he reasoned, he stormed, then, proud and haughty as he was, he condescended to plead. finally, finding his son still unyielding, and hearing complaints of his preaching at different meetings in town and country, he turned him out of doors, telling him also that he should leave his estates to those that pleased him better. he was then twenty-three years of age. [ ] he did not at once adopt the quaker dress, and continued for some time to wear a sword. when this non-compliance with quaker customs was reported to george fox, it is said that he simply replied, "let him wear it as long as he can." he mentioned years afterwards how the peculiar garb was a stumbling-block to some, "it telleth tales, it is blowing a trumpet and visibly crossing the world; and this the fear of man cannot abide" (_travels_, p. ). probably this very fact commended the peculiarity to his bold and decided spirit. henceforth william penn's time and strength were given to quakerism. there was neither hesitation nor half-heartedness. the welfare, work, and sufferings of friends he made his own. he wrote and preached with untiring energy, and suffered, counting it joy. though turned out of doors by his father, he was not allowed to want. his mother privately supplied his needs to the utmost of her ability, and what she could not do was made up by several kind friends. the situation was painful in the extreme; separated from home and parents, his father grieved and mortified at his conduct. he tells pathetically afterwards of "the bitter mockings and scornings that fell upon me, the displeasure of my parents, the invectiveness and cruelty of the priests, the strangeness of all my companions, what a sign and wonder they made of me." but his conscience approved of the line he had adopted, and his resolute nature was troubled by no waverings. he set himself earnestly to do his duty. he united himself closely to the friends, and took up his pen on their behalf. his first work was entitled "truth exalted." "the guide mistaken," soon followed. it was a reply to "a guide to the true religion," in which the quakers were treated with great severity. shortly afterwards he was drawn into a public discussion with the rev. thomas vincent, a presbyterian minister in spitalfields. some of his congregation having become converts to quakerism, vincent said some slanderous things about the friends. so george whitehead and wm. penn waited upon him, and insisted that as he had publicly misrepresented them, he was bound in fairness to give them an opportunity publicly to set themselves right. after some demur, vincent agreed to meet them in his own chapel on a certain day. the discussion lasted until midnight, and turned principally upon the question of the trinity. friends have always asserted that the doctrine, as taught by the orthodox, is an attempt to explain the inexplicable, and goes beyond what is revealed in the scriptures. this contention in their early days cost them much reproach; now the chief remnant of it is the annoyance of having their authors, especially penn, quoted as believers in the unitarianism of to-day. the debate was one-sided and bitter, and the friends only retired at last on condition of having another opportunity to vindicate themselves. but as vincent plainly showed that he had no intention of redeeming his promise, the only satisfaction left was the press. in "the sandy foundation shaken," penn gave the public his view of the matter. but he did not stop with the doctrine of the trinity, he went on to the atonement. he advanced such arguments against "imputed righteousness" as barclay has elaborated in his apology. he also produced arguments against the method in which in those days the necessity of a satisfaction to the divine justice was taught. his expressions unfortunately resemble those of modern unitarians, but his position is vitally different. penn believed the death of our saviour on the cross a real sacrifice, that "jesus christ was our holy sacrifice, atonement and propitiation, that he bore our iniquities," but that christ is not the cause but the effect of god's love. (see his "primitive christianity revived.") this book brought down on penn the anger of dr. sanderson, bishop of london, and led to his being sent to the tower. but that only "added one more glorious book to the literature of the tower," "no cross, no crown," of which hepworth dixon, more trustworthy in literature than in religion, says, "had the style been more condensed, it would have been well entitled to claim a high place in literature." whilst there he also replied in a treatise entitled "innocency with her open face," to many strictures on the "sandy foundation shaken." this imprisonment revealed in two ways the stuff of which william penn was made. first severity was tried, and one day his servant brought him the report that the bishop was determined he should recant or die in prison. he only smiled and said, "they are mistaken in me; i value not their threats. i will weary out their malice. neither great nor good things were ever attained without loss and hardship." then they sent stillingfleet, the future bishop, to try his powers of persuasion, but they, too, utterly failed. "tell my father, who i know will ask thee, that my prison shall be my grave before i will budge a jot, for i owe my conscience to no mortal man." such spirit, combined with the ability his books were revealing, revived the admiral's pride in his son. the court, too, began to take interest in him, and shortly after stillingfleet's visit he was released, having been in the tower more than eight months. he at once resumed his preaching, and having been partially reconciled to his father, was employed by him to attend to his irish estates. on his return home, his father received him fully into his favour, to the great delight of his mother's heart. but soon trouble again overtook him, though only again to place him on a pedestal where his virtues and power would be more manifest, and where his voice would reach a larger audience. going to the meeting-house in gracechurch street, london, he found it closed and guarded by soldiers. however the friends held their service in the street, and for this w. penn and w. meade were indicted under the conventicle act. hepworth dixon regards this as "perhaps the most important trial that ever took place in england," and speaks of penn as the great vindicator of the old charters and of trial by jury. he met the browbeating of the city magistrates with spirit and dignity, and encouraged the jury to do the right manfully. after twice returning an evasive verdict, and being locked up for forty-eight hours, the jury finally acquitted the prisoners. the court was greatly annoyed, and vindictively fined the jury for contempt. they refused to pay the fine and were sent to prison. penn encouraged them to test the legality of this imprisonment, and the highest legal authority in the land decided against it and released the gallant jury.[ ] a full account of the whole proceedings was published, and helped materially to encourage resistance to illegal interference with liberty. [ ] in his second trial "lord chief justice vaughan pronounced his noble vindication of the right of jurors to deliver a free verdict, which by giving independence to juries, made the institution so effectual a protection to the liberty of the subject."--w. e. forster. but important as this trial undoubtedly was, the full benefit of it was only secured by long years of bitter sufferings endured by the whole quaker community. (see sketch of fox.) let us who enjoy the spoils remember gratefully those who fought the battle. we have spoken of the marked individuality in william penn's character which led him to continue to wear the court costume after he became a friend, until his own conscience demanded that he should adopt the quaker garb. the same individuality led him to diverge from the ordinary type of friend in another and more important matter. they were bent on fighting out the battle of religious liberty by religious, rather than by political weapons. they might, when on trial, quote a statute or plead a precedent as a sort of argumentum ad hominem, but in political and constitutional affairs, as such, they as a class took no delight. penn was an exception. he felt a keen interest in the political affairs of his country. he saw that it was a mistake to lose the benefit of the old charters and statutes which secured the liberty of the subject, and he appealed to them on all occasions. this appeal served two purposes. it acknowledged the civil duties of christians, which some christians are slow to recognise. it also secured the sympathies of many in their struggles to whom the religious aim was incomprehensible. both these objects seemed to penn of the highest importance; they influenced his whole career. in the words of w. e. forster, "the form of his religion, his feelings as a quaker, did not seem to him to interfere with the fulfilment of his duties as a citizen. had it done so, that form would have been changed rather than the work left undone, for he was not a man to make one duty an excuse for shirking another; within his conscience there was no conflict between religion and patriotism; he did not fly from the world, but faced it with true words and true deeds." admiral penn was lying on his death-bed whilst this trial was in progress, and it added greatly to the sufferings of his son, that he could not be with his father at such a time. but on his release he hastened home, and very touching was the final converse between father and son. the high spirit was humbled; the worldly heart had learnt the emptiness of earthly honours. "son william," he said only a day or two before his death, "i am weary of the world. i would not live my days over again if i could command them with a wish, for the snares of life are more than the fears of death. this troubles me that i have offended a gracious god. the thought of this has followed me to this day. oh, have a care of sin! it is that which is the sting both of life and death." we can imagine with what feelings the christian son would hear this tardy confession, and would endeavour to point such a father to the source of his own hopes and consolation. the old sailor was buried with due honours in the fine old church of st. mary's, redcliff, bristol. he left the bulk of his property, some £ a year--a great sum in those days--to his eldest son, who thus found himself in spite of the risks he had run for conscience sake, a wealthy man, able to devote money as well as time and strength to the cause of his adoption. the king and his brother, the duke of york, afterwards james ii., had promised the dying man to be guardians to his son--a promise sought by him because he foresaw the many troubles into which that son's conscientious scruples would lead him in such an age. this fact is the key to the relations in which william penn and the royal brothers often stood to each other--relations otherwise puzzling, but creditable to both sides when thus explained. the stuarts were faithful to this promise when interest pointed another way. penn was true to james especially, in spite of faults which greatly tried him; true, even when his throne tottered, and finally fell. the penns had an ancient family seat in buckinghamshire. not far away at chalfont lived william penn's friend, isaac pennington, and his wife, and his step-daughter, gulielma maria springett. there also lived thomas ellwood, quaintest of quaker rhymesters, and his great master, milton. no wonder penn found the place attractive. but the great attraction soon came to be guli springett, beautiful and spirited and accomplished, and yet a true quakeress. he had met her first at a friend's house where he called when returning to his father's house, to the interview which ended in his expulsion from home. her father was sir william springett, who was killed at the early age of twenty-three, after a chivalrous defence of arundel castle for the parliament. guli was born a few weeks after his death. after losing her husband, who like most of the best officers of the parliament was a staunch puritan as well as a good soldier, lady springett passed through a time of great spiritual unrest. at last she found a home amongst the friends. she afterwards married isaac pennington, attracted to him by the spiritual ties of a similar religious experience. they were both examples of the numerous class of those who were almost quakers before they were aware that such a society existed. in , william penn made guli springett his wife. the interval after his father's death had been filled up by writing several books, preaching, holding a public discussion with one jeremy ives on the universality of the divine light, a short visit to holland, and of course the inevitable imprisonment, six months in newgate for attending wheeler street meeting. in his wife he found a true help-meet, both in piety, zeal for quakerism, and large-minded sympathy with all christian and patriotic causes. he loved her deeply and tenderly, and found in her love the brightest feature of his chequered life. after his marriage he had a long, sweet rest, and then plunged deep into work again. he visited the court, for the first time since his father's death, to plead for george fox's liberty. it was an errand on which for the next fifteen years he was often to go. he seems to have had a wonderful power of drawing out the best side of the royal brothers; and no nobler sight can be pictured than the courtly friend, hating the court for its worldliness and sin, but frequenting it to speak bold words of truth or gentle pleas for mercy; feeling that his influence there was a trust not to be neglected, but wielding it with constant watchfulness and wonderful self-control. meanwhile, writing and preaching were not forgotten. amongst other engagements, he had, in , a public discussion with good robert baxter, of which, unfortunately, very few details are preserved. perhaps, the most competent and charitable opponent of friends at this time was dr. henry more. the combined wit and seriousness of penn's pamphlets overcame his dislike to controversy, and led him to go carefully through the discussion which he had had with john faldo. he was also at this time in communication with george keith, then, perhaps, the most learned defender of the doctrine of immediate revelation. the intercourse led to mutual regard and respect. "if thou happen to see henry more," writes george keith to robert barclay, when the latter was in london, "remember my dear love to him. notwithstanding of his mistakes, i would have friends be very loving and tender to him, as indeed i find a great love to him in my heart. but as for his paper i see no difficulties in it at all to weaken in me anything i have written to him." before proceeding to speak of the great work of penn's life, the founding of pennsylvania, we must anticipate a little to refer to his manifold labours for his own religious society. his well-balanced nature found no difficulty in rightly blending the sacred and the secular. whilst electioneering for sidney, whilst gathering facts and making business arrangements for new jersey, or taking interest in the royal society, his religious life was still full and fervent. at the time that he was living at worminghurst, almost overwhelmed with business, we are told that his spirit was so warm and eager, that when the friends assembled for worship, he could hardly wait to reach his seat before beginning to pour forth the fulness of his soul. he watched with lively interest the work of organisation which fox was carrying on in so masterly a fashion. when john perrott caused a disturbance, by refusing to remove his hat whilst praying in public, or william rodgers obstructed fox's path, mistaking discipline for tyranny, none were more ready than he to rally round the trusted leader. in , he joined fox, barclay, and others, in a visit to holland, to organise and consolidate the society there, and to visit such promising enquirers as the princess elizabeth, the countess de hornes, and the courtly van helmont. he published a full and glowing account of the religious services in which they were engaged, which gives us a vivid picture of the "times of refreshing" which the brotherhood enjoyed in its early days. the next year, , when reports of popish plots kept the nation in a constant alarm, he was twice heard before a committee of the house of commons, in support of a petition which he presented on behalf of the society of friends. their inability to take an oath, led to their being caught in the meshes of an act intended for catholics. william penn explained their position with dignity and great candour. with characteristic boldness, though asking for a favour, he did not flinch from pleading for full liberty of conscience even for the hated papists. the committee listened respectfully, and adopted his suggestions for the relief of friends; but the sudden prorogation of parliament prevented the bill from being carried. it shows the perfect independence of penn's mind that though he was on good terms with the king, he risked giving offence by his open and hearty sympathy with algernon sidney. that patriot, after long years of banishment was allowed to return home in . soon after, he yielded to the representations of his republican friends, and sought a seat in parliament. first he tried guildford, and then bramber; but was not only hotly opposed by the court, but dishonourably and illegally tricked out of the seat. all through the struggle he had the enthusiastic and vigorous support of penn, although at the time the affairs of pennsylvania were far from settled, and he had so much reason to wish to keep the royal favour. usually penn kept clear of party politics, but on this occasion he canvassed and spoke for his friend with great zeal; so that the french ambassador speaks of him and sidney as the two trusted leaders of the republican party. but though penn's action proves that he did not share the scruples of most of his brethren against participating in political affairs, yet it was probably the man and his principles that won his confidence, rather than the party with which he acted. probably, penn would have endorsed the early opinion of his father-in-law, isaac pennington, who wrote, ( ) "whoever they are, whom i saw fitted for it (government) and called to it, they should have my vote on their behalf." in the midst of politics and schemes of emigration, the stream of his polemical works still continued to flow, and every year saw one or more pamphlets from his pen. turning to his private life, in , he lost his beloved father-in-law, isaac pennington. though gifted with a refined mind and a loving heart, he had a nature far less robust and vigorous than his son-in-law, who shortly after his death edited his collected works. but a heavier blow followed. in , lady penn died, and her death seems to have made him seriously ill for some time. she had clung to him when his adoption of quakerism turned his father against him, and she took care of him when he was turned out of doors. she never accepted quakerism, yet probably her gentle and loving nature had an influence with her son that the stern father never had. now begins the story of pennsylvania. as boy and youth it had been his favourite dream that in america might be planted a new england, without the faults of the old--a home of civil and religious freedom. events now ripened the scheme. on the one hand, fierce persecution urged him on; england and germany seemed to be bent on driving out their most energetic and high-souled children. on the other, the way opened gradually and safely. in , he was induced to become a manager of west new jersey. after five years experience he bought east new jersey in , and in the same year the king granted him, by charter, the fine tract adjoining, now called pennsylvania. this was in lieu of £ , due to his father for pay, and for money advanced in desperate times to strengthen the navy. we are told that the admiral obtained the promise of this tract, having heard from a relative glowing accounts of its richness. from the first, the "holy experiment," as penn called it, was popular. algernon sidney, with whom he kept up constant correspondence, and whom he loved as a brother, helped him to sketch a constitution for it. the quakers, who had long been discussing (especially since george fox's visit to america in ) some scheme of colonisation, were ready to supply emigrants of the right class in large numbers. he had but to publish a sketch of the intended constitution, and a statement of the resources and attractions of the colony, and the response was immediate. the constitution which he gave to pennsylvania, and which he spent many of the best years of his life in reducing to practice, has been universally admired. hepworth dixon has sought for the genius of it in the experiences of ancient greece, and in the dreams of more and sir philip sidney. penn was, indeed, acquainted with these, but his inspiration was found in the instincts and aims of quakerism. plato and sir thomas more, and even algernon sidney, had less to do with his constitution than had george fox. he found in the society to which he belonged a body combining a rare amount of freedom with admirable organisation--a society with abundant elasticity yet with excellent discipline and cohesion. quakerism not only acknowledges that methods and governments exist for the sake of men, it believes that manhood, especially sanctified manhood, is the great security of liberty and justice. its aim is to give scope to the individual to live out the dictates of his own conscience, and to contribute his utmost share to the general well-being. we are greatly mistaken if this was not also the aim of penn in the constitution which he gave pennsylvania.[ ] [ ] "in the constitution of the colony he was assisted by algernon sidney, and at worminghurst and penshurst the two friends drew up its several articles. that it established perfect freedom of conscience, it is needless to remark. it established also a no less absolute freedom of trade; penn sacrificing to this desire the sums which he might have received from the sale of monopolies. the constitution was democratic; a council of seventy-two, elected for three years, formed the senate, which penn intended to be the deliberative body; an assembly, elected by ballot and universal suffrage, and paid [they received threepence per mile for travelling expenses, six shillings a day while in the assembly, and the speaker ten shillings a day] confirmed or rejected the acts of the council. trial by jury gave scope to public opinion, but the provision that the judges were chosen only for two years, and could then be removed by the assembly, impaired the administration of justice. religion was left to voluntary efforts. [state] education was carefully provided for. the indians were treated on principles of such manifest justice, that they became the friends of the new colony, and no quaker blood was shed by them." short sketches, pp. - . unfortunately for the perfect realisation of his hopes, such a scheme, like quakerism, needs grand men to work it. the maxims of heaven cannot be worked out by the instincts of earth. had the other friends in pennsylvania shared his spirit of lofty self-sacrifice, the story of this state might have been more noble and stimulating even than it is. but from the first, quakers shrank from the turmoil and cares of official life. but this shrinking only makes more striking the unconquerable spirit that animated penn. he could suffer and be strong. he could "scorn delights and live laborious days." to the end, he retained the reins of pennsylvania affairs in his own hands as proprietor, though he might have got rid at once of his burden of growing debt and of the corroding care, by selling out. but one thing restrained him; says his noble wife, "my husband might have finished it [the deed of surrender] long since had he not _insisted so much on gaining privileges for the people_." (logan's life, p. ). and so even when the load was crushing him he continued to bear it rather than mar the "holy experiment," the great ambition of his life. this power of resolute and skilful persistence until his ends were gained, had won for his father wealth and honours. he, recognising it as his noblest gift, chose it as the fittest offering which he could place on god's altar. his life thus stands as a rare instance of thankless toil for the honour of god and the welfare of man, persisted in through weariness, suffering, and loss, and resulting in unsurpassed usefulness. the first band of emigrants left england in , under the charge of penn's cousin, colonel markham, who was appointed deputy-governor. penn himself followed on the st of september, landing at newcastle, on the th of october. he left behind him a farewell letter to his wife, full of tender assurances of love, and of wise and highly characteristic advice as to the training of their children. he at once summoned the general assembly to adopt the constitution he had prepared. "there was little talk and much work in the first pennsylvanian parliament. on the third day their session was completed, and penn prorogued them in person. they had left their ploughs for half-a-week, and had met together and founded a state." penn soon won the hearts of the red indians. "a lady who lived to be a hundred, used to speak of the governor as being rather of a short stature, but the handsomest, best looking, lively gentleman she had ever seen." "he endeared himself to the indian by his marked condescension and acquiescence in their wishes. he walked with them, sat with them on the ground, and ate with them of their roasted acorns and hominy. at this they expressed their great delight, and soon began to show how they could hop and jump; at which exhibition, william penn, to cap the climax, sprang up and beat them all." no wonder that some of the very staid quakers thought him "too prone to cheerfulness for a grave 'public friend,'" that is, a minister of the gospel. but without that elasticity that led to the ready jest and the hearty enjoyment of simple pleasures, the burdened brain must have collapsed before it did. his was an intense nature, keen both in suffering and in enjoyment, doing with its might whatsoever it found to do. shortly after this he concluded his memorable treaty with the indians--"the only treaty," says voltaire, "between those people and the christians that was not ratified by an oath, and that was never broken." "the treaty," says dr. stoughton, "was probably made with the delaware tribes as 'a treaty of amity and friendship,' and not for the purchase of territory." but the details of the story seem wrapped in impenetrable mystery. "the speeches made, the dresses worn, and the surrounding scene, appear now to be altogether fictitious." a society had been formed in bristol, called the "free society of traders of pennsylvania." to them william penn wrote an account of his province that is now full of interest. says dr. stoughton, "it indicates great power of observation, a wide range of knowledge, much skill in grouping facts, and an unaffected yet vigorous style of description on the part of its author." besides facts about the natives of the country, he speculates about their origin, and thinks they may be the descendants of the lost ten tribes. after spending some two years in pennsylvania and seeing philadelphia grow until it had , inhabitants, william penn returned home in . he had two special reasons for doing so. he had had many disputes with lord baltimore, the roman catholic proprietor of maryland, respecting boundaries, and having failed to come to terms, he was applying to the lords of plantations to decide the case. then again the persecution of the quakers was very bitter, and he hoped he might be able by means of the royal favour to check its severity. he reached home early in october. as to the persecution nothing was done to purpose until james ii. ascended the throne, when quakers were liberated from prison. but the credit of inclining the royal mind to clemency must not be given to penn alone. barclay and george whitehead had much to do with it (see sketch of barclay). james at once showed penn marked favour. he would converse with him whilst peers were kept waiting. he told him frankly "he would deal openly with his subjects. he himself was a catholic, and he desired no peaceable person to be disturbed on account of his opinions; but ... with the new parliament would rest the power legally to establish liberty of conscience." no way of gaining the king's ear would compare with securing the friend as advocate. so greatly was he sought that we are told by gerard croese (certainly not a very trustworthy authority) that two hundred applicants sometimes thronged his house at once to secure his interest. we must remember however that barclay's influence was almost as great. the king was bent on securing the good will of the quaker leaders. they alone amongst protestants demanded religious liberty for catholics; they alone showed them charity. besides, to shew kindness to the quakers gave a colour to the king's profession that he was for general toleration, not merely for favour to the catholics. whilst james ii. was king, therefore, penn exerted great influence at court. rightly or wrongly he believed that james and some of his friends, notably the duke of buckingham, were disposed to labour heartily for liberty of conscience. his friend barclay had the same confidence as regards the king. it is easy for us to be wise after the event, and to believe that in all this james was scheming for catholic ascendancy; but that must not prevent our giving penn credit for good faith. penn used his utmost influence to strengthen this disposition. in , when on a "religious visit" to holland, he undertook a commission from the king to the prince of orange to induce him to favour a general toleration of religious opinions in england, and the removal of all tests. this commission brought him into collision with burnett, who was at the same court pleading for toleration but for retaining tests. their intercourse left such a bitterness in the mind of burnett that he can never mention penn but with acrimony. for this attendance at court he had to pay the penalty of being suspected a papist. at his very first public discussion with vincent, the nickname jesuit had been given him and had stuck to him ever after. the quakers were many of them branded with the same opprobrious name. in the case of barclay, there was his early training and boyish conversion to romanism, and the fact that many of his family were catholics, to give plausibility to the charge. as to the body at large, "it was believed that the doctrine of the inner light was taught by jesuit, and that a franciscan friar had said no churches came so near his own as the quakers."[ ] the friends could not accept the ordinary teaching of the supremacy of the bible as a rule of faith, and sometimes on this point their destructive criticism was welcome to catholics but galling to protestants. then they could not take the oath of allegiance and supremacy. so the popular charge was not without some plausible though utterly delusive pretexts. [ ] penn himself writes "there is a people called 'the silent' or 'people of rest' in italy, at naples and at rome itself, that come near friends; an inward people from all ceremonies and self-worship, [he means worship unprompted and unaided by the holy spirit,] seekers, the pope and two cardinals favour them. a poor spanish friar, called molino, is the first of them. a thousand in naples it is thought."--dr. stoughton's life, p. . now the impression that penn was a jesuit at heart, in spite of his quaker dress and profession, gained ground fast. tillotson had his fears that the charge was true, and said so; but on penn assuring him that there was no truth in the charge, he fully and honourably apologised. but for long the suspicion clung to penn and would not be cast off. that he was determined in all things to keep a clear conscience at all costs is manifest from his conduct in connection with james' efforts to secure magdalen college, oxford, for one of his tools. penn had several times before strained his favour with the king to the last point of endurance, until in one instance the king threatened to turn him out of the room. in this case he wrote a letter so bold and uncompromising as to fill us with amazement. he calls the act one which could not in justice be defended. such mandates as the king addressed to the fellows he calls a force to conscience and not very agreeable to his other gracious indulgences. yet because in this matter penn at first, before he fully understood the case, thought some concessions might be made by the college, macaulay charges him with simony of the very worst kind. the only other ground for such a charge is the jesting remark of penn to the deputation that waited on him at windsor. "if the bishop of oxford die, dr. hough may be made bishop. what think you of that, gentlemen?" this might have been understood as a hint that, if dr. hough would withdraw his opposition, it might be better for him, _if it had not been for dr. hough's own words_. but whatever penn may have said in jest (possibly not wisely) we should remember that dr. hough after the interview thanked god that _he did not hint at a compromise_. penn had already used his influence with the king in favour of john locke. on his return from holland, he obtained a pardon for "such exiled presbyterians as were not guilty of treason." one of these was sir robert stuart, of coltness, who on returning home found his estates in the hands of james, earl of arran. the two friends met in london, and penn congratulated the restored exile. "ah! mr. penn, arran has got my estate, and i fear my situation is about to be now worse than ever." "what dost thou say?" exclaimed penn, "thou surprises and grievest me exceedingly. come to my house to-morrow, and i will set matters right." penn at once sought the earl of arran. "what is this, friend james, that i hear of thee? thou hast taken possession of coltness' estate. thou knowest _that it is not thine_." the earl replied, "that estate i paid a great price for. i received no other reward for my expensive and troublesome embassy to france except this estate, and i am certainly much out of pocket by the bargain." "all very well, friend james, but of this assure thyself, that if thou dost not give this moment an order on thy chamberlain for £ to coltness, to carry him down to his native country, and £ to subsist on till matters are adjusted, i will make it as many thousands out of thy way with the king." the earl complied, and after the revolution coltness recovered his estate. the earl had to refund all the rents he had received, less by the £ he had advanced. this may be justice, but it was carried out in rather high-handed fashion. at the yearly meeting in may, , the quakers at penn's instance expressed their gratitude to the king for the declaration of liberty of conscience for england which he had issued in the previous month. mindful however of the strain of royal power by which the relief was obtained, they inserted in the address this significant clause:--"we hope the good effects thereof for the peace, trade, and prosperity of the kingdom will produce _such a concurrence from the parliament_ as may secure it to our posterity in after times." the king in his reply to the deputation who presented the address, said he hoped before he died to settle it so that after ages shall have no reason to alter it. events now rapidly developed the revolution of . penn had enjoyed the favour of james, and had felt for him some real regard in spite of his faults. so when william became king, his position was difficult in the extreme. he met the danger with characteristic truthfulness and openness. in his maxims, he says, "nothing needs a trick, but a trick, sincerity loathes one." so he now acted. he avowed his past relations to the dethroned monarch. he did not pretend to have changed, but he should accept the result of events, and certainly could not conscientiously plot against the government. he was several times arrested and examined, but his perfect innocence was always clearly established. it might be proved by an intercepted letter that james had written to him, but he answered that he could not prevent that; it did not prove that he had treasonable designs. william, who had been favourably impressed by him at the hague, believed his assertions. in , he had the joy of seeing his labours crowned by the passing of the act of toleration. for this he had toiled and suffered, written books and held conferences. now the end was gained, and his friends and other dissenters might worship god in peace. yet strange to say, from this time the number of quakers so far from increasing, diminished. they had thriven in adversity, in prosperity they declined. but probably one great reason was that quietism overspread the society, and its aggressive efforts languished. its members continued faithful to their "testimonies," but became sadly careless about the unconverted around them. their grandest evangelist, fox, was their strongest bulwark against the quietistic spirit. he not only worked indefatigably himself, but was very successful in stirring up and directing others. in , he was called to his rest. penn hovered around his dying bed, and when all over, he sent the news to fox's widow in a letter full of warm sympathy and generous appreciation of his leader, or "honourable elder," as friends preferred to call him. in spite of fox's very noticeable imperfections, none could appreciate better than penn his many excellencies and his energetic and noble-spirited labours. only a few weeks before, robert barclay was laid to rest in his own grounds at ury. as a gentleman and a scholar, no doubt there were points of sympathy between him and penn which did not link fox and penn. but in aggressive energy, in evangelistic labours, and in entire freedom from the taint of quietism, fox was much more after penn's own heart than was barclay. he edited fox's journal and barclay's works, supplying each with an elaborate preface. during the next four years, he was mostly "in retirement" in private lodgings, in london, to avoid the warrants issued against him at the instance of an infamous informer, named fuller. this man was afterwards denounced by parliament as a notorious cheat and impostor. yet, it is evident that he was really dangerous, for one of his victims was actually executed. so penn deemed it wisest to live in privacy till the storm blew over. but he was far from idle. besides the work already mentioned, he wrote his famous "maxims" and other books. other calamities befel him one after another, until his condition was indeed forlorn. the king deprived him of the government of pennsylvania. roguish agents robbed and defrauded him, until neither his colony nor his irish estates yielded him anything. he was reduced to such straits, that when once he thought of going to pennsylvania he had not the means. friends looked coldly on him, in spite of his pathetic appeal to them not to forsake him in his hour of need. to fill up the bitter cup, in he lost his wife, the joy and consolation of his days of trial, the constant, indefatigable, and undaunted sharer of his labours. he had the melancholy knowledge that her end was hastened by her taking to heart her husband's crushing cares and unmerited ill-usage. the coolness of the quakers needs explanation. there was then, as now, a strong feeling amongst some religious people against christian men taking an active part in public affairs. penn was too strong a man to yield to it, but it caused him much trouble and suffering. and now that william reigned, and that penn's position, instead of being a help and a protection to friends, caused them to be suspected of disloyalty, this feeling was intensified. george fox's son-in-law, thomas lower, even sketched a form of apology, which penn was to sign to satisfy the weaker brethren. penn once joined some friends in pennsylvania when they had given him up, supposing that opposing winds and tide made his coming impossible. when they expressed their astonishment at seeing him under the circumstances, he answered with that ready pleasantry which ever characterised him, "i have been sailing against wind and tide all my life." but, with sublime christian heroism, he accepted his lot. he strengthened himself by much waiting on god, and by such intercourse with the best spirits around him as circumstances permitted. in his maxims we have not only whatever of his own prudence could be crystallised; we have also clear evidence of his own habit of looking at earthly things in heavenly light, and of endeavouring to discover their spiritual meaning and use. at last, in god's mercy, the tide turned. the night had been very dark, but the tardy dawn came at length, and ushered in a bright though not a cloudless day. cruelly deserted by the colonists, for whom he had done and suffered so much, he found gratitude amongst "worldly" statesmen and courtiers. the earl of rochester, lord somers, and others took the case in hand. he asked them to gain him a full and public hearing before the king and council. his defence was completely successful. the charges against him were quashed. it was proved that he had done nothing to forfeit his patent, and was restored to his government and proprietary. this consolation came to him at a time when it was greatly needed. he had lost his wife, and now his favorite son, springett, was slowly dying of consumption. we must not pass by the death of his wife so briefly. no doubt, the sad event was hastened by her wifely sympathy with her husband in his great troubles. yet she had the happiness of seeing the bulk of them removed before she died. "she quietly expired," says penn, "in my arms, her head upon my bosom, with a sensible and devout resignation of her soul to almighty god. i hope i may say she was a public as well as private loss, for she was not only an excellent wife and mother, but an entire and constant friend, of a more than common capacity, and greater modesty and humility, yet most equal and undaunted in danger." their wedded life had been a beautiful blending of romantic passion with sober christian usefulness. religion, and culture, and practical philanthropy had gone hand-in-hand in their social life. whilst speaking of this bitter cross, it will be well to anticipate a little, and record the death of his favorite son, springett. this noble and gifted youth died of consumption. penn did all that a father's love could suggest, all that personal attention could do to lengthen his days. but the end, though slow in its approach, was yet too sure, and the darling boy expired in his father's arms early in . the younger son, william, was of a very different stamp. cavalier grace, and sensuousness which degenerated into sensuality, marked his character. martial and generous in disposition, with no mean capacity for business, he early shewed a tendency to idle frivolousness and then to gross indulgence, which caused his father the keenest pain. the refined enjoyments of his home were not to his taste, so he sought in foreign cities the worst indulgences they could afford. and when his father was far away in pennsylvania, he launched out into riot and excesses which filled that father's heart with shame and dismay. early in , william penn married as his second wife hannah callowhill of bristol, a woman of great energy and ability. she was an admirable helper in all good works. for six years after his restoration to his rights, penn was content to leave pennsylvania in the hands of his cousin, colonel markham. his principal employments then were literary and ministerial. in , we find him using his new-found liberty to preach in the west of england. his standing in the society of friends had been re-assured; the usual certificate given by the brethren to all their preachers who travel, stating that he was a "minister in unity and good esteem among us," could be freely given, and he visited his brethren with comfort and acceptance. he travelled, therefore, in the western counties, "having meetings almost daily in the most considerable towns and other places in those counties, to which the people flocked abundantly; and his testimony to the truth answering to that of god in their consciences was assented to by many." we are told that the mayors of these towns generally consented to their having the town halls for their meetings, "for the respect they had for him, few places else being sufficient to hold the meetings." returning to london, he had a more painful duty to perform, which the following extract from a contemporary letter describes. henry gouldney, of london, to robert barclay, junr., th of th mo., . "being now a writing, i think it not unfit to acquaint thee in a brief hint what passed at ratcliff meeting, last first-day (sunday) week, where was william penn, john vaughton, and george keith. the latter having had no time till the breaking up of the meeting, he then desired to be heard. friends all stayed. after a short appologie, he fell a reflecting on the manner of john vaughton's going to prayer, calling it a hasty sacrifice, comparing to saul's. then he fell upon doctrinall points, reflecting on our unsoundness, particularly the epistle of john i. ; saying that the blood there mentioned was by us preacht only misticall, whereas, he affirmed, it had no such signification, neither did any there say to the contrary. in short, the tendency of all he said was to expose friends as unsound. 'twas a great and mixt meeting. william penn grew uneasy; after about a quarter-of-an-hour, he stood up, saying to this purpose, 'in the name of the lord, he was concerned to sound the truth over the head of this apostate and common opposer.' after a few words, george keith was silent. william penn opened to the people our belief of the virtue and efficacy of the blessed blood shed on the cross; and also shewed the people the reason why we did not so frequently press christ's death and sufferings as in the apostles' days, they being concerned among such as believed not his outward coming, but among christiandom was the notion generally held, but that of the inward denied and opposed. when he had done, george keith would be speaking, but friends went away, and left him in a great anger and quarrell." in barclay's "inner life, &c.," it is rightly said that keith's expulsion was not for unsound doctrine, though he charged the brethren with being unsound, but for contempt of authority. he tried to gather a congregation in london, but his following seems to have very soon dwindled, for a letter to robert barclay, junr., dated london, nd of december, , after speaking of the fierce counterfires of pamphlets concerning his controversy, says "last fifth-day (thursday) george keith had but or at his meeting. his show is much over. but his enmity remains. oh, that he might see his declension, and repent of the evil he hath done, if it be the lord's will." george keith had been penn's fellow-labourer and fellow-sufferer. to see him now attacking his old friends, and manifesting such a bitter and factious spirit, was most painful. in , after keith was disowned by the society penn endeavoured to neutralize the effect of his misrepresentations by a work entitled "more work for george keith." in this, he reproduces from keith's former publications abundant replies to his present statements. there is ample proof that, as in nayler's case, friends clung lovingly to the misguided man to the very last.[ ] [for his after confession of his fault see sketch of barclay.] [ ] to this period belongs also the following letter, inserted as a specimen of penn's familiar correspondence with his brethren. the three or four months service, to which he refers, is the journey in the west, already spoken of. w. penn to r. b., junr. london, the th of the th mo., . dear and well-beloved friend, my heart is much affected with the lord's goodness to thee and thy dear relations, that he has remembered you, among the many in israel, whom this day he is visiting with his loving power and spring of life, so that they had have sitten dry and barren, are now blossoming as a rose and bringing forth to the praises of him that has called them. wherefore, dear robert, let thine eye be above the world and the comforts that fade, to the unfading glory, and keep close to the lord, that thou mayest come through openings and visions to possessions, and like a good souldier encounter the enemy in his appearances as well to ensnare by the lawful as the unlawful things; and approve thy heart to the lord in the way of the cross and daily dying and living. o! great is the mystery of godliness, but the grace is sufficient! i rejoice at peter gardiner's good service; the lord will work when, how, and by whom he will. i have had three or four months sore travel with blessed success; blessed be his name.... dear robert, in the love of the precious truth, in which i desire thou maist grow up to fill thy dear and honorable father's place, i bid thee farewell. i am, thy reall and affectionate friend, william penn. p. s.--my journey for ireland will not be soon, as i hoped, but shall inform thee. vale. it has ever been a custom of the quakers to seek the presence of the great and the powerful, not for personal advantages, but in order to urge on them the claims of religion, and the opportunities and responsibilities of their position. in many instances, the results of these interviews speak for themselves, but as they justly hold, duty does not depend on results. in such a spirit, william penn sought peter the great, in , when he was working as a shipwright, at greenwich. the young czar asked many questions about the friends and their views. it is amusing to find him asking thomas story of what use would they be to any kingdom if they would not fight. that he was more than amused by the peculiar views and manners of the friends, is evident from his remark after a sermon preached by a friend in denmark, that whoever could live according to such doctrines, would be happy. penn made a second, and as it proved, a final voyage to america, in . he intended to settle there with his wife and family, and made his arrangements accordingly. but events were too strong for him, and he returned in about two years, and never again crossed the atlantic. it is certain, however, that even after this, he intended to return and spend the rest of his days in the colony. in a letter written three years afterwards, he said, "had you settled a reasonable revenue, i would have returned and laid my bones among you, and my wife's, too, after her mother's death." yet, in this short time, he had done much for pennsylvania. bills against piracy and smuggling, and for the just treatment of negroes, had been passed; better arrangements for the health and improvement of philadelphia had been made, and a new charter or frame of government, and a just system of taxation had been introduced, the expense of governing the province having, hitherto, fallen on the governor. even now, no provision was made for his claims as proprietor. treaties were made with the susquehannah and other tribes of indians; and finally, just on the eve of the governor's departure, philadelphia was incorporated. many minor acts were passed, some of them curiously illustrating the colonists' ideas of a paternal and religious government. not only were sins against purity and honesty to be punished, but, amongst others, bills were passed on the following matters: the spreading of false news, the names of the days and months of the year, to prevent cursing and swearing, against scolding, for the dimensions of casks, and true packing of meat, against drunkenness and drinking healths, and against selling rum to the indians. this much was accomplished by the assembly; probably, more would have been done, but for abounding jealousies. the province and the other territories (the districts purchased from the duke of york) were jealous of each other, and both were jealous of the governor. in july, , penn received a communication from the king, which sorely puzzled him. it demanded that the american proprietaries should unite for the defence of the colonies, and that pennsylvania should contribute £ for the defence of the new york frontier. apostle of peace though he was, he could do no otherwise than lay the letter before the assembly. that body delayed and finessed, and finally, saying nothing of peace principles, pleaded their poverty as a reason for postponing the further consideration of the matter, until it was more urgent. thus, this question of peace, which so long divided pennsylvania, was for the present shelved. but it is the boast of friends that for years pennsylvania had no army, and though so near both indians and frenchmen, suffered nothing through the lack of one. that state "subsisted in the midst of six indian nations," says oldmixon, "without so much as a militia for her defence. whatever the quarrels of the pennsylvanian indians were with others, they uniformly respected and held as it were sacred, the territories of william penn. the pennsylvanians never lost man, woman, or child by them, which neither the colony of maryland, nor that of virginia could say, no more than the great colony of new england." to complete the argument for non-resistance, see what occurred when pennsylvania got an army. "from that hour the pennsylvanians transferred their confidence in christian principles to a confidence in their arms; and from that hour to the present they have been subject to war." (dymond's essays, th edition, p. .) but it must not be supposed that the refusal to fight meant either unwillingness or inability to use moral means for self-protection. in , penn heard of a riot in east jersey, and set off at once with some friends to quell it. it was put down before he reached the spot, but gave him occasion fully to state his views. "if lenitives would not do, coercives should be tried. the leaders should be eyed, and some should be forced to declare them by the rigour of the law; and those who were found to be such should bear the burden of such sedition, which would be the best way to behead the body without danger." amidst all this care and work, penn found time to make preaching tours in pennsylvania, new jersey and maryland. he and his family won a warm place in the hearts of the friends here, as well as elsewhere. he might have a large and handsome house at pennsbury, and his style of living might be superior to that of his neighbours; but he could pick up a bare-legged quaker girl and give her a ride behind him to "meeting," and he had a kindly word and pleasantry for the poor as much as for the rich. "the governor is our pater patriæ," writes one of the colonists, "and his worth is no new thing to us. his excellent wife is beloved of all." as pennsylvania was the birthplace of abolition, the german friends at germantown first raising the question, it is interesting to see what penn did in the matter. he passed a bill for regulating the trial and punishment of negro wrong-doers. but he wished to go further, and proposed that negro marriages should be legal, and that the rights of negro-women should be secured by law; but the assembly threw out these bills. in the philadelphia yearly meeting had resolved that buying, selling, and holding slaves was contrary to the teachings of christianity. penn followed up this resolution by urging on the society of friends in pennsylvania the recognition of the spiritual claims of negroes. henceforth, until the society insisted on its members liberating their slaves, they were taught the scriptures, and encouraged to attend divine worship. penn arrived at portsmouth, in the middle of december, , after a voyage of about six weeks. the chief business that called him home, was the scheme of william iii. for amalgamating all the american provinces as regal governments. to his intense relief, that scheme was dropped. soon after this, the king died, and queen anne, the daughter of penn's friend and guardian, james ii., ascended the throne. he once more enjoyed royal favour in a marked degree. he was chosen to present to the queen the quaker address, thanking her for promising to maintain the act of toleration. after the address was read, "mr. penn," said the queen, "i am so well pleased that what i have said is to your satisfaction, that you and your friends may be assured of my protection." of the remaining years of penn's life, we have very imperfect accounts. he edited the works of two quaker ministers, those of john whitehead in ; those of john banks, in . in , he wrote "some account of the life and writings of bulstrode whitlocke, esq.," the famous lawyer and stout puritan, whom he had known and greatly esteemed. he also travelled repeatedly as a minister, and took an active interest in the affairs of the quakers. thus, in , sir d. dalrymple writes to r. barclay, junr., who had written to him about the sufferings of edinbro' friends:--"i have written fully to mr. penn by this post, who had written to me upon the same subject, to whom i refer you." again, in , he with others waited on the duke of ormond (whom he had known before he became a friend) to thank him for the kindness which he had shewn to friends in ireland during his lord lieutenancy. meantime had occurred the sad troubles with his late agent philip ford, which crippled his resources, broke down his health, and even at one time made him a prisoner in the fleet for debt. oldmixon states the fact thus:--"the troubles that befel mr. penn in the latter part of his life are of a nature too private to have a place in a public history. he trusted an ungrateful, unjust agent too much with the management of it; and when he expected to have been thousands of pounds the better, found himself thousands of pounds in debt: insomuch that he was restrained in his liberty within the privilege of the fleet by a tedious and unsuccessful law suit, which together with age, broke his spirits, not easy to be broken, and rendered himself incapable of business and society, as he was wont to have been in the days of his health and vigour both of body and mind." the story is a very sad one. ford was a quaker lawyer, and undoubtedly penn had been far too trustful and careless with him. he had even borrowed money from him on the security of his colony. ford repaid his kindness and trust by cheating him out of thousands, and his widow and son went farther, and tried to snatch the colony from penn's grasp. but it was ruled that "it would not be decent to make government ambulatory," and their claim was not allowed. the trouble thus caused resulted in penn having several apoplectic fits, which left him thoroughly shattered. for six years he lingered in second childhood, lovingly nursed by his wife. the best account of his last days occurs in the journal of thomas story, a distinguished quaker minister, a scholar and a naturalist, whom he had made the first recorder of philadelphia. the end came very gently and peacefully. after the long and stormy voyage, the vessel came into harbour through unwonted calms and waters almost without a ripple. he was laid in his grave in jordan's meeting-house beside his dearly loved guli, and not far from his mother and isaac pennington. many gathered there to pay the last honours. and since that day, the spot hallowed by his dust has been a well-visited shrine, where many have not only thought admiringly of his deeds, but have also thanked god for the grace that was in him. if macaulay was prejudiced against penn, his testimony to his world-wide fame is the more reliable. we will quote it as it stands. "rival nations and hostile sects have agreed in canonising him. england is proud of his name. a great commonwealth beyond the atlantic regards him with a reverence similar to that which the athenians felt for theseus, and the romans for quirinus. the respected society of which he was a member honours him as an apostle. by pious men of other denominations he is usually regarded as a bright pattern of christian virtue. meanwhile admirers of a very different sort have sounded his praises. the french philosophers of the eighteenth century pardoned what they regarded as his superstitious fancies in consideration of his contempt for priests, and of his cosmopolitan benevolence, impartially extended to all races and to all creeds. his name has thus become, throughout all civilised countries, a synonym for probity and philanthropy." "nor is this reputation altogether unmerited. penn was without doubt a man of eminent virtues. he had a strong sense of religious duty, and a fervent desire to promote the happiness of mankind. on one or two points of high importance he had notions more correct than were in his day common, even among men of enlarged minds; and as the proprietor and legislator of a province, which, being almost uninhabited when it came into his possession, afforded a clear field for moral experiments, he had the rare good fortune of being able to carry his theories into practice without any compromise, and yet without any shock to existing institutions. he will always be mentioned with honour as the founder of a colony, who did not in his dealings with a savage people abuse the strength derived from civilisation, and as a law-giver who in an age of persecution, made religious liberty the corner-stone of a polity." this testimony is bare justice, indeed it needs supplementing. macaulay has done justice to his fame, but not to his usefulness or to his beautiful character. for to use the beautiful figure which the rt. hon. w. e. forster employs, "like as the citizens of philadelphia are even now building the streets which he planned on the unpeopled waste, so are the workmen in the temple of freedom yet labouring at the design which he sketched out." and in the work they have not only his designs to assist them, but the inspiration of his noble life to stimulate them. the story of penn's life, so noble and yet so sad in many parts, has touched many hearts. "he reminds me of abraham or Ã�neas more than any one else," says professor seeley. "i find him," says tennyson, (writing mar. rd, , to the historical society of pennsylvania), "no comet of a season, but the fixed light of a dark and graceless age, shining into the present--a good man and true." in caroline fox's "memories of old friends" we read,--"he (ernest de bunsen) has been translating william penn's life into german and sent a copy to humboldt, from whom he received two charming letters about it, in one saying that he has read every word, and that the contemplation of such a life has contributed to the peace of his old age." such testimonies could be multiplied indefinitely. the character and life that inspire such feelings need no defence and no eulogy. robert barclay, the apologist of quakerism. preface. this sketch was outlined as a companion sketch to those of fox and penn. but the opportunity of embodying in it extracts from unpublished letters in the keeping of members of the barclay family, (for which the author cannot be too grateful,) led to its being enlarged to a disproportionate size. but the reader will not regret this, when he finds himself furnished with new materials throwing light on a character so little understood. to most readers, barclay is merely a name; the author has attempted to realise the man and his work, as far as the still very imperfect information will allow. robert barclay, the apologist of quakerism. george fox, that fervid evangelist who anticipated wesley in claiming the whole world as his parish, visited scotland only once. this was in . but some years previously, several quaker ministers, including two lady-evangelists, catherine evans and sarah cheevers, had preached "the truth" there, and meetings had been gathered, says sewel the quaker historian, in edinburgh, aberdeen, and other places. james nayler preached in scotland as early as , with his usual fervour and success. but no church of professed "friends" was formed in aberdeen until , when alexander jaffray sometime provost of aberdeen, one of the scottish commissioners to king charles, and a member of cromwell's parliament, was led along with others to a full and open acceptance of quakerism by william dewsbury. the number of the names was small, but they were men and women whose energy and sterling worth made them noteworthy. their decision may be measured by their daring the contempt so profusely accorded the "friends" by the orthodox; "possessed with the devil, demented, blasphemous deniers of the true christ" being some of the expressions hurled at them by the neighbouring pulpits. in , they were strengthened by the accession of colonel david barclay, and a little later by that of his son, robert barclay, the future apologist of quakerism. fully then was the expectation of george fox realised, of which he afterwards told robert barclay, in , "as soon as ever my horse set his foot upon the land of the scottish nation, the infinite sparkles of life sparkled about me; and so as i rid with divers friends, i saw the seed of the seedsman christ that was sown; but abundance of clods--foul and filthy earth--was above it; and a great winter and storms and tempests of work." "thick cloddy earth of hypocrisy and falseness atop," says the corresponding passage of his journal, "and a briary brambly nature, which is to be turned up with god's word, and ploughed up with his spiritual plough, before god's seed brings forth heavenly and spiritual fruit to his glory. but the husbandman is to wait in patience." david barclay represented an ancient and honourable family, supposed to be a branch of the berkeleys in gloucestershire. he was a lineal descendant of theobald de berkeley, born about , who held a large estate in kincardine, and was conspicuous in the court of david i. in the th century, alexander berkeley began to spell the name barclay, and his descendants followed his example.[ ] they were a powerful, sometimes a turbulent race, with an occasional instance of a literary or scholarly scion. david barclay's father having wrecked his fortune by spendthrift and easygoing habits, his sons had to shift for themselves. three of them died before their father, two in infancy, the third, james, falling at the battle of philiphaugh, whilst fighting under his brother david. of the two survivors, the younger, robert, became a catholic priest, and flourished in paris, becoming rector of the scottish college there. of david, the elder and the father of the subject of this sketch, we must speak more at length. [ ] of the father of this alexander de barclay, whose name was david, we read that he was the "ringleader of the savage barons who exaggerated the atrocities of a reckless age by actually boiling an obnoxious sheriff of the mearns in a cauldron, and then 'suppin' the broo'." yet the son was something of a poet, and some lines full of good advice, said to be from his pen, are given in the "short account of r. barclay." david barclay was born at kirtounhill, in . the only patrimony he got from his father was a good education: for in , the old family estates were sold to pay off his father's debts. finding that he had to make his own way in the world, with all the energy of his race he "flung himself into the saddle of opportunity as a soldier of fortune," and rose to the rank of major in the army of gustavus adolphus, specially distinguishing himself at lutzen. returning home with substantial gains as well as honours, when the civil war broke out he became a colonel in the royal army. he fought under leslie at philiphaugh, and effectively assisted middleton in holding the north, until cromwell removed him from command, after his victory at preston-pans. then he retired from military service, bought the ury estate, and with his wife and son robert settled there. he had contracted an advantageous marriage in the spring of , with catherine, daughter of sir robert gordon, of gordonstown. the father was the second son of the earl of sutherland and second cousin to james i. he was a man of great parts, and held various high offices under the crown. after his marriage, david barclay sat in parliament for sutherland, and then for angus and kincardine. he used his influence to regain possession of his ury estate which had been seized by general monk, and to befriend other gentlemen who were in similar trouble, and his success in these efforts made him very popular. then he retired into private life. in , he lost his excellent wife when robert was not fifteen. but before her death, she took one step of the greatest moment to robert. he had been sent to paris, to finish his education under his uncle's eye. but though his progress must have satisfied even a mother's pride, she, herself a staunch protestant, felt a great anxiety lest he should adopt the romish faith. so, when dying of consumption, she obtained from his father the promise that he should be recalled home. this step was farther urged by her mother, good old lady gordon, in an earnest letter which still exists. accordingly col. barclay visited his brother in paris in , and after vigorous opposition from him, brought his son home. but the time had come for a complete change in the tone and tenour of david barclay's life. he had gained renown and position, and had allied himself with a branch of the royal family, but these had brought him neither peace nor satisfaction. royal blood is no guarantee against disease and death, and he had had to see his beloved wife fade away and die at the early age of forty-three. he had risked limb and life, and had striven with hand and brain to win renown, and position, and wealth, only to find that these things expose their possessor to special trials and dangers. he had found out by hard experience how uncertain was his tenure of earthly good. his sorrows and disappointments prepared his heart for more earnestness about spiritual truth than he had hitherto manifested, and quakerism was to present that truth in a form which would satisfy his mind and heart. perhaps it was whilst on the journey to fetch home his son, that he became closely acquainted with the quakers. he tells us how he had heard of their simple and conscientious living, and "he considered within himself that if they were really such as even their enemies were forced to acknowledge, there must be something extraordinary about them." whether or not this knowledge was gained in aberdeen, where a meeting had been gathered now more than a year, we do not know. but, "being in london" on some errand or other, he had opportunities to enquire into the quaker principles and practises, which he did to such purpose, that his mind became convinced that their tenets were according to the scriptures. still, the cautious scotchman did not immediately join them. immediately afterwards we find david barclay in prison in edinbro' castle. although he had suffered for the king, he was accused of having held office under cromwell, and it might have gone hardly with him had he not been befriended by his old chief, the earl of middleton. through the influence of that nobleman the proceedings were quashed, and he was liberated. this imprisonment, in the ordering of god's providence, brought to the right issue the great crisis of his life. in the same room with him in edinbro' castle was imprisoned sir john swintoune, who from a soldier and a presbyterian had become a thorough quaker. he was so zealous in propagating his opinions that the only way to silence him was to keep him in solitary confinement, which was at one time done for several weeks. no wonder, then, that he urged on david barclay the full acceptance of the truth. on leaving the castle, the colonel seems to have remained in edinbro' even after he had sent his son, in company with a quaker, david falconer, to ury. in edinbro' he came out as an acknowledged friend. he tells us what points satisfied his sober and careful judgment that the quakers were right. he was struck with the correspondence between their peace principles and isaiah's prophecy, that in gospel times they would beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks. then again, they were all as brothers, loving and standing by each other, and had not christ said, that his disciples should be known by their mutual love? the courageous soldier was in sympathy with those who, whilst others worshipped god by stealth, bravely dared all persecution by openly assembling to worship god as their consciences dictated. so he thought within himself, that "if the lord jesus christ had a visible church on earth these must be they." but all this merely cleared the ground for the final and decisive proof, without which he would never have made a friend. feeling his judgment satisfied by these tests, he yielded his heart to the influence of the truth, and he experienced a peace which insults and sufferings could not disturb, and gained an experimental acquaintance with god that satisfied the cravings of his soul. he became distinguished for his solemn fervour in prayer, his deep piety and uncomplaining meekness in ill-usage--the latter, "a virtue," says one of his descendants, "he was before very much unacquainted with." "one of his relations, upon an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamenting that he should be now treated so differently from what formerly he had been, he answered, that he found more satisfaction as well as honour in being thus insulted for his religious principles, than when, some years before, it was usual for the magistrates as he passed through aberdeen, to meet him several miles, and conduct him to a public entertainment in their town-house, and then convey him so far out again, in order to gain his favour." this noble testimony is the subject of one of whittier's most spirited ballads. the old soldier lived to a ripe old age, his son only surviving him four years. we have thus traced the career of the father, that we may better understand the influences through which the son passed before his hearty acceptance of quakerism. he belonged to a family divided in religious opinions, some of the catholic faith, some protestant to the core. his abilities, connections, and worldly expectations, all invited him to a distinguished career. yet from the noblest and purest motives he turned away from brilliant prospects, and from older and more respected churches, and linked himself with a new, despised and persecuted sect. robert barclay was born at gordonstown, oct. rd, . from both sides of his parentage, he seems to have inherited scholarly ability and literary tastes. his grandfather, sir robert gordon, was a man of culture and refinement, and his great-grandfather, john gordon (father-in-law of sir robert), was dean of sarum, a good classical scholar and a keen theologian. on the other side, the barclays seem to have supplied the catholic church with several theologians and scholars. from early years he gave promise of great intellectual powers, which were sedulously cultivated at the best schools that scotland possessed. his uncle robert offered to look after his education, and took him in hand, as he tells us, when he had "scarcely got out of his childhood." but early as he left scotland for paris, he carried with him such impressions of the narrowness and bigotry of his calvinistic countrymen as remained with him through life. in paris, his uncle and others so skilfully assailed his protestant instincts that they succumbed, and he became an avowed catholic. he was a great favourite with his uncle, who purposed making him his heir, and who watched him through his brilliant college course with the greatest delight. but whilst his uncle was thus satisfied, his mother's heart was filled with dismay at the thought of her son growing up a catholic--a consummation for which his scholarly proficiency was poor compensation. she therefore on her death-bed obtained from his father a promise that her son should be brought home. on this errand the colonel went to paris, in . but he found his brother stoutly opposed to parting with his nephew. he met the argument of worldly welfare by offering to buy robert a larger estate than his father's, and put him in possession immediately. but the boy had a noble reverence for his father in spite of his long absence from home, and his wish settled the question with him, and he replied to all pleas, "he is my father and must be obeyed." so father and son returned home together, and the uncle's property eventually enriched the college of which he was rector, and other religious houses in france. when david barclay was passing through that crisis in his spiritual history which resulted in his embracing quakerism, he made no efforts to win his son to the same view. no doubt he had all a new convert's confidence in the power of "the truth." probably he had also a quaker's persuasion that though such efforts might sway the understanding, they could not "reach" the soul. he said he wished the change to come from conviction, not from imitation. the early friends never considered themselves a sect, and did not seek proselytes so much as they sought to spread deep spiritual life. in the end at least, the laissez-faire method resulted in what the father wished. the son quietly looked around on the different classes of professed christians. he felt his old repugnance to the calvinists invincible. the latitudinarians, with all their professed charity and condemnation of "judging," pleased him no better. finally, he gave his hearty allegiance to friends within twelve months of his father's admission to their fellowship. it is an interesting question, "what led such a clear and powerful mind to accept quakerism?" it could not fail to impress such a nature to see the great change which had passed over his father. the warrior and the man of the world had become a consistent friend, trusting god to plead his cause, anxious most about spiritual wealth, careful most to walk closely and humbly with god. further, it seemed to him that whilst others were wonderfully strict in creed, the friends, whom they called heretics, far surpassed them in holy and exemplary living. lastly, came the evidence that so often in those days turned the scale decisively in favor of the new brotherhood. the very first time that robert barclay attended a friends' meeting he was struck by the awful presence there; he felt that god was in that place. some minister who was present used these epigrammatic words, which are said to have made a great impression on him. "in stilness there is fulness, in fulness there is nothingness, in nothingness there are all things." it is true that we are told that sir john swintoune and another friend named halliday were specially helpful to him at this critical time. but we have the clearest evidence that what most impressed him and attracted him to friends was not their ministry, but the marvellous divine influence enjoyed in the period of silent waiting upon god. his intimate friend, andrew jaffray, bears testimony that he was "reached" in the time of silence. his own words, too, in his apology are unmistakable; they are introduced into his glowing description of an ideal friends' meeting, as a personal testimony to the value of silent worship. speaking of his own conversion, he says, "who not by strength of argument, or by a particular disquisition of each doctrine, and convincement of my understanding thereby, came to receive and bear witness to the truth, but by being secretly reached by this life. for when i came into the silent assemblies of god's people, i felt a secret power amongst them which touched my heart; and as i gave way unto it, i found the evil weakening in me, and the good raised up; and so i became thus knit and united unto them, hungering more and more after the increase of this power and life, whereby i might find myself perfectly redeemed." apology, prop. xi., sect. . boy as barclay was when he returned from paris, in spite of his precocity it may be questioned whether his surrender of catholicism cost him much conflict of soul, though he assures us in his "vindication," he did "turn from that way not without sincere and real convictions of the errors of it." but beyond question, it would cost him a severe struggle to surrender his proud vantage ground as a scholar, and to join a sect who taught not only that learning was not necessary to a saving knowledge of christ, but also that it had small share in the efficient ministry of the gospel. the battle was first fought out in his own search for peace and light. from his childhood he had been ambitious of scholarship. conscious, as he tells us in the introduction to his treatise on "universal love," of abilities beyond the average, he had a pleasure in intellectual pursuits which led him to follow them up with keen relish for their own sakes. but now the appetite was to receive a check, not only that it might ever afterwards keep its right place, but that he might learn how much more effectively god can teach than can the best of men. george fox had to learn from sad experience that even enlightened christians cannot stand instead of god. robert barclay had to learn by a shorter, but no doubt sharp experience, that his favourite books could do nothing for him in spiritual religion without christ, and that in spiritual power and spiritual discernment illiterate men might be by far his superiors. he has described the experience in his apology, when speaking of the insufficiency of learning to make a true minister, and the possibility of being a true minister without it. "and if in any age since the apostles' days, god hath purposed to show his power in weak instruments, for the battering down of the carnal and heathenish wisdom, and restoring again the ancient simplicity of truth, this is it. for in our day, god hath raised up witnesses for himself as he did the fishermen of old, many, yea most of whom are labouring and mechanic men, who, altogether without that learning, have by the power and spirit of god, struck at the very root and ground of babylon; and in the strength and might of this power have gathered thousands by reaching their consciences into the same power and life, who, as to the outward part, have been far more knowing than they, yet not able to resist the virtue that proceeded from them. of which i myself am a true witness, and can declare from certain experience; because my heart hath often been greatly broken and tendered by that virtuous life that proceeded from the powerful ministry of those illiterate men.... what shall i say then to you who are lovers of learning and admirers of knowledge? was not i also a lover and admirer of it, who also sought after it according to my age and capacity. but it pleased god in his unutterable love, early to withstand my vain endeavours, while i was yet but eighteen years of age, and made me seriously to consider (which i wish may also befal others) that without holiness and regeneration no man can see god; and that the fear of the lord is the beginning of wisdom, and to depart from iniquity a good understanding; and how much knowledge puffeth up, and leadeth away from that quietness, stillness and humility of mind, where the lord appears and his heavenly wisdom is revealed.... therefore, seeing that among them (these excellent, though despised, because illiterate witnesses of god) i with many others, have found the heavenly food that gives contentment, let my soul seek after this learning, and wait for it for ever." truth triumphant, p. . in the means and mode of his conversion robert barclay was like many of his co-religionists in scotland. it is an interesting feature of scottish quakerism that a number of its adherents were not gained by preaching. many of the early friends tell us that they adopted the quaker views before they knew of the existence of any society which held such views. their hearts yearned after an ideal which they did not find in any existing sect. but when quakerism was presented to their view, they recognised in it the features which they had learned to love. the case of alexander jaffray is fairly representative of others, and his diary enables us to watch the process in minute detail in most of its stages. the awakened soul gets disgusted with chopping logic, and with manipulating the dry bones of a formal theology. it longs for bread and is offered a stone. it longs for pure spiritual life and for true holiness, and for an experimental acquaintance with god that shall satisfy its quickened instincts; and instead it finds the sects around it mostly busied with preparations for living rather than with life, ever constructing scientific scaffolding but not building, keenly discussing the right attitude of the soul towards god rather than having actual dealings with him. quakerism comes on the scene and at once commends itself to such a soul by dealing with the practical life, putting the teaching and promises of the bible to the test of experience, and finding that they actually work and lead to assured conviction, hearty consecration, and holy living. modern quakerism has come to be associated with a few negations; primitive quakerism won its triumphs by a robust and full-blooded spiritual life. the assembly's catechism correctly defined the chief end of man to be "to glorify god and to enjoy him forever." the friends exemplified the definition in actual life. most professing christians, in spite of their beautifully finished creed, were still in bondage to questions like these: "shall we succeed in life, and what will men think of us, and how will they treat us, if we act up to our convictions?" such questions troubled the quakers very little. they acted as if they believed religion a sufficient end and object in life, worth living for, and worth dying for. this was the way in which they glorified god, and so they did enjoy him even in this life. they had great peace and joy in believing. the power of god was in their gatherings and attended their ministry. they were mighty in prayer, and did wonders through their strong faith. their acquaintance with experimental religion was astonishing, and their knowledge of the word of god extensive and practically useful, such as might be expected from men who searched it lovingly, and relied upon its counsels in the affairs of life. above all they were enabled to do what they most aspired to do, to live a holy life. they were rich not only in gifts but in grace. all this commended quakerism to such men as swintoune and jaffray and the barclays. it was better proof than the exactest syllogism, and far more satisfying to the soul than the best compacted creed. henceforth robert barclay's life is closely connected with the history of quakerism, and especially of quakerism in northern scotland. he did not travel so much as many friends beyond his own country in the service of the gospel, but his position, wealth, and learning were freely devoted to the service of "the truth." it is not clear that the same earnest evangelising spirit prevailed in scotland which inspired the english friends. for some reason the society never gained such numbers north of the tweed as it did in england. possibly they were too jealous of activity. in a letter of christian barclay's, written after her husband's death, i find a sad instance of that mischievous overvaluing of silence, which did so much harm amongst the quakers in the eighteenth century. writing to friends in and about aberdeen, she says, after a warning against "needless jesting,"--"in the bowels of motherly love is my heart towards you all, desiring we may all travel more and more into silence, for it is a safe place. let all our conversations be more and more in it. let us all in whatsoever state or station we be in, remember ourselves to be in it. as we are gathered in our minds in it, we shall less and less desire the best of words; _for inward silence as far exceedeth the best of words as the marrow exceeds the bone_." certainly, as she goes on to say "the sensible knows beyond expression." but "how forcible are right words!" the spread of this quietistic spirit amongst friends effectually stopped the evangelistic work which marked and glorified the early years of their society. it also so dwarfed and discouraged true ministry that the marvel is that the society survived. barclay's life belongs to the sad list of bright biographies as it seems to us too soon cut short by death. he died in his prime, when every year seemed to bring increased usefulness and influence for good. he was but eighteen when he was converted, but nineteen when he began to preach; his first controversial work was written when he was twenty-two, and almost the whole of his writings were produced during the next nine years, and yet they fill nine hundred folio pages! the little band of scottish friends contained several remarkable men, with whom he had close and continued intercourse. for several years after his conversion, until , alexander jaffray (see pp. & ) survived, infirm in the body, but bright and happy in soul. his long unrest was ended; he had found amongst the friends the close walk, the pure life, and the godly and loving brotherhood that he had long sought. the only thorns in his dying pillow were the persecuting spirit of the churches, and the non-conversion of his beloved wife. she, however, was so impressed by his death-bed experiences and testimony that she soon afterwards joined the society. george keith, a graduate of aberdeen university, was a zealous advocate of quakerism by tongue and pen, doing and suffering with a loving zeal, on which he looked back with regretful glances after his decline and perversion. he became a friend in , and for thirty years was a pillar amongst the brotherhood. his treatises on "immediate revelation" and on the "universal light, or the free grace of god asserted" were highly valued by friends. he settled in pennsylvania; but changing his social and religious opinions, he quarreled with his brethren and with the authorities there; and after an attempt to form a new sect of "christian friends," he came to england and joined the established church. he was put forward as a resolute opponent of his old allies. but gough in his history of friends gives reasons for believing that he was conscious at the last that he had declined in grace at this time. to a friend who visited him on his dying bed, he is reported to have said, "i wish i had died when i was a quaker, for then i am sure it would have been well with my soul." john swintoune, already mentioned, was a frequent visitor at ury, at monthly meetings and other special times. sir walter scott claims him as one of his ancestors. he, like jaffray, turned from a life of political activity and honours, to a life of hearty devotion to quakerism. he was of very good family, baron of swintoune, and at one time one of the lords of sessions. he had been so mixed up with the affairs of the commonwealth, that at the restoration he was thrown into prison, and was in great peril. but in the meantime the light of divine truth shone into his heart, and when brought to trial, he was more ready to condemn himself than his judges could be, and only anxious to tell of the goodness of god to his soul. bishop burnet says "he was then become a quaker, and did with a sort of eloquence that moved the whole house, lay out his own errors, and the ill-spirit he was in, when he did the things that were charged on him, with so tender a sense, that he seemed as one indifferent what they should do with him; and without so much as moving for mercy, or even for a delay, he did so effectually prevail on them, that they recommended him to the king as a fit object for his mercy." his estates, however, seem not to have been restored to him, for in we find robert barclay opening his liberal purse to assist him. we have seen how useful he was to david barclay and again to robert barclay at the time of their convincement; for besides his religious experience, he had, says the biographia brittanica, "as good an education as almost any man in scotland, which, gained to very strong natural parts, rendered him a most accomplished person." amongst the pious if not prominent members of the little church at aberdeen were bailie molleson and his wife. the latter died young, but her death-bed was surrounded by a halo of glory through her triumphant faith. her daughter, christian, had joined the friends in her sixteenth year. she won the favourable regard and then the warm affection of the young laird of ury, and he addressed to her the following religious love-letter. th of st month, . "dear friend, having for some time past had it several times upon my mind to have saluted thee in this manner of writing, and to enter into a literal correspondence with thee so far as thy freedom could allow, i am glad that this small occasion hath made way for the beginning of it. the love of thy converse, the desire of thy friendship, the sympathy of thy way, and meekness of thy spirit, has often, as thou mayst have observed, occasioned me to take frequent opportunity to have the benefit of thy company; in which i can truly say i have often been refreshed, and the life in me touched with a sweet unity which flowed from the same in thee, tender flames of pure love have been kindled in my bosom towards thee, and praises have sprung up in me to the god of our salvation, for what he hath done for thee! many things in the natural will occur to strengthen and encourage my affection toward thee, and make thee acceptable unto me; but that which is _before all and beyond all_ is, that i can say in the fear of the lord that i have received a charge from him to love thee, and for that i know his love is much towards thee; and his blessing and goodness is and shall be unto thee so long as thou abidest in a true sense of it." after speaking of christian contentment, "from which there is safety which cannot be hurt, and peace which cannot be broken," he warns her against the dangers to which they were both exposed from their easy circumstances, and concludes--"i am sure it will be our great gain so to be kept, that all of us may abide in the pure love of god, in the sense and drawings whereof we can only discern and know how to love one another. in the present flowings thereof i have truly solicited thee, desiring and expecting that in the same thou mayst feel and judge. robert barclay." the reader accustomed to modern quaker phraseology, will be astonished to find it so purely spoken by so young a convert at this early date of the society's history. but he must remember what is too often overlooked in studying the writings of the early friends, that the friends simply adopted in many things the religious phraseology of the times (see barclay's inner life, p. ). but he cannot fail also to be charmed with the blending of love and piety in this epistle. within a few months of the mother's death, the young couple were married in the simple quaker fashion. this was the first wedding of the kind in aberdeen, and it roused in the minds of many ministers and others much unnecessary alarm and irritation. the bishop of aberdeen was stirred up to procure letters summoning robert barclay before the privy council for an unlawful marriage; but, says the ury record, "the matter was so overruled of the lord that they never had power to put their summons into execution, so as to do us any prejudice." the conversion of the barclays to quakerism seems to have fanned into a flame the fires of persecution both amongst presbyterians and episcopalians. the presbyterians, though suffering persecution themselves, zealously preached against the heretics, and were resolute in excommunicating all who joined them. there is a sad story of one minister who, against his own conscience, was being compelled to excommunicate his own daughter, but fell dead in the pulpit whilst pronouncing the sentence. but the clergy was especially bitter. the bishop of aberdeen, patrick scougal, and his primate, archbishop sharpe, were bent on extirpating the sect, and carried out the system of fine and imprisonment with the utmost vigour. scougal (father of henry scougal, professor of divinity in aberdeen university, and whose "life of god in the soul of man" ranks high amongst our religious classics) was too good for such dirty work. burnet says of him, contrasting them with his scandalous brother bishops: "there was indeed one scougal, bishop of aberdeen, that was a man of rare temper, great piety, and prudence, but i thought he was too much under sharpe's conduct, and was at least too easy to him." sharpe was just in his element in the work. a pervert from presbyterianism for no other reason than interest, he was a suitable tool for thrusting episcopacy on those who hated it. the wanton insults and high-handed violence which he practiced, roused the bitterest hatred on the part of the populace, and led to his murder. but from the quakers he had no violence to fear. they would only reason, protest, and pray for him; and on a coarse spirit like his their noble christian conduct was thrown away. at last in the declaration of indulgence cut the claws of these persecutors and gave their victims relief. in england the quakers had a grand service to perform for the nation, in bearing the brunt of the fierce assault made on liberty of conscience. whilst other dissenters temporised and resorted to stratagems to conceal the fact that they still continued to meet to worship god, the quakers openly dared the wrath of the authorities, and took gladly the penalties of their faithfulness. in scotland this faithful service was somewhat varied. in episcopacy was established by law, and presbyterianism put down. but the covenanters were not easily coerced. they took up arms in defence of their religious liberties. they met to worship god with pistols in their belts, to defend themselves from the troopers sent to break up their meetings and to arrest their preachers. the consequences were conflict and bloodshed. loyalty to god was confounded with disloyalty to the crown. the quakers were not slow to condemn this mode of asserting the rights of conscience. besides complicating the issue, they deemed it inconsistent with faith in god, who was quite competent to vindicate his own cause without appeal to the sword. they set the example of passive endurance of persecution, using only spiritual and peaceful means in resisting interference with the conscience. they appealed to the consciences of their judges; they petitioned the king's council, asserting their loyalty to the throne. but whilst these assertions of loyalty and condemnations of arms won clemency from the council, they exasperated the presbyterians; so that in spite of the fact that they had a common foe to fight, they wasted their strength in persecuting their stoutest allies, the quakers. in the "drunken parliament" had met in edinbro, and vested all executive authority in the king; so that the power of the council was unlimited. we see, then, the profligate ministers of a dissolute monarch, with lauderdale at their head, extending protection to the quakers whom they despised and ridiculed; and checking the rage of exasperated covenanters, and the violence of domineering clergy. soon after his marriage, robert barclay narrowly missed a first taste of prison life. the "monthly meeting" at aberdeen (the gathering of the local congregations for denominational business, always preceded by worship) was entered by officers sent by the magistrates to disperse the assembly. they violently dragged to the council house all the men who were present. there the magistrates endeavoured by fair words to induce them to give up their meeting, and then let them go. if they had had more experience of friends they would have anticipated what followed. in spite of their recent arrest, the released friends simply returned to the meeting, and resumed their worship. soon the officers "appeared again, and with greater fury than before dragged them back to the council house, where the provost and council reprimanded them for contumacious resistance of civil authority, using much threatening language. but friends were preserved in a tranquil and innocent boldness, so that 'neither the big words nor yet the barbarous deeds' of their opponents could make them flinch from an honest confession of the true reasons for their conduct." they were all sent to prison, except patrick livingstone, and the young laird of ury. to the eager martyr spirit of the latter, this exemption was quite disappointing. young as he was, and so recently married, he would gladly have shared the hardships of his brethren. christian barclay became a minister of the society of friends, but how early we are not told. she was an admirable wife, and an exemplary mother to her seven children, all of whom not only survived their father, but by a remarkable longevity were alive fifty years after his death. she was a noted nurse, and the poor for many miles round sought her advice in sickness. no doubt she used these occasions like a true medical missionary to minister to both body and soul. she lived to be seventy-five years of age, and was greatly lamented, not only by her numerous descendants, but by the poor to whom she had been such a friend, and by the society to which she belonged, and in whose spiritual welfare she took a deep and life-long interest. robert barclay was now fairly settled with his young wife at ury under his father's roof. his life seems to have been one of retirement and scholarly research. the fathers and theologians engaged his attention, as well as the study of the holy scriptures in the original tongues, so that when in he was drawn into controversy, we find him furnished with a wealth of material with which to illustrate and enforce his arguments. there has been found a ms. volume, dated , consisting of controversial letters addressed by him to one of his uncles, charles gordon, and going over the whole ground of the quaker controversy. this correspondence would form a valuable stepping-stone to his future work. though his uncle died before the series of letters was complete, barclay carried out his plan to the end, and preserved the letters on both sides as a memorial of his deceased relative. the occasion of his first work is fully stated in its preface. in september, , the rev. geo. meldrum, of aberdeen, one of the leading ministers in northern scotland, preached a sermon specially attacking the quakers, towards whom he seems to have had a hatred not quite proportioned to his knowledge of them. he laid many grievous charges against them, but was suspiciously anxious that they should not get a copy of his discourse. soon after this, proceedings were instituted to excommunicate alexander jaffray. but his friends raised the sound objection that no attempt had yet been made to reclaim him. so the bishop offered to confer with jaffray in the presence of meldrum and his colleague menzies. but jaffray, suspicious of one who could attack people in the dark, refused the interview unless he could have witnesses. "at length, friends being objected to, jaffray's brother and son who were not friends were allowed to be present, when the lord remarkably assisted him in declaring the truth, and defending himself and it against their unjust allegations." one result was that the bishop directed meldrum to give friends a copy of the sermon preached against them, that they might reply to his statements. but instead of complying, meldrum sent thirty queries to be answered, and a paper entitled, "the state of the controversy between the protestants and the quakers." jaffray was ill at the time, but george keith on his behalf answered the queries at once, and some time afterwards also replied to his paper, and to the sermon, of which they had at last obtained a copy from one of the congregation who heard it. no wonder that the future apologist questions the honesty of the man who first condemns, and then makes enquiries, "that he might know in what things we did differ, and in what things we only seemed to differ." after giving the desired information, the friends waited for two years for some reply, or otherwise for a retraction of the charges made. but they waited in vain. at last appeared a "dialogue between a quaker and a stable christian," which barclay ascribed to a william mitchell, a neighbouring catechist with whom patrick livingstone had had some disputation. upon him therefore robert barclay fell with all the energy of honest indignation, and with all the resources of a fertile and well stored mind. he entitled his book "truth cleared of calumnies." though bearing the marks of a "prentice hand," many of the qualities of his later style are found in this production. william penn says "it is written with strength and moderation." if the reader is disposed to question the moderation, he must remember the habits of the age.[ ] [ ] there is in this work an interesting passage ("truth triumphant" pp. , ), in which the view of singing held by the early friends is set forth, which will correct some mistaken impressions. barclay maintains "that singing is a part of god's worship, and is warrantably performed amongst the saints, is a thing denied by no quaker so-called, and is not unusual among them, whereof i have myself been a witness, and have felt the sweetness and quickening virtue of the spirit therein, and at such occasions ministered." but they object to a mixed congregation of believers and unconverted persons singing words which in the mouths of many must be lies. (see also the apology, prop. ii., paragraph , &c.) but once launched on the stormy sea of controversy, there was no more rest for him. w. mitchell acknowledged the authorship of the "dialogue," and returned to the attack in some "considerations." this drew forth in rejoinder "william mitchell unmasked," published . here we find a more mature style, a fulness of matter, and an ease and power in statement, that are only excelled in the apology. says the writer in the biographia brittanica: "in this work our author discovers an amazing variety of learning; which shows how good a use he made of his time at paris, and how thorough a master he was of the scriptures, the fathers, and ecclesiastical history; and with how much skill and judgment he applied them." and a recent writer says "poor william mitchell is not only unmasked but extinguished." some have imagined that robert barclay and his friend william penn introduced into quakerism a new, more reasonable, and more scholarly tone. but comparing the sixteen or eighteen years of quakerism before these worthies accepted it, with the subsequent period when they have been supposed to affect its counsels, effectually disposes of this view. neither in doctrine nor in practice is there any material difference. quakerism had its scholars before them. their pre-eminence was rather in popular gifts than in learning, and in statement and illustration of quaker views rather than in their discovery or modification. as regards the positions of quakerism that have given offence, barclay and other scholarly converts accepted them in toto. they speak of the "apostacy" of the churches, and of quakerism as the only true church. they speak boldly of the spiritual gifts of the brethren. they are severe on "hireling" priests. they argue that justification is one with sanctification. most of the important passages referring to the authority of holy scripture, barclay applies to the light within. as to practice, nothing has more offended the proprieties of modern life than their imitations of the o. t. prophets, exhibiting themselves as signs. there is no reason to believe that any of the cultured quakers of the day disapproved of these things; rather they rejoiced in them as part of the manifestation of the restored gifts of olden times. so far from robert barclay being superior to george fox in this matter, he afforded one of the most striking instances on record. this was in , and it happened thus. "on the th june, , on awakening early in the morning, he seemed to see a great store of coined money that belonged to him lying upon his table; but several hands came and scattered it from him. presently the scene appeared changed, and he was 'standing by a marish' filled with a rich yellow matter, which he went about eagerly to gather in his grasp, till plunging in over the ancles, he was like to sink in the bog; then one came and rescued him. this marsh, was the world, this matter was the world's goods; the whole thing was to him an intimation of love from the lord, just as he was beginning more eagerly than before to concern himself in his outward affairs."[ ] "the journey in sackcloth," says mr. gordon, "was the natural sequence of this impression." that it was "partly a penance of self-expostulation," as he further declares, we in no wise admit. we must take barclay's own word for it that it was simply done in obedience to a clear conviction of a divine call. "the command of the lord concerning this thing came unto me that very morning as i awoke, and the burden thereof was very great, yea, seemed almost unsupportable unto me; for such a thing until that very moment had never before entered me, not in the most remote consideration. and some whom i called to declare unto them this thing can bear witness how great was the agony of my spirit,--how i besought the lord with tears that this cup might pass from me!--yea, how the pillars of my tabernacle were shaken, and how exceedingly my bones trembled, until i freely gave up unto the lord's will." truth triumphant, p. . [ ] from the bury hill mss., quoted in a remarkable article in the theological review of , on "the great laird of urie," by alexander gordon, m. a. the name and article suggest some family relationship with the barclays. the command was to go through three of the principal streets covered with sackcloth and ashes, calling the people to repentance. they would not listen to the voice within, nor heed the ordinary warnings of god-sent preachers. so he felt that in that terrible cross which god laid on him, he was making a more striking appeal in pity and love to their souls. he found that several of his friends approved of his obedience and were willing to go with him. so he took up his cross, and as he went on his strange errand, they felt constrained to join with him in calling the people to repentance. no sooner was the call obeyed than his soul was filled with peace. "i have peace with my god in what i have done, and am satisfied that his requirings i have answered in this thing." his heart overflows with love as he takes up his pen to explain his procedure, and to plead with them that his appeal might not be in vain. the address is a remarkable document, full of most tender pleading and loving remonstrance. no true minister of jesus christ can read it without being deeply stirred, and reminded of hours when his own spirit was clothed with sackcloth and ashes for those who would not heed his warnings. such soul-stirrings as this, coupled with his heart-felt experience of scripture truth, must have made robert barclay an able minister of jesus christ. he seems to have been the teacher rather than the evangelist. probably he could no more have done george fox's work, than george fox could have done his. excellently as he often writes of evangelical truth, we miss in his pages the arousing, pungent appeals of his leader. still at this and other times he seems to have felt powerful visitations of divine grace. his brethren also now enjoyed such a gracious season that at one of the "monthly meetings," the preliminary worship was prolonged for seven hours, and the business which should have received attention afterwards had to wait until the next month. the evidences of vigorous life on all hands were most encouraging. for instance, at one of their gatherings there appeared one john forbes, merchant of ellon, to claim their sympathy and advice. he had adopted the quaker views of christian worship, and consequently had forsaken the kirk. for this he had been cited before the presbytery of ellon. the friends warmly sympathised with him, and determined that robert barclay and certain others of their number should go to ellon on the next sabbath and "keep a meeting" at his house. the crowd that gathered was too great to get indoors, and doors and windows were therefore thrown open that all might hear and unite in the worship. from this beginning, the good work went on regularly every sunday, until john forbes had to be commissioned to look out for some more convenient place of assembly, one half of the gathering not being able to gain admittance. we have very little information of the part which robert barclay took in these christian services. he kept a diary, but it seems to have been lost.[ ] the letters of his which have been preserved are few. the most vivid and life-like impressions of the man that remain are contained in his books. these with true quaker appreciation of the value of facts, contain many autobiographical passages, and references to his experience. to him, as to all friends, experience was the great matter. they waited on god for clear and living views of his truth. they recognised it not by logic, but by their trained spiritual instincts. naturally, therefore, when addressing others by tongue or pen, they preferred to be experimental rather than argumentative. but the habits of the age compelled them to be dialecticians. they could only gain a hearing by so far yielding to the popular taste. but with amusing truthfulness, william penn says of barclay that he adopted the scholastic style in his apology in condescension to the weakness of literary men. [ ] is this amongst the bury hill mss.? the extract quoted from the theological review looks like a passage from it. but to him this adaptation was easier than to many friends. he was a scholar and man of letters by habit and instinct. it was a necessity of his nature that he should see clearly the whole scope and logical inferences of his principles. his intellectual fearlessness is wonderful. his learning was not idle lumber in his mind. it bore some important relation, either of agreement or of antagonism, to his views, and to the arguments of his assailants. it was either light in which he could rejoice, or shadow which revealed some obstruction to the light, and threw out the light into bolder contrast. so learning had to him a real use and value; it was not counters but coins and the world of books was to him a very real world. the progress of quakerism in the neighborhood of aberdeen, filled the hearts of many with malice that would stoop to any meanness, and carry out any iniquity. they actually demolished the walls of the friends' burying-ground, and removed the dead bodies elsewhere; and after some subsequent interments, they kept up the practice, until stopped by the king's council. but it was not in aberdeen but at montrose that robert barclay first suffered imprisonment for conscience sake. it happened thus. most of the quakers at kinnaber near montrose, after being in prison for two months for the high crime of meeting together to worship god, had been released by the king's council at the instance of john swintoune. that gentleman and robert barclay sympathisingly determined to join them in their first public service, and did so. as the company was dispersing, the constables arrived, and arrested william napier, at whose house the meeting was held, and carried him before the magistrates. swintoune and barclay went with him, and insisted on seeing the magistrates, and reasoning with them. on this they too were committed to prison, the ground alleged being that they had been present at the meeting. but they do not seem to have been many days in prison before the king's council again interfered and liberated them. whilst in prison they addressed a spirited remonstrance to the magistrates, boldly and vigorously telling them the unvarnished truth about their conduct, and appealing to them to act more righteously in future. thus they were not behind their english brethren in the vigour with which they fought the battle of religious liberty. in died alexander jaffray, whose valuable diary gives us such an interesting picture of the religious life of his time. the editor of it, john barclay of croydon, the laborious editor of many standard quaker journals, found it in two parts, whilst ransacking ury for remains of his distinguished ancestor. he published with it a sketch of the early history of friends in scotland, especially enriched with the substance of the minutes of the ury meeting. much valuable information was added in copious notes, the whole forming a precious memorial of a period of eminent spirituality and remarkable faithfulness to conscience. jaffray's death-bed was visited by many who rejoiced in the remarkable experiences and testimony he furnished. we may be sure that the apologist was amongst the number. in the same year, , was published barclay's well-known quaker catechism. part of its quaint title richly deserves quoting. he calls it a "catechism and confession of faith, approved of and agreed unto by the general assembly of the patriarchs, prophets and apostles, christ himself chief speaker in and among them." thus he steals a march on the assembly's catechism on the very title-page. the object of the little book was to meet the allegation that the quakers vilified and denied the scriptures, by asserting their whole creed in the language of the scriptures. the answers to the successive questions therefore are passages of scripture without note or comment. the work is deftly done, and the catechism has had a very large circulation. in the next year, , we find him attending the friends' yearly meeting in london, then newly established, and taking part in a visit of remonstrance to the notorious ludovic muggleton. the only account of the interview occurs in the journal of john gratton, the ancestor of john bright, who was one of the party. it is interesting chiefly as indicating the hopefulness with which the early friends tried to do good unto all men. their patience must have been sorely tried by the ridiculous answers of the pretended prophet, whom they entrapped and exposed several times in their short interview.[ ] yet this is the man whom macaulay represents as morally and intellectually the equal of george fox. [ ] william penn had exposed him two years before in a pamphlet entitled, "the new witnesses proved old heretics." however he still gained converts. the magistrates and clergy of aberdeen continued specially bitter against friends. their preachers were imprisoned, their names published as rebels, and their goods declared forfeit to the crown. their meetings were disturbed with impunity by the rabble, and especially by the students of the university. this led, in february , to a public dispute between some of them and robert barclay and george keith. persisting in his attempt to correct the false representations of quakerism made by the clergy, barclay had put forth his famous theses theologicæ, which played almost as important a part in the history of quakerism as luther's did in the reformation. at the end of the paper he offered to defend these theses against those who had so grossly misrepresented the teachings of friends. the clergy, however, were not willing to meet him, but they allowed certain divinity students to accept the challenge. these young men did not regard the matter in a very serious light; it was a good joke, an opportunity to air their logic and to badger the quakers. if other measures failed, they could rely on the mob taking their part with coarse jests, such as the cry, "is the spirit come yet?" or if this treatment seemed too mild for the humour of the moment, their allies were just as ready to break the heads of the quakers with sticks and stones. if the reader has any doubts about this description of the temper of the times, let him first read leighton's life, and see there the character of the ministers whom his friends had to call in to fill up the pulpits of the ejected presbyterians. then after this preparation, let him read the quaker journals of the time. this disputation ended in uproar, the students claiming the victory of course. but the spoils were taken by the friends in a manner little expected by the clergy. four students, who were present at the debate, were so impressed by the arguments and christian spirit of barclay and keith, that they joined the friends, and bore public testimony against the unfairness with which the debate was conducted. here was a spiritual triumph indeed, to win trophies amidst such clamour and strife. the dispute was not allowed to rest. the students published an account of the transaction, under the title, "quakerism canvassed." barclay and keith declared the report unfair, and published theirs in self-defence. they further replied to the students in "quakerism confirmed." here was a field of controversy where numbers and noise were of no avail. but the termination was indeed singular. the students found that their pamphlet would not sell, and that so they were likely to be heavy losers. what was to be done? they petitioned the commissioners for help. a little while before some of david barclay's cattle had been seized to pay fines imposed for his attending meetings. these cattle could not be sold, so strongly did the people sympathise with the old soldier. so at last, through archbishop sharpe's influence, they were handed over to the students to recoup their losses! the theses were destined to higher honours than this farce. dr. nicolas arnold, professor of divinity at a dutch university, replied to them, and barclay issued his rejoinder in latin at rotterdam, in . still following up the lines of thought thus opened out, the theses were next expanded into the famous apology, published in latin in amsterdam, . the years and were remarkable for a blessed quickening of spiritual life in aberdeen meeting. it made the friends who were cast into prison rejoice in their bonds. it made both them and english friends believe that the time had come when god would do great things for scotland.[ ] [ ] the following extracts show forth these facts and hopes with great clearness: george fox writes from swarthmore, th of th month, , a long letter to robert barclay, but evidently intended as a circular letter to friends in scotland. its opening has been quoted already, pp. , . it is rich in its glowing and powerful statement of gospel truth. after relating the vision of the condition and future blessedness of scotland, he states how he was taken before the council in edinburgh and banished the nation, "but i staid three weeks after, and came to edinburgh and had meetings all up and down." he sets forth in quaint scripture metaphors the hopes of the spiritual life which he was raised up to preach. "with the spiritual eye the virgins will see to trim their heavenly lamps, and see their heavenly olive-tree from which they have their heavenly oil, that their lamps might burn continually night and day and never go out. so that they may see the way and enter into the heavenly bridegroom's chamber, which is above the chambers of death and imaginery." "and soe away with that chaf that would not have perfection here, for he that is perfect is risen, and that (which) is perfect is revealed." "it is the spirit of truth that leads into all truth. and they that are not led by this spirit as christ hath sent and sends, they are led by the spirit of the false prophet, beast, whore. though in that spirit they may profess the scriptures from genesis to the revelations, that spirit shall lead them into the ditch together, where they shall be consumed by god's eternal fire without the heavenly jerusalem, as all the filth was consumed by fire without the gates of the outward heavenly jerusalem." "and now, robert, concerning the things thou speaks of about thy books. i say it is well that they are sent. keep within the rules of the spirit of life which will lead into all truth, that all may be stirred up in your nation to walk in it, for they have been a long time asleep. for the gospel bell does ring and sound to awaken them out of sin to righteousness. so all that have the instrument to work in god's vineyard be not idle, but be diligent that you may have your penny. for god's gospel trumpet is blown, and his alarum is sounding in his holy mountain. that makes that mind and spirit that inhabits the earth to tremble, and that they must all doe, before they inhabit and inherit eternity." the language here may be quaint and the figures sometimes strained; but the spiritual truth is clearly seen and vigorously put, and barclay would readily recognise its fitness to the times. david barclay writes to his son from aberdeen prison on th of rd mo., , in a strain of mingled trust and resignation. he writes, "we are all in health, and refreshed daily by the lord's powerfully appearing in and amongst us, and in a wonderful and unexpected way visiting us by his overcoming love to the gladdening of our hearts and making us not only to believe but to suffer for his name's sake; living praises!" george keith writes to robert barclay, also from the aberdeen tolbooth, "we have exceeding sweet and comfortable meetings most frequently, wherein the power of the lord doth mightily appear in the midst of us, so that friends generally are greatly encouraged to the astonishing and confounding of our adversaries.... i am busy answering h. more's papers[ ] unto me, and have near finished my answers which i hope ere long to send unto her that is called the lady conway,[ ] or else bring them myself if the persecution that is at present cease hereaway, and that i find freedom to visit friends in england this summer. _but if the lord open a door in this country for the receiving of the truth among people (as it is like to be, and of which we have some good expectation, the power of the lord gloriously appearing among us, which is preparing us for some great service)_ i verily believe this may be ane occasion to stay me for some time." [ ] see sketch of penn, p. . [ ] from a letter of barclay's to the princess elizabeth, it appears that lady conway in many things adopted the quaker customs. this year ( ) seems to have been a remarkably busy one. indeed so well was barclay's time filled up during his short life, that one biographer most appropriately speaks of him as "posting" through the business of his life. he might almost have foreseen the early close of his career, so diligently did he redeem the time. the labours of this year included the publication of his treatise on christian discipline entitled "the anarchy of the ranters," a visit to the continent, the publication of the apology, and probably the preparation of materials for a projected history of the christian church. see jaffray, p. . the full title of the first-named book was, "the anarchy of the ranters and other libertines, the hierarchy of the romanists and other pretended churches, equally refused and refuted." its object was to defend the system of discipline which the friends had established under fox's leadership. this system was impugned by some members as an infringement of gospel liberty. those who were led by the spirit, they argued, needed no rules or discipline to guide them aright, and must not have their liberty interfered with by man-made rules. the leader of this party was wm. rogers, a bristol merchant. but his opposition was not known to robert barclay at the time of the publication of his treatise, though his arguments so fully anticipated their objections, that rogers and his friends considered the book an attack on them. feeling ran high, and barclay was spoken of as popishly affected, if not a papist. yet with wonderful meekness and humility, he agreed to meet william rogers in the presence of some trusty friends that the offence so taken might be removed. but though the meeting resulted in rogers acknowledging his fault, the perfect harmony of the society was not secured by it, and he and his captious friends ultimately separated from the society. the treatise on church government is one of the best of barclay's productions, and has been very useful, both in establishing friends in the right development of their principles, and in enlightening other christians as to the views they hold. one fact in connection with its publication is in perfect accord with its arguments. three years before, there had been established in london a standing committee of the quaker society, called the morning meeting. one of its objects was to examine all writings issued by the brethren in which questions of christian truth were discussed, so as to stamp with its approval such as were in accordance with their principles, and to disavow such as were otherwise. the necessity for such action was evident, from the fact that much annoyance and damage had been sustained by friends, from the society being held responsible for books written by those who were not members. henceforth no book was to be considered an expression of the views of the society, unless it had secured the sanction of the committee. the "anarchy of the ranters" was therefore duly submitted to their scrutiny, and not only received their sanction then, but was for at least a century, published largely by the society as an authorised statement of their views on church discipline. later the yearly meeting gave it a second title, "a treatise on christian discipline." but they also struck out a passage of special interest in these times, showing how the strong reason of barclay was logically forced along the line of free-churchmanship not only to disestablishment but to disendowment. it runs thus: "the only way then soundly to reform and remove all these abuses (i.e. those following the connection of the church with the state) is to take away all stinted and forced maintenance and stipends, _and seeing those things were anciently given by the people, that they return again to the public treasury, and thereby the people may be greatly benefitted by them, for that they may supply for those public taxations and impositions that are put upon them, and ease themselves of them_."[ ] [ ] barclay's "inner life," p. . this sentence is first omitted in the edition of , and has been lost from the work since! after attending the yearly meeting in london, robert barclay went on a mission to the continent. of this visit, unfortunately, we have no record. probably, one object for which he made it was to see to the publication of his apology in amsterdam. but one incident of the journey is full of interest. he visited elizabeth, princess palatine of the rhine, granddaughter of james i. and aunt of george i.; an accomplished lady and a most exemplary ruler. she was not only a distant relative of his (his mother and she were third cousins), but she also attracted him by her spiritual-mindedness. she had appreciated all that was best in the teachings of de labadie, a jesuit who turned protestant, and by his preaching led many to seek after spiritual religion, and a simple, self-denying life.[ ] so in afterwards stating the reasons for a subsequent visit, william penn says, "secondly, that they (the princess and her friends) are actually lovers and favourers of those that separate themselves from the world for the sake of righteousness. for the princess is not only a private supporter of such, but gave protection to de labadie himself and his company, yea when they went _under the reproachful name of quakers_, about seven years since."[ ] [ ] the following note concerning de labadie, by whittier, the american poet, may interest the reader. "john de labadie, a roman catholic priest converted to protestantism, enthusiastic, eloquent, and evidently sincere in his special calling and election to separate the true and living members from the church of christ from the formalism and hypocrisy of the ruling sects. george keith and robert barclay visited him at amsterdam, and afterwards at the communities of herford (the princess elizabeth's home) and wieward; and according to gerard croese, found him so near to them on some points, that they offered to take him into the society of friends. this offer, if it was really made, which is certainly doubtful, was, happily for the friends at least, declined. invited to herford, in westphalia, by elizabeth, daughter of the elector palatine, de labadie and his followers preached incessantly, and succeeded in arousing a wild enthusiasm among the people, who neglected their business, and gave way to excitements and strange practices. men and women, it was said, at the communion drank and danced together, and private marriages or spiritual unions were formed. labadie died in , at altona, in denmark, maintaining his testimonies to the last. 'nothing remains for me,' he said, 'except to go to my god. death is merely ascending from a lower and narrower chamber to one higher and holier.'" [ ] he goes on to say, writing in , "about a year since, robert barclay and benjamin furly took that city in the way from frederickstadt to amsterdam, and gave them a visit; in which they informed them somewhat of friends' principles, and recommended the testimony of truth to them as both a nearer and more certain thing than the utmost of de labadie's doctrine. they left them tender and loving." travels in holland, penn's select works, p. . barclay's visit bore fruit beyond what he possibly could have foreseen. the princess learnt heartily to esteem and love the brotherhood, welcomed the visits of its ministers, and used her influence at the english court for their relief from harassing persecution. from this time until her death she kept up a correspondence with robert barclay, which is included in the printed but not published reliquæ barclaianæ. it would seem that this visit also afforded the opportunity for conversation with one herr adrian paets, dutch ambassador to the court of spain, which led to the production of one of barclay's minor works. the subject of their converse was the very soul of quakerism, the inward and immediate revelations of the holy spirit. paets stated his objections, and wished barclay to reconsider the whole question. the apologist did this, and was more than ever satisfied with his own position. accordingly he wrote to herr paets a long letter in latin full of subtle reasonings in his very best style, replying to the objections urged. paets promised an answer to the letter but never sent it. however, when he met barclay in london some years after, he acknowledged that he had been mistaken in his notions of the quakers, for he found they could make a reasonable plea for the foundation of their religion. barclay afterwards translated his letter into english, and published it. this was a kind of service in which he was quite at home, and in his quiet northern home doubtless it kept him constantly employed. his english friends had not the leisure necessary to do the work in the thorough style in which he performed it. how diligently he laboured in this field, the facts already stated attest. but the grandest fruit of his genius is undoubtedly his apology. the address to the king is dated nov. th, ; the latin edition is dated amsterdam, . he was therefore only twenty-seven years of age when his masterpiece was completed; and as it was first published, so it stands to-day, unaltered. his genius matured early, though to the great perplexity of our human judgment, early maturity was followed by early death. for three or four years, his english brethren had been struggling with an unusually strong tide of misrepresentation and obloquy. he could not be a passive looker-on now that god had given him rest from persecution. he would endeavour to state the opinions of his brethren, and the rationale of them, with a fulness for which they had neither time nor opportunity. it was a brotherly and chivalrous feeling, and it had its own reward. the work was at once accepted as a standard exposition of quakerism. it has been profusely eulogised by many who have not accepted the creed it defends. even voltaire has warmly praised its pure latinity. he called it "the finest church latin that he knew." sir james mackintosh in his "revolution in england," calls it "a masterpiece of ingenious reasoning, and a model of argumentative composition, which extorted praise from bayle, one of the most acute and least fanatical of men." the writer in the "theological review," from whom we have already quoted, is enthusiastic in his admiration of it. after speaking of rutherford's "letters," and scougal's "life of god in the soul of man," he proceeds, "greater, where they were greatest, than rutherford or scougal, was robert barclay; it is a country's loss that his splendid apologia should be left in the hands of a sect. here, indeed, is a genuine outcome of the inner depth of the nation's worship; something characteristic and her own; a gift to her religious life akin to her profoundest requirements; and if she did but know it, far worthier of the acceptance of her people than any religious aid which she has ever welcomed from the other side of the border; more satisfying to the intellect than the close scholastic conclusions of the english divines at westminster; more full of melody to the soul than even the rude music of those ballad psalms which the kirk had not been too proud to adapt from the version of the cornish statesman. one great original theologian, and only one, has scotland produced; he it is the history of whose life and mind we shall endeavour to approach in the present article." theol. review, , p. . we must not leave the apology without referring to its manly and honest preface. it has been praised as heartily as the book itself. in an age of fulsome flattery, it is unique in its appeal to the better nature of king charles, whom the writer begs not to despise the singular mercies which god had shown him. on barclay's return to london from holland, he probably presented a copy to the king; and it is to the credit of that monarch that, far from taking offence at the plain speaking of his quaker kinsman, we find him ever after showing him special favour. penn and barclay seem alike to have possessed the power of drawing out the best side of the characters of charles ii. and his brother james ii. this fact must be borne in mind in considering the charges laid against the former because of intimate relations with the court. from the continent, barclay returned to london, where he heard that his father and other of his aberdeen friends had been thrown into prison for "holding conventicles." he immediately began to devise measures for their release. he had a letter from the princess elizabeth to her brother prince rupert. he presented this, met of course with a civil reception, and took the opportunity to obtain the prince's concurrence with a petition which he was presenting to the king. he also wrote to the princess to support his application, and then presented his petition. his plea is that a difference should be made between the peaceable and loyal quakers, and those against whom the laws were directed. unfortunately prince rupert was indisposed, and unable to keep his promise. so as the petition was vigorously opposed, his memorial was passed on to the scotch privy council, with such a cool endorsement that it took no effect. it was on this errand that he first sought the duke of york, afterwards james ii. he himself has told the story in his "vindication." "being at london and employed by my friends to obtain a liberty for them out of their imprisonment at aberdeen for the single exercise of their conscience, and not being able to gain any ground upon the duke of lauderdale, in whose hands was the sole management of scots affairs at that time, i was advised by a friend to try the duke of york, who was said to be the only man whom lauderdale would bear to meddle in his province, or who was like to do it with success. and having found means of access to him, i found him inclined to interpose in it, he having then and always since to me professed himself to be for liberty of conscience. and though not for several years, yet at last his interposing proved very helpful in that matter." the reply of the princess palatine to robert barclay's request, is interesting as a specimen of the religious correspondence of these illustrious friends. she says, "your memory is dear to me, so are your lines and exhortations very necessary. i confess also myself spiritually very poor and naked; all my happiness is, i do know i am so, and whatever i have studied or learnt heretofore is but dirt in comparison with the true knowledge of christ. i confess my infidelity to this life heretofore, by suffering myself to be conducted by false, politic lights. now that i have sometimes a small glimpse of the true light, i do not attend it as i should, being drawn away by the works of my calling, which must be done; and as your swift english hounds i often overrun my scent, being called back when it is too late." in his reply, barclay tells of the non-success of his efforts to obtain the release of his friends, and yet adds with calm heroism, "i this day take my journey towards them, not doubting but i shall also share their joys." nor was he mistaken. soon after reaching aberdeen, he was arrested and placed in the tolbooth. this gaol was divided into two parts, the lower, which was vile, the upper, which was worse. robert barclay was allowed a place in the lower prison, but those who were arrested with him were thrust into the upper prison. here shortly afterwards they were joined by david barclay, who had been released only to fall again into the clutches of the enemy. the news of robert barclay's commitment to prison reached his royal friend elizabeth the next month (dec. ). she at once wrote to console him. "i am sure that the captivers are more captive than you are, being in the company of him that admits no bonds, and is able to break all bonds." she also wrote at once to her brother prince rupert to use his influence with the king on his behalf. her letter put the case plainly and well. "i wrote you some months ago by robert barclay who passed this way, and hearing i was your sister, desired to speak with me. i knew him to be a quaker by his hat, and took occasion to inform myself of all their opinions; and finding they were accustomed to submit to magistrates in real things, omitting the ceremonial, i wished in my heart the king might have many such subjects. and since i have heard that notwithstanding his majesty's most gracious letters in his behalf to the council of scotland, he has been clapped up in prison with the rest of his friends, and they threaten to hang them, at least those they call preachers among them, unless they subscribe their own banishment; and this upon a law made against other sects that appeared armed for the maintenance of their heresy; which goes directly against the principles of those which are ready to suffer all that can be inflicted, and still love and pray for their enemies. therefore, dear brother, if you can do anything to prevent their destruction, i doubt not but you will do an action acceptable to god almighty, and conducive to the service of your royal master. for the presbyterians are their violent enemies, to whom they are an eyesore, as being witnesses against all their violent ways. i care not though his majesty see my letter. it is written out of no less an humble affection for him, than most sensible compassion for the innocent sufferers." besides writing this letter she agreed to use her influence with lady lauderdale, and to get her brother to do his best with the earl, but she explains she has little expectation of success as they are no friends of theirs. this letter and other influences led to a royal recommendation to the king's council in edinbro', but some interval elapsed before it bore fruit. meanwhile, the father and son had been removed to a gaol outside the town, called the chapel. their treatment here was malicious enough, but mild in comparison with what many of their brethren suffered; and though they protested, as became britons and quakers, no doubt they thanked god for the comparative ease of their lot. whilst in prison they received many letters of sympathy from their friends. amongst these is a little known letter from william penn, hoping that they "may grow spiritual soldiers, expert and fitted by these exercises for such spiritual conflicts as the lord hath for you to go through;" and that they may grow "as trees in winter, downwards, that your root may spread; so shall you stand in all storms and tempests." one of the excuses for ill-using the friends was that they were popishly affected. this must have galled robert barclay's sensitive nature exceedingly. his growing friendship with the king and the suspected duke of york gave colour to the charge, and his training in a catholic college, his former profession of the catholic faith, and his near kinship to many catholics, were taunts ready to the hand of disputants like the aberdeen students or the scurrilous john brown. from the "chapel," barclay wrote a strong appeal to archbishop sharpe to abandon his unchristian persecutions. does the reader think this is like asking shylock to renounce his pound of flesh? he must remember that the quakers were accustomed to accomplish such impossibilities; and where their hardy faith could not succeed in such feats, it could persevere in attempting them. their love was as invincible as their patience. they sincerely pitied their persecutors, and felt that they were harming themselves more than they hurt the friends. so for their soul's sake they pleaded with them, using every argument which they thought they could ask god to bless. whilst in aberdeen prison, barclay also wrote his treatise on "universal love," an earnest plea for religious toleration. the prisoners gained their liberty by an amusing disagreement between the aberdeen magistrates and the sheriff, which led to a lawsuit. meanwhile, robert barclay and others who had been liberated on parole, went before a notary and claimed their full liberty. we now find robert barclay attending the yearly meeting in london, and then going on to the continent in company with george fox and william penn. their object was two-fold, aggression and organisation. the mennonite churches of the netherlands and germany were the special attraction. william caton, at one time tutor at swarthmoor hall, had settled in holland, and had met with a cordial welcome amongst these churches. william ames and other friends also visited them, and by degrees the quakers had become very strong in holland. william penn had visited them before. we may here remark that the friends have ever kept up a kindly and brotherly intercourse with the mennonites whether in germany, russia, or the united states, visiting them for fraternal encouragement, and helping them in times of famine and persecution. considering that both of barclay's companions kept diaries which have since been published, it is remarkable how little we learn of him from their records. penn's narrative is a rich spiritual treat, but would have been richer had it been his purpose to tell of the private as well as of the public transactions of the "three great apostles of the sect," as hepworth dixon calls them. what glorious times of spiritual communion they must have had. with strongly marked individuality, there was yet a genuine bond of union and true sympathy between them. fox, the senior by twenty years, was strongest in acquaintance with the facts about the state of the society. his faulty english might at times jar on the ears of his scholarly brethren, but that was less offensive to them than the impure spiritual dialects of many professed christians. his strong and many-sided nature enabled him to meet penn in his large philanthropic schemes, and to sympathise with barclay in his scholarly labours. if already his frame was feeling the effects of much suffering whilst his brethren were in their prime, his soul knew no decay. penn might be the strongest of the three on the point of leavening earthly institutions with heavenly aims. barclay's surpassing intellectual gifts might forbid any man to despise his youth. but in deep spiritual life they were equals. what mighty wrestlings must have been theirs as they talked of the spiritual needs of the world! how they must have exulted in the progress of spiritual truth! their own society at the time probably numbered at least , members. there were many not of their community with whom they held sweet intercourse through a common enjoyment of spiritual religion. their faith was unfaltering that a new era had dawned upon the christian church, which was about to renew its youth, and repeat the glorious triumphs of its days. after successfully organising in holland the same system of church government which had been set up in england, they visited herford, the court of the princess elizabeth. barclay had written to her from aberdeen prison, strongly urging her, since she felt the power and blessing of silent waiting on god, to trust that, and especially to dismiss her "hireling" chaplain with his "unallowable services." in reply she had pleaded that the way was not yet plain to her; she must wait for light. if only her faith were strengthened what might she not do? but the result did not answer barclay's expectation. they had, indeed, times of great spiritual refreshment, and the right hand of the lord was revealed, but the princess was not won to silent worship, nor to renounce the ordinary modes of worship. however barclay urges and pleads with her, her reply still is "i must go by my light." "i cannot submit to the opinions or practice of others, though they have more light than myself."[ ] [ ] not that barclay aimed at proselytising, but he wished her to take the course which seemed to him the necessary outcome of her views. "i pretend to be no sect master," he writes, "and disgust all such." at herford, barclay left his friends and returned to amsterdam. in september we find him in london, using his influence with the duke of york to procure liberty for friends in scotland. he only succeeded, however, so far as his father and himself were concerned. when he wrote the result to his friend the princess, and after shewing the dangers that awaited him, told her he was returning to scotland, she was astonished, and warmly remonstrated with him for taking such a course. robert barclay had expressed sorrow at her non-success. she tells him that it is no cross to her that lady lauderdale returns no other answer to her request than a mere court compliment, and proceeds:--"but it is a cross to me that you will not make use of the liberty which god miraculously gave you, but will return into scotland to be clapt up again into prison, for which we have neither precept nor example." but to stop in the path of duty because there were dangers ahead, would have been a failure of obedience which would have plunged barclay's soul into darkness and distress. he must go forward and leave the consequences to god. the persecution of the aberdeen friends continued unabated until . in the spring of that year archbishop sharpe, the chief instigator of it, was assassinated, and lauderdale removed from office: and immediately came a lull in the storm. in november, robert barclay and some others were indeed thrown into prison, but they were released in a few hours. the favour of the council towards friends in general, and especially the interest at court of robert barclay, were too strong for the persecutors, and they capitulated. locally the hard fought fight was won. the royal favour was still more distinctly shown to robert barclay when, in the same year, the ury estate was, by royal charter dated th august, erected into a barony, with civil and criminal jurisdiction to himself and his heirs forever. this was about the time when james was made lord high commissioner, and being jealous of the influence of monmouth, was nursing his scotch popularity. in the act of parliament ( ) confirming the charter, it is said to be granted "for the many services done by colonel david barclay and his son the said robert barclay to the king and his most royal progenitors in times past." it was swept away, with all kindred privileges, when george ii. remodelled the government of scotland. but the court book is still in existence to bear testimony to his conscientious administration of justice. in this year he also paid another visit to holland, but was unable to visit his royal correspondent the princess elizabeth at herford. however he wrote her what proved to be a final letter, dated rotterdam, th of the th month, . in this characteristically sensitive but affectionately faithful epistle, he says, "thou may think strange that after so long a silence i should now apply myself to answer thy last (which came to my hands at a time when i was under great bodily weakness) for which i will not trouble thee with any further apologie than to assure thee that no want of respect or regard to thee, but ane unwillingness to work in mine own will, and a fear in so doing rather to hurt than help thee, hath hindered me until now. had i given way to my own inclinations, and to the course of that love, which, without flattery i can say i have for thee, so as to have exprest but the hundred part of that concern which frequently possessed me on thy account, i had overcharged thee with my letters. but knowing it is not the will of man that bringeth about the work of god, i choosed rather to be silent than forward. but being through a singular occasion come to this country, and not having access to make thee a visit, i found a true liberty from the lord in my spirit thus to salute thee." from what follows it seems that either the princess misunderstood his anxious solicitude for her, or he thought she did. his apology for his urgency is touching. he concludes; "for herein i have peace before god, that i never sought to gather thee nor others to myself, but to the lord. i pretend to be no sect master, and disgust all such. my labour is only as an ambassadour to instruct all to be reconciled to god, and desire no more than to be manifest in the consciences of those to whom i come that i am such, by the answer of that of god there, to which therefore in my conscience i recommend my testimony." in not seeing the princess on this visit he missed his last opportunity, for she died the following year. penn has paid a tribute to her memory in "no cross, no crown," in which he says, "i must needs say her mind had a noble prospect; her eye was to a better and more lasting inheritance than can be found below, which made her often despise the greatness of courts, and learning of the schools, of which she was an extraordinary judge." to this year also belong two of his writings--a "duply" to a scurrilous reply to his apology, entitled "quakerism the pathway to paganism," by john brown, and a translation of his latin letter to the ambassadors assembled at nimeguen, urging the claims of peace. during the remaining years of his life, robert barclay published little. probably he was too busy to write much. of his employments unfortunately we know little. his writings, his learning, his great ability, his rank, his aristocratic friends and connections, and his influence at court, made him a man of mark. in his own society, he was a recognised leader. his ministry evidently was of a high order. possibly not so popular as that of fox or penn, it must have been solid, earnest, and impressive. he is known to us almost solely as an author, but his own generation knew him as a capable man of affairs. he was not a popular leader like fox, or a man consumed by large humanitarian schemes like penn. but he had a broad and liberal mind, sound judgment, and an insinuating address. the dedication of the apology shows with what skill he could walk on delicate ground. about this time, the divisions which troubled friends in england found their way to aberdeen. rogers and bugg sent their slanderous letters everywhere, and as barclay was mistakenly supposed to have written the "anarchy of ranters" against the former, it was not likely that the peace of aberdeen would be undisturbed. several members had to be expelled and then harmony was restored. it is to this that the following extract from a letter of george fox refers. "london, st of th mo. (june), . "dear robert barclay, with my love to thee and thy father and all the rest of the faithful friends in the holy peaceable truth, that is over all and changes not. i am sorry to hear that there should be any difference or distance amongst any friends in your parts, and that they should not keep in the power of the lord to the spreading of the truth abroad, and such great want and need as there is in your country. for all should be in the gospel of peace, in the power of god in which enmity cannot come, and in the peaceable wisdom which is easy to be entreated. and therefore you that are ministers in that nation should meet together sometimes, and keep in unity, and that you might treat of things that tend for peace, as the apostles and elders did in their day, to the establishing, settling, and preserving of the churches in christ jesus." it may surprise some who have mistaken ideas of fox's methods to find him saying: "i shall write a few words to john blaikling, for him and thomas langhorn to come into your country, for they are honest men and may be very serviceable." from the next sentence, it appears that barclay had not been at the recent yearly meeting which had threatened to be a stormy one, but had passed off peaceably. "as for the yearly meeting, the lord did manifest his wonderful power and presence in all the meetings, and it was mighty large from all parts, and the love of god was raised in friends beyond words. i have not seen the like. and though many of the dirty spirits was there that are rebellious, yet the lord's power and truth was over them, and friends parted in the power and love of god, and all was quiet." in - the duke of york was in scotland, first as lord high commissioner, afterwards on a visit. considering the cruel and mischievous policy which he pursued there, it seems incredible to us that barclay should have been able to like him. yet he seems often to have been at his court, and to have had the favourable impressions which he had already received of the duke deepened and confirmed. hume says indeed that, "the duke had behaved with great civility towards the gentry and nobility [of scotland] and by his courtly demeanour had much won upon their affections." so that barclay was not alone. at one time he verified before the duke a claim of his father's for money laid out in the service of charles i.; the debt was acknowledged, but only a small part, less than £ , was ever paid. again he visits him in edinbro' at the earnest desire of william penn about the new jersey affairs.[ ] at other times he fully used his great influence with james on behalf of his friends. even when in the duke was called to windsor, barclay's wishes were not forgotten as appears by the following note. windsor, june th, . i send you here enclosed a letter to the lord advocate as you desired. i choose to write to him because i had spoken to him of it when i was in scotland. you see i do my part, and i make no doubt but that he will do his, and then you will have no further trouble in that affair. james. [ ] the whole letter which tells us this is worth quoting. letters of the early friends, pp. , . edr. [edinburgh], the th mo. [dec.] . "dear g. f., "to whom is my dear and unfeigned love in the unchangeable truth, of whom to hear is always refreshful to me. i know it will be acceptable to thee to understand that at last the tedious persecution at aberdeen seems to have come to an end, for friends have had their meetings peaceable near these two months, and dear p. l. (patrick livingstone) after having had several peaceable meetings, is now come away a noble conqueror from that place, and is gone to visit friends in the west country, and then intends homeward by way of newcastle. i doubt not, but that god will abundantly reward his courage and his patience; for his stay hath been of great service to truth and friends in these parts. "i came here at the earnest desire of w. p. (william penn) and other friends to speak to the duke of york concerning the new jersey business; but fear there will be little effectual got done in it. i doubt it has been spoiled in the managing at first. * * * i should be very glad, if thy freedom could allow of it, to see thee in this country in the spring. i know it would be of great service, for there are several things that would need it. several things go cross, and are so now in divers places; and i know no man's presence could so easily remedy it as thine." he signs himself, "thy real friend, r. barclay." whilst in london in , robert barclay was appointed governor of east jersey (the eastern part of new jersey) which had been purchased by william penn, the earl of perth, and other of his friends. he was made one of the proprietors, and "to induce him to accept thereof [of the governorship] they gifted him a propriety with acres _more_ for him to bestow as he should think fit." "charles ii. confirmed the grant of the government, and the royal commission states that 'such are his known fidelity and capacity, that he has the government during life; but no other governor after him shall have it longer than three years,'" he appointed as his deputy gawen laurie, a london friend and merchant, already attached to the province as one of the proprietors of west jersey. his brothers john and david intended to settle there, but david died on the voyage. he was a youth of great piety and promise, greatly beloved, especially by his father. john settled at perth-amboy, the capital of the province, where he died in . the only mention of him which i can find is in smith's history of new jersey, where it is said, "he bore the character of a good neighbour, and was very serviceable to the public in several capacities, but more particularly in amboy, where he lived and died."[ ] [ ] both brothers were members of the society of friends, and the younger was already a minister at the time of his death. in robert barclay, william penn would have not only a practical adviser, but one able to understand and sympathise with his lofty aims. he who suggested two hundred years ago a just method of disendowment, and who so effectively advocated the cause of peace, would have large-hearted sympathy and suggestions for the founder of the western utopia. it is unfortunate that we have no information of his plans and efforts for the two colonies. once only the curtain is lifted. in we find him "attentive to the welfare of east jersey by shipping provisions and engaging indented servants in aberdeen."[ ] [ ] education was early attended to by friends. "in in aberdeen monthly meeting, two schools were established, one for boys and one for girls. the latter was held in the meeting-house. the schoolmistress was besought by the church 'to seek to accomplish herself in reading, writing, and arithmetic,' and also to get 'a good stocking-weaver.' the church also, 'had a true sense that there is cause for encouraging her.' some of the parents thought otherwise and withdrew their children, and it was directed, that they be weightily dealt with to return them again. the boys school had a schoolmaster who was allowed pound rent. it was to impart 'the latin tongue and other commendable learning.' the 'priests' manifested 'great trouble' at the setting up of this school, because 'several considerable people of the world have sent their children thereto, highly commending their profiting therein beyond their own schools. and some fruits also as to conviction and conversion among the young ones hath been of great encouragement to us." (robert barclay's "inner life, &c.," p. , note.) that robert barclay took great interest in this effort may be taken for granted. there is extant a copy of a letter of his widow's (dated th of th mo., ) full of earnest desires for the scholars and recommendations to the teachers. there is a well-known and authentic story of barclay's adventure with a robber, which is often quoted by friends in support of their belief in non-resistance to evil. he had been to london, and had left one of his sons at theobalds, where his old friend george keith had set up a school. one morning his wife noticed that he looked thoughtful, and asked the reason. he replied that he believed some uncommon trial would that day befal the company. they set out on their journey, and met with the not uncommon incident in those days near london--an attack from highwaymen. one of these presented his pistol at robert barclay, who with calm self-possession took him by the arm, and asked him how he came to be so rude. the robber dropped his pistol, and became quiet as a lamb. mrs. barclay's brother was not so fortunate, he was robbed; and one of the four members of the party, a dutchman named sonmans, accidentally received a wound in his thigh from which he died. surely the father never showed more coolness under fire than did the son when suddenly confronted by such danger.[ ] [ ] the incident is thus told more fully and picturesquely by wilson armistead. "calm and self-possessed, he looked the robber in the face, with a firm but meek benignity, assured him he was his and every man's friend, that he was willing and ready to relieve his wants; that he was free from the fear of death through a divine hope of immortality, and therefore was not to be intimidated by a deadly weapon, and then appealed to him whether he could find in his heart to shed the blood of one who had no other feeling or purpose but to do him good. the robber was confounded; his eye melted; his brawny arm trembled; his pistol dropped out of his hand on to the ground, and he fled from the presence of the non-resistant hero whom he could no longer confront." mr. armistead's memoir was published long after the publication of the contemporary letters which give the simpler narrative; the reader must take his choice. barclay like william penn was charged with doubtful relations with james ii. they both believed him sincere in his professed regard for religious liberty; they both felt for him a real, though it seems to us an unmerited regard. he showed them both special kindness, and listened to their pleas for their brethren and for others. george fox writes to barclay in :--"friends were very sensible of the great service thou hadst concerning the truth with the king and all the court; and that thou hadst their ear more than any friend when here." but it must not be supposed that they were therefore indifferent to the constitutional principles at stake. (see sketch of penn.) there is a curious disproof of this in a hint conveyed in the friends' address to the king on his declaration of indulgence, drawn up by the yearly meeting of , when it is almost certain that barclay was present and must have concurred. "we hope," they say, "the good effects thereof may produce such a concurrence from the parliament as will secure it to our posterity." this influence at court caused robert barclay often to be wanted in london, and he seems to have been a constant attender of the yearly meetings up to . in we are told that barclay was again in london at the yearly meeting, and employed himself in many acts of kindness. charles ii. had died on the th of february, and james at once ascended to the throne. if barclay had been anxious for the royal favour, as some asserted, he would at once have gone to court to salute the rising sun. instead, we find him going simply to the may gatherings of his brethren, and only at a later date seeking the royal presence on behalf of others. in he repeated his visit on the same errand and took part with george whitehead in an appeal to the king, which resulted in the liberation of friends. whitehead says he took barclay with him, "the king having a particular respect for him from the knowledge he had of him in scotland;" but whitehead seems to have been the chief speaker. in the end the king granted a commission to the attorney-general, sir r. sawyer, to issue warrants to release all whom he could legally discharge as the king's prisoners, which through george whitehead's energy was thoroughly carried out. soon after barclay's return, his aged father sickened, and died on the th of october. his son published a very full account of his last days, which seem to have been full of heavenly calm and restful faith. the old soldier, after a youth of adventures and a manhood of perils and persecutions, "fell asleep," says his son, "like a lamb." the feelings that first won him to quakerism were strong to the last. to the doctor who attended him he said, "it is the _life_ of righteousness that we bear witness to, and not an empty profession." to the friends who gathered round his dying-bed, he said, "how precious is the love of god among his children, and their love to one another! my love is with you--i leave it among you." as the end drew near, he exclaimed, "now the time comes! praises, praises to the lord! let now thy servant depart in peace." and so he crossed the river. again in robert barclay visited london, travelling with viscount and lady arbuthnot, the latter as a daughter of the earl of sunderland being a distant cousin of his own. the scotch quakers had previously met in aberdeen, and had drawn up in their general meeting an address of acknowledgment to the king on his recent declaration of indulgence; this robert barclay presented. a similar one, prepared by this london yearly meeting of and presented to the king by william penn, has been already mentioned. on this occasion, barclay visited the seven bishops who were in the tower for refusing to circulate this very declaration. they had declared that the quakers had belied them by reporting that they had been the death of some of them. probably barclay felt not only that the charge, which certainly had been made, must be sustained for the credit of his brethren, but what was more important, that the bishops were now in a position better to understand the quaker pleas for liberty of conscience. so he produced to them unquestionable proof that some friends had been kept in gaol until they died, even after trustworthy physicians had warned their persecutors that death must be the result of their longer detention. however, he assured them that they would not publish the damaging facts, lest it should furnish a handle to their enemies. his last visit to london was early in , and he remained all the summer. on the journey he had the company of his brother-in-law, sir ewen cameron, of lochiel. he took with him his eldest son robert, then a boy of sixteen, remarkable alike for his piety and for his precocious scotch prudence, and introduced him to the court at windsor. there he remained for some time, "being much caressed, it is said, on account of his father's interest, which occasioned numerous dependents; and he appears to have conducted himself so as to incur no reproach even with quakers." a sermon which robert barclay preached at this time in gracechurch st. meeting, was reported and has been published. one great object of this journey was to see justice done to his brother-in-law, who had a difference with the powerful duke of gordon. barclay set himself in good earnest to get the matter righted. first he wrote to several english noblemen with whom he was intimate, but they were shy of the difficult task, though they all professed their willingness to help him in anything else. then he appealed to the king, and "succeeded in obtaining from him a full hearing upon the whole matter, in the presence of the marquis of powis and the earls of murray and melfort, who were requested to become referees. persevering through all obstructions raised by the opposite party, barclay was able at length to obtain a final settlement, much to the advantage of cameron of lochiel." thus again james appears under barclay's influence as the good genius of the oppressed. on one of his visits to the court, he found the king full of the thought of the coming of the prince of orange. they had a serious conversation about the state of affairs, and barclay, like penn, sincerely sympathised with the royal culprit in his troubles. "being with him near a window, the king looked out and observed that 'the wind was then fair for the prince of orange to come over.' robert barclay replied, 'it was hard that no expedient could be found to satisfy the people.' the king declared he would do anything becoming a gentleman, except parting with liberty of conscience, which he never would whilst he lived." after the revolution, the calumnies by which he was assailed led to his drawing up a "vindication," which is the last known production of his pen. for himself he would have been content to bear these calumnies in silence. two reasons overruled this choice. some men of judgment who found how completely he could refute them, wished his answers to be well known. on the other hand, the loss of his reputation caused damage to the society to which he belonged, and of whose interests he was so jealous. yet his own contempt for the charges laid against him, and for the popular opinion of him, is evident in almost every paragraph. there is more than courageous outspokenness; there is the indifference of one who feels, "with me it is a small thing that i should be judged of you. he that judgeth me is the lord." he sums up the charges against him thus:--"that i am a papist and some will needs have me a jesuite; that the access and interest i have been thought to have had with the king is thereto ascribed; that i have been a great caballer and councealor of those things that have been done for the advancement of the romish interest and agrieving of the people: and thence have been a joint contriver with the jesuit peters and others; and that for this i have received advantages and money from the king, and so consequently am chargeable with the odium and censure that such doings merit." to this he replies, that he has been married eighteen years and has several children, which proves him no jesuit; that for twenty-two years he has been no papist, "without being under the least temptation to return to it again;" that he has always avowed his opposition to those principles "in the opinion of some more forwardly than prudently," when the catholic party was strong, "judging it," he adds sarcastically, "a fitter season then than now to show zeal for the protestant religion." the only money ever paid to him from the treasury is acknowledged in the published accounts, and so on. but what is most daring is his charity towards the fallen monarch and his catholic friends in the hour of their unpopularity. "for i must confess that the fatal stroaks the interest of the church of rome seems to have gotten in these nations does not a whitt increase my aversion to their religion, for that i judge truth and error is not rightly measured by such events; and as to the persons of roman catholics, as it never agreed with the notions i have of the christian religion to hate these persons, so their present misfortunes are so far from embittering my spirit towards them that it rather increases tenderness and regard to them, while i consider the ingenerous spirit of those who cannot take a more effectual way to lessen the reputation of the protestant religion." "i come now to the great charge of my access to and interest with the king. and if i should ask whether that were a crime? i find few reasonable men, if any, would say so. but i am neither afraid nor ashamed to give a candid account of that matter." he then gives the occasion of their meeting in , as narrated elsewhere, and proceeds:--"to do him right, i never found reason to doubt his sincerity in the matter of liberty of conscience.... after his happening to be in scotland, giving me an opportunity of more frequent access, and that begetting an opinion of interest, i acknowledge freely that i was ready to use it to the advantage of my friends and acquaintances, what i esteemed just and reasonable for me to meddle in." again he says, "in short i must own nor will i decline to avow that i love king james, that i wish him well, that i have been and am sensibly touched with a feeling of his misfortunes, and that i cannot excuse myself from the duty of praying for him that god may bless him, and sanctify his afflictions to him. and if so be his will to take from him an earthly crown, he may prepare his heart and direct his steps so that he may obtain through mercy an heavenly one, which all good christians judge the most preferable." the last two years of robert barclay's life seem to have been spent in social enjoyment and quiet usefulness at home. "there," we are told, "his mild and amiable virtues found their happiest sphere of exercise, and he enjoyed the esteem of his neighbours." but such serene happiness was not to last. in , he travelled in the ministry in the north of scotland, accompanied by another quaker preacher named james dickinson. soon after his return home, he was seized with a violent fever, under which he soon sunk, and died on the rd of october, . he was laid beside his father in the vault in the burial place in the beautiful grounds of ury which his father had prepared. (thither his descendants and namesakes were gathered one by one for years, until in , the last laird, capt. barclay-allardice, after mortgaging his estates to their full value, and bringing sadness to the hearts of all who loved the name he bore, was brought there to his last rest.) there was great lamentation, especially in his own society, when the news got abroad. fox, penn, and others bore no grudging testimony to his gifts and services. the latter edited his works, with an ample preface, in which the subjects and merits of the different treatises are spoken of with judgment, yet with all the warmth of a personal friend. barclay's apology has been spoken of as a system of divinity. it is nothing of the kind, but simply an exhaustive treatise on the points in which quakerism differs from the current evangelical christianity of his day. the point is of importance, because otherwise the reader may be led astray both by the omissions from the work, and by the proportions allotted to different subjects. he must look elsewhere, for instance, for proofs that the early friends were substantially orthodox in their views of the trinity. much has been said about the apology being framed on a plan similar to the assembly's catechism, and being indeed a reply to it. but that catechism itself is on the plan of calvin's institutes, the trusted guide of scotch orthodoxy. it would be an interesting point to trace the relation between the institutes and the apology. as to the calvinistic controversy, a recent writer says, "no man ever gave calvinism such mighty shakes as barclay did. and he shook it from within. he understood it. as the religion of his country he had entered into it and made himself master of it. his controversy with calvin was on fundamental principles." (theological review, , p. ). these assertions must be modified by remembering that, as we have seen, almost from childhood barclay disliked calvinism, so that whilst he might effectually combat some of its positions, he was little likely to do justice to its strong points, and can hardly be said to have shaken it from within. the arminianism of the catholic church would strengthen his instinctive dislike, so that though he found the quakers arminians, he in nowise owed his convictions on this point to them. the style of the apology is beautifully clear. the best proof of its simplicity is to be found in the fact that many of the artisan class have so followed its reasonings as to be led to accept quakerism by this book alone. probably it has brought more converts to quakerism than any other book that ever was written. it is grand in its efficient handling of great questions without any appearance of labour or effort. there is a cumulative power in many of the paragraphs that is very effective; epithet piled on epithet, clause following up clause like the waves of the incoming tide, until mind and heart are alike borne along by its rush. the thought is made to stand out not only boldly and clearly, but clothed with that subtle power which is only wielded by the transparently honest and the intensely earnest. at times the writer condescends to brusque vehemence or touching appeal to his own experience. whatever claim for originality of thought is advanced on behalf of robert barclay, must principally be based on his arguments in defence of quakerism, and on his systematising of quaker thought.[ ] his namesake and descendant, the late robert barclay of reigate, bestowed great pains and labour on investigations to find out how far the ideas of the early friends were known to the world before george fox preached them. he has shewn in his "inner life of the religious societies of the commonwealth" that to a large extent the religious phrases and tenets of the friends, were those used and held by caspar schwenkfeld, and his followers amongst the mennonite churches of holland and germany. churches of their faith and order were established in york and lincoln when george fox began to preach, through which he may have received their views.[ ] [ ] in the "yorkshireman," a religious paper conducted by the eminent meteorologist, luke howard, f.r.s., before he left the society of friends, in consequence of their action in the "beacon" controversy--there is (vol. iii. pp. - ) an interesting enquiry as to barclay's indebtedness to george keith for his views as to the "hypothesis or system relating to the 'seed or birth of god in the soul, which makes it a distinct being or substance as the vehiculum dei, &c.'" the writer terms barclay's view a platonising doctrine. certainly keith felt very kindly towards dr. henry more, the great platonist, and urged friends to shew him loving sympathy "notwithstanding of his mistakes." keith declared afterward that barclay learnt the doctrine from him, and the writer produces proofs of this from keith's writings. but the recent proofs of a common source in the writings of schwenkfeld, makes the enquiry less interesting. [ ] the mennonites condemned all oaths, all war, all adornment in dress, and frivolity in conduct and conversation. they had times for silent prayer in their worship; they had no paid ministry; they taught that a university training alone did not fit a man for the ministry. they also set the fatal example of excluding from their membership those who married either unconverted persons, or christians of other denominations. they had circulating yearly meetings like the early friends. but the followers of caspar schwenkfeld were still more like friends than were other mennonites. the same authority says (p. ):--"the teaching of schwenkfeld and fox was identical on three important points. first, on what is called the doctrine of the 'inward light, life, word, seed, &c.' secondly, on 'immediate revelation;' that is, that god and christ in the person of the holy spirit, the word of god, communicates with the human soul without the absolute necessity of the rites and ceremonies of the church, or of any outward means, acts or things, however important they may be.... thirdly, that as a necessary consequence, no merely bodily act, such as partaking of the lord's supper or baptism, can give the inward and spiritual reality and power of the lord's 'body and blood,' or that of the spiritual 'washing of regeneration;' nor can the soul be maintained in spiritual union with him by bodily acts." schwenkfeld and his followers therefore discarded baptism and the lord's supper. at least mr. barclay has proved that fox was acquainted with these views, though possibly he may not have known their source. but it is evident that they were not received by him mechanically. they were assimilated, not swallowed; that which seemed to him chaff being separated from the wheat with intelligent appreciation, and such variations being introduced as his own experience and conscience indicated. the apology develops with systematic thoroughness, the doctrine of the "seed" or "light within." the "light within" is given to every man in measure, whether he be born in christian or heathen lands; and so has been given since the creation. it manifests his sins with kindly severity. as it is attended to, it grows in clearness, more light is given until the whole soul is filled with light, and joy, and peace. at first, the "seed" lies all but dormant in the human soul, until its faint impulses are recognised, accepted and honoured. then it grows in power, it subdues the corruptions of the flesh, it spreads its influence throughout the whole nature and the whole life. its power is sufficient for every duty and for all righteousness. but the early friends are not at all careful to maintain unity of idea and congruity of figure with regard to the terms "light" and "seed." they use them indiscriminately to describe the divine in-dwelling in all its stages. they are the secret of man's capacity for salvation. through the "universal light" all men may be led to a saving knowledge of god. it prepares the way for those "immediate revelations" of divine truth, which barclay declares to have been the formal objects of faith in all ages. by these "immediate revelations" or discoveries of vital truth to the soul, and by these alone, every christian becomes savingly acquainted with the things of god. like the mennonites, the quakers did not believe the seed to have any vitality apart from the spirit of god. neither the early friends nor any of their successors have ever believed in any natural power in man, by which he could savingly know god, or work out his soul's salvation. the seed or light was the gift of god; it was not the soul, as barclay is careful to explain, but a "substance"[ ] divinely given to every man, not naturally, but by grace. the seed was not separable from christ, and when it was quickened, christ was formed in the heart, and became the life of the soul.[ ] [ ] barclay uses the term in its scholastic sense as opposed to "attribute." [ ] the following extract will assist in correcting one mistaken idea of the "light within." it is from a speech made in the yearly meeting of , by my respected former tutor, isaac brown, whose solid learning and sound judgment have won him the greatest confidence amongst friends. the notorious "essays and reviews" were under discussion, and he said, "some thought the work ought to be hailed by our society, because of the views it advanced on the doctrine of the 'inward light.' he believed this idea was a misconception. the opinion of the essayists appeared to coincide rather with those of the hicksite body in america, than with those preached by george fox and now held by our society. it was not the 'inward light' (by which our early friends clearly stated that they meant nothing else than the light of the spirit of christ) to which these writers referred us, but the 'enlightened reason.' he thought it was time for us to discontinue the use of this term 'the inward light,' as it had been grievously misinterpreted out of the society, and was not found in scripture." let me here say that any one may find the essentials of quakerism without the platonising doctrine of the "seed," in j. j. gurney's "distinguishing views and practices of the society of friends." another peculiar feature of the quaker view of the divine in-dwelling is developed by barclay in his chapter on perfection. he has before claimed that justification is all as one with sanctification; he now explains that, in the view of friends, regeneration implies the possibility of perfection in this life. he contends earnestly for a lofty view of the power of christ in the believer. his proposition runs thus:--"proposition viii. in whom this pure and holy birth is fully brought forth, the body of death and sin comes to be crucified and removed, and their hearts united and subjected to the truth, so as not to obey any temptation or suggestion of the evil one, to be free from actual sinning and transgressing of the law of god, and in that respect perfect; yet doth this perfection still admit of a growth, and there remaineth always in some part a possibility of sinning, where the mind doth not most diligently attend unto the lord." from these and other teachings it has been inferred that the friends did not believe in the earthly life and sacrificial death of our lord; that they knew no christ but the christ within. this is a great mistake.[ ] that they received and held these truths is a point easily proved, and barclay distinctly affirms that they must be preached, or the believer will not become a complete christian. but they argued that there might be christian life without the knowledge of these truths. in their teachings the christ within was prominent, and the death of christ filled a less prominent position as the ground of god's mercy, the meritorious cause of the gift within. [ ] see the valuable letter, quoted p. . but in perusing barclay, the reader will of course remember the controversies out of which his works sprung, and will make allowance for the strain of debate. points on which disputants are agreed will always be passed over slightly; points that have been overlooked or challenged will be emphasised, and dwelt on so largely as to seem out of proportion. but undoubtedly, when amongst the friends of the next century these controversial works became the staple reading of an age of declining piety, the mischief done by this disproportion was great. quakerism, contrary to the designs and aspirations of its early leaders, became almost synonymous with mysticism and quietism, and little better than theism. the objective facts of christianity were neglected, and subjective experiences were everything. for instance in all the writings and journal of john woolman, admirable as they are in many respects, there is hardly a single statement of the atoning work of our lord and saviour. still the evangelical reader will find in barclay much that he can enjoy and approve. his arguments for the necessity of the holy spirit's help in reading the scriptures to profit, and in gaining a saving knowledge of christian truth, are most excellent. so with many other points involving spiritual-mindedness. but the present writer heartily agrees with joseph john gurney, when, in the midst of the beacon controversy he wrote, when barclay's name was brought into special prominence, "i am, however, inclined to the opinion, that were we compelled to select a single writer in order to ascertain the religious principles of the early friends, we could scarcely do better than choose george fox himself."[ ] and this choice would be justified, not only by the clearness and fulness of fox's expositions of scripture truth, but by the healthy tone and practical power of those expositions. it is significant that barclay and not fox was the favourite writer of the quietistic age of quakerism. [ ] j. j. gurney's memoirs, vol. , p. . for a long period barclay was more than a standard writer amongst the friends. his apology had all the authority of a creed, and not to accept it would be sufficient to brand any friend as unsound.[ ] nobler minds might feel that this was bondage utterly foreign to the spirit of the early friends; yet a large number of friends did not. but about the beginning of the present century, a change came over the society. religious and philanthropic works led some of its members to associate with evangelical churchmen and others. controversies also arose, which at least compelled a systematic and critical study of the bible. broader sympathies and more enlightened study of the scriptures undermined barclay's influence. it was found that his exposition of scripture texts was sometimes unsatisfactory. the yearly meeting ceased to print the apology for gratuitous distribution, though not without strenuous protest from some, who clung to the old ways of presenting quaker truth. [ ] "the 'apology' of barclay was largely printed and distributed by the society, and was accepted at the period of which we are treating [ ] (contrary to the principles of the ancient society) as a _distinct creed_, which every person bearing the name of a 'friend' ought to be prepared to accept in all its parts. * * * at this period it was deemed sufficient proof of i. crewdson's doctrinal 'unsoundness,' to state that he objected to certain portions of the able theological treatise of barclay." "r. barclay's 'inner life of the religious societies of the commonwealth,'" p. . in the more recent literature of the society, the doctrine of the divine seed is scarcely to be found. but its essence is there. the illumination of the holy spirit, and the presence of christ with his church are held by friends with peculiar distinctness and force. the fact that all men have grace enough to accept the offer of salvation if they will, is stated as clearly now as it was by george fox. let there be but the zeal and the faith of george fox, his urgency in dealing with men, his confidence in pleading with god, and quakerism has yet a message that the world needs to hear, and that will win its olden triumphs, and bring its divine blessings to man. transcriber's note archaic, dialectical and inconsistent spellings have been left in the text. obvious misprints have been fixed, as detailed in the following: on page : botanist, and says sewel, "one of the most skilful ..." originally, the name was spelled sewell on page : of representatives from a number of associated originally the word "from" was printed "fron" on page : him to sketch a constitution for it. the quakers, who originally "sketch" was spelled "sketeh" on page : we are told by gerard croese (certainly not a very originally croese was spelled with the oe ligature. on page : henry gouldney, of london, to robert barclay, junr., originally "gouldney" was spelled "goulding" on page : in nayler's case, friends clung lovingly to the originally: "nayler" was spelled "naylor" on page : about the sufferings of edinbro' friends:--"i have ..." originally "edinbro'" was spelled "edinboro'" on page : and other places. james nayler preached in scotland as originally the name was spelled "naylor" on page : (see also the apology, prop. ii., paragraph , &c.) originally "ii." was "ii" on page : remonstrance to the notorious ludovic muggleton. the originally the name was spelled "ludivico" on page : according to gerard croese, found him so near originally "croese" was spelled with the oe ligature on page : the news of robert barclay's commitment to prison originally: "th enews" on page : "... to become referees. persevering through all ..." originally "perservering" on page : the writings of schwenkfeld, makes the enquiry less in this case, "schwenkfeld" was originally spelled "schwenkfeldt" on page : but the followers of caspar schwenkfeld were still more in this case, "schwenkfeld" was originally spelled "schwenfeld" proofreading team. this file was produced from images generously made available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. a portraiture of quakerism. taken from a view of the education and discipline, social manners, civil and political economy, religious principles and character, of the society of friends * * * * * by thomas clarkson, m.a. author of several essays on the slave trade. vol. iii. contents of the third volume. * * * * * great tenets. chapter i. _civil government--governors have no right to interfere in matters of religion--nor are the governed bound to obey, where their consciences are oppressed by doing it--but they are to be willing to suffer the penalties annexed to their disobedience--and they are on no account to resist them by force of arms,_ chapter ii. _oaths--christians are not to take civil oaths--reasons of the quakers for their disuse of them,_ chapter iii. sect. i. _war--unlawful for christians to fight--scriptural passages in support of this tenet--answers to these and replies,_ sect. ii. _these passages supported by the opinions and practice of the early christians,_ sect. iii. _objection to the motive assigned for this practice--reply to this objection--motive confirmed,_ sect. iv. _conduct of the early christians further examined--while christianity continued pure, they held it unlawful to fight--as it became less pure, their scruples against it declined--as it became corrupt, they ceased,_ sect. v. _reflections of the author on the foregoing subject--supposed conversation with a superior being in another region--new arguments from thence,_ sect. vi. _subject further considered--erroneous conceptions of those who argue in favor of the necessity of war--this necessary only where the policy of the world is pursued--nature of this policy--but not necessary where men act on the policy of the gospel,_ sect. vii. _this doctrine confirmed by historical cases,_ sect. viii. _final examination of the subject,_ chapter iv. sect. i. _maintenance of a gospel ministry--quakers hold it unlawful to pay their own ministers, or those of any other denomination, for their gospel labours--scriptural passages and historical facts relative to this doctrine,_ sect. ii. _additional reasons against the payment of those of another denomination, as collected from a history of tithes,_ sect. iii. _a more particular statement of these reasons,_ * * * * * character. chapter i. _character of the quakers--difficulties in the proper estimation of character--these removable in the present case,_ chapter ii. _character general or particular--general is that of a moral people,_ chapter iii. sect. i. _character particular--first of the particular traits is benevolence to man in his temporal capacity,_ sect. ii. _second is benevolence to man in his religious capacity,_ sect. iii. _third is benevolence, or a tender feeling for the brute creation,_ chapter iv. _fourth is complacency of mind and manners,_ chapter v. _fifth is, that they do not sacrifice their consciences, as a body of christians, where they believe a compliance with any law or custom to be wrong,_ chapter vi. _sixth is, that in political affairs they reason upon principle, and not upon consequences,_ chapter vii. _seventh is independence of mind,_ chapter viii. sect. i. _eighth is courage in life,_ sect. ii. _ninth is courage in death,_ chapter ix. _tenth is punctuality to words and engagements,_ chapter x. _imperfect traits--these are either intellectually or morally defective--first of these is a deficiency in literature and science, when compared with other people,_ chapter xi. _second is superstition--distinctions on this subject,_ chapter xii. _third is obstinacy--no foundation for this trait,_ chapter xiii. sect. i. _fourth is a money-getting spirit--this spirit seldom chargeable with avarice,_ sect. ii. _practicable methods suggested for the extirpation of it,_ chapter xiv. fifth is a want of animation or affection--this an appearance only. chapter xv. sixth is evasiveness in speech--no foundation for this trait. chapter xvi. seventh is shyness--this an appearance only. chapter xvii. eighth is a disregard of truth--inconsistency of the imputation of this trait. chapter xviii. sect. i. character of the quaker women--women share in the virtues of the men, but do not partake of all their reputed imperfections. sect. ii. quaker women have a public character--influence of this upon their minds. * * * * * miscellaneous particulars. chapter i. quakers a happy people--subordinate causes of this happiness. chapter ii. good, which the quakers have done as a society upon earth. chapter iii. quakers in england on the decline in point of numbers, as a religious society--certain causes of this decline. chapter iv. supposed remedies for the diminution of some of these causes--these of various kinds--one of these a superior education--supposed effect of this education. chapter v. _component parts of this education--favourable state of the society for the admission of it,_ chapter vi. _various arguments against it--these examined,_ chapter vii. _conclusory remarks, as they relate to those who may have had thoughts of leaving the society,_ chapter viii. _conclusory remarks, as they relate to those who may be called the world,_ great tenets of the quakers. chap. i. _civil government--first tenet is, that governors have no right to interfere with the governed on the subject of religion--and that if they interfere, and insist upon things which the conscience disapproves, the governed ought to refuse a compliance with them, and to bear patiently all the penalties annexed to such a refusal, but never to resist the governors by violence on this or any other account._ the quakers hold four principles, which i shall distinguish by the name of great tenets. these are considered as arising out of the implied or positive injunctions of christianity, and were insisted upon as essentials on the formation of the society. the first of these is on the subject of civil government. civil government had existed long before the appearance of christianity in the world. legislators since that era, as they have imbibed its spirit, so they have introduced this spirit more or less into their respective codes. but, no nation has ever professed to change its system of jurisprudence, or to model it anew, in consequence of the new light which christianity has afforded: neither have the alterations been so numerous in any nation, however high its profession of christianity, with respect to laws, as to enable us to say, that there is any government in the known world, of christian origin, or any government wholly upon the principles of the gospel. if all men were to become real christians, civil government would become less necessary. as there would be then no offences, there would be no need of magistracy or of punishment. as men would then settle any differences between them amicably, there would be no necessity for courts of law. as they would then never fight, there would be no need of armies. as they would then consider their fellow-creatures as brethren, they would relieve them as such, and there would be no occasion of laws for the poor. as men would then have more solicitude for the public good, and more large and liberal notions, than at any former time, they would of themselves conceive and raise all necessary public institutions and works. government then is not so necessary for real christians. it is necessary principally, as the apostle says, for evil-doers. but if it be chiefly necessary for evil-doers, then governors ought to be careful how they make laws, which may vex, harrass, and embarrass christians, whom they will always find to be the best part of their communities, or, in other words, how they make laws, which christians, on account of their religious scruples, cannot conscientiously obey. it is a tenet of the quakers, on the subject of government, that the civil magistrate has no right to interfere in religious matters, so as either to force any particular doctrines upon men, or to hinder them from worshipping god in their own way, provided that, by their creeds and worship, they do no detriment to others. the quakers believe, however, that christian churches may admonish such members as fall into error, and may even cut them off from membership, but this must be done not by the temporal, but by the spiritual sword. this tenet the quakers support, first, by reason. religion, they say, is a matter solely, between god and man, that is, between god and that man who worships him. this must be obvious, they conceive, because man is not accountable to man for his religious opinions, except he binds himself to the discipline of any religious society, but to god alone. it must be obvious again, they say, because no man can be a judge over the conscience of another. he can know nothing of the sincerity or hypocrisy of his heart. he can be neither an infallible judge, nor an infallible correcter of his religious errors. "the conscience of man, says barclay, is the seat and throne of god in him, of which he alone is the proper and infallible judge, who, by his power and spirit, can rectify its mistakes." it must be obvious again, they say, from the consideration that, if it were even possible for one man to discern the conscience of another, it is impossible for him to bend or controul it. but conscience is placed both out of his sight and of his reach. it is neither visible nor tangible. it is inaccessible by stripes or torments. thus, while the body is in bondage, on account of the religion of the soul, the soul itself is free, and, while it suffers under torture, it enjoys the divinity, and feels felicity in his presence. but if all these things are so, it cannot be within the province either of individual magistrates or of governments, consisting of fallible men, to fetter the consciences of those who may live under them. and any attempt to this end is considered by the quakers as a direct usurpation of the prerogative of god. this tenet the quakers adopt again on a contemplation of the conduct and doctrines of jesus christ and of his apostles. they find nothing in these, which can give the least handle to any man to use force in the religious concerns of another. during the life of jesus christ upon earth, it is no where recorded of him, that he censured any man for his religion. it is true that he reproved the scribes and pharisees, but this was on account of their hypocrisy, because they pretended to be what they were not. but he no where condemned the devout jew, who was sincere in his faith. but if he be found no where to have censured another for a difference in religious opinions, much less was it ever said of him, that he forced him to the adoption of his own. in the memorable instance, where james and john were willing to have called fire from heaven, to burn those who refused to receive him, he rebuked them by an assurance, that "they knew not what spirit they were of." and, with respect to his doctrines, nothing can be more full to the point than his saying, that "his kingdom was not of this world," by which he meant that his dominion was wholly of a spiritual nature, and that men must cast off all worldly imaginations, and become spiritually minded, before, they could belong to him. but no application of outward force, in the opinion of the quakers, can thus alter the internal man. nor can even the creeds and doctrines of others produce this effect, except they become sanctioned by the divine influence on the heart. neither is it recorded of any of the apostles, that they used any other weapons than those of persuasion and the power of god in the propagation of their doctrines, leaving such as did not choose to follow them to their own way. they were explicit also in stating the spiritual nature of christ's kingdom, from whence an inference similar to the former is deducible, namely, that no compulsory interference can be effectual in matters of religion. and st. paul, in particular, tells the corinthians, that, in his spiritual services to them, he does not consider himself [ ]"as having any dominion over their faith, but as helpers of their joy." [footnote : cor. i. .] but if neither jesus christ, who was the author of that religion, which many civil governments have established, nor the apostles, who afterwards propagated it, forced their doctrines upon other men, or hindered them by force from worshipping in their own way, even though the former could have called legions of angels to his support, it certainly does not become weak, ignorant, and fallible men, because they are placed in the situation of governors, to set up their own creeds as supreme, and to throw penalties and restrictions in the way of the religious exercise of others. but if governors, contrary to the example of jesus christ and of his apostles, should interfere in religious matters, and impose laws upon the governed, of which, as christians, they cannot but disapprove, then the quakers are of opinion, that the governed ought always to obey the laws of jesus christ, rather than the laws of any governors, who are only men. thus when peter and john were commanded by the rulers of the jews to speak no more in the name of jesus, they dared not yield obedience to their commands, reasoning thus,[ ] "whether it be right in the sight of god to hearken unto you more than unto god, judge ye." [footnote : acts iv. .] and as the governed in such case ought, in obedience to god, the supreme ruler of the universe, and the king of kings, to refuse a compliance with the laws of their own governors, so they ought to be prepared patiently to submit to the penalties which are annexed to such refusal, and on no account, if just representations made in the meek and quiet spirit of their religion, are not likely to be effectual, to take up arms or resist them by force. and this doctrine they ground, first, on the principle, that it is not only more noble, but more consistent with their duty as christians, to suffer, than to give growth to the passions of revenge, or by open resistance to become the occasion of loss of life to others. and, secondly, on the example of jesus christ, and of the apostles and primitive christians, all of whom patiently submitted to the pains and penalties inflicted upon them by the governments of their respective times for the exercise of their religion. chap. ii. _oaths--quakers conceive it unlawful for christians to take an oath--their sufferings on this account--consider oaths as unnecessary--as having an immoral tendency, which even the heathens allowed--and as having been forbidden by jesus christ--explanation of the scriptural passages cited on this occasion--christianity not so perfect with the lawfulness of oaths as without it--other reasons taken from considerations relative to the ancient oath "by the name of god"_ a second tenet, which the quakers hold, is, that it is unlawful for christians to take a civil oath. many and grievous were the sufferings of the quakers, in the early part of their history, on account of their refusing to swear before the civil magistrate. they were insulted, fined, and imprisoned. some of the judges too indulged a rancour against them on this account, unworthy of their high office, which prescribed justice impartially to all. for when they could not convict them of the offences laid to their charge, they administered to them the oath of allegiance, knowing that they would not take it, and that confiscation of property and imprisonment would ensue. but neither ill usage, nor imprisonment, nor loss of property, ever made any impression upon the quakers, so as to induce them to swear in judicial cases, and they continued to suffer, till the legislature, tired out with the cries of their oppression, decreed, that their affirmation should in all cases except criminal, or in that of serving upon juries, or in that of qualifications for posts of honour or emolument under government, be received as equivalent to their oath. and this indulgence towards them is continued to them by law to the present day. the quakers have an objection to oaths, as solemn appeals to god, because they are unnecessary. it is an old saying among the quaker writers, that "truth was before all oaths." by this they mean, there was a time, when men's words were received as truths, without the intervention of an oath. ancient fable, indeed, tells us, that there were no oaths in the golden age, but that, when men departed from their primitive simplicity, and began to quarrel with one another, they had recourse to falsehood to substantiate their own case, after which it became necessary, that some expedient should be devised, in the case of disputes, for the ascertaining the truth. hence hesiod makes the god of oaths the son of esis or of contention. this, account differs but little from that of polybuis, who says, that the use of oaths in judgment was rare among the ancients, but that, as perfidy grew, oaths increased. and as it is a saying of the quakers, that "truth was before all oaths," so they believe, that truth would be spoken, if oaths were done away. thus, that which is called honour by the world, will bind men to the truth, who perhaps know but little of religion. but if so, then he, who makes christianity his guide, will not be found knowingly in a falsehood, though he be deprived of the opportunity of swearing. but if it be true, that truth existed before the invention of oaths, and that truth would still be spoken, even if all oaths were abolished, then the quakers say, that oaths are not so necessary as some have imagined, because they have but a secondary effect in the production of the truth. this conclusion they consider also as the result of reason. for good men will speak truth without an oath, and bad men will hardly be influenced by one. and where oaths are regarded, it is probable that truth is forced out of men, not so much, because they consider them as solemn appeals to god, as that they consider the penalties, which will follow their violation; so that a simple affirmation, under the same pains and penalties, would be equally productive of the truth. the quakers consider oaths again as very injurious to morality. for first, they conceive it to be great presumption in men to summon god as a witness in their trilling and earthly concerns. they believe, secondly, that, if men accustom themselves to call upon god on civil occasions, they render his name so familiar to them, that they are likely to lose the reverence due to it, or so to blend religious with secular considerations, that they become in danger of losing sight of the dignity, solemnity, and awfulness of devotion. and it is not an unusual remark, that persons, most accustomed to oaths, are the most likely to perjury. a custom-house oath has become proverbial in our own country. i do not mean by this to accuse mercantile men in particular, but to state it as a received opinion, that, where men make solemn things familiar, there is a danger of their moral degradation. hence the quakers consider the common administration of oaths to have a tendency that is injurious to the moral interests of men. this notion relative to the bad tendency of oaths, the quakers state to have prevailed even in the gentile world. as heathen philosophy became pure, it branded the system of swearing as pernicious to morals. it was the practice of the persians to give each other their right hand as a token of their speaking the truth. he, who gave his hand deceitfully, was accounted more detestable than if he had sworn the scythians, in their conference with alexander the great, addressed him thus: "think not that the scythians confirm their friendship by an oath. they swear by keeping their word." the phrygians were wholly against oaths. they neither took them themselves, nor required them of others. among the proverbs of the arabs, this was a celebrated one, "never swear, but let thy word be yes or no." so religious was hercules, says plutarch, that he never swore but once. clinias, a greek philosopher, and a scholar of pythagoras, is said to have dreaded an oath so much, that, when by swearing he could have escaped a fine of three talents, he chose rather to pay the money than do it, though he was to have sworn nothing but the truth. indeed, throughout all greece, the system of swearing was considered as of the most immoral tendency, the very word, which signified "perjured," in the greek language, meaning, when analysed, "he that adds oath to oath," or "the taker of many oaths." but, above all, the quakers consider oaths as unlawful for christians, having been positively forbidden by jesus christ. the words, in which they conceived this prohibition to have been contained, they take from the sermon on the mount. [ ] "again, ye have heard, that it hath been said by them of old time, thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shall perform unto the lord thine oaths." [footnote : matt. v. .] "but i say unto you, swear not at all, neither by heaven, because it is god's throne." "nor by the earth, for it is his footstool: neither by jerusalem, for it is the city of the great king." "neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black." "but let your communication be yea, yea; nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than this cometh of evil." it is said by those, who oppose the quakers on this subject, that these words relate, not to civil oaths, but to such as are used by profane persons in the course of their conversation. but the quakers deny this, because the disciples, as jews, must have known that profane swearing had been unlawful long before this prohibition of jesus christ. they must relate, therefore, to something else, and to something, which had not before been forbidden. they deny it also on account of the construction of the sentences, and of the meaning of the several words in these. for the words, "swear not at all," in the second of the verses, which have been quoted, have an immediate reference to the words in the first. thus they relate to the word "forswear," in the first. but if they relate to the word "forswear," they must relate to perjury, and if to perjury, then to a civil oath, or to an oath, where an appeal is made to god by man, as to something relating to himself. the word oath also is explicitly mentioned in the first of these verses, and mentioned as an oath which had been allowed. now there was one oath, which had been allowed in ancient time. the jews had been permitted, in matters of judgment, to swear by the name of god. this permission was given them, for one, among other reasons, that they might be prevented from swearing by the name of those idols by which their neighbours swore; for a solemn appeal to any heathen god necessarily includes an acknowledgment of the omnipresence of the same. that they related to this oath in particular, the quakers conceive to be obvious from the prohibition in the verses which have been cited, of swearing by heaven, by earth, and by other things. the jews, knowing the sacredness of the name of god, had an awful notion of the consequences of perjury, if committed after an appeal to it, and therefore had recourse to the names of the creatures, in case they should swear falsely. but even the oaths, thus substituted by them, are forbidden by jesus christ; and they are forbidden upon this principle, as we find by a subsequent explanation given by st. matthew, that whosoever swore by these creatures, really and positively swore by the name of god. but if they are forbidden, because swearing by these creatures is the same thing as swearing by god who made them, then the oath "by the name of god," which had been permitted to the jews of old, was intended by jesus christ to be discontinued, or to have no place in his new religion. the quakers then, considering the words in question to have the meaning now annexed to them, give the following larger explanation of what was the intention of our saviour upon this occasion. in his sermon on the mount, of which these words on the subject of oaths are a part, he inculcated into his disciples a system of morality, far exceeding that of the jews, and therefore in the verses which precede those upon this subject, he tells them, that whereas it was said of old, "thou shall not kill," he expected of them, that they should not even entertain the passion of revenge. and whereas it was said of old, "thou shalt not commit adultery," he expected, that they should not even lust after others, if they were married, or after those in a married state. thus he brings both murder and adultery from act to thought. he attaches a criminality to unlawful feelings if not suppressed, or aims at the subjugation of the passions, as the springs of the evil actions of men. going on to shew the farther superiority of his system of morality over that of the jews, he says again, whereas it was said of old, "thou shall not forswear thyself," he expects that they should not swear at all, not even by the name of god, which had been formerly allowed, for that he came to abrogate the ancient law, and perjury with it. it was his object to make the word of his true disciples equal to the ancient oath. thus he substituted truth for oaths. and he made this essential difference between a jew and a christian, that, whereas the one swore in order that he might be believed; the other was to speak truth in order that he might not swear. such was the intended advance from jew to christian, or from moses to christ. the quakers are farther confirmed in their ideas upon this subject, by believing, that christianity would not have been as perfect as they apprehend it to have been intended to be, without this restriction upon oaths. is it possible, they say, that jesus christ would have left it to christians to imagine, that their words were to be doubted on any occasion? would he have left it to them to think so dishonourably of one another, or of their new vocation, that their words were to be tried by the touchstone of oaths, when his religion was to have a greater effect than any former system of morality ever known, in the production of truth? is it possible, when oaths sprung out of fraud and falsehood, as he himself witnesses, (for whatever is more than yea and nay, cometh of evil) that he would have left this remnant of antiquity standing, as if his religion was not intended to extirpate the very ground-work of it? finally, the quakers are confirmed in their ideas upon this subject from a belief that oaths were to cease, either at the coming of jesus christ, or as men became christians. for, in the first place, the oath "by the name of god," is considered by some, as i have before noticed, to have been permitted to the jews during their weak state, that they might not swear by the idols of their cotemporary neighbours, and thus lose sight of the only and true god. but what christian stands in need of any preservative against idolatry, or of any commemorative of the existence and superintendence of an almighty, wise, beneficent, and moral governor of the world? some again have imagined, that, as the different purifications among the jews, denoting the holiness of god, signified that it became men to endeavour to be holy, so the oath "by the name of god," denoting the verity of god, signified, that it became men to devote themselves to the truth. but no true christian stands in need of such symbols, to make him consider his word as equivalent to his oath. others again have imagined, that the oath "by the name of god," typified the truth, or the eternal word. but as the type ceases when the antitype appears, so the coming of jesus christ, who in the gospel language is called both the truth and the eternal word, may be considered as putting an end to this, as to other types and shadows, of the jewish church. chap. iii. sect. i. _war--tenet on war--quakers hold it unlawful for christians to fight--scriptural passages, which they produce in support of this tenet--arguments which others produce from scriptural authority against it--reply of the quakers to these arguments._ the next of the great tenets which the quakers hold, is on the subject of war. they believe it unlawful for christians to engage in the profession of arms, or indeed to bear arms under any circumstances of hostility whatever. hence there is no such character as that of a quaker soldier. a quaker is always able to avoid the regular army, because the circumstance of entering into it is a matter of choice. but where he has no such choice, as is the case in the militia, he either submits, if he has property, to distraints upon it, or, if he has not, to prison.[ ] [footnote : the quakers have been charged with inconsistency in refusing military service, and yet in paying those taxes, which are expressly for the support of wars. to this charge they reply, that they believe it to be their duty to render to caesar the things which are caesar's, and to leave the application of them to caesar himself, as he judges best for the support of government. this duty they collect from the example of jesus christ, who paid the tribute money himself, and ordered his disciples to do it, and this to a government, not only professedly military, but distinguished for its idolatry and despotism. personal service, however, they conceive to militate against a positive command by our saviour, as will be explained in this chapter.] the quakers ground the illicitness of war on several passages, which are to be found in the new testament. i shall not quote all the texts they bring forward, but shall make a selection of them on this occasion. jesus christ, in the famous sermon, which he preached upon the mount, took occasion to mention specifically some of the precepts of the jewish law, and to inform his hearers, that he expected of those, who were to be his true disciples, that they would carry these to a much higher extent in their practice under the new dispensation, which he was then affording them. christianity required a greater perfection of the human character than under the law. men were not only not to kill, but not even to cherish the passion of revenge.[ ] and "whereas it was said of old, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, i say unto you, says christ, that ye resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also." and farther on in the same chapter, he says, "ye have heard that it hath been said, thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy: but i say unto you, love your enemies,[ ] bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you. for if ye love them which love you, what reward have you? do not even the publicans the same? be ye therefore perfect, even as your father which is in heaven is perfect." now the quakers are of opinion, that no man can receive this doctrine his heart, and assist either offensively or defensively in the operations of war. [footnote : matt. v. .] [footnote : the heathen nations, on account of their idolatry, were called enemies by the jews.] other passages, quoted by the quakers, in favour of their tenet on war, are taken from the apostles paul and james conjointly. the former, in his[ ] second epistle to the corinthians, says, "for though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh: for the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through god to the pulling down of strong holds, to the casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of god, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of christ." from hence the quakers argue, that the warfare of christianity, or that which christianity recognises, is not carnal, but spiritual, and that it consists in the destruction of the evil imaginations, or of the evil lusts and passions of men. that is, no man can be a true soldier of christ, unless his lusts are subdued, or unless the carnal be done away by the spiritual mind. now this position having been laid down by st. paul, or the position having been established in christian morals, that a state of subjugated passions is one of the great characteristic marks of a true christian, the quakers draw a conclusion from it by the help of the words of st. james. this apostle, in his letter to the dispersed tribes, which were often at war with each other, as well as with the romans, says,[ ] "from whence come wars and fightings among you? come they not hence even of your lusts that war in your members?" but if wars come from the lusts of men, then the quakers say, that those who have subdued their lusts, can no longer engage in them, or, in other words, that true christians, being persons of this description, or being such, according to st. paul, as are redeemed out of what st. james calls the very grounds and occasions of wars, can no longer fight. and as this proposition is true in itself, so the quakers conceive the converse of it to be true also: for if there are persons, on the other hand, who deliberately engage in the wars and fightings of the world, it is a proof, that their lusts are not yet subjugated, or that, though they may be nominal, they are not yet arrived at the stature of true or of full-grown christians. [footnote : cor. x. , , .] [footnote : james iv. i.] a third quotation, made by the quakers, is taken from st. paul exclusively.[ ] "now if any man have not the spirit of christ, he is none of his." that is, if men have not the same disposition which jesus christ manifested in the different situations of his life, the same spirit of humility and of forbearance, and of love, and of forgiveness of injuries, or if they do not follow him as a pattern, or if they do not act as he would have done on any similar occasion, they are not christians. now they conceive, knowing what the spirit of jesus was by those things which have been recorded of him, that he could never have been induced or compelled, by any earthly consideration or power, to have engaged in the wars of the world. they are aware that his mission, which it became him to fulfil, and which engrossed all his time, would not have allowed him the opportunity of a military life. but they believe, independently of this, that the spirit which he manifested upon earth, would have been of itself a sufficient bar to such an employment. this they judge from his opinions and his precepts. for how could he have taken up arms to fight, who enjoined in the new dispensation, that men were not to resist evil; that they were to love their enemies; that they were to bless those who cursed them, and to do good to those who hated them? this they judge also from his practice. for how could he have lifted up his arm against another, who, "when he was reviled, reviled not again;" and who, in his very agony upon the cross, prayed for his persecutors, saying, "father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." but if jesus christ could not have been induced or compelled to have engaged in a profession, which would have subjected him to take away the life of another, so neither can any christian; "for if a man have not the spirit of christ, he is none of his." [footnote : rom. viii. .] three arguments are usually brought against the quakers on this subject. the first is, that john the baptist,[ ] when the soldiers demanded of him what they should do, did not desire them to leave the service in which they were engaged, but, on the other hand, to be content with their wages. to this the quakers reply, that john told them also, "to do violence to no man." but even if he had not said this, they apprehend that nothing could be deduced from his expressions, which could become binding upon christians. for john was the last prophet of the old dispensation, but was never admitted into the new. he belonged to the system which required an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, but not to that which required no resistance to evil, and which insisted upon the love of enemies as well as of friends. hence jesus christ said of him, that "he who was least in the kingdom of heaven, was greater than he." [footnote : luke iii. .] the second argument brought against the quakers on this occasion, is of a similar nature with the former. it is said that, if war had been unlawful, our saviour, when the centurion[ ] came to him at capernaum, would have found fault with his profession; but he did not do this, but on the other hand he highly commended him for his religion. in answer to this the quakers observe, first, that no solid argument can be drawn from silence on any occasion. secondly, that jesus christ seems, for wise purposes, to have abstained from meddling with many of the civil institutions of his time, though in themselves wicked, thinking probably, that it was sufficient to have left behind him such general precepts, as, when applied properly, would be subversive of them all. and, thirdly, that he never commended the centurion on account of his military situation, but on account of his profession of his faith. [footnote : matt. viii. .] they say farther, that they can bring an argument of a much more positive nature than that just mentioned, from an incident which took place, and where jesus was again concerned. when peter cut off the ear of one of the servants of the high priest, who was concerned in the apprehension of his lord, he was not applauded, but reprimanded for the part which he thus took in his defence in the following words:[ ] "put up again thy sword in its place, for all they that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." now the quakers conceive, that much more is to be inferred against the use of the sword from this instance, than from the former in favour of it. [footnote : matt. xxvi, .] the last argument, which is usually adduced against the quakers on this subject, is, that they have mistaken the meaning of the words of the famous sermon upon the mount. these words teach us the noble lesson, that it is more consistent with the character of a christian to forgive, than to resist an injury. they are, it is said, wholly of private import, and relate solely to private occurrences in life. but the quakers have extended the meaning of them beyond private to public injuries or wars. the quakers, in answer to this observe, that they dare not give to the words in question a less extensive meaning. they relate to every one who reads them. they relate to the poor. they relate to the rich. they relate to, every potentate who may be the ruler of a land. they relate to every individual of his council. there is no exception, or dispensation to any one, in favour of any case. that they relate to public as well as private wars, or that they extend themselves naturally to those which are public, the quakers conceive it reasonable to suppose from the following consideration. no man, they apprehend, can possess practically the divine principle of loving an individual enemy at home, or of doing good to the man who hates him, but he must of necessity love his enemy in any and every other place. he must have gone so for forward on the road to christian perfection, as to be unable to bear arms against any other person whatsoever, and particularly when, according to the doctrines of the new testament, no geographical boundaries fix the limits of love and enmity between man and man, but the whole human race are considered as the children of the same parent, and therefore as brothers to one another. but who can truly love an enemy and kill him? and where is the difference, under the gospel dispensation, between jew and gentile, greek and barbarian, bond and free? that these words were meant to extend to public as well as to private ware, the quakers believe again from the views which they entertain relative to the completion of prophecy. they believe that a time will come, in one or other of the succeeding ages, "when men shall bent their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks, and when nation shall not lift up sword against nation, and they shall not learn war any more." now other christians, who differ from them in the interpretation of the words in question, believe equally with them, that the times thus predicted will come to pass. the question then is, whether the more enlarged interpretation of these words, as insisted upon by the quakers, or of the less enlarged as insisted upon by others, be the most consistent with the belief of the future accomplishment of the prophecy just mentioned. and in this case the quakers are of opinion, that if wars were ever to cease, one ought to expect that some foundation would have been previously laid in christianity for this great and important end. the subjugation of the passions, which it is the direct tendency of christianity to effect, would produce this end. and so far such a foundation has already been laid in this system. but as the admission of moral precepts into the education of man, so as to form habits of moral opinion, is another, way of influencing conduct in life, the quakers think it likely that some such maxim as "that christians should not fight," would have been introduced also, because the adoption of such a maxim would have had a similar tendency with the subjugation of the passions in producing the same end. for it seems absurd, they conceive, to suppose that wars should cease, and that no precept should have been held out that they were wrong. but the more enlarged interpretation of the words in question furnishes such a precept, and therefore another foundation seems to have been laid in christianity for the same end. they admit, therefore, the larger interpretation as included in the less, because it comports more with the design of providence, who, by the mouth of his prophets wills universal peace, that the prohibition of public as well as of private wars should be understood as a christian doctrine, than that the words in question should be confined to private injuries alone. the last reason, which the quakers give for adopting the larger interpretation of the words in the sermon upon the mount, as well as the less, is the following. they are of opinion, that, as christians, they ought not to lessen the number of the moral obligations of the gospel. they ought not to abridge its dignity, nor to put limits to its benevolence. if it was the desire of jesus christ, that men should love their enemies, it is their duty to believe, that his wish could not have been otherwise than universal. if it was an object with him to cure moral evil, it is their duty to suppose, that it was his desire to destroy it, not partially, but to the utmost possible extent. if it was his design to give happiness to man, it is their duty to determine, that he intended to give it not in a limited proportion, but in the largest measure. but when they consider the nature of wars, that they militate against the law of preservation, that they include the commission of a multitude of crimes, that they produce a complication of misery and suffering to man, they conceive they would not be doing their duty as christians, or giving to christianity its due honour, if they were not to admit the larger meaning of the words in question as well as the less. reason too, pleads for the one as well as for the other. consistency of moral doctrine again demands both. but if we admit the restricted interpretation, and exclude the larger, we offend reason. all consistency is at an end. individual responsibility for moral turpitude will be taken from man. crimes, clearly marked and defined in the page of christianity, will cease to be crimes at the will of princes. one contradiction will rush in after another; and men will have two different standards of morality, as they adhere to the commands of the gospel, or to the customs of governments or of the world. sect. ii. _meaning of the scriptural passages advanced by the quakers, supported by the opinions and practice of the early christians--early christian writers held it unlawful for christians to fight, as appears from justin--tatian--clemens--and others--christians would not enter into the armies for more than two centuries, as appears from ireneus--tertullian --celsus--origen and others--and generally left the military service, if they happened to be converted in it. it may be presumed to be difficult for christians, who have been in the habit of seeing wars entered into and carried on by their own and other christian governments, and without any other censure than that they might be politically wrong, to see the scriptural passages of "non-resistance to evil and love of enemies," but through a vitiated medium. the prejudices of some, the interests of others, and custom with all, will induce a belief among them, that these have no relation to public wars. at least they will be glad to screen themselves under such a notion. but the question is, what a heathen would have said to these passages, who, on his conversion to christianity, believed that the new testament was of divine origin, that it was the book of life, and that the precepts, which it contained, were not to be dispensed with, to suit particular cases, without the imputation of evil. now such a trial, the quakers say, has been made. it was made by the first christians, and they affirm, that these interpreted the passages, which have been mentioned, differently from those of most of the christians of the present age; for that both their opinions and their practice spoke loudly against the lawfulness of war. upon this new subject i shall enter next. and i confess i shall enter upon it willingly. first, because i know of none that is more important. secondly, because, though controversy may have thrown some light upon it, much remains to be added. and, thirdly, because the assertions of the quakers on this point are disputed by many at the present day. with respect to the opinions of the early quakers, which i shall notice first, it must be premised, that such of them as have written books, have not all of them entered on this subject. some of them have not had even occasion to mention it. but where they have, and where they have expressed an opinion, i believe that this will be found unfavourable to the continuance of war. justin the martyr, one of the earliest writers in the second century, considers war as unlawful. he makes also the devil "the author of all war." no severer sentence could have been passed upon it than this, when we consider it as coming from the lips of an early christian. the sentiment too was contrary to the prevailing sentiments of the times, when, of all professions, that of war was most honourable, and was the only one that was considered to lead to glory. it resulted, therefore, in all probablity, from the new views, which justin had acquired by a perusal of such of the scriptures, as had then fallen into his hands. tatian, who was the disciple of justin, in his oration to the greeks, speaks precisely in the same terms on the same subject. from the different expressions of clemens of alexandria, a contemporary of the latter, we collect his opinion to be decisive against the lawfulness of war. tertullian, who may be mentioned next in order of time, strongly condemned the practice of bearing arms, as it related to christians. i shall give one or two extracts from him on this subject. in his dissertation on the worship of idols, he says, "though the soldiers came to john, and received a certain form to be observed, and though the centurion believed, yet jesus christ, by disarming peter, disarmed every soldier afterwards: for custom never sanctions an illicit act." and in his "soldier's garland," he says, "can a soldier's life be lawful, when christ has pronounced, that he who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword? can one, who professes the peaceable doctrines of the gospel, be a soldier, when it is his duty not so much as to go to law? and shall he, who is not to revenge his own wrongs, be instrumental in bringing others into chains, imprisonment, torment, death?" cyprian, in his epistle to donatus, takes a view of such customs in his own times, as he conceived to be repugnant to the spirit or the letter of the gospel. in looking at war, which was one of them, he speaks thus: "suppose thyself, says he, with me on the top of some very exalted eminence, and from thence looking down upon the appearances of things beneath thee. let our prospect take in the whole horizon, and let us view, with the indifference of persons not concerned in them, the various motions and agitations of human life. thou wilt then, i dare say, have a real compassion for the circumstances of mankind, and for the posture in which this view will represent them. and when thou reflectest upon thy condition, thy thoughts will rise in transports of gratitude and praise to god for having made thy escape from the pollutions of the world. the things thou wilt principally observe, will be the highways beset with robbers, the seas with pirates, encampments, marches, and all the terrible forms of war and, bloodshed. when a single murder is committed, it shall be deemed perhaps a crime; but that crime shall commence a virtue, when committed under the shelter of public authority, so that punishment is not rated by the measure of guilt, but the more enormous the size of the wickedness is, so much the greater is the chance for impunity." these are the sentiments of cyprian, and that they were the result of his views of christianity, as taken from the divine writings, there can be little doubt. if he had stood upon the same eminence, and beheld the same sights previously to his conversion, he might, like others, have neither thought piracy dishonourable, nor war inglorious. lactantius, who lived some time after cyprian, in his treatise "concerning the true worship of god," says, "it can never be lawful for a righteous man to go to war, whose warfare is in righteousness itself," and in another part of the same treatise he observes, that "no exception can be made with respect to this command of god. it can never be lawful to kill a man, whose person the divine being designed to be sacred as to violence." it will be unnecessary to make extracts from other of the early christian writers, who mention this subject. i shall therefore only observe, that the names of origen, archelaus, ambrose, chrysostom, jerom, and cyril, may be added, to those already mentioned, as the names of persons who gave it as their opinion, that it was unlawful for christians to go to war. with respect to the practice of the early christians, which is the next point to be considered, it may be observed, that there is no well authenticated instance upon record, of christians entering into the army for the first two centuries; but it is true, on the other hand, that they declined the military profession, as one in which it was not lawful for them to engage. the first species of evidence, which i shall produce to this point, may be found in the following facts, which reach from the year to the year , avidius crassus had rebelled against the emperor verus, and was slain in a short time afterwards. clodius albinus in one part of the world, and pescenninus niger in another, rebelled against the emperor severus, and both were slain likewise. now suspicion fell, as it always did in these times, if any thing went wrong, upon the christians, as having been concerned upon these occasions. but tertullian, in his discourse to scapula, tells us, that no christians were to be found in these armies. and yet these armies were extensive. crassus was master of all syria, with its four legions, niger of the asiatic and egyptian legions, and albinus of those of britain, which legions together contained between a third and an half of the standing legions of rome. and the fact, that no christians were to be found in these, is the more remarkable, because, according to the same tertullian, christianity had reached all the places, in which these armies were. a second species of evidence, as far as it goes, may be collected from expressions and declarations in the works of certain authors of those times. justin the martyr, and tatian, make distinctions between soldiers and christians; and the latter says, that the christians declined even military commands. clemens of alexandria, gives the christians, who were cotemporary with him, the appellation of "peaceable, or of the followers of peace," thus distinguishing them from the soldiers of his age. and he says expressly, that "those, who were the followers of peace, used none of the instruments of war." a third species of evidence, which is of the highest importance in this case, is the belief which the writers of these times had, that the prophecy of isaiah, which stated, that men should turn their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks, was then in the act of completion. irenæus, who flourished about the year , affirms, that this famous prophecy had been completed in his time; "for the christians, says he, have changed their swords and their lances into instruments of peace, and they know not how to fight," justin martyr, who was cotemporary with irenæus, asserted the same thing, which he could not have done if the christians in his time had engaged in war. "that the prophecy, says he, is fulfilled, you have good reason to believe, for we, who in times past killed one another, do not now fight with our enemies." and here it is observable, that the word "fight" does not mean to strike, or to beat, or to give a blow, but to fight as in war; and the word "enemy" does not mean a common adversary, or one who has injured us, but an enemy of the state; and the sentence, which follows that which has been given, puts the matter again out of all doubt. tertullian, who lived after these, speaks in those remarkable words: "deny that these (meaning the turning of swords into ploughshares) are the things prophesied of, when you see what you see, or that they are the things fulfilled, when you read what you read; but if you deny neither of these positions, then you must confess, that the prophecy has been accomplished, as far as the practice of every individual is concerned, to whom it is applicable." i might go from tertullian even as far as theoderet, if it were necessary, to shew, that the prophecy in question was considered as in the act of completion in those times. the fourth and last proof will be found in the assertions of celsus, and in the reply of origen to that writer. celsus, who lived at the end of the second century, attacked the christian religion. he made it one of his charges against the christians, that they refused in his time to bear arms for the emperor, even in the case of necessity, and when their services would have been accepted. he told them farther, that if the rest of the empire were of their opinion, it would soon be overrun by the barbarians. now celsus dared not have brought this charge against the christians, if the fact had not been publicly known. but let us see whether it was denied by those, who were of opinion that his work demanded a reply. the person, who wrote against him in favour of christianity, was origen, who lived in the third century. but origen, in his answer, admits the fact as stated by celsus, that the christians would not bear arms, and justifies them for refusing the practice on the principle of the unlawfulness of war. and as the early christians would not enter into the armies, so there is good ground to suppose, that, when they became converted in them, they relinquished their profession. human nature was the same both in and out of the armies, and would be equally worked upon, in this new state of things, in both cases. accordingly we find, from tertullian, in his "soldier's garland," that many in his time, immediately on their conversion, quitted the military service. we are told also, by archelaus, who flourished under probus in the year , that many roman soldiers, who had embraced christianity, after having witnessed the piety and generosity of marcellus, immediately forsook the profession of arms. we are told also by eusebius, that, about the same time, "numbers laid aside a military life, and became private persons, rather than abjure their religion." and here it may not be unworthy of remark, that soldiers, after their conversion, became so troublesome in the army, both on account of their scruples against the idolatrous practices required of the soldiery, and their scruples against fighting, that they were occasionally dismissed the service on these accounts. sect. iii. _objection to the foregoing statement, that the idolatry, which was then connected with the military service, and not the unlawfulness of war, was the reason why christians declined it--idolatry admitted to be a cause--instance in marinus--but the belief of the unlawfulness of fighting was another, and an equally powerful cause--instances in maximilian--marcellus--cassian--marlin--the one scruple as much then a part of the christian religion as the other._ as an objection may be made to the foregoing statement, i think it proper to notice it in this place. it will be said, that the military oath, which all were obliged to take alike in the roman armies, and which was to be repeated annually, was full of idolatry; that the roman standards were all considered as gods, and had divine honours paid to them by the soldiery; and that the images also of the emperors, which were either fixed upon these standards, or placed in the midst of them in a temple in the camp, were to be adored in the same manner. now these customs were interwoven with the military service. no roman soldier was exempted from them. it will be urged, therefore, that no christian could submit to these services. indeed when a person was suspected of being a christian in those times, he was instantly taken to the altars to sacrifice, it being notorious, that if he were a christian he would not sacrifice, though at the hazard of his life. is it not, therefore, to be presumed, that these idolatrous tests operated as the great cause, why christians refused to enter into the army, or why they left it when converted as described in the former section? that these tests operated as a cause, we must allow. and let this be considered as an insuperable argument against those, who contend that there were christian soldiers in these times, for no christian could submit to such idolatrous homage; but, if so, no christian could be a soldier. that these tests must have operated as a cause, we may infer from the history of marinus. marinus, according to eusebius, was a man of family and fortune, and an officer in a legion, which, in the year , was stationed at caesarea of palestine. one of the centurion's rods happened to become vacant in this legion, and marinus was appointed to it. but just at this moment another, next to him in rank, accused him before the tribunal of being a christian, stating, that "the laws did not allow a christian, who refused to sacrifice to the emperors, to hold any dignity in the army." achæus, the judge, asked marinus if it was true, that he had become a christian. he acknowledged it. three hours were then allowed him to consider, whether he would sacrifice or die. when the time was expired, he chose the latter. indeed, so desirous were the early christians of keeping clear of idolatry in every shape, that they avoided every custom that appeared in the least degree connected with it. thus when a largess was given in honour of the emperors, l. septimius severus the father, and m. aurelius caracalla the son, a solitary soldier, as we learn from tertullian, was seen carrying the garland, which had been given him on that occasion, in his hand, while the rest wore it upon their heads. on being interrogated by the commander, why he refused wearing it, he replied, that[ ] he had become a christian. he was immediately punished before the army, and sent into prison. what became of him afterwards is not related. but it must be clear, if he lived and cherished his christian feelings, that, when the day of the renewal of his oath, or of the worshipping of the standards, or of any sacrifice in the camp, should arrive, he would have refused these services, or abandoned his profession. [footnote : the priests wore the garland, when they sacrificed to the heathen gods.] but though unquestionably the idolatrous services, required of the soldiers of those times, hindered christians from entering into the armies, and compelled those, who were converted in them, to leave them, nothing is more true, than that the belief, that it was unlawful for christians to fight, occasioned an equal abhorrence of a military life. one of the first effects, which christianity seems to have produced upon its first converts, when it was pure and unadulterated, and unmixed with the interpretations of political men, was a persuasion, that it became them, in obedience to the divine commands, to abstain from all manner of violence, and to become distinguishable as the followers of peace. we find accordingly from athenagoras, and other early writers, that the christians of his time, abstained, when they were struck, from striking again, and that they carried their principles so far, as even to refuse to go to law with those who injured them. we find also, from the same athenagoras, and from theophilus antiochenus, tatian, minucius felix, and others, that they kept away from the shews of the gladiators. this they did, not only because these shews were cruel; but because, as theophilus says, "lest we should become partakers of the murders committed there." a similar reason is also given by athenagoras on this occasion: "who is there, says he, that does not prize the shews of the gladiators, which your emperors make for the people? but we, thinking that there is very little difference whether a man be the author or spectator of murder, keep away from all such sights." and here it may be observed, that the gladiators themselves were, generally prisoners of war, or reputed enemies, and that the murder of these was by public authority, and sanctioned; as in war, by the state. now what conclusion are we to draw from these premises? can we think it possible, that those, who refused to strike again, or to go to law with those who injured them, and who thought an attendance at the gladiatorial spectacles criminal on the principle, that he who stood by was a murderer, though the murder was sanctioned by law; should not have an objection to the military service, on the principle, that it was unlawful to fight? in short, the belief of the unlawfulness of war, was universal among christians in those times. every christian writer of the second century, who notices the subject, makes it unlawful for christians to bear arms. and if the christian writers of this age were of this opinion, contrary to all their sentiments before their conversion, and wholly from their knowledge of divine truths, why should not others, who had a common nature with these, be impressed, on receiving the same truths, in a similar manner? and so undoubtedly they were. and as this belief was universal among the christians of those times, so it operated with them as an impediment to a military life, quite as much as the idolatry, that was connected with it, of which the following instances, in opposition to that of marinus, may suffice. the first case i propose to mention shall be, where there was an objection to entering into the military service upon this principle. and here, i apprehend none can be more in point than that of maximilian, as preserved in the acts of ruinart. maximilian, having been brought before the tribunal, in order to be enrolled as a soldier, dion, the proconsul, asked him his name. maximilian, turning to him, replied, "why wouldst thou know my name? i am a christian, and cannot fight." then dion ordered him to be enrolled, and when he was enrolled, it was recited out of the register, that he was five feet ten inches high. immediately after this, dion bade the officer mark him. but maximilian refused to be marked, still asserting that he was a christian. upon which dion instantly replied, "bear arms, or thou shalt die." to this maximilian answered, "i cannot fight, if i die. i am not a soldier of this world, but a soldier of god." dion then said, "who has persuaded thee to behave thus?" maximilian answered, "my own mind, and he who called me." dion then spoke to his father, and bade him persuade his son. but his father observed, that his son knew his own mind, and what it was best for him to do. after this had passed, dion addressed maximilian again in these words, "take thy arms, and receive the mark." "i can receive, says maximilian, no such mark. i have already the mark of christ." upon which dion said, "i will send thee quickly to thy christ." "thou mayest do so, said maximilian, but the glory will be mine." dion then bade the officer mark him. but maximilian still persisted in refusing, and spoke thus: "i cannot receive the mark of this world, and if thou shouldst give me the mark, i will destroy it. it will avail nothing. i am a christian, and it is not lawful for me to wear such a mark about my neck, when i have received the saving mark of the lord jesus christ, the son of the living god, whom thou, knowest not, who died to give us life, and whom god gave for our sins. him all we christians obey. him we follow as the restorer of our life, and the author of our salvation." dion instantly replied to this, "take thy arms, and receive the mark, or thou shalt suffer a miserable death."--"but i shall not perish, said maximilian. my name is already enrolled with christ. i cannot fight." dion said, "consider then thy youth, and bear arms. the profession of arms becomes a young man." maximilian replied, "my arms are with the lord. i cannot fight for any earthly consideration. i am now a christian." dion the proconsul, said, "among the life-guards of our masters dioclesian and maximian, and constantius and maximus, there are christian soldiers, and they fight." maximilian answered, "they know best what is expedient for them, but i am a christian, and it is unlawful to do evil." dion said, "take thy arms. despise not the profession of a soldier, lest thou perish miserably."--"but i shall not perish, says maximilian; and if i should leave this world, my soul will live with christ the lord." dion then ordered his name to be struck from the roll, and, when this was done, he proceeded, "because, out of thy rebellious spirit, thou hast refused to bear arms, thou shall be punished according to thy deserts for an example to others." and then he delivered the following sentence: "maximilian! because thou hast with a rebellious spirit refused to bear arms, thou art to die by the sword." maximilian replied, "thanks be to god." he was twenty years, three months, and seventeen days old, and when he was led to the place of execution, he spoke thus: "my dear brethren, endeavour with all your might, that it may be your portion to see the lord, and that he may give you such a crown;" and then, with a pleasant countenance, he said to his father, "give the executioner the soldier's coat thou hast gotten for me, and when i shall receive thee in the company of the blessed martyrs, we may also rejoice together with the lord." after this he suffered. his mother pompeiana obtained his body of the judge, and conveyed it to carthage, and buried it near the place where the body of cyprian the martyr lay. and thirteen days after this his mother died, and was buried in the came place. and victor, his father, returned to his habitation, rejoicing and praising god, that he had sent before such a gift to the lord, himself expecting to follow after. i shall only observe, upon this instance, that it is nearly pure and unmixed, or that it is but little connected with idolatrous circumstances, or rather, that the unlawfulness of fighting was principally urged by maximilian as a reason against entering upon a military life. let us now find a case, where, when a person was converted in the army, he left it, pleading this principle, as one among others, for his dereliction of it. marcellus was a centurion in the legion called "trajana." on a festival, given in honour of the birth-day of galerius, he threw down his military belt at the head of the legion, and in the face of the standards, declared with a loud voice, that he would no longer serve in the army, for that he had become a christian. "i hold in detestation, said he, addressing himself to all the soldiers, the worship of your gods: gods, which are made of wood and stone, gods which are deaf and dumb." so far marcellus, it appears, seems to have been influenced in his desertion of a military life by the idolatry connected with it. but let us hear him farther on this subject. "it is not lawful, says he, for a christian, who is the servant of christ the lord, to bear arms for any earthly consideration." after a delay of more than three months in prison after this transaction, which delay was allowed for the purpose of sparing him, he was brought before the prefect. there he had an opportunity of correcting his former expressions. but as he persisted in the same sentiments, he suffered. it is remarkable, that, almost immediately after his execution, cassian, who, was the notary to the same legion, refused to serve any longer, by publicly throwing his pen and accompt-book upon the ground, and declaring, at the same time, that the sentence of marcellus was unjust. when taken up by the order of aurelianus agricolanus, he is described by the record, preserved by ruinart, to have avowed the same sentiments as marcellus, and, like him, to have suffered death. it may not be necessary, perhaps, to cite any other instances, as opposed to that of marinus, to the point in question. but, as another occurs, which may be related in few words, i will just mention it in this place. martin, of whom sulpicius severus says so much, had been bred to the profession of arms, but, on his conversion to christianity, declined it. in the answer, which he gave to julian the apostate for his conduct on this occasion, we find him making use only of these words, "i am a christian, and therefore i cannot fight." now this answer of martin is detached from all notions of idolatry. the unlawfulness of fighting is given as the only motive for his resignation. and there is no doubt, that the unlawfulness of fighting was as much a principle of religion in the early times of christianity, as the refusal of sacrifice to the heathen gods; and that they operated equally to prevent men from entering into the army, and to drive them out of it on their conversion. indeed these principles generally went together, where the profession of arms presented itself as an occupation for a christian. he, who refused the profession on account of the idolatry connected with it, would have refused it on account of the unlawfulness of fighting. and he, who refused it on account of the guilt of fighting, would have refused it oh account of the idolatrous services it required. both and each of them were impediments, in the early times of christianity, to a military life. sect. iv. _early christians then declined the army on account, of one, among other persuasions, that it was unlawful for christians to fight--their practice examined farther, or into the fourth century--shewn from hence, that while christianity continued pure, christians still declined the military profession--but as it became less pure, their scruples against it became less--and when it became corrupt, their scruples against it ceased--manner in which the quakers make the practice of these early times support the meaning of the scriptural passages, which they adduce in favour of their tenet on war._ as it will now probably be admitted, that the early christians refused to enter into the army, and that they left it after their conversion, on account of one, among other persuasions, that it was unlawful for them to fight, i must examine their practice, as it related to this subject, still farther, or i must trace it down to a later period, before i can show how the quakers make the practice of these early times support the meaning of the scriptural passages, which they advance in favour of their tenet on war. it may be considered as a well founded proposition, that, as the lamp of christianity burnt bright, in those early times, so those, who were illuminated by it, declined the military profession; and, that, as its flame shone less clear, they had less objection to it. thus, in the two first centuries, when christianity was the purest, there were no christian soldiers. in the third century, when it became less pure, there is frequent mention of such soldiers. and in the fourth, when its corruption was fixed, christians entered upon the profession of arms with as little hesitation, as they entered upon any other occupation in life. that there were no christian soldiers in the first and second centuries, has already been made apparent. that christianity also was purest in these times, there can be no doubt. let us look at the character which is given of the first christians by athenagoras, justin martyr, minucius felix, and others of the early christian writers. according to these they were plain and neat in their apparel, and frugal in their furniture. they were temperate in their eating and drinking. they relinquished all the diversions of the times, in which they saw any tendency to evil. they were chaste in their conversation, tempering mirth with gravity. they were modest and chaste in their deportment and manners. they were punctual to their words and engagements. they were such lovers of the truth, that, on being asked, if they were christians, they never denied it, though death was the consequence of such a religious profession. they loved each other as brethren, and called one another by that name. they were kind, and courteous, and charitable, beyond all example, to others. they abstained from all manner of violence. they prayed for those who persecuted them. they were patterns of humility and patience. they made no sacrifice of their consciences, but would persevere in that which was right, never refusing to die for their religion. this is the character, which is uniformly given of them by the christian writers of those times. that their conduct was greatly altered in the third century, where we are now to view it, we may collect from indisputable authority. i stated in the former section, that a christian soldier was punished for refusing to wear a garland, like the rest of his comrades, on a public occasion. this man, it appears, had been converted in the army, and objected to the ceremony on that account. now tertullian tells us, that this soldier was blamed for his unseasonable zeal, as it was called, by some of the christians at that time, though all christians before considered the wearing of such a garland as unlawful and profane. in this century there is no question but the christian discipline began to relax. to the long peace the church enjoyed from the death of antoninus to the tenth year of severus, is to be ascribed the corruption that ensued. this corruption we find to have spread rapidly; for the same tertullian was enabled to furnish us with the extraordinary instance of manufacturers of idols being admitted into the ecclesiastical order. many corruptions are also noticed in this century by other writers. cyprian complained of them, as they existed in the middle, and eusebius, as they existed at the end of it, and both attributed it to the peace, or to the ease and plenty, which the christians had enjoyed. the latter gives us a melancholy account of their change. they had begun to live in fine houses, and to indulge in luxuries. but, above all, they had begun to be envious, and quarrelsome, and to dissemble, and to cheat, and to falsify their word, so that they lost the character, which pliny, an adversary to their religion, had been obliged to give of them, and which they had retained for more than a century, as appears by their own writers. that there were christian soldiers in this more corrupt century of the church, it is impossible to deny. for such frequent mention is made of them in the histories, which relate to this period, that we cannot refuse our assent to one or other of the propositions, either that there were men in the armies, who called themselves christians, or that there were men in them, who had that name given them by others. that they were christians, however, is another question. they were probably such christians, as dion mentioned to have been among the life-guards of dioclesian and maximian, and of constantius and maximus, of whom maximilian observed, "these men may know what it is expedient for them to do, but i am a christian, and therefore i cannot fight." indeed, that real christians could have been found in the army in this century is impossible, for the military oath, which was full of idolatry, and the adoration of the standards, and the performance of sacrifice, still continued as services[ ] not to be dispensed with by the soldiery. no one, therefore, can believe, that men in the full practice of pagan idolatry, as every legionary soldier must then have been, were real christians, merely because it is recorded in history, that men, calling themselves christians, were found in the army in those times. on the other hand, if any soldiers professed christianity at this period, or are related by authors to have professed it, and yet to have remained soldiers, it may be directly pronounced, that they could only have been nominal or corrupted christians. [footnote : the military oath was not altered for christians till the next century, when they were allowed to swear "by god, by christ, and by the holy spirit, and by the majesty of the emperor, which, next to god, is to be loved and honoured by mankind."] that christianity was more degenerate in the fourth than in the third century (which is the next position) we have indubitable proof. one of the first facts, that strikes us, is an extraordinary one related by lactantius, in his "death of the persecuted," that there were christians at this time, who, having probably a superstitious belief, that the sign of the cross would be a preventive of pollution, were present, and even assisted at some of the heathen sacrifices. but it is not necessary to detail these or other particulars. almost every body knows, that more evils sprang up to the church in this century, than in any other, some of which remain at the present day. indeed, the corruption of christianity was fixed as it were by law in the age now mentioned. constantine, on his conversion, introduced many of the pagan ceremonies and, superstitions, in which he had been brought up, into the christian religion. the christians, rejoiced at seeing an emperor of their own persuasion, under whom they had hopes of restoration to equal privileges with others, and of freedom from persecution, submitted, in order to please or flatter him, to his idolatrous customs and opinions, thus sacrificing their consciences to their ease and safety. many, on the other hand, who had always been heathens, professed themselves christians at once out of compliment to their emperor, and without any real conversion of the heart. thus there was a mixture of christianity and paganism in the church, which had never been known before. constantine too did not dispense with the blasphemous titles of eternity, divinity, and pontifex maximus, as they had been given to his predecessors. after his death, he was considered also as a god. and if philostorgius is to be believed, the christians, for so he calls them, prayed to and worshipped him as such. now in this century, when the corruption of the church may be considered to have been fixed, we scarcely find any mention of christian soldiers, or we find the distinction between them and others gradually passing away. the truth is, that, when the christians of this age had submitted to certain innovations upon their religion, they were in a fit state to go greater lengths; and so it happened, for as heathens, who professed to be christians out of compliment to their emperor, had no objection to the military service, so christians, who had submitted to heathenism on the same principle, relaxed, in their scruples concerning it. the latter too were influenced by the example of the former. hence the unlawfulness of fighting began to be given up. we find, however, that here and there an ancient father still retained it as a religious tenet, but these dropping off one after another, it ceased at length to be a doctrine of the church. having now traced the practice of the christians down to the fourth century, as far as the profession of arms is concerned, i shall state in few words the manner in which the quakers make this practice support the meaning of the scriptural passages, which they produce in favour of their tenet on war. the quakers then lay it down as a position, that the christians of the first and second centuries, as we had already observed, gave the same interpretation, as they themselves give, of the passages in question. now they say first, that if there were any words or expressions in the original manuscripts of the evangelists or apostles, which might throw light upon the meaning of these or other passages on the same subject, but which words and expressions were not in the copies which came after, then many of those who lived in the first and second centuries, had advantages with respect to knowledge on this subject, which their successors had not, inasmuch as the former were soon afterwards lost. they say secondly, that if there was any thing in tradition which might help to explain these passages more satisfactorily, those of the first and second centuries had advantages again, because they lived nearer to these traditions, or to the time when they were more pure, than those christians did, who succeeded them. they say thirdly, that, if primitive practice be to be considered as the best interpreter of the passages in question, then those of the first and second centuries had their advantages again, because many of them lived in the times of the evangelists and the apostles, and all of them nearer to those who succeeded the evangelists and apostles, than those in the subsequent ages of the christian era. but in direct inference, they conceive, is to be drawn from these premises, namely, that the opinions of those who lived in the first and second centuries, relative to the meaning of the passages in question, are likely to be more correct on these several accounts, than those of christians in any of the ages that followed. and as in the first and second centuries of the church, when christianity was purest, there were no christian soldiers, but as in the fourth century, when it became corrupt, christians had lost their objections to a military life, they conceive the opinions of the former to be more correct than those of the latter, because the opinions of real christians, willing to make any sacrifice for their religion, must be always less biassed and more pure, than those of persons calling themselves christians, but yet submitting to the idolatrous and other corrupt practices of the world. and as they conceive this to be true of the opinions of the second century, when compared with those of the fourth, so they conceive it to be true of the opinions of the second, when compared with those of the moderns upon this subject, because, whatever our progress in christianity may be, seeing that it is not equal to that of the first christians, it is certain, besides the distance of time, that we have prejudices arising from the practice of fourteen centuries, during all which time it has been held out, except by a few individuals, as lawful for christians to fight. sect.v. _reflections of the author on the foregoing subject--case of a superior being supposed, who should reside in the planet nearest to us, and see war carried on by men no larger than the race of ants--his enquiry as to the origin of these wars--their duration--and other circumstances--supposed answers to these questions--new arguments, from this supposed conversation, against war._ i have now stated the principal arguments, by which the quakers are induced to believe it to be a doctrine of christianity, that men should abstain from war, and i intended to close the subject in the last section. but when i consider the frequency of modern wars; when i consider that they are scarcely over, before others rise up in their place; when i consider again, that they come like the common diseases, which belong to our infirm nature, and that they are considered by men nearly in a similar light, i should feel myself criminal, if i were not to avail myself of the privilege of an author, to add a few observations of my own upon this subject. living as we do in an almost inaccessible island, and having therefore more than ordinary means of security to our property and our persons from hostile invasion, we do not seem to be sufficiently grateful to the divine being for the blessings we enjoy. we do not seem to make a right use of our benefits by contemplating the situation, and by feeling a tender anxiety for the happiness of others. we seem to make no proper estimates of the miseries of war. the latter we feel principally in abridgments of a pecuniary nature. but if we were to feel them in the conflagration of our towns and villages, or in personal wounds, or in the personal sufferings of fugitive misery and want, we should be apt to put a greater value than we do, upon the blessings of peace. and we should be apt to consider the connexion between war and misery, and between war and moral evil, in a light so much stronger than we do at present, that we might even suppose the precepts of jesus christ to be deficient, unless they were made to extend to wars, as well as to private injuries. i wonder what a superior being, living in the nearest planet to our earth, and seeing us of the size of ants, would say, if he were enabled to get any insight into the nature of modern wars. it must certainly strike him, if he were to see a number of such diminutive persons chasing one another in bodies over different parts of the hills and vallies of the earth, and following each other in little nut-shells, as it were upon the ocean, as a very extraordinary sight, and as mysterious, and hard to be explained. he might, at first, consider them as occupied in a game of play, or as emigrating for more food, or for a better climate. but when he saw them stop and fight, and destroy one another, and was assured that they were actually engaged in the solemn game of death, and this at such a distance from their own homes, he would wonder at the causes of these movements, and the reason of this destruction, and, not knowing that they possessed rational faculties, he would probably consider them as animals, destined by nature to live upon one another. i think the first question he would ask would be, and from whence do these fightings come? it would be replied of course, that they came from their lusts; that these beings, though diminutive in their appearance, were men; that they had pride, and ambition; that they had envy and jealousy; that they indulged also hatred, and malice, and avarice, and anger; and that, on account of some or other of these causes, they quarrelled and fought with one another. well, but the superior being would say, is there no one on the earth, which i see below me, to advise them to conduct themselves better, or are the passions you speak of eternally uppermost, and never to be subdued? the reply would of course be, that in these little beings, called men, there had been implanted the faculty of reason, by the use of which they must know that their conduct was exceptionable, but that, in these cases, they seldom minded it. it would also be added in reply, that they had a religion, which was not only designed by a spirit from heaven, who had once lived among them, but had been pronounced by him as efficacious to the end proposed; that one of the great objects of this religion was a due subjugation of their passions; and this was so much insisted upon, that no one of them was considered to have received this religion truly, unless his passions were subdued. but here the superior being would enquire, whether they acknowledged the religion spoken of, and the authority from whence it came? to which it would of course be replied, that they were so tenacious of it, notwithstanding their indulgence of their passions, and their destruction of one another, that you could; not offend them more grievously than by telling them, that they did not belong to the religion they professed. it is not difficult to foresee what other questions the superior being would ask, and probably the first of these would be, the duration of the lives of these little beings, and the length and frequency of their wars? it would be replied to this, that their lives were but as a vapour, which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away, and that a quarter, and sometimes half of their time on earth, was spent in those destructive pursuits. the superior being would unquestionably be grieved at this account, because he would feel, that they really frustrated their own happiness, or that they lost by their own fault a considerable portion of the enjoyment of their lives. in this impatience and anxiety for their future comfort, he would probably ask again, if they had any notion of any generous end for which they were born, for it is impossible they could suppose, that they came into the world to destroy one another. it would be replied, that they could not be ignorant of the true object or end; for the same religion, in which they believed, and which was said before to have been given them by a spirit sent from heaven, inculcated that they were sent there on a life of trial, and that in a future existence they were to give an account of their conduct, and were to be rewarded or punished accordingly. the same religion, it would be replied, also inculcated, notwithstanding their fightings, the utmost benevolence from one towards another. it wished so much every one of them to live peaceably, that it enjoined it as a duty rather to put up with an injury than to resent it, and it carried its benevolence so far, that it made no distinction between others of the same species, who spoke a different language, or lived in other districts or parts of the same world. but here the superior being would interrupt.--what, he would say! are they not to resent injuries, and yet do they go to war? and are they not afraid of fighting in this manner, when they are to give an account of their conduct in a future state? it would be replied, no: they have their philosophers among them, and most of these have determined, that, in this particular case, responsibility lies at the door of those who employ them. but, notwithstanding this, there are others living among them, who think otherwise. these are of opinion, that those who employ them cannot take the responsibility upon themselves without taking it from those whom they thus employ. but the religion of the great spirit no where says, that any constituted authorities among them can take away the responsibility of individual creatures, but, on the other hand, in the most positive terms, that every individual creature is responsible wholly for himself. and this religion does not give any creature an exemption on account of any force which may be used against him; because no one, according to its precepts, is to do evil, not even that good may come. but if he be persecuted, he is to adhere to that which is right, and to expect his reward in the other state. the impossibility, therefore, of breaking or dissolving individual responsibility, in the case of immoral action, is an argument to many, of the unlawfulness of these wars. and those who reason in this manner, think they have reasoned right, when they consider besides, that, if any of the beings in question were to kill one of his usually reputed enemies in the time of peace, he would suffer death for it, and be considered as accountable also for his crime in a future state. they cannot see, therefore, how any constituted authorities among them can alter the nature of things, or how these beings can kill others in time of war, without the imputation of a crime, whom they could not kill without such an imputation in time of peace. they see in the book of the great spirit no dispensation given to societies to after the nature of actions, which are pronounced to be crimes. but the superior being would say, is it really defined, and is it defined clearly in the great book of the spirit, that if one of them should kill another, he is guilty of a crime! it would be replied, not only of a crime, but of the greatest of all crimes, and that no dispensation is given to any of them to commit it in any case. and it would be observed farther, that there are other crimes, which these fightings generally include, which are equally specified and forbidden in the great book, but which they think it proper to sanction in the present case. thus, all kinds of treachery and deceit are considered to be allowable, for a very ancient philosopher among them has left a maxim upon record, and it has not yet been beaten out of their heads, notwithstanding the precepts of the great book, in nearly the following words: "who thinks of requiring open courage of an enemy, or that treachery is not equally allowable in war?"[ ] [footnote : dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat?] strange! the superior being would reply. they seem to me to be reversing the order of their nature, and the end of their existence. but how do they justify themselves on these occasions? it would be answered, that they not only justify themselves, but they even go so far as to call these fightings honourable. the greater the treachery, if it succeeds, and the greater the number of these beings killed, the more glorious is the action esteemed. still more strange! the superior being would reply. and is it possible, he would add, that they enter into this profession with a belief, that they are entering into an honourable employ? some of them, it would be replied, consider it as a genteel employ. and hence they engage in it. others, of a lazy disposition, prefer it to any other. others are decoyed into it by treachery in various ways. there are also strong drinks, which they are fond of, and if they are prevailed upon to take these to excess, they lose their reason, and then they are obliged to submit to it. it must be owned too, that when these wars begin, the trades of many of these little beings are stopped, so that, to get a temporary livelihood, they go out and fight. nor must it be concealed, that many are forced to go, both against their judgment and against their will. the superior being, hurt at these various accounts, would probably ask, and what then does the community get by these wars, as a counterbalance for the loss of so much happiness, and the production of so much evil? it would be replied, nothing. the community is generally worse off at the end of these wars, than when it began to contend. but here the superior being would wish to hear no more of the system. he would suddenly turn away his face, and retire into one of the deep valleys of his planet, either with exclamations against the folly, or with emotions of pity for the situation, or with expressions of disgust at the wickedness, of these little creatures. "o for a lodge in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade, where tumour of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful or successful war, might never reach me more! my ear is pain'd, my soul is sick with every day's report, of wrong and outrage, with which earth is fill'd. lands, intersected by a narrow frith, abhor each other. mountains interpos'd, make enemies of nations who had else, like kindred drops, been mingled into one. thus men devotes his brother, and destroys-- then what is man? and what man, seeing this, and having human feelings, does not blush, and hang his head, to think himself a man?" cowper sect. vi. _subject farther considered--sad conceptions of those relative to the divine being, and the nature of the gospel, who plead for the necessity of war--war necessary, where statesmen pursue the policy of the world--nature and tendency of this policy--but not necessary where they pursue the policy of the gospel--nature and tendency of this policy--this tendency farther confirmed by a supposed case of a few quakers becoming the governors of the world._ it is now an old maxim, and time with all its improvements has not worn it away, that wars are necessary in the present constitution of the world. it has not even been obliterated, that they are necessary, in order to sweep off mankind on account of the narrow boundaries of the earth. but they, who make use of this argument, must be aware, that, in espousing it, they declare no less, than that god, in the formation of his system, had only half calculated or half provided for its continuance, and that they charge him with a worse cruelty than is recorded of the worst of men: because, if he told men to increase and multiply, and gave them passions accordingly, it would appear as if he had created them only to enjoy an eternal feast in the sight of their destruction. nor do they make him a moral governor of the world, if he allows men to butcher one another without an individual provocation or offence. neither do persons, arguing for the necessity of wars, do less than set themselves above the prophecies or oracles of god, which declare, that such warfare shall some time or other cease. neither do they, when they consider wars as necessary, and as never to be done away on account of the wicked passions of men, do less than speak blasphemy against the gospel of jesus christ, because they proclaim it to be inadequate to the end proposed. for the proper subjugation of these, among other purposes, it was that the gospel was promulgated. if it be thought a miracle, that the passions of men should be subdued, it is still a miracle, which christianity professes to work; which it has worked since the hour of its institution; which it has worked in men, who have placed their highest reputation in martial glory; and which it continues to work, at the present day. those, therefore, who promote wars, and excite the passions of men for this purpose, attempt to undo what it is the object of christianity to do, and to stop the benign influence of the gospel in the hearts of men. that wars are necessary, or rather that they will be begun and continued, i do not mean to deny, while statesmen pursue the wisdom or policy of the world. what this wisdom or policy is, it will not be difficult to trace. and first, when any matter is in dispute among the rulers of nations, is it not a maxim, that a high tone is desirable in the settlement of it, in order that the parties may seem to betray neither fear nor weakness, and that they may not be thought to lose any of their dignity or their spirit? now as the human passions are constituted, except they have previously been brought under due regulation by christianity, what is more likely than that a high tone of language on one side should beget a similar tone on the other, or that spirit, once manifested, should, produce spirit in return, and that each should fly off, as it were, at a greater distance from accommodation than before, and that, when once exasperation has begun, it should increase. now what is the chance, if such policy be resorted to on such occasions, of the preservation of peace between them? and, secondly, is it not also a received maxim, that, in controversies of this sort, a nation, even during the discussion, should arm itself, in order that it may shew itself prepared? but if any one nation arms during the discussion; if it fits out armies or fleets of observation with a view of deterring, or of being ready in case of necessity of striking, as it is called, the first blow; what is more probable, than that the other will arm also, and that it will fit out its own armies and fleets likewise? but when both are thus armed, pride and spirit will scarcely suffer them to relax, and what is then more probable, than that they will begin to fight? and, thirdly, is it not a maxim also, that, even during the attempt to terminate the dispute, the public mind should be prepared? are not the public papers let loose to excite and propagate a flame? and are not the deeds of our ancestors ushered into our ears to produce a martial spirit? but if the national temper is roused on both sides, and if preparations are carrying on at the same time with the utmost vigour, where again is the hope of the prevention of war between them? and, fourthly, after hostilities are commenced, is it not a maxim also to perpetuate the enmity, which has been thus begun, and to give it a deeper root, and even to make it eternal by connecting it with religion? thus flag-staffs are exhibited upon steeples, bells are rung to announce victories, and sermons are preached as occasions arise, as if the places allotted for christian worship, were the most proper from whence to issue the news of human suffering, or to excite the passions of men for the destruction of one another. nor is this all. the very colours of the armies are consecrated. i do not mean to say, that like the banners in the praetorian tents, they are actually worshipped, but that an attempt is made to render them holy in the eyes of those who are present. an attempt is made, wonderful to relate, to incorporate war into the religion of jesus christ, and to perpetuate enmity on the foundation of the gospel! now this is the policy of the world, and can it be seriously imagined, that such a system as this can ever lead to peace? for while discussions relative to matters of national dispute are carried on in a high tone, because a more humble tone would betray weakness or fear; while again, during this discussion, preparations for war are going on, because the appearance of being prepared would convey the idea of determined resolution, and of more than ordinary strength; while again, during the same discussion, the national spirit is awakened and inflamed; and while again, when hostilities have commenced, measures are resorted to, to perpetuate a national enmity, so that the parties consider themselves as natural enemies even in the succeeding peace, what hope is there of the extermination of war on earth? but let us now look at the opposite policy, which is that of the gospel. now this policy would consist in the practice of meekness, moderation, love, patience, and forbearance, with a strict regard to justice, so that no advantages might be taken on either side. but if these principles, all of which are preventive of irritation, were to be displayed in our negotiations abroad, in the case of any matter in dispute, would they not annihilate the necessity of wars? for what is the natural tendency of such principles? what is their tendency, for instance, in private life? and who are the negotiators on these occasions but men? which kind of conduct is most likely to disarm an opponent, that of him who holds up his arm to strike, if his opponent should not comply with his terms, or of him who argues justly, who manifests a temper of love and forbearance, and who professes that he will rather suffer than resist, and that he will do every thing sooner than that the affair shall not be amicably settled? the apostle paul, who knew well the human heart, says, "if thine enemy hunger, feed him, for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." that is, thou shall cause him, by thy amiable conduct, to experience burning feelings within himself, which, while they torment him with the wickedness of his own conduct, shall make him esteem thee, and bring him over to thy side. thus thou shalt overcome his evil by thy good. or, in other words, as fire melts the hardest metals, so thy kindness shall melt his anger. thus parnell-- "so artists melt the sullen ore of lead, by heaping coals of fire upon its head. touch'd by the warmth, the metal teams to glow, and pure from dress, the silver tang below." this policy again would consist of the practical duty of attempting to tranquillize the minds of the people, while the discussion was going on, of exhorting them to await the event with composure, of declaring against the folly and wickedness of wars, as if peace only could be the result, of abstaining from all hostile preparations, and indeed from all appearance of violence. now what influence would such conduct have again, but particularly when known to the opposite party? if the opposite party were to see those alluded to keeping down the passions of their people, would they inflame the passions of their own? if they were to be convinced, that these were making no preparations for war, would they put themselves to the expence of arming? can we see any other termination of such a contest than the continuance of peace? that the policy of the gospel, if acted upon by statesmen, would render wars unnecessary, we may infer from supposed cases. and, first, i would ask this simple question, whether, if all the world were quakers, there would be any more wars? i am sure the reply would be, no. but why not? because nations of quakers, it would be replied, would discuss matters in dispute between them with moderation, with temper, and with forbearance. they would never make any threats. they would never arm, and consequently they would never fight. it would be owing then to these principles, or, in other words, to the adoption of the policy of the gospel in preference of the policy of the world, that, if the globe were to be peopled by quakers, there would be no wars. now i would ask, what are quakers but men, and might not all, if they would suffer themselves to be cast in the same mould as the quakers, come out of it of the same form and character? but i will go still farther. i will suppose that any one of the four continents, having been previously divided into three parts, was governed only by three quakers, and that these had the same authority over their subjects, as their respective sovereigns have at present. and i win maintain, that there would never be, upon this continent, during their respective administrations, another war. for, first, many of the causes of war would be cut off. thus, for instance, there would be no disputes about insults offered to flags. there would be none again about the balance of power. in short, it would be laid down as a position, that no one was to do evil, that good might come. but as, notwithstanding, there might still be disputes from other causes, these would be amicably settled. for first, the same christian disposition would be manifest in the discussion as in the former case. and, secondly, if the matter should be of an intricate nature, so that one quaker government could not settle it with another, these would refer it, according to their constitution, to a third. this would be the "ne plus ultra" of the business. both the discussion and the dispute would end here. what a folly then to talk of the necessity of wars, when, if but three quakers were to rule a continent, they would cease there? there can be no plea for such language, but the impossibility of taming the human passions. but the subjugation of these is the immediate object of our religion. to confess, therefore, that wars must be, is either to utter a libel against christianity, or to confess that we have not yet arrived at the stature of real christians. sect. vii. _subject farther examined--case allowed, that if a cabinet of good men had to negotiate with a cabinet of good men, there might be no wars--but what would be the issue if good had to deal with bad--case of american settlers, who adopted the policy of the world, and were always at war--and of other american settlers, who adopted the policy of the gospel, and were always at peace--no case stronger, than where civilized men had to deal with savage american tribes._ i believe it will be allowed, that the quaker instances, mentioned in the last section, are in point. but i am aware also, it will be said that, though different cabinets, all having the same christian disposition, would settle their disputes in a friendly manner, how would a cabinet, consisting of spiritually minded men, settle with a cabinet of other men, who had not brought their passions under due regulation, and who, besides, had no notion of the unlawfulness of war. i apprehend that it will not be denied, that men, as ferocious as any recorded in history, were those, who were found in america, when that continent was discovered. we hear nothing of africans, or of asiatics, which would induce us to suppose, that they were as wild and as barbarous as these. and nothing is more true of these, than they, were frequently concerned in wars. i shall therefore take these for an example, and i shall shew by the opposite conduct of two different communities towards them, that it rests with men to live peaceably or not, as they cultivate the disposition to do it, or as they follow the policy of the gospel in preference of the policy of the world. when the english, dutch, and others, began to people america, they purchased land of the natives. but when they went to that continent, notwithstanding there were amiable persons among them, and friends to civil and religious liberty, they went with the notions of worldly policy, and they did not take with them the christian wisdom of the unlawfulness of war. they acted on the system of preparation, because there might be danger. they never settled without palisadoes and a fort. they kept their nightly watches, though unmolested. they were, in short, in the midst of war, though no injury had been offered them by the natives, and though professedly in the midst of peace. in the peopling of connecticut, for i must begin with some one state, it was ordered at an english court,[ ] "holden at dorchester, on the seventh day of june, , that every town should keep a watch, and be well supplied with ammunition. the constables were directed to warn the watches in their turns, and to make it their care, that they should be kept according to the direction of the court. they were required also to take care that the inhabitants were well furnished with arms and ammunition, and kept in a constant state of defence." as these infant settlements, the author observes, "were filled and surrounded with numerous savages, the people conceived themselves in danger, when they lay down, and when they rose up, when they went out, and when they came in. their circumstances were such, that it was judged necessary for every man to be a soldier." [footnote : trumbull's history of connecticut, p. .] i find from this author, looking farther into his history, that previously to the order of the court at dorchester, which did nothing more than enjoin a more strict execution of the original plan, which was that of military preparation and defence, some of the settlers had been killed by the natives. the provocation which the natives received, is not mentioned. but it was probably provocation enough to savage indians, to see people settle in their country with all the signs and symptoms of war. was such a system likely to have any other effect than that of exciting their jealousy? they could see that these settlers had at least no objection to the use of arms. they could see that these arms could never be intended but against other persons, and there were no other persons there but themselves. judging therefore by outward circumstances, they could draw no inference of a peaceable disposition in their new neighbours. war soon followed. the pequots were attacked. prisoners were made on both sides. the indians treated those settlers barbarously, who fell into their hands, for they did not see, on the capture of their own countrymen, any better usage on the part of the settlers themselves; for these settlers, again, had not the wisdom to use the policy of the gospel, but preferred the policy of the world.[ ] "though the first planters of new-england and connecticut, says the same author, were men of eminent piety and strict morals, yet, like other good men, they were subject to misconception, and the influence of passion. their beheading sachems whom they took in war, killing the male captives, and enslaving the women and children, was treating them with a severity, which, on the benevolent principles of christianity, it will be difficult to justify." [footnote : p. .] after this treatment, war followed war. and as other settlements were made by others in other states on the same principles, war fell to their portion likewise. and the whole history of the settlement of america, where these principles were followed, or where the policy of the world was adopted, is full of the wars between the settlers and the indians, which have continued more or less, and this nearly up to the present day. but widely different was the situation of the settlers under william penn. when he and his fellow quakers went to this continent, they went with the principles of christian wisdom, or they adopted the policy of the gospel instead of the policy of the world. they had to deal with the same savage indians as the other settlers. they had the same fury to guard against, and were in a situation much more exposed to attack, and of course much more creative of alarm; for they had neither sword nor musket, nor pallisadoe, nor fort. they judged it neither necessary to watch, nor to be provided with ammunition, nor to become soldiers. they spoke the language of peace to the natives, and they proved the sincerity of their language by their continuance in a defenceless condition. they held out also, that all wars were unlawful, and that, whatever injuries were offered them, they would sooner bear them, than gratify the principle of revenge. it is quite needless to go farther into the system of this venerable founder of pennsylvania. but it may be observed, that no quaker settlers, when known to be such,[ ] were killed, and, whatever attacks were made upon the possessors of land in their neighbourhood, none were ever made upon those who settled on the lands purchased by william penn. [footnote : "the indians shot him who had the gun, says storey in his journal, and when they knew the young man they killed was a quaker, they seemed sorry for it, but blamed him for carrying a gun. for they knew the quakers would not fight, or do them any harm, and therefore, by carrying a gun, they took him for an enemy." this instance, which was in after times, confirms still more strongly all that has been said on this subject. quakers at this time occasionally armed themselves against the wild beasts of the country.] it may not be improper to observe farther, that the harmonious intercourse between the quakers and the indians continues uninterrupted to the present day. in matters of great and public concern, of which i could mention instances, it has been usual with the indians to send deputies to the quakers for advice, and the former have even been prevailed upon by the latter to relinquish wars, which they had it in contemplation to undertake. it is usual also for some of these to send their children to the quakers for education. and so great is the influence of the quakers over some of these tribes, that many individuals belonging to them, and now living together, have been reclaimed from a savage life. these have laid aside the toilsome occupations of the chase. they raise horses, cattle, and sheep. they cultivate wheat and flax. they weave and spin. they have houses, barns, and saw-mills among them. they have schools also, and civilization is taking place of the grossest barbarism. these facts, when contrasted, speak for themselves. a cabinet of quaker ministers, acting upon the policy of the gospel, has been seated in the heart of a savage and warlike nation, and peace has been kept with them for ever. a cabinet of other settlers, acting on the policy of the world, has been seated in the heart of nations of a similar description, and they have almost constantly, been embroiled in wars. if christian policy has had its influence on barbarians, it would be libellous to say, that it would not have its influence upon those who profess to be christians. let us then again, from the instances which have been now recited, deprecate the necessity of wars. let us not think so meanly of the christian religion, as that it does not forbid, nor so meanly of its power, as that it is not ante to prevent, their continuance. let us not think, to the disgrace of our religion, that the human heart, under its influence, should be so retrogade, that the expected blessing of universal peace should be thought no improvement in our moral condition, or that our feelings under its influence should continue so impure, that, when it arrives, we should regard it not so much a blessing, as a cures. but let us, on the other hand, hope and believe, that, as an opposite and purer policy is acted upon, it will do good to our own natures, good to the peace and happiness of the world, and honour to the religion of the gospel. sect. viii _subject finally considered--authors of wars generally justify their own as defensive--and state that, if any nation were to give up the practice of war, or to act on the policy of the gospel, it would be overrun by others, which acted upon the policy of the world--reason to believe, that such a nation would be held in veneration by others, and applied to by them for the settlement of their disputes--sentiments of bishop butler in a supposed case--case of antoninus pius--conclusion._ having now said all that i intended to say on the supposed necessity of wars, i shall for a short time direct the attention of the reader to two points, the only two, that i purpose to notice on this subject. it is usually said, first, that the different powers, who go to war, give it out that their wars are defensive, or that they justify themselves on this principle. i shall observe in reply to this, that it is frequently difficult to determine, where actual aggression begins. even old aggressions, of long standing, have their bearings in these disputes. not shall we find often any clue to a solution of the difficulty in the manifestoes of either party, for each makes his own case good in these; and if we were to decide on the merits of the question by the contents of these, we should often come to the conclusion, that both the parties were wrong. thus, for instance, a notion may have been guilty of an offence to another. so far the cause of the other is a just one. but if the other should arm first, and this during an attempt at accommodation, it will be a question, whether it does not forfeit its pretensions to a just case, and whether both are not then to be considered as aggressors on the occasion? when a nation avows its object in a war, and changes its object in the course of it, the presumption is, that such a nation has been the aggressor. and where any nation goes to war upon no other avowed principle, than that of the balance of power, such a nation, however right according to the policy of the world, is an aggressor according to the policy of the gospel, because it proceeds upon the principle, that it is lawful to do evil, that good may come. if a nation hires or employs the troops of another to fight for it, though it is not the aggressor in any war, yet it has the crime upon its head of making those aggressors, whom it employs. but, generally speaking, few modern wars can be called defensive. a war, purely defensive, is that in which the inhabitants of a nation remain wholly at home to repel the attacks of another, and content themselves with sending protection to the settlements which belong to it. but few instance are recorded of such wars. but if there be often a difficulty in discerning between aggressive and defensive wars, and if, moreover, there is reason to suppose, that most of the modern wars are aggressive, or that both patties become aggressors in the course of the dispute, it becomes the rulers of nations to pause, and to examine their own consciences with fear and trembling, before they allow the sword to bedrawn, lest a dreadful responsibility should fall upon their heads for all the destruction of happiness, all the havoc of life, and all the slaughter of morals that may ensue. it is said, secondly, that if any nation were publicly to determine to relinquish the practice if war, or to act on the policy of the gospel, it would be overrun by other nations which might act on the policy of the world. this argument is neither more nor less than that of the pagan celsus, who said in the second century, that, if the rest of the roman empire were christians, it would be overrun by the barbarians. independently of the protection, which such a nation might count upon from the moral governor of the world, let us enquire, upon rational principles, what would be likely to be its fate. armies, we know, are kept up by one nation, principally because they are kept up by another. and in proportion as one rival nation adds to its standing armies, it is thought by the other to be consistent with the policy of the world to do the same. but if one nation were to decline keeping any armies at all, where would be the violence, to reason to suppose, that the other would follow the example? who would not be glad to get rid of the expence of keeping them, if they could do it with safety? nor is it likely, that any powerful nation, professing to relinquish war, would experience the calamities of it. its care to avoid provocation would be so great, and its language would be so temperate, and reasonable, and just, and conciliatory, in the case of any dispute which might arise, that it could hardly fail of obtaining an accommodation. and the probability is, that such a nation would grow so high in esteem with other nations, that they would have recourse to it in their disputes with one another, and would abide by its decision. "add the general influence, says the great bishop butler in his analogy, which each a kingdom would have over the face of the earth, by way of example particularly, and the reverence which would be paid to it. it would plainly be superior to all others, and the world must gradually come under its empire, not by means of lawless violence, but partly by what must be allowed to be just conquest, and partly by other kingdoms submitting themselves voluntarily to it, throughout a course of ages, and claiming its protection one after another in successive exigencies. the head of it would be an universal monarch in another sense than any other mortal has yet been, and the eastern style would be literally applicable to him, "that all people, nations, and languages, should serve him." now bishop butler supposes this would be the effect, where the individuals of a nation were perfectly virtuous. but i ask much less for my hypothesis. i only ask that the ruling members of the cabinet of any great nation (and perhaps these would only amount to three or four) should consist of real christians, or of such men as would implicitly follow the policy of the gospel, and i believe the result would be as i have described it. nor indeed are we without instances of the kind. the goodness of the emperor antoninus pius was so great, that he was said to have outdone all example. he had no war in the course of a long reign of twenty-four years, so that he was compared to numa. and nothing is more true, than that princes referred their controversies to his decision. nor most i forget again to bring to the notice of the reader the instance, though on a smaller scale, of the colonists and descendants of william penn. the quakers have uniformly conducted themselves towards the indians in such a manner, as to have given them from their earliest intercourse, an exulted idea of their character. and the consequence is, as i stated in a former section, that the former, in affairs of importance, are consulted by the latter at the present day. but why, if the cabinet of any one powerful nation were to act upon the noble principle of relinquishing war, should we think the other cabinets so lost to good feelings, as not to respect its virtue? let us instantly abandon this thought; for the supposition of a contrary sentiment would make them worse than the savages i have mentioned. let us then cherish the fond hope, that human animosities are not to be eternal, and that man is not always to be made a tiger to man. let us hope that the government of some one nation (and when we consider the vast power of the british empire, the nature of its constitution and religion, and the general humanity of its inhabitants, none would be better qualified than our own) will set the example of the total dereliction of wars. and let us, in all our respective situations, precede the anticipated blessing, by holding out the necessity of the subjugation of the passions, and by inculcating the doctrine of universal benevolence to man, so that when we look upon the beautiful islands, which lie scattered as so many ornaments of the ocean, we may wish their several inhabitants no greater injury than the violence of their own waves; or that, when we view continents at a distance from us, we may consider them as inhabited by our brothers; or that when we contemplate the ocean itself, which may separate them from our sight, we may consider it, not as separating our love, but as intended by providence to be the means of a quicker intercourse for the exchange of reciprocal blessings. chap. iv. sect. . _fourth tenet is on the subject of a pecuniary maintenance of a gospel ministry--example and precepts of jesus christ--also of paul and peter--conclusions from these premises--these conclusions supported by the primitive practice--great tenet resulting from these conclusions, and this primitive practice is, that the quakers hold it unlawful to pay their own ministers, and also others of any other denomination, for their gospel labours._ the fourth and last tenet of the quakers is on the subject of the unlawfulness of a pecuniary maintenance of a gospel ministry. in explaining this tenet, i am aware that i am treading upon delicate ground. the great majority of christians have determined, that the spiritual labourer is worthy of his hire; that if men relinquish the usual occupations by which a livelihood is obtained, in order that they may devote themselves to the service of religion, they are entitled to a pecuniary maintenance; and that, if they produce a rich harvest from what they sow, they are of all men, considering their usefulness to man to be greater in this than in any other service they can render him, the most worthy of encouragement and support. i am aware also of the possibility of giving offence to some in the course of the explanation of this tenet. to these i can only say, that i have no intention of hurting the feelings of any; that in the church there are those whom i esteem and love, and whom of all others i should be sorry to offend. but it must be obvious to these, and indeed to all, that it is impossible for me, in writing a history of the manners and opinions of the quakers, to pass over in silence the tenet that is now before me; and if i notice it, they must be sensible, that it becomes me to state fully and fairly all the arguments which the quakers give for the difference of opinion, which they manifest from the rest of their fellow-citizens, on this subject. it does not appear then, the quakers say, by any records that can be produced, that jesus christ ever received any payment for the doctrines which he taught, neither does it appear, as far as his own instructions, which are recorded by the evangelists, can be collected on this subject, that he considered any pecuniary stipend as necessary or proper for those who were to assist in the promotion of his religion. jesus christ, on the erection of his gospel ministry, gave rules to his disciples, how they were to conduct themselves in the case before us. he enjoined the twelve, before he sent them on this errand, as we collect from st. matthew and st. luke, that,[ ] "as they had received freely, so they were to give freely; that they were to provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in their purses, nor scrip, nor other things for their journey; for that the workman was worthy of his meat." and, on their return from their mission, he asked them,[ ] "when i sent you without purse, and scrip, and shoes, lacked ye any thing? and they said, nothing. then said he unto them, but now he that hath a purse let him take it, and likewise his scrip." [footnote : matt x. . luke ix. .] [footnote : luke xxii. .] in a little time afterwards, jesus christ sent out other seventy as disciples, to whom he gave instructions similar to the former, that they should not take scrip, clothes, and money with them. but to these he said additionally, that[ ] "wheresoever they were received, they were to eat such things as were given them; but where they were not received, they were to go their way, and say, even the dust of your city, which cleaveth on us, we do wipe off against you." and as on that occasion he compared the ministers of his gospel to the labourers, whom a man sends to the harvest, he told them they were at liberty to eat what was set before them, because the labourer was worthy of his hire. [footnote : luke x.] this the quakers conceive to be the substance of all that jesus christ taught upon this subject. they go therefore next to st. paul for a farther elucidation of it. they are of opinion, that st. paul, in his epistle to[ ] timothy, and to the corinthians, and galatians, acknowledges the position, that the spiritual labourer is worthy of his hire. [footnote : cor. ix.-- tim. v.--gal. vi.] the same apostle, however, says, "that[ ] if any would not work, neither should he eat." from this text the quakers draw two conclusions, first, that when ministers of the gospel are idle, they are not entitled to bodily sustenance; and, secondly, that those only, who receive them, are expected to support them. the same apostle says also,[ ] "let him that is taught in the word, communicate unto him that teacheth in all good things," but he nowhere says, "to him that teacheth not." [footnote : thes. iii. .] [footnote : gal. vi. .] but though men, who faithfully spend their time in preaching the gospel, are entitled to bodily maintenance from those who receive them, yet st. paul, the quakers say, as far as his own practice was concerned thought it more consistent with the spirit of christianity, and less detrimental to its interests, to support himself by the labour of his own hands, than to be supported by that of others. and he advises others to do the same, and not to make their preaching chargeable,[ ] "not because, says he we have not power, but to make ourselves an ensample to you to follow us." [footnote : thes. iii. .] this power the quakers consider ministers of the gospel to abuse, who make their preaching chargeable, if by any means, they can support themselves; for st. paul says farther, [ ] "what is my reward then? verily that, when i preach the gospel, i may make the gospel of christ without charge, that i abuse not my power in the gospel." thus the apostle, they conceive, looks up to god and not to men for the reward of his spiritual labours. and the same apostle makes it a characteristic of the false teachers, that they make merchandize of their hearers.[ ] [footnote : cor. ix. .] [footnote : pet. ii. .] it is objected to the quakers, on this occasion, that st. paul received relief from the brethren at philippi, as well as from others, when he did not preach. but their reply is, that this relief consisted of voluntary and affectionate presents sent to him in circumstances of distress. in this case the apostle states, that he never desired these gifts, but that it was pleasant to him to see his religious instruction produce a benevolence of disposition that would abound to their account.[ ] [footnote : philip. iv. .] st. peter is the only other person, who is mentioned in the new testament as speaking on this subject. writing to those, who had been called to the spiritual oversight of the churches, he advises as follows:[ ] "feed the flock of god, which is among you, taking the oversight thereof not by constraint but willingly, not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind, neither as being lords over god's heritage, but being examples to the flock. and when the chief shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away." upon these words the quakers make three observations; that ministers should not make a gain of the gospel; that they should look to god for their reward, and not to men; and that peter himself must have preached, like st. paul, without fee or reward, or he could not consistently have recommended such a practice to others. [footnote : pet. v. .] the quakers, therefore, from the example and precepts of jesus christ, and of the apostles paul and peter, come to the following conclusions on this subject. first, that god raises up his own ministers. secondly, that these are to dispense his gospel freely. thirdly, that they are to take, whereever they are received, such things as are given them, which things they deserve while in the exercise of their calling, as much as the labourer his hire, but that no bargains are to be made about religion; that they are not to compel men to give, neither are they to take away any thing from those who are unwilling to receive them, but, in this case, to go their ways, and shake the dust from their feet against them, or, in other words, to declare that they have done their own duty in going to them with the word of god, and that the fault lies with them in refusing to hear it. neither, when they return from their, missions, or are idle at home, are they to receive any thing, but to use their own scrips and purses, and clothes. and fourthly, that though it be lawful for them to receive such sustenance, under such limitations, during the exercise of their ministry, it would be more consistent with the spirit of christianity, if they would give their spiritual labours freely, and look up to god for their reward, thus avoiding the character of false teachers, and the imputation of an abuse of their power in the gospel. now these conclusions, the quakers say, seem to have been sanctioned, in a great measure, by the primitive practice for the three first centuries of the church, or till the darkness of apostacy began to overwhelm the religious world. in the very early times of the gospel, many christians, both at jerusalem and alexandria in egypt, sold their possessions, and lived together on the produce of their common stock. others in antioch, galatia, and pontus, retained their estates in their possession, but established a fund, consisting of weekly or monthly offerings, for the support of the church. this fund continued in after times. but it was principally for the relief of poor and distressed saints, in which the ministers of the gospel, if in that situation, might also share. tertullian, in speaking of such funds, gives the following account: "whatsoever we have, says he, in the treasury of our churches, is not raised by taxation, as though we put men to ransom their religion, but every man once a month, or when it pleaseth him, bestoweth what he thinks proper, but not except he be willing. for no man is compelled, but left free to his own discretion. and that, which is thus given, is not bestowed in vanity, but in relieving the poor, and upon children destitute of parents, and in the maintenance of aged and feeble persons, and of men wrecked by sea, and of such as have been condemned to metallic mines, or have been banished to islands, or have been cast into prison, professing the christian faith." in process of time, towards the close of the third century, some lands began to be given to the church. the revenue from these was thrown into the general treasury or fund, and was distributed, as other offerings were, by the deacons and elders, but neither bishops nor ministers of the gospel were allowed to have any concern with it. it appears from origen, cyprian, urban, prosper, and others, that if in those times such ministers were able to support themselves, they were to have nothing from this fund. the fund was not for the benefit of any particular person. but if such ministers stood in need of sustenance, they might receive from it; but they were to be satisfied with simple diet, and necessary apparel. and so sacred was this fund held to the purposes of its institution, that the first christian emperors, who did as the bishops advised them, had no recourse to it, but supplied the wants of ministers of the gospel from their own revenues, as eusebius, theodoret, and sozomen relate. the council of antioch, in the year , finding fault with the deacons relative to the management of the funds of the churches, ordained that the bishops might distribute them, but that they should take no part of them to themselves, or for the use of the priests and brethren who lived with them, unless necessity required it, using the words of the apostle, "having food and raiment, be therewith content." in looking at other instances, cited by the quakers, i shall mention one, which throws light for a few years farther upon this subject. in the year , constantine, the emperor, having summoned a general council of bishops to arminium in italy, and provided for their subsistence there, the british and french bishops, judging it not fit to live on the public, chose rather to live at their own expence. three only out of britain, compelled by want, but yet refusing assistance offered to them by the rest, accepted the emperor's provision, judging it more proper to subsist by public than by private support. this delicate conduct of the bishops is brought to shew, that, where ministers of the gospel had the power of maintaining themselves, they had no notion of looking to the public. in short, in those early times, ministers were maintained only where their necessities required it, and this out of the fund for the poor. those, who took from the fund, had the particular application given them of "sportularii," or basket-clerks, because, according to origen, tertullian, cyprian, and others, they had their portion of sustenance, given them in baskets. these portions consisted but of a small pittance, sufficient only for their livelihood, and were given them on the principle laid down by st. matthew, that the ministers of jesus christ were to eat and drink only such things as were set before them. in process of time new doctrines were advanced relative to the maintenance of the ministry, which will be hereafter explained. but as these were the inventions of men, and introduced during the apostacy, the quakers see no reason, why they should look up to these in preference to those of jesus christ, and of the apostles, and of the practice of christians in the purest periods of the church. they believe, on the other hand, that the latter only are to be relied upon as the true doctrines. these were founded in divine wisdom on the erection of the gospel ministry, and were unmixed with the inventions of men. they were founded on the genius and spirit of christianity, and not on the genius or spirit of the world. the quakers therefore, looking up to these as to the surer foundation, have adopted the following tenets on this subject. they believe, first, that it would be inconsistent in them as christians, to make a pecuniary payment to their own ministers for their gospel labours. and they regulate their practice accordingly upon this principle. no one is ever paid by the quakers for the performance of any office in the church. if a minister lives at home, and attends the meeting to which he belongs, he supports himself, as st. paul did, by his own trade. if he goes on the ministry to other meetings, he is received by the quakers as he travels along, and he finds meat and drink at the houses of these. his travelling expenses also are generally defrayed in this particular case. but he receives no reward, or fixed or permanent stipend, for his services on these or on any other such occasions. and as the quakers cannot pay their own ministers, so it is a tenet with them, that they cannot pay those of other denominations for their gospel labours upon the same principle; that is, they believe, that all ministers of every description ought to follow the example, which st. paul gave and enjoined them, of maintaining themselves by their own hands; they ought to look up to god and not to men for their reward; they ought to avoid the character of false teachers, and the imputation of abusing their power in the gospel. and to these they add a particular reason, drawn from the texts quoted, which is not applicable in the former case, namely, that ministers are not authorised to take meat and drink from those who are not willing to receive them. sect. ii. _other reasons why quakers cannot pay ministers of the gospel of a different denomination from themselves--these arise out of the nature of the payments made to them, or out of the nature of tithes--history of tithes from the fourth century to the reign of henry the eighth, when they were definitively consolidated into the laws of the land._ but the quakers have other reasons, besides the general reasons, and the particular one which has been given, why as christians they cannot pay ministers of a different denomination from themselves for their gospel labours, or why they cannot pay ministers of the established church. these arise out of the nature of the payments which are made to them, or out of the nature of tithes. but to see these in their proper light, some notion should be given of the origin of this mode of their maintenance. i shall therefore give a very concise history of tithes from the fourth century, to which period i have already brought the reader, to the reign of henry the eighth, when they took a station in the laws of the land, from which they have never yet been displaced. it has already appeared that, between the middle and the close of the fourth century, such ministers of the gospel as were able, supported themselves, but that those who were not able, were supported out of the fund for the poor. the latter, however, had no fixed or determined proportion of this fund allotted them, but had only a bare livelihood from it, consisting of victuals served out to them in baskets, as before explained. this fund too consisted of voluntary offerings, or of revenues from land voluntarily bequeathed. and the principle, on which these gifts or voluntary offerings were made, was the duty of charity to the poor. one material innovation, however, had been introduced, as i remarked before, since its institution, namely, that the bishops, and not the deacons, had now the management of this fund. at the latter end of the fourth century, and from this period to the eighth, other changes took place in the system of which i have been speaking. ministers of the gospel began to be supported, all of them without distinction, from the funds of the poor. this circumstance occasioned a greater number of persons to be provided for than before. the people therefore were solicited for greater contributions than had been ordinarily given. jerom and omrysostom, out of good and pious motives, exhorted them in turn to give bountifully to the poor, and double honour to those who laboured in the lord's work. and though they left the people at liberty to bestow what they pleased, they gave it as their opinion, that they ought not to be less liberal than the ancient jews, who, under the levitical law, gave a tenth of their property to the priesthood and to the poor. ambrose, in like manner, recommended tenths, as now necessary, and as only a suitable donation for these purposes. the same line of conduct continued to be pursued by those who succeeded in the government of the church, by augustin, bishop of hippo, by pope leo, by gregory, by severin among the christians, in pannonia, and by others. their exhortations, however, on this subject, were now mixed with promises and, threats. pardon of sins and future rewards were held out on the one hand, and it was suggested on the other, that the people, themselves would be reduced to a tenth, and the blood of all the poor who died, would be upon their heads, if they gave less than a tenth of their incomes to holy uses. by exhortations of this sort, reiterated for three centuries, it began at length to be expected of the people, that they would not give less than tenths of what they possessed. no right however was alleged to such a proportion of their income, nor was coercion ever spoken of. these tenths also were for holy uses, which chiefly included the benefit of the poor. they were called the lord's goods in consequence, and were also denominated the patrimony of the poor. another change took place within the period assigned, which i must now mention as of great concern. ministers of the gospel now living wholly out of the tenths, which with legacies constituted the fund of the poor, a determined portion of this fund, contrary to all former usage, was set apart for their use. of this fund, one fourth was generally given to the poor, one fourth to the repairs of churches, one fourth to officiating ministers, and one fourth to the[ ] bishops with whom they lived. hence the maintenance of ministers, as consisting of these two orders, and the repairs of churches, took now the greatest part of it, so that the face of things began to be materially altered. for whereas formerly this fund went chiefly to the poor, out of which ministers of the gospel were provided, it now went chiefly to the church, out of which there came a provision for the poor. another change also must be noticed with respect to the principle on which the gifts towards this fund were offered. for whereas tenths were formerly solicited on the christian duty of charity to the poor, they were now solicited on the principle, that by the law of moses they ought to be given for holy uses, in which the benefit of the fatherless, the stranger, and the widow, were included. from this time i shall use the word tithes for tenths, and the word clergy instead of ministers of the gospel. [footnote : in process of time, as the bishops became otherwise provided for, the fund was divided into three parts for the other three purposes just mentioned.] in the eighth century, matters were as i have now represented them. the people had been brought into a notion, that they were to give no less than a tenth of their income to holy uses. bishops generally at this time, and indeed long previously to this, lived in monasteries. their clergy lived also with them in these monasteries, and went from thence to preach in the country within the diocese. it must be also noticed, that there were, at this time, other monasteries under abbots or priors, consisting mostly of lay persons, and distinct from those mentioned, and supported by offerings and legacies in the same manner. the latter, however, not having numerous ecclesiastics to support, laid out more of their funds than the former were enabled to do, towards the entertainment of strangers, and towards the maintenance of the poor. now it must be observed, that, when these two kinds of monasteries existed, the people were at liberty to pay their tithes to either of them as they pleased, and that, having this permission, they generally favoured the latter. to these they not only paid their tithes, but gave their donations by legacy. this preference of the lay abbies to the ecclesiastical arose from a knowledge that the poor, for whose benefit tithes had been originally preached up, would be more materially served. other circumstances too occurred, which induced the people to continue the same preference. for the bishops in many places began to abuse their trust, as the deacons had done before, by attaching the bequeathed lands to their sees, so that the inferior clergy, and the poor became in a manner dependent upon them for their daily bread. in other places the clergy had seized all to their own use. the people therefore so thoroughly favoured the lay abbies in preference to those of the church, that the former became daily richer, while the, latter did little more than maintain their ground. this preference, however, which made such a difference in the funds of the ecclesiastical, and of the lay monasteries, was viewed with a jealous eye by the clergy of those times, and measures were at length taken to remove it. in a council under pope alexander the third, in the year , it was determined, that the liberty of the people should be restrained with respect to their tithes. they were accordingly forbidden to make appropriations to religious houses without the consent of the bishop, in whose diocese they lived. but even this prohibition did not succeed. the people still favoured the lay abbies, paying their tithes there, till pope innocent the third, in the year , ordained, and he enforced it by ecclesiastical censures, that every one should pay his tithes to those who administered to him spiritual things in his own parish. in a general council also held at lyons, in the year , it was decreed, that it was no longer lawful for men to pay their tithes where they pleased, as before, but that they should pay them to mother church. and the principle, on which they had now been long demanded, was confirmed by the council of trent under pope pius the fourth, in the year , which was, that they were due by divine right. in the course of forty years after the payment of tithes had been forced by ecclesiastical censures and excommunications, prescription was set up. thus the very principle, in which tithes had originated, was changed. thus free will-offerings became dues, to be exacted by compulsion. and thus the fund of the poor was converted almost wholly into a fund for the maintenance of the church. having now traced the origin of tithes, as far as a part of the continent of europe is concerned, i shall trace it as far as they have reference to our own country. and here i may instantly observe, and in a few words, that the same system and the same changes are conspicuous. free will-offerings and donations of land constituted a fund for the poor, out of which the clergy were maintained. in process of time, tenths or tithes followed. of these, certain proportions were allotted to the clergy, the repairs of the churches, and the poor. this was the state of things in the time of offa, king of mercia, towards the close of the eighth century, when that prince, having caused ethelbert, king of the east angles, to be treacherously murdered, fled to the pope for pardon, to please whom, and to expiate his own sin, he caused those tithes to become dues in his own dominions, which were only at the will of the donors before. about sixty years afterwards, ethelwolf, a weak and superstitious prince, was worked upon by the clergy to extend tithes as dues to the whole kingdom; and he consented to it under the notion, that he was thus to avert the judgments of god, which they represented as visible in the frequent ravages of the danes. poor laymen, however, were still to be supported out of these tithes, and the people were still at liberty to pay them to whichever religious persons they pleased. about the close of the tenth century, edgar took from the people the right of disposing of their tithes at their own discretion, and directed that they should be paid to the parish churches. but the other monasteries or lay-houses resisting, his orders became useless for a time. at this period the lay monasteries were rich, but the parochial clergy poor. pope innocent, however, by sending out his famous decree before mentioned to king john, which was to be observed in england as well as in other places under his jurisdiction, and by which it was enacted, that every man was to pay his tithes to those only, who administered spiritual help to him in his own parish, settled the affair; for he set up ecclesiastical courts, thundered out his interdicts, and frightened both king and people.[ ] [footnote : to shew the principles, upon which princes acted with respect to tithes in these times, the following translation of a preamble to a grant of king stephen may be produced: "because, through the providence of divine mercy, we know it to be so ordered, and by the churches publishing it far and near, every body has heard, that, by the distribution of alms, persons may be absolved from the bonds of sin, and acquire the rewards of heavenly joys, i, stephen, by the grace of god, king of england, being willing to have a share with those, who by a happy kind of commerce exchange heavenly things for earthly, and smitten with the love of god, and for the salvation of my own soul, and the souls of my father and mother, and all my forefathers and ancestors," &c.] richard the second confirmed these tithes to the parishes, as thus settled by this pope, but it was directed by an act, that, in all appropriations of churches, the bishop of the diocese should ordain a convenient sum of money to be distributed out of the fruits and profits of every living among the poor parishioners annually, in aid of their living and sustenance. "thus it seems, says judge blackstone, the people were frequently sufferers by the withholding of those alms, for which, among other purposes, the payment of tithes was originally imposed." at length tithes were finally confirmed, and, in a more explicit manner, by the famous act of henry the eighth on this subject. and here i must just observe, that, whereas from the eighth century to this reign, tithes were said to be due, whenever the reason of them was expressed, by divine right as under the levitical law, so, in the preamble to the act of henry the eighth, they are founded on the same principle, being described therein, "as due to god and the church." thus, both on the continent of europe, as well as in our own country, were these changes brought about, which have been described. and they were brought about also by the same means, for they were made partly by the exhortations and sermons of monks, partly by the decrees of popes, partly by the edicts of popish kings, and partly by the determinations of popish councils. it is not necessary, that i should trace this subject farther, or that i should make distinctions relative to tithes, whether they may be rectorial, or vicarial, or whether they may belong to lay persons, i have already developed enough of their history for my purpose. i shall therefore hasten to state those other reasons, which the quakers have to give, why they cannot pay other ministers of the gospel for their spiritual labours, or rather, why they cannot consent to the payment of tithes, as the particular species of payment demanded by the church. sect. iii _the other reasons then, as deducible from the history of tithes, are the following--first, that they are not in equity dues of the church--secondly, that the payment of them being compulsory, it would, if acceded to, be an acknowledgment that the civil magistrate has a right to use force in matters of religion--and thirdly, that being claimed upon an act which holds them forth as of divine right, any payment of them would be an acknowledgment of the jewish religion, and that christ had not yet actually come._ the other reasons then, which the quakers have to give for refusing to support other ministers of the gospel, may be now deduced from the nature of tithes, as explained in the former section. the early quakers rejected the payment of tithes for three reasons; and, first, because they were demanded of them as dues of the church. against this doctrine, they set their faces as a religious body. they contended that, if they were due at all, they were due to the poor, from whom they had been forcibly taken, and to whom in equity they still belonged; that no prince could alter the nature of right and wrong that tithes were not justly due to the church, because offa wished them to be so, to expiate his own crimes; or because ethelwolf wished them to be so, from a superstitious notion, that he might thus prevent the incursions of the danes; or because stephen wished them to be so, as his own grant expresses, on the principle, that "the bonds of sin might be dissolved, and that he might have a part with those, who by a happy kind of commerce exchanged heavenly things for earthly;" or because the popes of rome wished them to be so, from whose jurisdiction all the subjects of england were discharged by law. they resisted the payment of them, because, secondly, tithes had become of a compulsory nature, or because they were compelled to pay them. they contended on this head, that tithes had been originally free will-offerings, but that by violence they had been changed into dues, to be collected by force; that nothing could be more clear, than that ministers of the gospel, if the instructions of jesus to his disciples were to be regarded, were not authorized even to demand, much less to force, a maintenance from others; and that any constrained payment of these, while it was contrary to his intention, would be an infringement of their great tenet, by which they hold, that, christ's kingdom being of a spiritual nature, the civil magistrate had no right to dictate a religion to any one, nor to enforce payment from individuals for the same, and that any interference in those matters, which were solely between god and man, was neither more nor less than an usurpation of the prerogative of god. they resisted the payment of them, because, thirdly, they were demanded on the principle, as appeared by the preamble of the act of henry the eighth, that they were due as under the levitical law by divine right. against this they urged, first, that, if they were due as the levitical tithes were, they must have been subject to the same conditions. they contended that, if the levites had a right to tithes, they had previously given up to the community their own right to a share of the land, but that the clergy claimed a tenth of the produce of the lands of others, but had given up none of their own. they contended also, that tithes by the levitical law were for the strangers, the fatherless, and the widows, as well as for the levites, but that the clergy, by taking tithes, had taken that which had been for the maintenance of the poor, and had appropriated it solely to their own use, leaving them thus to become a second burthen upon the land. but they contended, that the principle itself was false. they maintained, that the levitical priesthood and tithes with it, had ceased on the coming of jesus christ, as appeared by his own example and that of his apostles; that it became them, therefore, as christians, to make a stand against this principle, for that, by acquiescing in the notion that the jewish law extended to them, they conceived they would be acknowledging that the priesthood of aaron still existed, and that christ had not actually come. this latter argument, by which it was insisted upon, that tithes ceased with the jewish dispensation, and that those who acknowledged them, acknowledged the jewish religion for christians, was not confined to the early quakers, but admitted among many other serious christians of those times. the great john milton himself, in a treatise which he wrote against tithes, did not disdain to use it. "although, says he, hire to the labourer be of moral and perpetual right, yet that special kind of hire, the tenth, can be of no right or necessity but to that special labour for which god ordained it. that special labour was the levitical and ceremonial service of the tabernacle, which is now abolished. the right, therefore, of that special hire, must needs be withal abolished, as being also ceremonial. that tithes were ceremonial is plain, not being given to the levites till they had been first offered an heave offering to the lord. he then, who by that law brings tithes into the gospel, of necessity brings in withal a sacrifice and an altar, without which tithes by that law were unsanctified and polluted, and therefore never thought of in the first christian times, nor till ceremonies, altars, and oblations had been brought back. and yet the jews, ever since their temple was destroyed, though they have rabbies and teachers of their law, yet pay no tithes, as having no levites to whom, no temple where, to pay them, nor altar whereon to hallow them; which argues, that the jews themselves never thought tithes moral, but ceremonial only. that christians therefore should take them up, when jews have laid them down, must needs be very absurd and preposterous." having now stated the three great reasons, which the early quakers gave, in addition to those mentioned in a former section, why they could not contribute towards the maintenance of an alien ministry, or why they could not submit to the payment of tithes, as the peculiar payment demanded by the established church, i shall only observe, that these are still insisted upon by their descendants, but more particularly the latter, because all the more, modern acts upon this subject take the act of henry the eighth as the great ground-work or legal foundation of tithes, in the preamble of which it is inserted, that "they are due to god and the church." now this preamble, the quakers assert, has never been done away, nor has any other principle been acknowledged instead of that in this preamble, why tithes have been established by law. the quakers therefore conceive, that tithes are still collected on the foundation of divine right, and therefore that it is impossible for them as christians to pay them, for that by every such payment, they would not only be acknowledging the jewish religion for themselves, but would be agreeing in sentiment with the modern jews, that jesus christ has not yet made his appearance upon earth. character of the quakers chap. i. _character of the quakers--character of great importance in life--yet often improperly estimated--this the case with that of the quakers--attempt to appreciate it duly--many outward circumstances in the constitution of the quakers, which may be referred to as certain helps in the promotion of this attempt_. nothing is of more importance to an individual, than a good character, during life. posthumous reputation, however desirable it may be thought, is of no service to the person whom it follows. but a living character, if it be excellent, is inestimable, on account of the good which it produces to him who possesses it. it procures him attention, civility, love, and respect from others. hence virtue may be said to have its reward in the present life. this account will be also true of bodies, and particularly of religious bodies, of men. it will make a difference to the individuals of these, whether they be respected, as a body, by the individuals of other religious denominations, or by the government under which they live. but though character be of so much importance in life, there are few who estimate it, either when they view it individually or collectively, as if really is. it is often, on the one hand, heightened by partiality, and, on the other, lowered by prejudice. other causes also combine to afford wrong apprehensions concerning it. for as different diseases throw out often the same symptoms, and the judgment of the physician is baffled, so different motives produce frequently similar actions, and the man who tries to develop a character, even if he wishes to speak truth, finds himself at a loss to pronounce justly upon it. as these failings and difficulties have attended men in estimating the character of individuals, so they seem to have attended those who have attempted to delineate that of the society of the quakers. indeed, if we were to take a view of the different traits which have been assigned to the latter, we could not but conclude, that there must have been some mistake concerning them. we should have occasion to observe, that some of these were so different in their kind, that they could not reasonably be supposed to exist in the same persons. we should find that others could scarcely be admitted among a body of professing christians. the quaker character, in short, as it has been exhibited to the world, is a strange medley of consistency and contradiction, and of merit and defect. amidst accounts, which have been so incongruous, i shall attempt the task of drawing the character of the quakers. i shall state, first, all the excellencies, that have been said to belong to it. i shall state also, all the blemishes with which it has been described to be chargeable. i shall then enquire how far it is probable that any of these, and in what degree they are true. in this enquiry, some little reliance must be placed upon my personal knowledge of the quakers, and upon my desire not to deceive. it is fortunate, however, that i shall be able, in this case, to apply to a test, which will be more satisfactory to the world, than any opinion of my own upon this subject. i mean to say that the quakers, like others, are the creatures of their own education and habits, or that there are circumstances in their constitution, the knowledge of which will assist us in the discussion of this question; circumstances, which will speak for themselves and to which we way always refer in the case of difficulty or doubt. their moral education, for example, which has been already explained, cannot but have an influence on the minds of those who receive it. their discipline also, which has appeared to be of so extraordinary a nature, and to be conducted in so extraordinary a manner, cannot but have an effect of its own kind. the peculiar customs, in which they have been described to have been born and educated, and which must of course act upon them as a second nature, must have a correspondent influence again. from these, and other prominent and distinguishing features in their constitution, i may hope to confirm some of the truths which have been told, and to correct some of the errors that have been stated, on the subject which is now before us. nor am i without the hope, that the discussion of this subject upon such principles, will be acceptable to many. to those, who love truth, this attempt to investigate it will be interesting. to the quakers it will be highly useful. for they will see, in the glass or mirror which i shall set before them, the appearance which they make in the world. and if they shall learn, in consequence, any of the causes either of their merits or of their failings, they will have learnt a lesson, which they may make useful by the farther improvement of their moral character. chap. ii. _good part of the character of the quakers--this general or particular--great general trait is, that they are a moral people--this opinion of the world accounted for and confirmed by a statement of some of the causes that operate in the production of character--one of these causes is, the discipline peculiar to this society._ i come, according to my design, to the good part of the character of the quakers. this may be divided into two sorts, into that which is general, and into that which is particular. on the subject of their general good character i shall first speak. it is admitted by the world, as i had occasion to observe in the first chapter of the first volume, that whatever other objections might be brought against the quakers as a body, they deserved the character of a moral people. though this fact be admitted, and there would therefore appear to be no necessity for confirming it, i shall endeavour, according to the plan proposed, to shew, by means of the peculiar system of the quakers as a religious body, that this is one of the traits given them by the world, which cannot be otherwise than true. the quakers believe, in the first place, that the spirit of god, acting in man, is one of the wises of virtuous character. they believe it to be, of all others, the purest and sublimest source. it is that spring, they conceive, to good action, and of course to exalted character, in which man can have none but a passive concern. it is neither hereditary nor factitious. it can neither be perpetuated in generation by the father to the child, nor be given by human art. it is considered by the quakers as the great and distinguishing mark of their calling. neither dress, nor language, nor peculiar customs, constitute the quaker, but the spiritual knowledge which he possesses. hence all pious men may be said to have been quakers. hence the patriarchs were quakers, that is, because they professed to be led by the spirit of god. hence the apostles and primitive christians were quakers. hence the virtuous among the heathens, who knew nothing of christianity, were quakers also. hence socrates may be ranked in profession with the members of this society. he believed in the agency of the divine spirit. it was said of him, "that he had the guide of his life within him; that this spirit furnished him with divine knowledge; and that it often impelled him to address and exhort the people." justin the martyr had no scruple in calling both socrates and heraclitus christians, though they lived long before christ; "for all such as these, says he, who lived according to the divine word within them, and which word was in all men, were christians." hence also, since the introduction of christianity, many of our own countrymen have been quakers, though undistinguished by the exterior marks of dress or language. among these we may reckon the great and venerable milton. his works are full of the sentiments of[ ] quakerism. and hence, in other countries and in other ages, there have been men, who might be called quakers, though the word quakerism was unknown. [footnote : milton not only considered the spirit of god as a divine teacher, but that the scriptures were not to be spiritually understood but by the means of this spirit. he believed also, that human learning was not necessary for the qualification of a minister of the gospel. and he wrote an essay against tithes.] but independently of the agency of the spirit of god, which the quakers thus consider to be the purest cause of a good life and character, we may reckon a subordinate cause, which may be artificial, and within the contrivance and wisdom of man. when the early quakers met together as a religious body, though they consisted of spiritually minded men, they resolved on a system of discipline, which should be followed by those who became members of the society. this discipline we have already seen. we have seen how it attempts to secure obedience to christian precepts. how it marks its offences. how it takes cognizance of them when committed. how it tries to reclaim and save. how, in short, by endeavouring to keep up the members of the society to a good life, it becomes instrumental in the production or preservation of a good character. from hence it will appear, that the virtue of the quakers, and of course that their character may be distinguished into two kinds, as arising from two sources. it may arise from spiritual knowledge on the one hand, or from their discipline on the other. that which arises from the first, will be a perfect virtue. it will produce activity in excellence. that which arises from the second, will be inferior and sluggish. but, however it may be subject to this lower estimation, it will always be able to produce for those who have it, a certain degree of moral reputation in the opinion of the world. these distinctions having been made as to the sources of virtuous character, there will be no difficulty in shewing, that the world has not been deceived in the point in question. for if it be admitted that the divine spirit, by means of its agency on the heart of man, is really a cause of virtuous character, it will then be but reasonable to suppose, that the quakers, who lay themselves open for its reception more than others, both by frequent private retirements, and by their peculiar mode of public worship, should bear at least as fair a reputation as others, on account of the purity of their lives. but the discipline, which is unquestionably a guardian of morals, is peculiar to themselves. virtue therefore is kept up among the quakers by an extraordinary cause, or by a cause which does not act among many other bodies of men. it ought therefore to be expected, while this extraordinary cause exists, that an extraordinary result should follow, or that more will be kept apparently virtuous among the quakers, in proportion to their numbers, than among those where no such discipline can be found, or, in other words, that, whenever the quakers are compared with those of the world at large, they will obtain the reputation of a moral people. chap. iii. sect. i. _particular traits in the quaker character--the first of these is benevolence--this includes good will to man in his temporal capacity--reasons why the world has bestowed this trait upon the quakers--probability of its existence--from their ignorance of many degrading diversions of the world--from their great tenet on war--from their discipline which inculcates equality--and watchfulness over morals--and from their doctrine that man is the temple of the holy spirit._ [ ]of the good traits in the quaker character, which may be called particular, i shall first notice that of benevolence. this benevolence will include, first, good will to man in his temporal capacity, or a tender feeling for him as a fellow creature in the varied situations of his life. [footnote : the reader must be aware, that all quakers do not partake of this good part of the character. that the generality do, i believe. that all ought to do, i know, because their principles, as will be clearly seen, lead to such a character. those, therefore, who do not, will see their own deficiency, or how much they have yet to attain, before they can become quakers.] the epithet of benevolent has been long given to this society. indeed i know of no point, where the judgment of the world has been called forth, in which it has been more unanimous, than in the acknowledgment of this particular trait, as a part of the quaker character. the reasons for the application of this epithet to the society, may be various. it has been long known, that as the early christians called each other brethren, and loved each other as such, so there runs through the whole society of the quakers a system of similar love, their affection for one another having been long proverbial. it has been long known again, that as the early christians extended their benevolence out of the pale of their own society to others who lived around them, so the quakers manifest a similar disposition towards their countrymen at large. in matters of private distress, where persons of a different religious denomination have been the objects, and where such objects have been worthy, their purses have been generally open, and they have generally given as largely in proportion to their abilities as other people. to public charities in their respective places of residence, they have generally administered their proper share. but of late years, as they have mixed more with the world, this character of the society has become more conspicuous or better known. in the cases of dearth and distress, which happened a few years ago, it is a matter of publicity, that they were among the foremost in the metropolis, and in same other towns in the kingdom, not only in pecuniary contributions, but in frequent and regular attendances for the proper distribution of them. and if their character has ever stood higher for willingness to contribute to the wants of others at any one time than at another, it stands the highest, from whatever cause it may happen, at the present day. it has been long known again, that as the early christians extended their love beyond their own society, and beyond those of the world who lived around them, to those who were reputed natural enemies in their own times, so the quakers do not confine their benevolence to their own countrymen, but extend it to the various inhabitants of the globe, without any discrimination, whether they are reputed hostile to the government under which they live. in times of war we never see them bearing arms, and in times of victory we never see them exulting, like other people. we never see them illuminating their houses, or running up and down the streets, frantic with joy upon such occasions. their joy, on the other hand, is wounded by the melancholy consideration of the destruction of the human race, when they lament, with almost equal sympathy, over the slaughter of enemies and friends. but this character of a benevolent people has been raised higher of late years in the estimation of the public by new circumstances or by the unanimous and decided part, which they have taken as a body, in behalf of the abolition of the slave-trade. for where has the injured african experienced more sympathy than from the hearts of quakers? in this great cause the quakers have been singularly conspicuous. they have been actuated as it were by one spring. in the different attempts, made for the annihilation of this trade, they have come forward with a religious zeal. they were at the original formation of the committee for this important object, where they gave an almost unexampled attendance for years. i mentioned in the preceding volume, that near a century ago, when this question had not awakened the general attention, it had awakened that of the quakers as a body; and that they had made regulations in their commercial concerns with a view of keeping themselves clear of the blood of this cruel traffic. and from that time to the present day they have never forgotten this subject. their yearly epistles notice it, whenever such notice is considered to be useful. and they hold themselves in readiness, on all fit occasions, to unite their efforts for the removal of this great and shocking source of suffering to their fellow-creatures. but whether these be the reasons, or whether they be not the reasons, why the quakers have been denominated benevolent, nothing is more true than that this appellation has been bestowed upon them, and this by the consent of their countrymen. for we have only to examine our public prints, to prove the truth of the assertion. we shall generally find there, that when there is occasion to mention the society, the word "benevolent" accompanies it. the reader will perhaps be anxious to know how it happens, that the quakers should possess this general feeling of benevolence in a degree so much stronger than the general body of their countrymen, that it should have become an acknowledged feature in their character. he will naturally ask, does their education produce it? does their discipline produce it? do their religious tenets produce it? what springs act upon the quakers, which do not equally act upon other people? the explanation of this phenomenon will be perfectly consistent with my design; for i purpose, as i stated before, to try the truth or falsehood of the different traits assigned to the character of the quakers, by the test of probabilities as arising from the nature of the customs or opinions which they adopt. i shall endeavour therefore to show, that there are circumstances, connected with their constitution, which have a tendency to make them look upon man in a less degraded and hostile, and in a more kindred and elevated light, than many others. and when i shall have accomplished this, i shall have given that explanation of the phenomenon, or that confirmation of the trait, which, whether it may or may not satisfy others, has always satisfied myself. the quakers, in the first place, have seldom seen a man degraded but by his vices. unaccustomed to many of the diversions of the world, they have seldom, if ever, seen him in the low condition of a hired buffoon or mimic. men, who consent to let others degrade themselves for their sport, become degraded in their turn. and this degradation increases with the frequency of the spectacle. persons in such habits are apt to lose sight of the dignity of mankind, and to consider them as made for administration to their pleasures, or in an animal or a reptile light. but the quakers, who know nothing of such spectacles, cannot, at least as far as these are concerned, lose either their own dignity of mind, or behold others lose it. they cannot therefore view men under the degrading light of animals for sport, or of purchasable play-things. and as they are not accustomed to consider their fellow-creatures as below themselves, so neither are they accustomed to look with enmity towards them. their tenet on the subject of war, which has been so amply detailed, prevents any disposition of this kind. for they interpret those words of jesus christ, as i have before shewn, which relate to injuries, as extending not to their fellow-citizens alone, but to every individual in the world, and his precept of loving enemies, as extending not only to those individuals of their own country, who may have any private resentment against them, but to those who become reputed enemies in the course of wars, so that they fix no boundaries of land or ocean, and no limits of kindred, to their love, but consider jew and gentile, greek and barbarian, bond and free, as their brethren. hence neither fine nor imprisonment can induce them to learn the use of arms, so as to become qualified to fight against these, or to shed their blood. and this principle of love is not laid as it were upon the shelf, like a volume of obsolete laws, so that it may be forgotten, but is kept alive in their memories by the testimony which they are occasionally called to bear or by the sufferings they undergo by distraints upon their property, and sometimes by short imprisonments, for refusing military service. but while these circumstances may have some influence in the production of this trait of benevolence to man in the character of the quakers, the one by preventing the hateful sight of the loss of his dignity, and the other by destroying the seeds of enmity towards him, there are others, interwoven into their constitution, which will have a similar, though a stronger tendency towards it. the great system of equality, which their discipline daily teaches and enforces, will make them look with an equal eye towards all of the human race. who can be less than a man in the quaker society, when the rich and poor have an equal voice in the exercise of its discipline, and when they fill equally the important offices that belong to it? and who is there out of the society, whom the quakers esteem more than human? they bow their knees or, their bodies, as i have before noticed, to no man. they flatter no man on account of his riches or his station. they pay homage to no man on account of his rank or title. stripped of all trappings, they view the creature man. if then they view him in this abstracted light, they can view him only as an equal. bit in what other society is it, that a similar estimate is made of him? the world are apt in general to make too much of those in an elevated station, and those again in this station are apt to make less of others beneath them than they ought. thus an under or an over valuation of individuals generally takes place in society; from whence it will unavoidably happen, that if some men are classed a little below gods, others will be classed but a little above the brutes of the field. their discipline, again, has a tendency to produce in them an anxious concern for the good of their fellow-creatures. man is considered, in the theory of this discipline, as a being, for whose spiritual welfare the members are bound to watch. they are to take an interest in his character and his happiness. if he be overtaken in a fault, he is not to be deserted, but reclaimed. no endeavour is to be spared for his restoration. he is considered, in short, as a creature, worthy of all the pains and efforts that can be bestowed upon him. the religion of the quakers furnishes also a cause, which occasions them to consider man in an elevated light. they view him, as may be collected from the preceding volume, as a temple of the spirit of god. there is no man, so mean in station, who is not made capable by the quakers of feeling the presence of the divinity within him. neither sect, nor country, nor colour, excludes him, in their opinion, from this presence. but it is impossible to view man as a tabernacle, in which the divinity may reside, without viewing him in a dignified manner. and though this doctrine of the agency of the spirit dwelling in man belongs to many other christian societies, yet it is no where so systematically acted upon as by that of the quakers. these considerations may probably induce the reader to believe, that the trait of benevolence, which has been affixed to the quaker character, has not been given it in vain. there can be no such feeling for the moral interests of man, or such a benevolent attention towards him in his temporal capacity, where men have been accustomed to see one another in low and degrading characters, as where no such spectacles have occurred. nor can there be such a genuine or well founded love towards him, where men, on a signal given by their respective governments, transform their pruning-hooks into spears, and become tygers to one another without any private provocation, as where they can be brought under no condition whatever, to lift up their arm to the injury of any of the human race. there must, in a practical system of equality, be a due appreciation of man as man. there must, in a system where it is a duty to watch over him, for his good, be a tender attention towards him as a fellow creature. and in a system, which considers him as a temple in which the divine being may dwell, there must be a respect towards him, which will have something like the appearance of a benevolent disposition to the world. sect. ii. _trait of benevolence includes again good will towards man in his religious capacity--quakers said to have no spirit of persecution, nor to talk with bitterness, with respect to other religious sects--this trait probable--because nothing in their doctrines that narrows love--their sufferings on the other hand--and their law against detraction--and their aversion to making religion a subject of common talk--all in favour of this trait._ the word benevolence, when mentioned as a trait in the character of the quakers, includes also good will to man in his religious capacity. it has often been observed of the quakers, that they shew no spirit of persecution, and that you seldom hear them talk with bitterness, with respect to other religious societies. on the first part of this trait it may be observed, that the quakers have never had any great power of exercising dominion over others in matters of religion. in america, where they have had the greatest, they have conducted themselves well. william penn secured to every colonist the full rights of men as to religious opinion and worship. if the spirit of persecution is ever to be traced to the quakers, it must be found in their writings on the subject of religion. in one or two of the productions of their first authors, who were obliged to support their opinions by controversy, there is certainly an appearance of an improper warmth of temper; but it remarkable that, since these times, scarcely a book has appeal written by a quaker against the religion of another. satisfied with their own religious belief, they seem to have wished only to be allowed to enjoy it in peace. for when they have appeared as polemical writers, it has been principally in the defence of themselves. on the second part of the trait i may remark, that it is possible, in the case of tithes, where their temper has been tried by expensive distraints, and hard imprisonments, that they may utter a harsh expression against a system which they believe to be anti-christian, and which they consider also as repugnant to equity, inasmuch as it compels them to pay labourers, who perform work in their own harvest; but this feeling is only temporary, and is seldom extended beyond the object that produces it. they have never, to my knowledge, spoken with bitterness against churchmen on this account. nor have i ever heard them, in such a season of suffering, pass the slightest reflection upon their faith. that this trait of benevolence to man in his religious capacity is probably true, i shall endeavour to shew according to the method i have proposed. there is nothing, in the first place, in the religious doctrines of the quakers, which can produce a narrowness of mind in religion, or a contempt for the creeds of others. i have certainly, in the course of my life, known some bigots in religion, though, like the quakers, i censure no man for his faith. i have known some, who have considered baptism and the sacrament of the supper as such essentials in christianity, as to deny that those who scrupled to admit them, were christians. i have known others pronouncing an anathema against persons, because they did not believe the atonement in their own way. i have known others again, who have descended into the greatest depths of election and reprobation, instead of feeling an awful thankfulness for their own condition as the elect, and the most tender and affectionate concern for those whom they considered to be the reprobate, indulging a kind of spiritual pride on their own account, which has ended in a contempt for others. thus the doctrines of christianity, wonderful to relate, have been made to narrow the love of christians! the quaker religion, on the other hand, knows no such feelings as these. it considers the spirit of god as visiting all men in their day, and as capable of redeeming all, and this without any exception of persons, and that the difference of creeds, invented by the human understanding, will make no difference in the eternal happiness of man. thus it does not narrow the sphere of salvation. it does not circumscribe it either by numerical or personal limits. there does not appear therefore to be in the doctrines of the quaker religion any thing that should narrow their love to their fellow creatures, or any thing that should generate a spirit of rancour or contempt towards others on account of the religion they profess. there are, on the contrary, circumstances, which have a tendency to produce an opposite effect. i see, in the first place, no reason why the general spirit of benevolence to man in his temporal capacity, which runs through the whole society, should not be admitted as having some power in checking a bitter spirit towards him in his religious character. i see again, that the sufferings, which the quakers so often undergo on account of their religious opinions, ought to have an influence with them in making them tender towards others on the same subject. virgil, who was a great master of the human mind, makes the queen of carthage say to aeneas, "haud ignara mali, miseris succurere disco," or, "not unacquainted with misfortunes myself, i learn to succour the unfortunate." so one would hope that the quakers, of all other people, ought to know how wrong it is to be angry with another for his religion. with respect to that part of the trait, which relates to speaking acrimoniously of other sects, there are particular circumstances in the customs and discipline of the quakers, which seem likely to prevent it. it is a law of the society, enforced by their discipline, as i shewed in a former volume, that no quaker is to be guilty of detraction or slander. any person, breaking this law, would come under admonition, if found out. this induces an habitual caution or circumspection in speech, where persons are made the subject of conversation. and i have no doubt that this law would act as a preventive in the case before us. it is not a custom, again, with the quakers, to make religion a subject of common talk. those, who know them, know well how difficult it is to make them converse, either upon their own faith, or upon the faith of others. they believe, that topics on religion, familiarly introduced, tend to weaken its solemnity upon the mind. they exclude subjects also from ordinary conversation upon another principle. for they believe, that religion should not be introduced at these times, unless it can be made edifying. but, if it is to be made edifying, it is to come, they conceive, not through the medium of the activity of the imagination of man, but through the passiveness of the soul under the influence of the divine spirit. sect. iii. _trait of benevolence includes again a tender feeling toward the brute creation--quakers remarkable for their tenderness to animals--this feature produced from their doctrine, that animals are not mere machines, but the creatures of god, the end of whose existence is always to be attended to in their treatment--and from their opinion as to what ought to be the influence of the gospel, as recorded in their own summary_. the word benevolence, when applied to the character of the quakers, includes also a tender feeling towards the brute creation. it has frequently been observed by those who are acquainted with the quakers, that all animals belonging to them are treated with a tender consideration, and are not permitted to be abused, and that they feel, in like manner, for those which may be oppressed by others, so that their conduct is often influenced in some way or other upon such occasions. it will be obvious, in enquiring into the truth of this trait in the character of the quakers, that the same principles, which i have described as co-operating to produce benevolence towards man, are not applicable to the species in question. but benevolence, when once rooted in the heart, will grow like a fruitful plant, from whatever causes it may spring, and enlarge itself in time. the man, who is remarkable for his kindness towards man, will always be found to extend it towards the creatures around him. it is an ancient saying, that "a righteous man regards the life of his beast, but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel." but, independently of this consideration, there is a principle in the quaker constitution, which, if it be attended to, cannot but give birth to the trait in question. it has been shewn in the first volume, on the subject of the diversions of the field, that the quakers consider animals, not as mere machines, to be used at discretion, but in the sublime light of the creatures of god, of whose existence the use and intention ought always to be considered, and to whom rights arise from various causes, any violation of which is a violation of a moral law. this principle, if attended-to by the quakers, must, as i have just observed, secure all animals which may belong to them, from oppression. they must so consider the end of their use, as to defend them from abuse. they must so calculate their powers and their years, as to shield them from excessive labour. they must so anticipate their feelings, as to protect them from pain. they must so estimate their instinct, and make an allowance for their want of understanding, as not to attach to their petty mischiefs the necessity of an unbecoming revenge. they must act towards them, in short, as created for special ends, and must consider themselves as their guardians, that these ends may not be perverted, but attained. to this it may be added, that the printed summary of the religion of the society constantly stares them in the face, in which it is recorded, what ought to be the influence of christianity on this subject. "we are also clearly of the judgment, that, if the benevolence of the gospel were generally prevalent in the minds of men, it would even influence their conduct in the treatment of the brute creation, which would no longer groan, the victims of their avarice, or of their false ideas of pleasure." chap. iv. _second trait is that of complacency of mind or quietness of character--this trait confirmed by circumstances in their education, discipline, and public worship, which are productive of quiet personal habits--and by their disuse of the diversions of the world--by the mode of the settlement of their differences--by their efforts in the subjugation of the will--by their endeavour to avoid all activity of mind during their devotional exercises--all of which are productive of a quiet habitude of mind_. a second trait in the character of the quakers is that of complacency, or evenness, or quietness of mind and manner. this trait is, i believe, almost as generally admitted by the world, as that of benevolence. it is a matter of frequent observation, that you seldom see an irascible quaker. and it is by no means uncommon to hear persons, when quakers are the subject of conversation, talking of the mysteries of their education, or wondering how it happens, that they should be able to produce in their members such a calmness and quietness of character. there will be no difficulty in substantiating this second trait. there are circumstances, in the first place, in the constitution of the quaker system, which, as it must have already appeared, must be generative of quiet personal habits. among these may be reckoned their education. they are taught, in early youth, to rise in the morning in quietness, to go about their ordinary occupations in quietness, and to retire in quietness to their beds. we may reckon also their discipline. they are accustomed by means of this, when young, to attend the monthly and quarterly meetings, which are often of long continuance. here they are obliged to sit patiently. here they hear the grown up members of the society speak in order, and without any interruption of one another. we may reckon again their public worship. here they are accustomed occasionally to silent meetings, or to sit quietly for a length of time, when not a word is spoken. there are circumstances again in the constitution of the quakers, which are either preventive of mental activity, and excitement of passion, or productive of a quiet habitude of mind. forbidden the use of cards, and of music, and of dancing, and of the theatre, and of novels, it must be obvious, that they cannot experience the same excitement of the passions, as they who are permitted the use of these common amusements of the world. in consequence of an obligation to have recourse to arbitration, as the established mode of decision in the case of differences with one another, they learn to conduct themselves with temper and decorum in exasperating cases. they avoid, in consequence, the frenzy of him who has recourse to violence, and the turbid state of mind of him who engages in suits at law. it may be observed also, that if, in early youth, their evil passions are called forth by other causes, it is considered as a duty to quell them. the early subjugation of the will is insisted upon in all genuine quaker families. the children of quakers are rebuked, as i have had occasion to observe, for all expressions of anger, as tending to raise those feelings, which ought to be suppressed. a raising even of their voice is discouraged, as leading to the disturbance of their minds. this is done to make them calm and passive, that they may be in a state to receive the influence of the pure principle. it may be observed again, that in their meetings for worship, whether silent or vocal, they endeavour to avoid all activity of the mind for the same reason. these different circumstances then, by producing quiet personal habits on the one hand, and quiet mental ones on the other, concur in producing a complacency of mind and manner, so that a quaker is daily as it were at school, as far as relates to the formation of a quiet character. chap. v. _third trait is, that they do not temporize, or do that which they believe to be improper as a body of christians--subjects, in which this trait is conspicuous--civil oaths--holy or consecrated days--war--tithes --language--address--public illuminations--utility of this trait to the quaker character._ it is a third trait in the character of the quakers, that they refuse to do whatever as a religious body they believe to be wrong. i shall have no occasion to state any of the remarks of the world to shew their belief of the existence of this trait, nor to apply to circumstances within the quaker constitution to confirm it. the trait is almost daily conspicuous in some subject or another. it is kept alive by their discipline. it is known to all who know quakers. i shall satisfy myself therefore with a plain historical relation concerning it. it has been an established rule with the quakers, from the formation of their society, not to temporize, or to violate their consciences, or, in other words, not to do that which as a body of christians they believe to be wrong, though the usages of the world, or the government of the country under which they live, should require it, but rather to submit to the frowns and indignation of the one, and the legal penalties annexed to their disobedience by the other. this suffering in preference of the violation of their consciences, is what the quakers call "the bearing of their testimony," or a demonstration to the world, by the "testimony of their own example," that they consider it to be the duty of christians rather to suffer, than to have any concern with that which they conceive to be evil. the quakers, in putting this principle into practice, stand, i believe, alone. for i know of no other christians, who as a body[ ] pay this homage to their scruples, or who determine upon an ordeal of suffering in preference of a compromise with their ease and safety. [footnote : the moravians, i believe, protest against war upon scriptural grounds. but how far in this, or in any other case, they bear a testimony, like the quakers, by suffering, i do not know.] the subjects, in which this trait is conspicuous, are of two kinds, first as they relate to things enjoined by the government, and secondly as they relate to things enjoined by the customs or fashions of the world. in the first case there was formerly much more suffering than there is at present, though the quakers still refuse a compliance with as many injunctions of the law as they did in their early times. it has been already stated that they refused, from the very institution of their society, to take a civil oath. the sufferings, which they underwent in consequence, have been explained also. but happily, by the indulgence of the legislature, they are no longer persecuted for this scruple, though they still persevere in it, their affirmation having been made equal to an oath in civil cases. it has been stated again, that they protested against the religious observance of many of those days, which the government of the country for various considerations had ordered to be kept as holy. in consequence of this they were grievously oppressed in the early times of their history. for when their shops were found open on christmas day, and on good friday, and on the different fast-days which had been appointed, they were taken up and punished by the magistrates on the one hand, and insulted and beaten by the people on the other. but, notwithstanding this ill usage, they persevered as rigidly in the non-observance of particular days and times, as in their non-compliance with oaths, and they still persevere in it. it does not appear, however, that their bearing of their testimony in this case is any longer a source of much vexation or trouble to them: for though the government of the country still sanctions the consecration of particular days, and, the great majority of the people join in it, there seems, to have been a progressive knowledge or civilization in both, which has occasioned them to become tender on account of this singular deviation from their own practice. but though the quakers have been thus relieved by the legislature, and by the more mild and liberal disposition of the people, from so much suffering in bearing their testimony on the two occasions which have been mentioned, yet there are others, where the laws of government are concerned, on which they find themselves involved in a struggle between the violation of their consciences and a state of suffering, and where unfortunately there is no remedy at hand, without the manifestation of greater partiality towards them, than it may be supposed an equal administration of justice to all would warrant. hie first of these occasions is when military service, is enjoined. the quakers, when drawn for the militia, refuse either to serve, or to furnish substitutes. for this refusal they come under the cognizance of the laws. their property, where they have any, is of course distrained upon, and a great part of a little substance is sometimes taken from them on, this account. where they have not distrainable property, which is occasionally the case, they never fly, but submit to the known punishment, and go patiently to prison. the legislature, however, has not been inattentive to the quakers even upon this occasion; for it has limited their confinement to three months. the government also of the country afforded lately, in a case in which the quakers were concerned, an example of attention to religious scruples upon this subject. in the late bill for arming the country _en masse_, both the quakers and the moravians were exempted from military service. this homage to religious principle did the authors of these exemptions the highest honour. and it certainly becomes the quakers to be grateful for this unsolicited favour; and as it was bestowed upon them upon the full belief that they were the people they professed themselves, they should be particularly careful that they do not, by any inconsistency of conduct, tarnish the high reputation, which has been attached to them by the government under which they live. the second occasion is, when tithes or other dues are demanded by the church. the quakers refuse the payment of these upon principles, which have been already explained. they come of course again under the cognizance of the laws. their property is annually distrained upon by warrant from justices of the peace, where the demand does not exceed the value of ten pounds, and this is their usual suffering in this case. but there have not been wanting instances where an unusual hardness, of heart has suggested a process, still allowable by the law, which has deprived them of all their property, and consigned them for life to the habitation of a prison.[ ] [footnote : one died, not a great while ago, in york castle, and others, who were confined with him, would have shared his fate, but for the interference of the king. it is surprising, that the clergy should not unite in promoting a bill in parliament, to extend the authority of the justices to grant warrants of distraint for tithes to more than the value of ten pounds, and to any amount, as this is the most cheap and expeditious way for themselves. if they apply to the ecclesiastical courts, they can enforce no payment of their tithes then. they can put the poor quaker into prison, but they cannot obtain their debt. if they apply to the exchequer, they may find themselves, at the conclusion of their suit, and this after a delay of three years, liable to the payment of extra costs, to the amount of forty or fifty pounds, with which they cannot charge the quaker, though they may confine him for life. some, to my knowledge, have been glad to abandon these suits, and put up with the costs, incurred in them; rather than continue them. recourse to such courts occasion the clergy frequently to be charged with cruelty, when, if they had only understood their own interests better, they would have avoided them.] but it is not only in cases, of which the laws of the land take cognizance, that the quakers prefer suffering to doing that which their consciences disapprove. there are other cases, connected, as i observed before, with the opinion of the world, where they exhibit a similar example. if they believe any custom or fashion of the world to be evil in itself, or to be attended with evil, neither popular applause nor popular fury can make them follow it, but they think it right to bear their testimony against it by its disuse, and to run the hazard of all the ridicule, censure, or persecution, which may await them for so doing. in these cases, as in the former, it must be observed, that the sufferings of the quakers have been much diminished, though they still refuse a compliance in as many instances as formerly, with the fashions of the world. it was stated in the first volume, that they substituted the word thou for you, in order that they might avoid by their words, as well as by their actions, any appearance of flattery to men. it was stated also, that they suffered on this account; that many magistrates, before whom they were carried in the early times of their institution, occasioned their punishment to be more severe, and that they were often abused and beaten by others, and put in danger of their lives. this persecution, however, for this singularity in their language, has long ceased; and the substitution of thou for you is now only considered as an innocent distinction between quakers and other people. it was stated again in the same volume, that the quakers abstained from the usual address of the world, such as from pulling off their hats, and from bowing the body, and from their ceremonious usages. it was explained also, that they did this upon two principles. first, because, as such ceremonies were no real marks of obeisance, friendship or respect, they ought to be discouraged by a people, whose religion required that no image should be held out, which was not a faithful picture of its original, and that no action should be resorted to, which was not correspondent with the feelings of the heart. secondly, because all such ceremonies were of a complimentary or flattering nature, and were expressly forbidden by jesus christ. it was stated also, that, on account of their rejection of such outward usages, their hats were forcibly taken from their heads and thrown away; that they were beaten and imprisoned on this sole account; and that the world refused to deal with them as tradesmen, in consequence of which many could scarcely supply their families with bread. but this deviation from the general practice, though it still characterizes the members of this society, is no longer a source of suffering. magistrates sometimes take care that their hats shall be taken gently from their heads on public occasions, and private persons expect now no such homage from quakers, when they meet them. there is, however, a custom, against which the quakers anciently bore their testimony, and against which they continue to bear it, which subjects them occasionally to considerable inconvenience and loss. in the case of a general illumination, they never light up their houses, but have the courage to be singular in this respect, whatever may be the temper of the mob. they believe that the practice of general illuminations cannot be adopted consistently by persons, who are lovers of the truth. they consider it as no certain criterion of joy. for, in the first place, how many light up their houses, whose hearts are overwhelmed with sorrow? and, in the second place, the event which is celebrated, may not always be a matter of joy to good minds. the birth-day of a prince, for example, may be ushered in as welcome, and the celebration of it may call his actions to mind, upon which a reflection may produce pleasure, but the celebration of the slaughter or devastation of mankind can afford no happiness to the christian. they consider the practice again, accompanied as it is with all its fiery instruments, as dangerous and cruel. for how many accidents have happened, and how many lives have been lost upon such occasions? they consider it again as replete with evil. the wild uproar which it creates, the mad and riotous joy which it produces, the licentiousness which it favours, the invidious comparisons which it occasions, the partial favour which it fixes on individuals who have probably no moral merit, the false joys which it holds out, and the enmity which it has on some occasions a tendency to perpetuate; are so many additional arguments against it in the opinion of the quakers. for these and other reasons they choose not to submit to the custom, but to bear their testimony against it, and to run the hazard of having their windows broken, or their houses pillaged, as the populace may dictate: and in the same manner, if there be any other practice, in which the world may expect them to coincide, they reject it, fearless of the consequences, if they believe it to be productive of evil. this noble practice of bearing testimony, by which a few individuals attempt to stem the torrent of immorality by opposing themselves to its stream, and which may be considered as a living martyrdom, does, in a moral point of view, a great deal of good to those, who conscientiously adopt it. it recalls first principles to their minds. it keeps in their remembrance the religious rights of man. it teaches them to reason upon principle, and to make their estimates by a moral standard. it is productive both of patience and of courage. it occasions them to be kind and attentive, and merciful to those who are persecuted and oppressed. it throws them into the presence of the divinity when they are persecuted themselves. in short, it warms their moral feelings, and elevates their religious thoughts. like oil, it keeps them from rusting. like a whetstone, it gives them a new edge. take away this practice from the constitution of the quakers, and you pull down a considerable support of their moral character. it is a great pity that, as professing christians, we should not, more of us, incorporate this noble principle individually into our religion. we concur unquestionably in customs, through the fear of being reputed singular, of which our hearts do not always approve, though nothing is more true, than that a christian is expected to be singular with respect to the corruptions of the world. what an immensity of good would be done, if cases of persons, choosing rather to suffer than to temporize, were so numerous as to attract the general notice of men! would not every case of suffering operate as one of the most forcible lessons that could be given to those who should see it? and how long would that infamous system have to live, which makes a distinction between political expediency and moral right? chap. vi. _a fourth trait is, that, in political affairs, they reason upon principle, and not from consequences--this mode of reasoning insures the adoption of the maxim of not doing evil that good may come--had quakers been legislators, many public evils had been avoided, which are now known in the world--existence of this trait probable from the influence of the former trait--and from the influence of the peculiar customs of the quakers--and from the influence of their system of discipline upon their minds._ the next trait, which i shall lay open to the world as belonging to the quaker character, is, that in all those cases, which may be called political, the quakers generally reason upon principle, and but seldom upon consequences. i do not know of any trait, which ever impressed me more than this in all my intercourse with the members of this society. it was one of those which obtruded itself to my notice on my first acquaintance with them, and it has continued equally conspicuous to the present time. if an impartial philosopher, from some unknown land, and to whom our manners, and opinions, and history, were unknown, were introduced suddenly into our metropolis, and were to converse with the quakers there on a given political subject, and to be directly afterwards conveyed to the west end of the town, and there to converse with politicians, or men of fashion, or men of the world, upon the same, he could not fail to be greatly surprised. if he thought the former wise, or virtuous, or great, he would unavoidably consider the latter as foolish, or vicious, or little. two such opposite conclusions, as he would hear deduced from the reasonings of each, would impress him with an idea, that he had been taken to a country inhabited by two different races of men. he would never conceive, that they had been educated in the same country, or under the same government. if left to himself, he would probably imagine, that they had embraced two different religions. but if he were told that they professed the same, he would then say, that the precepts of this religion had been expressed in such doubtful language, that they led to two sets of principles contradictory to one another. i need scarcely inform the reader, that i allude to the two opposite conclusions, which will almost always be drawn, where men reason from motives of policy or from moral right. if it be true that the quakers reason upon principle in political affairs, and not upon consequences, it will follow as a direct inference, that they will adopt the christian maxim, that men ought not to do evil that good may come. and this is indeed the maxim, which you find them adopting in the course of their conversation on such subjects, and which i believe they would have uniformly adopted, if they had been placed in political situations in life. had the quakers been the legislators of the world, we should never have seen many of the public evils that have appeared in it. it was thought formerly, for example, a glorious thing to attempt to drive paganism from the holy land, but quakers would never have joined in any of the crusades for its expulsion. it has been long esteemed, again, a desideratum in politics, that among nations, differing in strength and resources, a kind of balance of power should be kept up, but quakers would never have engaged in any one war to preserve it. it has been thought again, that it would contribute to the happiness of the natives of india, if the blessings of the british constitution could be given them instead of their own. but quakers would never have taken possession of their territories for, the accomplishment of such a good. it has been long thought again a matter of great political importance, that our west-indian settlements should be cultivated by african labourers. but quakers would never have allowed a slave-trade for such a purpose. it has been thought again, and it is still thought, a desirable thing, that our property should be secured from the petty depredations of individuals. but quakers would never have consented to capital punishments for such an end. in short, few public evils would have arisen among mankind, if statesmen had adopted the system, upon which the quakers reason in political affairs, or if they had concurred with an ancient grecian philosopher in condemning to detestation the memory of the man, who first made a distinction between expediency and moral right. [ ]that this trait of reasoning upon principle, regardless of the consequences, is likely to be a feature in the character of the quakers, we are warranted in pronouncing, when we discover no less than three circumstances in the constitution of the quakers, which may be causes in producing it. [footnote : the sierra leone company, which was founded for laudable purposes, ought have been filled by quakers; but when they understood that there was to be a fort and depot of arms in the settlement, they declined becoming proprietors.] this trait seems, in the first place, to be the direct and legitimate offspring of the trait explained in the last chapter. for every time a quaker is called upon to bear his testimony by suffering, whether in the case of a refusal to comply with the laws, or with the customs and fashions of the land, he is called upon to refer to his own conscience, against his own temporal interest, and against the opinion of the world. the moment he gives up principle for policy in the course of his reasoning upon such occasions, then he does as many others do, that is, he submits to the less inconvenience, and then he ceases to be a quaker. but while he continues to bear his testimony, it is a proof that he makes expediency give way to what he imagines to be right. the bearing therefore of testimony, where it is conscientiously done, is the parent, as it is also the bulwark and guardian of reasoning upon principle. it throws out a memento whenever it is practised, and habituates the subject of it to reason in this manner. but this trait is nourished and supported again by other causes, and first by the influence, which the peculiar customs of the quakers must occasionally have upon their minds. a quaker cannot go out of doors, but he is reminded of his own singularity, or of his difference in a variety of respects from his fellow-citizens. now every custom, in which he is singular, whether it be that of dress or of language, or of address, or any other, is founded, in his own mind, on moral principle, and in direct opposition to popular opinion and applause. he is therefore perpetually reminded, in almost all his daily habits, of the two opposite systems of reasoning, and is perpetually called upon as it were to refer to the principles, which originally made the difference between him and another citizen of the world. neither has the discipline of the quakers a less tendency to the production of the trait in question. for the business, which is transacted in the monthly and quarterly and yearly meetings, is transacted under the deliberations of grave and serious men, who consider themselves as frequently under the divine influence, or as spiritually guided on such occasions. in such assemblies it would be thought strange if any sentiment were uttered, which savoured of expediency in opposition to moral right. the youth therefore, who are present, see no other determination of any question than by a religious standard. hence these meetings operate as schools, in which they are habituated to reason upon principle, and to the exclusion of all worldly considerations, which may suggest themselves in the discussion of any point. chap. vii. _a fifth trait is, that they have an extraordinary independence of mind--this probable, because the result of the farmer trait--because likely to be produced by their discipline--by their peculiar custom--and by their opinions on the supposed dignity of situations in life--because again, they are not vulnerable by the seduction of governments--or by the dominion of the church--or by the power of fashion and of the opinion of the world._ the next trait, conspicuous in the character of the quakers, and which is nearly allied to the former, is that of independence of mind. this trait is of long standing, having been coeval with the society itself. it was observed by cromwell, that "he could neither win the quakers by money, nor by honours, nor by places, as he could other people." a similar opinion is entertained of them at the present day. for of all people it is generally supposed that they are the least easily worked upon, or the least liable to be made tools or instruments in the bands of others. who, for example, could say, on any electioneering occasion, whatever his riches might be, that he could command their votes? there will be no difficulty in believing this to be a real feature in the character of the quakers. for when men are accustomed to refer matters to their reason, and to reason upon principle, they will always have an independence of mind, from a belief that they are right. and wherever it be a maxim with them not to do evil that good may come, they will have a similar independence from a consciousness, that they have never put themselves into the power of the world. hence this independence of mind must be a result of the trait explained in the former chapter. but in looking into the constitution of the quakers, we shall find it full of materials for the production of this noble trait. their discipline has an immediate tendency to produce it. for in no community does a man feel himself so independent as a man. a quaker is called upon in his own society to the discharge of important offices. he sits as a representative, a legislator, and a judge. in looking round him, he finds all equal in privileges, but none superior, to himself. their peculiar customs have the same tendency, for they teach them to value others, who are not of the society, by no higher standard than that by which they estimate themselves. they neither pull off their hats, nor bow, nor scrape. in their speech they abstain from the use of flattering words and of titles. in their letters, they never subscribe themselves the humble servants of any one. they never use, in short, any action or signature, which, serving as a mark of elevation to others, has any influence towards the degradation of themselves. their opinions also upon the supposed dignity of situations in life contribute towards the promotion of this independence of their minds. they value no man, in the first place, on account of his earthly title. they pay respect to magistrates, and to all the nobility of the land, in their capacity of legislators, whom the chief magistrate has appointed; but they believe that the mere letters in a schedule of parchment can give no more intrinsic worth to a person, than they possess themselves, and they think with juvenal, that "the only true nobility is virtue." hence titles, in the glare of which some people lose the dignity of their vision, have no magical effect upon quakers. they value no man again on account of the antiquity of his family exploits. they believe, that there are people now living in low and obscure situations, whose ancestors performed in the childhood of history, when it was ignorant and incapable of perpetuating traditions, as great feats as those, which in its greater maturity it has recorded. and as far as these exploits of antiquity may be such as were performed in wars, they would not be valued by them as ornaments to men, of whose worth they can only judge by their virtuous or their christian character. they value no man again on account of the antiquity of his ancestry. believing revelation to contain the best account of the rise of man, they consider all families as equally old in their origin, because they believe them to have sprung from the same two parents, as their common source. but this independence of mind, which is said to belong to the quakers, may be fostered again by other circumstances, some of which are peculiar to themselves. many men allow the independence of their minds to be broken by an acceptance of the honours offered to them by the governments, under which they live; but no quaker could accept of any of the honours of the world. others allow the independence of their minds to be invaded by the acceptance of places and pensions from the same quarter. but quakers, generally speaking, are in a situation too independent in consequence of their industry, to need any support of this kind; and no quaker could accept it on the terms on which it is usually given. others again suffer their opinions to be fettered by the authority of ecclesiastical dominion, but the quakers have broken all such chains. they depend upon no minister of the gospel for their religion, nor do they consider the priesthood, as others do, as a distinct order of men. others again come under the dominion of fashion and of popular opinion, so that they dare only do that which they see others do, or are hurried from one folly to another, without having the courage to try to resist the stream. but the life of a quaker is a continual state of independence in this respect, being a continual protest against many of the customs and opinions of the world. i shall now only observe upon this subject, that this trait of independence of mind, which is likely to be generated by some, and which is preserved by other of the causes which have been mentioned, is not confined to a few members, but runs through the society. it belongs to the poor as well as to the rich, and to the servants of a family as well as to those who live in poverty by themselves. if a poor quaker were to be introduced to a man of rank, he would neither degrade himself by flattery on the one hand, nor by any unbecoming submission on the other. he would neither be seduced into that which was wrong, nor intimidated from doing that which was right, by the splendour or authority of appearances about him. he would still preserve the independence of his mind, though he would behave with respect. you would never be able to convince him, that he had been talking with a person, who had been fashioned differently from himself. this trait of independence cannot but extend itself to the poor. for having the same rights and privileges in the discipline, and the same peculiar customs, and the same views of men and manners as the rest of the society, a similar disposition must be found in these, unless it be counteracted by other causes. but as quaker servants, who live in genuine quaker families, wear no liveries, nor any badges of poverty or servitude, there is nothing in the opposite scale to produce an opposite feature in their character. chap. viii. sect. i. _a sixth trait is that of courage--this includes, first, courage in life--courage not confined to military exploits--quakers seldom intimidated or abashed--dare to say what they think--and to do what they believe to be right--this trait may arise from that of bearing their testimony--and from those circumstances which produced independence of mind--and from the peculiar customs of the society_. another trait in the character of the quakers, which is nearly allied to independence of mind, is courage. this courage is conspicuous both in life and in the hour of death. that, which belongs to the former instance, i shall consider first. if courage in life were confined solely to military exploits, the quakers would have no pretensions to this character. but courage consists of presence of mind in many situations of peril different from those in war. it consists often in refusing to do that which is wrong, in spite of popular opinion. hence the man, who refuses a challenge, and whom men of honour would brand with cowardice on that account, may have more real courage in so doing, and would have it in the estimation of moral men, than the person who sends it. it may consist also in an inflexible perseverance in doing that which is right, when persecution is to follow. such was the courage of martyrdom. as courage then may consist in qualities different from that of heroism, we shall see what kind of courage it is that has been assigned to the quakers, and how far they may be expected to be entitled to such a trait. there is no question, in the first place, that quakers have great presence of mind on difficult and trying occasions. to frighten or to put them off their guard would be no easy task. few people have ever seen an innocent quaker disconcerted or abashed. they have the courage also to dare to say, at all times and in all places, what they believe to be right. i might appeal for the truth of this, as far as the early quakers are concerned, to the different conversations which george fox had with oliver cromwell, or to the different letters which be wrote to him as protector, or to those which he afterwards wrote to king charles the second. i might appeal again to the address of edward burroughs to the same monarch. i might appeal again to the bold but respectful language, which the early quakers used to the magistrates, when they were carried before them, and to the intrepid and dignified manner in which they spoke to their judges, in the coarse of the numerous trials to which they were brought in those early times. i might appeal also to barclay's address to the king, which stands at the head of his apology. "as it is inconsistent, says barclay to king charles the second, with the truth i bear, so it is far from me to use this letter as an engine to flatter thee, the usual design of such works, and therefore i can neither dedicate it to thee, nor crave thy patronage, as if thereby i might have more confidence to present it to the world, or be more hopeful of its success. to god alone i owe what i have, and that more immediately in matters spiritual, and therefore to him alone, and the service of his truth, i dedicate whatever work he may bring forth in me, to whom only the praise and honour appertain, whose truth needs not the patronage of worldly princes; his arm and power being that alone by which it is propagated, established, and confirmed." and farther on, he says, "thou hast tasted of prosperity and adversity; thou knowest what it is to be banished thy native country, to be overruled, as well as to rule, and to sit upon the throne; and, being oppressed, thou hast reason to know how hateful the oppression is both to god and man. if, after all these warnings and advertisements, thou dost not turn unto the lord with all thy heart, but forget him who remembered thee in distress, and give up thyself to follow lust and vanity; surely great will be thy condemnation." and this courage to dare to say what they believe to be right, as it was an eminent feature in the character of the primitive, so it is unquestionably a trait in that of the modern quakers. they use no flattery even in the presence of the king; and when the nation has addressed him in favour of new wars, the quakers have sometimes had the courage to oppose the national voice on such an occasion, and to go before the same great personage, and in a respectful and dignified manner, to deliver a religious petition against the shedding of human blood. they have the courage also to dare to do as well as to say what they consider to be right. it is recorded of the early quakers, that, in the times of the hottest persecution, they stood to their testimony in the places appointed for their worship. they never assembled in private rooms, or held private conventicles, employing persons to watch at the doors, to keep out spies and informers, or to prevent surprise from the magistrates. but they worshipped always in public, and with their doors open. nor, when armed men were sent to dissolve their meetings, did they ever fly, but, on the summons to break up and depart, they sat motionless, and, regardless of threats and blows, never left their devotions, but were obliged to be dragged out, one by one, from their places. and even when their meeting-houses were totally destroyed by the magistrates, they sometimes met the next meeting-day, and worshipped publicly on the ruins, notwithstanding, they knew that they were subject by so doing, to fines, and scourges, and confinements, and banishment, and that, like many others of their members who had been persecuted, they might die in prison. this courage of the early quakers has descended as far as circumstances will allow us to judge, to their posterity, or to those who profess the same faith. for happily, on account of the superior knowledge which has been diffused among us since those times, and on account of the progress of the benign influence of christianity, both of which may be supposed to have produced among the members of our legislature a spirit of liberality in religion, neither the same trials; nor the same number of them, can be afforded for the courage of the modern quakers, as were afforded for that of the quakers of former days. but as far as there are trials, the former exhibit courage proportioned to their weight. this has been already conspicuous in the bearing of their testimony, either in those cases where they run the hazard of suffering by opposing the customs of the world, or where, by refusing a compliance with legal demands which they believe to be antichristian, they actually suffer. nor are these sufferings often slight, when we consider that they may be made, even in these days of toleration, to consist of confinement, as the law now stands, for years, and it may happen even for life, in prison. this trait of courage in life, which has been attached to the character of the quakers, is the genuine offspring of the trait of "the bearing of their testimony." for by their testimony it becomes their religion to suffer, rather than comply with many of the laws and customs of the land. but every time they get through their sufferings, if they suffer conscientiously, they gain a victory, which gives them courage to look other sufferings in the face, and to bid defiance to other persecutions. this trait is generated again by all those circumstances which have been enumerated, as producing the quality of independence of mind, and it is promoted again by the peculiar customs of the society. for a quaker is a singular object among his countrymen. his dress, his language, and his customs mark him. one person looks at him. another perhaps derides him. he must summon resolution, or he cannot stir out of doors and be comfortable. resolution, once summoned, begets resolution again, till at length he acquires habits superior to the looks and frowns, and ridicule, of the world. sect. ii. _the trait of courage includes also courage in death--this trait probably--from the lives which the quakers lead--and from circumstances connected with their religious faith_. the trait of courage includes also courage in death, or it belongs to the character of the quakers, that they shew great indifference with respect to death, or that they possess great intrepidity, when sensible of the approach of it. i shall do no more on this subject, than state what may be the causes of this trait. the dissolution of all our vital organs, and of the cessation to be, so that we move no longer upon the face of the earth, and that our places know us no more, or the idea of being swept away suddenly into eternal oblivion, and of being as though we had never been, cannot fail of itself of producing awful sensations upon our minds. but still more awful will these be, where men believe in a future state, and where, believing in future rewards and punishments, they contemplate what may be their allotment in eternity. there are considerations, however, which have been found to support men, even under these awful reflections, and to enable them to meet with intrepidity their approaching end. it may certainly be admitted, that, in proportion as we cling to the things of the world, we shall be less willing to leave them, which may induce an appearance of fear with respect to departing out of life; and that, in proportion as we deny the world and its pleasures, or mortify the affections of the flesh, we shall be more willing to exchange our earthly for spiritual enjoyments, which may induce an appearance of courage with respect to death. it may be admitted again, that, in proportion as we have filled our moral stations in life, that is, as we have done justly, and loved mercy, and this not only with respect to our fellow-creature man, but to the different creatures of god, there will be a conscious rectitude within us, which will supply us with courage, when we believe ourselves called upon to leave them. it may be admitted again, that, in proportion as we have endeavoured to follow the divine commands, as contained in the sacred writings, and as we have followed these through faith, fearless of the opinions and persecutions of men, so as to have become sufferers for the truth, we shall have less fear or more courage, when we suppose the hour of our dissolution to be approaching. now, without making any inviduous comparisons, i think it will follow from hence, when we consider the quakers to be persons of acknowledged moral character, when we know that they deny themselves for the sake of becoming purer beings, the ordinary pleasures and gratifications of the world, and when almost daily experience testifies to us, that they prefer bearing their testimony, or suffering as a christian body, to a compliance with customs, which they conceive the christian religion to disapprove, that they will have as fair pretensions to courage in the hour of death, as any other people, as a body, from the same causes. there are other circumstances, however, which may be taken into consideration in this account, and, in looking over these, i find none of more importance than those which relate to the religious creeds which may be professed by individuals or communities of men. much, in the first place, will depend upon the circumstance, how far men are doubtful and wavering in their creeds, or how far they depend upon others for their faith, or how far, in consequence of reasoning or feeling, they depend upon themselves. if their creeds are not in their own power, they will be liable to be troubled with every wind of doctrine that blows, and to be unhappy, when the thought of their dissolution is brought before them. but the quakers, having broken the power or dominion of the priesthood, what terrors can fanaticism hold out to them, which shall appal their courage in their later hours? it is also of great importance to men what may be the nature of their creeds. some creeds are unquestionably more comfortable to the mind than others. to those, who believe in the doctrine of election and reprobation, and imagine themselves to be of the elect, no creed can give greater courage in the hour of death; and to those who either doubt or despair of their election, none can inspire more fear. but the quakers, on the other hand, encourage the doctrine of perfection, or that all may do the will of god, if they attend to the monitions of his grace. they believe that god is good, and just, and merciful; that he visits all with a view to this perfection without exception of persons; that he enables all, through the sacrifice of christ, to be saved; and that he will make an allowance for all according to his attributes; for that he is not willing that any should perish, but that all should inherit eternal life. chap. ix. _last good trait is that of punctuality to words and engagements--this probable from the operation of all those principles, which have produced for the quakers the character of a moral people--and from the operation of their discipline._ the last good trait, which i shall notice in the character of the quakers, is that of punctuality to their words and engagements. this is a very ancient trait. judge forster entertained this opinion of george fox, that if he would consent to give his word for his appearance, he would keep it. trusted to go at large without any bail, and solely on his bare word, that he would be forth coming on a given day, he never violated his promise. and he was known also to carry his own commitment himself. in those days also, it was not unusual for quakers to carry their own warrants, unaccompanied by constables or others, which were to consign them to a prison. but it was not only in matters which related to the laws of the land, where the early quakers held their words and engagements sacred. this trait was remarked to be true of them in their concerns in trade. on their first appearance as a society, they suffered as tradesmen, because others, displeased with the peculiarity of their manners, withdrew their custom from their shops. but in a little time, the great outcry against them was, that they got the trade of the country into their hands. this outcry arose in part from a strict execution of all commercial appointments and agreements between them and others, and because they never asked two prices for the commodities which they sold. and the same character attaches to them as a commercial body, though there may be individual exceptions, at the present day. neither has this trait been confined to them as the inhabitants of their own country. they have carried it with them wherever they have gone. the treaty of william penn was never violated. and the estimation, which the indians put upon the word of this great man and his companions, continues to be put by them upon that of the modern quakers in america, so that they now come in deputations, out of their own settlements, to consult them on important occasions. the existence of this trait is probable both from general and from particular considerations. if, for example, any number of principles should have acted so forcibly and in such a manner upon individuals, as to have procured for them as a body the reputation of a moral people, they must have produced in them a disposition to keep their faith.[ ] [footnote : this character was given by pliny to the first christians. they were to avoid fraud, theft, and adultery. they were never to deny any trust, when required to deliver it up, nor to falsify their word on any occasion.] but the discipline of the quakers has a direct tendency to produce this feature in their character, and to make it an appendage of quakerism. for punctuality to words and engagements is a subject of one of the periodical enquiries. it is therefore publicly handed to the notice of the members, as a christian virtue, that is expected of them, in their public meetings for discipline. and any violation in this respect would be deemed a breach, and cognizable as such, of the quaker laws. chap. x. _imperfect traits in the quaker character--some of these may be called intellectually defective traits--first imputation of this kind is, that the quakers are deficient in learning compared with other people--this trait not improbable on account of their devotion to trade--and on account of their controversies and notions about human learning--and of other causes._ the world, while it has given to the quakers as a body, as it will have now appeared, a more than ordinary share of virtue, has not been without the belief that there are blemishes in their character. what these traits or blemishes are, may be collected partly from books, partly from conversation, and partly from vulgar sayings. they are divisible into two kinds, into intellectually defective, and into morally defective traits; the former relating to the understanding, the latter to the heart. the first of the intellectually defective traits consists in the imputation, that the quakers are deficient in the cultivation of the intellect of their children, or that, when they grow up in life, they are found to have less knowledge than others in the higher branches of learning. by this i mean, that they are understood to have but a moderate classical education, to know but little of the different branches of philosophy, and to have, upon the whole, less variety of knowledge than others of their countrymen in the corresponding stations of life. this trait seems to have originated with the world in two supposed facts. the first is, that there has never been any literary writer of eminence born in the society, penn, barclay and others having come into it by convincement, and brought their learning with them. the second is, that the society has never yet furnished a philosopher, or produced any material discovery. it is rather a common remark, that if the education of others had been as limited as that of the quaker, we should have been probably at this day without a newton, and might have been strangers to those great discoveries, whether of the art of navigation, or of the circulation of the blood, or of any other kind, which have proved so eminently useful to the comfort, health, and safety of many of the human race. this trait will be true, or it will be false, as it is applied to the different classes, which may be found in the society of the quakers. the poor, who belong to it, are all taught to read, and are therefore better educated than the poor belonging to other bodies of men. they who spring from parents whose situation does not entitle them to rank with the middle class, but yet keeps them out of the former, are generally educated, by the help of a[ ] subscription, at ackworth school, and may be said to have more school learning than others in a similar situation in life. the rest, whatever may be their situation, are educated wholly at the expence of their parents, who send them either to private quaker seminaries, or to schools in the neighbourhood, as they judge it to be convenient or proper. it is upon this body of the quakers that the imputation can only fall; and as far as these are concerned, i think it may be said with truth, that they possess a less portion of what is usually called liberal knowledge than others in a corresponding station in life. there may be here and there a good classical, or a good mathematical scholar. but in general there are but few quakers, who excel in these branches of learning. i ought, however, to add, that this character is not likely to remain long with the society. for the young quakers of the present day seem to me to be sensible of the inferiority of their own education, and to be making an attempt towards the improvement of their minds, by engaging in those, which are the most entertaining, instructive, and useful, i mean, philosophical pursuits. [footnote : their parents pay a small annual sum towards their board and clothing. the rest is made up by a subscription among the society, and by the funds of the school.] that deficiency in literature and science is likely to be a trait in the character of the quakers, we may pronounce, if we take into consideration circumstances which have happened, and notions which have prevailed, in this society. the quakers, like the jews of old, whether they be rich or poor, are brought up, in obedience to their own laws, to some employment. they are called of course at an early age from their books. it cannot therefore be expected of them, that they should possess the same literary character as those who spend years at our universities, or whose time is not taken up by the concerns of trade. it happens also in this society, that persons of the poor and middle classes are frequently through industry becoming rich. while these were gaining but a moderate support, they gave their children but a moderate education. but when they came into possession of a greater substance, their children had finished their education, having grown up to men. the ancient controversy too, relative to the necessity of human learning as a qualification for ministers of the gospel, has been detrimental to the promotion of literature and science among the quakers. this controversy was maintained with great warmth and obstinacy on both sides, that is, by the early quakers, who were men of learning, on the one hand, and by the divines of our universities on the other. the less learned in the society, who read this controversy, did not make the proper distinction concerning it. they were so interested in keeping up the doctrine, that learning was not necessary for the priesthood, that they seemed to have forgotten that it was necessary at all. hence knowledge began to be cried down in the society; and though the proposition was always meant to be true with respect to the priesthood only, yet many mistook or confounded its meaning, so that they gave their children but a limited education on that account. the opinions also of the quakers relative to classical authors, have been another cause of impeding in some degree their progress in learning, that is, in the classical part of it. they believe these to have inculcated a system of morality frequently repugnant to that of the christian religion. and the heathen mythology, which is connected with their writings, and which is fabulous throughout, they conceive to have disseminated romantic notions among youth, and to have made them familiar with fictions, to the prejudice of an unshaken devotedness to the love of truth. chap. xi. _second trait is, that they are a superstitious people--circumstances that have given birth to this trait--quakerism, where it is understood, is seldom chargeable with superstition--where it is misunderstood, it leads to it--subjects in which it may be misunderstood are those of the province of the spirit--and of dress and language--evils to be misapprehended from a misunderstanding of the former subject._ it may seem wonderful at first sight, that persons, who have discarded an undue veneration for the saints, and the saints days, and the relics of the roman catholic religion, who have had the resolution to reject the ceremonials of protestants, such as baptism and the sacrament of the supper, and who have broken the terrors of the dominion of the priesthood, should, of all others, be chargeable with superstition. but so it is. the world has certainly fixed upon them the character of a superstitious people. under this epithet much is included. it is understood that quakers are more ready than others to receive mystical doctrines, more apt to believe in marvellous appearances more willing to place virtue in circumstances, where many would place imposition; and that, independently of all this, they are more scrupulous with respect to the propriety of their ordinary movements, waiting for religious impulses, when no such impulses are expected by other religious people. this trait of superstition is an ancient trait in the character of the quakers, and has arisen from the following causes. it has been long imagined, that where a people devote themselves so exclusively to the influence of the spirit as the quakers appear to do, they will not be sufficiently on their guard to make the proper distinctions between imagination and revelation, and that they will be apt to confound impressions, and to bring the divine spirit out of its proper sphere into the ordinary occurrences of their lives. and in this opinion the world considers itself to have been confirmed by an expression said to have been long in use among quakers, which is, "that they will do such and such things if they have liberty to do them." now by this expression the quakers may mean only, that all human things are so uncertain, and so many unforeseen events may happen, that they dare make no promises, but they will do the things in question if no obstacle should arise to prevent them. and this caution in language runs through the whole society; for they seldom promise but provisionally in any case. but the world has interpreted the expression differently, and maintains that the quakers mean by it, that they will do such and such things, if they feel that they have liberty or permission from the spirit of god. two other circumstances, which have given birth to this trait in the character of the quakers, are the singularities of their dress and language. for when they are spoken of by the world, they are usually mentioned under the name of the idolatry or superstition of the quaker language, or the idolatry or superstition of the quaker dress. now this trait, which has originated in the three causes that have been mentioned, is considered by the world to have been still more confirmed by a circumstance which happened but a few years ago, namely, that when animal magnetism was in fashion, there were more of this society worked upon by these delusions, than of any other. with respect to the truth of this trait, i believe it cannot easily be made out, as for as animal magnetism is concerned. for though undoubtedly there were quakers so superstitious as to be led away on this occasion, yet they were very few in number, and not more in proportion than others of other religious denominations. the conduct of these was also considered as reprehensible by the society at large, and some pains were taken to convince them of their error, and of the unsuitableness of such doctrines with the religion they professed. with respect to the truth of this trait, as it may have existed on other occasions, it may be laid down as a position generally true, that where quakers understand their own constitution, it can have no place among them. but where they do not understand it, there are few people among whom it is more likely to exist, as we may see from the following account. it is the doctrine of quakerism on the subject of the spirit, that it is an infallible guide to men in their spiritual concerns. but i do not see where it is asserted by any of the quaker writers, that it is to be a guide to man in all the temporal concerns of his life, or that he is to depreciate the value of human reason. george fox was very apprehensive that even in matters of religion, which constitute the immediate province of the divine spirit, men might mistake their own enthusiastic feelings for revelation; and he censured some, to use his own expression, "for having gone out into imaginations." the society also have been apprehensive of the same consequences. hence one among other reasons for the institution of the office of elders. it is the duty of these to watch over the doctrine of the ministers to see that they preach soundly, and that they do not mistake their own imaginations for the spirit of god, and mix his wisdom with the waywardness of their own wills. they therefore, who believe in the doctrine of the agency of the spirit, and at the same time in the necessity of great caution and watchfulness that they may not confound its operations with that of their own fancies, will never incur the charge, which has been brought against the body at large. but if there are others, on the other hand, who give themselves up to this agency without the necessary caution, they will gradually mix their impressions, and will, in time, refer most of them to the same source. they will bring the divine being by degrees out of his spiritual province, and introduce him into all the trivial and worthless concerns of their lives. hence a belief will arise, which cannot fail of binding their minds in the chains of delusion and superstition. it is the doctrine of quakerism again on the subject of dress, that plainness and simplicity are required of those who profess the christian character; that any deviation from these is unwarrantable, if it be made on the plea of conformity to the fashions of the world; that such deviation bespeaks the beginning of an unstable mind; and, if not noticed, may lead into many evils. they therefore, who consider dress in this point of view, will never fall into any errors of mind in their contemplation of this subject. but if there are members, on the other hand, who place virtue in the colour and shape of their cloathing, as some of the jews did in the broad phylacteries on their garments, they will place it in lifeless appearances and forms, and bring their minds under vassalage to a false religion. and in the same manner it may be observed with respect to language, that if persons in the society lay an undue stress upon it, that is, if they believe truth or falsehood to exist inherently in lifeless words, and this contrary to the sense in which they know they will be understood by the world, so that they dare not pronounce them for religion's sake, they will be in danger of placing religion where it is not, and of falling into errors concerning it, which will be denominated superstition by the world. as i am now on the subject of superstition, as capable of arising from the three causes that have been mentioned, i shall dwell for a short time on some of the evils which may arise from one of them, or from a misunderstanding of the doctrine of the agency of the spirit. i believe it possible, in the first place, for those who receive this doctrine without the proper limitations, that is, for those who attribute every thing exclusively to the spirit of god, and who draw no line between revelation and the suggestions of their own will, to be guilty of evil actions and to make the divine being the author of them all. i have no doubt, for example, that many of those, who engaged in the crusades, considered themselves as led into them by the spirit of god. but what true quaker, in these days, would wish to make the almighty the author of all the bloodshed in the wars that were undertaken on this account? the same may be said with respect to martyrdoms. for there is reason to believe, that many who were instrumental in shedding the blood of their fellow-creatures, because they happened to differ from them in religious opinion, conceived that they were actuated by the divine spirit, and that they were doing god service, and aiding the cause of religion by their conduct on such occasions. but what true quaker would believe that the father of justice and mercy was the author of these bloody persecutions, or that, if men were now to feel an impulse in their own minds to any particular action, they ought to obey it, if it were to lead them to do evil that good might come? the same may be said with respect to many of the bad laws, which are to be found in the codes of the different nations of the world. legislators no doubt have often thought themselves spiritually guided when they made them. and judges, who have been remarkable for appealing to the divine spirit in the course of their lives, have made no hesitation to execute them. this was particularly the case with sir matthew hale. if there be any one, whose writings speak a more than ordinary belief in the agency of the spirit of god, it is this great and estimable man. this spirit he consulted not only in the spiritual, but in the temporal concerns, of his life. and yet he sentenced to death a number of persons, because they were reputed to be witches. but what true quaker believes in witchcraft? or does he not rather believe, that the spirit of god, it rightly understood, would have protested against condemnation for a crime, which does not exist? but the mischief, if a proper distinction be not made between the agency of the spirit and that of the will of man, may spread farther, and may reach the man himself, and become injurious both to his health, his intellect, and his usefulness, and the divine being may be made again the author of it all. many, we all know, notwithstanding their care and attention, have found that they have gone wrong in their affairs in various instances of their lives, that is, events have shewn that they have taken a wrong course. but if there be those who suppose themselves in these instances to have been acted upon by the spirit or god, what is more likely than that they may imagine that they have lost his favour, and that looking upon themselves as driven by him into the wrong road, they may fall into the belief, that they are among the condemned reprobate, and pine away, deprived of their senses, in a state of irretrievable misery and despair? others again may injure their health, and diminish their comfort and their utility in another way. and here i may remark, that if i have seen what the world would call superstition among the quakers, it has been confined principally to a few females, upon whose constitution, more delicate than that of men, an attention to undistinguished impressions, brought on in a course of time by a gradual depreciation of human reason, has acted with considerable force. i fear that some of these, in the upright intention of their hearts to consult the almighty on all occasions as the sole arbiter of every thing that is good, have fostered their own infirmities, and gone into retirements so frequent, as to have occasioned these to interfere with the duties of domestic comfort and social good, and that they have been at last so perplexed with doubts and an increasing multitude of scruples, that they have been afraid of doing many things, because they have not had a revelation for them. the state of such worthy persons is much to be pitied. what must be their feelings under such a conflict, when they are deserted by human reason? what an effect will not such religious doubts and perplexities have upon their health? what impediments do they not throw in the way of their own utility? i should be sorry if by any observations, such as the preceding, i should be thought to censure any one for the morality of his feelings. and still more sorry should i be, if i were to be thought to have any intention of derogating from the character of the supreme being. i am far from denying his omniscience, for i believe that he sees every sparrow that falls to the ground, and even more, that he knows the innermost thoughts of men. i deny not his omnipresence, for i believe that he may be seen in all his works. i deny neither his general nor his particular providence, nor his hearing of our prayers, nor his right direction in our spiritual concerns, nor his making of all things work together for good to those who love him. neither do i refuse to admit him either into our journies, or into our walks, or into our chambers, for he can make all the things we see subservient to our moral instruction, and his own glory. but i should be sorry to have him considered as a clock, that is to inform us about the times of our ordinary movements, or to make him a prompter in all our worldly concerns, or to oblige him to take his seat in animal magnetism, or to reside in the midst marvellous delusions. why should we expect a revelation in the most trivial concerns of our lives, where our reason will inform us? why, like the waggoner, apply to jupiter, when we may remove the difficulty by putting our own shoulders to the wheels? if we are reasonable creatures, we can generally tell, whether we ought to go forwards or backwards, or to begin, or to postpone, whether our actions are likely to be innocent or hurtful, or whether we are going on an errand of benevolence or of evil. in fact, there can be no necessity for this constant appeal to the spirit in all our worldly concerns, while we possess our reason as men. and unless some distinction be made between the real agency of god and our own volitions, which distinction true quakerism suggests, we shall be liable to be tossed to and fro by every wind that blows, and to become the creatures of a superstition, that may lead us into great public evils, while it may be injurious to our health and intellect, and to the happiness and utility of our lives. chap. xii. _morally defective traits--first of these is that of obstinacy--this was attached also to the early christians--no just foundation for the existence of this trait._ i come now to the consideration of those which i have denominated morally defective traits. the first trait of this kind, which is attached to the character of the quakers, is that of an obstinate spirit. this trait is a very ancient one. it was observed in the time of george fox, of the members of this society, that they were as "stiff as trees," and this idea concerning them has come down to the present day. the origin of this trait must be obvious to all. the quakers, as we have seen, will neither pay tithes, nor perform military service, nor illuminate their houses, like other people, though they are sure of suffering by their refusal to comply with custom in these cases. now, when individuals, few in number, become singular, and differ from the world at large, it is generally considered that the majority are in the right, and that the minority are in the wrong. but obstinacy may be defined to be a perseverance in that which is generally considered to be wrong. this epithet has attached, and will attach to those who resist the popular opinion, till men are better educated, or till they lose their prejudices, or have more correct and liberal notions on religion. the early christians were themselves accused of obstinacy, and this even by the enlightened pliny. he tells, us, that they would not use wine and frankincense before the statues of the emperors; and that "there was no question that for such obstinacy they deserved punishment."[ ] [footnote : "pervicaciam certe et inflexibitem obstinationem debere puniri."] in judging of the truth of this trait, two queries will arise. first, whether the quakers, in adhering rigidly to those singularities which have produced it, are really wrong as a body of christians? and, secondly, whether they do not conscientiously believe themselves to be right? in the case of the early christians, which has been mentioned, we, who live at this day, have no doubt that pliny put a false estimate on their character. we believe them to have done their duty, and we believe also that they considered themselves as doing it, when they refused divine honours to the emperors. and the action, therefore, which pliny denominated obstinacy, would, if it had been left to us to name it, have been called inflexible virtue, as arising out of a sense of the obligations imposed upon them by the christian religion. in the same manner we may argue with respect to the quakers. who, for example, if he will try to divest himself of the prejudices of custom, and of the policy of the world, feels such a consciousness of his own powers as positively to pronounce, that the notions of the quakers are utterly false, as to the illicitness of wars under the christian system? the arguments of the quakers on this subject are quite as good, in my apprehension, as any that i have heard advanced on the other side of the question. these arguments too are unquestionably much more honourable to christianity, and much more consistent with the nature and design of the gospel dispensation. they are supported also by the belief and the practice of the earliest christians. they are arguments again, which have suggested themselves to many good men, who were not quakers, and which have occasioned doubts in some instances, and conviction in others, against the prejudice of education and the dominion of custom. and if the event should ever come to pass, which most christians expect, that men will one day or other turn their swords and their spears into ploughshares and pruning-hooks, they, who live in that day, will applaud the perseverance of the quakers in this case, and weep over the obstinacy and inconsistency of those who combated their opinions. but the great question after all is, whether the quakers believe themselves in this or in any other of their religious scruples, to be right, as a christian body? if there are those among them who do not, they give into the customs of the world, and either leave the society themselves, or become disowned. it is therefore only a fair and a just presumption, that all those who continue in the society, and who keep up to these scruples to the detriment of their worldly interest, believe themselves to be right. but this belief of their own rectitude, even if they should happen to be wrong, is religion to them, and ought to be estimated so by us in matters in which an interpretation of gospel principles is concerned. this is but an homage due to conscience, after all the blood that has been shed in the course of christian persecutions, and after all the religious light that has been diffused among us since the reformation of our religion. chap. xiii. sect. i. _next trait is that of a money-getting spirit--probability of the truth of this trait examined--an undue eagerness after money not unlikely to be often the result of the frugal and commercial habits of the society--but not to the extent, as insisted on by the world--this eagerness, wherever it exists, seldom chargeable with avarice._ the next trait in the character of the quakers is that of a money-getting spirit, or of a devotedness to the acquisition of money in their several callings and concerns. this character is considered as belonging so generally to the individuals of this society, that it is held by the world to be almost inseparable from quakerism. a certain writer has remarked, that they follow their concerns in pursuit of riches, "with a step as steady as time, and with an appetite as keen as death." i do not know what circumstances have given birth to this trait. that the quakers are a thriving body we know. that they may also appear, when known to be a domestic people, and to have discarded the amusements of the world, to be more in their shops and counting-houses than others, is probable. and it is not unlikely, that, in consequence of this appearance, connected with this worldly prosperity, they may be thought to be more intent than others upon the promotion of their pecuniary concerns. there are circumstances, however, belonging to the character and customs of the society, which would lead to an opposite conclusion. the quakers, in the first place, are acknowledged to be a charitable people. but if so, they ought not to be charged, at least, with that species of the money-getting spirit, which amounts to avarice. it is also an undoubted fact, that they give up no small portion of their time, and put themselves to no small expence, on account of their religion. in country places they allot one morning in the week, and in the towns generally two, besides the sunday, to their religious worship. they have also their monthly meetings, and after these their quarterly, to attend, on account of their discipline. and this they do frequently at a great distance, and after a considerable absence as tradesmen, from their homes. i do not mean to insinuate by this latter instance, that men become pious, and therefore proof against the influence of money, exactly in proportion as they attend their religious meetings, but that, where they are voraciously intent upon the getting of money, they could hardly be expected to make such a sacrifice of their time. but whatever may be the appearance on either side, the question is, whether the imputation of the trait, which is now under our consideration, be founded in fact. what circumstances make in favour of it? what circumstances make against it? and which of these preponderate on the whole? we may say then, at the first sight, that the precepts of quakerism make decidedly against it. and we may say again, that it ought to be expected, that all those principles and circumstances, which have an influence in the production of moral character, or of such a character as belongs to the quakers as a body, should work together either towards its prevention or its cure. on the other hand, if we examine the situation of the society, we shall find circumstances, the operation of which is directly in favour of such a trait. and first, in looking into the human heart, we seem to discover a circumstance, which, on account of the situation alluded to, may operate as a spring in producing it. men, generally speaking, love consequence. now the quakers, though they have consequence in their own society, have none in the world. they can be neither legislators nor magistrates. they can take no titles to distinguish them. they pass therefore in the world, like the common and undistinguished herd, except from the circumstances of their dress. but riches give all men consequence. and it is not clear to me, but that this circumstance may have its operation on the minds of some who are called quakers, in contributing to the production of the money-getting spirit, inasmuch as it may procure them a portion of estimation, which they cannot otherwise have, while they remain in their own body. in looking again into the human heart, we find another, and this a powerful spring, connected with the situation of the society, for the production of such a trait. the quakers, as i have observed before, are mostly in trade. now they are generally a sedate, thoughtful, sober, diligent, and honest people. it is not then too much to say, with these qualifications, that they will be as successful in trade as others. hence their incomes will be as great, in proportion to their capitals, as those of others, from the same source. but let us look for a moment at their outgoings. they neither spend nor lose their money at cards, or at horse-races, or by any other species of gaming. they do not waste their substance either in drinking at taverns or at home. not having, in general, an enlarged education, or a taste for literature, they have no expensive libraries. they buy no costly paintings. they neither powder their hair, nor dress in a splendid manner. they use no extravagant furniture. they keep no packs of hounds for their diversion. they are never seen at the theatres. they have neither routes, balls, nor music meetings. they have neither expensive liveries nor equipages. hence it must follow, that their outgoings, as far as their living is concerned, cannot in general be as great as those of others in a similar condition of life. but if their inlets are greater than their outlets of money, when compared with those of other persons, a greater overplus of money beyond the expences of living, will be the constant result, or there will be a greater increasing accumulation of money, upon the whole, than falls within the possession of others. now a question arises here, founded on a knowledge of the infirmity of our nature. are men likely, in general, constituted as they are, to see the golden idol constantly rising in dimensions before them, and to refrain front worshipping it, or, are they likely to see it without a corruption of their moral vision? it is observed[ ] by one of the scriptural writers, "a merchant shall hardly keep himself from doing wrong, and a huckster shall not be free from sin." and where is it, that this old saying, except the mind be strongly fortified by religion, will not be found equally true in the present, as in former times? the truth is, that the old maxim, creseit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia creseit, is a just one. that is, it is true, "that the coming in of money in an undue proportion begets the love of it", that the love of money again leads to the getting of more; that the getting of more again generally increases the former love. and hence a round is kept up of circumstances and feelings, till a money-getting spirit creeps into the character of him, who is placed in a situation so unfortunate for the purity of his heart. [footnote : ecclesiasticus xxvi. .] these then are the acting and the counteracting circumstances on both sides. which of the two are likely to be predominant, we must conjecture. when men have become full grown quakers, the latter will lose their power. but where they have not (and it is to be presumed that there are many in the society who have not reached this stature, and many again who bear only the name of their profession) they will frequently prevail. i own i fear that precepts, though there may be a general moral bias, will not always be found successful against those, which are considered to be the most powerful of the temptations, to which our nature is exposed. i own, when i consider that the quakers, in consequence of their commercial and frugal habits, have greater pecuniary accumulations before their eyes than others in a similar condition of life, when i consider how few are able to bear these accumulations without moral injury to themselves, and that even the early christians began to relax in their character when they begun to be prosperous, i am of opinion, that there is some foundation far the existence of such a spirit, though not to the extent, as insisted on by the world; or, that there is in the society, notwithstanding the many bright and amiable exceptions that are to be found in it, greater eagerness after wealth than is consistent with its religious profession. and to this opinion i am inclined from another consideration, which cannot be overlooked in the present case. the book of extracts itself acknowledges the existence of such a spirit, for it characterises it under the name of "hastening to be rich," and it calls it "a growing evil." but when i say that i so for accede to the opinion of the world, as to allow that the money-getting spirit may be fixed upon a part of the society, i feel that i ought to make a proper distinction concerning it. i must observe, that the money-getting spirit, wherever it may be chargeable upon quakers, seldom belongs to that species which is called avarice. it is by no means incongruous to suppose, that there may be in the same person an unreasonable love of money, and yet a shew of benevolence. the money-getting spirit will have a different effect, as it operates upon different persons. upon those, who have been brought up in an ignorant and unfeeling manner, it will operate to make them hoard their substance, and to keep it exclusively to themselves. but it will not always hinder those who have been humanely educated, though it may lead them to unreasonable accumulations, from dispensing a portion of their gains. in the first instance it is highly criminal, because it keeps the whole of its talent in a napkin. in the second, though less criminal, it is greatly to be deplored, but more particularly in a quaker, who, making a higher profession of christianity than many others, ought to give to the world the example of a purer mind. sect. ii. _farther observations on the subject of the former trait--practicable methods suggested for its extirpation--these methods not destructive, but promotive, of the temporal interests of the members of this society, and consistent with the religion they profess._ as the quakers appear to me, in consequence of their commercial and frugal habits, to be in danger of contracting a money-getting spirit, and as this spirit is the worst feature that can exist in the quaker character, i shall allot a few pages to the farther consideration of the subject, with a view of the prevention of such an evil. that it is the worst feature that can exist in the character of the society, i repeat. it is worse than a want of knowledge, or than superstition, because these relate to the understanding, while this is confined to the heart. it renders the system of the moral education of the quakers almost nugatory. for what is the use of keeping the mind in a state of spiritual purity by means of prohibitions, or by attempting to shut it out from the knowledge of corruptive amusements, if it be afterwards to be rendered impure by the love of money? it occasions them again to bear their testimony as it were against their own religion. for a quaker is not in the situation of on ordinary person. he looks upon himself as a highly professing christian; as one, who is not to conform to the fashions of the world; as one, who is to lead a life of self-denial; as one, who is to go forward in virtue, his belief being that of a possibility of perfection even in the present life. he considers himself too as a representative of the early christians, and holds himself ready to follow them by the bearing of his testimony, into suffering, and even unto death. but what christian can harbour a money-getting spirit, or be concerned in an extensive accumulation of wealth? if a quaker therefore should go into the common road, and fall down before the idol mammon, like any other ordinary person, how can the world give him any pretension but to an ordinary religion? my object in the present consideration of the subject, will be to shew the quakers in general, and those in particular who may need it, some practical cure for this evil, and to convince them, that the mode of effecting it will not be detrimental to the temporal interests of their families, but promotive of their spiritual, and consistent with the religion they profess. the first method, which i would recommend to those who are in trade, and who know their own habits of life, and the extent of their families, would be to fix upon a certain sum, which they may think sufficient for a future decent and moderate competency, and to leave off business, as soon as this should be obtained. such a step would be useful. it would be making room for others to live as well as themselves. it would be honourable, for it would be generous. and it would operate as a certain preventive of the money-getting spirit, as well as of the imputation of it. for if such a retreat from trade, were laid down and known as a general custom of the society, the quakers might bid their hearts rise in defiance against the corruptions of money, and their reputation against the clamours of the world. this step, hard and difficult as it may appear to those who are thriving in the world, is, notwithstanding, not a novel one, if we may judge either by the example of many of the pure minded christians of other denominations, or by that of many estimable persons in this society. john woolman, among many others, was uneasy on account of his business "growing cumbersome," for so he expresses it, lest it should hurt the purity of his mind. and he contracted it, leaving himself only enough of it, and this by the labour of his own hands, for a decent support. and here i might mention other individuals of this society, if i had no objection to offend the living by praise, who, following his example, have retired upon only a moderate competency, though in the way of great accumulations, for no other reason than because they were afraid, lest such accumulations should interfere with their duty, or injure their character, as christians. but if this measure should not be approved of under an idea that men ought to have employments for their time, or that in these days of increasing taxes and of progressively expensive living, they cannot specify the sum that may be sufficient for their future wants, i have another to propose, in consequence of which they may still follow their commercial pursuits, and avoid the imputation in question. i mean that the quakers ought to make it a rule, after the annual expences of living have been settled, to lay by but small savings. they ought never to accustom their eyes to behold an undue accumulation of money, but liberally to deal it out in charity to the poor and afflicted in proportion to their gains, thus making their occupations a blessing to mankind. no other measure will be effectual but this, if the former be not resolved upon, while they continue in trade. their ordinary charity, it is clear, will not do. large as it may have been, it has not been found large enough to prove a corrective of this spirit in the opinion of the world. indeed, it matters not how large a charitable donation may seem, if we view it either as a check upon this spirit, or as an act of merit, but how large it is, when compared with the bulk of the savings that are left. a hundred pounds, given away annually in benevolence, may appear something, and may sound handsomely in the ears of the public. but if this sum be taken from the savings of two thousand, it will be little less than a reproach to the donor as a christian. in short, no other way than the estimation of the gift by the surplus-saving will do in the case in question. but this would certainly be effectual to the end proposed. it would entirely keep down the money-getting spirit. it would also do away the imputation of it in the public mind. for it is impossible in this case, that the word quakerism should not become synonimous with charity, as it ought to be, if quakerism be a more than ordinary profession of the christian religion. now these methods are not chimerical, but practicable. there can be no reasonable objection against them, because they allow of the acquisition of a decent and moderate competency. the only one that can be started will be, that quakers may injure the temporal interests of their children, or that they cannot, upon this plan, leave them independent at their deaths ... that independence for children is the general aim of the world, i know well. but i know also, in reply to this objection, that christianity has no such word as independence in her book. for of what do people wish to make their children independent? certainly not of providence, for that would be insanity indeed. of the poor then shall i say? that is impossible, for how could they get their daily bread? of the rich, then, like themselves? that would be folly, for where would they form their friendships or their connubial connections, in which they must place a portion of the happiness of their lives? do they wish then to make them independent of society at large, so as not to do it good? that is against all religion. in short it is impossible, while we exist in this life, to be independent one of another. we are bound by christianity in one great chain, every link of which is to support the next; or the band is broken. but if they mean by independence such a moneyed situation as shall place their children out of the reach of the frowns, and crosses, and vicissitudes of the world, so that no thought or care shall be necessary for the means of their own livelihood, i fear they are procuring a situation for them, which will be injurious even to their temporal interests as men. the matter then seems to me to be brought to this question, whether it is better, i mean as a general proposition, to bring up children with the expectation of such a moderate portion of wealth, that they shall see the necessity of relying upon their own honest endeavours and the divine support, or to bring them up with such notions of independence, that, in the pride and exultation of their hearts, they may be induced to count themselves mighty, and to lose sight of the power and providence of god? if we were to look into the world for an answer to this question, we should find no greater calamity than that of leaving to children an affluent independence. such persons, when grown up, instead of becoming a blessing, are generally less useful than others. they are frequently proud and haughty, fancying themselves omnipotent, they bid defiance to the opinions of the virtuous part of the community. to the laws of honour and fashion they pay a precise obedience, but trample under foot, as of little consequence, the precepts of the christian religion. having sensual gratifications in their power, they indulge to excess. by degrees they ruin their health and fortunes, and get wisdom by experience, when it is too late to use it. how many young persons have i known, and i wish i could make a different statement, whose ruin originated wholly in a sense of their own independence of the world! neither, if we look into the society of the quakers, shall we find a different account. it is undoubtedly true, though there are many amiable exceptions, that the worst examples in it are generally among the children of the rich. these presently take wings, and fly away, so that, falling into the corruptive and destructive fashions of the times, their parents have only been heaping up riches; not knowing who were to gather them. and here it may be remarked, that the quaker education, by means of its prohibitions, greatly disqualifies its young members, who may desert from the society, from acting prudently afterwards. they will be, in general, but children, and novices in the world. kept within bounds till this period, what is more probable than that, when they break out of them, they will bunch-into excess. a great river may be kept in its course by paying attention to its banks, but if you make a breach in these restrictive walls, you let it loose, and it deluges the plains below. in short, whether we turn our eyes to the quaker society, or to the world at large, we cannot consider an affluent independence as among the temporal advantages of youth. and as they, who only leave their children a moderate portion of substance, so that they shall see the necessity of relying upon their own honest endeavours, and the divine support, act wisely in their own generation, so they act only consistently with the religion they profess. for what does the religion of the quakers hold out to them as the best attainment in life? is it not spiritual knowledge? is it not that knowledge, which shall fit them best for the service of their maker? but such knowledge is utterly unattainable while a money-getting spirit exists; for it has been declared by the highest authority, that we cannot serve god and mammon. chap. xiv. _another trait is that of a want of animation or affection--this an appearance only, and not a reality, arising from a proper subjugation of the passions--from the prohibitions relative to dress--and address--and the amusements of the world._ it is said next of the quakers, that they are a cold and inanimate people; and that they have neither the ordinary affection, nor the gradation of affection, of other people. i may immediately pronounce upon this trait, that it is merely an outward appearance. the quakers have as warm feelings as the rest of their countrymen. their love of their fellow-creatures, more conspicuous in them than in many others, as has been amply shewn, gives them a claim to the possession of warm and affectionate feeling. the quakers too have the character of a domestic people; but surely, if they do not possess affection, and this in a very high degree, they must have miserable homes. there is indeed a want of gradation in their affections, which may be traced upon some occasions. in making their wills, for example, they are not apt to raise up an eldest son to the detriment of the rest of their offspring. and this certainly is a proof, that they do not possess the gradation of affection of many other people! happy is it for their own comfort and the welfare of their families, that they give this proof to the world of this equal affection for their children. that this trait is only an appearance, and not a reality, i shall shew, by staring many outward circumstances, in the quaker constitution, which may be preventive of apparent animation, but which can have no influence on the heart. we must all of us be sensible, that both opinions and customs have an influence on the warmth or coldness of our characters. who would expect, if two faithful portraits could have been handed down to us from antiquity, to find the same gravity or coldness of countenance and manners in an athenian, as in a spartan? and in the same manner who can expect, that there will not be a difference in the appearance of quakers and other people? the truth is, that the discipline and education of the quakers produce an appearance of a want of animation, and this outward appearance the world has falsely taken as a symbol of the character of the heart. can we expect that a due subjugation of the passions, which is insisted upon in true quaker families, will give either warmth to the countenance, or spirit to the outward manners? do not the passions animate, and give a tone to the characters of men? can we see then the same variety of expression in the faces of the quakers as in those of others on this account? the actions of men, again, enliven their outward appearances, but quakers, being forbidden to use the address of the world, can assume no variety of action in their intercourse with others. the amusements, again, of the world, such as of music and the theatre, reach the mind, and, animating it, give a greater expression to the countenance, on which the contemplation afterwards produces a similar though a slighter effect. but in what quakers can you see sensibility from the same cause? the dress too, of the members of this society gives them an appearance of gravity and dulness. it makes them also shy of their fellow citizens. but gravity, and dulness, and shyness, have generally, each of them, the appearance of coldness of manners. chap. xv. _another trait is that of evasiveness in speech--this an appearance only, arising from a peculiar regard to truth--and from a caution about the proper use of words, induced by circumstances in the discipline, and by the peculiarities in the quaker language._ it is alleged against the quakers, as another bad trait in their character, that they are not plain and direct, but that they are evasive in their answers to any questions that may be asked them. there is no doubt but that the world, who know scarcely any thing about the quakers, will have some reason, if they judge from their outward manner of expression, to come to such a conclusion. there is often a sort of hesitation in their speech, which has the appearance of evasiveness. but though there may be such an appearance, their answers to questions are full and accurate when finally given; and unquestionably there is no intention in them either to hold back any thing, or to deceive. this outward appearance, strange to relate, arises in part from an amiable trait in the character of the quakers!! their great desire to speak the truth, and not to exceed it, occasions often a sort of doubtfulness of speech. it occasions them also, instead of answering a question immediately, to ask other questions, that they may see the true bearings of the thing intended to be known. the same appearance of doubt runs also through the whole society in all those words which relate to promises, from the same cause. for the quakers, knowing the uncertainty of all human things, and the impossibility of fulfilling but provisionally, seldom, as i have observed before, promise any thing positively, that they may not come short of the truth. the desire therefore of uttering the truth has in part brought this accusation upon their heads. other circumstances also to be found within the quaker constitution have a tendency to produce the same effect. in their monthly and quarterly and annual meetings for discipline, they are taught by custom to watch the propriety of the expressions that are used in the wording of their minutes, that these may accurately represent the sense of the persons present. and this habit of caution about the use of words in the affairs of their own society naturally begets a caution concerning it also in their intercourse with the world. the peculiarities of their language produce also a similar circumspection. for where people are restrained from the use of expressions which are gene rally adopted by others, and this in the belief that, as a highly professing people, they ought to be watchful over their words as well as their actions, a sort of hesitation will accompany them, or a sort of pause will be perceptible, while they are choosing as it were the proper words for a reply to any of the questions that may be asked them. chap. xvi. _another trait is that of shyness--this an appearance only, arising from the former trait--and from that of coldness of manners--and from the great sobriety of the quaker character._ another bad trait, which the world has fixed upon the quakers, is that of being a sly people. this trait has been long given them. we find it noticed by pope: "the quaker sly, the presbyterian sour." this charge is grounded on appearances. it arises in part from the last mentioned trait in their character; for if men be thought cautious in the use of their words, and evasive in their answers, whether they be so or not, they will be marked as sly. it arises again from the trait of want of animation or of coldness of manners. for if men of good understanding, in consequence of the subjugation of their passions, appear always to be cool, they will have an appearance of wariness. it arises again from the great sobriety of the quakers. for where men are always sober, they appear to be always on their guard, and men, who are always on their guard, are reputed cunning. these circumstances of coolness and sobriety, when called into action, will only confirm the world in the opinion of the existence of the trait in question. for it will not be easy to deceive a man of but moderate understanding, who never loses his senses either by intoxication or by passion. and what man, in such habits, will not make a better bargain than one who is hot in his temper, or who is accustomed to be intoxicated? hence the trait arises from appearances, which are the result of circumstances, favourable to the morality of the quaker character. chap. xvii. _last bad trait is a disregard of truth--apparent rise of this trait--falsehood of it probable from considerations on the language of the quakers--from their prohibition of detraction--their rejection of romantic books--their punctuality to words and engagements--and their ideas with respect to the unlawfulness of civil oaths._ the last charge against the quakers will be seen in a vulgar expression, which should have had no place in this book, if it had not been a saying in almost every body's mouth. the expression, is, "though they will not swear, they will lie." this trait has arisen in part from those different circumstances, which have produced the appearance of evasiveness. for if people are thought evasive, they will always be thought liars. evasiveness and lying are almost synonimous terms. it is not impossible also, if quakers should appear to give a doubtful answer, that persons may draw false conclusions from thence, and therefore may suppose them to have spoken falsely. these two circumstances of an apparent evasiveness, and probably of a deduction of conclusions from doubtful or imaginary premises, have, i apprehend, produced an appearance, which the world has interpreted into evil. no trait, however, can be more false than this. i know of no people, who regard truth more than the quakers. their whole system bends and directs to truth. one of the peculiarities of their language, or their rejection of many of the words which other people use, because they consider them as not religiously appropriate to the objects of which they are the symbols, serves as a constant admonition to them to speak the truth. their prohibition of all slanderous reports, as mentioned in a former volume, has a tendency to produce the same effect; for detraction is forbidden partly on the idea, that all such rumours on character may be false. they reject also the reading of plays and novels, partly under a notion, that the subjects and circumstances in these are fictitious, and that a taste therefore, for the reading, of these, if acquired, might familiarize their youth with fictions, and produce in them a romantic and lying spirit. it is a trait, again, in the character of the quakers, as we have seen, that they are remarkable for their punctuality in the performance of their words and engagements. but such punctuality implies neither more nor less, than that the words spoken by quakers are generally fulfilled; and, if they are generally fulfilled, then the inference is, that all such words have been generally truths. to this i may add, that the notions of the quakers on the subject of oaths, and their ideas of the character which it becomes them to sustain in life, must have a powerful effect upon them in inducing an attention to the truth; for they consider jesus christ to have abolished civil oaths, because he wished to introduce a more excellent system than that of old, that is, because he meant it to be understood by his disciples, that he laid such an eternal obligation upon them to speak truth, that oaths were to be rendered unnecessary, where persons make a profession of his religion. chap. xviii. sect. i. _character of the quaker women--this differs a little from that of the men--women share in the virtues of the former--but do not always partake of all their reputed imperfections--are not chargeable with a want of knowledge--nor with the money-getting spirit--modesty a feature in their character._ having now amply enquired into the character of the men, i shall say a few words on the subject of that of the women of this society. for though it might be supposed at the first sight (the quakers being cast as it were in one mould) that the same character would attach to both, yet it must be obvious, on farther consideration, that it cannot be wholly applicable to the female sex. it may be laid down as a position, that the women of this society share in the virtues of the men. they possess their benevolence, their independence of mind, and the other good traits in their moral character. but they do not always partake of all their reputed imperfections. the want of knowledge, which was reckoned among the failings of the men, can have no room as a charge against the women. for, first, let us compare the quaker women with the quaker men. now it generally happens in the world, that men have more literary knowledge than women, but this is not so generally the case in this society. as the women here are not taken from their books, like the men, at an early age, and put into trade, they have no bar, like these, to the farther improvement of their minds. they advance often in the acquisition of knowledge, while the latter, in consequence of their attention to business, are kept stationary. hence it almost uniformly happens, that they are quite as well informed, and that they have as great a variety of knowledge as these, so that they suffer no disparagement, as the women of the world do, by a comparison with the other sex. neither will the quaker women be considered as deficient in knowledge, if compared with women of other religious denominations. it is too much the practice, but particularly in the higher circles, to educate females for shew. we too seldom see a knowledge of the domestic duties. to dance well, to sing well, and to play well, these are the usual accomplishments that are insisted on, and they are insisted upon with an earnestness, as if they included all the valuable purposes of life. thus the best part of youth is spent in the acquirement of trivial things: or rather the acquirement of such things takes up so much time, as to leave but little for the moral and intellectual improvement of the mind. the great object, on the other hand, of the education of the quaker females, is utility and not shew. they are taught domestic economy, or the cares and employments of a house. they are taught to become good wives and good mothers. prohibited the attainments of music and dancing, and many of the corruptive amusements of the world, they have ample time for the improvement of the understanding. thus they have in general as good an education as other females, as far as literary acquirements are concerned; so that, whether they are compared with quaker men, or with the other women of the island, they will not incur the imputation of a deficiency of knowledge. it must be obvious too, that the money-getting spirit, which the world has fixed upon as a trait in the character of some of the men, can seldom be a trait in that of the women of this society. for men are the principals in trade. they lay their plans for the getting of money. they see the accumulating surplus rise. they handle it. they count it. they remember it. the women, on the other hand, see it only in the disposition of their husbands or parents, who make probably a larger allowance for domestic wants or gratifications than before. hence a charge cannot be so frequently brought against them of a want of that spiritual mindedness, which is the great characteristic of quakerism, as they have but little to do with the mammon of the world. to these exceptions in quaker women from the reputed imperfections of quaker men, i cannot help adding in this place, that the females of this society are peculiarly distinguishable for that which has been at all times considered as one of the brightest ornaments of their sex. modesty is particularly conspicuous in their looks and in their whole outward demeanour. it is conspicuous in their conversation. it is conspicuous also in their dress. and here it may not be improper to observe, that, whatever objections may be made to the quaker apparel, it is estimable, as far as it gives this appearance of modesty to the females who wear it, or rather as far as it hinders them from wearing the loose and indelicate garments, which are frequently worn, without any scruple, by many of the females of the world. sect. ii. _quaker women, besides their private, have a public character--low light in which women have been held--importance given them by chivalry--and by the revival of learning in europe--and by the introduction of christianity--but still held in an inferior light--quakers have given them their due importance in society--influence of their public character on their minds._ the quaker women, independently of their private, have that which no other body of women have, a public character. this is a new era in female history. i shall therefore make a few observations on this, before i proceed to another subject. it is melancholy, when we look into the history of women, to see the low estimation in which they have been held from the earliest times. it is possible, because they have not possessed the strength of constitution, that they may have been thought not to have had the intellect of men. it is possible, because domestic cares and the rearing of children have been consigned to them, that other occupations may not have been considered as falling within the province of their stations. but whatever may have been the causes, polygamy or concubinage has unquestionably been the greatest, in hindering women from occupying an useful, dignified, and important station in society. this custom has held them up as little better than slaves, or than living toys or play-things. and this custom has prevailed over a great portion of the globe from times of the earliest antiquity to the present day. among the many circumstances which contributed to give importance to women in europe, we may reckon the introduction of chivalry. honour and humanity were the characteristics of this institution. hence weakness was to be protected by it. and as weakness was more particularly the lot of women, so these became more peculiarly the objects of its care. hence women began to feel a consequence, which had been hitherto denied them. they were treated with politeness and tenderness by all, and men began to be even solicitous of their applause. but though this was the case, chivalry did not elevate them beyond a certain height. it rendered a polite attention to them essential. but this attention was an homage to the weakness of females, and not to their intellect. it presupposed no capacity of usefulness in them, for every thing, in fact, was to be done for them, and they were to do but little for themselves. the revival of learning in the twelfth century was another cause of adding to the importance of women. as men became more learned, they began to respect the power of the human understanding. they began to be acquainted, by means of history, with the talents of women in former ages. they began to give a better education to their families. these circumstances produced a more enlarged opinion of female genius. hence learning became an instrument of giving new consequence to women. but it gave it to them on a principle different from that of chivalry: for whereas chivalry insisted upon a polite attention to them on account of the weakness of their constitutions, learning insisted upon it on account of the strength of their understanding, or because they were intellectual and reasonable beings. but that which contributed most to make women important in society, was the introduction of the christian religion. by the mild spirit which it diffused, it produced a certain suavity of behaviour towards them. by the abolition of polygamy it allowed of no division of a man's love among many women, but limited it to one. thus it made one woman dearer than another, and of course every individual woman of consequence. by the abolition of polygamy, it added to their consequence again, by raising them from the rank of slaves to that of the companions of men. this importance it increased again by the inculcation of specific duties towards them, and by the doctrine, that, as all, without exception, were equally accountable for their actions, and the divine being was no respecter of persons, so all, whether men or women, were of equal importance in his sight. but though christianity has operated, as it always will, where it is felt in the heart, to the production of a tender attention to women, and to the procuring of an honourable station for them in society, we have yet to lament, that this operation has not been more general, considering our public profession of this religion, than we find it at the present day. women are still seldom appreciated as they ought to be. they are still weighed in a different scale from men. their education is still limited, as if their understandings, notwithstanding the honourable testimony which history has borne concerning them, were incapable of high attainments. if homage be paid to their beauty, very little is paid to their opinions. limits also are assigned to the sphere of their utility. to engage in other pursuits than they do would be thought strange. in short, the education they receive marks the inferior situation for which they are considered to be designed. its tendency is mostly to outward shew. formed like dolls or play-things, which are given to children to captivate by outside appearances, they are generally rendered incapable of exhibiting great talents, or of occupying an important station in life. but it seems to have been reserved for the quakers us a religious body, to insist upon that full practical treatment and estimation of women, which ought to take place wherever christianity is professed. they have accordingly given to the females of their own society their proper weight in the scale of created beings. believing them to have adequate capacities, and to be capable of great usefulness, they have admitted them to a share in the administration of almost all the offices which belong to their religious discipline, so that, independently of their private, they have a public character, like the men. in the first volume, i had occasion to observe, when treating on the subject of the discipline, that representatives were chosen by the men out of their own body to the different meetings which were then named. just so it is with the quaker women. representatives are appointed out of these by the other women on similar occasions. i stated also that, at certain times, the men assembled by themselves; that they discussed the business that came before them; that they replied to those who supported opposite opinions to their own; and that the young men were present during these discussions. so it is with the women. they sit in council by themselves. they argue and reply in like manner. the young females are also present. i stated also, that during these meetings of the men, one of them held the office of drawing up and recording the minutes of the proceedings or resolutions that had taken place. the women also appoint one of their own body to the same office. i stated again, that, in these meetings of the men, some were chosen as a committee to act in particular cases. so also are women chosen to act as a committee by their own meetings. i explained the nature of the office of overseer, and i observed that there were overseers among the men. there are also overseers among the women. i explained the nature of the office of elder, and i observed that there were elders among the men. the women have their elders likewise. the men were said to preach as in other societies. the women are permitted to preach also. in short, if the men consider themselves to be qualified for any office belonging their religious discipline, they believe their women to be equally capable of holding the same. no distinction is made as to the powers of usefulness between the men and the women of this society. there are few offices held by men, but there is a corresponding one for those of the other sex.[ ] [footnote : the principal exceptions are, that they are not correspondents, arbitrators, legislators, or on committees of appeal.] the execution of these and other, public offices, by which the quaker women have an important station allotted them in society, cannot but have an important influence on their minds. it gives them, in fact, a new cast of character. it imparts to them, in the first place, a considerable knowledge of human nature. it produces in them thought, and foresight, and judgment. it creates in them a care and concern for the distressed. it elevates their ideas. it raises in them a sense of their own dignity and importance as human beings, which sets them above every thing that is little and trifling, and above all idle parade and shew. fond as they are of the animal creation, you do not see them lavishing their caresses on lap-dogs, to the contempt of the poor and miserable of their own species. you never see them driving from shop to shop to make up a morning's amusement, by examining and throwing out of order the various articles of tradesmen, giving them great trouble, and buying nothing in return. you never find them calling upon those whom they know to be absent from their homes, thus making their mimic visits, and leaving their useless cards. nothing, in short, so ridiculous or degrading, is known among them. their pursuits are rational, useful, and dignified. and they may be said in general to exhibit a model for the employment of time, worthy of the character they profess. miscellaneous particulars relative to the quakers _quakers a happy people--subordinate causes of this happiness--namely, their comfortable situation--their attachment to domestic life--their almost constant employment--this happiness not broken like that of others, by an interruption of the routine of constituted pleasures--or by anger and other passions or by particular enquiries and notions about religion._ if a person were to judge of the quakers by the general gravity of their countenances, and were to take into consideration, at the same time, the circumstance, that they never partook of the amusements of the world, in which he placed a part of his own pleasures, he would be induced to conclude, that they had dull and gloomy minds, and that they could not be upon the whole a happy people. such a conclusion, however, would be contrary to the fact. on my first acquaintance with them i was surprised, seeing the little variety of their pursuits, at the happiness which they appeared to enjoy, but as i came to a knowledge of the constitution and state of the society, the solution of the problem became easy. it will not be difficult to develope the subordinate causes of this happiness.[ ] to shew the first of these, i shall view the society in the three classes of the rich, the middle, and the poor. of the rich, i may observe, that they are not so affluent in general as the rich of other bodies. of the middle, that they are upon the whole in better circumstances than others of the same class in life. of the poor, that they are not so poor as others in a similar condition. now the rich in the quaker society have of course as many of the comforts of life in their power as they desire. the middle classes in this society have more of these than the middle classes of other denominations. the poor in the same society have also more of these, in consequence of the handsome provision which is made for them, than others in a similar situation with themselves. there is therefore upon the whole a greater distribution of the comforts of life, among all the ranks of this society, than is to be found in any other community, in proportion to their numbers. but this superior state, in point of comfortable circumstances, ought to be undoubtedly a source of superior happiness. for where the comforts of life are wanting, it is in vain to suppose men can be happy, unless their minds are more than usually comforted by their religion. [footnote : religion, which includes positive virtues, and an absence from vices, joined to a peaceful conscience and a well grounded hope of a better life, is the first and greatest cause of happiness, and may belong to all. but i confine myself, in this chapter, to such causes only as may be called subordinate, and in which the quakers are more particularly concerned.] another source of their happiness may be found in their domestic situation. the quakers, as i have observed before, in consequence of denying themselves the pleasures of the world, have been obliged to cherish those which are found in domestic life. in the fashionable world, men and their wives seldom follow their pleasures together. they resemble the little wooden figures of the man and the woman, which, by moving backwards and forwards in a small painted house, denote the changes of the weather. while one of these is within, the other is out of doors. but this is not the case with the quakers. the husband and wife are not so easily separable. they visit generally together. they are remarked as affectionate. you never hear of intrigues among them. they are long in each others society at a time, and they are more at home than almost any other people. for neither the same pleasures, nor the same occupations, separate these as others. the husband is never seen at a play, nor at a tavern, nor at a dance. neither the naval nor the military profession summons him abroad. he is seldom concerned in voyages as a mariner. hence he must of necessity be much at home. add to this, that the quakers have generally families, with the power of providing for them. but these circumstances render their homes agreeable to them, and increase their domestic delights. a third source of the happiness of the quakers arises from the circumstance of their being almost constantly employed. few are so miserable as those who have nothing to do, or who, unable to find employment, feel a dull vacuum in their time. and the converse of this proposition is equally true, that the time of those flies pleasantly away, who can employ it rationally. but there is rarely such a being among the quakers as a lazy person, gaping about for amusement. their trades or callings occupy the greater portion of their time. their meetings of discipline, as has been already shewn, occupy their time again. the execution of the various offices to which they may be appointed, such as of overseers, or elders, or committee-men, or arbitrators in disputes, occupies more. few quakers, but particularly the more respectable, have many vacant hours. and here it may not be improper to remark, that the discipline of the society, organized as it is, is productive of a cheerful and friendly intercourse of the members, or of a sociable manner of spending their time, one with another. the monthly meetings usually bring two or three particular meetings together. the members of these, when they have dispatched their business, retire to the houses of their friends, where they take their refreshment, and indulge in the pleasures of conversation. the quarterly meetings again bring the monthly meetings of the county into one. here again, when the business is over, they partake of a similar repast. hence a renewal of conversation and of friendship. the yearly meeting again brings many, from the quarterly together. and here the quakers from all parts of the kingdom have an opportunity of seeing and conversing with one another. i may add too, that many individuals in the interim, who travel, whether on business or on pleasure, or on religious errands, enlarge this friendly intercourse; for few quakers pass through the towns where quakers live, without calling upon these, so that there are many sources within the customs and constitution of the society, that are productive of cheerful hours.[ ] [footnote : it may be mentioned here, that the quakers acknowledge their relations to a much farther degree of consanguinity, than other people. this relationship, where it can be distinctly traced, is commemorated by the appellation of cousin. this custom therefore is a cause of endearment when they meet, and of course of additional pleasure.] but here it will probably be said, that these sources of happiness, which have been hitherto described, are common to many others. i grant they are to individuals, but not to communities at large. no society has probably so many of the comforts of life in its power, number for number, and rank for rank, as that of the quakers. none probably so wholly domestic. none, where the members of it have such frequent intercourse with each other, or where they are so connected in the bonds of brotherly love, and none, as far as i know men, who have such constant employment for their time. having explained some of those, which may be considered as positive sources of happiness to the quakers, i shall now shew what may be causes of unhappiness to others, and that the quakers seldom partake of these. such an exposition, however strange it may appear at the first sight, will be materially to the point. for though an exemption from the causes of the uneasiness of others can never be admitted as a proof of the existence of positive enjoyment among the quakers, yet if the latter have solid sources of happiness of their own, and these are not in any material degree diminished by the causes of the uneasiness of the former, there will be left to them, because there will be no drawback, a certain portion of happiness with less alloy. and here it is obvious at the first sight, that the quakers have not the same, nor so many wants as others, with respect to their pleasures, and that they do not admit the same things to be component parts of them. hence they have not the same causes of uneasiness from the chance of interruption. hence also their happiness is more in their own power. what individual can annihilate the comforts which arise from their own industry, or their domestic enjoyments, or their friendly intercourse with each other, or their employments, which arise from their discipline, and from their trade and callings? but how easily are many of the reputed enjoyments of the world to be broken? some people place their happiness in a routine of constituted pleasures. in proportion as these have been frequently resorted to, they will have got into the habit as the necessary enjoyments of life. take away then from persons in such habits the power of these their ordinary gratifications, and you will make them languid, and even wretched. there will be a wide chasm, which they will not know how to fill up; a dull vacuum of time, which will make their existence insipid; a disappointment, which will carry with it a lacerating sting. in some of the higher circles of life, accustomed to such rounds of pleasure, who does not know that the sunday is lamented as the most cruel interrupter of their enjoyments?--no shopping in the morning--no theatre or route in the evening--nothing but dull heavy church stares them in the face. but i will not carry this picture to the length to which i am capable. i shall only observe that, where persons adopt a routine of constituted pleasures, they are creating fictitious wants for themselves, and making their own happiness subject to interruption, and putting it into the power of others. the quakers, however, by the total rejection of all the amusements included in the routine alluded to, know nothing of the drawbacks or disadvantages described. the quakers again are exempt from several of the causes of uneasiness, which attach to the world at large. some go to the gaming-table, and ruin themselves and their families, and destroy the peace of their minds. but the quakers are never found injuring their fortunes or their happiness by such disreputable means. others disturb the harmony of their lives by intemperate sallies of passion. it has been well observed, that, whatever may be the duration of a man's anger, so much time he loses of the enjoyment of his life. the quakers, however, have but few miserable moments on this account. a due subjugation of the passions has been generally instilled into them from early youth. provocation seldom produces in them any intemperate warmth, or takes away, in any material degree, from the apparent composure of their minds. others again, by indulging their anger, are often hurried into actions of which the consequences vex and torment them, and of which they often bitterly repent. but the quakers endeavour to avoid quarrelling, and therefore they often steer clear of the party and family feuds of others. they avoid also, as much as possible, the law, so that they have seldom any of the lawsuits to harass and disturb them, which interrupt the tranquillity of others by the heavy expence, and by the lasting enmities they occasion. the quakers again are exempt from many of the other passions which contribute to the unhappiness of the world at large. some men have an almost boundless ambition. they are desirous of worldly honours, or of eminent stations, or of a public name, and pursue these objects in their passage through life with an avidity which disturbs the repose of their minds. but the quakers scarcely know any such feeling as that of ambition, and of course scarcely any of the torments that belong to it. they are less captivated by the splendour of honours than any other people, and they had rather live in the memory of a few valuable friends, than be handed down to posterity for those deeds, which generally constitute the basis of public character. others again, who cannot obtain these honourable distractions, envy those who possess them. they envy the very coronet upon the coach, as it passes by. but the quakers can have no such feelings as these. they pass in their pilgrimage through life regardless of such distinctions, or they estimate them but as the baubles of the, day. it would be folly therefore to suppose, that they could be envious of that which they do not covet. the quakers again are exempt from some of the occasions of uneasiness which arise to others from considerations on the subject of religion. some people, for example, pry into what are denominated mysteries. the more they look into these, the less they understand them, or rather, the more they are perplexed and confounded. such an enquiry too, while it bewilders the understanding, generally affects the mind. but the quakers avoid all such curious enquiries as these, and therefore they suffer no interruption of their enjoyment from this source. others again, by the adoption of gloomy creeds, give rise frequently to melancholy, and thus lay in for themselves a store of fuel for the torment of their own minds. but the quakers espouse no doctrines, which, while they conduct themselves uprightly, can interrupt the tranquillity of their lives. it is possible there may be here and mere an instance where their feelings may be unduly affected, in consequence of having carried the doctrine of the influence of the spirit, as far as it relates to their own condition, beyond its proper bounds. but individuals, who may fell into errors of this nature, are, it is to be hoped, but few; because any melancholy, which may arise from these causes, must be the effect, not of genuine quakerism, but of a degenerate superstition. chap. ii. _good, which the quakers have done as a society upon earth--by their general good example--by shewing that persecution for religion is ineffectual--by shewing the practicability of the subjugation of the will of man--the influence of christianity on character--the inefficacy of capital punishments--the best object of punishment--the practicability of living, either in a private or a public capacity, in harmony and peace--the superiority of the policy of the gospel over the policy of the world._ when we consider man as distinguished from other animals by the rational and spiritual faculties which he possesses, we cannot but conceive it to be a reproach to his nature, if he does not distinguish himself from these, or, if he does not leave some trace behind him, that he has existed rationally and profitably both to himself and others. but if this be expected of man, considered abstractedly as man, much more will it be expected of him, if he has had the advantages of knowing the doctrines of christianity, and the sublime example of the great author of that religion. and the same observation, i apprehend, will hold true with respect to societies of men. for if they have done no good during their existence, we cannot see how they can escape censure, or that it would not have been better that they had not existed at all. this consideration leads me to enquire, what good the quakers have done since their institution, as a society, upon earth. it was said of the quakers in george fox's time, after their character had been established, that, "if they did not stand, the nation would run into debauchery." by this i apprehend it was meant, that it was a desirable thing to have a people to look up to, who, residing in the 'midst of a vicious community, professed to be followers of that which was right, and to resist the current of bad example in their own times; or that such a people might be considered as a leaven, that might leaven the whole lump, but that, if this leaven were lost, the community might lose one of its visible incitements to virtue. now in this way the quakers have had a certain general usefulness in the world. they have kept more, i apprehend, to first principles, than any other people. they have afforded a moral example. this example ought to have been useful to others. to those who were well inclined, it should have been as a torch to have lighted up their virtue, and it should have been a perpetual monument for reproof to others, who were entering upon a career of vice. the first particular good, after the general one now stated, which the quakers have done, has been, that they have shewn to those who have been spectators of their conduct, that all persecution for matters of religion, as it is highly criminal in the eyes of the supreme being, so it is inadequate to the end proposed. this proposition, indeed, seems to be tolerably well understood at the present day. at least they whose minds have been well informed, acknowledge it. the history of martyrdom, by which we learn how religion soars above all suffering, how the torments inflicted on the body are unable to reach the mind, how the moral governor of the world reigns triumphant upon earth, how tyranny and oppression fall prostrate before virtue, losing their malignant aim, has been one, among other causes, of this knowledge. but as history is known but to few, and is not remembered by all, the quakers are particularly useful by holding up the truth of the proposition to our daily sight, that is, by the example they continue to afford us of bearing their testimony in all cases where the civil magistrate is concerned on the one hand, and their consciences on the other. a second good, which the quakers have done, is by shewing, as a whole body, the power of christianity in the subjugation of the will of men, and its influence on their character. they are living proofs, in the first instance, that human nature is not the stubborn thing, which many have imagined it to be; that, however it may be depraved, it is still corrigible; and that this correction is universally practicable, for that there are as various dispositions in this society as in any other in proportion to its numbers. they shew, that christianity can alter the temper, that it can level enmities, and that there is no just occasion for any to despair. and they are living proofs, in the second, as to what kind of character christianity, where it is rightly received, will produce; they are living proofs, that it can produce sobriety, inoffensiveness, simplicity, charity, peace, and the domestic and other virtues. now though every private christian can shew in himself an example of these effects, yet the quakers shew it, not by producing solitary instances, but as a body; the temper of the great mass of their members being apparently cast in the same mould, and their character, as a society, being acknowledged to be that of a moral people. and here i cannot but stop for a moment to pay a just tribute to the quaker system, as one of the best modes of the christian religion; for whether the doctrines which belong to it, or whether the discipline which it promotes, or whether both of them conjointly, produce the effects which have been just related, certain it is, that they are produced.[ ] but that system of religion is surely the most excellent, which produces, first, the greatest, and, secondly, the most universal effect upon those who profess it. for what is the use of any particular creed, or where is the advantage of any one creed above another, if it cannot give the great characteristic marks of a christian, a subjugated mind and a moral character? what signifies the creed of any particular description of christian professors, if it has no influence on the heart, or if we see professors among these giving way to their passions, or affording an inconsistent example to the world. [footnote : many of the quakers in america, influenced by custom, adopted the practice of holding slaves. but on a due recurrence to their principles they gave freedom to these unconditionally, thus doing another public good in the world, and giving another example of the power of religion on the mind.] the quakers have given, again, in the reforms, which, in the first volume, i described them to have introduced into legislation, a beautiful and practical lesson of jurisprudence to the governors of all nations. they have shewn the inefficacy of capital punishments; that the best object in the punishment of offenders is their reformation; that this accords best with the genius and spirit of the christian religion; and that while such a system, when followed, restores the abandoned to usefulness in society, it diminishes the number of crimes.[ ] [footnote : see vol. i, sect. , p. .] they have shewn again, by their own example, that it is not so difficult for men to live peaceably together, as has been usually believed; and they have exhibited the means by which they have effected this desirable end in life. and as they have proved, that this is practicable in private, so they have proved, as has appeared in this volume, that it is practicable in public life, or, which is the same thing, they have shewn, that in the intercourse which exists between nations, there is no necessity for wars. they have shewn and established again by the two latter instances, both of which relate to government, a proposition which seems scarcely to be believed, if we judge by the practice of statesmen, but the truth of which ought for ever to be insisted upon, that the policy of the gospel is superior to the policy of the world. this is a portion of the good which the quakers have done since their appearance as a society in the world. what other good they have done it is not necessary to specify. and as to what they would do, if they were permitted to become universal legislators, it may be a pleasing subject for contemplation, but it does not fall within the limits of the present chapter. chap. iii. _general opinion, that the quakers are on the decline as a society--observations upon this subject--opinion believed, upon the whole, to be true--causes of this supposed declension--mixed marriages--tithes--pursuit of trade, as connected with the peculiar habits of the society, and a residence in the towns--education._ i have often heard it suggested as matter for conversation, whether the quakers were increasing or decreasing in their number, and the result has always been an opinion, that they were a declining body. when we consider the simplicity and even philosophy of the quaker religion, the preservation it affords against the follies and difficulties of life, and the happiness to which it ultimately leads, we shall wonder that the progress of the society, in point of number, has not been greater than we find it. and when we consider, on the other hand, how difficult it is to be a quaker, how much it is against the temper and disposition of man to be singular, or to resist the tide of custom and fashion, and to undergo an ordeal of suffering on these accounts, we shall wonder that it has not been long ago extinct. that many are disowned by the society, in consequence of which its numbers are diminished, is true. that others come into it from other quarters, by which an increase is given to it, independently of its own natural population, is true also. but whether the new members exceed the disowned, or the disowned the new, is the question to be resolved. now no people have had better opportunities of ascertaining this point, than the quakers themselves. by means of their monthly meetings they might with ease have instituted a census on a given day. they might have renewed such a census. they might have compared the returns in every case. but as no such census has ever been made, the quakers themselves, though they have their ideas, cannot speak with particular accuracy, on this subject. the general opinion, however, is, and the quakers, i apprehend, will not deny but lament it, that those who go out of the society are upon the whole more numerous than those who come into it by convincement, and therefore that there is, upon the whole, a decrease among them. of the truth of this opinion, some have adduced as a proof, that the quarterly meetings have been reduced to three fourths of their original number. but this is not to be considered as a certain criterion of the fact. for it is by no means uncommon to find, if the quakers decrease in one county, that they increase in another. it has also been adduced, that many particular meetings have been broken up, or that meeting-houses in the country are standing deserted, or without quakers to worship in them. but neither can this be considered as any infallible proof of the point. for it frequently happens, that if the quakers become less numerous in any particular village, they become more so in some of the towns of the same county. thus no true judgment can be formed upon these principles. the quaker population, in this respect, on account of its movements, resembles the sea, which, while it loses on one part of its shores or boundaries, gains upon another. there are, however, considerations, which may be more decisive of the fact. in the time of george fox the number of those converted to his principles was immense.[ ] this number, if we consult all the facts that might be adduced on the occasion, continued to be large in after times. now it must be observed, that the quakers are a sober and temperate people, that they generally marry at a proper age, and that they have large families. it is therefore impossible, if the descendants of the early quakers had continued in the society, that their number should not have been much larger than we find it at the present day, and, if so, there must have been a secession or an expulsion, amounting, notwithstanding all influx by conversion, to a decrease. [footnote : although the remark may be just, that in the time of george fox "a great number were converted to his principles," yet a small portion of those were actually received into membership, and the same remark may correctly be made even in the present day: as it is believed that immense numbers are convinced of the truth as held by the quakers, but owing to their "not being willing to undergo an ordeal of suffering on account of their principles," a small portion of those apply to be admitted into the society. american editor.] it is obvious again that the quakers, in consequence of their industry and their frugal habits, must almost unavoidably grow rich. now if the descendants of the early quakers had remained in the society, we should have seen more overgrown fortunes in it, than among others in proportion to their numbers. but this is contrary to the fact. the very richest, as the world now goes, would not be considered to be particularly rich; and it is a truth that those who are affluent among them have generally been the founders, by means of their industry and integrity, of their own fortunes. it is, again, a matter of observation among the quakers, now grown into a truth, that if men grow rich in the society, their grand-children generally leave it. but surely this amounts to a confession, that in a particular part of the society there are the seeds of a regular and successive decrease. that the quakers then upon the whole are a declining body, there can be no doubt.[ ] while i state it, i lament it. i lament that there should be any diminution of number among those who have done so much good in the world, and who have so justly obtained the reputation of a moral people. this consideration will lead me to enquire into the causes of this decline. it will impel me also to enquire into the means of remedy. how far i may be successful in the latter attempt, i am unable to say. but it will always be a pleasing consideration to me, to have tried to prevent the decrease of a virtuous people. [footnote : against this decrease we cannot set off any great increase by admission into membership. the dress, the language, the fear of being singular, the discipline with its various restraints, the unwillingness of men to suffer where suffering can be avoided, these and other circumstances are great impediments in the way of an entrance into this society; and to this i may add, that applications for admission into it are not always complied with.] with respect then to the causes of this decline, to which i shall confine myself in this chapter, they will be found in the causes of disownment. now of these, some may be called original and immediate, and others original and remote. of original and immediate, the first is what the quakers call mixed marriage. it has been before stated, that those who marry out of the society are disowned, and the reasons for such disownments have been given. a second will be found in tithes. they who pay these are ultimately disowned. and they are disowned as well for the payment of lay-tithes, as of those which are ecclesiastical. of the original and remote, a very prolific cause is the pursuit of trade, connected as it is with the peculiar habits of the society, and a residence in the towns.[ ] [footnote : owing perhaps to the causes alleged by the author, the society may have decreased in england, yet it is certain that in this country the number of quakers has very considerably increased. american editor.] to shew this i must observe, first, that the poor, comparatively speaking, are seldom disowned, for they know that they[ ] shall never be so well provided for in any other society. i must observe again, that the members of the middle classes are also, comparatively speaking, but seldom disowned. these must live by trade, but if so, they cannot be better off than as quakers. the direct conclusion then, from these observations, will be, that the greater number of those who are disowned, will be found among the rich, or among such as are growing rich. hence it appears, that, as far as this original and remote cause is concerned, my enquiry must be, how it happens, that members of this particular class should be excluded from membership more than those of any other. [footnote : i by no means intend to say, that the poor do not remain in the society from an attachment to its principles, but that this may be a political motive also.] in answer to this enquiry i must say, as i have observed before, that quakers in trade, having as good abilities, and as much diligence and integrity as others, will succeed as well as others in it, but that, having less sources of outgoings, their savings will be generally greater. hence they will have before their eyes the sight of a greater accumulation of wealth. but in proportion as such accumulation of substance is beheld, the love of it increases. now while this love increases, or while their hearts are unduly fixed on the mammon of the world, they allow many little inconsistencies in their children to escape their reproof. but, besides this, as the religion and the love of the mammon of the world are at variance, they have a less spiritual discernment than before. hence they do not see the same irregularities in the same light. from this omission to check these irregularities on the one hand, and from this decay of their spiritual vision on the other, their children have greater liberties allowed them than others in the same society. but as these experience this indulgence, or as these admit the customs and fashions of the world, they grow more fond of them. now, as they live in towns, the spark that is excited is soon fanned into a flame. fashions and fashionable things, which they cannot but see daily before their eyes, begin to get the dominion. when they are visited by wholesome advisers, they dislike the interference. they know they shall be rich. they begin to think the discipline of the society a cruel restraint. they begin to dislike the society itself, and, committing irregularities, they are sometimes in consequence disowned. but, if they should escape disownment themselves, they entail it generally upon their children. these are brought up in a still looser manner than themselves. the same process goes on with these as with their parents, but in a still higher degree, till a conduct utterly inconsistent with the principles of the society occasions them to be separated from it. thus in the same manner, as war, according to the old saying, begets poverty, and poverty peace, so the pursuit of trade, with the peculiar habits of the society, leads to riches, riches to fashion and licentiousness, and fashion and licentiousness to disownment, so that many quakers educate their children as if there were to be no quakers in the second generation from themselves. and thus, though, strictly speaking, irregularities are the immediate occasion of these disownments, they are ultimately to be attributed to the original and remote cause as now described.[ ] [footnote : i hope i shall not be understood as involving the rich in a promiscuous censure. i know as amiable examples among these and among their children, as among others of the society. but we must naturally expect more deviations among the rich, number for number, than among others.] that this is by no means an unreasonable account, i shall shew in some measure by an appeal to facts. the american quakers sprang from the english. the english, though drained in consequence, were still considerable, when compared with the former. but it is remarkable, that the american quakers exceed the english by at least five times their number at the present day. now it must undoubtedly be confessed, that the americans have advantages, as far as this fact is concerned, which the english have not. they have no tithes as a cause of disownment. their families also, i believe, increase more rapidly. many persons also, as will be the case in a country that is not fully settled, live in the neighbourhoods of the quakers, but at a distance from those of other religious denominations, and therefore, wishing to worship somewhere, seek membership with them. but i apprehend that a great cause of this disparity of number lies in this difference of the situation of the two, that whereas the great quaker population in england is in the towns with but a remnant in the country, the great quaker population in america is in the country with but a remnant in the towns.[ ] and that the americans themselves believe, that the place of the residence of their members is connected in some measure with the increase and decrease of their society, it is fair to presume, from this circumstance, that, in several of the quarterly meetings in america, advice has been given to parents to bring up their children in the country, and, as little as possible, in the towns. [footnote : the number of the quakers is undoubtedly great in one or two of the cities in america, but the whole town-population is not great, when compared with the whole country-population there.] another of the original and remote causes is education. this, as it becomes promotive of the diminution of the society, is of two kinds. the first may be called alien. the second is such as is afforded in the society itself. some parents, growing rich, and wishing to give their children a better education, than they can get in their own schools, send them to others to be instructed. now the result has not been desirable, where it has been designed, that such children should be continued quakers. for how is a poor solitary quaker boy to retain the peculiarities belonging to his religious profession, in the face of the whole school? will not his opinions and manners be drowned as it were in the torrent of the opinions and manners of the rest? how can he get out of this whirlpool pure? how, on his return, will he harmonize with his own society? will not either he, or his descendants, leave it? such an education may make him undoubtedly both a good and an enlightened man, and so far one of the most desirable objects in life will have been accomplished, but it certainly tends to destroy the peculiar institution of quakerism. the education, which is afforded in the society itself, is divisible again into two kinds, into that which is moral or religious, and into that which is literary or philosophical. it must undoubtedly be confessed, in looking into that which is moral or religious, that sufficient care is not always taken with regard to youth. we sometimes see fathers and sons, and mothers and daughters, so different in their appearance and deportment, that we should scarcely have imagined them to be of the same family. i am not now speaking of those parents, who may live in the towns, and who may be more than ordinarily devoted to the mammon of the world, but of some who, living both in town and country, give an example of a liberal and amiable spirit, and of a blameless conduct to the world. that the former should neglect and lose sight of their offspring, when their moral vision is clouded by an undue eagerness after money, is not to be wondered at, but that the latter should do it, is surprising. it is certainly true that some of these are too indulgent in their families, contrary to the plan and manner of their own education, or that they do not endeavour to nip all rising inconsistencies in the bud. the consequence is, that their children get beyond control in time, when they lament in vain their departure from the simplicity of the society. hence the real cause of their disownment, which occasionally follows, is not in the children running out of bounds, but in the parents running out of bounds in the manners of their children. and here i may add, that some parents, dwelling too much on the disuse of forms in religion, because such disuse is inculcated by their own doctrines, run into the opposite extreme, and bring up their children in too much ignorance of the general plan of christianity, as it is laid down in the letter of the scriptures. with respect to education, as for it is literary or philosophical, it is frequently sufficient for those upon whom it is bestowed. but it does not appear to me to be carried to its proper extent, in the case of the children of the rich, when i consider how friendly it might be made towards the promotion of virtue. some, we know, growing wealthy, have had children when they were poorer, and, when in this poorer state, they have given them an education which has been suitable to it, not calculating upon their future rise in life. but their children, having had such a limited education, have not had that which has been proper for their subsequent station in life. others again, who have been born in better circumstances, have, on account of an undue depreciation of human knowledge, educated their children as improperly for their station as the former. the children then, in both these cases, have not had an education sufficient, with the prospect of riches before them, to keep them out of the way of harm. they have not had, in addition to any religious instruction, that taste given them for sublime pursuits, which should make them despise those which were frivolous. thus many of the corruptive opinions, fashions, and amusements of the world have charmed them. giving way to these, they have been overcome. when overcome, they have run into excesses, and for these excesses they have been disowned. but surely, with a better education, they would have thought all such corruptive opinions, fashions, and amusements, as below their notice, and unworthy of their countenance and support. chap. iv. _supposed remedies for the diminution of some of these causes--regulations in the case of mixed marriages--measures to be adopted in the pursuit of trade--education, as it is moral or religious, to be more strictly enforced in some families--as it is literary or philosophical, to be carried to a greater extent among the children of the rich--object of this latter education--nature of it as consisting both knowledge and prohibitions--how it would operate against the fascinating allurements of the world, or to the end proposal._ i purpose now to suggest, as briefly as i can, such opinions, as, if adopted, might possibly operate as remedies to some of the evils which have been described. in doing this i am aware of the difficulties that await me. i am sensible that i ought not to be too sanguine as to the result of all my observations upon this subject and yet, i cannot but think, that i may be successful in some of them. arduous, however, as the task, and dubious as my success may be, i am encouraged, on the prospect of being but partially useful, to undertake it. on the first of the original and immediate causes which have been mentioned, i mean mixed marriages, i shall have but little to say. i do not see how it is possible, while the society means to keep up a due subordination among its members, not to disown such as may marry out of it. in mixed families, such as these marriages produce, it is in vain to expect that the discipline can be carried on, as has been shewn in the second volume. and, without this discipline, the society would hardly keep up, in the extensive manner it does, the character of a moral people. i think, however, that some good might be done by regulations to be universally observed. thus they, who are deputed to inform the disowned of their exclusion from membership, should be of the most amiable temper and conciliatory manners. every unqualified person should be excluded from these missions. permission should be solicited for both the married persons to be present on such occasions. it is difficult to estimate the good effect which the deputed, if of sweet and tender dispositions, or the bad effects which the deputed, if of cold and austere manners, might have upon those they visited, or what bias it might give the one in particular, who had never been in membership, for or against the society. permission also might be solicited, even when the mission was over for future friendly opportunities or visits, which would shew in the society itself a tender regard and solicitude for the welfare of its former members. it is not at all improbable, from the impression which such apparent regard and solicitude might occasion, that the children of the visited, though not members, might be brought up in the rules of membership. and finally it appears to me to be desirable, that the disowned, if they should give proof by their own lives and the education of their children, of their attachment to the principles of the society, and should solicit restoration to membership, should be admitted into it again without any acknowledgment of past errors, and wholly as new and convinced members. with respect to the second of the immediate and original causes, which is to be found in tithes, i may observe that it is, as for as i can collect, but a small and an inferior one, few being disowned on this account, and still fewer now than formerly. it would be desirable, however, few as these instances may be, to prevent them. but i fear that no remedy can be pointed out, in which the quakers would acquiesce, except it could be shewn, that a distinction might be made between the payment of ecclesiastical and lay-tithes, which would not interfere with the great tenets of the society on this subject. a third cause of disownment, but this belongs to the original and remote, was shewn to be the pursuit of trade, connected as it is with the peculiar habits of the society and a residence in the towns. i may propose as remedies for this, first, that parents should be careful to exhibit a good example to their children. secondly, as i have before observed, that they should prescribe to themselves moderation in the acquisition of wealth, either by relinquishing trade at a given time, or by dealing out the profits of it more liberally than common in the way of benevolence, so that their children, in each case, may never have the misfortune of the prospect of a large moneyed independence before their eyes. or lastly, that they should give them a better education than they do at present, on which subject, according to the prescribed order of things, i am now to speak. a fourth cause then, but this belongs also to the original and remote, was shewn to exist in education. and education, as it was promotive of the diminution of the society, was of two kinds. with respect to that part of it which is alien, the remedy is easy. there has been great difficulty in procuring proper schoolmasters, i mean such as have been quakers. two reasons may be given for this. the first is, that the society having been backward in affording due encouragement to learning, few of any great literary acquisitions have been brought up in it. the second is, that persons have found, that they could make much less of their time in such a line of employment than in the way of trade. but surely the quakers, as a body in comfortable and independent circumstances, might easily remedy the evil. does not a man, who devotes his time to the instruction of youth, deserve to be made as comfortable as the man who sells silver utensils, or bracelets, or ear-rings, or other articles of trade? is there any comparison between the moral usefulness of these? is there any profession more useful than that which forms the youthful mind? or rather, is it not the most important profession in the state?[ ] [footnote : it is but justice to the quakers to observe, that they are taking more pains than formerly in the promotion of this object. i am told that there are more private seminaries now kept by quakers for the education of the youth of their own society, than even before the institution of ackworth school.] with respect to the education which is acquired in the society itself, the remedy is not difficult. this education was shewn to be of two kinds. on that part of it, which is moral or religious, i may observe, that the remedy is in the parents themselves. the first thing to be recommended is an universal vigilance over the disposition and manners of children, so that no censurable appearance, whether in temper or in conduct, may be allowed to pass without suitable notice or reproof, or that the bud, which promises to be corruptive of morals, should no sooner make its appearance, than it should be cut off. in cases of so much importance, as where the happiness both of parents and children is concerned, the former should be peculiarly circumspect. they should not talk about things, but insist upon them, on all proper occasions. they should not point out, but redress. they should not lop off the branches, but lay the axe to the root. and surely youth is the best season for such wholesome interference. it is, in the first place, the season in which a remedy is practicable; for we are assured, "if we train up a child in the way he should go, that, when he is old, he will not depart from it." it is, secondly, the season in which it is most practicable; for can we hope to bend the tree so easily to our form, as the sapling from whence it came? and, thirdly, it is the season in which it is practicable only, for will not a small irregularity grow, if uncontrolled, to a greater? will not one irregularity also, if not properly checked, give birth to others? and may not these be so incorporated into the inner man in a course of time, that it may be as difficult for parents to eradicate them, as for the ethiopian to change his colour, or the leopard his spots? but surely the quakers ought to know the impropriety of undue indulgences in their families, as well as any other people? is not the early subjugation of the will a doctrine more particularly adopted by them as a society? without such a subjugation do they not conceive the mind to be in an unfit state to receive the admonitions of the pure principle, and of course to make a true proficiency in religion? do they not consider themselves also as a highly professing people, and do they not know that the world expects more from them than from others? but how can their children ever perpetuate this extraordinary character after them, or shew that their parents possessed it, unless they are brought up in a peculiarly guarded manner? in addition to these observations it may be recommended, that parents should be careful to give their children what may be called a literal instruction in christianity, in contradistinction to pure theism, or to those doctrines which they conceive may come from the teachings of the holy spirit, so that they may have a more intimate knowledge of all their principles, as a christian body. with respect to that part of education which may consist of knowledge as it is literary or philosophical, i conceive it might be attended with advantage to carry it to a greater extent than has hitherto been practised in the society, but particularly the latter. nothing is so delightful to youth as experimental philosophy, by which they see the causes of things unfolded to their view. no science takes their attention more, or inclines them, in the farther pursuit of it, to be satisfied with home. and yet i doubt whether this branch of learning be not almost wholly neglected in the quaker schools. the education which is received in the society, as it consists of the two kinds of knowledge described, is not, in my apprehension, carried far enough, so as to suit the peculiar situation of the children of the rich. these are they, who are most in danger. these are they, who, having the prospect of wealth before them, have the prospect of being able to procure destructive pleasures. these are they, who, having the prospect of independence, do not fear the opinion of the world or the loss of reputation in it, like those, who have their livelihood to obtain by their own industry. now it should be the particular object of the education of these, as indeed it should be of all rich persons, so to instruct them, that, while they are obliged to live in the world, they may be enabled to live out of it, or deny it; so that, when seated amidst its corrupt opinions, amusements, and fashions, they should estimate them as below their notice, and as utterly unworthy of their countenance and support. i should be sorry if, in holding up this species of education to a farther encouragement, as a preservative of the morals of the children of rich parents amidst the various temptations of life, i were to be thought to endeavour to take away in any degree the necessity of the influence of the holy spirit on the mind of man, or to deny that this spirit ought not to be resorted to as the first and best guide, both by rich and poor, during their pilgrimage upon earth. for who can teach us best to deny the world? who can teach us best to estimate its pursuits? who can instruct us best to resist its temptations? to the divine being then we are first to look up, as to him who can be the best author of all our good, and the surest averter of all our evils, who can apply the best remedy to the imperfections of our nature, and who, while he leads us in safety, can lead us into the way of truth. but when we consider how many are inattentive, on account of the cares, and pleasures, and fashions, and prejudices, and customs of the world, to the secret notices of his grace, i cannot help considering that we may be allowed to have secondary and subordinate helps to our virtue. as the discipline of the quaker society may produce and preserve a certain purity of life, so may a literary and philosophical education operate to the same end. such an education is in its general tendency a friend to the promotion of virtue and to the discouragement of vice. it sets us often unquestionably above many of the corruptive opinions and customs in the midst of which we live. it leads us also frequently to the contemplation of the divine being in all the variety of his works. it gives us amiable, awful, and sublime conceptions of him. as far, therefore, as it is capable of doing this, it is a useful, though it be only a subordinate source of our purity, and we may therefore adopt it innocently. but we are never to forget, at the same time, that, though it may help us occasionally to resist corrupt temptations, and to encourage desirable propensities, yet it cannot do every thing for us that is necessary, and that we are never to overlook, on this account, the necessity of the influence of the holy spirit. to shew in what the education, which under these limitations i am going to propose, may consist, i shall revive the controversy between the philosophical moralists and the quakers, as described in the eighth chapter of the first volume. the philosophical moralists contended, that knowledge was to be preferred, as being more to be relied upon than prohibitions: that prohibitions were often causes of greater evils than they were intended to prevent; that they themselves were friends to occasional indulgencies; that they saw nothing necessarily or inherently mischievous in the amusements of the world; that it was not wise to anticipate danger by looking to distant prospects, where the things were innocent in themselves; that ignorance of vice was no guardian of morals; that causes, and not sub-causes, were to be contended against; and that there was no certain security but in knowledge and in a love of virtue. to this the quakers replied, that prohibitions were sanctioned by divine authority; that as far as they related to the corrupt amusements of the world, they were implied in the spirit of christianity; that the knowledge, which should be promotive of virtue, could not be inculcated without them; that knowledge again, if it were to be acquired by the permission of occasional indulgences, or by being allowed to pass through scenes which might be dangerous to virtue, would be more ruinous than ignorance by a prohibition of vice; that ignorance of vice was an essential in christian morals; and that prohibitions therefore were indispensably necessary, and better to be relied upon, than any corrupt knowledge, which might arise from an acquaintance with the customs of the world. this then was the state of the controversy, as described in the first volume. and in this state it was left. but, to explain the education which i have in view, i shall now bring it to a conclusion. i must observe then, that the philosophical moralists had the advantage of the quakers in this controversy, inasmuch as they supposed that knowledge was a better safeguard to morals than a mere ignorance of vice; but they failed in this, that they permitted this knowledge to be acquired by passing through scenes which might not be friendly to virtue. now this latter permission is inadmissible in a christian education; for no christian youth ought to be permitted to see or to hear that which ought not to be uttered or exhibited by a christian. the quakers, on the other hand, had the advantage of the philosophical moralists, inasmuch as they considered ignorance to be better than corrupted knowledge; but they failed in this, that they seemed to rely upon ignorance of vice as a safeguard against it, without a proper portion of knowledge. the education then, to which i allude, ought to embrace the most valuable positions of both. it should consist of knowledge, and it should consist of wise prohibitions also. knowledge and prohibitions are inseparable. while the mind is gaining knowledge, it should be kept innocent. and while it is kept innocent, it should be gaining knowledge. youth should have that kind of knowledge instilled into them, by which they should discern the value of the prohibitions which are enjoined them. they should have such and so much knowledge, that if they were accidentally placed in the way of the things prohibited, they should be able to look them in the face, and pass through them without injury. this is that education, which, without superseding the necessity of the influence of the holy spirit, has a tendency to enable persons, while they live in the world, to live out of it or deny it. but lest i should not be clearly understood upon this subject, i will exemplify how such an education would act or operate to the end proposed. and, first of all, knowledge may be acquired by reading. now there are two kinds of reading, the one useful, the other dangerous. by the premises, i am to adopt the first, and to prohibit the last. if then i accustom my child to the best and purest models of ancient and modern literature, i give him a certain taste for composition. if i accustom him to the purest and most amiable sentiments, as contained in these, i give him a love of virtue. if i heighten these sentiments by beautiful selections from the more pure and amiable sentiments of christianity, i increase that love. if i give him in my own conduct an example, he sees me practise that which i recommend. i give him then a taste for the purest reading, and the choicest compositions, and i offer to his notice, at the same time, a certain system of morality, which he cannot but gradually adopt as his own. now i would ask, what influence could a novel have upon a mind formed in this manner, if thrown accidentally in his way. if its composition were but moderate, as is the case with most of them, it would not suit the taste of my child. if its sentiments were impure, it would disgust him. these would be so contrary to the taste and to the feelings he had acquired, that the poison in such a book, like a ball, fired at a globular surface, would slide off without detriment to the morals of my child. knowledge again may be acquired in the course of amusements, and of such as may be resorted to within doors. now of these again there are two kinds, the innocent and the corruptive. by the premises i am to be concerned with the first only. if then i accustom my child to mathematical and philosophical pursuits, if i incite him to experiments in these, if i assist him in measuring the motions of the heavenly bodies, and in discovering the wisdom and power of omnipotence as displayed in these, if i occasion him to be interested in, the contemplation of such subjects, what have i done for my child? have i not called out his intellectual faculties? have i not laid in him the foundation of a serious and a thoughtful mind? have i not accustomed him to solid things, in opposition to those that are light, and to sublime things, in opposition to those that are frivolous? have i not inculcated in him a love for science? but take my child, after he has been accustomed to such thoughts and such subjects, to the theatre. let the pantomime display its various attracting scenes to his view. and will he not think his entertainment low and superficial, in comparison of that which he left at home. knowledge again may be acquired by amusements which are out of doors. these again may be innocent or exceptionable. as before, i have nothing to do but with the former. if then i accustom my child to range the fields, as an employment promotive of his health, and connect this healthy exercise with the entertainment of botanical pursuits, do i not, in examining with him the shape, the colour, and the mechanism of plants and flowers, confirm in him his former love of the works of nature? do i not confirm his former notion of the wisdom and power of omnipotence? do i not teach him by these, and the other pursuits which have been mentioned, that all recreations should be innocent, and that time should be wisely employed? but hark! another amusement, and one of those which are followed out of doors, is at hand. the hounds are in view, and fast approaching. my son is accidentally solicited to join them. he would ask my permission, but i am absent. at length he goes. he follows them in wild tumult and uproar for an hour. he sees some galloping over hedges and ditches like madmen, and hazarding their persons in a presumptuous manner. he sees others ride over the cultivated fields of their neighbours, and injure the rising corn. he finds that all this noise and tumult, all this danger and injury, are occasioned by the pursuit of a little hare, whose pain is in proportion to the joy of those who follow it. now can this diversion, educated as my child has been, fascinate him? will he not question its innocence? and will he not question its consistency as a natural pursuit, or as an employment for his time? it is thus then that knowledge will be found to operate as an artificial and innocent preservative against the destructive pleasures of the world. but prohibitions without knowledge will be but of little avail, where there is a prospect of riches, and the power of gratifying any improper appetites as they may arise. but by knowledge we shall be able to discover the beauty of things, so that their opposites, or the things prohibited, will cease to charm us. by knowledge we shall be able to discern the ugliness of the things prohibited, so that we shall be enabled to loathe them, if they should come into our way. and thus an education, conducted upon the principles of knowledge, may operate to the end proposed. chap. v. _education continued, as consisting of knowledge and prohibitions--good, which the quakers have done by prohibitions, without any considerable knowledge--greater good, which they would do with it--knowledge then a great desideratum in the quaker education--favourable state of the society for the communication of it with purity, or without detriment to morals--in what this knowledge should consist--general advantages of it--peculiar advantages, which it would bring to the society._ when we consider that men have all the same moral nature, we wonder, at the first sight, at the great difference of conduct which they exhibit upon earth. but when we consider the power of education upon the mind, we seem to lose our surprize. if men in all countries were educated alike, we should find a greater resemblance in their character. it is, in short, education, which makes the man. and as education appears to me to be of so much importance in life, i shall make it the subject of this and the succeeding chapter. all education should have two objects in view, the opening of the understanding and the improvement of the heart. of the two, the latter is most important. there cannot be a question, whether the person of the most desirable character be the virtuous or the learned man. without virtue knowledge loses half its value. wisdom, without virtue, may be said to be merely political; and such wisdom, whenever it belongs to a man, is little better than the cunning or craftiness of a fox. a man of a cultivated mind, without an unshaken love of virtue, is but a dwarf of a man. his food has done him no good, as it has not contributed to his growth. and it would have been better, for the honour of literature, if he had never been educated at all. the talents of man, indeed, considering him as a moral being, ought always to be subservient to religion. "all philosophy, says the learned cudworth, to a wise man, to a truly sanctified mind, as he in plutarch speaketh, is but matter for divinity to work upon. religion is the queen of all those inward endowments of the soul: and all pure natural knowledge, all virgin and undeflowered arts and sciences, are her handmaids, that rise up and call her blessed." now if the opening of the understanding, and the improvement of the heart, be the great objects to be attained, it will follow, that both knowledge and wise prohibitions should always be component parts of the education of youth. the latter the quakers have adopted ever since the institution of their society. the former they have been generally backward to promote, at least to any considerable extent. that they have done good, however, by their prohibitions, though unaccompanied by any considerable knowledge, it would be disingenuous not to acknowledge. but this goad has been chiefly confined to the children of those who have occupied middle stations in the society. such children have undoubtedly arrived at the true wisdom of life at an early age, as i described in the first volume, and have done honour to the religion they professed. but prohibitions, without knowledge, have not been found to answer so well among the children of those who have had the prospect of a large moneyed independence before them, and who have not been afraid either of the bad opinion of their own society, or of the bad opinion of the world. it has been shewn, however, that knowledge with prohibitions would, in all probability, be useful to these; that it would have a tendency to enable them, in the perilous situation in which they are placed, to stand against the corrupt opinions and fashions, and while they were living in the world, to live out of it, or to deny it. peculiarly situated as the quakers are, they have opportunities, beyond any other people, of ingrafting knowledge into their system of education without danger, or, in other words, of giving knowledge to their children with the purity which christianity would prescribe. the great misfortune in the world is, that a learned education is frequently thought more of than a virtuous one; that youth, while they are obtaining knowledge, are not properly watched and checked; and that they are suffered to roam at large in the pursuit of science, and to cultivate or not, at their own option, the science, if i may so call it, of religion. hence it will happen, that, where we see learned men, we shall not always see these of the most exemplary character. but the quakers have long ago adopted a system of prohibitions, as so many barriers against vice, or preservatives of virtue. their constitution forbids all indulgences that appear unfriendly to morals. the quakers therefore, while they retain the prohibitions which belong to their constitution, may give encouragement to knowledge, without a fear that it will be converted to the purposes of vice. the quakers, again, have opportunities or advantages, which others have not, in another point of view. in the great public seminary at ackworth, which belongs to them, and which is principally for those who are of the poor and middle classes, every thing is under the inspection and guidance of committees, which can watch and enforce an observance of any rules that may be prescribed. why then, if public seminaries were instituted for the reception of the children of the rich, or if the rich were to give encouragement to large private seminaries for the same purposes, should they not be placed under the visiting discipline of the society? why should they not be placed under the care of committees also? why should not these committees see that the two great objects of the education proposed were going on at the same time, or that, while knowledge was obtaining, discipline had not been relaxed. why should not such seminaries produce future penns, and barclays, and others, who, while they were men capable of deep literary researches, should be exemplary for their virtue? as knowledge then ought to form a part of the proposed education, on a much larger scale than has been hitherto encouraged, i shall say a few words as to the component parts of it, and as to the general advantages of these, and i shall afterwards speak to the advantages which the society in particular would derive from such a change. in the education i propose, i do not mean, in the slightest manner, to break in upon the moral system of the quakers, as described in the first volume. i do not propose to them the polite arts. i do not recommend them to make children musicians, or that they should learn, under the dancing-master, to step gracefully. i advise only such knowledge as will be strictly innocent and useful. in the first place, i recommend a better classical education. classical knowledge gives the foundation both of particular and universal grammar. while it gives the acquisition of the dead languages, it is the root, and thereforce facilitates the acquisition of many of the living. as most of the technical terms in the professions and sciences are borrowed from these languages, it renders them easily understood. the study of the structure and combination of words and sentences calls forth the reflecting powers of youth, and expands their genius. it leads to penetration and judgement. it induces habits of diligence and patience. by means of this knowledge we have access to the sacred writings in the languages in which they were written, and we are therefore not liable to be imposed upon, for the sense of them, by others. we become acquainted also, by means of it, with the sentiments and knowledge of the ancients. we see their thoughts and expressions. we acquire a literary taste. a knowledge of ancient history is necessarily conpected with the former. to this, however, should be added that of the modern. history, while it entertains us, instructs us morally. we cannot see the rise and fall of empires, or the causes of their formation and dissolution, or read the histories of good and bad men, without impressions of moral importance to ourselves. a philosophical education is peculiarly important. by this i mean, a general knowledge of the mathematics, of mechanics, optics, hydrostatics, astronomy, chemistry, botany, and the like. the teaching of these should be accompanied by experiments. experimental philosophy, as i observed before, is peculiarly interesting to youth. such knowledge teaches us the causes of things. mysteries, hitherto hidden both in the garden and in the field, and in the heaven and in the air, lie unfolded to our view. every walk we take, while the surface of the earth remains as it is, and the canopy of the firmament is spread over us, gives its the opportunity, in all the innumerable objects presented to our view, of almost endless investigation and delight. and the deeper we go into the hidden things of nature, and the more we unfold them, have we not a better belief of the existence of the creator, and grander notions of the symmetry, order, beauty, and wisdom of his works? such knowledge leads also, as it has always done, to discoveries, by which we may make ourselves useful to mankind. and, besides the utility, of which it may make us capable, can discoveries of the principles of nature lessen oar love and admiration of the first great cause? to philosophical knowledge should be added general reading. such reading should be of the purest kind. of knowledge, acquired in this manner, it maybe said, that it opens new sources of right views and sentiments, and this even independently of christianity, from which our most valuable information is derived. thus at a time, when as a nation we professed to be christians, we shed the blood of the martyrs. thus when even such men as the great sir matthew hale, one of the brightest christian patterns in our country, were at the head of it, we condemned persons to death for witchcraft. but knowledge superior to that of those times, has taught us better things. by means of it we perceive, that persecution does not destroy, but that it propagates opinions, and that the belief of the existence of witchcraft is absurd. these then appear to me to be the general advantages, or such as are inseparable from education when composed of the various branches of knowledge which have been described. i shall now endeavour to shew the peculiar advantages, which the quakers would derive from it. it will appear then, if we look back into the character of the quakers, as described in this volume, that the world charges them, i mean the more affluent part of them, with having less learning, than others in a similar rank of life. but surely the education i propose would remove this intellectual defect. the world again, as we have seen, has fixed another intellectual blemish upon them by the imputation of superstition. but how does superstition enter, but where there is a want of knowledge? does not all history bear testimony, that in proportion as men have been more or less enlightened, they have been less or more liable to this charge? it is knowledge then, which must banish this frightful companion of the mind. wherever individuals acknowledge, in a more extensive degree than others, the influence of the divine spirit in man, these, of all other people, will find the advantages of it. knowledge leads to a solution of things, as they are connected with philosophy, or the theory of the human mind. it enables men to know their first and their second causes, so as to distinguish between causes and occasions. it fixes the nature of action and of thought; and, by referring effects to their causes, it often enables men to draw the line between the probability of fancy and inspiration. how many good men are there, who, adopting a similar creed with that of the quakers on this subject, make themselves uneasy, by bringing down the divine being, promiscuously and without due discrimination, into the varied concerns of their lives? how many are there, who attribute to him that which is easily explained by the knowledge of common causes? thus, for instance, there are appearances in nature, which a person of an uninformed mind, but who should adopt the doctrine of the influence of the spirit, would place among signs, and wonders, and divine notices, which others, acquainted with the philosophy of nature, would almost instantly solve. thus again there may be occasions, which persons, carrying the same doctrine to an undue extent, might interpret into warning or prophetic voices, but which a due exercise of the intellect, where such exercise has been properly encouraged, would easily explain. this reminds me of a singular occurrence: a friend of mine was lately walking in a beautiful vale. in approaching a slate-quarry he heard an explosion, and a mass of stone, which had been severed by gunpowder, fell near him as he walked along. he went immediately to the persons employed. he represented the impropriety of their conduct in not having given proper notice to such as were passing by, and concluded by declaring emphatically, that they themselves would be soon destroyed. it happened, but six weeks afterwards, that two of these men were blown to pieces. the words then of my friend were verified. now i have no doubt that ignorant persons, in the habit of referring every thing promiscuously to the divine interference, would consider my friend as a prophet, and his words as a divinely forewarning voice. but what did my friend mean? or where did he get his foresight on this occasion? the answer is, that my friend, being accustomed to the exercise of his rational faculties, concluded, that if the people in question were so careless with respect to those who should be passing by in such times of danger, they would by custom become careless with respect to themselves, and that ultimately some mischief would befal them. it is knowledge, then, acquired by a due exercise of the intellectual powers, and through the course of an enlightened education, which will give men just views of the causes and effects of things, and which, while it teaches them to discover and acknowledge the divine being in all his wondrous works, and properly to distinguish him in his providences, preserves them from the miseries of superstition. the world again has fixed the moral blemish of the money-getting, spirit upon the quaker character. but knowledge would step in here also as a considerable corrector of the evil. it would shew, that there were other objects besides money, which were worthy of pursuit. nor would it point out only new objects, but it would make a scale of their comparative importance. it would fix intellectual attachments, next to religion, in the highest class. thus money would sink in importance as a pursuit, or be valued only as it was the means of comfort to those who had it, or of communicating comfort to others. knowledge also would be useful in taking off, to a certain degree, the corruptive effects of this spirit, for it would prevent it by the more liberal notions it would introduce, from leaving the whole of its dregs of pollution upon the mind. the quakers again, as we have seen, have been charged with a want of animation, from whence an unjust inference has been drawn of the coldness of their hearts. but knowledge would diminish this appearance. for, in the first place, it would enlarge the powers, and vary the topics of conversation. it would enliven the speaker. it would give him animation in discourse. animation again would produce a greater appearance of energy, and energy of the warmth of life. and there are few people, whatever might be the outward cold appearance of the person with whom they conversed, whose prejudices would not die away, if they found a cheerful and an agreeable companion. another charge against the quakers was obstinacy. this was shewn to be unjust. the trait, in this case, should rather have been put down as virtue. knowledge, however, would even operate here as a partial remedy. for while the quakers are esteemed deficient in literature, their opposition to the customs of the world, will always be characterized as folly. but if they were to bear in the minds of their countrymen a different estimation as to intellectual attainments, the trait might be spoken of under another name. for persons are not apt to impute obstinacy to the actions of those, however singular, whom they believe to have paid a due attention to the cultivation of their minds. it is not necessary to bring to recollection the other traits that were mentioned, to see the operation of a superior education upon these. it must have already appeared, that, whatever may be the general advantages of learning, they would be more than usually valuable to the quaker character. chap. vi. _arguments of those of the society examined, who may depreciate human knowledge--this depreciation did not originate with the first quakers--with barclay--penn--ellwood--but arose afterwards--reputed disadvantages of a classical education--its heathen mythology and morality--disadvantages of a philosophical one--its scepticism--general disadvantages of human learning--inefficiency of all the arguments advanced._ having shewn the advantages, which generally accompany a superior education, i shall exhibit the disadvantages which may be thought to attend it, or i shall consider those arguments, which some persons of this society, who have unfortunately depreciated human learning, though with the best intentions, might use against it, if they were to see the contents of the preceding chapter. but, before i do this, i shall exonerate the first quakers from the charge of such a depreciation. these exhibited in their own persons the practicability of the union of knowledge and virtue. while they were eminent for their learning, they were distinguished for the piety of their lives. they were indeed the friends of both. they did not patronize the one to the prejudice and expulsion of the other.[ ] [footnote : george fox was certainly an exception to this as a scholar. he was also not friendly to classical learning on account of some of the indelicate passages contained in the classical authors, which he and farley and stubbs, took some pains to cite, but, if these had been removed, i believe his objections would have ceased.] barclay, in his celebrated apology, no where condemns the propriety or usefulness of human learning, or denies it to be promotive of the temporal comforts of man. he says that the knowledge of latin, greek and hebrew, or of logic and philosophy, or of ethics, or of physics and metaphysics, is not necessary. but not necessary for what? mark his own meaning. not necessary to make a minister of the gospel. but where does he say that knowledge, which he himself possessed to such a considerable extent, was not necessary, or that it did not contribute to the innocent pleasures of life? what would have been the character of his own book, or what would have been its comparative value and usefulness, if he had not been able to quote so many authors to his purpose in their original texts, or to have detected so many classical errors, or to have introduced such apposite history, or to have drawn up his propositions with so much logical and mathematical clearness and precision, or if he had not been among the first literary characters of his day? william penn was equally celebrated with barclay as a scholar. his works afford abundant proof of his erudition, or of the high cultivation of his mind. like the rest of his associates, he was no advocate for learning, as a qualification for a minister of the gospel, but he was yet a friend to it, on the principle, that it enlarged the understanding, and that it added to the innocent pleasures of the mind. he entreated his wife, in the beautiful letter which he left her, before he embarked on his first voyage to america, "not to be sparing of expence in procuring learning for his children, for that by such parsimony all was lost that was saved." and he recommended also in the same letter the mathematical or philosophical education which i have described. thomas ellwood, a celebrated writer among the early quakers, and the friend of the great john milton, was so sensible of the disadvantages arising from a want of knowledge, that he revived his learning, with great industry, even after he had become a quaker. let us hear the account which he gives of himself in his own journal. "i mentioned before, says he, that, when i was a boy, i made some progress in learning, and that i lost it all again before i came to be a man. nor was i slightly sensible of my last therein, till i came amongst the quakers. but then i both saw my loss, and lamented it; and applied myself with the utmost diligence, at all leisure times to recover it. so false i found that charge to be, which in those times was east as a reproach upon the quakers, that they despised and decried all human learning, because they denied it to be essentially necessary to a gospel ministry, which was one of the controversies of those times." "but though i toiled hard, and spared no pains to regain what i had once been master of, yet i found it a matter of so great difficulty, that i was ready to say, as the noble eunuch to philip, in another case, how can i, unless i had some man to guide me?" "this i had formerly complained of to my especial friend isaac pennington, but now more earnestly; which put him upon considering and contriving a means for my assistance." "he had an intimate acquaintance with dr. paget, a physician of note in london, and he with john milton, a gentleman of great note for learning, throughout the learned world, for the accurate pieces he had written on various subjects and occasions." "this person, having filled a public station in the former times, lived now a private and retired life in london; and, having wholly lost his sight, kept always a man to read to him, which usually was the son of some gentleman of his acquaintance, whom in kindness he took to improve in his learning." "thus by the mediation of my friend isaac pennington with dr. paget, and of dr. paget with john milton, was i admitted to come to him; not as a servant to him (which at that time he needed not) nor to be in the house with him; but only to have the liberty of coming to his house at certain hours, when i would, and to read to him what books he should appoint me, which was all the favour i desired." by means of this extract, made from the life of thomas ellwood, we come to three conclusions. first, that the early quakers were generally men of eminent learning. secondly, that they did not decry or depreciate human knowledge. and thirdly, that the calumny of such a depreciation by them arose from the controversy which they thought it right to maintain, in which they denied it to be necessary as a qualification for a gospel minister. this latter conclusion brings me round again to the point. and here i must observe, that, though this famous controversy occasioned the first quakers to be unduly blamed on account of such a depreciation, yet it contributed to make some of their immediate successors, as i stated in a former volume, justly chargeable with it. but whether this was or was not the real cause, it is not material to the question. many of the society, from came cause or other, did undoubtedly, in the age immediately succeeding that of their founders, begin to depreciate human knowledge, the effects of which, though gradually dissipating, have not been wholly done away at the present day. the disadvantages, therefore, of human learning, or the arguments which would be advanced against it by those who may undervalue it, i shall now consider. these arguments may be divided into particular and general. on the former i shall first speak. a classical education is considered to be objectionable, first, on account of the heathen mythology that is necessarily connected with it. its tendency, as it relates to fabulous occurrences, is thought to be unfavourable, as it may lead to a romantic propensity, and a turn for fiction. but surely the meaning of such occurrences cannot be well mistaken. if they are represented to our view in fable, they have had their foundation in truth. many of them again are of such importance, that we could not wish to see them annihilated. let us refer, for example, to the story of deucalion and pyrrha. is it not one among the many outward confirmations of the truth of the history of moses? or do we not trace in it additional proofs of the deluge, and of the renewal of mankind? its tendency again, as it relates to the fabulous history of the heathen gods, their number, their offices, and their character, is considered as degrading and exceptionable. i will concede this for a moment. but may it not, on the other hand, be rendered instructive and useful? may not the retention of such an history be accompanied with great moral advantages to our children? the emperor theodosius commanded the idol temples to be destroyed. instead of devoting them to the use of the christians of those times, by which they might have been preserved to future generations, the most beautiful remains of antiquity were reduced to ruins. but would it not have been better, if theodosius had brought good out of evil by retaining them? would it not have been a high moral gratification to those who knew the fact, that temples, appropriated to the worship of idols, had been devoted to the service of the only true god? would it not have been a matter of joy to these to have reflected upon the improving condition of mankind? and, while they looked up to these beautiful structures of art, might not the sight of them have contributed to the incitement of their virtue? if it be the tendency of the corrupt part of our nature to render innocent things vicious, it is, on the other hand, in the essence of our nature to render vicious things in process of time innocent, so that the very remnants of idolatry may be made subservient to our moral improvement. "if, as i observed in the first volume, we were to find an alter which had been sacred to moloch, but which had been turned into a stepping-stone to help the aged and infirm upon their horses, why should we destroy it? might it not be made useful to our morality, as for as it could be made to excite sorrow for the past and gratitude for the present?" and in the same manner the retention of the heathen mythology might be made serviceable. ought it not, whenever we contemplate it, to make us thankful, that we have not the dark and cheerless path of our ancestors to tread; that we have clearer light; that we have surer prospects; that we have a steadier ground of hope; and ought we not, on a contemplation of these superior advantages, brought to us by revelation, to be roused into the practice of a superior virtue. classical education again is considered as objectionable by the quakers on account of the heathen notions, which it may spread. thus the highest reputation of man is placed in deeds of martial achievement, and a martial ardour is in consequence infused into youth, which it is difficult to suppress. that such notions and effect are produced, there can be no doubt; but how are we to avoid these whilst we are obliged to live in the world? the expulsion of the classics would not expel them. our own newspapers, which are open to all, spread the same opinions, and are instrumental of course in producing the same excitements, but they do it in a much more objectionable way than the classical authors, that is, they do it with less delicacy, and with a more sanguinary applause. but where, as i observed before, shall we retire from such impressions? does not the recruiting drum propagate them in all our towns? do not the ringing of the bells, and the illuminations, which occasionally take place in the time of war, propagate them also? and do we not find these, both in war and in peace, the sentiments and impressions of the world? our own notions then, our own writings, and our own customs, are more to be blamed in this respect, than the literary compositions of ancient times. but this, of all others, ought to be least an objection with the quakers to such an education; because, to their honour, they have a constant counteraction of the effects of such sentiments and impressions in the principles of their own constitution, and which counteraction cannot cease, while, by the bearing of their testimony, they live in a continual protest against them. the last objection to a classical education is, that the system of the heathen morality is generally too deficient for those who are to be brought up as christians. to this i answer, that it is quite as good as the system of the morality of the world. i could procure purer sentiments, and this generally from the heathen authors usually called[ ] classical, than i can collect from many, even of the admired publications of our own times. the morality of the heathens is not so deficient as many have imagined. if their best opinions were duly selected and brought into one view, the only matter of surprise would be, how, with no other than the law written upon the heart, they had made such sublime discoveries. it was principally in their theology, where the law written upon the heart could not reach, that the ancients were deficient. they knew but little of the one true god. they did not know that he was a spirit, and that he was to be worshiped in spirit and in truth. they were ignorant of his attributes. they had learnt nothing of the true origin, nature, and condition of man, or of the scheme of creation and redemption. these things were undoubtedly hidden from the eyes of the ancient philosophers. and it was in knowledge of this kind chiefly, that their deficiency was apparent. but how is this particular deficiency detrimental to youth, or how rather might it not be rendered useful to them in the way described? what a sublime contrast does knowledge, as exhibited by revelation, afford to the ignorance of those times, and what joy and gratitude ought we not to feel in the comparison? and this is the only use which can be made of their mythology? for when we send youth to the classical authors, we send them to learn the languages, and this through a medium where the morality is both useful and respectable, but we do not send them, living where the blessings of revelation are enjoyed, to be instructed in religion. [footnote : it must however be acknowledged, that, amidst beautiful sentiments, such as are indelicate are occasionally interspersed. but the quakers might remedy this objection by procuring a new edition of the purest classics only, in which particular passages might be omitted. they might also add new latin notes, founded on christian principles, where any ideas were found to be incorrect, and thus make heathenism itself useful, as a literal teacher of a moral system. the world, i believe, would be obliged to the quakers for such an edition, and it would soon obtain in most of the schools of the kingdom.] the principal argument against a philosophical education, which is the next subject for consideration, is, that men, who cultivate such studies, require often more proofs of things than can always be had, and that, if these are wanting, they suspend their belief. and as this is true in philosophy, so it may be true in religion. hence persons accustomed to such pursuits, are likely to become sceptics or infidels. to this i answer, that the general tendency of philosophy is favourable to religion. its natural tendency is to give the mind grand and sublime ideas, and to produce in it a belief of the existence of one great cause, which is not visible among men. thus, for example, i find that the planets perform a certain round! they perform it with a certain velocity. they do not wander at random, but they are kept to their orbits. i find the forces which act upon them for this purpose. i find, in short, that they are subject to certain laws. now, if the planets were living agents, they might have prescribed these laws to themselves. but i know that this, when i believe them to consist of material substances, is impossible. if then, as material substances, they are subject to laws, such laws must have been given them. there must have been some lawgiver. in this manner then i am led to some other great, and powerful, and invisible agent or cause. and here it may be observed, that if philosophers were ever baffled in their attempts at discovery, or in their attempts after knowledge, as they frequently are, they would not, on this account, have any doubt with respect to the being of a god. if they had found, after repeated discoveries, that the ideas acquired from thence were repeatedly or progressively sublime, and that they led repeatedly or progressively to a belief of the existence of a superior power, is it likely that they would all at once discard this belief, because there researches were unsuccessful? if they were to do this, they would do it against all the rules of philosophizing, and against the force of their own habits. i say, that analogical is a part of philosophical reasoning, and that they would rather argue, that, as such effects had been uniformly produced, so they would probably still be produced, if their researches were crowned with success. the tendency then of philosophical knowledge is far otherwise than has been supposed. and it makes highly in favour of the study of these sciences, that those who have cultivated them the most, such as newton, and boyle, and others, have been found among the ablest advocates for religion.[ ] [footnote : i by no means intend to say, that philosophy leads to the religion called christianity, but that it does to theism, which is the foundation of it.] i come now, to the general arguments used by the quakers against human learning, the first of which is, that they who possess it are too apt to reduce religion to reason, and to strip it of the influence of the spirit. but this is contrary, as a general position, to all fact. we find no mention of this in history. the fathers of the church were the most eminent for learning in their own days, and these insisted upon the influence of the spirit in spiritual concerns, as one of the first articles of their faith. the reformers, who succeeded these, were men of extensive erudition also, and acknowledged the same great principle. and nine-tenths, i believe, of the christians of the present, day, among whom we ought to reckon nine-tenths of the men of learning also, adopt a similar creed. another general argument is, that learning is apt to lead to conceit and pride, or to a presumed superiority of intellect, in consequence of which men raise themselves in their own estimation, and look down upon others as creatures of an inferior order of race. to this i may answer, that as prodigies are daily produced in nature, though they may be but as one to a hundred thousand when compared with the perfect things of their own kind, so such phenomena may occasionally make their appearance in the world. but as far as my own experience goes, i believe the true tendency of learning to be quite the reverse. i believe the most learned to be generally the most humble, and to be the most sensible of their own ignorance. men, in the course of their studies, daily find something new. every thing new shews them only their former ignorance, and how much there is yet to learn. the more they persevere, in their researches, the more they acknowledge the latter fact. the longer they live, the more they lament the shortness of life, during which, man with all his industry, can attain so little, and that, when he is but just beginning to know, he is cut off. they see, in short, their own nothingness, and, however they may be superior in their attainments, they are convinced that their knowledge is, after all, but a shadow; that it is but darkness; that it is but the absence of light; and that it no sooner begins to assume an appearance than it is gone. the last general argument against learning is, that it does not lead to morality, or that learned men do not always exhibit an example of the best character. in answer to this i must observe, that the natural tendency of learning is to virtue. if learned men are not virtuous, i presume their conduct is an exception to the general effect of knowledge upon the mind. that there are, however, persons of such unnatural character, i must confess. but any deficiency in their example is not to be attributed to their learning. it is to be set down, on the other hand, to the morally defective education they have received. they have not been accustomed to wise restraints. more pains have been taken to give them knowledge, than to instruct them in religion. but where an education has been bestowed upon persons, in which their morals have been duly attended to, where has knowledge been found to be at variance, or rather where has it not been found to be in union, with virtue? of this union the quakers can trace some of the brightest examples in their own society. where did knowledge, for instance, separate herself from religion in barclay, or in penn, or in burroughs, or in pennington, or in ellwood, or in arscott, or in claridge, or in many others who might be named. and as this has been the case in the quaker society, where a due care has been taken of morals, so it has been the case where a similar care has been manifested in the great society of the world. "piety has found friends in the friends of science, and true pray'r has flow'd from lips wet with castalian dews. such was thy wisdom, newton, childlike sage! sagacious reader of the works of god, and in his word sagacious. such too thine, milton, whose genius had angelic wings, and fed on manna. and such thine, in whom our british themis gloried with just cause, immortal hale! for deep discernment prais'd and sound integrity not more, than fam'd for sanctity of manners undefil'd." cowper. it appears then, if i have reasoned properly, that the arguments usually adduced against the acquisition of human knowledge are but of little weight. if i have reasoned falsely upon this subject, so have the early quakers. as they were friends to virtue, so they were friends to science. if they have at any time put a low estimate upon the latter, it has been only as a qualification for a minister of the gospel. here they have made a stand. here they have made a discrimination. but i believe it will no where be found, that they have denied, either that learning might contribute to the innocent pleasures of life, or that it might be made a subordinate and auxiliary instrument towards the promotion of virtue. chap. vii. _conclusion of the work--conclusionary remarks divided into two kinds--first, as they relate to those who may have had thoughts of leaving the society--advantages, which these may have proposed to themselves by such a change--these advantages either religious or temporal--the value of them considered._ having now gone through all the subjects, which i had prescribed to myself at the beginning of this work, i purpose to close it. but as it should be the wish of every author to render his production useful, i shall add a few observations for this purpose. my remarks then, which will be thus conclusory, relate to two different sorts of persons. they will relate, first, to those who may have had thoughts of leaving the society, or, which is the same thing, who persist in a course of irregularities, knowing beforehand, and not regretting it, that they shall be eventually disowned. it will relate, secondly, to all other persons, or to those who may be called the world. to the former i shall confine my attention in this chapter. i have often heard persons of great respectability, and these even in the higher circles of life, express a wish, that they had been brought up as quakers. the steady and quiet deportment of the members of this society, the ease with which they appear to get through life, the simplicity and morality of their character, were the causes which produced the expression of such a wish. "but why then, i have observed, if you feel such a disposition as this wish indicates, do you not become quakers?" "because, it has been replied, we are too old to be singular. dressing with sufficient simplicity ourselves, we see no good reason for adopting the dress of the society. it would be as foolish in us to change the colour and fashion of our clothing, as it would be criminal in the quakers, with their notions, to come to the use of that which belongs to us. endeavouring also to be chaste in our conversation, we cannot adopt their language. it would be as inconsistent in us to speak after the manner of the quakers, as it would be inconsistent in them to leave their own language for ours. but we wish we had been born quakers. and, if we had been born quakers, we would never have deserted the society." perhaps they to whom i shall confine my remarks in this chapter, are not aware, that such sentiments as these are floating in the minds of many. they are not aware, that it is considered as one of the strongest things for those who have been born in the society, and been accustomed to its particularities, to leave it. and least of all are they aware of the worthless motives, which the world attributes to them for an intended separation from it. there is, indeed, something seemingly irreconcileable in the thought of such a dereliction or change. to leave the society of a moral people, can it be a matter of any credit? to diminish the number of those who protest against war, and who have none of the guilt upon their heads of the sanguinary progress of human destruction which is going on in the world, is it desirable, or rather, ought it not to be a matter of regret? and to leave it at a time, when its difficulties are over, is it a proof of a wise and a prudent choice? if persons had ever had it in contemplation to leave the society in its most difficult and trying times, or in the days of its persecution, when only for the adoption of innocent singularities its members were insulted, and beaten, and bruised, and put in danger of their lives, it had been no matter of surprise: but to leave it, when all prejudices against them are gradually decreasing, when they are rising in respectability in the eyes of the government under which they live, and when, by the weight of their own usefulness and character, they are growing in the esteem of the world, is surely a matter of wonder, and for which it is difficult to account. this brings me to the point in question, or to the examination of those arguments, which may at times have come into the heads of those who have had thoughts of ceasing to be members of this society. in endeavouring to discover these, we can only suppose them to be actuated by one motive, for no other will be reasonable, namely, that they shall derive advantages from the change. now all advantages are resolvable into two kinds, into such as are religious, and into such as are temporal. the first question then is, what advantages do they gain in the former case, or do they actually come into the possession of a better religion? i am aware that to enter into this subject, though but briefly, is an odious task. but i shall abstain from all comparisons, by which i might offend any. if i were to be asked which, among the many systems of the christian religion, i should prefer, i should say, that i see in all of them much to admire, but that no one of them, perhaps, does wholly, or in every part of it, please me; that is, there is no one, in which i do not see some little difficulty, which i cannot solve, though this is no impediment to my faith. but, if i were pressed more particularly upon this point, i should give the following answer. i should say, that i should prefer that, which, first of all, would solve the greatest number of difficulties, as far as scriptural texts were concerned, in conformity with the divine attributes, which, secondly, would afford the most encouraging and consolatory creed, if it were equally well founded with any other; and which, thirdly, either by its own operation, or by the administration of it, would produce the post perfect christian character. let us then judge of the religion of the quakers by this standard. that there are difficulties with respect to texts of scripture, must be admitted; for if all men were to understand them alike, there would be but one profession of the christian religion. one man endeavours to make his system comport wholly with human reason, and the consequence is, that texts constantly stare him in the face, which militate against it. another discards reason, with a determination to abide literally by that, which is revealed, and the consequence is, that, in his literal interpretation of some passages, he leaves others wholly irreconcileable with his scheme. now the religion, of the quakers has been explained, and this extensively. in its doctrinal parts it is simple. it is spiritual. it unites often philosophy with revelation. it explains a great number of the difficult texts with clearness and consistency. that it explains all of them i will not aver. but these which it does explain, it explains in the strictest harmony with the love, goodness, justice, mercy, and wisdom of god. as to the creed of the quakers, we have seen its effects. we have seen it to be both encouraging and consolatory. we have seen it produce happiness in life, and courage in death. the doctrine of the possibility of human perfection, where it is believed, must be a perpetual stimulus to virtue, it must encourage hope and banish fear. but it may be said, that stimulative and consolatory as it may be, it wants one of the marks which i have insisted upon, namely, a sound foundation. but surely they, who deny it, will have as many scriptural texts against them as they who acknowledge it, and will they not be rendering their own spiritual situation perilous? but what do the quakers mean by perfection? not the perfection of god, to which there are no limits, as has been before explained, but that which arises to man from the possibility of keeping the divine commands. they mean that perfection, such as noah, and job, and zacharias, and elizabeth, attained, and which the jewish rabbies distinguished by the name of redemption, and which they conceived to be effected by the influence of the holy spirit, or that state of man in christian morals, which, if he arrives at it, the divine being (outward redemption having taken place by the sacrifice of christ) is pleased to accept as sufficient, or as the most pure state at which man, under the disadvantages of the frailty of his nature, can arrive. and is not this the practicable perfection, which jesus himself taught in these words, "be ye perfect, even as your father, which is in heaven is perfect." not that he supposed it possible, that any human being could be as perfect as the divine nature. but he proposed, by these expressions, the highest conceivable model of human excellence, of which our natures were capable, well knowing that the higher our aspirations the higher we should ascend, and the sooner we should reach that best state of humanity that was attainable. and here it is, that christianity, as a rule of moral conduct, surpasses all others. men, in general, look up to men for models. thus homer makes one of his heroes, when giving counsel to his son, say, "always emulate the best." thus also we should say to our children, if a person of extraordinary character were to live in our neighbourhood, "this is the pattern for your virture." but jesus christ says, aim at perfection beyond that which is human, alluding to the attributes of god, and thus you will attain a higher excellence than the study of any other model can produce. with respect to the formation of man according to the model which christianity prescribes, the system of the quakers is no where to be excelled. no one, that we know of, is more powerful in the production of a subjugated mind and of a moral character. by this i mean, that there is none which is more universally powerful. it is the tendency of christianity, whatever denomination it may assume, to produce these effects. but there is full as general an appearance of these among the quakers, as in any other christian profession. it will appear then, that, if the three criterions, which have been specified, should be admitted to be those by which a judgment may be formed in the present case, they, who have had thoughts of leaving the society, will not be much better off by an exchange of their religion. let us see next, what would be the greater temporal advantages, which they would obtain. these may be summed up in two essential ingredients of happiness, in tranquillity of mind, in consequence of which we pass through the troubles of life in the most placid manner, and in a moderate pecuniary independence, in consequence of which we know none of the wants and hardships, but enjoy the reasonable comforts of it. with respect to tranquillity of mind, we have shown this to be constitutional with the quakers. it arises from their domestic enjoyments, from seldom placing their pleasures or their fortunes in the power of others, from freedom from the ambition and envyings of the world, from the regulation of the temper, from avoiding quarrels and lawsuits, and from other causes. and with respect to a moderate pecuniary independence, we have shewn not only that this is the general portion of the society, but that it is in the very nature of their habits to acquire it. now these essential ingredients of happiness, or these temporal advantages, do not belong to the present quakers only. they have always belonged to quakers; and they will be perpetuated as an inheritance to their children, as long as quakerism lasts. by this i mean to say, that if any quakers, now living, could be sure that their descendants would keep to the wholesome regulations of the society for ten generations to come, they might have the comfort of believing, that tranquillity of mind would accompany them, as an effect of the laws and constitution belonging it, and that at any rate an easy pecuniary situation in life would be preserved to them. for if it be no difficult thing, with the natural habits of the society, to acquire an independence, it is much easier to preserve that which has been left them. but will they, who have had it in contemplation to leave the society, be able to say this for their children, when they adopt the world for their home? what certainty is there, that these will experience tranquillity, unless they are seen, quite as far as manhood, in the habits of religion? will the cares of the world, its ambition, its thirst after honours, and its unbridled affections and passions, give them no uneasiness? and can the fortunes transmitted to them, subject as they will be to its destructive fashions and pleasures, be insured to them for even half of their times? how many have we seen, who have been in the prime of health in the morning, who have fallen before night in the duel? and how many have we seen in a state of affluence at night, who have been ruined by gaming in the morning? but it is possible that they, who may have had thoughts of leaving the society; may picture to themselves another advantage, which i have not yet mentioned. it is possible, that there may be yet one which they may distinguish by such a name. they may possibly think it to be a gain to get rid of the restraint of the discipline of the society, and to enjoy the freedom of the world. that the discipline is a restraint, i do not deny. but it must never be forgotten, that its object is moral good, and its effect the preservation of a moral character. but, come you, who complain of this heavy burden imposed upon you, and let us converse together for a moment, and let us see, if, when you relinquish it, you do not impose upon yourself a worse. are you sure that, when you get rid of this discipline, you will not come under the discipline of fashion? and who is fashion? is she not of all mistresses the most imperious, and unreasonable, and cruel? you may be pleased with her for a while, but you will eventually feel her chains. with her iron whip, brandished over your head, she will issue out her commands, and you must obey them. she will drive you, without mercy, through all her corruptive customs, and through all her chameleon changes, and this against your judgment and against your will. do you keep an equipage? you must alter the very shape of your carriage, if she prescribes it. is the livery of your postilion plain? you must make it of as many colours as she dictates. if you yourself wear corbeau or raven colour to-day, you must change it, if she orders you, to that of puce, or the flea, to-morrow. but it is not only, in your equipage and your dress, that she will put you under her control. she will make you obedient to her in your address and manners. she will force upon you rules for your intercourse with others. she will point out to you her amusements, and make you follow them. she will place you under her cruel laws of honour, from which she will disown you, if you swerve. now i beseech you, tell me, which you think you would prefer, the discipline of the goddess fashion, or that of the good old mistress, which you may have wished to leave? the one kindly points out to you, and invites and warns you to avoid, every dangerous precipice, that may be before you. the other is not satisfied, but with your destruction. she will force you, for a single word, uttered in a thoughtless moment, to run the hazard of your life, or to lose what she calls your character. the one, by preserving you in innocence, preserves you happy. the greater your obedience to her, the greater is your freedom; and it is the best species of freedom, because it is freedom from the pollutions of the world. the other awakens your conscience, and calls out its stings. the more obedient you are to her, the greater is your slavery, and it is the worst species of slavery, because it is often slavery to vice. in consequence of the freedom which the one bestows upon you, you are made capable of enjoying nature and its various beauties, and by the contemplation of these, of partaking of an endless feast. in consequence of the freedom which the one bestows upon you, you are made capable of enjoying nature, and its various beauties, and, by the contemplation, of these, of partaking of an endless feast. in consequence of the slavery to which the other reduces you, you are cramped as to such enjoyments. by accustoming you to be pleased with ridiculous and corruptive objects, and silly and corruptive changes, she confines your relish to worthless things. she palsies your vision, and she corrupts your taste. you see nature before you, and you can take no pleasure in it. thus she unfits you for the most rational of the enjoyments of the world, in which you are designed to live. chap. viii. _conclusory remarks, as they relate to those who compose the world at large--advantages, which these may derive from the contents of this work--from a view of many of the customs--and of the principles explained in it--from seeing practically the influence of these customs and principles in the production of character and happiness--and from seeing the manner of their operation, or how they produce the effects described._ i shall now endeavour to make my conclusory remarks useful as they may relate to those who may be called the world. to state the object, which i have in view, i shall observe at once, that men are divided in opinion as to the lawfulness, or expediency, or wholesomeness of many of the customs, fashions, and accomplishments of the world. we find some encouraging in their families, and this without any hesitation, and to an almost unlimited extent, those which many, on account of religious considerations, have expelled. we find others again endeavouring to steer a course between the opinions and practice of these. the same diversity of sentiment prevails also with respect to principles. the virtuous or moral are adopted by some. the political by others. that the political often obtain both in education and in subsequent life, there is no question. thus, for example, a young man is thought by some to be more likely to make his way in the world with the address which fashionable accomplishments may give him, even if he be a little dissipated, than one of strict virtue with unpolished manners. thus again in actions and transactions, policy is often preferred to express and open declarations of the truth. others again are of opinion, that the general basis of principle should be virtue, but that a latitude may be, allowed for a seasonable policy. thus an education is going on under christian parents, as if christianity had objects in view, which were totally opposite to each other. it is in this point of view chiefly, that i can hope to be useful in this conclusory part of my work. we have seen in the course of it both customs and principles laid open and explained. we have seen the tendencies and bearings of these. we have seen them probed, and examined by a moral standard. we have seen their influence on character and happiness. we have seen the manner in which they act, or how these effects are produced. a revision therefore of these cannot but be useful, but more particularly to parents, as it may enable some of these, in conjunction with the knowledge they possess, to form probably a more correct system than they may have had it in contemplation to adopt, for the education of their youth. the first advantage then, which those who compose the world at large may derive from the contents of this work, will be from a review of some of the customs which have been censured in it. in looking into customs, the first that obtrudes itself upon our notice, is that of allowing to children those amusements, which, on account of the use of them, may be called gaming. a view is offered to us here, which is divested of all superstition. it is no where contended at random, in speaking against these, that their origin is objectionable. it is no where insisted upon, that there is evil in them considered abstractedly by themselves, or that they may not be used innocently, or that they may not be made the occasion of innocent mirth. the evil is candidly stated to arise from their abuse. the nature of this evil is unfolded. thus the malevolent passions, such as anger, envy, hatred, revenge, and even avarice, are stirred up, where they should be particularly prevented, in the youthful breast. a spirit of gaming, which may be destructive of fortune, health, and morals, is engendered. a waste of time[ ] is occasioned, inasmuch as other pursuits might be followed, which would be equally amusing, but conducive to the improvement of the mind. the nature of the abuse is unfolded likewise. it consists of making games of chance productive of loss and gain. thus they hold up speedy pecuniary acquisitions, and speedy repairs of misfortune. thus they excite hope and fear, and give birth to pain and disappointment. the prevention also of the abuse, and that alone which can be effectual, is pointed out. this consists of a separation of emolument from chance, or of the adoption of the maxim, that no youth ought to be permitted to lay a wager, or to reap advantage from any doubtful event by a previous agreement on a moneyed stake. now if the reader be not disposed to go the length which the quakers do, by the abolition of such amusements, he will at least have had the advantage of seeing that there may be evil in them, and where it lies, and the extent (if he will only look at the historical instances cited) to which it may proceed, and its infallible prevention or its cure. [footnote : this argument is usually applied to grown up people, but may be applicable to youth, when we consider the ingenious inventions of modern times, such as maps of dissected geography, historical and other games, which, while they afford pleasure, promote improvement.] the next subject which offers itself to our view, is music, and this comes before us in two forms, either as it is instrumental or vocal. with respect to instrumental, it is no where insisted upon that its origin is evil, or that it is not productive of a natural delight, or that it does not soothe and tranquilize the passions, or that it may not be innocently used, or that it may not be made, under limitations, a cheerful companion in solitude. but it is urged against it, that it does not tend, like many other studies, to the improvement of the mind; that it affords no solid ground of comfort either in solitude or affliction; that it is a sensual gratification; and that sensual gratifications, if indulged in leisure hours, take up the time which should be devoted to those of a higher nature, that is, intellectual and moral pursuits. it is urged against it again, that, if abused, it is chargeable with a criminal waste of time, and a criminal impairing of health; that this abuse, in consequence of proficiency being insisted upon (without which it ceases to be delightful) is at the present day almost inseparable from its use; and that where the abuse of a thing, either in consequence of fashion, or its own seductive nature, or any other cause, is either necessarily or very generally connected with the use of it, watchfulness to avoid it is as much a duty in christian morals, as it is a duty against the common dangers of life. on vocal again we observe a proper distinction attempted. we find, that the singing is no more criminal than the reading of a song, being but another mode of expressing it, and that, the morality of it therefore will depend upon the words and sentiments it contains. if these are indelicate, or unchaste, or hold out false and corruptive ideas, as has been shewn to be the case with a variety of songs, then singing may from an innocent become a vicious amusement. but it has been observed, that youth seldom make any discrimination or selection with respect to songs, but that they pick up all that come in their way, whatever may be the impropriety of the words or sentiments, which they may contain. now then, whether we speak of instrumental or vocal music, if the reader should not be willing totally to discard this science as the quakers do, he will at least have learnt some good from the observation which the work will have held out to him on this subject. he will see that evil may unquestionably be produced by the cultivation of it. he will see the absolute necessity of guarding his children against the learning of it to professional precision, as it is now unfortunately taught, to the detriment of their health, and of the acquisition of more important knowledge. he will see also the necessity of great vigilance with respect to the purity of the words and sentiments which may be connected with it. the important subject, which is brought next before us, is that of the theatre. here we are taught, that, though dramatic pieces had no censurable origin, the best of the ancient moralists condemned them. we are taught, that, even in the most favourable light in which we can view them, they have been thought objectionable, that is, that where they have pretended to teach morality, they have inculcated rather the refined virtue of heathenism, than the strict though mild morality of the gospel; and where they have attempted to extirpate vice, they have done it rather by making it appear ridiculous, than by teaching men to avoid it as evil, or for the love of virtue. we are taught, that, as it is our duty to love our neighbour, and to be solicitous for his spiritual welfare, we ought not, under a system which requires simplicity and truth, to encourage him to be what he is not, or to personate a character which is not his own. we are taught that it is the general tendency of the diversions of the stage, by holding out false morals and prospects, to weaken the sinews of morality; by disqualifying for domestic enjoyments, to wean from a love of home; by accustoming to light thoughts and violent excitement of the passions, to unfit for the pleasures of religion. we are taught that diversions of this nature particularly fascinate, and that, if they fascinate, they suggest repetitions. and finally we are taught, that the early christians on their conversion, though before this time they had followed them as among the desirable pleasures of their lives, relinquished them on the principles now explained. the next subject, which comes to us in order, is dancing. this is handed down to us, under two appearances, either as it is simple, or as it is connected with preparations and accompaniments. in viewing it in its simple state, it is no where contended, if it be encouraged on the principle of promoting such an harmonious carriage of the body, or use of the limbs, as maybe more promotive of health, that it is objectionable, though it is supposed that it is not necessary for such purposes, and that, without music and its other usual accompaniments, it would not be pleasant. neither is it contended that a simple dance upon the green, if it were to arise suddenly and without its usual preparations, may not be innocent, or that if may not be classed with an innocent game at play, or with innocent exercise in the fields, though it is considered, that it would hardly be worthy of those of riper years, because they who are acknowledged to have come to the stature of men, are expected to abandon amusements for pursuits of usefulness, and particularly where they make any profession of the christian name. in viewing it with its preparations, and with its subsequent accompaniments, as usually displayed in the ball-room, we see it in a less favourable light. we see it productive, where it is habitually resorted to, of a frivolous levity, of vanity and pride, and of a littleness of mind and character. we see it also frequently becoming the occasion of the excitement of the malevolent passions, such as anger, envy, hatred, jealousy, malice, and revenge. we find it also frequently leading to[ ] indisposition. we find lastly, that, in consequence of the vexation of mind, which may arise from a variety of causes, but more particularly from disappointment and the ascendency of some of the passions that have been mentioned, more pleasure is generally perceived in the anticipation of these amusements, than in the actual taste or use of them. [footnote : not only colds, head-aches, and a general lassitude, ore the result of dancing in ball-rooms, but occasionally serious indisposition. i have known the death of two young persons attributed to it by the physicians who attended them in their illness.] the subject of novels is presented next to our view. and here it has appeared, that no objection can be truly adduced against these on account of the fictitious nature of their contents. novels also are not all of them promiscuously condemned. it is contended, however, from a variety of causes which were shewn, that they are very generally censurable. we are taught again, that the direct tendency of those which are censurable is to produce conceit and affectation, a romantic spirit, and a perverted morality among youth. we are taught again, that, on account of the peculiar construction of these, inasmuch as they have plot and character like dramatic compositions, they fascinate, and this to such a degree, that youth wait for no selection, but devour promiscuously all that come in their way. hence the conclusion is, that the effects, alleged against novels, cannot but be generally produced. we are presented also with this fact, that, on account of the high seasoning and gross stimulants they contain, all other writings, however useful, become insipid. hence the novel reader, by becoming indisposed to the perusal of more valuable books, excludes himself from the opportunity of moral improvement, and, if immoral sentiments are contracted, from the chance of any artificial corrective or cure. the diversions of the field offer themselves next to our notice. we are taught, on the discussion which has arisen on this subject, that we are not permitted to take away the lives of animals wantonly but only as they may be useful for food, or as they may be dangerous to ourselves and to the other animals which may belong to us, and that a condition is annexed to the original grant or charter, by which permission was given to kill, which is never to be dispensed with, or, in other words, that we are to take away their lives as speedily as we can. hence rights have sprung up on the part of animals, and duties on the part of men, any breach of which is the violation of a moral law. hence the diversions of the field become often objectionable, because life is not thus taken away as speedily as it might otherwise have been, and because food or noxiousness is not often the object of the destruction of animals, but mere pleasure or sport. we are taught also to consider animals, not as mere machines, but as the creatures of god. we are taught also, that as they were designed to have their proper share of happiness during the time of their existence, any wanton interruption of this is an innovation of their rights as living beings. and we are taught finally, that the organic nature of men and animals being the same, as far as a feeling of pain is concerned, the sympathy which belongs to our nature, and the divine law of doing as we would be done by, which will hold as far as we can enter into the perceptions either of man or brutes, impose upon us the duty of anticipating their feelings, and of treating them in a corresponding or tender manner. if we take a view of other customs, into which the quakers have thought it right to introduce regulations with a view of keeping their members pure and innocent, we learn other lessons of usefulness. thus, for example, the reader, if he does not choose to adopt their dress, may obtain desirable knowledge upon this subject. he will see that the two great objects of dress are decency and comfort. he will see, though christianity prescribes neither colour nor shape for the clothing, that it is not indifferent about it. it enjoins simplicity and plainness, because, where men pay an undue attention to the exterior, they are in danger of injuring the dignity of their minds. it discards ornaments from the use of apparel, because these, by puffing up the creature, may be productive of vanity and pride. it forbids all unreasonable changes on the plea of conformity with fashion, because the following of fashion begets a worldly spirit, and because, in proportion as men indulge this spirit, they are found to follow the loose and changeable morality of the world, instead of the strict and steady morality of the gospel. on the subject of language, though the reader may be unwilling to adopt all the singularities of the quakers, he may collect a lesson that may be useful to him in life. he may discover the necessity of abstaining from all expressions of flattery, because the use of these may be morally injurious to himself by abridging the independence of his mind, and by promoting superstition; while it may be injurious to others, by occasioning them to think more highly of themselves than they ought, and more degradingly of their fellow-creatures. he may discover also the necessity of adhering to the truth in all expressions, whether in his conversation or in his letters; that there is always a consistency in truth, and an inconsistency in falsehood; that as expressions accord with the essences, qualities, properties and characters of things, they are more or less proper; and that an attempt to adhere to the truth is productive of moral good, while a departure from it may lead into error, independently of its injury as a moral evil. with respect to the address, or the complimentary gestures or ceremonies of the world, if he be not inclined to reject them totally as the quakers do, he may find that there may be unquestionably evil in them, if they are to be adjudged by the purity of the christian system. he may perceive, that there may be as much flattery and as great a violation of truth through the medium of the body, as through the medium of the tongue, and that the same mental degradation, or toss of dignified independence of mind, may insensibly follow. on the subject of conversation and manners, he may learn the propriety of caution as to the use of idle words; of abstaining from scandal and detraction; of withholding his assent to customs when started, however fashionable, if immoral; of making himself useful by the dignity of the topic he introduces, and by the decorum with which he handles it; of never allowing his sprightliness to border upon folly, or his wit upon lewdness, but to clothe all his remarks in an innocent and a simple manner. from the subject of customs connected with meals, such as that, for example, of saying grace, he may team that this is a devotional act; that it is not to be said as a mere ceremony, by thanking the supreme being in so many words while the thoughts are roving on other subjects, but that it should be said with seriousness and feeling, and that it should never come as an oblation from the tongue, except it come also an oblation from the heart. and on that which relates to the drinking of toasts, he may see the moral necessity of an immediate extirpation of it. he may see that this custom has not one useful or laudable end in view; that it is a direct imitation of pagans in the worst way in which we can follow them--their enjoyment of sensual pleasures; that it leads directly and almost inevitably to drunkenness, and of course to the degradation of the rational and moral character. a second advantage, which they who compose the world may derive on this occasion, will be seen from a recapitulation of some of the principles which the work contains. the advantage in question will chiefly consist in this, that, whatever these principles may be, they may be said to be such as have been adopted by a moral people, and this after serious deliberation, and solely on a religious ground. it is of great importance from whence principles come recommended to our notice. if they come from the inconsiderate and worthless, they lose their value. if from the sober and religious, we receive them under the impression, that they may be promotive of our good. i shall give therefore a summary of these, as they may be collected from the work. god has imparted to men a portion of his own spirit, though he has given it to them indifferent degrees. without this spirit it would be impossible for them to discern spiritual things. without this it would be impossible for them to know spiritually, even that the scriptures were of divine authority, or spiritually to understand them. this spirit performs its office of a teacher by internal monitions, and, if encouraged, even by the external objects of creation. it is also a primary and infallible guide. it is given to all without exception. it is given to all sufficiently. they who resist it, quench it, and this to their own condemnation. they who encourage it receive it more abundantly, and are in the way of salvation and redemption. this spirit therefore becomes a redeemer also. redemption may he considered in two points of view, as it is either by outward or inward means, or as it relates to past sins or to sins to come. jesus christ effected redemption of the first kind, or that from past sins, while he was personally upon earth, by the sacrifice of himself. but it is this spirit, or christ within, as the quakers call it, which effects the latter, or which preserves from future transgressions. it is this spirit which leads, by means of its inward workings, to a new birth, and finally to the highest perfection of which our nature is capable. in this office of an inward redeemer, it visits all, so that all may be saved, if they will attend to its saving operations, god being not willing that any should perish, but that all should inherit eternal life. this spirit also qualifies men for the ministry. it qualifies women also for this office as well as men. it dictates the true season for silence, and the true season for utterance, both in public and private worship. jesus christ was man because he took flesh, and inhabited the body which had been prepared for him; but he was divinity, because he was the word. a resurrection will be effected, but not of the body as it is. rewards and punishments will follow, but guilt will not be imputed to men till they have actually committed sin. baptism and the lord's supper are essentials of the christian religion. they are not, however, essentials as outward ordinances, but only as they are administered by the holy spirit. civil government is for the protection of virtue and for the removal of vice. obedience should be paid to all its laws, where the conscience is not violated in doing it. to defraud it in any manner of its revenues, or to take up arms on any consideration against it, is unlawful. but if men cannot conscientiously submit to any one or more of its ordinances, they are not to temporize, but to obey jesus christ rather than their own governors in this particular case. they are, however, to be willing to submit to all the penalties which the latter may inflict upon them for so doing. and as no christian ought to temporize in the case of any laws enjoined him by the government under which he lives, so neither ought he to do it in the case of any of the customs or fashions, which may be enjoined him by the world. all civil oaths are forbidden in christianity. the word of every christian should be equivalent to his oath. it is not lawful to return evil for evil, nor to shed the blood of man. all wars are forbidden. it is more honourable, and more consistent with the genius and spirit of christianity, and the practice of jesus christ and of his apostles, and of the primitive christians, that men should preach the gospel freely, than that they should live by it, as by a profession or by a trade. all men are brethren by creation. christianity makes no difference in this respect between jew and gentile, greek and barbarian, bond and free. no geographical boundaries, nor colour of the skin or person, nor difference of religious sentiment, can dissolve this relationship between them. all men are born equal with respect to privileges. but as they fall into different situations and ranks of life, they become distinguished. in christianity, however, there is no respect of persons, or no distinction of them, but by their virtue. nobility and riches can never confer worth, nor can poverty screen from a just appropriation of disgrace. man is a temple in which the divinity may reside. he is therefore to be looked upon and treated with due respect. no christian ought to lower his dignity, or to suffer him, if he can help it, to become the instrument of his own degradation. man is a being, for whose spiritual welfare every christian should be solicitous, and a creature therefore worthy of all the pains that can be bestowed upon him for the preservation of his moral character. the first object in the education of man should be the proper subjugation of his will. no man ought to be persecuted or evil spoken of for a difference in religious opinion. nor is detraction or slander allowable in any case. every religious community should consider the poor belonging to it as members of the same family, for whose wants and comforts it is a duty to provide. the education also of the children of these should be provided for. it is enjoined us to live in peace with all men. all quarrels therefore are to be avoided between man and man. but if differences arise, they are to be adjusted by arbitration, and not, except it be otherwise impossible, by going to law, and never by violence. if men offend against the laws, they should be prevented from doing injuries in future, but never by the punishment of the loss of life. the reformation of a criminal, which includes a prevention of a repetition of such injuries, is the great object to be regarded in the jurisprudence of christians. in political matters there is no safe reasoning but upon principle. no man is to do evil that good may come. the policy of the gospel is never to be deserted, whatever may be the policy of the world. trade is an employment, by means of which we are permitted to gain a livelihood. but all trades are not lawful. men are responsible, as christians, for engaging in those which are immoral, or far continuing in those which they may carry on either to the moral detriment of themselves or of others. abstinence from hazardous enterprises by the failure of which innocent persons might be injured, and honesty in dealing, and punctuality to words and engagements, are essentials in the prosecution of trade. having made observations on the customs, and brought to the view of the reader some of the prominent principles of the quakers, a third advantage will arise from knowing the kind of character, which these in conjunction will produce. on this subject we might be permitted our conjectures. we might insist upon the nature and immediate tendencies of these customs and principles, and we might draw our conclusions from thence, or we might state how they were likely to operate, so as probably not to be far from the truth. but we are spared both the trouble of such a task, and are relieved from the fear of having the accuracy of our conclusions doubted. the quaker character has been made up from the acknowledgments of others. it has been shewn that they are a moral people; that they are sober, and inoffensive, and quiet; that they are benevolent to man in his religious and temporal capacity; that they are kind or tender-hearted to animals; that they do not make sacrifices of their consciences to others; that in political affairs they reason upon principle; that they are punctual to their words and engagements; and that they have independence of mind, and courage. their character, as it is defective, has been explained also. it has been probed, and tried by a proper touchstone. appearances have been separated from realities. the result has been, that a deficiency in literature and science, and that superstition, and that an undue eagerness after money, has been fixed upon a portion of them. the two former, however, it is to be recollected, are only intellectually defective traits, and maybe remedied by knowledge. the latter, it is to be presumed, belongs rather to individuals than to the society at large. but whatever drawbacks may be made from the perfect by the imperfect qualities that have been stated, there is a great preponderancy on the side of virtue. and where, when we consider the evil propensities of our nature, and the difficulty of keeping these in due order, are we to took for a fairer character? that men, as individuals, may be more perfect, both in and out of the society, is not to be denied. but where shall we find them purer as a body? and where shall we find a faulty character, where the remedy is more easily at hand? the next advantage will be in seeing the manner of the operation of these customs and principles, or how they act. to go over the whole character of the quakers with this view would be both tedious and unnecessary. i shall therefore only select one or two parts of it for my purpose. and first, how do these customs and principles produce benevolence? i reply thus: the quakers, in consequence of their prohibitions against all public amusements, have never seen man in the capacity of a hired buffoon or mimic, or as a purchasable plaything. hence they have never viewed him in a low and degrading light. in consequence of their tenet on war, they have never viewed him as an enemy. in consequence of their disciplinary principles, they have viewed him as an equal. hence it appears, that they have no prejudices against him from causes which often weigh with others, either on account of rank, or station, or many of the customs of the world. now i conceive, that the dereliction of prejudice against man is as necessary, as a first measure, to the production of benevolence towards him, as the dereliction of vice towards the production of virtue. we see then their minds free from bias on this subject. but what is there on the other side to operate actively towards the promotion of this trait? they view man, in the first place, as the temple in which the divinity may reside. this procures him respect. secondly, as a being for whose spiritual welfare they ought to be solicitous. this produces a concern for him. and thirdly, as a brother. this produces relationship. we see then the ground cleared. we see all noxious weeds extirpated. we see good seed sown in their places; that is, we see prejudices removed from the heart, and we see the ideas of respect, concern, and relationship implanted in it. now it is impossible that these ideas, under these circumstances, should not as naturally and immediately produce a general benevolence to man, as common seeds, when all obstructive weeds are removed, should produce their corresponding saplings or flowers. how again are these customs and principles of the quakers promotive of independence of mind? i answer thus: there is a natural independence of mind in man, but it is often broken and weakened. some men injure it by the solicitation and acceptance of honours, and pensions, and places; others by flattery and falsehood; others by customs of obeisance; others by their obedience to fashion. but the independence of mind of the quakers is not stunted in its growth by the chiding blasts of such circumstances and habits. it is invigorated, on the other hand, by their own laws. no servility is allowed either in word or gesture. neither that which is written, nor that which is uttered, is to please the vanity of the persons addressed, or to imply services never intended to be performed. the knee is not to be bent to any one. it is strengthened again and made to shoot by their own maxims. is it possible to be in the habit of viewing all men as equal in privileges, and no one as superior to another but by his virtue, and not to feel a disposition that must support it? can the maxim of never doing evil that good may come, when called into exercise, do otherwise than cherish it? and can reasoning upon principle have any other effect than that of being promotive of its growth? these then are the ways in which these customs and principles operate. now the advantage to be derived from seeing this manner of their operation, consists in this: first, that we know to a certainty, that they act towards the production of virtue. knowing again what these customs and principles are, we know those which we are bound to cherish. we find also, that there are various springs which act upon the moral constitution for the formation of character. we find some of these great and powerful, and others inferior. this consideration should teach us not to despise even those which are the least, if they have but a tendency to promote our purity. for if the effect of any of them be only small, a number of effects of little causes or springs, when added together, may be as considerable as a large one. of these again we observe, that some are to be round where many would hardly have expected them. this consideration should make us careful to look into all our customs and principles, that we may not overlook any one which we may retain for our moral good. and as we learn the lesson of becoming vigilant to discover every good spring, and not to neglect the least of these, however subtle its operation, so we learn the necessity of vigilance to detect every spring or cause, and this even the least, whether in our customs or our principles, if it should in its tendency be promotive of vice. and in the same manner we may argue with respect to other productions of these customs and principles of the quakers. as we have seen the latter lead to character, so we have seen them lead to happiness. the manner of their operation to this end has been also equally discernible. as we value them because they produce the one, so we should value them because they produce the other. we have seen also which of them to value. and we should be studious to cherish the very least of these, as we should be careful to discard the least of those which are productive of real and merited unhappiness to the mind. and now, having expended my observations on the tendencies of the customs and principles of the quakers, i shall conclude by expressing a wish, that the work which i have written may be useful. i have a wish, that it may be useful to those who may be called the world, by giving them an insight into many excellent institutions, of which they were before ignorant, but which may be worthy of their support and their patronage. i have a wish also, that it may be useful to the quakers themselves, first, by letting them see how their own character may be yet improved; and secondly, by preserving them, in some measure, both from unbecoming remarks, and from harsh usage, on the part of their fellow-citizens of a different denomination from themselves. for surely when it is known, as i hope it is by this time, that they have moral and religious grounds for their particularities, we shall no longer hear their scruples branded with the name of follies and obstinacies, or see magistrates treating them with a needless severity, but giving[ ] them, on the other hand, all the indulgences they can, consistently with the execution of the laws. in proportion as this utility is produced, my design will be answered in the production of the work, and i shall receive pleasure in having written it. and this pleasure will be subject only to one drawback, which will unavoidably arise in the present case; for i cannot but regret that i have not had more time to bestow upon it, or that some other person has not appeared, who possessing an equal knowledge of the quakers with myself, but better qualified in other respects, might have employed his talents more to the advantage of the subjects upon which i have treated in these volumes. [footnote : some magistrates, much to their honour, treat them with tenderness; and no people are more forward than the quakers in acknowledging any attention that may be shewn them, but particularly where their religious scruples may be concerned.] end of the third volume made available by the hathitrust digital library. religion of life series. gleanings from george fox. uniform volumes in religion of life series. clement of alexandria. isaac penington. george fox. sir thomas browne. the children of the light. william penn. cloth, s. net. leather, s. net. gleanings from the works of george fox by dorothy m. richardson author of "the quakers: past & present." london: headley brothers, bishopsgate, e.c. contents. page introduction - part i. narrative passages - part ii. special testimonies - . business life . the inward light . justice . meetings and ministry . oaths . respecting persons . the scriptures . sin . slavery . war . women part iii. social life - . social life . general exhortations introduction. i. george fox may be variously described. if we look at him from the standpoint of orthodox catholicism we shall see a heretical genius, a man who tried to re-organise the church and succeeded in establishing a sect--in defiance of the fact of the rarity of the religious and the still greater rarity of the mystical temperament--upon a basis of mystical opportunism, in a condition of divorce from sacraments, culture and tradition. from the protestant point of view he becomes the man who made a temporarily successful attempt to undermine the authority of the scriptures; his failure being attested by the return of the majority of the quakers, from the third generation onwards, to biblicism--their tacit throwing up of their earlier position with regard to the inward light. the "free" churches find in fox the collector and organizer of a type of christian believers whose shining record has so fully justified his essential soundness and unity with the main purpose of christendom that minor differences may be ignored. students of mysticism, christian mysticism in particular, seeing fox as one in the long line of those who have adventured into the undivided truth they find stirring within their own souls, have placed him amongst the grand "actives" of european mysticism. here and there an attempt has been made to disentangle the essential distinction of the man himself from his relation to groups and abstract ideas, and to show that distinctive character working itself out in his life and writings, and in the varying history of the church he founded. ii. to the present writer george fox appeals not only by the inherent strength of his mystical genius, not only because amongst his fellows in the mystical family he is, characteristically, the practical western layman, the market-place witness for the spiritual consciousness in every man, but also because he is, essentially, the english mystic--because he represents, at the height of its first blossoming, the peculiar genius of the english "temperament." he is english particularism, english independency and individualism expressed in terms of religion, and offering its challenge, for the first time, in the open to all the world. this is his unique contribution to the evolution of christendom. his fellows and predecessors, the german mystics of the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, brought, it is true, the same message, the same account of the pathway to reality as did fox, but they brought it in a restricted form. they were largely dominated by tradition, they remained, most of them, within the official church, and those who did not met secretly and laboured behind closed doors. it was in george fox that religious particularism, the outcome of the civilization whose cradle was the little isolated homesteads upon the scandinavian fiords, reached its full flower. with him there re-appears in the form of an experiment in everyday life, in the heart of the modern state, the truth that dawned in palestine sixteen hundred years before, the truth that was side-tracked but never quite lost amidst the policies, expediencies and jealousies of the official church, that has been clearing and elaborating itself with increasing steadiness ever since the seventeenth century, the truth that only in individuality carried to its full term can we find the basis of unity. unity amongst fox and his followers is the fruit and fulfilment of separateness. in order truly to love his neighbour, a man must first love himself. he must achieve singleness of soul, must discover that within him which is of god; that which "speaks" with him only in the solitude of his inner being. the unit, with fox, is never, except incidentally, the group; never, except incidentally, the family; but the single human soul faced with its individual consciousness, the germ of truth, goodness, beauty, light, love, god, it bears within itself, the seed of god present in all human kind. he stands for liberty, for trust and toleration in a day of unchallenged religious and civil antagonisms and authoritarianisms. he stands for love, for the essential harmony of the creation in a day when warfare was the unquestioned and "divinely-appointed" method of settling international differences, and litigation and debate the accepted steersmen of private relationships. iii. this particularist genius and his fellows represent the keenest moment in one of those periods in its religious experience when humanity becomes aware of the wider life to which it belongs, when working on, god-led and god-inspired, part blind, part seeing, making in dark and desert places the uttermost venture of faith, suddenly, on an instant, it finds god. a subsequent enormously enhanced fruitfulness, the amazing development of "thought" and "science," our long sojourn amidst the great desert of "facts," the final well-nigh despairing state of spiritual aridity that synchronised with the neo-darwinian mechanistic definitions of life, is now once more in our day giving place to a home-coming, a new phase of spiritual realization. it is just at this turning moment, in the dawn-light of this new liberating contact, world-wide this time, free altogether from the swathing bands of cloister and cult that we begin to have a clearer understanding of the message of the mystics in general and in particular of the challenge of our own george fox. iv. fox's message found instant response from the heart of the most vital religious life of his day. from the midst of the small isolated groups who--surrounded by the institutional and doctrinal confusion following immediately upon the decentralization of authority in the art and science of the religious life, and persisting throughout the post-reformation century--were feeling their own way to god, his followers came forth. they, these friends of truth as they called themselves, were to live out the first phase of the liberation of the religious life. dispensing with symbols and observances, they strove to sink the whole personal life into the divine life and love they felt stirring within them, to seek this perpetually, to let it flow out and through all the circumstances of their daily commerce, to seek and appeal to this alone, in all mankind. v. if fox had been only the liberator of the mystical forces moving and quickening under the drying crust of official and authoritarian theology, he would have left on the outward form of the religious life of his country as little mark as did his great brother boehme on his. but he was more than liberator. he was also steersman. it was his organizing genius that laid the foundation of a new religious culture; a culture in which sacraments and symbols, politics and authoritarianism should play no part--a culture which took no account of "persons," "notions," or "theories," which put being before "knowing," intuition before intellection, which dared to trust in and enquire of women, not in name only, but in fact. the vitality of the society he founded is the test of the organizing genius of this "madman." it has had its critical period. at the beginning of the eighteenth century it sank into quietism, and thence back to a pre-quaker pietist biblicism, in which the nature of fox's contribution to religion--his restatement, both in life and in church method of the immediacy, the "originality" of the christ-life, the life of god in man--was almost lost to view. but the culture-ground, the means of grace, the quaker "method" of quiet waiting on god, the unflinching faith, remained untouched, the little church survived and in due time revival took place. to-day, in spite of the strong leaven of biblicism, the quaker church serves (as i have pointed out elsewhere)[ ] as a sorting-house for mystics and persons of the mystical type, and lies a radiating centre of divine common-sense, of practical loving wisdom at the heart of english religious life. vi. what fox did with the unconsciousness of genius, modern thought is elaborating and explaining. "experts" in all departments of knowledge are at the confessional declaring their bankruptcy. science admits her helplessness to do more than collect and describe phenomena, and begs implicitly to rank as a servant rather than a guide (thereby, incidentally coming for the first time to her full height and value). [footnote : "the quakers; past and present." constable & co.] metaphysic, come out at last from her academic seclusion to the light of common day, points the way to the threshold of reality, declares that we may possess and be possessed by it, not _via_ the intellect, but directly by intuition. this reality that we ignorantly worship the mystics have declared to us as goodness, beauty and truth. fox called it god in man, the life, the seed, the divine light latent in every son of man, and once in the life of this planet fully and completely informing a human frame. part i. narrative passages. note. the reference "c.j." indicates the cambridge edition of fox's _journal_, compiled from original mss. (cambs. univ. press. ); "works," refer to the philadelphia edition of fox's printed works. punctuation, which varies in the different editions and is almost lacking in mss. and of course in literal transcripts, has been altered or inserted by the compiler, as seemed needful. narrative passages. self-revelation. then the lord gently led me along, and let me see his love, which was endless and eternal, surpassing all the knowledge men have in the natural state or can obtain from history or books, and that love let me see myself as i was without him. i was afraid of all company, for i saw them perfectly where they were, through the love of god which let me see myself. i had not fellowship with any people, priests or professors or any sort of separated people, but with christ, who hath the key, and opened the door of light and life unto me. i was afraid of all carnal talk and talkers, for i could see nothing but corruptions and the life lay under the burthen of corruptions. when i myself was in the deep, shut up under all, i could not believe that i should ever overcome, my troubles, my sorrows, and my temptations were so great, that i thought many times i should have despaired i was so tempted. (_journal_, th ed., vol. i, p. .) the inner light. now the lord opened to me by his invisible power that every man was enlightened by the divine light of christ; and i saw it shine through all; and that they that believed in it came out of condemnation to the light of life and became the children of it; but they that hated it and did not believe in it were condemned by it, though they made a profession of christ. this i saw in the pure openings of the light without the help of any man; neither did i then know where to find it in the scriptures, though afterwards searching the scriptures i found it. for i saw in that light and spirit which was before the scriptures were given forth and which led the holy men of god to give them forth, that all must come to that spirit, if they would know god or christ or the scripture aright which they that gave him forth were led and taught by. (_journal_, th ed., vol. i., p. .) a new creation. now i was come up in spirit through the flaming sword into the paradise of god. all things were new and all the creation gave another smell unto me beyond what words can utter. i knew nothing but pureness and innocency and righteousness. (_journal_, th ed., vol. i, p. .) the vision from the hill-top. and so we passed on warning people as we met them of the day of the lord that was coming upon them, and as we went i spied a great hill called pendle hill, and i went on the top of it with much ado it was so steep. but i was moved of the lord to get atop of it. and when i came atop of it i saw lancashire sea (and there atop of the hill i was moved to sound the day of the lord), and the lord let me see atop of the hill in what places he had a great people, and so on the hill's side i found a spring of water and refreshed myself, for i had eaten little and drunk little for several days. (c. j., , p. .) a blow from a bible. and i went out of the meeting to the steeple-house and the priest and most of the heads of the parish was got up into the chancel and so i went up to them and when i began to speak they fell upon me and the clerk up with his bible as i was speaking and hit me in the face that my face gushed out with blood, that i bled exceedingly in the steeple-house, and so the people cried, "let's have him out of the church" (as they called it) and when they had me out they exceedingly beat me and threw me down and threw me over a hedge and after dragged me through a house into the street stoning and beating me, and they got my hat from me which i never got again and i was all over besmeared with blood. (c. j., , p. .) a mobbing. a company of rude fellows as fishermen and the like with their fishing poles and the like fell upon me as soon as i was come to land, and beat me down to the ground and bruised my body and head and all over my shoulders and back that when i was sensible again i looked up and a man was lying over my shoulders and a woman was throwing stones at my face so i got up and i could hardly tell whether my head was cloven to pieces it was so bruised. nevertheless i was raised up by the power of god and they beat me with their fishing-poles into the sea and thrust me into the sea a great depth and thought to have sunk me down into the water; and so i thrust up amongst them again and then they tumbled me in a boat, and james lancaster went with me and carried me over the water and when i came to the town where the man had bound himself with an oath to shoot me all the town rose up against me, some with muck forks and some with flayles and forks and cried knock him on the head, i should not go through the town and they called for a cart to carry me to the graveyard and cried, knock him on the head, but they did not, but guarded me a great way with their weapons but did not much abuse me and after a while left me, so when i came to some water i washed me. i was very dirty and much bruised. (_short journal_, pp. , .) a night among the furze bushes. and after a while i went to an inn and desired them to let me have a lodging and they would not, and desired them to let me have a little meat and milk and i would pay them for it but they would not. so i walked out of the town and a company of fellows followed me and asked me what news, and i bid them repent and fear the lord. and after i was passed a pretty way out of the town i came to another house and desired them to let me have a little meat and drink and lodging for my money but they would not neither, but denied me. and i came to another house and desired the same, but they refused me also, and then it grew so dark that i could not see the high way and i discovered a ditch and got a little water and refreshed myself and got over the ditch and sat amongst the furze bushes, being weary with travelling, till it was day. (c. j., (i.), p. .) a long cold winter. and so they committed me again to close prison, and colonel kirby gave order to the goaler that no flesh alive must come at me for i was not fit to be discoursed with by men. so i was put up in a smoky tower where the smoke of the other rooms came up and stood as a dew upon the walls, where it rained in also upon my bed. and the smoke was so thick as i could hardly see a candle sometimes, and many times locked under three locks. and the under-goaler would hardly come up to unlock one of the upper doors; the smoke was so thick that i almost smothered with smoke and so starved with cold and rain that my body was almost numbed, and my body swelled with the cold. (c. j., ii, p. .) a tortured body. and i went to bed but i was so weak with bruises i was not able to turn me and the next day they hearing of it at swarthmore they sent a horse for me and as i was riding the horse knocked his foot against a stone and stumbled that it shook me and pained me as it seemed worse to me than all my blows my body was so tortured; so i came to swarthmore and my body was exceedingly bruised.... and judge fell asked me to give him a relation of my persecution and i told him they could do no otherwise they were in such a spirit, and they manifested their priests fruits and profession and religion. (c. j., i., p. .) a meeting in a steeple-house. he began to oppose me, and i told him his glass was gone, his time was out, the place was as free for me as for him, and he accused me that i had broken the law in speaking to him in his time in the morning and i told him he had broken the law, then, in speaking in my time. and so i called all people to the true teacher out of the hirelings, such as teach for the fleece and makes a prey upon the people, for the lord was come to teach his people himself by his spirit and christ saith, learn of me i am the way which doth enlighten every man that cometh into the world, that all through him might believe, and so to learn of him who had enlightened them, who was the light, and so had a brave meeting in the steeple-house and the priest of the parish foamed like a pig through rage and madness but the truth and the power of the lord came over all their heads. (_short journal_, p. .) a vision. and i saw a vision a man and two mastiff dogs and a bear and i passed by them and they smiled upon me. (_short journal_, p. ). the power of truth. the justices whispered together and bid the goaler take us away and so the goaler brought us away and almost all the people followed us out of the court and it was a mighty day for the truth. and so when i came into the goaler's house the goaler said, gentlemen, you are all set at liberty and you know i must have my fees, but give me what you will, which a great service to the truth it was. and the sessions was just like a meeting, truth had such an operation in people's hearts. (_short journal_, p. .) a consistent sheriff. in the evening i was brought to the sheriff's house and the sheriff's wife said that salvation was come to her house and all their family was wrought upon by the power of the lord and they believed in the truth and this being the first day of the week the next seventh day the sheriff himself spake the truth in a pair of slippers in the market amongst the people. (_short journal_, p. .) unity with the creation. and so after the meeting was done i passed away to john audlands and there came john story to me and lighted his pipe of tobacco and, said he, will you take a pipe of tobacco saying come, all is ours. and i looked upon him to be a forward bold lad and tobacco i did not take, but it came into my mind that the lad might think i had not unity with the creation. for i saw he had a flashy empty notion of religion. so i took his pipe and put it to my mouth and gave it to him again to stop him lest his rude tongue should say i had not unity with the creation.... one cocks met me in the street and would have given me a roll of tobacco ... so i accepted of his love but denied it. (c. j., i., pp. - .) an airy damsel. and the next morning there was a lady sent for me and she had a teacher at her house. and they was both very light, airy, people and was too light to receive the weighty things of god. and in her lightness she came and asked me whether she should cut my hair. and i was moved to reprove her and bid her cut down the corruptions in her with the sword of the spirit of god. and so after i had admonished her we passed away; and, after, she made her boast in her frothy mind that she came behind me and cut off a lock of my hair, which was a lie. (c. j., p. .) a fat and merry captain. and this captain was the fattest, merriest, cheerfullest man and the most given to laughter that i ever met with so that i several times was moved of the lord to speak to him in the dreadful power of the lord and yet still he would presently after laugh at anything that he saw; and i still admonished him to sobriety and the fear of the lord and sincerity. and we lay at an inn at night and the next morning i was moved to speak to him again, and then he parted from us the next morning. but he confessed next time i saw him that the power of the lord had so amazed him that before he got home he was serious enough and left his laughing. and the man came to be convinced and become a serious and good man and died in the truth. (c. j., i., p. .) a highnotionist. and after the meeting was done the pastor came and asked me what must be damned, being a highnotionist and a flashy man. and i was moved of a sudden to tell him that which spoke in him was to be damned, which stopped the pastor's mouth. and the witness of god was raised up in him. (c. j., i., p. .) burning a witch. and from thence we went to edinburgh again and many thousands of people was gathered there and abundance of priests about burning of a witch and i was moved to declare the day of the lord amongst them and so went from thence to the meeting and a many rude people and baptists came in and there the baptists began with their logic and syllogisms but i was moved in the lord's power to thresh their chaffy light minds; and showed the people after that manner of light discoursing they might make white black and black white. (c. j., i., p. .) discerners of spirits. and there came another company that pretended they were triers of spirits; and i asked them a question: what was the first step to peace, and what it was by which a man might see his salvation? and they was up in the air and said i was mad. so such came to try spirits as did not know themselves nor their own spirits. (c. j., i., p. .) prisoners spreading the truth. and when friends was got among the watches it would be a fortnight or three weeks before they could get out of them again for no sooner had one party taken them and carried them before the justices and they had discharged them but then another would take them up and carry them before other justices which put the country to a great deal of needless cost and charges. and that which they thought to have stopped the truth by was the means to spread it so much the more. for then friends was continually moved to speak to one constable and to the other officer and justice and this caused the truth to spread the more amongst them in all their parishes. (c. j., i., p. .) a veiled condition. when at any time my condition was veiled, my secret belief was stayed firm, and hope underneath held me, as an anchor in the bottom of the sea and anchored my immortal soul to its bishop causing it to swim above the sea, the world, where all the raging waves, foul weather, tempests and temptations are. but o! then did i see my troubles trials and temptations more clearly than ever i had done. as the light appeared, all appeared that is out of the light; darkness, death, temptations, the unrighteous, the ungodly; all was manifest and seen in the light. (_journal_, th ed., vol. i, p. ). part ii. special testimonies. i. business life. prices. and is it not more savoury to ask no more than you will have for your commodity[ ]; to keep yea and nay in your communication, and here will be an equal balancing of things and a consideration before you utter words and a using of this world as though you used it not; and a possessing as though you possessed not. (_works_, iv., p. , slightly condensed.) honesty in business. but at the first convincement when friends could not put off their hats to people nor say you to a particular but thee and thou, and could not bow nor use the world's salutations, nor fashions, nor customs. and many friends being tradesmen of several sorts, they lost their custom at the first. for the people would not trade with them nor trust them; and for a time people that were tradesmen could hardly get money enough to buy bread. but afterwards when people came to see friends, honesty and truthfulness and yea and nay at a word in their dealing and their lifes and conversations did preach and reach to the witness of god in all people and they knew and saw that they would not cozen and cheat them for conscience sake toward god; and that at last they might send any child and be as well used as themselves at any of their shops. [footnote : bargaining was, hitherto, the universal practice.] (c.j., i., p. .) the reputation of friends. now that friends are become a good savour in the hearts of all people, lose it not but rather increase it in the life. for at first ye know that many could not take so much money in your trade as to buy bread with. all people stood aloof from you, when you stood upright and gave them the plain language and were at a word. but now that through the life you come to answer that of god in all they say that they will trust you before their own people, knowing that you will not cheat, nor wrong, nor cozen nor oppress them. for the cry is now where is there a quaker of such and such a trade? o, therefore, friends, who have purchased this through great sufferings lose not through great favour which god hath given unto you. and now, friends, if there be any oppression, exaction or defrauding by making a prize, through the freedom which god hath given you the world will say, the quakers are not as they were; therefore such should be exhorted to equity and truth. (_epistle_, p. .) absorption in trade. for when ye were faithful at the first, the world would refrain from you and not have commerce with you; but after when they saw ye were faithful and just in things and righteous and honest in your tradings and dealings then they came to have commerce and trade with you, the more because they knew ye will not cozen them nor cheat them. then ye came to have greater trading, double than ever ye had and more than the world. but there is the danger and temptation to you of drawing your minds into your business and clogging them with it, so that ye can hardly do anything to the service of god, but there will be crying my business, my business! and your minds will go into the things and not over the things. (_works_, vii., p. .) debt. and all, of what trade or calling soever, keep out of debts; owe to no man anything but love. go not beyond your estates, lest ye bring yourselves to trouble and cumber and a snare; keep low and down in all things ye act. for a man that would be great and goes beyond his estate, lifts himself up, runs into debt and lives highly of other men's means; he is a waster of other men's, and a destroyer. he is not serviceable to the creation, but a destroyer of the creation and creatures and cumbereth himself and troubleth others and is lifted up, who would appear to be somebody; but being from the honest, the just, the good, falls into shame. (_works_, vii., pp. - .) in all husbandry. so in all husbandry speak truth, act truth, doing justly and uprightly in all your actions, in all your practices, in all your words, in all your dealings, buyings, sellings, changings, and commerce with people, let truth be the head and practice it. (_works_, vii., p. .) ii. the inward light. every man. god hath dealt to every man a measure of faith. (_works_, viii., p. .) let everyone keep his habitation and stand in his lot, the seed. (_works_, viii., p. .) the first step. the first step of peace is to stand still in the light. (_works_, iv., p. .) oh wait upon god for his power, for there is a seed of god in thee. oh take heed of thy own wisdom, for that thou wilt find to be an enemy, or the comprehending the things of god in thy mind. (c. j., i., p. .) waiting for the light. now if thou waitest in christ and mindest him in thee (and then waitest for his appearing) and keepest within and dost not follow lo, here's christ, lo, there's christ, without thee, thou wilt have peace presently and witness him, who is the substance of the prophets and apostles and the scriptures, made manifest in thee to guide to the father, the lord god of heaven and earth; and waiting for the spirit of the lord within thee to guide thy mind thou wilt find thy strength daily renewed. (c. j., i., p. .) the cleansing light. ye are sanctified through the obedience of the spirit. (c. j., i., p. .) this spirit circumciseth and puts off the body of sin. (_ibid._) to that which doth command all these spirits where heats and burnings come in, in that wait which cleans them down and cools. (c. j., i., p. .) the revealing light. who art thou that queriest in thy mind what is that which i feel that condemneth me when i do evil and justifieth me when i do well, what is it? i will tell thee. lo! he that formeth the mountains and created the winds and declareth unto man what is his thoughts, that maketh the morning darkness and tradeth upon high places of the earth. the lord, the god of hosts is his name. (_journal friends' hist. soc._, vol. ix., p. , from a ms.) though you see little and know little and have little, and see your nakedness and barrenness and unfruitfulness and see the hardness of your hearts and your own unworthiness it is the light that discovers all this and the love of god to you and it is that which is immediate, but the dark understanding cannot comprehend it. (_works_, vii., p. .) the regulating light. therefore have salt in yourselves and be low in heart. the light is low in you and it will teach you to be low and to learn that lesson of jesus christ to the plucking down all high thoughts and imaginations. (_works_, vii., p. .) the discerning light. mind every one that which is of god in you, to teach you to walk to god and before him; and as it teacheth you and enlightens your understandings it will teach you how to direct others and so to judge of things eternal so far as that is borne up in your understandings which is eternal, and as everyone hath a measure, so every one to prove his talent and not limit god to learned men (as hath long been) which have learned but their natural languages, so their original ground and religion is external, their word and light is external and their gifts and preachings is an external gift and they go to you magistrates who hath an external law to uphold them in their external ministry. for your law doth alter and exchange, which is external. now that which is external, with it to judge things eternal cannot be, (but limit god). for he that hath the first gift of god hath that which is perfect and that which is perfect is eternal, and such hath a discerning to know the gift of god from the gift of man. (c. j., i., pp. , .) walking in this light it enlightens your consciences and understandings, walking in it you have union one with another. for the light is but one which will discover all imagined light, false worships, ways and churches and draw you up to the church in god the fountain of light. (c. j., i., p. .) hating the light. wait all in the light which christ jesus hath enlightened you withal, that with the light you may see christ jesus from whence it comes and may receive power from christ who hath all power in heaven and earth given to him which if ye have the light and do not believe in it which ye are enlightened withal which light lets you see, mark, the light lets you see your deeds whether they be wrought in god or no ... but hating this light, which lets see it, will be your condemnation. (c. j., i., p. .) dwelling in the light. keep down, keep low, that nothing may rule nor reign but life itself. (c. j., vol. i., p. .) all friends to be kept cool and quiet in the power of the lord god and all that is contrary will be subjected, the lamb hath the victory, the seed is the patience. (_ibid._) oh therefore let not the mind go forth from god; for if it do it will be stained, venomed and corrupted. if the mind go forth from the lord it is hard to bring it in again; therefore take heed of the enemy, and keep in the faith of christ. to live and walk in the spirit of god is joy and peace and life; but the mind going forth into the creatures or into any visible things from the lord, this bringeth death. now when the mind is got into the flesh and into death, the accuser gets within and the law of sin and death gets into the flesh. then the life suffers under the law of sin and death, and then there is straightness and failings. take heed of conforming to the world, and of reasoning with flesh and blood, for that bringeth disobedience. but the obedience of faith destroyeth imaginations and questionings and all the temptations in the flesh and buffettings and lookings forth and fetching up things that are past. (_journal_, th ed., vol. i., pp. - , condensed.) and dwelling in the light, there is no occasion at all of stumbling, for all things are discovered with the light. thou that lovest it, here is thy teacher. when thou art walking abroad it is present with thee in thy bosom. thou needest not to say lo, here, or, lo, there; and as thou liest in thy bed it is present to teach thee and judge thy wandering mind which wanders abroad, and thy high thoughts and imaginations and makes them subject. for following thy thoughts thou art quickly lost. but dwelling in this light it will discover to thee the body of sin and thy corruptions and fallen estate where thou art. in that light which shows thee all this, stand. neither go to the right hand nor to the left. here is patience exercised, here is thy will subjected. here thou wilt see the mercies of god made manifest in death. here thou wilt see the drinking of the waters of shiloah, which run softly. (_works_, iv., p. .) so the son of god within riseth through death to destroy death in man. (c. j., i., p. .) iii. justice. laws against god. now if a law be made over the conscience that is pure, that law is against god. (c. j., i., p. .) an unjust judge. how hast thou strengthened the hands of the evil doers and been a praise to them and not to them that do well. how like a mad man and a blind man didst thou turn thy sword backward against the saints, against whom there is no law. how wilt thou be gnawed and burned one day when thou feels the flame, and hast the plagues of god poured upon thee, when thou beginnest to gnaw thy tongue for the pain, because of the plague. thou shalt have thy reward according to thy work. thou canst not escape. the lord's righteous judgments shall find thee out the witness in thy conscience shall answer it. (c. j., i., _letter to justice sawrey_, , p. .) true justice. none is worthy to have the name of a magistrate that is proud, peevish, selfish, crabbed; or that is wilful or wicked or that is heady or high-minded; for the higher power is to chain such from their intents and mischievous ends that they would do and wrong the innocent with their unrighteous intents; and such as touching judgment are blind, that be perverse and full of ambition and pride, such forgets god and he is not in their thoughts, these feel not the burden that the innocent bears and groans under; for such as be there be in that nature that burdens the just in particular and in the general; before whose eyes the fear of god is not, who makes a prey upon the just.... so as ye all, magistrates, be kept in the fear of god and in the higher power, in the true understanding and true wisdom which is pure, gentle, from above, easy to be entreated. it will bring you to the true instructions and there, being in them, it will bring you to instruct all others wherever you come. (c. j., i., _letter to the long parliament_, pp. , .) coercion. to the chief magistrates, rulers, etc. and now i do in humility desire you to consider did ever christ and his apostles force any to be of his true religion and worship, and if that they would not then to give forth orders to take away their goods and their very beds and their corn which should make them bread, their cattle which should help to maintain them and their cows which should give them milk, their clothes they should wear to keep them warm and their tools they should work withal to get their living? did not christ on the contrary exhort christians _to love one another_ and _to love enemies_? (_works_, vi., p. , .) while there is prejudice in the officers, judges, justices or rulers, whilst he is passionate, out of the humbleness and humility, out of the mercy, out of the patience, in the wilfulness, in the stubbornness, sturdiness, highmindedness, minding the persons respecting that--under this doth the just groan and under this doth the just feel the weight which feels the want of the true measure and cries for the true measure and puts up petitions to the lord who hears and answers the cries of the oppressed and removes the oppressor and brings him to shame and contempt though for a time he hath a day of honour and glory, but such, the lord of glory their day doth shorten, often in turning them out and cutting them off bringing his righteous judgments upon them who rightly hath not judged. such, god measures their ways, god gives to them measure and just weight according to their works. therefore, all the rulers of the earth be awakened with the measure of god, be awakened to righteousness and to the measure of god. all take heed to give your minds up to god whereby ye may stand all in god's counsel, to receive that from god which shall never be shaken, whereby with it ye may answer that of god in every man and be to the lord a praise and a terror to the nations about you; for true justice and judgment being set up and being in the hands of such as have the true measure to reach that of god in every man, then that of god in every man shall answer his measure and having the true weight to weigh things aright that of god in every man shall witness his weight to be just and his measure not too short, for he gives to every man his due.... i am moved to charge all to be meek, to be humble, to be patient and not to be rash nor to be heady nor to be fierce, but to be gentle and fear before the lord god whereby you may receive his wisdom. (c. j., i., _to the long parliament_, pp. , .) speedy justice. and i also wrote to the judges what a sore thing it was that prisoners should lie so long in goal, and how they learned badness one of another in talking of their bad things and therefore speedy justice should have been done. for i was a tender youth in the fear of god and i was grieved to hear their bad language and was made often to reprove them for their words and bad carriage each towards other. (c. j., i., p. .) iv. meetings and ministry. silent ministry. my dear friends, keep your meetings, and ye will feel the seed to arise, though never a word be spoken amongst you. (_works_, vii., p. .) joining a silent meeting. so, friends, the word of the lord to you all in all meetings you come into when they are sitting silent. they are many times in their own. now a man when he is come out of the world he cometh out of the dirt, then he must not be rash, for now when he cometh into a silent meeting, that is another state; then he must come and feel his own spirit how it is when he cometh to them that sit silent, for if he be rash then they will judge him. when he had been in the world and among the world the heat is not out of him for he may come in the heat of his spirit out of the world. now the other is still and cool, so his condition in that is not to theirs, he may rather do them hurt, beget them out of the cool state into the heating state if he be not in that which commands his own spirit and gives him to know it. (c. j., i., p. .) silent waiting. it is good for a man to bear the iniquity of his youth, he sitteth alone and keepeth silence because he hath borne it upon him, now that which hath acted iniquity might come into the silence before the just which comes out of the iniquity doth come to reign and have dominion ... the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the son of god, ... and is come to that condition that they do not know what they should pray for but in spirit make intercession with sighs and groans. (_barclay mss._, vol. i, p. , slightly condensed.) stand up. stand up ye prophets of the lord for the truth upon the earth; quench not your prophecy, neither heed them that despise it. (_works_, vii., p. ). the true balance. despise not the prophecy ... neither be lifted up in your openings, lest ye depart from that which opened. (_works_, vii., p. .) sitting down without speaking. we had a general meeting of many thousands of people atop of a hill. heavenly and glorious it was. and the glory of the lord did shine over all. and there was as many as one could well speak over, there was such a multitude. and their eyes were kept to christ their teacher and they came to sit under their vine, that a friend, afterwards francis howgill in the ministry, went amongst them, and when he was moved to stand up amongst them, he saw they had no need of words. for they was all sitting down under their teacher christ jesus, so he was moved to sit down again amongst them without speaking anything. (c. j., i., p. .) move abroad in the spirit of obedience. now when anyone shall be moved to go to speak in a steeple-house or market, turn in that which moves and be obedient to it. now that which would not go must be kept down, for that same that would not go will get up. and take heed that the lavishing part do not get up. for it is a bad savour and must be kept down and be kept subject. (c. j., i., p. .) quenching the spirit. though many have run out and gone beyond their measures yet many more have quenched the measure of the spirit of god and after become dead and dull and questioned through a false fear; and so there hath been hurt both ways. (_works_, viii., p. .) belief in the power keeps the spring open, and none to despise prophecy, neither to quench the spirit, so that all may be kept open to the spring, that every one's cup may run over. (_ibid._) be neither hasty nor backward. so every one stand in the power of the lord that reacheth the seed of god which is the heir of the promise of life without end, and none to be hasty to speak for you have time enough. for with an eye you may reach the witness. and none to be backward when you are moved, for that brings destruction. (c. j., i., p. .) missing the moment. now none must ever go forth into words after they have moved and quenched that which moved them. (c. j., i., p. .) danger of impulsive testimony. now when the seed is up in every particular then there is no danger. but now when there is an opening and prophecy and the power stirs before the seed comes up, then there is something that will rash out and run out. there is the danger and there must be the fear and the patience. (c. j., i., p. .) borrowed testimony. let no friends go beyond their own measure given them of god, nor rejoice in another man's line made ready to their hands. (_works_, vii., p. .) concerning judging in meetings. friends, do not judge one another in meetings, ye that do minister in the meetings; for your so doing hath hurt the people both within and without and yourselves under their judgment ye have brought. and your judging one another in the meetings hath emboldened others to quarrel and judge you also in the meetings. and this hath been all out of order and the church order also. now if you have anything to say to any, stay till the meeting be done, and then speak to them in private between yourselves, and do not lay open another's weakness. for that is weakness and not wisdom to do so. for your judging one another in meetings hath almost destroyed some friends and distracted them. and this for want of love that beareth all things; and therefore let it be amended. no more, but my love. (_works_, vii., pp. , .) recrimination. friends, go not into the aggravating part to strive with it, lest ye do hurt to your souls and run into the same nature. for patience must get the victory and answers to that of god in every one which will bring every one from the contrary. (_works_, vii., p. .) strife and debate. where any goeth into the contention he is from the pure. for where any goeth into the contention if anything by him before hath been begotten then that doth get atop and spoil that which was begotten and quench his own prophesy. so if he be not subjected with the power in the particular which would arise into the strife, that is dangerous. (c. j., i., p. .) boasting and vapouring. none must be light, out, wild. for the seed of god that is weighty and brings solid and into the wisdom of god by which is the wisdom of the creation known. now that which runs into the imaginations and that part standing in which the imaginations come up, the pure not quite come up through to rule and reign, then that will run out, then that will glory; and so he hath spoiled that which opened to him and will boast and vapour, which is for condemnation. (c. j., i., pp. , .) heady stuff. with the heart man doth believe, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation; first, he has it in his heart, before it comes out of his mouth, and this is beyond that brain-beaten--heady stuff which man has long studied, about the saints' words which holy men of god spake forth as they were moved by the holy ghost: so the holy ghost moved them before they came forth and spake them. (_works_, viii., p. .) hypocrisy. for many are crept in unawares, who are self-ended, slow-bellies, who love this world more than the cross of christ, who are got high in the form and have great swelling words which they can utter for their advantage in earthly things, deceiving the simple therewith. (_works_, vii., p. .) saying and doing. for there are children of darkness that will talk of the light and of the truth and not walk in it. (_journal_, th ed., i., p. .) all they which preached faith and made shipwreck of faith, were and are still, denied. all such as preach the light and walk in darkness, and preach the spirit (the fruits of which are love and peace) and are in enmity, were never owned by god, nor christ, nor good men, though they may be called christians. all such as cry, lord, lord, and preach christ, christ, and do not his will, enter not into his kingdom themselves, and into it they can bring none. they are deceivers of their own souls and they may deceive others with their good words; but such cannot be reconciled to god, neither can they bring others to reconciliation with god. (_works_, viii., p. , condensed.) keep down all uncleanness. keep your meetings in the power of the lord god ... that all uncleanness whatsoever may, by the power of the lord, be brought down and rooted out; and that such have no rule nor authority amongst you, though they be never so fair or excellent of speech. (_works_, vii., p. .) they had spoken themselves dry. now they had had great meetings. so i told them that after they had had such meetings they did not wait upon god to feel his power to gather their minds together, to feel his presence and power and therein to sit to wait upon him, for they had spoken themselves dry and spent their portions and not lived in that which they spoke, and now they were dry. they had some kind of meetings but took tobacco and drunk ale in them and so grew light and loose. but my message unto them was from the lord that they might all come together again and wait to feel the lord's power and spirit in themselves to gather them to christ, and to be taught of him who says, learn of me. for after when they had declared that which the lord had opened to them then the people was to receive it, and the speakers, and they was to live in that themselves. but when they had no more to declare but to go to seek forms without life, that made themselves dry and barren, and the people. and thence came all their loss. for the lord renews his mercies, and his strength if they would wait upon him. but the heads of them all came to nothing. but most of the people came to be convinced. (c. j., i., pp. , .) before utterance. let all live in the seed and wisdom and fear, and consider before they utter, that the light be up whereby all may be settled and they themselves be washed. (_works_, vii., p. .) after utterance. so if anyone have a moving to any place and have spoken what they were moved of the lord, return to their habitation again and live in the pure life of god and fear of the lord. and so will you in the life and in the sober and seasoned spirit be kept and preach as well in life as with words. (c. j., i., p. .) and when any have spoken forth the things of the lord by his power and spirit, let them keep in the power and spirit, that keeps them in the humility that when they have spoken forth the things of god they are neither higher nor lower, but still keep in the power, before and after. (_works_, viii., p. .) elders. and ye that are led forth to exhort or to reprove, do it with all diligence, taking all opportunities, reproving that which devours the creation and thereby destroys the very human reason. for the truth doth preserve every thing in its place. (_works_, vii., p. .) simple-hearted ones. and beware of discouraging any in the work of god. the labourers are few that are faithful to god. take heed of hurting the gift which god hath given to profit withal, whereby ye have received life through death and a measure of peace by the destruction of evil. and all take heed to your spirits. that which is hasty discerns not the good seed. take heed of being corrupted by flatteries. they that know their god shall be strong. but take heed of labouring to turn aside the just for a thing of naught, but know the precious from the vile, the clean from the unclean. "these shall be as my mouth" saith the lord, for his work is great and his gifts diverse. and therefore all mind your gift, mind your measure, mind your calling and your work. some speak to the conscience, some plough and break the clods, some weed out and some sow, some wait that fowls devour not the seed. but wait all for the gathering of the simple-hearted ones. (_works_, vii., p. .) tender bubblings. all my dear friends in the noble seed of god who have known his power, life, and presence among you, let it be your joy to hear or see the springs of life break forth in any in which you have all unity in the same feeling, life and power. and above all things take heed of judging, ever, anyone openly in your meeting except they be openly profane, rebellious, such as be out of the truth, that by power and life and wisdom you may stand over them, and by it answer the witness of god in the world, that such is none of you whom you bear your testimony against. so that there in the truth stand clear and single. but such as are tender, if they should be moved to bubble forth a few words and speak in the seed and lamb's power, suffer and bear that that is the tender. and if they should go beyond their measure bear it in the meeting for peace sake and order, that the spirits of the world be not moved against you, but that when the meeting is done then if any thing should be moved of anyone to speak to them between yourselves or one or two of you that feel it in the life and the love and wisdom that is pure ... so in this you have order, you have edification. (c. j., i., pp. , .) concerns to travel abroad. now there is a great danger in travelling abroad in the world, the same power that moves them is it must keep them. for it is the greatest danger to go abroad except a man be moved of the lord, by the power of the lord; for then he, keeping in the power, is kept in his journey and in his work and it will preserve him to answer the transgressed and keep above the transgressor. so now everyone feeling the danger to his own particular in travelling abroad there the pure fear of the lord will be placed. for now though one may have openings when they are abroad to minister to others, but as for their own particular growth is to dwell in the life which doth open. and it will keep down that which will boast; for the minister comes into the death to that which is in the death and in prison, and to return up again into the life and into the power and into the wisdom to preserve him clean. (c. j., i., p. .) paid ministry. now as concerning priests and teachers who will not preach without a sum of money ... such the higher power silenceth that useth their tongue, whose doubts is for outward maintenance and taking thought for that, such are in the state of the gentiles, the kingdoms of the world and seeking for that and not for the kingdom of god, and the righteousness of it first, which the other things follow. if this were found and a word from the lord received and his counsel stood in, people would be turned from their evil ways, there would be no want for outward things. but if they be priests and readers of the law to the people, then they must have their pulpit of wood and a thing made ready to their hand and boast in other men's labours. but this was not the practice of the apostles. (c. j., i., p. .) consecrated ground. so i declared to the people that i came not to hold up their idols, temple, tithes nor priests but to declare against them and opened to the people all their traditions and that piece of ground was no more holy than another piece of ground and that they should know that their bodies were to be the temples of god and christ and so to bring them off all the world's hireling teachers to christ their free teacher and directing them to the spirit and grace, and the light of jesus that they might know both god and christ and the scriptures. (c. j., i., p. .) business meetings. let all be careful to speak shortly and pertinently to matters, in a christian spirit and dispatch business quickly and keep out of long debates and heats; and with the spirit of god keep that down which is doating about questions and strife of words that tend to parties and contention. in the church of god there is no such custom to be allowed. and let not more than one speak at a time; nor any in a fierce way, for that is not to be allowed in any society, either natural or spiritual. (_works_, viii., p. .) friends ... keep to your proper, sound, plain language. (_works_, viii., p. .) now dear friends i have sent an answer to that which william rogers hath wrote together full of lies calumnies and false reports under pretence of queries, but are charges from his rattle head to please rattle children with. (_bristol mss._, vol. .) all friends everywhere take heed of printing anything more than ye are required of the lord god. and all friends everywhere take heed of wandering up and down about needless occasions for there is danger of getting into the careless words out of seriousness weightiness and savouriness. (_works_, vii., p. .) representatives. now concerning those that do go to the quarterly meeting as representatives, they must be substantial friends that can give a testimony of your sufferings and how things are amongst you in every particular meeting. so that none that are raw or weak, that are not able to give a testimony of the affairs of the church and truth may go on behalf of the particular meetings to the quarterly meetings, but may be nursed up in your monthly meetings and there fitted for the lord's service. (_epistles_, no. , .) meeting days. that is a creeping spirit that would go to alter the usual and constant meeting days under pretence to prevent people from the corruptions of observing a constant day. (_works_, viii., p. .) to all the children of god in all places in the world. keep all your meetings in the name of the lord jesus that be gathered in his name by his light, grace, truth, power and spirit, by which you will feel his blessed and refreshing presence among you, and in you to your comfort and god's glory. and now all friends, all your meetings, you do know that you have felt both his power and spirit and wisdom and blessed refreshing presence among you and in you to his praise and glory and your comfort so that you have been a city set on a hill that cannot be hid. and although many loose and unruly spirits have risen betimes to oppose you and them both in print and other ways, but you have seen how they have come to nought. and therefore all to stand steadfast in christ jesus your head, in whom you are all one, male and female and knoweth his government, and the increase of his government and peace there shall be no end. and let no man live to self, but to the lord, as they will die in him and seek the peace of the church of christ, and the peace of all men in him, for blessed are the peacemakers. and dwell in the pure peaceable heavenly wisdom of god that is gentle and easy to be entreated, that is full of mercy; all striving to be of one mind, heart, soul and judgment in christ, having his mind and spirit dwelling in you, building up one another in the love of god. and christ is not divided, for in him there is peace. christ saith, in me you have peace and he is from above and not of this world. but in the world below, in the spirit of it there is trouble. therefore keep in christ and walk in him. amen. (c. j., ii., pp. - , condensed.) interdependence. and the least member in the church hath an office and is serviceable and every member hath need of another. (_works_, vii., p. .) v. oaths. oaths. dear friends and brethren in all your words, in all your business and employment, have a care of breaking your words and promises to any people; but that you may consider beforehand, whether you may be able to perform and fulfil both your words and promises, that your yea be yea, and nay, nay in all things; which christ hath set up instead of an oath and swearing. (_works_, viii., p. .) for swearing by baal and swearing by the temple or swearing by the altar or by the gift that was offered thereon; or swearing by the heavens or by the earth or swearing by the head, these were all inventions. christ did not come to fulfil those vain and frivolous oaths that men commanded, and practised but the oath which god had commanded, and cried woe against them that were in the practice of those oaths which god never commanded ... and so you may see all along it was the command of the lord and by his law and prophets that people were to swear by the lord and perform their oath unto him which was the true oath and swearing which christ forbad much more all other oaths.... so though swearing was lawful in the time of the law as other things and offerings, in the time of the gospel is forbidden.... so we desire that our testimony may be taken in truth and righteousness, without swearing. (_works_, v., pp. , _et seq._, condensed.) so this is the word of the lord god to you all, feel that you stand in the presence of the lord god. for every man's word shall be his burden. (c. j., i., p. .) vi. respecting persons. honour and glory. and so as you honour god, with god shall you be honoured. but seek it as eagerly as you will without him it will fly from you. through flattery you may obtain which will corrupt your judgment and let in upon you everlasting dishonour. wherefore turn to the lord with your whole hearts and seek his glory alone. (c. j., i., p. .) flattery. take heed of being corrupted by flatteries. they that know their god shall be strong. (_works_, vii., p. .) be not carried away by good words and fair speeches, nor the affectionate part which is taken with them; but everyone have hold of the truth in yourselves. (_works_, vii., p. .) time-serving. that selfish man-pleasing and daubing spirit must be put down with the spirit and condemned with the light, else ye will presently be ridiculous to the world and to all men and they will say ye are not as ye were in the beginning. (_works_, vii., p. .) honour. so you that are in place to rule and seek for honour, seek first that which is honourable and none can hold you from honour. and know it is the gift of god only to such as honour him and not themselves. seek that glory and honour that hath immortality and eternal life, which is obtained of god by continuance in well-doing. seek humility that goes before honour, exalt justice, set up righteousness and truth in judgment. hold forth god's sword to all people under you and not your own wills.... seek first the kingdom of god that he may rule in your own hearts over your pride, over your passion, over lust, over covetousness, over respect of persons and over all unrighteousness. so shall you set up the higher power in you for every soul to be subject to, which that of god in every conscience shall answer to. (c. j., i., pp. - .) boast not yourselves, none of you, but be watchful and meek and learn the true humility which goes before the honour. for it is an honour for a king to find out a matter and search it out. and let there not be an eye in none of you nor an ear amongst none of you that will respect persons or have persons respected. for in such cases there will be a will that is brittle, earthly, changeable, wanting the patience to judge rightly, selfish; and stubbornness and prejudice and siding to parties more than to truth. and right judgment is blinded in these and the true measure is wanting and the true weight to weigh withal. (c. j., i., p. .) hat honour. so i asked him (if) he were the governor and wherefore he cast the friend into prison, and he said for standing with his hat upon his head when the minister and the people sung. and i told him had not the priest two caps upon his head, and if the friend should cut off the brim of his hat then he would have but one; for the brim was to save the rain off his neck and shoulders, and he cried, away with these frivolous things and then i asked him why he imprisoned the friend for frivolous things. (_short journal_, pp. , .) vii. the scriptures. the word. in the beginning was the word and none knows this word but who are come to the beginning. now, all people and priests, who can witness this? who are come hither? who are come hither into the beginning? what our hands have handled and what our eyes have seen what was from the beginning. the word of life this declare we unto you. who know this word are pure are made clean through the word, are washed by the word, are sanctified by the word, are cut to pieces by the word and are divided asunder by the word; and this word is a hammer beating down everything, that the seed of god may rise up and come to the beginning; and all who know this word are come into the beginning. it is as a fire burning up all corruptions and this is the word that is nigh thee in thy heart; and this is the word which all the prophets spoke from; and this is the word that became flesh and dwelt among us (saith the saints); and this is the word of life which the apostles preached, the substance of all figures, types and shadows and this is the word which makes all the saints one, that reconciles their hearts together to the lord; this is the word by which all things stand and remain, and are upheld by his word and power and this is the word which doth endure forever; all who are born again of the immortal seed witness this word with me. and now the word is made manifest the same as ever was, which gathers together the hearts of people, which divides asunder the precious and the vile and of twain hath made one, and this is the word that lets see that all flesh is grass and this is the word which was before any letter was written, and all who have not this word put the letter for the word and are in cain's nature, envying and murdering running on swiftly to evil; and cain's sacrifice god doth not accept, and all the preaching and all the praying and all your reading and all your singing and all your expounding and all your churches and all your worships and all your teachers and all your baptisms, which are invented from the letter, the carnal mind invents them. all this is for the fire. your profession must be gathered together in bundles and cast into the fire, for they are the works of the flesh proceeding from the first nature. and all you who live in the first nature not knowing the word of god but only the letter, ye crucify the just and yet get up into the just's place, quenching the light within you. now i witness it by the same word as ever was. they draw people unto the letter and tell them it is the word and to hearken to them who speak their vain imaginations of it. so they bear rule by their means over the poor people, which the lord was ever against. for god is free and will have his people so and his gospel is a free gospel and his mercies are free and his grace is free. his gospel is free to every creature and his grace is free to every creature. his grace is not the letter, his gospel is not the letter, his glad tidings is not the letter, for many poor troubled souls may be under death and condemnation and have the letter and these teachers of the letter, and there lie wounded but no peace. so all people consider and see if you can witness your souls raised out of death and you brought into the everlasting covenant. so who can witness their souls brought out of death are come into the beginning, but thou that hast nothing but the letter and art spending thy money and thy labour and not satisfied, thou art following the greedy dumb dog which can never have enough. (c. j., i., pp. - , condensed.) jangling about the scriptures. none upon the earth comes to witness the spirit of wisdom and of understanding and a sound mind, but who first comes down to the witness of god in him, the spirit of god which gave forth the scriptures, with which he comes to have unity with god and scriptures and one another with which spirit they worship him and all evil doers and transgressors upon the earth go from the spirit of god in them and the light. and all janglings about religion upon the earth, and differences about scriptures which the higher power goes upon, given forth from the spirit of god, amongst teachers, professors and people and churches is that they be out of the spirit of christ the prophets and apostles were in, that gave forth the scriptures, and the servants of god in which spirit they had unity. for the fellowship is in the light, and the unity is in the spirit, and that is the bond of peace amongst people. but people out of that professing the scriptures and every one being exalted from the measure of the spirit of god in him and boasts of other men's lives and labours, are from the bond of peace which is in the spirit and so are in the confusion. (c. j., , pp. - .) knowing the scriptures. and you that have the scriptures from genesis to the revelations yet you know them not with your natural spirit of understanding, nor by all the tongues and languages since babel; for none knew them but by the spirit of inspiration that gave them forth. (_works_, v., p. .) he that hath the son of god he hath life eternal; and he that had not the son of god let him profess all the scriptures from genesis to revelation he had not life. (c. j., i., p. .) possessing the scriptures. and ye are sanctified through the obedience of the spirit, and so come to witness the scriptures pure and clear as they are without any mixture as holy men possessed them and gave them forth, so holy men possess them and give them forth again and witness them again. oh, do not read these things without, nor look at them to be hard, but at the love of god to thee in showing thee thy condition. for all the scriptures were given forth from an inward principle. (c. j., i., p. .) viii. sin. pleading for unholiness. when i was in prison, diverse professors came to discourse with me; and i had a sense, before they spoke, that they came to plead for sin and imperfection. i asked them, whether they were believers and had faith? and they said yes. i asked them, in whom? and they said, in christ. i replied, if ye are true believers in christ, you are passed from death to life and if passed from death, then from sin that bringeth death. and if your faith be true, it will give you victory over sin and the devil; for they said they could not believe that any could be free from sin on this side the grave. i bid them give over babbling about the scriptures which were holy men's words, whilst they pleaded for unholiness. (_journal_, th ed., ii., p. .) perfection. there came a priest and some people with him to me and he asked me if i was grown up to perfection and i said i was what i was by the grace of god; and the common-prayer priest said it was a civil answer and he said that if we do say that we have no sin, the truth is not in us; what did i say to this? and i said if we say that we have not sinned we make him a liar who came to destroy sin and take away sin and so there is a time to see that people have sinned and that they have sin and to confess their sin and to forsake it; and the blood of christ to cleanse from all sin. and it was asked him whether adam was not perfect before he fell, and all god's works were they not perfect? and the priest said yes. but the priest said we might always be striving and this was a sad striving and never overcome. but i told him that paul that cried out against the body of death after thanked god, through jesus christ who gave him the victory; and there was no condemnation to them that was in christ jesus. so there was a time of crying out and a time of praising. and the priest said there might be a perfection as adam and a falling from it and i said there was a perfection in christ beyond adam and should never fall; and it was the work of the ministers of christ to present every man perfect in christ and for the perfecting of them they had their gifts from christ and they that denied perfection they denied the work of ... (illegible) the gifts of christ who was for that end for the perfecting, broken. (_journal friends' hist. soc._, vol. v., p. , from a fox autograph.) a customary word. and to all ye that say, god give us grace and we shall refrain from our sin, there ye have got a tempting customary word, for the free grace of god hath appeared to all men and this is the grace of god hath appeared to all men and this is the grace of god which shows the ungodliness and worldly lusts. (_works_, iv., p. .) temptation. whatever ye are addicted to, the tempter will come in that thing; and when he can trouble you then he gets advantage over you, and then ye are gone. stand still in that which is pure after ye see yourselves, and then mercy comes in. after thou seest thy thoughts and the temptations do not think but submit, and then power comes. stand still in that which shows and discovers, and there doth strength immediately come. and stand still in the light, and submit to it and the other will be hushed and gone, and then content comes. and when temptations and troubles appear sink down in that which is pure and all will be hushed and fly away. your strength is to stand still after ye see yourselves. whatsoever ye see yourselves addicted to, temptations, corruption, uncleanness, etc., then ye think ye shall never overcome. and earthly reason will tell you what ye shall love; hearken not to that but stand still in the light that shows them to you and then strength comes from the lord and help, contrary to your expectation. then ye grow up in peace and no trouble shall move you. (_works_, vii., pp. , .) never heed the wicked's tempest, storm nor hail, nor his instruments of cruelty. let not the back and the hair the cheek and the shoulder be ever turned from him. * * * * * look (over all the wicked's prisons) at the seed of god, christ, which was before they were, and will stand when they are all gone. * * * * * let all haste and run for their lives into adam that never fell, out of adam that fell. (_works_, vii., p. .) to all that be in the fall. and i was moved to declare to the people how all people in the fall were from the image of god and righteousness and holiness, and they was as wells without the water of life, clouds without the heavenly rain, trees without the heavenly fruit and in the nature of beasts and serpents, and tall cedars and oaks, and bulls and heifers, so they might read this nature within as the prophet described to people that were out of truth, and how that they was in the nature of dogs and swine biting and rending, and the nature of briars, thistles and thorns, and like the owls and dragons in the night, and like the wild asses and horses snuffing up, and like the mountains and rocks and crooked and rough ways, so i exhorted them to read these without and within in their nature and the wandering stars, read them without and look within all that was come to the bright and morning star, so as their fallow ground must be ploughed up before it beared seed to them, so must the fallow ground of their heart be ploughed up before they bear seed to god. so all these names were spoken to man and woman since they fell from the image of god. and as they do come to be renewed again up into the image of god they come out of the nature and so out of the name. (c. j., , pp. , .) a place of repentance ye cannot find, though ye wash your altar with tears, being in the stained life. (_works_, vii., p. .) the lord is coming upon the wicked in his thundering power, for they are ripe. (_works_, vii., p. .) discouragement. and, friends, though you may have tasted of the power and been convinced and have felt the light; yet, afterwards, you may feel a winter storm, tempest, hail (and be frozen), frost and cold and wilderness and temptations, be patient and still in the power and still in the light that doth convince you. keep your minds unto god, in that be quiet that you may come to the summer, that your flight be not in the winter. for if you sit still in the patience which overcomes in the power of god there will be no flying. for the husbandman after he hath sown his seed he is patient, for by the power and by the light you will come to see through and feel over winter storms tempests and all the coldness barrenness, emptiness; and the same light and power will go over the tempter's head which power and light was before he was. and so in the light standing still you will see your salvation, you will see the lord's strength, you will feel the small rain, you will feel the fresh springs. (c. j., i., pp. - .) despair. now to all you who are convinced and have your understandings enlightened. beware ye enter not in the temptation to lust after the creature and give not way to the lazy dreaming mind for it enters into the temptations. so there thou wilt be polluted with the pollutions of the world; then thou wilt be tempted to despair and the devil there gets power upon thee. (_works_, vii., p. .) the end of sin. this spirit baptiseth into the one body and this spirit is the unity of the saints though they be absent in body, yet present in spirit all being made to drink into one spirit. and this spirit circumciseth and puts off the body of sin. (c. j., i., p. .) ix. slavery. enslaved races. i am moved to write these things to you in all the plantations. god that made the world and all things therein and giveth life and breath to all is the god of spirits of all flesh and is no respecter of persons. he hath made all nations of one blood. and he doth enlighten every man that cometh into the world. and the gospel is preached to every creature under heaven, which is the power that giveth liberty and freedom and is glad tidings to every captivated creature under the whole heavens. (_works_, vii., p. , condensed.) x. war. so the keeper of the house of correction was commanded to bring me up before the commissioners and soldiers in the market-place and there they proffered me perferment because of my virtue as they said, with many other compliments, and asked me if i would not take up arms for the commonwealth against the king. but i told them i lived in the virtue of that life and power that took away the occasion of all wars; and i knew from whence all wars did rise; from the lust according to james his doctrine. and still they courted me to accept of their offer, and thought that i did but compliment with them, but i told them i was come into the covenant of peace which was before wars and strifes was. and they said they offered it in love and kindness to me because of my virtue and such like, and i told them if that were their love and kindness i trampled it under my feet. (c. j., i., pp. , .) strife. come out of the bustlings you that are bustling and in strife one against another, whose spirits are not quieted, but are fighting with words, whose hearts burn against each other with a mad blind zeal, who are up in your wantonness, lightness and pleasures who set the whole course of nature on fire, among whom the way of peace and that which is perfect is not known. (_works_, iv., p. .) there is no one strikes his fellow servants but first he is gone from the pure in his own particular. he goeth from the light he is enlightened withal when he strikes. then he hath his reward. (c. j., i., p. .) peace. seek the peace of all men. (_works_, viii., p. .) xi. concerning women. marriage. for man and woman were helps-meet in the image of god and in righteousness and holiness, in the dominion before they fell; but after the fall in the transgression the man was to rule over his wife; but in the restoration by christ into the image of god and his righteousness and holiness again in that they are helps-meet, man and woman, as they were before the fall. (_works_, viii., p. .) and there was a great marriage of two friends the next day, and there came some hundreds of beggars. and friends refreshed them instead of the rich. and in the meeting before the marriage i was moved to open to the people the state of our marriages, how the people of god took one another in the assemblies of the elders, and how god did join man and woman together before the fall, and man had joined in the fall, but it was god's joining again in the restoration and never from genesis to the revelation did ever any priests marry any. (c. j., ii., pp. - .) dear richard, with my love to thee and to thy wife and to all the rest of friends in the holy seed of life, now dear richard richardson i desire that thou would search all the libraries concerning marriages, and what they do say of them; and the fathers and how they did before the monkish sort came in in the britons' time and when marrying with the priest came in. so search histories and laws and see what thou canst bring out both good and bad and which maketh a marriage and do what thou canst in this thing, for it hath been upon me some time to write to thee of this thing and did receive thy letter by r. bartlett which i did let thomas lowson see. it is a notable thing, so in haste with my love gff. swarthmore, mo., , . (_journal friends' hist. soc._, vol. i., p. , from mss.) man, born of woman. and some men may say man must have the power and superiority over the woman, because god says, "the man must rule over his wife" and that "man is not of the woman, but the woman is of the man." indeed, after man fell, that command was; but before man fell there was no such command. for they were both meet-helps and they were both to have dominion over all that god made. and, as the apostle saith, "for as the woman is of the man," his next words are, "so is the man also by the woman; but all things are of god." (_works_, viii., p. .) what spirit is this that would exercise lordship over the faith of any? (_works_, viii., p. .) women are heirs of life as well as men ... they must all give an account of their stewardship and are to be possessors of life and light and grace and the gospel of christ, and to labour in it and to keep their liberty and freedom in it as well as the men. (_ibid._) a churlish husband. you may see abigail, that honourable woman's wisdom, how she saved her family and her house from destruction. yet she did not go to ask her husband (old churlish nabal) at home, but she who was innocent and wise, took it upon herself; and you may see what a brave sermon she preached to david, who heard her patiently. (_works_, viii., p. .) unregenerate sociology. and when the apostle spake to the corinthians how that he would have them to know that god was the head of christ, and christ was the head of the man and the man was the head of the woman, and the woman was made for the man and not the man for the woman and he is the image and glory of god and she is the glory of the man, this the apostle spake to the corinthians who were not come to the state of adam and eve before they fell. (_works_, vii., p. .) women and dish-washing. now moses and aaron and the seventy elders, did not say to those assemblies of the women, we can do our work ourselves and you are more fit to be at home to wash the dishes, or such-like expressions; but they did encourage them in the work and service of god, in those things which god had commanded them in the time of the law. (_works_, viii., p. .) restoration of womankind. but this coleman and others in their opposition asked me whether it was not the command of god that a man must rule over his wife, and he would rule over his wife; and did not the apostle say i permit not a woman to teach, and where did we read of women elders and women disciples? and it was an abuse to the elders to set up a women's meeting. but i told him and them that he and they was but an elder in the fall, ruling over their wives in the fall; but he nor they must not rule over widows and young women and other men's wives. and i showed him that dorcas was a disciple and the apostle commands that the elder women should be teachers of good things to the younger, and though the apostle said, i permit not a woman to teach nor usurp authority over the man, as also saith the law, for eve was first in transgression and such teaching as eve taught her husband and usurped authority over the man is forbidden. but the apostle also says that daughters and handmaids should prophesy which they did both in the time of the law and gospel and man and woman was meet helps before they fell, in the image of god and righteousness and holiness; and so they are to be again in the restoration by christ jesus. and thy ruling over thy wife and eldership is in the fall for thou art in the transgression and not an elder in the image of god and righteousness and holiness before transgression and the fall was, nor in the restoration where they are helps meet in the righteousness and image of god and in the dominion over all that god made. (c. j., ii., pp. , .) now, you women, though you have been under reproach, because eve was first in transgression, the promise was "the seed of the woman should bruise the serpent's head." and this promise of god is fulfilled.... now here comes the reproach to be taken off women. (_works_, viii., p. .) the testimony of women. let your women learn in silence, with all subjection; i suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but ask her husband at home. that which usurps authority the law takes hold of, but if you be led by the spirit, then you are not under the law. christ in the male and in the female is one which makes free from the law. "i will pour out my spirit upon sons and daughters and they shall prophesy" and if they will learn anything let them ask their husbands at home for it is a shame for a woman to speak in the church which the law forbids; it is a shame to suffer them to speak in the church. what? came the word of god out from you or came it unto you only? paul, according to the measure given to him, in all his epistles speaking in them of things of which some are hard to be understood, which they that are unlearned and unstable wrest to their own destruction. * * * * * you that cannot own the prophesying of the daughters, the women-labourers in the gospel, you are such as the apostle speaks of in the same chapter, which serve not the lord jesus christ but your own bellies, and by good words and fair speeches deceive the hearts of the simple. be ashamed for ever and let all your mouths be stopped for ever that despise the spirit of prophecy in the daughters, and do cast them into prison and do hinder the women-labourers in the gospel. (_works_, iv., p. , _et seq._, condensed.) mothers in the church. and the elder women in the truth were not only called elders, but mothers. now a mother in the church of christ and a mother in israel is one that gives suck and nourishes and feeds and washes and rules, and is a teacher in the church and in the israel of god and an admonisher an instructor and exhorter. (_works_, viii., p. .) part iii. social life. i. social life. bringing up children. some among you breed up your children not as when you were in a profession only, in such a rude, heady way that when they grow up they do not matter you nor care for you.... in many things they are worse than many of the world's, more loose, stubborn and disobedient ... so that when they come to be set to prentice many times they run quite out into the world.... therefore while they are young restrain them ... in all things keep your authority which is given to you of god. (_works_, viii., p. .) youth. youth if they be let loose are like wild asses and wild heifers, and such many times bring a great dishonour to god by running into looseness; which are more fit to be under rule and order than to rule; and through a foolish pity of some they let up a great deal of airiness and wildness. * * * * * youth should be kept under a bridle and restraint and be nurtured and trained up in the fear and wisdom of god, that the power of god and god's truth may have its passage through all and over all, and all lightness frothiness wildness and looseness may be kept down. (_works_, viii., pp. , .) behaviour of school-children. if any mar their books and blot their books through carelessness, let them sit without the table as disorderly children. and if any one turns from these things and mendeth and doeth so no more and then if any do accuse them of their former action after they be amended, the same penalty shall be laid upon them as upon them that is mended from his former doings. and if any be known to steal let him write without the table and say his lesson and show his copy without the bar. and all must be meek, sober and gentle and quiet and loving and not give one another bad word no time in the school nor out of it least. that they be made to say their lesson or show their copy-book to the master at the bar and all is to mind their lessons and be diligent in their writings. and to lay up their books when they go from the school and their pens and ink-horns and to keep them so, else they must be looked upon as careless and slovens, and so you must keep all things clean, sweet and neat and handsome. (_swarthmore mss._, ii., , , fox autograph.) apprentices. all the legacies that are given to the men's or women's meetings let them be kept as a public stock for the setting forth of apprentices and setting them up. (_works_, vii., p. .) the children of the poor. now all you that do murmur against people that have many children and do complain and say that they do fill your towns, cities and countries with children; and many times you that do so complain have few or no children, and you are afraid that they should come to want and then you must be fain to relieve their necessities. and what then? what you do give to the poor you lend to the lord, and he will repay it to you again, if they cannot. and this wanting mind is for want of faith in god who gives the increase of all and is rich unto all that call upon him. and the lord would have you to take notice that children are the heritage of the lord. the lord that doth increase the children of his heritage he will take care for his heritage whether that murmuring, complaining mind against poor people of having so many children, you relieving them or no, he will take care for his heritage. blessed be his name for ever. and that will be a happy day when they come to nurse christ's chickens, doves, lambs, babes and little children. (_works_, vi., p. , _et seq._, condensed.) homeless women. friends to have and provide a house or houses where a hundred may have rooms to work in and shops of all sorts of things to sell, and where widows and young women might work and live. (_works_, vii., p. .) care of the aged. have an alms-house or hospital for all poor friends that are past work. (_ibid._) care of the mentally deranged. friends to have and provide a house for them that be distempered and not to go to the world. (_ibid._) dangers of ease and plenty. and so, now you that are settled in those parts, who have had a testimony from the lord to bear to people of the truth, you should spread abroad god's eternal truth; and have meetings (as i said before) with the indian kings and people; so that all the earth may come to look unto the lord for salvation. for if ye should settle down in the earth and have plenty and be full, and at ease for a time and not keep in the power and service and spirit of god, you would quickly come to lose your condition, as some did in rhode island when settled down in the earth after a while, and then turned to jangling about it, and some ran out one way and some another. (_works_, viii., p. .) beware of worldly entanglements. o friends, do not die from the good through the wantonness of fleshly lusts, neither be choked with the cares of this life, nor fear the shearers, neither let the heat scorch your green blade; but dwell under the shadow of the almighty who will shade you from the heat and cold. neither be cumbered nor surfeited with the riches of this world, nor bound, nor straitened with them, nor married to them. (_works_, vii., p. .) every one strive to be rich in the life and in the kingdom, and things of the world that hath no end. (_works_, vii., p. .) riches and poverty. and in the old parliament's days many people that used to wear ribbons and lace and costly apparel and followed junkettings and feasting with priests and professors came to leave it off when they came to be convinced of god's eternal truth and to walk and serve god in the spirit as the apostle did, they left off their curious apparel and ribbons and lace and their sporting and feasting with priests and professors and would not go to wakes nor plays nor shows as they formerly had used to do and would not wear gold nor silver nor lace nor ribbons nor make them. and then the priests and professors raged exceedingly against us and printed books against us and said that our religion lay in not wearing fine clothes and lace and ribbons and in not eating good cheer, .... and we told them that when they went to their sports and games and plays and the like that they had better serve god than spend their time so vainly; and that costly apparel with lace that we formerly had hung upon our backs that kept us not warm, with that we could maintain a company of poor people that had no clothes. and so our religion lay not in meats and drinks, nor clothes, nor thee nor thou, nor putting off hats nor making curtseys at which they were greatly offended because we thee'd and thou'd them and could not put off our hats nor bow to them. and therefore they said our religion lay in such things but our answer was, nay, for though the spirit of god led into that which was comely and decent and from chambering and wantonness and from sporting and pastimes and feasting as in the day of slaughter and from wearing costly apparel as the apostle commands and from the world's honour fashions and customs. but our religion lies in that which brings to visit the poor and fatherless and widows and keeps from the spots of the world, which religion is pure and undefiled before god, and this is the religion which we own which the apostles was in above years since, and do deny all vain religions got up since which are not only spotted with the world but pleads for a body of sin and death to the grave, and their widows and fatherless lies begging up and down the street and countries. (c. j., i., pp. - .) relationships. knowledge and familiarity is as grass that withers; but the word of the lord endureth for ever. (_works_, viii., p. .) idleness. none may stand idle out of the vineyard, and out of the service and out of their duty; for such will talk and tattle and judge with evil thoughts of what they in the vineyard say and do. (_works_, vii., p. .) scattered minds. oh friends, look not out; for he that doth is darkened. and take heed of lightness. take heed of the world and of busying your mind with things not serviceable. a wise man's eye is in his head, but a fool's eye is gazing up and down. (_works_, vii., p. .) people must not be always talking and hearing. (_works_, viii., p. .) evil humours. for all distractions, distempers, unruliness, and confusion is in the transgression which transgression must be brought down before the principle of god. (_swarthmore transcripts_, vol. vii., p. .) judgments. take heed of judging the measures of others, but everyone mind your own, and there ye famish the busy minds and high conceits, and so peace springs up among you and division is judged. (_works_, vii., p. .) differences. all differences to be made up speedily that they do not fly abroad to corrupt people's minds. (_works_, vii., p. .) scandal. let all reports be stopped that tend to the defaming one of another. (_works_, vii., p. .) singleness. keep single unto god and single-hearted to man and plain in all things, and low. (_works_, vii., p. .) love. live in peace and love and patience with one another, for that doth edify the body and strife doth not, but doth eat out the good. for the body doth edify itself in love, in which there is nourishment and virtue and life. (_works_, viii., p. .) unity. mind the light, that all may be refreshed one in another and all in one. and the god of power and love keep all friends in power, in love, that there be no surmisings, but pure refreshings in the unlimited love of god, which makes one another known in the conscience to read one another's hearts; being comprehended into this love, it is inseparable and all are here one. and keep in the oneness and note them that cause dissension contrary to the gospel ye have received, that one pure faith may be held in all, to guide and preserve all in the unity of the spirit and bond of peace; all one family of love, children of one father and of the household of god. (_works_, vii., p. .) ii. general exhortations. the dead make dead ways for the dead to walk in. (_works_, viii., p. .) hardness of heart is worse than an outward plague. (_works_, vii., p. .) the hard-hearted are not sensible. (_works_, viii., p. .) the throne of iniquity must be brought down, and the chamber of imagery in every heart, for the lord must have the heart. (_works_, vii., p. .) leave off all your bustling and come to christ. (_works_, v., p. .) reason not with flesh and blood that shall never enter, take not counsel with that which lies in thy bosom for that draweth thee nearer to carnal things, and draws thee to consult with reason and so draws thy eye and mind to visible things, and so wanders from going on thy journey. (_swarthmore transcripts_, iv., p. .) man's pride is not the higher power. in humility we find a power above pride, higher than oppression, higher than men's wills, higher than the lusts of the eye, yea, higher than all that in man would exalt against it. so we deny the lower that we may subject our souls to that which excelleth and which is ordained of god. and to every ordinance of man we are subject for the lord's sake. but should we bow to the spirit of pride we should betray the lord and give his honour to another and that is not for the lord's sake. so what we see for the lord and of him in every ordinance of man we subject to for the lord's sake, and what is against him for his sake we deny and with him suffer under it as witnesses for him against it.... is there anything honourable in man but the image of god? (c. j., i., pp. , .) and so the lord arm friends with his light and shield of faith that they may stand in the daylight of the son of god and keep their first habitation and hold christ their head by which the body is united together by bands and joints, from whom they receive their nourishment and the love of god which edifies the body and unites it to christ their heavenly head, which all the apostate christians being several bodies without this head and not owning his light, grace and truth that comes from him the head by which they should be joined and united. and therefore are they like so many monstrous bodies without the heavenly head, but what they have of their own making; so often their heads go off their bodies. (_bristol mss._, v., p. .) keep in the power of the lord which will bring you over all to the fine linen, the righteousness of the saints. (_works_, vii., p. .) pray to the lord to give you dominion over all, and that in his power and life and seed ye may live and reign. and all friends submit yourselves to one another in the fear of god and be one with the witness of god in all and look at that and that will keep you down from looking at the bad, but looking at the good keepeth your minds over the bad, with the lord. (_works_, vii., p. .) the saved will not suffer anything to rule that destroys. (_works_, vii., p. .) fear not the face of man, but fear and dread the lord god, then his presence and wisdom and counsel thou shalt have to throw down the rubbish and quell all the bad spirits under thy dominion and fear them about thee. live in the lord's power and life, then to thee he will give wisdom and the pure feeling thou wilt come into whereby thy soul will be refreshed.... things all will be made plain before thee, for thee and to thee from the lord god. in what thou doth for the lord god thou shalt have peace and the blessing; and in that so doing all the sober true-hearted people will be one with thee in all travails, sorrows and pains.... and the helping arm and hand that stretcheth over all the nations in the world thou wilt feel it. (slightly condensed from a letter to oliver cromwell, c. j., i., pp. , .) church faith changeth, directory changeth, common prayer changes and mass changes and here is the four religions got up since the apostles days which they have fought for and killed one another about, but the pure religion doth not change. (c. j., vi., p. .) the hireling is fled and flies because he was an hireling, whose religion was for the summer; whilst the sun shined; but in a storm, a tempest, a mist, or the sun clouded, their religion they flee from; his flight is in the winter. so the day manifests all things. our religion is in the power of god before winter storms and tempests were; mists, fogs or clouds. in the light which shines over them all is our religion that does not change, in which there is fruit borne in the winter; by which power of god all their religions are seen, which must have an end and will have an end, which people run into. but in the power of god and his righteousness and holiness which was before the fall was, live; which power of god never alters nor changes in which is both life and peace which remains for ever. (_works_, vii., p. .) and so every one is to have oil in your lamps from the heavenly olive tree, that your lamps may burn always both night and day in your tabernacles, looking to your high priest who will feed your lamps with heavenly oil. and every one have heavenly salt in yourselves to savour withal what is earthly and what is heavenly, and what is from below and what is from above and what is out of the truth and what is in the truth. and that everyone may keep their own vine in their own garden and their own lily in their own field or orchard, which lily doth exceed solomon in all his glory. and every one have the word of faith in their hearts and mouths to obey and do, which will sanctify and make you holy and reconcile you to god. and every one have the anointing or unction within you which you have from the father or holy one so that in it you may continue in the father and in the son. and every one continue in the grace of god which will teach you how to live and what to deny and will bring your salvation and establish you upon christ the rock and foundation from whence the grace does come. and every one abide in the holy divine and precious faith which you do hold in a pure conscience by which faith you do live and have the victory over that which displeaseth god, and in this faith you do please god, which jesus christ, the lord from heaven, is the author and finisher of. and every one that hath digged deep and found the pearl of great price and hath sold all and purchased the field, then the field and pearl is your own, such do know a thorough redemption. and all you believers in the light (which is the life in christ) that are become the children of light, walk in the light, and in christ, as ye have received him. and every one mind the heavenly leaven that will leaven you into a new lump. and every one keep the feast of christ our passover, with his heavenly unleavened bread in sincerity and truth. and every one mind the light that god hath commanded to shine out of darkness and hath shined into your hearts, "to give you the light of the knowledge of the glory of god in the face of jesus christ, (your saviour) that the excellency of the power may be of god and not of yourselves," in this you are sensible of his heavenly treasure in your earthly vessels. and every one have water in your wells and cisterns, and heavenly fruit on your trees which god hath planted. (_works_, viii., p. .) christ saith to his disciples, go, teach all nations and go into all nations to preach the gospel.... and god would have all men to be saved. mark, all men. (c. j., ii., p. .) no true peace but in christ. (_works_, viii., p. .) headley brothers, printers, bishopsgate, e.c., and ashford, kent. religion of life series edited by rufus m. jones, m.a., d.litt. other volumes in this series: a little book of selections from the children of the light. by rufus m. jones, m.a., d.litt. isaac penington: selections from his writings and letters. by henry bryan binns. william penn: selections from his writings. by isaac sharpless. sir thomas browne. selections from his writings. by lewis townsend. clement of alexandria: selection from his writings. by rufus m. jones, m.a., d.litt. cloth, s. net. leather, s. net. london: headley brothers, bishopsgate, e.c. transcriber's notes the original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. in partcular, "gaol" is consistently spelled as "goal", which was not changed. a few obvious typographical and formatting errors were silently corrected. memoir of old elizabeth, a coloured woman. * * * * * "there is neither jew nor greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are all one in christ jesus." gal. iii. . * * * * * philadelphia: collins, printer, jayne street. . memoir, &c. in the following narrative of "old elizabeth," which was taken mainly from her own lips in her th year, her simple language has been adhered to as strictly as was consistent with perspicuity and propriety. i was born in maryland in the year . my parents were slaves. both my father and mother were religious people, and belonged to the methodist society. it was my father's practice to read in the bible aloud to his children every sabbath morning. at these seasons, when i was but five years old, i often felt the overshadowing of the lord's spirit, without at all understanding what it meant; and these incomes and influences continued to attend me until i was eleven years old, particularly when i was alone, by which i was preserved from doing anything that i thought was wrong. in the eleventh year of my age, my master sent me to another farm, several miles from my parents, brothers, and sisters, which was a great trouble to me. at last i grew so lonely and sad i thought i should die, if i did not see my mother. i asked the overseer if i might go, but being positively denied, i concluded to go without his knowledge. when i reached home my mother was away. i set off and walked twenty miles before i found her. i staid with her for several days, and we returned together. next day i was sent back to my new place, which renewed my sorrow. at parting, my mother told me that i had "nobody in the wide world to look to but god." these words fell upon my heart with ponderous weight, and seemed to add to my grief. i went back repeating as i went, "none but god in the wide world." on reaching the farm, i found the overseer was displeased at me for going without his liberty. he tied me with a rope, and gave me some stripes of which i carried the marks for weeks. after this time, finding as my mother said, i had none in the world to look to but god, i betook myself to prayer, and in every lonely place i found an altar. i mourned sore like a dove and chattered forth my sorrow, moaning in the corners of the field, and under the fences. i continued in this state for about six months, feeling as though my head were waters, and i could do nothing but weep. i lost my appetite, and not being able to take enough food to sustain nature, i became so weak i had but little strength to work; still i was required to do all my duty. one evening, after the duties of the day were ended, i thought i could not live over the night, so threw myself on a bench, expecting to die, and without being prepared to meet my maker; and my spirit cried within me, must i die in this state, and be banished from thy presence forever? i own i am a sinner in thy sight, and not fit to live where thou art. still it was my fervent desire that the lord would pardon me. just at this season, i saw with my spiritual eye, an awful gulf of misery. as i thought i was about to plunge into it, i heard a voice saying, "rise up and pray," which strengthened me. i fell on my knees and prayed the best i could the lord's prayer. knowing no more to say, i halted, but continued on my knees. my spirit was then _taught_ to pray, "lord, have mercy on me--christ save me." immediately there appeared a director, clothed in white raiment. i thought he took me by the hand and said, "come with me." he led me down a long journey to a fiery gulf, and left me standing upon the brink of this awful pit. i began to scream for mercy, thinking i was about to be plunged to the belly of hell, and believed i should sink to endless ruin. although i prayed and wrestled with all my might, it seemed in vain. still, i felt all the while that i was sustained by some invisible power. at this solemn moment, i thought i saw a hand from which hung, as it were, a silver hair, and a voice told me that all the hope i had of being saved was no more than a hair; still, pray, and it will be sufficient. i then renewed my struggle, crying for mercy and salvation, until i found that every cry raised me higher and higher, and my head was quite above the fiery pillars. then i thought i was permitted to look straight forward, and saw the saviour standing with his hand stretched out to receive me. an indescribably glorious light was _in_ him, and he said, "peace, peace, come unto me." at this moment i felt that my sins were forgiven me, and the time of my deliverance was at hand. i sprang forward and fell at his feet, giving him all the thanks and highest praises, crying, thou hast redeemed me--thou hast redeemed me to thyself. i felt filled with light and love. at this moment i thought my former guide took me again by the hand and led me upward, till i came to the celestial world and to heaven's door, which i saw was open, and while i stood there, a power surrounded me which drew me in, and i saw millions of glorified spirits in white robes. after i had this view, i thought i heard a voice saying, "art thou willing to be saved?" i said, yes lord. again i was asked, "art thou willing to be saved in my way?" i stood speechless until he asked me again, "art thou willing to be saved in my way?" then i heard a whispering voice say, "if thou art not saved in the lord's way, thou canst not be saved at all;" at which i exclaimed, "yes lord, in thy own way." immediately a light fell upon my head, and i was filled with light, and i was shown the world lying in wickedness, and was told i must go there, and call the people to repentance, for the day of the lord was at hand; and this message was as a heavy yoke upon me, so that i wept bitterly at the thought of what i should have to pass through. while i wept, i heard a voice say, "weep not, some will laugh at thee, some will scoff at thee, and the dogs will bark at thee, but while thou doest my will, i will be with thee to the ends of the earth." i was at this time not yet thirteen years old. the next day, when i had come to myself, i felt like a new creature in christ, and all my desire was to see the saviour. i lived in a place where there was no preaching, and no religious instruction; but every day i went out amongst the hay-stacks, where the presence of the lord overshadowed me, and i was filled with sweetness and joy, and was as a vessel filled with holy oil. in this way i continued for about a year; many times while my hands were at my work, my spirit was carried away to spiritual things. one day as i was going to my old place behind the hay-stacks to pray, i was assailed with this language, "are you going there to weep and pray? what a fool! there are older professors than you are, and they do not take that way to get to heaven; people whose sins are forgiven ought to be joyful and lively, and not be struggling and praying." with this i halted and concluded i would not go, but do as other professors did, and so went off to play; but at this moment the light that was in me became darkened, and the peace and joy that i once had, departed from me. about this time i was moved back to the farm where my mother lived, and then sold to a stranger. here i had deep sorrows and plungings, not having experienced a return of that sweet evidence and light with which i had been favoured formerly; but by watching unto prayer, and wrestling mightily with the lord, my peace gradually returned, and with it a great exercise and weight upon my heart for the salvation of my fellow-creatures; and i was often carried to distant lands and shown places where i should have to travel and deliver the lord's message. years afterwards, i found myself visiting those towns and countries that i had seen in the light as i sat at home at my sewing,--places of which i had never heard. some years from this time i was sold to a presbyterian for a term of years, as he did not think it right to hold slaves for life. having served him faithfully my time out, he gave me my liberty, which was about the thirtieth year of my age. as i now lived in a neighborhood where i could attend religious meetings, occasionally i felt moved to speak a few words therein; but i shrank from it--so great was the cross to my nature. i did not speak much till i had reached my forty-second year, when it was revealed to me that the message which had been given to me i had not yet delivered, and the time had come. as i could read but little, i questioned within myself how it would be possible for me to deliver the message, when i did not understand the scriptures. whereupon i was moved to open a bible that was near me, which i did, and my eyes fell upon this passage, "gird up thy loins now like a man, and answer thou me. obey god rather than man," &c. here i fell into a great exercise of spirit, and was plunged very low. i went from one religious professor to another, enquiring of them what ailed me; but of all these i could find none who could throw any light upon such impressions. they all told me there was nothing in scripture that would sanction such exercises. it was hard for men to travel, and what would women do? these things greatly discouraged me, and shut up my way, and caused me to resist the spirit. after going to all that were accounted pious, and receiving no help, i returned to the lord, feeling that i was nothing, and knew nothing, and wrestled and prayed to the lord that he would fully reveal his will, and make the way plain. whilst i thus struggled, there seemed a light from heaven to fall upon me, which banished all my desponding fears, and i was enabled to form a new resolution to go on to prison and to death, if it might be my portion: and the lord showed me that it was his will i should be resigned to die any death that might be my lot, in carrying his message, and be entirely crucified to the world, and sacrifice _all_ to his glory that was then in my possession, which his witnesses, the holy apostles, had done before me. it was then revealed to me that the lord had given me the evidence of a clean heart, in which i could rejoice day and night, and i walked and talked with god, and my soul was illuminated with heavenly light, and i knew nothing but jesus christ, and him crucified. one day, after these things, while i was at my work, the spirit directed me to go to a poor widow, and ask her if i might have a meeting at her house, which was situated in one of the lowest and worst streets in baltimore. with great joy she gave notice, and at the time appointed i appeared there among a few coloured sisters. when they had all prayed, they called upon me to close the meeting, and i felt an impression that i must say a few words; and while i was speaking, the house seemed filled with light; and when i was about to close the meeting, and was kneeling, a man came in and stood till i arose. it proved to be a watchman. the sisters became so frightened, they all went away except the one who lived in the house, and an old woman; they both appeared to be much frightened, fearing they should receive some personal injury, or be put out of the house. a feeling of weakness came over me for a short time, but i soon grew warm and courageous in the spirit. the man then said to me, "i was sent here to break up your meeting. complaint has been made to me that the people round here cannot sleep for the racket." i replied, "a good racket is better than a bad racket. how do they rest when the ungodly are dancing and fiddling till midnight? why are not they molested by the watchmen? and why should we be for praising god, our maker? are we worthy of greater punishment for praying to him? and are we to be prohibited from doing so, that sinners may remain slumbering in their sins?" while speaking these few words i grew warm with _heavenly_ zeal, and laid my hand upon him and addressed him with gospel truth, "how do sinners sleep in hell, after slumbering in their sins here, and crying, 'let me rest, let me rest,' while sporting on the very brink of hell? is the cause of god to be destroyed for this purpose?" speaking several words more to this amount, he turned pale and trembled, and begged my pardon, acknowledging that it was not his wish to interrupt us, and that he would never disturb a religious assembly again. he then took leave of me in a comely manner and wished us success. after he was gone, i turned to the old sisters who by this time were quite cheered up. you see, said i, if the sisters had not fled, what a victory we might have had on the lord's side; for the man seemed ready to give up under conviction. if it had not been for their cowardice, we might have all bowed in prayer, and a shout of victory had been heard amongst us. our meeting gave great offence, and we were forbid holding any more assemblies. even the elders of our meeting joined with the wicked people, and said such meetings must be stopped, and that woman quieted. but i was not afraid of any of them, and continued to go, and burnt with a zeal not my own. the old sisters were zealous sometimes, and at other times would sink under the cross. thus they grew cold, at which i was much grieved. i proposed to them to ask the elders to send a brother, which was concluded upon. we went on for several years, and the lord was with us with great power it proved, to the conversion of many souls, and we continued to grow stronger. i felt at times that i must exercise in the ministry, but when i rose upon my feet i felt ashamed, and so i went under a cloud for some time, and endeavoured to keep silence; but i could not quench the spirit. i was rejected by the elders and rulers, as christ was rejected by the jews before me, and while others were excused in crimes of the darkest dye, i was hunted down in every place where i appointed a meeting. wading through many sorrows, i thought at times i might as well be banished from this life, as to feel the almighty drawing me one way, and man another; so that i was tempted to cast myself into the dock. but contemplating the length of eternity, and how long my sufferings would be in that unchangeable world, compared with this, if i endured a little longer, the lord was pleased to deliver me from this gloomy, melancholy state in his own time; though while this temptation lasted i roved up and down, and talked and prayed. i often felt that i was unfit to assemble with the congregation with whom i had gathered, and had sometimes been made to rejoice in the lord. i felt that i was despised on account of this gracious calling, and was looked upon as a speckled bird by the ministers to whom i looked for instruction, and to whom i resorted every opportunity for the same; but when i would converse with them, some would cry out, "you are an enthusiast;" and others said, "the discipline did not allow of any such division of the work;" until i began to think i surely must be wrong. under this reflection, i had another gloomy cloud to struggle through; but after awhile i felt much moved upon by the spirit of the lord, and meeting with an aged sister, i found upon conversing with her that she could sympathize with me in this spiritual work. she was the first one i had met with, who could fully understand my exercises. she offered to open her house for a meeting, and run the risk of all the church would do to her for it. many were afraid to open their houses in this way, lest they should be turned out of the church. i persevered, notwithstanding the opposition of those who were looked upon as higher and wiser. the meeting was appointed, and but few came. i felt much backwardness, and as though i could not pray, but a pressure upon me to arise and express myself by way of exhortation. after hesitating for some time whether i would take up the cross or no, i arose, and after expressing a few words, the spirit came upon me with life, and a victory was gained over the power of darkness, and we could rejoice together in his love. as for myself, i was so full i hardly knew whether i was in the body, or out of the body--so great was my joy for the victory on the lord's side. but the persecution against me increased, and a complaint was carried forward, as was done formerly against daniel, the servant of god, and the elders came out with indignation for my holding meetings contrary to discipline--being a woman. thus we see when the heart is not inspired, and the inward eye enlightened by the spirit, we are incapable of discerning the mystery of god in these things. individuals creep into the church that are unregenerate, and after they have been there awhile, they fancy that they have got the grace of god, while they are destitute of it. they may have a degree of light in their heads, but evil in their hearts; which makes them think they are qualified to be judges of the ministry, and their conceit makes them very busy in matters of religion, judging of the revelations that are given to others, while they have received none themselves. being thus mistaken, they are calculated to make a great deal of confusion in the church, and clog the true ministry. these are they who eat their own bread, and wear their own apparel, having the form of godliness, but are destitute of the power. again i felt encouraged to attend another and another appointment. at one of these meetings, some of the class-leaders were present, who were constrained to cry out, "surely the lord has _revealed_ these things to her" and asked one another if they ever heard the like? i look upon man as a very selfish being, when placed in a religious office, to presume to resist the work of the almighty; because he does not work by man's authority. i did not faint under discouragement, but pressed on. under the contemplation of these things, i slept but little, being much engaged in receiving the revelations of the divine will concerning this work, and the mysterious call thereto. i felt very unworthy and small, notwithstanding the lord had shown himself with great power, insomuch that conjecturers and critics were constrained to join in praise to his great name; for truly, we had times of refreshing from the presence of the lord. at one of the meetings, a vast number of the white inhabitants of the place, and many coloured people, attended--many no doubt from curiosity to hear what the old coloured woman had to say. one, a great scripturian, fixed himself behind the door with pen and ink, in order to take down the discourse in short-hand; but the almighty being anointed me with such a portion of his spirit, that he cast away his paper and pen, and heard the discourse with patience, and was much affected, for the lord wrought powerfully on his heart. after meeting, he came forward and offered me his hand with solemnity on his countenance, and handed me something to pay for my conveyance home. i returned, much strengthened by the lord's power, to go on to the fulfilment of his work, although i was again pressed by the authorities of the church to which i belonged, for imprudency; and so much condemned, that i was sorely tempted by the enemy to turn aside into the wilderness. i was so embarrassed and encompassed, i wondered within myself whether all that were called to be mouth piece for the lord, suffered such deep wadings as i experienced. i now found i had to travel still more extensively in the work of the ministry, and i applied to the lord for direction. i was often _invited_ to go hither and thither, but felt that i must wait for the dictates of his spirit. at a meeting which i held in maryland, i was led to speak from the passage, "woe to the rebellious city," &c. after the meeting, the people came where i was, to take me before the squire; but the lord delivered me from their hands. i also held meetings in virginia. the people there would not believe that a coloured woman could preach. and moreover, as she had no learning, they strove to imprison me because i spoke against slavery: and being brought up, they asked by what authority i spake? and if i had been ordained? i answered, not by the commission of men's hands: if the lord had ordained me, i needed nothing better. as i travelled along through the land, i was led at different times to converse with white men who were by profession ministers of the gospel. many of them, up and down, confessed they did not believe in revelation, which gave me to see that men were sent forth as ministers without christ's authority. in a conversation with one of these, he said, "you think you have these things by revelation, but there has been no such thing as revelation since christ's ascension." i asked him where the apostle john got his revelation while he was in the isle of patmos. with this, he rose up and left me, and i said in my spirit, get thee behind me satan. i visited many remote places, where there were no meeting houses, and held many glorious meetings, for the lord poured out his spirit in sweet effusions. i also travelled in canada, and visited several settlements of coloured people, and felt an open door amongst them. i may here remark, that while journeying through the different states of the union, i met with many of the quaker friends, and visited them in their families. i received much kindness and sympathy, and no opposition from them, in the prosecution of my labours. on one occasion, in a thinly settled part of the country, seeing a friend's meeting house open, i went in; at the same time a friend and his little daughter followed me. we three composed the meeting. as we sat there in silence, i felt a remarkable overshadowing of the divine presence, as much so as i ever experienced any where. toward the close, a few words seemed to be given me, which i expressed, and left the place greatly refreshed in spirit. from thence i went to michigan, where i found a wide field of labour amongst my own colour. here i remained four years. i established a school for coloured orphans, having always felt the great importance of the religious and moral _agri_culture of children, and the great need of it, especially amongst the coloured people. having white teachers, i met with much encouragement. my eighty-seventh year had now arrived, when suffering from disease, and feeling released from travelling further in my good master's cause, i came on to philadelphia, where i have remained until this time, which brings me to my ninety-seventh year. when i went forth, it was without purse or scrip,--and i have come through great tribulation and temptation--not by any might of my own, for i feel that i am but as dust and ashes before my almighty helper, who has, according to his promise, been with me and sustained me through all, and gives me now firm faith that he will be with me to the end, and, in his own good time, receive me into his everlasting rest. this ebook was produced by david widger the weavers by gilbert parker contents book i i. as the spirit moved ii. the gates of the world iii. banished iv. the call book ii v. the wider way vi. "hast thou never billed a many" vii. the compact viii. for his soul's sake and the land's sake ix. the letter, the night, and the woman x. the four who knew xi. against the hour of midnight xii. the jehad and the lions xiii. achmet the ropemaker strikes xiv. beyond the pale book iii xv. soolsby's hand upon the curtain xvi. the debt and the accounting xvii. the woman of the cross-roads xviii. time, the idol-breaker xix. sharper than a sword xx. each after his own order xxi. "there is nothing hidden which shall not be revealed" xxii. as in a glass darkly xxiii. the tents of cushan xxiv. the questioner xxv. the voice through the door xxvi. "i owe you nothing" xxvii. the awakening book iv xxviii. nahoum turns the screw xxix. the recoil xxx. lacey moves xxxi. the struggle in the desert xxxii. forty stripes save one xxxiii. the dark indenture xxxiv. nahoum drops the mask book v xxxv. the flight of the wounded xxxvi. "is it always so-in life?" xxxvii. the flying shuttle xxxviii. jasper kimber speaks xxxix. faith journeys to london book vi xl. hylda seeks nahoum xli. in the land of shinar xlii. the loom of destiny introduction when i turn over the hundreds of pages of this book, i have a feeling that i am looking upon something for which i have no particular responsibility, though it has a strange contour of familiarity. it is as though one looks upon a scene in which one had lived and moved, with the friendly yet half-distant feeling that it once was one's own possession but is so no longer. i should think the feeling to be much like that of the old man whose sons, gone to distant places, have created their own plantations of life and have themselves become the masters of possessions. also i suppose that when i read the story through again from the first page to the last, i shall recreate the feeling in which i lived when i wrote it, and it will become a part of my own identity again. that distance between himself and his work, however, which immediately begins to grow as soon as a book leaves the author's hands for those of the public, is a thing which, i suppose, must come to one who produces a work of the imagination. it is no doubt due to the fact that every piece of art which has individuality and real likeness to the scenes and character it is intended to depict is done in a kind of trance. the author, in effect, self-hypnotises himself, has created an atmosphere which is separate and apart from that of his daily surroundings, and by virtue of his imagination becomes absorbed in that atmosphere. when the book is finished and it goes forth, when the imagination is relaxed and the concentration of mind is withdrawn, the atmosphere disappears, and then. one experiences what i feel when i take up 'the weavers' and, in a sense, wonder how it was done, such as it is. the frontispiece of the english edition represents a scene in the house of commons, and this brings to my mind a warning which was given me similar to that on my entering new fields outside the one in which i first made a reputation in fiction. when, in a certain year, i determined that i would enter the house of commons i had many friends who, in effect, wailed and gnashed their teeth. they said that it would be the death of my imaginative faculties; that i should never write anything any more; that all the qualities which make literature living and compelling would disappear. i thought this was all wrong then, and i know it is all wrong now. political life does certainly interfere with the amount of work which an author may produce. he certainly cannot write a book every year and do political work as well, but if he does not attempt to do the two things on the same days, as it were, but in blocks of time devoted to each separately and respectively, he will only find, as i have found, that public life the conflict of it, the accompanying attrition of mind, the searching for the things which will solve the problems of national life, the multitudinous variations of character with which one comes in contact, the big issues suddenly sprung upon the congregation of responsible politicians, all are stimulating to the imagination, invigorating to the mind, and marvellously freshening to every literary instinct. no danger to the writer lies in doing political work, if it does not sap his strength and destroy his health. apart from that, he should not suffer. the very spirit of statesmanship is imagination, vision; and the same quality which enables an author to realise humanity for a book is necessary for him to realise humanity in the crowded chamber of a parliament. so far as i can remember, whatever was written of the weavers, no critic said that it lacked imagination. some critics said it was too crowded with incident; that there was enough incident in it for two novels; some said that the sweep was too wide, but no critic of authority declared that the book lacked vision or the vivacity of a living narrative. it is not likely that i shall ever write again a novel of egypt, but i have made my contribution to anglo-egyptian literature, and i do not think i failed completely in showing the greatness of soul which enabled one man to keep the torch of civilisation, of truth, justice, and wholesome love alight in surroundings as offensive to civilisation as was egypt in the last days of ismail pasha--a time which could be well typified by the words put by bulwer lytton in the mouth of cardinal richelieu: "i found france rent asunder, sloth in the mart and schism in the temple; broils festering to rebellion; and weak laws rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. i have re-created france; and, from the ashes of the old feudal and decrepit carcase, civilisation on her luminous wings soars, phoenix-like, to jove!" critics and readers have endeavoured to identify the main characteristics of the weavers with figures in anglo-egyptian and official public life. david claridge was, however, a creature of the imagination. it has been said that he was drawn from general gordon. i am not conscious of having taken gordon for david's prototype, though, as i was saturated with all that had been written about gordon, there is no doubt that something of that great man may have found its way into the character of david claridge. the true origin of david claridge, however, may be found in a short story called 'all the world's mad', in donovan pasha, which was originally published by lady randolph churchill in an ambitious but defunct magazine called 'the anglo-saxon review'. the truth is that david claridge had his origin in a fairly close understanding of, and interest in, quaker life. i had quaker relatives through the marriage of a connection of my mother, and the original of benn claridge, the uncle of david, is still alive, a very old man, who in my boyhood days wore the broad brim and the straight preacher-like coat of the old-fashioned quaker. the grandmother of my wife was also a quaker, and used the "thee" and "thou" until the day of her death. here let me say that criticism came to me from several quarters both in england and america on the use of these words thee and thou, and statements were made that the kind of speech which i put into david claridge's mouth was not quaker speech. for instance, they would not have it that a quaker would say, "thee will go with me"--as though they were ashamed of the sweet inaccuracy of the objective pronoun being used in the nominative; but hundreds of times i have myself heard quakers use "thee" in just such a way in england and america. the facts are, however, that quakers differ extensively in their habits, and there grew up in england among the quakers in certain districts a sense of shame for false grammar which, to say the least, was very childish. to be deliberately and boldly ungrammatical, when you serve both euphony and simplicity, is merely to give archaic charm, not to be guilty of an offence. i have friends in derbyshire who still say "thee thinks," etc., and i must confess that the picture of a quaker rampant over my deliberate use of this well-authenticated form of speech produced to my mind only the effect of an infuriated sheep, when i remembered the peaceful attribute of quaker life and character. from another quarter came the assurance that i was wrong when i set up a tombstone with a name upon it in a quaker graveyard. i received a sarcastic letter from a lady on the borders of sussex and surrey upon this point, and i immediately sent her a first-class railway ticket to enable her to visit the quaker churchyard at croydon, in surrey, where dead and gone quakers have tombstones by the score, and inscriptions on them also. it is a good thing to be accurate; it is desperately essential in a novel. the average reader, in his triumph at discovering some slight error of detail, would consign a masterpiece of imagination, knowledge of life and character to the rubbish-heap. i believe that 'the weavers' represents a wider outlook of life, closer understanding of the problems which perplex society, and a clearer view of the verities than any previous book written by me, whatever its popularity may have been. it appealed to the british public rather more than 'the right of way', and the great public of america and the oversea dominions gave it a welcome which enabled it to take its place beside 'the right of way', the success of which was unusual. note this book is not intended to be an historical novel, nor are its characters meant to be identified with well-known persons connected with the history of england or of egypt; but all that is essential in the tale is based upon, and drawn from, the life of both countries. though egypt has greatly changed during the past generation, away from cairo and the commercial centres the wheels of social progress have turned but slowly, and much remains as it was in the days of which this book is a record in the spirit of the life, at least. g. p. "dost thou spread the sail, throw the spear, swing the axe, lay thy hand upon the plough, attend the furnace door, shepherd the sheep upon the hills, gather corn from the field, or smite the rock in the quarry? yet, whatever thy task, thou art even as one who twists the thread and throws the shuttle, weaving the web of life. ye are all weavers, and allah the merciful, does he not watch beside the loom?" book i chapter i as the spirit moved the village lay in a valley which had been the bed of a great river in the far-off days when ireland, wales and brittany were joined together and the thames flowed into the seine. the place had never known turmoil or stir. for generations it had lived serenely. three buildings in the village stood out insistently, more by the authority of their appearance and position than by their size. one was a square, red-brick mansion in the centre of the village, surrounded by a high, redbrick wall enclosing a garden. another was a big, low, graceful building with wings. it had once been a monastery. it was covered with ivy, which grew thick and hungry upon it, and it was called the cloistered house. the last of the three was of wood, and of no great size--a severely plain but dignified structure, looking like some council-hall of a past era. its heavy oak doors and windows with diamond panes, and its air of order, cleanliness and serenity, gave it a commanding influence in the picture. it was the key to the history of the village--a quaker meeting-house. involuntarily the village had built itself in such a way that it made a wide avenue from the common at one end to the meeting-house on the gorse- grown upland at the other. with a demure resistance to the will of its makers the village had made itself decorative. the people were unconscious of any attractiveness in themselves or in their village. there were, however, a few who felt the beauty stirring around them. these few, for their knowledge and for the pleasure which it brought, paid the accustomed price. the records of their lives were the only notable history of the place since the days when their forefathers suffered for the faith. one of these was a girl--for she was still but a child when she died; and she had lived in the red mansion with the tall porch, the wide garden behind, and the wall of apricots and peaches and clustering grapes. her story was not to cease when she was laid away in the stiff graveyard behind the meeting-house. it was to go on in the life of her son, whom to bring into the world she had suffered undeserved, and loved with a passion more in keeping with the beauty of the vale in which she lived than with the piety found on the high-backed seats in the quaker meeting- house. the name given her on the register of death was mercy claridge, and a line beneath said that she was the daughter of luke claridge, that her age at passing was nineteen years, and that "her soul was with the lord." another whose life had given pages to the village history was one of noble birth, the earl of eglington. he had died twenty years after the time when luke claridge, against the then custom of the quakers, set up a tombstone to mercy claridge's memory behind the meeting-house. only thrice in those twenty years had he slept in a room of the cloistered house. one of those occasions was the day on which luke claridge put up the grey stone in the graveyard, three years after his daughter's death. on the night of that day these two men met face to face in the garden of the cloistered house. it was said by a passer-by, who had involuntarily overheard, that luke claridge had used harsh and profane words to lord eglington, though he had no inkling of the subject of the bitter talk. he supposed, however, that luke had gone to reprove the other for a wasteful and wandering existence; for desertion of that quaker religion to which his grandfather, the third earl of eglington, had turned in the second half of his life, never visiting his estates in ireland, and residing here among his new friends to his last day. this listener--john fairley was his name--kept his own counsel. on two other occasions had lord eglington visited the cloistered house in the years that passed, and remained many months. once he brought his wife and child. the former was a cold, blue-eyed saxon of an old family, who smiled distantly upon the quaker village; the latter, a round-headed, warm-faced youth, with a bold, menacing eye, who probed into this and that, rushed here and there as did his father; now built a miniature mill; now experimented at some peril in the laboratory which had been arranged in the cloistered house for scientific experiments; now shot partridges in the fields where partridges had not been shot for years; and was as little in the picture as his adventurous father, though he wore a broad-brimmed hat, smiling the while at the pain it gave to the simple folk around him. and yet once more the owner of the cloistered house returned alone. the blue-eyed lady was gone to her grave; the youth was abroad. this time he came to die. he was found lying on the floor of his laboratory with a broken retort in fragments beside him. with his servant, luke claridge was the first to look upon him lying in the wreck of his last experiment, a spirit-lamp still burning above him, in the grey light of a winter's morning. luke claridge closed the eyes, straightened the body, and crossed the hands over the breast which had been the laboratory of many conflicting passions of life. the dead man had left instructions that his body should be buried in the quaker graveyard, but luke claridge and the elders prevented that--he had no right to the privileges of a friend; and, as the only son was afar, and no near relatives pressed the late earl's wishes, the ancient family tomb in ireland received all that was left of the owner of the cloistered house, which, with the estates in ireland and the title, passed to the wandering son. chapter ii the gates of the world stillness in the meeting-house, save for the light swish of one graveyard-tree against the window-pane, and the slow breathing of the quaker folk who filled every corner. on the long bench at the upper end of the room the elders sat motionless, their hands on their knees, wearing their hats; the women in their poke-bonnets kept their gaze upon their laps. the heads of all save three were averted, and they were luke claridge, his only living daughter, called faith, and his dead daughter's son david, who kept his eyes fixed on the window where the twig flicked against the pane. the eyes of faith, who sat on a bench at one side, travelled from david to her father constantly; and if, once or twice, the plain rebuke of luke claridge's look compelled her eyes upon her folded hands, still she was watchful and waiting, and seemed demurely to defy the convention of unblinking silence. as time went on, others of her sex stole glances at mercy's son from the depths of their bonnets; and at last, after over an hour, they and all were drawn to look steadily at the young man upon whose business this meeting of discipline had been called. the air grew warmer and warmer, but no one became restless; all seemed as cool of face and body as the grey gowns and coats with grey steel buttons which they wore. at last a shrill voice broke the stillness. raising his head, one of the elders said: "thee will stand up, friend." he looked at david. with a slight gesture of relief the young man stood up. he was good to look at-clean-shaven, broad of brow, fine of figure, composed of carriage, though it was not the composure of the people by whom he was surrounded. they were dignified, he was graceful; they were consistently slow of movement, but at times his quick gestures showed that he had not been able to train his spirit to that passiveness by which he lived surrounded. their eyes were slow and quiet, more meditative than observant; his were changeful in expression, now abstracted, now dark and shining as though some inner fire was burning. the head, too, had a habit of coming up quickly with an almost wilful gesture, and with an air which, in others, might have been called pride. "what is thy name?" said another owl-like elder to him. a gentle, half-amused smile flickered at the young man's lips for an instant, then, "david claridge--still," he answered. his last word stirred the meeting. a sort of ruffle went through the atmosphere, and now every eye was fixed and inquiring. the word was ominous. he was there on his trial, and for discipline; and it was thought by all that, as many days had passed since his offence was committed, meditation and prayer should have done their work. now, however, in the tone of his voice, as it clothed the last word, there was something of defiance. on the ear of his grandfather, luke claridge, it fell heavily. the old man's lips closed tightly, he clasped his hands between his knees with apparent self-repression. the second elder who had spoken was he who had once heard luke claridge use profane words in the cloistered house. feeling trouble ahead, and liking the young man and his brother elder, luke claridge, john fairley sought now to take the case into his own hands. "thee shall never find a better name, david," he said, "if thee live a hundred years. it hath served well in england. this thee didst do. while the young earl of eglington was being brought home, with noise and brawling, after his return to parliament, thee mingled among the brawlers; and because some evil words were said of thy hat and thy apparel, thee laid about thee, bringing one to the dust, so that his life was in peril for some hours to come. jasper kimber was his name." "were it not that the smitten man forgave thee, thee would now be in a prison cell," shrilly piped the elder who had asked his name. "the fight was fair," was the young man's reply. "though i am a friend, the man was english." "thee was that day a son of belial," rejoined the shrill elder. "thee did use thy hands like any heathen sailor--is it not the truth?" "i struck the man. i punished him--why enlarge?" "thee is guilty?" "i did the thing." "that is one charge against thee. there are others. thee was seen to drink of spirits in a public-house at heddington that day. twice-- thrice, like any drunken collier." "twice," was the prompt correction. there was a moment's pause, in which some women sighed and others folded and unfolded their hands on their laps; the men frowned. "thee has been a dark deceiver," said the shrill elder again, and with a ring of acrid triumph; "thee has hid these things from our eyes many years, but in one day thee has uncovered all. thee--" "thee is charged," interposed elder fairley, "with visiting a play this same day, and with seeing a dance of spain following upon it." "i did not disdain the music," said the young man drily; "the flute, of all instruments, has a mellow sound." suddenly his eyes darkened, he became abstracted, and gazed at the window where the twig flicked softly against the pane, and the heat of summer palpitated in the air. "it has good grace to my ear," he added slowly. luke claridge looked at him intently. he began to realize that there were forces stirring in his grandson which had no beginning in claridge blood, and were not nurtured in the garden with the fruited wall. he was not used to problems; he had only a code, which he had rigidly kept. he had now a glimmer of something beyond code or creed. he saw that the shrill elder was going to speak. he intervened. "thee is charged, david," he said coldly, "with kissing a woman--a stranger and a wanton--where the four roads meet 'twixt here and yonder town." he motioned towards the hills. "in the open day," added the shrill elder, a red spot burning on each withered cheek. "the woman was comely," said the young man, with a tone of irony, recovering an impassive look. a strange silence fell, the women looked down; yet they seemed not so confounded as the men. after a moment they watched the young man with quicker flashes of the eye. "the answer is shameless," said the shrill elder. "thy life is that of a carnal hypocrite." the young man said nothing. his face had become very pale, his lips were set, and presently he sat down and folded his arms. "thee is guilty of all?" asked john fairley. his kindly eye was troubled, for he had spent numberless hours in this young man's company, and together they had read books of travel and history, and even the plays of shakespeare and marlowe, though drama was anathema to the society of friends--they did not realize it in the life around them. that which was drama was either the visitation of god or the dark deeds of man, from which they must avert their eyes. their own tragedies they hid beneath their grey coats and bodices; their dirty linen they never washed in public, save in the scandal such as this where the society must intervene. then the linen was not only washed, but duly starched, sprinkled, and ironed. "i have answered all. judge by my words," said david gravely. "has repentance come to thee? is it thy will to suffer that which we may decide for thy correction?" it was elder fairley who spoke. he was determined to control the meeting and to influence its judgment. he loved the young man. david made no reply; he seemed lost in thought. "let the discipline proceed--he hath an evil spirit," said the shrill elder. "his childhood lacked in much," said elder fairley patiently. to most minds present the words carried home--to every woman who had a child, to every man who had lost a wife and had a motherless son. this much they knew of david's real history, that mercy claridge, his mother, on a visit to the house of an uncle at portsmouth, her mother's brother, had eloped with and was duly married to the captain of a merchant ship. they also knew that, after some months, luke claridge had brought her home; and that before her child was born news came that the ship her husband sailed had gone down with all on board. they knew likewise that she had died soon after david came, and that her father, luke claridge, buried her in her maiden name, and brought the boy up as his son, not with his father's name but bearing that name so long honoured in england, and even in the far places of the earth--for had not benn claridge, luke's brother, been a great carpet-merchant, traveller, and explorer in asia minor, egypt, and the soudan--benn claridge of the whimsical speech, the pious life? all this they knew; but none of them, to his or her knowledge, had ever seen david's father. he was legendary; though there was full proof that the girl had been duly married. that had been laid before the elders by luke claridge on an occasion when benn claridge, his brother was come among them again from the east. at this moment of trial david was thinking of his uncle, benn claridge, and of his last words fifteen years before when going once again to the east, accompanied by the muslim chief ebn ezra, who had come with him to england on the business of his country. these were benn claridge's words: "love god before all, love thy fellow-man, and thy conscience will bring thee safe home, lad." "if he will not repent, there is but one way," said the shrill elder. "let there be no haste," said luke claridge, in a voice that shook a little in his struggle for self-control. another heretofore silent elder, sitting beside john fairley, exchanged words in a whisper with him, and then addressed them. he was a very small man with a very high stock and spreading collar, a thin face, and large wide eyes. he kept his chin down in his collar, but spoke at the ceiling like one blind, though his eyes were sharp enough on occasion. his name was meacham. "it is meet there shall be time for sorrow and repentance," he said. "this, i pray you all, be our will: that for three months david live apart, even in the hut where lived the drunken chair-maker ere he disappeared and died, as rumour saith--it hath no tenant. let it be that after to-morrow night at sunset none shall speak to him till that time be come, the first day of winter. till that day he shall speak to no man, and shall be despised of the world, and--pray god--of himself. upon the first day of winter let it be that he come hither again and speak with us." on the long stillness of assent that followed there came a voice across the room, from within a grey-and-white bonnet, which shadowed a delicate face shining with the flame of the spirit within. it was the face of faith claridge, the sister of the woman in the graveyard, whose soul was "with the lord," though she was but one year older and looked much younger than her nephew, david. "speak, david," she said softly. "speak now. doth not the spirit move thee?" she gave him his cue, for he had of purpose held his peace till all had been said; and he had come to say some things which had been churning in his mind too long. he caught the faint cool sarcasm in her tone, and smiled unconsciously at her last words. she, at least, must have reasons for her faith in him, must have grounds for his defence in painful days to come; for painful they must be, whether he stayed to do their will, or went into the fighting world where quakers were few and life composite of things they never knew in hamley. he got to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. after an instant he broke silence. "all those things of which i am accused, i did; and for them is asked repentance. before that day on which i did these things was there complaint, or cause for it? was my life evil? did i think in secret that which might not be done openly? well, some things i did secretly. ye shall hear of them. i read where i might, and after my taste, many plays, and found in them beauty and the soul of deep things. tales i have read, but a few, and john milton, and chaucer, and bacon, and montaigne, and arab poets also, whose books my uncle sent me. was this sin in me?" "it drove to a day of shame for thee," said the shrill elder. he took no heed, but continued: "when i was a child i listened to the lark as it rose from the meadow; and i hid myself in the hedge that, unseen, i might hear it sing; and at night i waited till i could hear the nightingale. i have heard the river singing, and the music of the trees. at first i thought that this must be sin, since ye condemn the human voice that sings, but i could feel no guilt. i heard men and women sing upon the village green, and i sang also. i heard bands of music. one instrument seemed to me more than all the rest. i bought one like it, and learned to play. it was the flute--its note so soft and pleasant. i learned to play it--years ago--in the woods of beedon beyond the hill, and i have felt no guilt from then till now. for these things i have no repentance." "thee has had good practice in deceit," said the shrill elder. suddenly david's manner changed. his voice became deeper; his eyes took on that look of brilliance and heat which had given luke claridge anxious thoughts. "i did, indeed, as the spirit moved me, even as ye have done." "blasphemer, did the spirit move thee to brawl and fight, to drink and curse, to kiss a wanton in the open road? what hath come upon thee?" again it was the voice of the shrill elder. "judge me by the truth i speak," he answered. "save in these things my life has been an unclasped book for all to read." "speak to the charge of brawling and drink, david," rejoined the little elder meacham with the high collar and gaze upon the ceiling. "shall i not speak when i am moved? ye have struck swiftly; i will draw the arrow slowly from the wound. but, in truth, ye had good right to wound. naught but kindness have i had among you all; and i will answer. straightly have i lived since my birth. yet betimes a torturing unrest of mind was used to come upon me as i watched the world around us. i saw men generous to their kind, industrious and brave, beloved by their fellows; and i have seen these same men drink and dance and give themselves to coarse, rough play like young dogs in a kennel. yet, too, i have seen dark things done in drink--the cheerful made morose, the gentle violent. what was the temptation? what the secret? was it but the low craving of the flesh, or was it some primitive unrest, or craving of the soul, which, clouded and baffled by time and labour and the wear of life, by this means was given the witched medicament--a false freedom, a thrilling forgetfulness? in ancient days the high, the humane, in search of cure for poison, poisoned themselves, and then applied the antidote. he hath little knowledge and less pity for sin who has never sinned. the day came when all these things which other men did in my sight i did--openly. i drank with them in the taverns--twice i drank. i met a lass in the way. i kissed her. i sat beside her at the roadside and she told me her brief, sad, evil story. one she had loved had left her. she was going to london. i gave her what money i had--" "and thy watch," said a whispering voice from the elders' bench. "even so. and at the cross-roads i bade her goodbye with sorrow." "there were those who saw," said the shrill voice from the bench. "they saw what i have said--no more. i had never tasted spirits in my life. i had never kissed a woman's lips. till then i had never struck my fellow-man; but before the sun went down i fought the man who drove the lass in sorrow into the homeless world. i did not choose to fight; but when i begged the man jasper kimber for the girl's sake to follow and bring her back, and he railed at me and made to fight me, i took off my hat, and there i laid him in the dust." "no thanks to thee that he did not lie in his grave," observed the shrill elder. "in truth i hit hard," was the quiet reply. "how came thee expert with thy fists?" asked elder fairley, with the shadow of a smile. "a book i bought from london, a sack of corn, a hollow leather ball, and an hour betimes with the drunken chair-maker in the hut by the lime-kiln on the hill. he was once a sailor and a fighting man." a look of blank surprise ran slowly along the faces of the elders. they were in a fog of misunderstanding and reprobation. "while yet my father"--he looked at luke claridge, whom he had ever been taught to call his father--"shared the great business at heddington, and the ships came from smyrna and alexandria, i had some small duties, as is well known. but that ceased, and there was little to do. sports are forbidden among us here, and my body grew sick, because the mind had no labour. the world of work has thickened round us beyond the hills. the great chimneys rise in a circle as far as eye can see on yonder crests; but we slumber and sleep." "enough, enough," said a voice from among the women. "thee has a friend gone to london--thee knows the way. it leads from the cross-roads!" faith claridge, who had listened to david's speech, her heart panting, her clear grey eyes--she had her mother's eyes--fixed benignly on him, turned to the quarter whence the voice came. seeing who it was--a widow who, with no demureness, had tried without avail to bring luke claridge to her--her lips pressed together in a bitter smile, and she said to her nephew clearly: "patience spielman hath little hope of thee, david. hope hath died in her." a faint, prim smile passed across the faces of all present, for all knew faith's allusion, and it relieved the tension of the past half-hour. from the first moment david began to speak he had commanded his hearers. his voice was low and even; but it had also a power which, when put to sudden quiet use, compelled the hearer to an almost breathless silence, not so much to the meaning of the words, but to the tone itself, to the man behind it. his personal force was remarkable. quiet and pale ordinarily, his clear russet-brown hair falling in a wave over his forehead, when roused, he seemed like some delicate engine made to do great labours. as faith said to him once, "david, thee looks as though thee could lift great weights lightly." when roused, his eyes lighted like a lamp, the whole man seemed to pulsate. he had shocked, awed, and troubled his listeners. yet he had held them in his power, and was master of their minds. the interjections had but given him new means to defend himself. after faith had spoken he looked slowly round. "i am charged with being profane," he said. "i do not remember. but is there none among you who has not secretly used profane words and, neither in secret nor openly, has repented? i am charged with drinking. on one day of my life i drank openly. i did it because something in me kept crying out, 'taste and see!' i tasted and saw, and know; and i know that oblivion, that brief pitiful respite from trouble, which this evil tincture gives. i drank to know; and i found it lure me into a new careless joy. the sun seemed brighter, men's faces seemed happier, the world sang about me, the blood ran swiftly, thoughts swarmed in my brain. my feet were on the mountains, my hands were on the sails of great ships; i was a conqueror. i understood the drunkard in the first withdrawal begotten of this false stimulant. i drank to know. is there none among you who has, though it be but once, drunk secretly as i drank openly? if there be none, then i am condemned." "amen," said elder fairley's voice from the bench. "in the open way by the cross-roads i saw a woman. i saw she was in sorrow. i spoke to her. tears came to her eyes. i took her hand, and we sat down together. of the rest i have told you. i kissed her--a stranger. she was comely. and this i know, that the matter ended by the cross-roads, and that by and forbidden paths have easy travel. i kissed the woman openly--is there none among you who has kissed secretly, and has kept the matter hidden? for him i struck and injured, it was fair. shall a man be beaten like a dog? kimber would have beaten me." "wherein has it all profited?" asked the shrill elder querulously. "i have knowledge. none shall do these things hereafter but i shall understand. none shall go venturing, exploring, but i shall pray for him." "thee will break thy heart and thy life exploring," said luke claridge bitterly. experiment in life he did not understand, and even benn claridge's emigration to far lands had ever seemed to him a monstrous and amazing thing, though it ended in the making of a great business in which he himself had prospered, and from which he had now retired. he suddenly realized that a day of trouble was at hand with this youth on whom his heart doted, and it tortured him that he could not understand. "by none of these things shall i break my life," was david's answer now. for a moment he stood still and silent, then all at once he stretched out his hands to them. "all these things i did were against our faith. i desire forgiveness. i did them out of my own will; i will take up your judgment. if there be no more to say, i will make ready to go to old soolsby's hut on the hill till the set time be passed." there was a long silence. even the shrill elder's head was buried in his breast. they were little likely to forego his penalty. there was a gentle inflexibility in their natures born of long restraint and practised determination. he must go out into blank silence and banishment until the first day of winter. yet, recalcitrant as they held him, their secret hearts were with him, for there was none of them but had had happy commerce with him; and they could think of no more bitter punishment than to be cut off from their own society for three months. they were satisfied he was being trained back to happiness and honour. a new turn was given to events, however. the little wizened elder meacham said: "the flute, friend--is it here?" "i have it here," david answered. "let us have music, then." "to what end?" interjected the shrill elder. "he hath averred he can play," drily replied the other. "let us judge whether vanity breeds untruth in him." the furtive brightening of the eyes in the women was represented in the men by an assumed look of abstraction in most; in others by a bland assumption of judicial calm. a few, however, frowned, and would have opposed the suggestion, but that curiosity mastered them. these watched with darkening interest the flute, in three pieces, drawn from an inner pocket and put together swiftly. david raised the instrument to his lips, blew one low note, and then a little run of notes, all smooth and soft. mellowness and a sober sweetness were in the tone. he paused a moment after this, and seemed questioning what to play. and as he stood, the flute in his hands, his thoughts took flight to his uncle benn, whose kindly, shrewd face and sharp brown eyes were as present to him, and more real, than those of luke claridge, whom he saw every day. of late when he had thought of his uncle, however, alternate depression and lightness of spirit had possessed him. night after night he had troubled sleep, and he had dreamed again and again that his uncle knocked at his door, or came and stood beside his bed and spoke to him. he had wakened suddenly and said "yes" to a voice which seemed to call to him. always his dreams and imaginings settled round his uncle benn, until he had found himself trying to speak to the little brown man across the thousand leagues of land and sea. he had found, too, in the past that when he seemed to be really speaking to his uncle, when it seemed as though the distance between them had been annihilated, that soon afterwards there came a letter from him. yet there had not been more than two or three a year. they had been, however, like books of many pages, closely written, in arabic, in a crabbed characteristic hand, and full of the sorrow and grandeur and misery of the east. how many books on the east david had read he would hardly have been able to say; but something of the east had entered into him, something of the philosophy of mahomet and buddha, and the beauty of omar khayyam had given a touch of colour and intellect to the narrow faith in which he had been schooled. he had found himself replying to a question asked of him in heddington, as to how he knew that there was a god, in the words of a muslim quoted by his uncle: "as i know by the tracks in the sand whether a man or beast has passed there, so the heaven with its stars, the earth with its fruits, show me that god has passed." again, in reply to the same question, the reply of the same arab sprang to his lips--"does the morning want a light to see it by?" as he stood with his flute--his fingers now and then caressingly rising and falling upon its little caverns, his mind travelled far to those regions he had never seen, where his uncle traded, and explored. suddenly, the call he had heard in his sleep now came to him in this waking reverie. his eyes withdrew from the tree at the window, as if startled, and he almost called aloud in reply; but he realised where he was. at last, raising the flute to his lips, as the eyes of luke claridge closed with very trouble, he began to play. out in the woods of beedon he had attuned his flute to the stir of leaves, the murmur of streams, the song of birds, the boom and burden of storm; and it was soft and deep as the throat of the bell-bird of australian wilds. now it was mastered by the dreams he had dreamed of the east: the desert skies, high and clear and burning, the desert sunsets, plaintive and peaceful and unvaried--one lovely diffusion, in which day dies without splendour and in a glow of pain. the long velvety tread of the camel, the song of the camel-driver, the monotonous chant of the river-man, with fingers mechanically falling on his little drum, the cry of the eagle of the libyan hills, the lap of the heavy waters of the dead sea down by jericho, the battle-call of the druses beyond damascus, the lonely gigantic figures at the mouth of the temple of abou simbel, looking out with the eternal question to the unanswering desert, the delicate ruins of moonlit baalbec, with the snow mountains hovering above, the green oases, and the deep wells where the caravans lay down in peace--all these were pouring their influences on his mind in the little quaker village of hamley where life was so bare, so grave. the music he played was all his own, was instinctively translated from all other influences into that which they who listened to him could understand. yet that sensuous beauty which the quaker society was so concerned to banish from any part in their life was playing upon them now, making the hearts of the women beat fast, thrilling them, turning meditation into dreams, and giving the sight of the eyes far visions of pleasure. so powerful was this influence that the shrill elder twice essayed to speak in protest, but was prevented by the wizened elder meacham. when it seemed as if the aching, throbbing sweetness must surely bring denunciation, david changed the music to a slow mourning cadence. it was a wail of sorrow, a march to the grave, a benediction, a soft sound of farewell, floating through the room and dying away into the mid-day sun. there came a long silence after, and david sat with unmoving look upon the distant prospect through the window. a woman's sob broke the air. faith's handkerchief was at her eyes. only one quick sob, but it had been wrung from her by the premonition suddenly come that the brother-- he was brother more than nephew--over whom her heart had yearned had, indeed, come to the cross-roads, and that their ways would henceforth divide. the punishment or banishment now to be meted out to him was as nothing. it meant a few weeks of disgrace, of ban, of what, in effect, was self-immolation, of that commanding justice of the society which no one yet save the late earl of eglington had defied. david could refuse to bear punishment, but such a possibility had never occurred to her or to any one present. she saw him taking his punishment as surely as though the law of the land had him in its grasp. it was not that which she was fearing. but she saw him moving out of her life. to her this music was the prelude of her tragedy. a moment afterwards luke claridge arose and spoke to david in austere tones: "it is our will that thee begone to the chair-maker's but upon the hill till three months be passed, and that none have speech with thee after sunset to-morrow even." "amen," said all the elders. "amen," said david, and put his flute into his pocket, and rose to go. chapter iii banished the chair-maker's hut lay upon the north hillside about half-way between the meeting-house at one end of the village and the common at the other end. it commanded the valley, had no house near it, and was sheltered from the north wind by the hill-top which rose up behind it a hundred feet or more. no road led to it--only a path up from the green of the village, winding past a gulley and the deep cuts of old rivulets now over grown by grass or bracken. it got the sun abundantly, and it was protected from the full sweep of any storm. it had but two rooms, the floor was of sanded earth, but it had windows on three sides, east, west, and south, and the door looked south. its furniture was a plank bed, a few shelves, a bench, two chairs, some utensils, a fireplace of stone, a picture of the virgin and child, and of a cardinal of the church of rome with a red hat--for the chair-maker had been a roman catholic, the only one of that communion in hamley. had he been a protestant his vices would have made him anathema, but, being what he was, his fellow- villagers had treated him with kindness. after the half-day in which he was permitted to make due preparations, lay in store of provisions, and purchase a few sheep and hens, hither came david claridge. here, too, came faith, who was permitted one hour with him before he began his life of willing isolation. little was said as they made the journey up the hill, driving the sheep before them, four strong lads following with necessities--flour, rice, potatoes, and suchlike. arrived, the goods were deposited inside the hut, the lads were dismissed, and david and faith were left alone. david looked at his watch. they had still a handful of minutes before the parting. these flew fast, and yet, seated inside the door, and looking down at the village which the sun was bathing in the last glowing of evening, they remained silent. each knew that a great change had come in their hitherto unchanging life, and it was difficult to separate premonition from substantial fact. the present fact did not represent all they felt, though it represented all on which they might speak together now. looking round the room, at last faith said: "thee has all thee needs, david? thee is sure?" he nodded. "i know not yet how little man may need. i have lived in plenty." at that moment her eyes rested on the cloistered house. "the earl of eglington would not call it plenty." a shade passed over david's face. "i know not how he would measure. is his own field so wide?" "the spread of a peacock's feather." "what does thee know of him?" david asked the question absently. "i have eyes to see, davy." the shadows from that seeing were in her eyes as she spoke, but he did not observe them. "thee sees but with half an eye," she continued. "with both mine i have seen horses and carriages, and tall footmen, and wine and silver, and gilded furniture, and fine pictures, and rolls of new carpet--of uncle benn's best carpets, davy--and a billiard-table, and much else." a cloud slowly gathered over david's face, and he turned to her with an almost troubled surprise. "thee has seen these things--and how?" "one day--thee was in devon--one of the women was taken ill. they sent for me because the woman asked it. she was a papist; but she begged that i should go with her to the hospital, as there was no time to send to heddington for a nurse. she had seen me once in the house of the toll- gate keeper. ill as she was, i could have laughed, for, as we went in the earl's carriage to the hospital-thirty miles it was--she said she felt at home with me, my dress being so like a nun's. it was then i saw the cloistered house within and learned what was afoot." "in the earl's carriage indeed--and the earl?" "he was in ireland, burrowing among those tarnished baubles, his titles, and stripping the irish peter to clothe the english paul." "he means to make hamley his home? from ireland these furnishings come?" "so it seems. henceforth the cloistered house will have its doors flung wide. london and all the folk of parliament will flutter along the dunes of hamley." "then the bailiff will sit yonder within a year, for he is but a starved irish peer." "he lives to-day as though he would be rich tomorrow. he bids for fame and fortune, davy." "'tis as though a shirtless man should wear a broadcloth coat over a cotton vest." "the world sees only the broadcloth coat. for the rest--" "for the rest, faith?" "they see the man's face, and--" his eyes were embarrassed. a thought had flashed into his mind which he considered unworthy, for this girl beside him was little likely to dwell upon the face of a renegade peer, whose living among them was a constant reminder of his father's apostasy. she was too fine, dwelt in such high spheres, that he could not think of her being touched by the glittering adventures of this daring young member of parliament, whose book of travels had been published, only to herald his understood determination to have office in the government, not in due time, but in his own time. what could there be in common between the sophisticated eglington and this sweet, primitively wholesome quaker girl? faith read what was passing in his mind. she flushed--slowly flushed until her face--and eyes were one soft glow, then she laid a hand upon his arm and said: "davy, i feel the truth about him--no more. nothing of him is for thee or me. his ways are not our ways." she paused, and then said solemnly: "he hath a devil. that i feel. but he hath also a mind, and a cruel will. he will hew a path, or make others hew it for him. he will make or break. nothing will stand in his way, neither man nor thing, those he loves nor those he hates. he will go on--and to go on, all means, so they be not criminal, will be his. men will prophesy great things for him--they do so now. but nothing they prophesy, davy, keeps pace with his resolve." "how does thee know these things?" his question was one of wonder and surprise. he had never before seen in her this sharp discernment and criticism. "how know i, davy? i know him by studying thee. what thee is not he is. what he is thee is not." the last beams of the sun sent a sudden glint of yellow to the green at their feet from the western hills, rising far over and above the lower hills of the village, making a wide ocean of light, at the bottom of which lay the meeting-house and the cloistered house, and the red mansion with the fruited wall, and all the others, like dwellings at the bottom of a golden sea. david's eyes were on the distance, and the far-seeing look was in his face which had so deeply impressed faith in the meeting-house, by which she had read his future. "and shall i not also go on?" he asked. "how far, who can tell?" there was a plaintive note in her voice--the unavailing and sad protest of the maternal spirit, of the keeper of the nest, who sees the brood fly safely away, looking not back. "what does thee see for me afar, faith?" his look was eager. "the will of god, which shall be done," she said with a sudden resolution, and stood up. her hands were lightly clasped before her like those of titian's mater dolorosa among the rubens and tintorettos of the prado, a lonely figure, whose lot it was to spend her life for others. even as she already had done; for thrice she had refused marriages suitable and possible to her. in each case she had steeled her heart against loving, that she might be all in all to her sister's child and to her father. there is no habit so powerful as the habit of care of others. in faith it came as near being a passion as passion could have a place in her even-flowing blood, under that cool flesh, governed by a heart as fair as the apricot blossoms on the wall in her father's garden. she had been bitterly hurt in the meeting-house; as bitterly as is many a woman when her lover has deceived her. david had acknowledged before them all that he had played the flute secretly for years! that he should have played it was nothing; that she should not have shared his secret, and so shared his culpability before them all, was a wound which would take long to heal. she laid her hand upon his shoulder suddenly with a nervous little motion. "and the will of god thee shall do to his honour, though thee is outcast to-day. . . . but, davy, the music-thee kept it from me." he looked up at her steadily; he read what was in her mind. "i hid it so, because i would not have thy conscience troubled. thee would go far to smother it for me; and i was not so ungrateful to thee. i did it for good to thee." a smile passed across her lips. never was woman so grateful, never wound so quickly healed. she shook her head sadly at him, and stilling the proud throbbing of her heart, she said: "but thee played so well, davy!" he got up and turned his head away, lest he should laugh outright. her reasoning--though he was not worldly enough to call it feminine, and though it scarce tallied with her argument--seemed to him quite her own. "how long have we?" he said over his shoulder. "the sun is yet five minutes up, or more," she said, a little breathlessly, for she saw his hand inside his coat, and guessed his purpose. "but thee will not dare to play--thee will not dare," she said, but more as an invitation than a rebuke. "speech was denied me here, but not my music. i find no sin in it." she eagerly watched him adjust the flute. suddenly she drew to him the chair from the doorway, and beckoned him to sit down. she sat where she could see the sunset. the music floated through the room and down the hillside, a searching sweetness. she kept her face ever on the far hills. it went on and on. at last it stopped. david roused himself, as from a dream. "but it is dark!" he said, startled. "it is past the time thee should be with me. my banishment began at sunset." "are all the sins to be thine?" she asked calmly. she had purposely let him play beyond the time set for their being together. "good-night, davy." she kissed him on the cheek. "i will keep the music for the sin's remembrance," she added, and went out into the night. chapter iv the call "england is in one of those passions so creditable to her moral sense, so illustrative of her unregulated virtues. we are living in the first excitement and horror of the news of the massacre of christians at damascus. we are full of righteous and passionate indignation. 'punish --restore the honour of the christian nations' is the proud appeal of prelate, prig, and philanthropist, because some hundreds of christians who knew their danger, yet chose to take up their abode in a fanatical muslim city of the east, have suffered death." the meeting had been called in answer to an appeal from exeter hall. lord eglington had been asked to speak, and these were among his closing words. he had seen, as he thought, an opportunity for sensation. politicians of both sides, the press on all hands, were thundering denunciations upon the city of damascus, sitting insolent and satiated in its exquisite bloom of pear and nectarine, and the deed itself was fading into that blank past of eastern life where there "are no birds in last year's nest." if he voyaged with the crowd, his pennant would be lost in the clustering sails! so he would move against the tide, and would startle, even if he did not convince. "let us not translate an inflamed religious emotion into a war," he continued. "to what good? would it restore one single life in damascus? would it bind one broken heart? would it give light to one darkened home? let us have care lest we be called a nation of hypocrites. i will neither support nor oppose the resolution presented; i will content myself with pointing the way to a greater national self-respect." mechanically, a few people who had scarcely apprehended the full force of his remarks began to applaud; but there came cries of "'sh! 'sh!" and the clapping of hands suddenly stopped. for a moment there was absolute silence, in which the chairman adjusted his glasses and fumbled with the agenda paper in his confusion, scarcely knowing what to do. the speaker had been expected to second the resolution, and had not done so. there was an awkward silence. then, in a loud whisper, some one said: "david, david, do thee speak." it was the voice of faith claridge. perturbed and anxious, she had come to the meeting with her father. they had not slept for nights, for the last news they had had of benn claridge was from the city of damascus, and they were full of painful apprehensions. it was the eve of the first day of winter, and david's banishment was over. faith had seen david often at a distance--how often had she stood in her window and looked up over the apricot-wall to the chair-maker's hut on the hill! according to his penalty david had never come to hamley village, but had lived alone, speaking to no one, avoided by all, working out his punishment. only the day before the meeting he had read of the massacre at damascus from a newspaper which had been left on his doorstep overnight. elder fairley had so far broken the covenant of ostracism and boycott, knowing david's love for his uncle benn. all that night david paced the hillside in anxiety and agitation, and saw the sun rise upon a new world--a world of freedom, of home-returning, yet a world which, during the past four months, had changed so greatly that it would never seem the same again. the sun was scarce two hours high when faith and her father mounted the hill to bring him home again. he had, however, gone to heddington to learn further news of the massacre. he was thinking of his uncle benn- all else could wait. his anxiety was infinitely greater than that of luke claridge, for his mind had been disturbed by frequent premonitions; and those sudden calls in his sleep-his uncle's voice--ever seemed to be waking him at night. he had not meant to speak at the meeting, but the last words of the speaker decided him; he was in a flame of indignation. he heard the voice of faith whisper over the heads of the people. "david, david, do thee speak." turning, he met her eyes, then rose to his feet, came steadily to the platform, and raised a finger towards the chairman. a great whispering ran through the audience. very many recognised him, and all had heard of him--the history of his late banishment and self- approving punishment were familiar to them. he climbed the steps of the platform alertly, and the chairman welcomed him with nervous pleasure. any word from a quaker, friendly to the feeling of national indignation, would give the meeting the new direction which all desired. something in the face of the young man, grown thin and very pale during the period of long thought and little food in the lonely and meditative life he had led; something human and mysterious in the strange tale of his one day's mad doings, fascinated them. they had heard of the liquor he had drunk, of the woman he had kissed at the cross-roads, of the man he had fought, of his discipline and sentence. his clean, shapely figure, and the soft austerity of the neat grey suit he wore, his broad- brimmed hat pushed a little back, showing well a square white forehead-- all conspired to send a wave of feeling through the audience, which presently broke into cheering. beginning with the usual formality, he said: "i am obliged to differ from nearly every sentiment expressed by the earl of eglington, the member for levizes, who has just taken his seat." there was an instant's pause, the audience cheered, and cries of delight came from all parts of the house. "all good counsel has its sting," he continued, "but the good counsel of him who has just spoken is a sting in a wound deeper than the skin. the noble earl has bidden us to be consistent and reasonable. i have risen here to speak for that to which mere consistency and reason may do cruel violence. i am a man of peace, i am the enemy of war--it is my faith and creed; yet i repudiate the principle put forward by the earl of eglington, that you shall not clinch your hand for the cause which is your heart's cause, because, if you smite, the smiting must be paid for." he was interrupted by cheers and laughter, for the late event in his own life came to them to point his argument. "the nation that declines war may be refusing to inflict that just punishment which alone can set the wrong-doers on the better course. it is not the faith of that society to which i belong to decline correction lest it may seem like war." the point went home significantly, and cheering followed. "the high wall of tibet, a stark refusal to open the door to the wayfarer, i can understand; but, friend"--he turned to the young peer--"friend, i cannot understand a defence of him who opens the door upon terms of mutual hospitality, and then, in the red blood of him who has so contracted, blots out the just terms upon which they have agreed. is that thy faith, friend?" the repetition of the word friend was almost like a gibe, though it was not intended as such. there was none present, however, but knew of the defection of the earl's father from the society of friends, and they chose to interpret the reference to a direct challenge. it was a difficult moment for the young earl, but he only smiled, and cherished anger in his heart. for some minutes david spoke with force and power, and he ended with passionate solemnity. his voice rang out: "the smoke of this burning rises to heaven, the winds that wail over scattered and homeless dust bear a message of god to us. in the name of mahomet, whose teaching condemns treachery and murder, in the name of the prince of peace, who taught that justice which makes for peace, i say it is england's duty to lay the iron hand of punishment upon this evil city and on the government in whose orbit it shines with so deathly a light. i fear it is that one of my family and of my humble village lies beaten to death in damascus. yet not because of that do i raise my voice here to-day. these many years benn claridge carried his life in his hands, and in a good cause it was held like the song of a bird, to be blown from his lips in the day of the lord. i speak only as an englishman. i ask you to close your minds against the words of this brilliant politician, who would have you settle a bill of costs written in christian blood, by a promise to pay, got through a mockery of armed display in those waters on which once looked the eyes of the captain of our faith. humanity has been put in the witness-box of the world; let humanity give evidence." women wept. men waved their hats and cheered; the whole meeting rose to its feet and gave vent to its feelings. for some moments the tumult lasted, eglington looking on with face unmoved. as david turned to leave the table, however, he murmured, "peacemaker! peacemaker!" and smiled sarcastically. as the audience resumed their seats, two people were observed making their way to the platform. one was elder fairley, leading the way to a tall figure in a black robe covering another coloured robe, and wearing a large white turban. not seeing the new-comers, the chairman was about to put the resolution; but a protesting hand from john fairley stopped him, and in a strange silence the two new-comers mounted the platform. david rose and advanced to meet them. there flashed into his mind that this stranger in eastern garb was ebn ezra bey, the old friend of benn claridge, of whom his uncle had spoken and written so much. the same instinct drew ebn ezra bey to him--he saw the uncle's look in the nephew's face. in a breathless stillness the oriental said in perfect english, with a voice monotonously musical: "i came to thy house and found thee not. i have a message for thee from the land where thine uncle sojourned with me." he took from a wallet a piece of paper and passed it to david, adding: "i was thine uncle's friend. he hath put off his sandals and walketh with bare feet!" david read eagerly. "it is time to go, davy," the paper said. "all that i have is thine. go to egypt, and thee shall find it so. ebn ezra bey will bring thee. trust him as i have done. he is a true man, though the koran be his faith. they took me from behind, davy, so that i was spared temptation --i die as i lived, a man of peace. it is too late to think how it might have gone had we met face to face; but the will of god worketh not according to our will. i can write no more. luke, faith, and davy--dear davy, the night has come, and all's well. good morrow, davy. can you not hear me call? i have called thee so often of late! good morrow! good morrow! . . . i doff my hat, davy--at last--to god!" david's face whitened. all his visions had been true visions, his dreams true dreams. brave benn claridge had called to him at his door--" good morrow! good morrow! good morrow!" had he not heard the knocking and the voice? now all was made clear. his path lay open before him--a far land called him, his quiet past was infinite leagues away. already the staff was in his hands and the cross-roads were sinking into the distance behind. he was dimly conscious of the wan, shocked face of faith in the crowd beneath him, which seemed blurred and swaying, of the bowed head of luke claridge, who, standing up, had taken off his hat in the presence of this news of his brother's death which he saw written in david's face. david stood for a moment before the great throng, numb and speechless. "it is a message from damascus," he said at last, and could say no more. ebn ezra bey turned a grave face upon the audience. will you hear me?" he said. "i am an arab." "speak--speak!" came from every side. "the turk hath done his evil work in damascus," he said. "all the christians are dead--save one; he hath turned muslim, and is safe." his voice had a note of scorn. "it fell sudden and swift like a storm in summer. there were no paths to safety. soldiers and those who led them shared in the slaying. as he and i who had travelled far together these many years sojourned there in the way of business, i felt the air grow colder, i saw the cloud gathering. i entreated, but he would not go. if trouble must come, then he would be with the christians in their peril. at last he saw with me the truth. he had a plan of escape. there was a christian weaver with his wife in a far quarter--against my entreaty he went to warn them. the storm broke. he was the first to fall, smitten in 'that street called straight.' i found him soon after. thus did he speak to me--even in these words: 'the blood of women and children shed here to-day shall cry from the ground. unprovoked the host has turned wickedly upon his guest. the storm has been sown, and the whirlwind must be reaped. out of this evil good shall come. shall not the judge of all the earth do right?' these were his last words to me then. as his life ebbed out, he wrote a letter which i have brought hither to one"--he turned to david--"whom he loved. at the last he took off his hat, and lay with it in his hands, and died. . . . i am a muslim, but the god of pity, of justice, and of right is my god; and in his name be it said that was a crime of sheitan the accursed." in a low voice the chairman put the resolution. the earl of eglington voted in its favour. walking the hills homeward with ebn ezra bey, luke, faith, and john fairley, david kept saying over to himself the words of benn claridge: "i have called thee so often of late. good morrow! good morrow! good morrow! can you not hear me call?" glossary aiwa----yes. allah hu achbar----god is most great. al'mah----female professional singers, signifying "a learned female." ardab----a measure equivalent to five english bushels. backsheesh----tip, douceur. balass----earthen vessel for carrying water. bdsha----pasha. bersim----clover. bismillah----in the name of god. bowdb----a doorkeeper. dahabieh----a nile houseboat with large lateen sails. darabukkeh----a drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. dourha----maize. effendina----most noble. el azhar----the arab university at cairo. fedddn----a measure of land representing about an acre. fellah----the egyptian peasant. ghiassa----small boat. hakim----doctor. hasheesh----leaves of hemp. inshallah----god willing. kdnoon----a musical instrument like a dulcimer. kavass----an orderly. kemengeh----a cocoanut fiddle. khamsin----a hot wind of egypt and the soudan. kourbash----a whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. la ilaha illa-llah----there is no deity but god. malaish----no matter. malboos----demented. mastaba----a bench. medjidie----a turkish order. mooshrabieh----lattice window. moufettish----high steward. mudir----the governor of a mudirieh, or province. muezzin----the sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. narghileh----a persian pipe. nebool----a quarter-staff. ramadan----the mahommedan season of fasting. saadat-el-bdsha----excellency pasha. sdis----groom. sakkia----the persian water-wheel. salaam----eastern salutation. sheikh-el-beled----head of a village. tarboosh----a turkish turban. ulema----learned men. wakf----mahommedan court dealing with succession, etc. welee----a holy man or saint. yashmak----a veil for the lower part of the face. yelek----a long vest or smock. etext editor's bookmarks: there is no habit so powerful as the habit of care of others this ebook was produced by david widger the weavers by gilbert parker book iv. xxviii. nahoum turns the screw xxix. the recoil xxx. lacey moves xxxi. the struggle in the desert xxxii. forty stripes save one xxxiii. the dark indenture xxxiv. nahoum drops the mask chapter xxviii nahoum turns the screw laughing to himself, higli pasha sat with the stem of a narghileh in his mouth. his big shoulders kept time to the quivering of his fat stomach. he was sitting in a small court-yard of nahoum pasha's palace, waiting for its owner to appear. meanwhile he exercised a hilarious patience. the years had changed him little since he had been sent on that expedition against the southern tribes which followed hard on david's appointment to office. as david had expected, few of the traitorous officers returned. diaz had ignominiously died of the bite of a tarantula before a blow had been struck, but higli had gratefully received a slight wound in the first encounter, which enabled him to beat a safe retreat to cairo. he alone of the chief of the old conspirators was left. achmet was still at the place of lepers, and the old nest of traitors was scattered for ever. only nahoum and higli were left, and between these two there had never been partnership or understanding. nahoum was not the man to trust to confederates, and higli pasha was too contemptible a coadjutor. nahoum had faith in no one save mizraim the chief eunuch, but mizraim alone was better than a thousand; and he was secret--and terrible. yet higli had a conviction that nahoum's alliance with david was a sham, and that david would pay the price of misplaced confidence one day. more than once when david's plans had had a set-back, higli had contrived a meeting with nahoum, to judge for himself the true position. for his visit to-day he had invented a reason--a matter of finance; but his real reason was concealed behind the malevolent merriment by which he was now seized. so absorbed was he that he did not heed the approach of another visitor down an angle of the court-yard. he was roused by a voice. "well, what's tickling you so, pasha?" the voice was drawling, and quite gentle; but at the sound of it, higli's laugh stopped short, and the muscles of his face contracted. if there was one man of whom he had a wholesome fear--why, he could not tell--it was this round-faced, abrupt, imperturbable american, claridge pasha's right-hand man. legends of resourcefulness and bravery had gathered round his name. "who's been stroking your chin with a feather, pasha?" he continued, his eye piercing the other like a gimlet. "it was an amusing tale i heard at assiout, effendi," was higli's abashed and surly reply. "oh, at assiout!" rejoined lacey. "yes, they tell funny stories at assiout. and when were you at assiout, pasha?" "two days ago, effendi." "and so you thought you'd tell the funny little story to nahoum as quick as could be, eh? he likes funny stories, same as you--damn, nice, funny little stories, eh?" there was something chilly in lacey's voice now, which higli did not like; something much too menacing and contemptuous for a mere man-of-all- work to the inglesi. higli bridled up, his eyes glared sulkily. "it is but my own business if i laugh or if i curse, effendi," he replied, his hand shaking a little on the stem of the narghileh. "precisely, my diaphanous polyandrist; but it isn't quite your own affair what you laugh at--not if i know it!" "does the effendi think i was laughing at him?" "the effendi thinks not. the effendi knows that the descendant of a hundred tigers was laughing at the funny little story, of how the two cotton-mills that claridge pasha built were burned down all in one night, and one of his steamers sent down the cataract at assouan. a knock-down blow for claridge pasha, eh? that's all you thought of, wasn't it? and it doesn't matter to you that the cotton-mills made thousands better off, and started new industries in egypt. no, it only matters to you that claridge pasha loses half his fortune, and that you think his feet are in the quicksands, and 'll be sucked in, to make an egyptian holiday. anything to discredit him here, eh? i'm not sure what else you know; but i'll find out, my noble pasha, and if you've had your hand in it--but no, you ain't game-cock enough for that! but if you were, if you had a hand in the making of your funny little story, there's a nutcracker that 'd break the shell of that joke--" he turned round quickly, seeing a shadow and hearing a movement. nahoum was but a few feet away. there was a bland smile on his face, a look of innocence in his magnificent blue eye. as he met lacey's look, the smile left his lips, a grave sympathy appeared to possess them, and he spoke softly: "i know the thing that burns thy heart, effendi, to whom be the flowers of hope and the fruits of merit. it is even so, a great blow has fallen. two hours since i heard. i went at once to see claridge pasha, but found him not. does he know, think you?" he added sadly. "may your heart never be harder than it is, pasha, and when i left the saadat an hour ago, he did not know. his messenger hadn't a steamer like higli pasha there. but he was coming to see you; and that's why i'm here. i've been brushing the flies off this sore on the hump of egypt while waiting." he glanced with disdain at higli. a smile rose like liquid in the eye of nahoum and subsided, then he turned to higli inquiringly. "i have come on business, excellency; the railway to rosetta, and--" "to-morrow--or the next day," responded nahoum irritably, and turned again to lacey. as higli's huge frame disappeared through a gateway, nahoum motioned lacey to a divan, and summoned a slave for cooling drinks. lacey's eyes now watched him with an innocence nearly as childlike as his own. lacey well knew that here was a foe worthy of the best steel. that he was a foe, and a malignant foe, he had no doubt whatever; he had settled the point in his mind long ago; and two letters he had received from lady eglington, in which she had said in so many words, "watch nahoum!" had made him vigilant and intuitive. he knew, meanwhile, that he was following the trail of a master-hunter who covered up his tracks. lacey was as certain as though he had the book of nahoum's mind open in his hand, that david's work had been torn down again--and this time with dire effect--by this armenian, whom david trusted like a brother. but the black doors that closed on the truth on every side only made him more determined to unlock them; and, when he faltered as to his own powers, he trusted mahommed hassan, whose devotion to david had given him eyes that pierced dark places. "surely the god of israel has smitten claridge pasha sorely. my heart will mourn to look upon his face. the day is insulting in its brightness," continued nahoum with a sigh, his eyes bent upon lacey, dejection in his shoulders. lacey started. "the god of israel!" how blasphemous it sounded from the lips of nahoum, oriental of orientals, christian though he was also! "i think, perhaps, you'll get over it, pasha. man is born to trouble, and you've got a lot of courage. i guess you could see other people bear a pile of suffering, and never flinch." nahoum appeared not to notice the gibe. "it is a land of suffering, effendi," he sighed, "and one sees what one sees." "have you any idea, any real sensible idea, how those cotton-mills got afire?" lacey's eyes were fixed on nahoum's face. the other met his gaze calmly. "who can tell! an accident, perhaps, or--" "or some one set the mills on fire in several places at once--they say the buildings flamed out in every corner; and it was the only time in a month they hadn't been running night and day. funny, isn't it?" "it looks like the work of an enemy, effendi." nahoum shook his head gravely. "a fortune destroyed in an hour, as it were. but we shall get the dog. we shall find him. there is no hole deep enough to hide him from us." "well, i wouldn't go looking in holes for him, pasha. "he isn't any cave-dweller, that incendiary; he's an artist--no palace is too unlikely for him. no, i wouldn't go poking in mud-huts to find him." "thou dost not think that higli pasha--" nahoum seemed startled out of equanimity by the thought. lacey eyed him meditatively, and said reflectively: "say, you're an artist, pasha. you are a guesser of the first rank. but i'd guess again. higli pasha would have done it, if it had ever occurred to him; and he'd had the pluck. but it didn't, and he hadn't. what i can't understand is that the artist that did it should have done it before claridge pasha left for the soudan. here we were just about to start; and if we'd got away south, the job would have done more harm, and the saadat would have been out of the way. no, i can't understand why the firebug didn't let us get clean away; for if the saadat stays here, he'll be where he can stop the underground mining." nahoum's self-control did not desert him, though he fully realised that this man suspected him. on the surface lacey was right. it would have seemed better to let david go, and destroy his work afterwards, but he had been moved by other considerations, and his design was deep. his own emissaries were in the soudan, announcing david's determination to abolish slavery, secretly stirring up feeling against him, preparing for the final blow to be delivered, when he went again among the southern tribes. he had waited and waited, and now the time was come. had he, nahoum, not agreed with david that the time had come for the slave-trade to go? had he not encouraged him to take this bold step, in the sure belief that it would overwhelm him, and bring him an ignominious death, embittered by total failure of all he had tried to do? for years he had secretly loosened the foundations of david's work, and the triumph of oriental duplicity over western civilisation and integrity was sweet in his mouth. and now there was reason to believe that, at last, kaid was turning against the inglesi. everything would come at once. if all that he had planned was successful, even this man before him should aid in his master's destruction. "if it was all done by an enemy," he said, in answer to lacey, at last, "would it all be reasoned out like that? is hatred so logical? dost thou think claridge pasha will not go now? the troops are ready at wady- halfa, everything is in order; the last load of equipment has gone. will not claridge pasha find the money somehow? i will do what i can. my heart is moved to aid him." "yes, you'd do what you could, pasha," lacey rejoined enigmatically, "but whether it would set the saadat on his expedition or not is a question. but i guess, after all, he's got to go. he willed it so. people may try to stop him, and they may tear down what he does, but he does at last what he starts to do, and no one can prevent him--not any one. yes, he's going on this expedition; and he'll have the money, too." there was a strange, abstracted look in his face, as though he saw something which held him fascinated. presently, as if with an effort, he rose to his feet, took the red fez from his head, and fanned himself with it for a moment. "don't you forget it, pasha; the saadat will win. he can't be beaten, not in a thousand years. here he comes." nahoum got to his feet, as david came quickly through the small gateway of the court-yard, his head erect, his lips smiling, his eyes sweeping the place. he came forward briskly to them. it was plain he had not heard the evil news. "peace be to thee, saadat, and may thy life be fenced about with safety!" said nahoum. david laid a hand on lacey's arm and squeezed it, smiling at him with such friendship that lacey's eyes moistened, and he turned his head away. there was a quiet elation in david's look. "we are ready at last," he said, looking from one to the other. "well, well," he added, almost boyishly, "has thee nothing to say, nahoum?" nahoum turned his head away as though overcome. david's face grew instantly grave. he turned to lacey. never before had he seen lacey's face with a look like this. he grasped lacey's arm. "what is it?" he asked quietly. "what does thee want to say to me?" but lacey could not speak, and david turned again to nahoum. "what is there to say to me?" he asked. "something has happened--what is it? . . . come, many things have happened before. this can be no worse. do thee speak," he urged gently. "saadat," said nahoum, as though under the stress of feeling, "the cotton-mills at tashah and mini are gone--burned to the ground." for a moment david looked at him without sight in his eyes, and his face grew very pale. "excellency, all in one night, the besom of destruction was abroad," he heard nahoum say, as though from great depths below him. he slowly turned his head to look at lacey. "is this true?" he asked at last in an unsteady voice. lacey could not speak, but inclined his head. david's figure seemed to shrink for a moment, his face had a withered look, and his head fell forward in a mood of terrible dejection. "saadat! oh, my god, saadat, don't take it so!" said lacey brokenly, and stepped between david and nahoum. he could not bear that the stricken face and figure should be seen by nahoum, whom he believed to be secretly gloating. "saadat," he said brokenly, "god has always been with you; he hasn't forgotten you now. "the work of years," david murmured, and seemed not to hear. "when god permits, shall man despair?" interposed nahoum, in a voice that lingered on the words. nahoum accomplished what lacey had failed to do. his voice had pierced to some remote corner in david's nature, and roused him. was it that doubt, suspicion, had been wakened at last? was some sensitive nerve touched, that this oriental should offer christian comfort to him in his need--to him who had seen the greater light? or was it that some unreality in the words struck a note which excited a new and subconscious understanding? perhaps it was a little of all three. he did not stop to inquire. in crises such as that through which he was passing, the mind and body act without reason, rather by the primal instinct, the certain call of the things that were before reason was. "god is with the patient," continued nahoum; and lacey set his teeth to bear this insult to all things. but nahoum accomplished what he had not anticipated. david straightened himself up, and clasped his hands behind him. by a supreme effort of the will he controlled himself, and the colour came back faintly to his face. "god's will be done," he said, and looked nahoum calmly in the eyes. "it was no accident," he added with conviction. "it was an enemy of egypt." suddenly the thing rushed over him again, going through his veins like a poisonous ether, and clamping his heart as with iron. "all to do over again!" he said brokenly, and again he caught lacey's arm. with an uncontrollable impulse lacey took david's hand in his own warm, human grasp. "once i thought i lost everything in mexico, saadat, and i understand what you feel. but all wasn't lost in mexico, as i found at last, and i got something, too, that i didn't put in. say, let us go from here. god is backing you, saadat. isn't it all right--same as ever?" david was himself again. "thee is a good man," he said, and through the sadness of his eyes there stole a smile. "let us go," he said. then he added in a businesslike way: "to-morrow at seven, nahoum. there is much to do." he turned towards the gate with lacey, where the horses waited. mahommed hassan met them as they prepared to mount. he handed david a letter. it was from faith, and contained the news of luke claridge's death. everything had come at once. he stumbled into the saddle with a moan. "at last i have drawn blood," said nahoum to himself with grim satisfaction, as they disappeared. "it is the beginning of the end. it will crush him-i saw it in his eyes. god of israel, i shall rule again in egypt!" chapter xxix the recoil it was a great day in the muslim year. the mahmal, or sacred carpet, was leaving cairo on its long pilgrimage of thirty-seven days to mecca and mahomet's tomb. great guns boomed from the citadel, as the gorgeous procession, forming itself beneath the mokattam hills, began its slow march to where, seated in the shade of an ornate pavilion, prince kaid awaited its approach to pay devout homage. thousands looked down at the scene from the ramparts of the citadel, from the overhanging cliffs, and from the tops of the houses that hung on the ledges of rock rising abruptly from the level ground, to which the last of the famed mamelukes leaped to their destruction. now to prince kaid's ears there came from hundreds of hoarse throats the cry: "allah! allah! may thy journey be with safety to arafat!" mingling with the harsh music of the fifes and drums. kaid looked upon the scene with drawn face and lowering brows. his retinue watched him with alarm. a whisper had passed that, two nights before, the effendina had sent in haste for a famous italian physician lately come to cairo, and that since his visit kaid had been sullen and depressed. it was also the gossip of the bazaars that he had suddenly shown favour to those of the royal house and to other reactionaries, who had been enemies to the influence of claridge pasha. this rumour had been followed by an official proclamation that no europeans or christians would be admitted to the ceremony of the sacred carpet. thus it was that kaid looked out on a vast multitude of muslims, in which not one european face showed, and from lip to lip there passed the word, "harrik--harrik--remember harrik! kaid turns from the infidel!" they crowded near the great pavilion--as near as the mounted nubians would permit--to see kaid's face; while he, with eyes wandering over the vast assemblage, was lost in dark reflections. for a year he had struggled against a growing conviction that some obscure disease was sapping his strength. he had hid it from every one, until, at last, distress and pain had overcome him. the verdict of the italian expert was that possible, but by no means certain, cure might come from an operation which must be delayed for a month or more. suddenly, the world had grown unfamiliar to him; he saw it from afar; but his subconscious self involuntarily registered impressions, and he moved mechanically through the ceremonies and duties of the immediate present. thrown back upon himself, to fight his own fight, with the instinct of primary life his mind involuntarily drew for refuge to the habits and predispositions of youth; and for two days he had shut himself away from the activities with which david and nahoum were associated. being deeply engaged with the details of the expedition to the soudan, david had not gone to the palace; and he was unaware of the turn which things had taken. three times, with slow and stately steps, the procession wound in a circle in the great square, before it approached the pavilion where the effendina sat, the splendid camels carrying the embroidered tent wherein the carpet rested, and that which bore the emir of the pilgrims, moving gracefully like ships at sea. naked swordsmen, with upright and shining blades, were followed by men on camels bearing kettle-drums. after them came arab riders with fresh green branches fastened to the saddles like plumes, while others carried flags and banners emblazoned with texts and symbols. troops of horsemen in white woollen cloaks, sheikhs and bedouins with flowing robes and huge turbans, religious chiefs of the great sects, imperturbable and statuesque, were in strange contrast to the shouting dervishes and camel-drivers and eager pilgrims. at last the great camel with its sacred burden stopped in front of kaid for his prayer and blessing. as he held the tassels, lifted the gold- fringed curtain, and invoked allah's blessing, a half-naked sheikh ran forward, and, raising his hand high above his head, cried shrilly: "kaid, kaid, hearken!" rough hands caught him away, but kaid commanded them to desist; and the man called a blessing on him; and cried aloud: "listen, o kaid, son of the stars and the light of day. god hath exalted thee. thou art the egyptian of all the egyptians. in thy hand is power. but thou art mortal even as i. behold, o kaid, in the hour that i was born thou wast born, i in the dust without thy palace wall, thou amid the splendid things. but thy star is my star. behold, as god ordains, the tree of life was shaken on the night when all men pray and cry aloud to god--even the night of the falling leaves. and i watched the falling leaves; and i saw my leaf, and it was withered, but only a little withered, and so i live yet a little. but i looked for thy leaf, thou who wert born in that moment when i waked to the world. i looked long, but i found no leaf, neither green nor withered. but i looked again upon my leaf, and then i saw that thy name now was also upon my leaf, and that it was neither green nor withered; but was a leaf that drooped as when an evil wind has passed and drunk its life. listen, o kaid! upon the tomb of mahomet i will set my lips, and it may be that the leaf of my life will come fresh and green again. but thou--wilt thou not come also to the lord mahomet's tomb? or"--he paused and raised his voice--"or wilt thou stay and lay thy lips upon the cross of the infidel? wilt thou--" he could say no more, for kaid's face now darkened with anger. he made a gesture, and, in an instant, the man was gagged and bound, while a sullen silence fell upon the crowd. kaid suddenly became aware of this change of feeling, and looked round him. presently his old prudence and subtlety came back, his face cleared a little, and he called aloud, "unloose the man, and let him come to me." an instant after, the man was on his knees, silent before him. "what is thy name?" kaid asked. "kaid ibrahim, effendina," was the reply. "thou hast misinterpreted thy dream, kaid ibrahim," answered the effendina. "the drooping leaf was token of the danger in which thy life should be, and my name upon thy leaf was token that i should save thee from death. behold, i save thee. inshallah, go in peace! there is no god but god, and the cross is the sign of a false prophet. thou art mad. god give thee a new mind. go." the man was presently lost in the sweltering, half-frenzied crowd; but he had done his work, and his words rang in the ears of kaid as he rode away. a few hours afterwards, bitter and rebellious, murmuring to himself, kaid sat in a darkened room of his nile palace beyond the city. so few years on the throne, so young, so much on which to lay the hand of pleasure, so many millions to command; and yet the slave at his door had a surer hold on life and all its joys and lures than he, prince kaid, ruler of egypt! there was on him that barbaric despair which has taken dreadful toll of life for the decree of destiny. across the record of this day, as across the history of many an eastern and pagan tyrant, was written: "he would not die alone." that the world should go on when he was gone, that men should buy and sell and laugh and drink, and flaunt it in the sun, while he, prince kaid, would be done with it all. he was roused by the rustling of a robe. before him stood the arab physician, sharif bey, who had been in his father's house and his own for a lifetime. it was many a year since his ministrations to kaid had ceased; but he had remained on in the palace, doing service to those who received him, and--it was said by the evil-tongued--granting certificates of death out of harmony with dark facts, a sinister and useful figure. his beard was white, his face was friendly, almost benevolent, but his eyes had a light caught from no celestial flame. his look was confident now, as his eyes bent on kaid. he had lived long, he had seen much, he had heard of the peril that had been foreshadowed by the infidel physician; and, by a sure instinct, he knew that his own opportunity had come. he knew that kaid would snatch at any offered comfort, would cherish any alleviating lie, would steal back from science and civilisation and the modern palace to the superstition of the fellah's hut. were not all men alike when the neboot of fate struck them down into the terrible loneliness of doom, numbing their minds? luck would be with him that offered first succour in that dark hour. sharif had come at the right moment for sharif. kaid looked at him with dull yet anxious eyes. "did i not command that none should enter?" he asked presently in a thick voice. "am i not thy physician, effendina, to whom be the undying years? when the effendina is sick, shall i not heal? have i not waited like a dog at thy door these many years, till that time would come when none could heal thee save sharif?" "what canst thou give me?" "what the infidel physician gave thee not--i can give thee hope. hast thou done well, oh, effendina, to turn from thine own people? did not thine own father, and did not mehemet ali, live to a good age? who were their physicians? my father and i, and my father's father, and his father's father." "thou canst cure me altogether?" asked kaid hesitatingly. "wilt thou not have faith in one of thine own race? will the infidel love thee as do we, who are thy children and thy brothers, who are to thee as a nail driven in the wall, not to be moved? thou shalt live-- inshallah, thou shalt have healing and length of days!" he paused at a gesture from kaid, for a slave had entered and stood waiting. "what dost thou here? wert thou not commanded?" asked kaid. "effendina, claridge pasha is waiting," was the reply. kaid frowned, hesitated; then, with a sudden resolve, made a gesture of dismissal to sharif bey, and nodded david's admittance to the slave. as david entered, he passed sharif bey, and something in the look on the arab physician's face--a secret malignancy and triumph--struck him strangely. and now a fresh anxiety and apprehension rose in his mind as he glanced at kaid. the eye was heavy and gloomy, the face was clouded, the lips once so ready to smile at him were sullen and smileless now. david stood still, waiting. "i did not expect thee till to-morrow, saadat," said kaid moodily at last. "the business is urgent?" "effendina," said david, with every nerve at tension, yet with outward self-control, "i have to report--" he paused, agitated; then, in a firm voice, he told of the disaster which had befallen the cotton-mills and the steamer. as david spoke, kaid's face grew darker, his fingers fumbled vaguely with the linen of the loose white robe he wore. when the tale was finished he sat for a moment apparently stunned by the news, then he burst out fiercely: "bismillah, am i to hear only black words to-day? hast thou naught to say but this--the fortune of egypt burned to ashes!" david held back the quick retort that came to his tongue. "half my fortune is in the ashes," he answered with dignity. "the rest came from savings never made before by this government. is the work less worthy in thy sight, effendina, because it has been destroyed? would thy life be less great and useful because a blow took thee from behind?" kaid's face turned black. david had bruised an open wound. "what is my life to thee--what is thy work to me?" "thy life is dear to egypt, effendina," urged david soothingly, "and my labour for egypt has been pleasant in thine eyes till now." "egypt cannot be saved against her will," was the moody response. "what has come of the western hand upon the eastern plough?" his face grew blacker; his heart was feeding on itself. "thou, the friend of egypt, hast come of it, effendina." "harrik was right, harrik was right," kaid answered, with stubborn gloom and anger. "better to die in our own way, if we must die, than live in the way of another. thou wouldst make of egypt another england; thou wouldst civilise the soudan--bismillah, it is folly!" "that is not the way mehemet ali thought, nor ibrahim. nor dost thou think so, effendina," david answered gravely. "a dark spirit is on thee. wouldst thou have me understand that what we have done together, thou and i, was ill done, that the old bad days were better?" "go back to thine own land," was the surly answer. "nation after nation ravaged egypt, sowed their legions here, but the egyptian has lived them down. the faces of the fellaheen are the faces of thotmes and seti. go back. egypt will travel her own path. we are of the east; we are muslim. what is right to you is wrong to us. ye would make us over-- give us cotton beds and wooden floors and fine flour of the mill, and cleanse the cholera-hut with disinfectants, but are these things all? how many of your civilised millions would die for their prophet christ? yet all egypt would rise up from the mud-floor, the dourha-field and the mud-hut, and would come out to die for mahomet and allah--ay, as harrik knew, as harrik knew! ye steal into corners, and hide behind the curtains of your beds to pray; we pray where the hour of prayer finds us --in the street, in the market-place, where the house is building, the horse being shod, or the money-changers are. ye hear the call of civilisation, but we heap the muezzin--" he stopped, and searched mechanically for his watch. "it is the hour the muezzin calls," said david gently. "it is almost sunset. shall i open the windows that the call may come to us?" he added. while kaid stared at him, his breast heaving with passion, david went to a window and opened the shutters wide. the palace faced the nile, which showed like a tortuous band of blue and silver a mile or so away. nothing lay between but the brown sand, and here and there a handful of dark figures gliding towards the river, or a little train of camels making for the bare grey hills from the ghiassas which had given them their desert loads. the course of the nile was marked by a wide fringe of palms showing blue and purple, friendly and ancient and solitary. beyond the river and the palms lay the grey-brown desert, faintly touched with red. so clear was the sweet evening air that the irregular surface of the desert showed for a score of miles as plainly as though it were but a step away. hummocks of sand--tombs and fallen monuments gave a feeling as of forgotten and buried peoples; and the two vast pyramids of sakkarah stood up in the plaintive glow of the evening skies, majestic and solemn, faithful to the dissolved and absorbed races who had built them. curtains of mauve and saffron-red were hung behind them, and through a break of cloud fringing the horizon a yellow glow poured, to touch the tips of the pyramids with poignant splendour. but farther over to the right, where cairo lay, there hung a bluish mist, palpable and delicate, out of which emerged the vast pyramids of cheops; and beside it the smiling inscrutable sphinx faced the changeless centuries. beyond the pyramids the mist deepened into a vast deep cloud of blue and purple, which seemed the end to some mystic highway untravelled by the sons of men. suddenly there swept over david a wave of feeling such as had passed over kaid, though of a different nature. those who had built the pyramids were gone, cheops and thotmes and amenhotep and chefron and the rest. there had been reformers in those lost races; one age had sought to better the last, one man had toiled to save--yet there only remained offensive bundles of mummied flesh and bone and a handful of relics in tombs fifty centuries old. was it all, then, futile? did it matter, then, whether one man laboured or a race aspired? only for a moment these thoughts passed through his mind; and then, as the glow through the broken cloud on the opposite horizon suddenly faded, and veils of melancholy fell over the desert and the river and the palms, there rose a call, sweetly shrill, undoubtingly insistent. sunset had come, and, with it, the muezzin's call to prayer from the minaret of a mosque hard by. david was conscious of a movement behind him--that kaid was praying with hands uplifted; and out on the sands between the window and the river he saw kneeling figures here and there, saw the camel-drivers halt their trains, and face the east with hands uplifted. the call went on--"la ilaha illa-llah !" it called david, too. the force and searching energy and fire in it stole through his veins, and drove from him the sense of futility and despondency which had so deeply added to his trouble. there was something for him, too, in that which held infatuated the minds of so many millions. a moment later kaid and he faced each other again. "effendina," he said, "thou wilt not desert our work now?" "money--for this expedition? thou hast it?" kaid asked ironically. "i have but little money, and it must go to rebuild the mills, effendina. i must have it of thee." "let them remain in their ashes." "but thousands will have no work." "they had work before they were built, they will have work now they are gone." "effendina, i stayed in egypt at thy request. the work is thy work. wilt thou desert it?" "the west lured me--by things that seemed. now i know things as they are." "they will lure thee again to-morrow," said david firmly, but with a weight on his spirit. his eyes sought and held kaid's. "it is too late to go back; we must go forward or we shall lose the soudan, and a mahdi and his men will be in cairo in ten years." for an instant kaid was startled. the old look of energy and purpose leaped up into his eye; but it faded quickly again. if, as the italian physician more than hinted, his life hung by a thread, did it matter whether the barbarian came to cairo? that was the business of those who came after. if sharif was right, and his life was saved, there would be time enough to set things right. "i will not pour water on the sands to make an ocean," he answered. "will a ship sail on the sahara? bismillah, it is all a dream! harrik was right. but dost thou think to do with me as thou didst with harrik?" he sneered. "is it in thy mind?" david's patience broke down under the long provocation. "know then, effendina," he said angrily, "that i am not thy subject, nor one beholden to thee, nor thy slave. upon terms well understood, i have laboured here. i have kept my obligations, and it is thy duty to keep thy obligations, though the hand of death were on thee. i know not what has poisoned thy mind, and driven thee from reason and from justice. i know that, prince pasha of egypt as thou art, thou art as bound to me as any fellah that agrees to tend my door or row my boat. thy compact with me is a compact with england, and it shall be kept, if thou art an honest man. thou mayst find thousands in egypt who will serve thee at any price, and bear thee in any mood. i have but one price. it is well known to thee. i will not be the target for thy black temper. this is not the middle ages; i am an englishman, not a helot. the bond must be kept; thou shalt not play fast and loose. money must be found; the expedition must go. but if thy purpose is now harrik's purpose, then europe should know, and egypt also should know. i have been thy right hand, effendina; i will not be thy old shoe, to be cast aside at thy will." in all the days of his life david had never flamed out as he did now. passionate as his words were, his manner was strangely quiet, but his white and glistening face and his burning eyes showed how deep was his anger. as he spoke, kaid sank upon the divan. never had he been challenged so. with his own people he had ever been used to cringing and abasement, and he had played the tyrant, and struck hard and cruelly, and he had been feared; but here, behind david's courteous attitude, there was a scathing arraignment of his conduct which took no count of consequence. in other circumstances his vanity would have shrunk under this whip of words, but his native reason and his quick humour would have justified david. in this black distemper possessing him, however, only outraged egotism prevailed. his hands clenched and unclenched, his lips were drawn back on his teeth in rage. when david had finished, kaid suddenly got to his feet and took a step forward with a malediction, but a faintness seized him and he staggered back. when he raised his head again david was gone. chapter xxx lacey moves if there was one glistening bead of sweat on the bald pate of lacey of chicago there were a thousand; and the smile on his face was not less shining and unlimited. he burst into the rooms of the palace where david had residence, calling: "oyez! oyez! saadat! oh, pasha of the thousand tails! oyez! oyez!" getting no answer, he began to perform a dance round the room, which in modern days is known as the negro cake-walk. it was not dignified, but it would have been less dignified still performed by any other living man of forty-five with a bald head and a waist-band ten inches too large. round the room three times he went, and then he dropped on a divan. he gasped, and mopped his face and forehead, leaving a little island of moisture on the top of his head untouched. after a moment, he gained breath and settled down a little. then he burst out: "are you coming to my party, o effendi? there'll be high jinks, there'll be welcome, there'll be room; for to-morrow we are pulling stakes for shendy. are you coming to my party, o nahoum?" "say, i guess that's pretty good on the spur of the moment," he wheezed, and, taking his inseparable note book from his pocket, wrote the impromptu down. "i guess she'll like that-it rings spontaneous. she'll be tickled, tickled to death, when she knows what's behind it." he repeated it with gusto. "she'll dote on it," he added--the person to whom he referred being the sister of the american consul, the little widow, "cute as she can be," of whom he had written to hylda in the letter which had brought a crisis in her life. as he returned the note- book to his pocket a door opened. mahommed hassan slid forward into the room, and stood still, impassive and gloomy. lacey beckoned, and said grotesquely: "'come hither, come hither, my little daughter, and do not tremble so!'" a sort of scornful patience was in mahommed's look, but he came nearer and waited. "squat on the ground, and smile a smile of mirth, mahommed," lacey said riotously. "'for i'm to be queen o' the may, mother, i'm to be queen o' the may!'" mahommed's face grew resentful. "o effendi, shall the camel-driver laugh when the camels are lost in the khamsin and the water-bottle is empty?" "certainly not, o son of the spreading palm; but this is not a desert, nor a gaudy caravan. this is a feast of all angels. this is the day when nahoum the nefarious is to be buckled up like a belt, and ridden in a ring. where is the saadat?" "he is gone, effendi! like a mist on the face of the running water, so was his face; like eyes that did not see, so was his look. 'peace be to thee, mahommed, thou art faithful as zaida,' he said, and he mounted and rode into the desert. i ran after till he was come to the edge of the desert; but he sent me back, saying that i must wait for thee; and this word i was to say, that prince kaid had turned his face darkly from him, and that the finger of sharif--" "that fanatical old quack--harrik's friend!" "--that the finger of sharif was on his pulse; but the end of all was in the hands of god." "oh yes, exactly, the finger of sharif on his pulse! the old story-the return to the mother's milk, throwing back to all the pharaohs. well, what then?" he added cheerfully, his smile breaking out again. "where has he gone, our saadat?" "to ebn ezra bey at the coptic monastery by the etl tree, where your prophet christ slept when a child." lacey hummed to himself meditatively. "a sort of last powwow--rome before the fall. everything wrong, eh? kaid turned fanatic, nahoum on the tiles watching for the saadat to fall, things trembling for want of hard cash. that's it, isn't it, mahommed?" mahommed nodded, but his look was now alert, and less sombre. he had caught at something vital and confident in lacey's tone. he drew nearer, and listened closely. "well, now, my gentle gazelle, listen unto me," continued lacey. he suddenly leaned forward, and spoke in subdued but rapid tones. "say, mahommed, once upon a time there was an american man, with a shock of red hair, and a nature like a spring-lock. he went down to mexico, with a million or two of his own money got honestly by an undisputed will from an undisputed father--you don't understand that, but it doesn't matter-- and with a few millions of other people's money, for to gamble in mines and railways and banks and steamship companies--all to do with mexico what the saadat has tried to do in egypt with less money; but not for the love of allah, same as him. this american was going to conquer like cortez, but his name was thomas tilman lacey, and he had a lot of gall. after years of earnest effort, he lost his hair and the millions of the infatuated conquistadores. and by-and-by he came to cairo with a thimbleful of income, and began to live again. there was a civil war going on in his own country, but he thought that one out of forty millions would not be strictly missed. so he stayed in egypt; and the tale of his days in egypt, is it not written with a neboot of domwood in the book of mahommed hassan the scribe?" he paused and beamed upon the watchful mahommed, who, if he did not understand all that had been said, was in no difficulty as to the drift and meaning of the story. "aiwa, effendi," he urged impatiently. "it is a long ride to the etl tree, and the day is far spent." "inshallah, you shall hear, my turtle-dove! one day there came to cairo, in great haste, a man from mexico, looking for the foolish one called t. t. lacey, bearing glad news. and the man from mexico blew his trumpet, and straightway t. t. lacey fell down dismayed. the trumpet said that a million once lost in mexico was returned, with a small flock of other millions; for a mine, in which it was sunk, had burst forth with a stony stream of silver. and behold! thomas tilman lacey, the despised waster of his patrimony and of other people's treasure, is now, o son of the fig-flower, richer than kaid pasha and all his eunuchs." suddenly mahommed hassan leaned forward, then backward, and, after the fashion of desert folk, gave a shrill, sweet ululation that seemed to fill the palace. "say, that's a ," lacey said, when mahommed's voice sank to a whisper of wild harmony. "yes, you can lick my boots, my noble sheikh of manfaloot," he added, as mahommed caught his feet and bent his head upon them. "i wanted to do something like that myself. kiss 'em, honey; it'll do you good." after a moment, mahommed drew back and squatted before him in an attitude of peace and satisfaction. "the saadat--you will help him? you will give him money?" "let's put it in this way, mahommed: i'll invest in an expedition out of which i expect to get something worth while--concessions for mines and railways, et cetera." he winked a round, blue eye. "business is business, and the way to get at the saadat is to talk business; but you can make up your mind that, "'to-morrow, we are pulling stakes for shendy! are you coming to my party, o nahoum?'" "by the prophet abraham, but the news is great news," said mahommed with a grin. "but the effendina?" "well, i'll try and square the effendina," answered lacey. "perhaps the days of backsheesh aren't done in egypt, after all." "and nahoum pasha?" asked mahommed, with a sinister look. "well, we'll try and square him, too, but in another way." "the money, it is in egypt?" queried mahommed, whose idea was that money to be real must be seen. "something that's as handy and as marketable," answered lacey. "i can raise half a million to-morrow; and that will do a lot of what we want. how long will it take to ride to the monastery?" mahommed told him. lacey was about to leave the room, when he heard a voice outside. "nahoum!" he said, and sat down again on the divan. "he has come to see the saadat, i suppose; but it'll do him good to see me, perhaps. open the sluices, mahommed." yes, nahoum would be glad to see the effendi, since claridge pasha was not in cairo. when would claridge pasha return? if, then, the effendi expected to see the saadat before his return to cairo, perhaps he would convey a message. he could not urge his presence on the saadat, since he had not been honoured with any communication since yesterday. "well, that's good-mannered, anyhow, pasha," said lacey with cheerful nonchalance. "people don't always know when they're wanted or not wanted." nahoum looked at him guardedly, sighed and sat down. "things have grown worse since yesterday," he said. "prince kaid received the news badly." he shook his head. "he has not the gift of perfect friendship. that is a christian characteristic; the muslim does not possess it. it was too strong to last, maybe--my poor beloved friend, the saadat." "oh, it will last all right," rejoined lacey coolly. "prince kaid has got a touch of jaundice, i guess. he knows a thing when he finds it, even if he hasn't the gift of 'perfect friendship,' same as christians like you and me. but even you and me don't push our perfections too far --i haven't noticed you going out of your way to do things for your 'poor beloved friend, the saadat'." "i have given him time, energy, experience--money." lacey nodded. "true. and i've often wondered why, when i've seen the things you didn't give and the things you took away." nahoum's eyes half closed. lacey was getting to close quarters with suspicion and allusion; but it was not his cue to resent them yet. "i had come now to offer him help; to advance him enough to carry through his expedition." "well, that sounds generous, but i guess he would get on without it, pasha. he would not want to be under any more obligations to you." "he is without money. he must be helped." "just so." "he cannot go to the treasury, and prince kaid has refused. why should he decline help from his friend?" suddenly lacey changed his tactics. he had caught a look in nahoum's eyes which gave him a new thought. "well, if you've any proposition, pasha, i'll take it to him. i'll be seeing him to-night." "i can give him fifty thousand pounds." "it isn't enough to save the situation, pasha." "it will help him over the first zareba." "are there any conditions?" "there are no conditions, effendi." "and interest?" "there would be no interest in money." "other considerations?" "yes, other considerations, effendi." "if they were granted, would there be enough still in the stocking to help him over a second zareba--or a third, perhaps?" "that would be possible, even likely, i think. of course we speak in confidence, effendi." "the confidence of the 'perfect friendship.'" "there may be difficulty, because the saadat is sensitive; but it is the only way to help him. i can get the money from but one source; and to get it involves an agreement." "you think his excellency would not just jump at it--that it might hurt some of his prejudices, eh?" "so, effendi." "and me--where am i in it, pasha?" "thou hast great influence with his excellency." "i am his servant--i don't meddle with his prejudices, pasha." "but if it were for his own good, to save his work here." lacey yawned almost ostentatiously. "i guess if he can't save it himself it can't be saved, not even when you reach out the hand of perfect friendship. you've been reaching out for a long time, pasha, and it didn't save the steamer or the cotton-mills; and it didn't save us when we were down by sobat a while ago, and you sent halim bey to teach us to be patient. we got out of that nasty corner by sleight of hand, but not your sleight of hand, pasha. your hand is a quick hand, but a sharp eye can see the trick, and then it's no good, not worth a button." there was something savage behind nahoum's eyes, but they did not show it; they blinked with earnest kindness and interest. the time would come when lacey would go as his master should go, and the occasion was not far off now; but it must not be forced. besides, was this fat, amorous- looking factotum of claridge pasha's as spartan-minded as his master? would he be superior to the lure of gold? he would see. he spoke seriously, with apparent solicitude. "thou dost not understand, effendi. claridge pasha must have money. prestige is everything in egypt, it is everything with kaid. if claridge pasha rides on as though nothing has happened--and money is the only horse that can carry him--kaid will not interfere, and his black mood may pass; but any halting now and the game is done." "and you want the game to go on right bad, don't you? well, i guess you're right. money is the only winner in this race. he's got to have money, sure. how much can you raise? oh, yes, you told me! well, i don't think it's enough; he's got to have three times that; and if he can't get it from the government, or from kaid, it's a bad lookout. what's the bargain you have in your mind?" "that the slave-trade continue, effendi." lacey did not wink, but he had a shock of surprise. on the instant he saw the trap--for the saadat and for himself. "he would not do it--not for money, pasha." "he would not be doing it for money. the time is not ripe for it, it is too dangerous. there is a time for all things. if he will but wait!" "i wouldn't like to be the man that'd name the thing to him. as you say, he's got his prejudices. they're stronger than in most men." "it need not be named to him. thou canst accept the money for him, and when thou art in the soudan, and he is going to do it, thou canst prevent it." "tell him that i've taken the money and that he's used it, and he oughtn't to go back on the bargain i made for him? so that he'll be bound by what i did?" "it is the best way, effendi." "he'd be annoyed," said lacey with a patient sigh. "he has a great soul; but sometimes he forgets that expediency is the true policy." "yet he's done a lot of things without it. he's never failed in what he set out to do. what he's done has been kicked over, but he's done it all right, somehow, at last." "he will not be able to do this, effendi, except with my help--and thine." "he's had quite a lot of things almost finished, too," said lacey reflectively, "and then a hand reached out in the dark and cut the wires --cut them when he was sleeping, and he didn't know; cut them when he was waking, and he wouldn't understand; cut them under his own eyes, and he wouldn't see; because the hand that cut them was the hand of the perfect friend." he got slowly to his feet, as a cloud of colour drew over the face of nahoum and his eyes darkened with astonishment and anger. lacey put his hands in his pockets and waited till nahoum also rose. then he gathered the other's eyes to his, and said with drawling scorn: "so, you thought i didn't understand! you thought i'd got a brain like a peanut, and wouldn't drop onto your game or the trap you've set. you'd advance money--got from the slave-dealers to prevent the slave-trade being stopped! if claridge pasha took it and used it, he could never stop the slave-trade. if i took it and used it for him on the same terms, he couldn't stop the slave-trade, though he might know no more about the bargain than a babe unborn. and if he didn't stand by the bargain i made, and did prohibit slave-dealing, nothing'd stop the tribes till they marched into cairo. he's been safe so far, because they believed in him, and because he'd rather die a million deaths than go crooked. say, i've been among the dagos before--down in mexico--and i'm onto you. i've been onto you for a good while; though there was nothing i could spot certain; but now i've got you, and i'll break the 'perfect friendship' or i'll eat my shirt. i'll--" he paused, realising the crisis in which david was moving, and that perils were thick around their footsteps. but, even as he thought of them, he remembered david's own frank, fearless audacity in danger and difficulty, and he threw discretion to the winds. he flung his flag wide, and believed with a belief as daring as david's that all would be well. "well, what wilt thou do?" asked nahoum with cool and deadly menace. "thou wilt need to do it quickly, because, if it is a challenge, within forty-eight hours claridge pasha and thyself will be gone from egypt--or i shall be in the nile." "i'll take my chances, pasha," answered lacey, with equal coolness. "you think you'll win. it's not the first time i've had to tackle men like you--they've got the breed in mexico. they beat me there, but i learned the game, and i've learned a lot from you, too. i never knew what your game was here. i only know that the saadat saved your life, and got you started again with kaid. i only know that you called yourself a christian, and worked on him till he believed in you, and hell might crackle round you, but he'd believe, till he saw your contract signed with the devil--and then he'd think the signature forged. but he's got to know now. we are not going out of egypt, though you may be going to the nile; but we are going to the soudan, and with kaid's blessing, too. you've put up the bluff, and i take it. be sure you've got kaid solid, for, if you haven't, he'll be glad to know where you keep the money you got from the slave-dealers." nahoum shrugged his shoulders. "who has seen the money? where is the proof? kaid would know my reasons. it is not the first time virtue has been tested in egypt, or the first time that it has fallen." in spite of himself lacey laughed. "say, that's worthy of a great christian intellect. you are a bright particular star, pasha. i take it back--they'd learn a lot from you in mexico. but the only trouble with lying is, that the demand becomes so great you can't keep all the cards in your head, and then the one you forget does you. the man that isn't lying has the pull in the long run. you are out against us, pasha, and we'll see how we stand in forty-eight hours. you have some cards up your sleeve, i suppose; but--well, i'm taking you on. i'm taking you on with a lot of joy, and some sorrow, too, for we might have pulled off a big thing together, you and claridge pasha, with me to hold the stirrups. now it's got to be war. you've made it so. it's a pity, for when we grip there'll be a heavy fall." "for a poor man thou hast a proud stomach." "well, i'll admit the stomach, pasha. it's proud; and it's strong, too; it's stood a lot in egypt; it's standing a lot to-day." "we'll ease the strain, perhaps," sneered nahoum. he made a perfunctory salutation and walked briskly from the room. mahommed hassan crept in, a malicious grin on his face. danger and conflict were as meat and drink to him. "effendi, god hath given thee a wasp's sting to thy tongue. it is well. nahoum pasha hath mizraim: the saadat hath thee and me." "there's the effendina," said lacey reflectively. "thou saidst thou would 'square' him, effendi." "i say a lot," answered lacey rather ruefully. "come, mahommed, the saadat first, and the sooner the better." chapter xxxi the struggle in the desert "and his mercy is on them that fear him throughout all generations." on the clear, still evening air the words rang out over the desert, sonorous, imposing, peaceful. as the notes of the verse died away the answer came from other voices in deep, appealing antiphonal: "he hath showed strength with his arm, he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts." beyond the limits of the monastery there was not a sign of life; neither beast nor bird, nor blade of grass, nor any green thing; only the perfect immemorial blue, and in the east a misty moon, striving in vain to offer light which the earth as yet rejected for the brooding radiance of the descending sun. but at the great door of the monastery there grew a stately palm, and near by an ancient acacia-tree; and beyond the stone chapel there was a garden of struggling shrubs and green things, with one rose-tree which scattered its pink leaves from year to year upon the loam, since no man gathered bud or blossom. the triumphant call of the magnificat, however beautiful, seemed strangely out of place in this lonely island in a sea of sand. it was the song of a bannered army, marching over the battle-field with conquering voices, and swords as yet unsheathed and red, carrying the spoils of conquest behind the laurelled captain of the host. the crumbling and ancient walls were surrounded by a moat which a stranger's foot crossed hardly from moon to moon, which the desert wayfarer sought rarely, since it was out of the track of caravans, and because food was scant in the refectory of this coptic brotherhood. it was scarce five hours' ride from the palace of the prince pasha: but it might have been a thousand miles away, so profoundly separate was it from the world of vital things and deeds of men. as the chant rang out, confident, majestic, and serene, carried by voices of power and shrill sweetness, which only the desert can produce, it might have seemed to any listener that this monastery was all that remained of some ancient kingdom of brimming, active cities, now lying beneath the obliterating sand, itself the monument and memorial of a breath of mercy of the destroyer, the last refuge of a few surviving captains of a departed greatness. hidden by the grey, massive walls, built as it were to resist the onset of a ravaging foe, the swelling voices might well have been those of some ancient order of valiant knights, whose banners hung above them, the 'riclame' of their deeds. but they were voices and voices only; for they who sang were as unkempt and forceless as the lonely wall which shut them in from the insistent soul of the desert. desolation? the desert was not desolate. its face was bare and burning, it slaked no man's thirst, gave no man food, save where scattered oases were like the breasts of a vast mother eluding the aching lips of her parched children; but the soul of the desert was living and inspiring, beating with vitality. it was life that burned like flame. if the water-skin was dry and the date-bag empty it smothered and destroyed; but it was life; and to those who ventured into its embrace, obeying the conditions of the sharp adventure, it gave what neither sea, nor green plain, nor high mountain, nor verdant valley could give--a consuming sense of power, which found its way to the deepest recesses of being. out upon the vast sea of sand, where the descending sun was spreading a note of incandescent colour, there floated the grateful words: "he remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant israel; as he promised to our forefathers, abraham, and his seed for ever." then the antiphonal ceased; and together the voices of all within the place swelled out in the gloria and the amen, and seemed to pass away in ever-receding vibrations upon the desert, till it was lost in the comforting sunset. as the last note died away, a voice from beneath the palm-tree near the door, deeper than any that had come from within, said reverently: "ameen- ameen !" he who spoke was a man well over sixty years, with a grey beard, lofty benign forehead, and the eyes of a scholar and a dreamer. as he uttered the words of spiritual assent, alike to the muslim and the christian religion, he rose to his feet, showing the figure of a man of action, alert, well-knit, authoritative. presently he turned towards the east and stretched a robe upon the ground, and with stately beauty of gesture he spread out his hands, standing for a moment in the attitude of aspiration. then, kneeling, he touched his turbaned head to the ground three times, and as the sun drew down behind the sharp, bright line of sand that marked the horizon, he prayed devoutly and long. it was ebn ezra bey. muslim though he was, he had visited this monastery many times, to study the ancient christian books which lay in disordered heaps in an ill-kept chamber, books which predated the hegira, and were as near to the life of the early church as the scriptures themselves--or were so reputed. student and pious muslim as he was, renowned at el azhar and at every muslim university in the eastern world, he swore by the name of christ as by that of abraham, isaac, and all the prophets, though to him mahomet was the last expression of heaven's will to mankind. at first received at the monastery with unconcealed aversion, and not without danger to himself, he had at last won to him the fanatical monks, who, in spirit, kept this ancient foundation as rigid to their faith as though it were in mediaeval times. and though their discipline was lax, and their daily duties orderless, this was oriental rather than degenerate. here ebn ezra had stayed for weeks at a time in the past, not without some religious scandal, long since forgotten. his prayers ended, he rose up slowly, once more spread out his hands in ascription, and was about to enter the monastery, when, glancing towards the west, he saw a horseman approaching. an instinct told him who it was before he could clearly distinguish the figure, and his face lighted with a gentle and expectant smile. then his look changed. "he is in trouble," he murmured. "as it was with his uncle in damascus, so will it be with him. malaish, we are in the will of god!" the hand that david laid in ebn ezra's was hot and nervous, the eyes that drank in the friendship of the face which had seen two claridges emptying out their lives in the east were burning and famished by long fasting of the spirit, forced abstinence from the pleasures of success and fruition-haunting, desiring eyes, where flamed a spirit which consumed the body and the indomitable mind. the lips, however, had their old trick of smiling, though the smile which greeted ebn ezra bey had a melancholy which touched the desert-worn, life-spent old arab as he had not been touched since a smile, just like this, flashed up at him from the weather-stained, dying face of quaint benn claridge in a street of damascus. the natural duplicity of the oriental had been abashed and inactive before the simple and astounding honesty of these two quaker folk. he saw crisis written on every feature of the face before him. yet the scanty meal they ate with the monks in the ancient room was enlivened by the eager yet quiet questioning of david, to whom the monks responded with more spirit than had been often seen in this arid retreat. the single torch which spluttered from the wall as they drank their coffee lighted up faces as strange, withdrawn, and unconsciously secretive as ever gathered to greet a guest. dim tales had reached them of this christian reformer and administrator, scraps of legend from stray camel- drivers, a letter from the patriarch commanding them to pray blessings on his labours--who could tell what advantage might not come to the coptic church through him, a christian! on the dull, torpid faces, light seemed struggling to live for a moment, as david talked. it was as though something in their meagre lives, which belonged to undeveloped feelings, was fighting for existence--a light struggling to break through murky veils of inexperience. later, in the still night, however--still, though air vibrated everywhere, as though the desert breathed an ether which was to fill men's veins with that which quieted the fret and fever of life's disillusions and forgeries and failures--david's speech with ebn ezra bey was of a different sort. if, as it seems ever in the desert, an invisible host of beings, once mortal, now immortal, but suspensive and understanding, listened to the tale he unfolded, some glow of pity must have possessed them; for it was an iliad of herculean struggle against absolute disaster, ending with the bitter news of his grandfather's death. it was the story of aedipus overcome by events too strong for soul to bear. in return, as the stars wheeled on, and the moon stole to the zenith, majestic and slow, ebn ezra offered to his troubled friend only the philosophy of the predestinarian, mingled with the calm of the stoic. but something antagonistic to his own dejection, to the muslim's fatalism, emerged from david's own altruism, to nerve him to hope and effort still. his unconquerable optimism rose determinedly to the surface, even as he summed up and related the forces working against him. "they have all come at once," he said; "all the activities opposing me, just as though they had all been started long ago at different points, with a fixed course to run, and to meet and give me a fall in the hour when i could least resist. you call it fate. i call it what it proves itself to be. but here it is a hub of danger and trouble, and the spokes of disaster are flying to it from all over the compass, to make the wheel that will grind me; and all the old troop of palace intriguers and despoilers are waiting to heat the tire and fasten it on the machine of torture. kaid has involved himself in loans which press, in foolish experiments in industry without due care; and now from ill-health and bad temper comes a reaction towards the old sinister rule, when the prince shuts his eyes and his agents ruin and destroy. three nations who have intrigued against my work see their chance, and are at kaid's elbow. the fate of the soudan is in the balance. it is all as the shake of a feather. i can save it if i go; but, just as i am ready, my mills burn down, my treasury dries up, kaid turns his back on me, and the toil of years is swept away in a night. thee sees it is terrible, friend?" ebn ezra looked at him seriously and sadly for a moment, and then said: "is it given one man to do all? if many men had done these things, then there had been one blow for each. now all falls on thee, saadat. is it the will of god that one man should fling the lance, fire the cannon, dig the trenches, gather food for the army, drive the horses on to battle, and bury the dead? canst thou do all?" david's eyes brightened to the challenge. "there was the work to do, and there were not the many to do it. my hand was ready; the call came; i answered. i plunged into the river of work alone." "thou didst not know the strength of the currents, the eddies and the whirlpools, the hidden rocks--and the shore is far off, saadat." "it is not so far but that, if i could get breath to gather strength, i should reach the land in time. money--ah, but enough for this expedition! that over, order, quiet yonder, my own chosen men as governors, and i could"--he pointed towards the southern horizon-- "i could plant my foot in cairo, and from the centre control the great machinery--with kaid's help; and god's help. a sixth of a million, and kaid's hand behind me, and the boat would lunge free of the sand-banks and churn on, and churn on. . . . friend," he added, with the winning insistence that few found it possible to resist, "if all be well, and we go thither, wilt thou become the governor-general yonder? with thee to rule justly where there is most need of justice, the end would be sure-- if it be the will of god." ebn ezra bey sat for a moment looking into the worn, eager face, indistinct in the moonlight, then answered slowly: "i am seventy, and the years smite hard as they pass, and there or here, it little matters when i go, as i must go; and whether it be to bend the lance, or bear the flag before thee, or rule a mudirieh, what does it matter! i will go with thee," he added hastily; "but it is better thou shouldst not go. within the last three days i have news from the south. all that thou hast done there is in danger now. the word for revolt has passed from tribe to tribe. a tongue hath spoken, and a hand hath signalled "--his voice lowered--" and i think i know the tongue and the hand!" he paused; then, as david did not speak, continued: "thou who art wise in most things, dost decline to seek for thy foe in him who eateth from the same dish with thee. only when it is too late thou wilt defend thyself and all who keep faith with thee." david's face clouded. "nahoum, thou dost mean nahoum? but thou dost not understand, and there is no proof." "as a camel knows the coming storm while yet the sky is clear, by that which the eye does not see, so do i feel nahoum. the evils thou hast suffered, saadat, are from his hand, if from any hand in egypt--" suddenly he leaned over and touched david's arm. "saadat, it is of no avail. there is none in egypt that desires good; thy task is too great. all men will deceive thee; if not now, yet in time. if kaid favours thee once more, and if it is made possible for thee to go to the soudan, yet i pray thee to stay here. better be smitten here, where thou canst get help from thine own country, if need be, than yonder, where they but wait to spoil thy work and kill thee. thou art young; wilt thou throw thy life away? art thou not needed here as there? for me it is nothing, whether it be now or in a few benumbing years; but for thee--is there no one whom thou lovest so well that thou wouldst not shelter thy life to spare that life sorrow? is there none that thou lovest so, and that will love thee to mortal sorrow, if thou goest without care to thy end too soon?" as a warm wind suddenly sweeps across the cool air of a summer evening for an instant, suffocating and unnerving, so ebn ezra's last words swept across david's spirit. his breath came quicker, his eyes half closed. "is there none that thou lovest so, and that will love thee to mortal sorrow, if--" as a hand secretly and swiftly slips the lever that opens the sluice- gates of a dike, while the watchman turns away for a moment to look at the fields which the waters enrich and the homes of poor folk whom the gates defend, so, in a moment, when off his guard, worn with watching and fending, as it were, ebn ezra had sprung the lever, and a flood of feeling swept over david, drowned him in its impulse and pent-up force. "is there none that thou lovest so--" of what use had been all his struggle and his pain since that last day in hamley--his dark fighting days in the desert with lacey and mahommed, and his handful of faithful followers, hemmed in by dangers, the sands swarming with arabs who feathered now to his safety, now to his doom, and his heart had hungered for what he had denied it with a will that would not be conquered? wasted by toil and fever and the tension of danger and the care of others dependent on him, he had also fought a foe which was ever at his elbow, ever whispered its comfort and seduction in his ear, the insidious and peace-giving, exalting opiate that had tided him over some black places, and then had sought for mastery of him when he was back again in the world of normal business and duty, where it appealed not as a medicine, but as a perilous luxury. and fighting this foe, which had a voice so soothing, and words like the sound of murmuring waters, and a cool and comforting hand that sought to lead him into gardens of stillness and passive being, where he could no more hear the clangour and vexing noises of a world that angered and agonised, there had also been the lure of another passion of the heart, which was too perilously dear to contemplate. eyes that were beautiful, and their beauty was not for him; a spirit that was bright and glowing, but the brightness and the glow might not renew his days. it was hard to fight alone. alone he was, for only to one may the doors within doors be opened-only to one so dear that all else is everlastingly distant may the true tale of the life beneath life be told. and it was not for him--nothing of this; not even the thought of it; for to think of it was to desire it, and to desire it was to reach out towards it; and to reach out towards it was the end of all. there had been moments of abandonment to the alluring dream, such as when he wrote the verses which lacey had sent to hylda from the desert; but they were few. oft-repeated, they would have filled him with an agitated melancholy impossible to be borne in the life which must be his. so it had been. the deeper into life and its labours and experiences he had gone, the greater had been his temptations, born of two passions, one of the body and its craving, the other of the heart and its desires: and he had fought on--towards the morning. "is there none that thou lovest so, and that will love thee to mortal sorrow, if thou goest without care to thy end too soon?" the desert, the dark monastery, the acacia tree, the ancient palm, the ruinous garden, disappeared. he only saw a face which smiled at him, as it had done 'by the brazier in the garden at cairo, that night when she and nahoum and himself and mizraim had met in the room of his house by the ezbekieh gardens, and she had gone out to her old life in england, and he had taken up the burden of the east--that long six years ago. his head dropped in his hands, and all that was beneath the quaker life he had led so many years, packed under the crust of form and habit, and regulated thought, and controlled emotion, broke forth now, and had its way with him. he turned away staggering and self-reproachful from the first question, only to face the other--"and that will love thee to mortal sorrow, if thou goest without care to thy end too soon." it was a thought he had never let himself dwell on for an instant in all the days since they had last met. he had driven it back to its covert, even before he could recognise its face. it was disloyal to her, an offence against all that she was, an affront to his manhood to let the thought have place in his mind even for one swift moment. she was lord eglington's wife--there could be no sharing of soul and mind and body and the exquisite devotion of a life too dear for thought. nothing that she was to eglington could be divided with another, not for an hour, not by one act of impulse; or else she must be less, she that might have been, if there had been no eglington-- an exclamation broke from him, and, as one crying out in one's sleep wakes himself, so the sharp cry of his misery woke him from the trance of memory that had been upon him, and he slowly became conscious of ebn ezra standing before him. their eyes met, and ebn ezra spoke: "the will of allah be thy will, saadat. if it be to go to the soudan, i am thine; if it be to stay, i am thy servant and thy brother. but whether it be life or death, thou must sleep, for the young are like water without sleep. thou canst not live in strength nor die with fortitude without it. for the old, malaish, old age is between a sleeping and a waking! come, saadat! forget not, thou must ride again to cairo at dawn." david got slowly to his feet and turned towards the monastery. the figure of a monk stood in the doorway with a torch to light him to his room. he turned to ebn ezra again. "does thee think that i have aught of his courage--my uncle benn? thou knowest me--shall i face it out as did he?" "saadat," the old man answered, pointing, "yonder acacia, that was he, quick to grow and short to live; but thou art as this date-palm, which giveth food to the hungry, and liveth through generations. peace be upon thee," he added at the doorway, as the torch flickered towards the room where david was to lie. "and upon thee, peace!" answered david gently, and followed the smoky light to an inner chamber. the room in which david found himself was lofty and large, but was furnished with only a rough wooden bed, a rug, and a brazier. left alone, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and, for a few moments, his mind strayed almost vaguely from one object to another. from two windows far up in the wall the moonlight streamed in, making bars of light aslant the darkness. not a sound broke the stillness. yet, to his sensitive nerves, the air seemed tingling with sensation, stirring with unseen activities. here the spirit of the desert seemed more insistent in its piercing vitality, because it was shut in by four stone walls. mechanically he took off his coat, and was about to fold and lay it on the rug beside the bed, when something hard in one of the pockets knocked against his knee. searching, he found and drew forth a small bottle which, for many a month past, had lain in the drawer of a table where he had placed it on his return from the soudan. it was an evil spirit which sent this tiny phial to his hand at a moment when he had paid out of the full treasury of his strength and will its accumulated deposit, leaving him with a balance on which no heavy draft could be made. his pulse quickened, then his body stiffened with the effort at self-control. who placed this evil elixir in his pocket? what any enemy of his work had done was nothing to what might be achieved by the secret foe, who had placed this anodyne within his reach at this the most critical moment of his life. he remembered the last time he had used it--in the desert: two days of forgetfulness to the world, when it all moved by him, the swarming arabs, the train of camels, the loads of ivory, the slimy crocodile on the sandbanks, the vultures hovering above unburied carcasses, the kourbash descending on shining black shoulders, corrugating bare brown bodies into cloven skin and lacerated flesh, a fight between champions of two tribes who clasped and smote and struggled and rained blows, and, both mortally wounded, still writhed in last conflict upon the ground--and mahommed hassan ever at the tent door or by his side, towering, watchful, sullen to all faces without, smiling to his own, with dog-like look waiting for any motion of his hand or any word.... ah, mahommed hassan, it was he! mahommed had put this phial in his pocket. his bitter secret was not hidden from mahommed. and this was an act of supreme devotion--to put at his hand the lulling, inspiring draught. did this fellah servant know what it meant--the sin of it, the temptation, the terrible joy, the blessed quiet; and then, the agonising remorse, the withering self-hatred and torturing penitence? no, mahommed only knew that when the saadat was gone beyond his strength, when the sleepless nights and feverish days came in the past, in their great troubles, when men were dying and only the saadat could save, that this cordial lifted him out of misery and storm into calm. yet mahommed must have divined that it was a thing against which his soul revolted, or he would have given it to him openly. in the heart and mind of the giant murderer, however, must have been the thought that now when trouble was upon his master again, trouble which might end all, this supreme destroyer of pain and dark memory and present misery, would give him the comfort he needed--and that he would take it. if he had not seen it, this sudden craving would not have seized him for this eager beguiling, this soothing benevolence. yet here it was in his hand; and even as it lay in his cold fingers--how cold they were, and his head how burning!--the desire for it surged up in him. and, as though the thing itself had the magical power to summon up his troubles, that it might offer the apathy and stimulus in one--even as it lured him, his dangers, his anxieties, the black uncertainties massed, multiplied and aggressive, rose before him, buffeted him, caught at his throat, dragged down his shoulders, clutched at his heart. now, with a cry of agony, he threw the phial on the ground, and, sinking on the bed, buried his face in his hands and moaned, and fought for freedom from the cords tightening round him. it was for him to realise now how deep are the depths to which the human soul can sink, even while labouring to climb. once more the sense of awful futility was on him: of wasted toil and blenched force, veins of energy drained of their blood, hope smitten in the way, and every dear dream shattered. was it, then, all ended? was his work indeed fallen, and all his love undone? was his own redemption made impossible? he had offered up his life to this land to atone for a life taken when she--when she first looked up with eyes of gratitude, eyes that haunted him. was it, then, unacceptable? was it so that he must turn his back upon this long, heart-breaking but beloved work, this panacea for his soul, without which he could not pay the price of blood? go back to england--to hamley where all had changed, where the old man he loved no longer ruled in the red mansion, where all that had been could be no more? go to some other land, and there begin again another such a work? were there not vast fields of human effort, effort such as his, where he could ease the sorrow of living by the joy of a divine altruism? go back to hamley? ah, no, a million times, no! that life was dead, it was a cycle of years behind him. there could be no return. he was in a maelstrom of agony, his veins were afire, his lips were parched. he sprang from his bed, knelt down, and felt for the little phial he had flung aside. after a moment his hand caught it, clutched it. but, even at the crest of the wave of temptation, words that he had heard one night in hamley, that last night of all, flashed into his mind--the words of old luke claridge's prayer, "and if a viper fasten on his hand, o lord--" suddenly he paused. that scene in the old meetinghouse swam before his eyes, got into his brain. he remembered the words of his own prayer, and how he had then retreated upon the power that gave him power, for a draught of the one true tincture which braced the heart to throw itself upon the spears of trial. now the trial had come, and that which was in him as deep as being, the habit of youth, the mother-fibre and predisposition, responded to the draught he had drunk then. as a body freed from the quivering, unrelenting grasp of an electric battery subsides into a cool quiet, so, through his veins seemed to pass an ether which stilled the tumult, the dark desire to drink the potion in his hand, and escape into that irresponsible, artificial world, where he had before loosened his hold on activity. the phial slipped from his fingers to the floor. he sank upon the side of the bed, and, placing his hands on his knees, he whispered a few broken words that none on earth was meant to hear. then he passed into a strange and moveless quiet of mind and body. many a time in days gone by--far-off days--had he sat as he was doing now, feeling his mind pass into a soft, comforting quiet, absorbed in a sensation of existence, as it were between waking and sleeping, where doors opened to new experience and understanding, where the mind seemed to loose itself from the bonds of human necessity and find a freer air. now, as he sat as still as the stone in the walls around him, he was conscious of a vision forming itself before his eyes. at first it was indefinite, vague, without clear form, but at last it became a room dimly outlined, delicately veiled, as it were. then it seemed, not that the mist cleared, but that his eyes became stronger, and saw through the delicate haze; and now the room became wholly, concretely visible. it was the room in which he had said good-bye to hylda. as he gazed like one entranced, he saw a figure rise from a couch, pale, agitated, and beautiful, and come forward, as it were, towards him. but suddenly the mist closed in again upon the scene, a depth of darkness passed his eyes, and he heard a voice say: "speak--speak to me!" he heard her voice as distinctly as though she were beside him--as, indeed, she had stood before him but an instant ago. getting slowly to his feet, into the night he sent an answer to the call. would she hear? she had said long ago that she would speak to him so. perhaps she had tried before. but now at last he had heard and answered. had she heard? time might tell--if ever they met again. but how good, and quiet, and serene was the night! he composed himself to sleep, but, as he lay waiting for that coverlet of forgetfulness to be drawn over him, he heard the sound of bells soft and clear. just such bells he had heard upon the common at hamley. was it, then, the outcome of his vision--a sweet hallucination? he leaned upon his elbow and listened. chapter xxxii forty stripes save one the bells that rang were not the bells of hamley; they were part of no vision or hallucination, and they drew david out of his chamber into the night. a little group of three stood sharply silhouetted against the moonlight, and towering above them was the spare, commanding form of ebn ezra bey. three camels crouched near, and beside them stood a nubian lad singing to himself the song of the camel-driver: "fleet is thy foot: thou shalt rest by the etl tree; water shalt thou drink from the blue-deep well; allah send his gard'ner with the green bersim, for thy comfort, fleet one, by the etl tree. as the stars fly, have thy footsteps flown deep is the well, drink, and be still once more; till the pursuing winds panting have found thee and, defeated, sink still beside thee-- by the well and the etl tree." for a moment david stood in the doorway listening to the low song of the camel-driver. then he came forward. as he did so, one of the two who stood with ebn ezra moved towards the monastery door slowly. it was a monk with a face which, even in this dim light, showed a deathly weariness. the eyes looked straight before him, as though they saw nothing of the world, only a goal to make, an object to be accomplished. the look of the face went to david's heart--the kinship of pain was theirs. "peace be to thee," david said gently, as the other passed him. there was an instant's pause, and then the monk faced him with fingers uplifted. "the grace of god be upon thee, david," he said, and his eyes, drawn back from the world where they had been exploring, met the other's keenly. then he wheeled and entered the monastery. "the grace of god be upon thee, david!" how strange it sounded, this christian blessing in response to his own oriental greeting, out in this eastern waste. his own name, too. it was as though he had been transported to the ancient world where "brethren" were so few that they called each other by their "christian" names--even as they did in hamley to-day. in hamley to-day! he closed his eyes, a tremor running through his body; and then, with an effort which stilled him to peace again, he moved forward, and was greeted by ebn ezra, from whom the third member of the little group had now drawn apart nearer to the acacia-tree, and was seated on a rock that jutted from the sand. "what is it?" david asked. "wouldst thou not sleep, saadat? sleep is more to thee now than aught thou mayst hear from any man. to all thou art kind save thyself." "i have rested," david answered, with a measured calmness, revealing to his friend the change which had come since they parted an hour before. they seated themselves under the palm-tree, and were silent for a moment, then ebn ezra said: "these come from the place of lepers." david started slightly. "zaida?" he asked, with a sigh of pity. "the monk who passed thee but now goes every year to the place of lepers with the caravan, for a brother of this order stays yonder with the afflicted, seeing no more the faces of this world which he has left behind. afar off from each other they stand--as far as eye can see--and after the manner of their faith they pray to allah, and he who has just left us finds a paper fastened with a stone upon the sand at a certain place where he waits. he touches it not, but reads it as it lies, and, having read, heaps sand upon it. and the message which the paper gives is for me." "for thee? hast thou there one who--" "there was one, my father's son, though we were of different mothers; and in other days, so many years ago, he did great wrong to me, and not to me alone,"--the grey head bowed in sorrow--"but to one dearer to me than life. i hated him, and would have slain him, but the mind of allah is not the mind of man; and he escaped me. then he was stricken with leprosy, and was carried to the place from whence no leper returns. at first my heart rejoiced; then, at last, i forgave him, saadat--was he not my father's son, and was the woman not gone to the bosom of allah, where is peace? so i forgave and sorrowed for him--who shall say what miseries are those which, minute to minute, day after day, and year upon year, repeat themselves, till it is an endless flaying of the body and burning of the soul! every year i send a message to him, and every year now this christian monk--there is no sheikh-el-islam yonder--brings back the written message which he finds in the sand." "and thee has had a message to-night?" "the last that may come--god be praised, he goeth to his long home. it was written in his last hour. there was no hope; he is gone. and so, one more reason showeth why i should go where thou goest, saadat." casting his eyes toward the figure by the acacia-tree, his face clouded and he pondered anxiously, looking at david the while. twice he essayed to speak, but paused. david's eyes followed his look. "what is it? who is he--yonder?" the other rose to his feet. "come and see, saadat," he replied. "seeing, thou wilt know what to do." "zaida--is it of zaida?" david asked. "the man will answer for himself, saadat." coming within a few feet of the figure crouched upon the rock, ebn ezra paused and stretched out a hand. "a moment, saadat. dost thou not see, dost thou not recognise him?" david intently studied the figure, which seemed unconscious of their presence. the shoulders were stooping and relaxed as though from great fatigue, but david could see that the figure was that of a tall man. the head was averted, but a rough beard covered the face, and, in the light of the fire, one hand that clutched it showed long and skinny and yellow and cruel. the hand fascinated david's eyes. where had he seen it? it flashed upon him--a hand clutching a robe, in a frenzy of fear, in the court-yard of the blue tiles, in kaid's palace--achmet the ropemaker! he drew back a step. "achmet," he said in a low voice. the figure stirred, the hand dropped from the beard and clutched the knee; but the head was not raised, and the body remained crouching and listless. "he escaped?" david said, turning to ebn ezra bey. "i know not by what means--a camel-driver bribed, perhaps, and a camel left behind for him. after the caravan had travelled a day's journey he joined it. none knew what to do. he was not a leper, and he was armed." "leave him with me," said david. ebn ezra hesitated. "he is armed; he was thy foe--" "i am armed also," david answered enigmatically, and indicated by a gesture that he wished to be left alone. ebn ezra drew away towards the palm-tree, and stood at this distance watching anxiously, for he knew what dark passions seize upon the oriental--and achmet had many things for which to take vengeance. david stood for a moment, pondering, his eyes upon the deserter. "god greet thee as thou goest, and his goodness befriend thee," he said evenly. there was silence, and no movement. "rise and speak," he added sternly. "dost thou not hear? rise, achmet pasha!" achmet pasha! the head of the desolate wretch lifted, the eyes glared at david for an instant, as though to see whether he was being mocked, and then the spare figure stretched itself, and the outcast stood up. the old lank straightness was gone, the shoulders were bent, the head was thrust forward, as though the long habit of looking into dark places had bowed it out of all manhood. "may grass spring under thy footstep, saadat," he said, in a thick voice, and salaamed awkwardly--he had been so long absent from life's formularies. "what dost thou here, pasha?" asked david formally. "thy sentence had no limit." "i could not die there," said the hollow voice, and the head sank farther forward. "year after year i lived there, but i could not die among them. i was no leper; i am no leper. my penalty was my penalty, and i paid it to the full, piastre by piastre of my body and my mind. it was not one death, it was death every hour, every day i stayed. i had no mind. i could not think. mummy-cloths were round my brain; but the fire burned underneath and would not die. there was the desert, but my limbs were like rushes. i had no will, and i could not flee. i was chained to the evil place. if i stayed it was death, if i went it was death." "thou art armed now," said david suggestively. achmet laid a hand fiercely upon a dagger under his robe. "i hid it. i was afraid. i could not die--my hand was like a withered leaf; it could not strike; my heart poured out like water. once i struck a leper, that he might strike and kill me; but he lay upon the ground and wept, for all his anger, which had been great, died in him at last. there was none other given to anger there. the leper has neither anger, nor mirth, nor violence, nor peace. it is all the black silent shame--and i was no leper." "why didst thou come? what is there but death for thee here, or anywhere thou goest! kaid's arm will find thee; a thousand hands wait to strike thee." "i could not die there--dost thou think that i repent?" he added with sudden fierceness. "is it that which would make me repent? was i worse than thousands of others? i have come out to die--to fight and die. aiwa, i have come to thee, whom i hated, because thou canst give me death as i desire it. my mother was an arab slave from senaar, and she was got by war, and all her people. war and fighting were their portion--as they ate, as they drank and slept. in the black years behind me among the unclean, there was naught to fight--could one fight the dead, and the agony of death, and the poison of the agony! life, it is done for me-- am i not accursed? but to die fighting--ay, fighting for egypt, since it must be, and fighting for thee, since it must be; to strike, and strike, and strike, and earn death! must the dog, because he is a dog, die in the slime? shall he not be driven from the village to die in the clean sand? saadat, who will see in me achmet pasha, who did with egypt what he willed, and was swept away by the besom in thy hand? is there in me aught of that achmet that any should know?" "none would know thee for that achmet," answered david. "i know, it matters not how--at last a letter found me, and the way of escape--that thou goest again to the soudan. there will be fighting there--" "not by my will," interrupted david. "then by the will of sheitan the accursed; but there will be fighting-- am i not an arab, do i not know? thou hast not conquered yet. bid me go where thou wilt, do what thou wilt, so that i may be among the fighters, and in the battle forget what i have seen. since i am unclean, and am denied the bosom of allah, shall i not go as a warrior to hell, where men will fear me? speak, saadat, canst thou deny me this?" nothing of repentance, so far as he knew, moved the dark soul; but, like some evil spirit, he would choose the way to his own doom, the place and the manner of it: a sullen, cruel, evil being, unyielding in his evil, unmoved by remorse--so far as he knew. yet he would die fighting, and for egypt "and for thee, if it must be so. to strike, to strike, to strike, and earn death!" what achmet did not see, david saw, the glimmer of light breaking through the cloud of shame and evil and doom. yonder in the soudan more problems than one would be solved, more lives than one be put to the extreme test. he did not answer achmet's question yet. "zaida--?" he said in a low voice. the pathos of her doom had been a dark memory. achmet's voice dropped lower as he answered. "she lived till the day her sister died. i never saw her face; but i was sent to bear each day to her door the food she ate and a balass of water; and i did according to my sentence. yet i heard her voice. and once, at last, the day she died, she spoke to me, and said from inside the hut: 'thy work is done, achmet. go in peace.' and that night she lay down on her sister's grave, and in the morning she was found dead upon it." david's eyes were blinded with tears. "it was too long," he said at last, as though to himself. "that day," continued achmet, "there fell ill with leprosy the christian priest from this place who had served in that black service so long; and then a fire leapt up in me. zaida was gone--i had brought food and a balass of water to her door those many times; there was naught to do, since she was gone--" suddenly david took a step nearer to him and looked into the sullen and drooping eyes. "thou shalt go with me, achmet. i will do this unlawful act for thee. at daybreak i will give thee orders. thou shalt join me far from here--if i go to the soudan," he added, with a sudden remembrance of his position; and he turned away slowly. after a moment, with muttered words, achmet sank down upon the stone again, drew a cake of dourha from his inner robe, and began to eat. the camel-boy had lighted a fire, and he sat beside it warming his hands at the blaze and still singing to himself: "the bed of my love i will sprinkle with attar of roses, the face of my love i will touch with the balm with the balm of the tree from the farthermost wood, from the wood without end, in the world without end. my love holds the cup to my lips, and i drink of the cup, and the attar of roses i sprinkle will soothe like the evening dew, and the balm will be healing and sleep, and the cup i will drink, i will drink of the cup my love holds to my lips--" david stood listening. what power was there in desert life that could make this poor camel-driver, at the end of a long day of weariness and toil and little food and drink, sing a song of content and cheerfulness? the little needed, the little granted, and no thought beyond--save the vision of one who waited in the hut by the onion-field. he gathered himself together and tuned his mind to the scene through which he had just passed, and then to the interview he would have with kaid on the morrow. a few hours ago he had seen no way out of it all--he had had no real hope that kaid would turn to him again; but the last two hours had changed all that. hope was alive in him. he had fought a desperate fight with himself, and he had conquered. then had come achmet, unrepentant, degraded still, but with the spirit of something glowing-- achmet to die for a cause, driven by that something deep beneath the degradation and the crime. he had hope, and, as the camel-driver's voice died away, and he lay down with a sheep-skin over him and went instantly to sleep, david drew to the fire and sat down beside it. presently ebn ezra came to urge him to go to bed, but he would not. he had slept, he said; he had slept and rested, and the night was good--he would wait. then the other brought rugs and blankets, and gave david some, and lay down beside the fire, and watched and waited for he knew not what. ever and ever his eyes were on david, and far back under the acacia-tree achmet slept as he had not slept since his doom fell on him. at last ebn ezra bey also slept; but david was awake with the night and the benevolent moon and the marching stars. the spirit of the desert was on him, filling him with its voiceless music. from the infinite stretches of sand to the south came the irresistible call of life, as soft as the leaves in a garden of roses, as deep as the sea. this world was still, yet there seemed a low, delicate humming, as of multitudinous looms at a distance so great that the ear but faintly caught it--the sound of the weavers of life and destiny and eternal love, the hands of the toilers of all the ages spinning and spinning on; and he was part of it, not abashed or dismayed because he was but one of the illimitable throng. the hours wore on, but still he sat there, peace in all his heart, energy tingling softly through every vein, the wings of hope fluttering at his ear. at length the morning came, and, from the west, with the rising sun, came a traveller swiftly, making for where he was. the sleepers stirred around him and waked and rose. the little camp became alive. as the traveller neared the fresh-made fire, david saw that it was lacey. he went eagerly to meet him. "thee has news," he said. "i see it is so." he held lacey's hand in his. "say, you are going on that expedition, saadat. you wanted money. will a quarter of a million do?" david's eyes caught fire. from the monastery there came the voices of the monks: "o be joyful in the lord, all ye lands. serve the lord with gladness, and come before his presence with a song." chapter xxxiii the dark indenture nahoum had forgotten one very important thing: that what affected david as a christian in egypt would tell equally against himself. if, in his ill-health and dejection, kaid drank deep of the cup of mahomet, the red eyes of fanaticism would be turned upon the armenian, as upon the european christian. he had forgotten it for the moment, but when, coming into kaid's palace, a little knot of loiterers spat upon the ground and snarled, "infidel--nazarene!" with contempt and hatred, the significance of the position came home to him. he made his way to a far quarter of the palace, thoughtfully weighing the circumstances, and was met by mizraim. mizraim salaamed. "the height of thy renown be as the cedar of lebanon, excellency." "may thy feet tread the corn of everlasting fortune, son of mahomet." they entered the room together. nahoum looked at mizraim curiously. he was not satisfied with what he saw. mizraim's impassive face had little expression, but the eyes were furtively eager and sinister. "well, so it is, and if it is, what then?" asked nahoum coolly. "ki di, so it is," answered mizraim, and a ghastly smile came to his lips. this infidel pasha, nahoum, had a mind that pierced to the meaning of words ere they were spoken. mizraim's hand touched his forehead, his breast, his lips, and, clasping and unclasping his long, snakelike fingers, he began the story he had come to tell. "the inglesi, whom allah confound, the effendina hath blackened by a look, his words have smitten him in the vital parts--" "mizraim, thou dove, speak to the purpose!" mizraim showed a dark pleasure at the interruption. nahoum was impatient, anxious; that made the tale better worth telling. "sharif and the discontented ones who dare not act, like the vultures, they flee the living man, but swoop upon the corpse. the consuls of those countries who love not england or claridge pasha, and the holy men, and the cadi, all scatter smouldering fires. there is a spirit in the palace and beyond which is blowing fast to a great flame." "then, so it is, great one, and what bodes it?" "it may kill the inglesi; but it will also sweep thee from the fields of life where thou dost flourish." "it is not against the foreigner, but against the christian, mizraim?" "thy tongue hath wisdom, excellency." "thou art a muslim--" "why do i warn thee? for service done to me; and because there is none other worth serving in egypt. behold, it is my destiny to rule others, to serve thee." "once more thy turban full of gold, mizraim, if thou dost service now that hath meaning and is not a belching of wind and words. thou hast a thing to say--say it, and see if nahoum hath lost his wit, or hath a palsied arm." "then behold, pasha. are not my spies in all the palace? is not my scourge heavier than the whip of the horned horse? ki di, so it is. this i have found. sharif hath, with others, made a plot which hath enough powder in it to shake egypt, and toss thee from thy high place into the depths. there is a christian--an armenian, as it chances; but he was chosen because he was a christian, and for that only. his name is rahib. he is a tent-maker. he had three sons. they did kill an effendi who had cheated them of their land. two of them were hanged last week; the other, caught but a few days since, is to hang within three days. to-day kaid goes to the mosque of mahmoud, as is the custom at this festival. the old man hath been persuaded to attempt the life of kaid, upon condition that his son--his benjamin--is set free. it will be but an attempt at kaid's life, no more; but the cry will go forth that a christian did the thing; and the muslim flame will leap high." "and the tent-maker?" asked nahoum musingly, though he was turning over the tale in his mind, seeing behind it and its far consequences. "malaish, what does it matter! but he is to escape, and they are to hang another christian in his stead for the attempt on kaid. it hath no skill, but it would suffice. with the dervishes gone malboos, and the faithful drunk with piety--canst thou not see the issue, pasha? blood will be shed." "the jews of europe would be angry," said nahoum grimly but evenly. "the loans have been many, and kaid has given a lien by the new canal at suez. the jews will be angry," he repeated, "and for every drop of christian blood shed there would be a lanced vein here. but that would not bring back nahoum pasha," he continued cynically. "well, this is thy story, mizraim; this is what they would do. now what hast thou done to stop their doing?" "am i not a muslim? shall i give sharif to the nile?" nahoum smiled darkly. "there is a simpler way. thy mind ever runs on the bowstring and the sword. these are great, but there is a greater. it is the mocking finger. at midnight, when kaid goes to the mosque mahmoud, a finger will mock the plotters till they are buried in confusion. thou knowest the governor of the prisons--has he not need of something? hath he never sought favours of thee?" "bismillah, but a week ago!" "then, listen, thou shepherd of the sheep--" he paused, as there came a tap at the door, and a slave entered hurriedly and addressed nahoum. "the effendi, ebn ezra bey, whom thou didst set me to watch, he hath entered the palace, and asks for the effendina." nahoum started, and his face clouded, but his eyes flashed fire. he tossed the slave a coin. "thou hast done well. where is he now?" "he waits in the hall, where is the statue of mehemet ali and the lions." "in an hour, mizraim, thou shalt hear what i intend. peace be to thee!" "and on thee, peace!" answered mizraim, as nahoum passed from the room, and walked hastily towards the hall where he should find ebn ezra bey. nearing the spot, he brought his step to a deliberate slowness, and appeared not to notice the stately arab till almost upon him. "salaam, effendi," he said smoothly, yet with inquisition in his eye, with malice in his tone. "salaam, excellency." "thou art come on the business of thy master?" "who is my master, excellency?" "till yesterday it was claridge pasha. hast thou then forsaken him in his trouble--the rat from the sinking ship?" a flush passed over ebn ezra bey's face, and his mouth opened with a gasp of anger. oriental though he was, he was not as astute as this armenian christian, who was purposely insulting him, that he might, in a moment of heat, snatch from him the business he meant to lay before kaid. nahoum had not miscalculated. "i have but one master, excellency," ebn ezra answered quietly at last, "and i have served him straightly. hast thou done likewise?" "what is straight to thee might well be crooked to me, effendi." "thou art crooked as the finger of a paralytic." "yet i have worked in peace with claridge pasha for these years past, even until yesterday, when thou didst leave him to his fate." "his ship will sail when thine is crumbling on the sands, and all thou art is like a forsaken cockatrice's nest." "is it this thou hast come to say to the effendina?" "what i have come to say to the effendina is for the world to know after it hath reached his ears. i know thee, nahoum pasha. thou art a traitor. claridge pasha would abolish slavery, and thou dost receive great sums of gold from the slave-dealers to prevent it." "is it this thou wilt tell kaid?" nahoum asked with a sneer. "and hast thou proofs?" "even this day they have come to my hands from the south." "yet i think the proofs thou hast will not avail; and i think that thou wilt not show them to kaid. the gift of second thinking is a great gift. thou must find greater reason for seeking the effendina." "that too shall be. gold thou hadst to pay the wages of the soldiers of the south. thou didst keep the gold and order the slave-hunt; and the soldiers of the effendina have been paid in human flesh and blood--ten thousand slaves since claridge pasha left the soudan, and three thousand dead upon the desert sands, abandoned by those who hunted them when water grew scarce and food failed. to-day shall see thy fall." at his first words nahoum had felt a shock, from which his spirit reeled; but an inspiration came to him on the moment; and he listened with a saturnine coolness to the passionate words of the indignant figure towering above him. when ebn ezra had finished, he replied quietly: "it is even as thou sayest, effendi. the soldiers were paid in slaves got in the slave-hunt; and i have gold from the slave-dealers. i needed it, for the hour is come when i must do more for egypt than i have ever done." with a gesture of contempt ebn ezra made to leave, seeing an official of the palace in the distance. nahoum stopped him. "but, one moment ere thou dost thrust thy hand into the cockatrice's den. thou dost measure thyself against nahoum? in patience and with care have i trained myself for the battle. the bulls of bashan may roar, yet my feet are shod with safety. thou wouldst go to kaid and tell him thy affrighted tale. i tell thee, thou wilt not go. thou hast reason yet, though thy blood is hot. thou art to claridge pasha like a brother--as to his uncle before him, who furnished my father's palace with carpets. the carpets still soften the fall of my feet in my father's palace, as they did soften the fall of my brother's feet, the feet of foorgat bey." he paused, looking at ebn ezra with quiet triumph, though his eyes had ever that smiling innocence which had won david in days gone by. he was turning his words over on the tongue with a relish born of long waiting. "come," he said presently--"come, and i will give thee reason why thou wilt not speak with kaid to-day. this way, effendi." he led the other into a little room hung about with rugs and tapestry, and, going to the wall, he touched a spring. "one moment here, effendi," he added quietly. the room was as it had been since david last stood within it. "in this room, effendi," nahoum said with cold deliberation, "claridge pasha killed my brother, foorgat bey." ebn ezra fell back as though he had been struck. swiftly nahoum told him the whole truth--even to the picture of the brougham, and the rigid, upright figure passing through the night to foorgat's palace, the gaunt mizraim piloting the equipage of death. "i have held my peace for my own reasons, effendi. wilt thou then force me to speak? if thou dost still cherish claridge pasha, wilt thou see him ruined? naught but ruin could follow the telling of the tale at this moment--his work, his life, all done. the scandal, the law, vengeance! but as it is now, kaid may turn to him again; his work may yet go on--he has had the luck of angels, and kaid is fickle. who can tell?" abashed and overwhelmed, ebn ezra bey looked at him keenly. "to tell of foorgat bey would ruin thee also," he said. "that thou knowest. the trick--would kaid forgive it? claridge pasha would not be ruined alone." "be it so. if thou goest to kaid with thy story, i go to egypt with mine. choose." ebn ezra turned to go. "the high god judge between him and thee," he said, and, with bowed head, left the palace. chapter xxxiv nahoum drops the mask "claridge pasha!" at the sound of the words, announced in a loud voice, hundreds of heads were turned towards the entrance of the vast salon, resplendent with gilded mirrors, great candelabra and chandeliers, golden hangings, and divans glowing with robes of yellow silk. it was the anniversary of kaid's succession, and all entitled to come poured into the splendid chamber. the showy livery of the officials, the loose, spacious, gorgeous uniforms of the officers, with the curved jewelled scimitars and white turbans, the rich silk robes of the ulema, robe over robe of coloured silk with flowing sleeves and sumptuous silken vests, the ample dignity of noble-looking arabs in immense white turbans, the dark straight stambouli coat of the officials, made a picture of striking variety and colour and interest. about the centre of the room, laying palm to palm again and yet again, touching lips and forehead and breast, speaking with slow, leisurely, voices, were two arab sheikhs from the far soudan. one of these showed a singular interest in the movements of nahoum pasha as he entered the chamber, and an even greater interest in david when he was announced; but as david, in his journey up the chamber, must pass near him, he drew behind a little group of officials, who whispered to each other excitedly as david came on. more than once before this same sheikh abdullah had seen david, and once they had met, and had made a treaty of amity, and abdullah had agreed to deal in slaves no more; and yet within three months had sent to cairo two hundred of the best that could be found between khartoum and senaar. his business, of which ebn ezra bey had due knowledge, had now been with nahoum. the business of the other arab, a noble-looking and wiry bedouin from the south, had been with ebn ezra bey, and each hid his business from his friend. abdullah murmured to himself as david passed--a murmur of admiration and astonishment. he had heard of the disfavour in which the inglesi was; but, as he looked at david's face with its quiet smile, the influence which he felt in the desert long ago came over him again. "by allah," he said aloud abstractedly, "it is a face that will not hide when the khamsin blows! who shall gainsay it? if he were not an infidel he would be a mahdi." to this his bedouin friend replied: "as the depths of the pool at ghebel farik, so are his eyes. you shall dip deep and you shall not find the bottom. bismillah, i would fight kaid's nubians, but not this infidel pasha!" never had david appeared to such advantage. the victory over himself the night before, the message of hope that had reached him at the monastery in the desert, the coming of lacey, had given him a certain quiet masterfulness not reassuring to his foes. as he entered the chamber but now, there flashed into his mind the scene six years ago when, an absolute stranger, he had stepped into this eastern salon, and had heard his name called out to the great throng: "claridge efendi!" he addressed no one, but he bowed to the group of foreign consuls- general, looking them steadily in the eyes. he knew their devices and what had been going on of late, he was aware that his fall would mean a blow to british prestige, and the calmness of his gaze expressed a fortitude which had a disconcerting effect upon the group. the british consul-general stood near by. david advanced to him, and, as he did so, the few who surrounded the consul-general fell back. david held out his hand. somewhat abashed and ill at ease, the consul-general took it. "have you good news from downing street?" asked david quietly. the consul-general hesitated for an instant, and then said: "there is no help to be had for you or for what you are doing in that quarter." he lowered his voice. "i fear lord eglington does not favour you; and he controls the foreign minister. i am very sorry. i have done my best, but my colleagues, the other consuls, are busy--with lord eglington." david turned his head away for an instant. strange how that name sent a thrill through him, stirred his blood! he did not answer the consul- general, and the latter continued: "is there any hope? is the breach with kaid complete?" david smiled gravely. "we shall see presently. i have made no change in my plans on the basis of a breach." at that moment he caught sight of nahoum some distance away and moved towards him. out of the corner of his eye nahoum saw david coming, and edged away towards that point where kaid would enter, and where the crowd was greater. as he did so kaid appeared. a thrill went through the chamber. contrary to his custom, he was dressed in the old native military dress of mehemet ali. at his side was a jewelled scimitar, and in his turban flashed a great diamond. in his hand he carried a snuff- box, covered with brilliants, and on his breast were glittering orders. the eyes of the reactionaries flashed with sinister pleasure when they saw kaid. this outward display of orientalism could only be a reflex of the mind. it was the outer symbol of kaid's return to the spirit of the old days, before the influence of the inglesi came upon him. every corrupt and intriguing mind had a palpitation of excitement. in nahoum the sight of kaid produced mixed feelings. if, indeed, this display meant reaction towards an entourage purely arab, egyptian, and muslim, then it was no good omen for his christian self. he drew near, and placed himself where kaid could see him. kaid's manner was cheerful, but his face showed the effect of suffering, physical and mental. presently there entered behind him sharif bey, whose appearance was the signal for a fresh demonstration. now, indeed, there could be no doubt as to kaid's reaction. yet if sharif had seen mizraim's face evilly gloating near by he would have been less confident. david was standing where kaid must see him, but the effendina gave no sign of recognition. this was so significant that the enemies of david rejoiced anew. the day of the inglesi was over. again and again did kaid's eye wander over david's head. david remained calm and watchful, neither avoiding nor yet seeking the circle in which kaid moved. the spirit with which he had entered the room, however, remained with him, even when he saw kaid summon to him some of the most fanatical members of the court circle, and engage them in talk for a moment. but as this attention grew more marked, a cloud slowly gathered in the far skies of his mind. there was one person in the great assembly, however, who seemed to be unduly confident. it was an ample, perspiring person in evening dress, who now and again mopped a prematurely bald head, and who said to himself, as kaid talked to the reactionaries: "say, kald's overdoing it. he's putting potted chicken on the butter. but it's working all right-r-i-g-h-t. it's worth the backsheesh!" at this moment kaid fastened david with his look, and spoke in a tone so loud that people standing at some distance were startled. "claridge pasha!" in the hush that followed david stepped forward. "may the bounty of the years be thine, saadat," kaid said in a tone none could misunderstand. "may no tree in thy orchard wither, effendina," answered david in a firm voice. kaid beckoned him near, and again he spoke loudly: "i have proved thee, and found thee as gold tried seven times by the fire, saadat. in the treasury of my heart shall i store thee up. thou art going to the soudan to finish the work mehemet ali began. i commend thee to allah, and will bid thee farewell at sunrise--i and all who love egypt." there was a sinister smile on his lips, as his eyes wandered over the faces of the foreign consuls-general. the look he turned on the intriguers of the palace was repellent; he reserved for sharif a moody, threatening glance, and the desperate hakim shrank back confounded from it. his first impulse was to flee from the palace and from cairo; but he bethought himself of the assault to be made on kaid by the tent-maker, as he passed to the mosque a few hours later, and he determined to await the issue of that event. exchanging glances with confederates, he disappeared, as kaid laid a hand on david's arm and drew him aside. after viewing the great throng cynically for a moment kaid said: "to- morrow thou goest. a month hence the hakim's knife will find the thing that eats away my life. it may be they will destroy it and save me; if not, we shall meet no more." david looked into his eyes. "not in a month shall thy work be completed, effendina. thou shalt live. god and thy strong will shall make it so." a light stole over the superstitious face. "no device or hatred, or plot, has prevailed against thee," kaid said eagerly. "thou hast defeated all--even when i turned against thee in the black blood of despair. thou hast conquered me even as thou didst harrik." "thou dost live," returned david drily. "thou dost live for egypt's sake, even as harrik died for egypt's sake, and as others shall die." "death hath tracked thee down how often! yet with a wave of the hand thou hast blinded him, and his blow falls on the air. thou art beset by a thousand dangers, yet thou comest safe through all. thou art an honest man. for that i besought thee to stay with me. never didst thou lie to me. good luck hath followed thee. kismet! stay with me, and it may be i shall be safe also. this thought came to me in the night, and in the morning was my reward, for lacey effendi came to me and said, even as i say now, that thou wilt bring me good luck; and even in that hour, by the mercy of god, a loan much needed was negotiated. allah be praised!" a glint of humour shot into david's eyes. lacey--a loan--he read it all! lacey had eased the prince pasha's immediate and pressing financial needs--and, "allah be praised!" poor human nature--backsheesh to a prince regnant! "effendina," he said presently, "thou didst speak of harrik. one there was who saved thee then--" "zaida!" a change passed over kaid's face. "speak! thou hast news of her? she is gone?" briefly david told him how zaida was found upon her sister's grave. kaid's face was turned away as he listened. "she spoke no word of me?" kaid said at last. "to whom should she speak?" david asked gently. "but the amulet thou gavest her, set with one red jewel, it was clasped in her hand in death." suddenly kaid's anger blazed. "now shall achmet die," he burst out. "his hands and feet shall be burnt off, and he shall be thrown to the vultures." "the place of the lepers is sacred even from thee, effendina," answered david gravely. "yet achmet shall die even as harrik died. he shall die for egypt and for thee, effendina." swiftly he drew the picture of achmet at the monastery in the desert. "i have done the unlawful thing, effendina," he said at last, "but thou wilt make it lawful. he hath died a thousand deaths--all save one." "be it so," answered kaid gloomily, after a moment; then his face lighted with cynical pleasure as he scanned once more the faces of the crowd before him. at last his eyes fastened on nahoum. he turned to david. "thou dost still desire nahoum in his office?" he asked keenly. a troubled look came into david's eyes, then it cleared away, and he said firmly: "for six years we have worked together, effendina. i am surety for his loyalty to thee." "and his loyalty to thee?" a pained look crossed over david's face again, but he said with a will that fought all suspicion down: "the years bear witness." kaid shrugged his shoulders slightly. "the years have perjured themselves ere this. yet, as thou sayest, nahoum is a christian," he added, with irony scarcely veiled. now he moved forward with david towards the waiting court. david searched the groups of faces for nahoum in vain. there were things to be said to nahoum before he left on the morrow, last suggestions to be given. nahoum could not be seen. nahoum was gone, as were also sharif and his confederates, and in the lofty mosque of mahmoud soft lights were hovering, while the sheikh-el- islam waited with koran and scimitar for the ruler of egypt to pray to god and salute the lord mahomet. at the great gateway in the street of the tent makers kaid paused on his way to the mosque mahmoud. the gate was studded with thousands of nails, which fastened to its massive timbers relics of the faithful, bits of silk and cloth, and hair and leather; and here from time immemorial a holy man had sat and prayed. at the gateway kaid salaamed humbly, and spoke to the holy man, who, as he passed, raised his voice shrilly in an appeal to allah, commending kaid to mercy and everlasting favour. on every side eyes burned with religious zeal, and excited faces were turned towards the effendina. at a certain point there were little groups of men with faces more set than excited. they had a look of suppressed expectancy. kald neared them, passed them, and, as he did so, they looked at each other in consternation. they were sharif's confederates, fanatics carefully chosen. the attempt on kaid's life should have been made opposite the spot where they stood. they craned their necks in effort to find the christian tent-maker, but in vain. suddenly they heard a cry, a loud voice calling. it was rahib the tent- maker. he was beside kaid's stirrups, but no weapon was in his hand; and his voice was calling blessings down on the effendina's head for having pardoned and saved from death his one remaining son, the joy of his old age. in all the world there was no prince like kaid, said the tent- maker; none so bountiful and merciful and beautiful in the eyes of men. god grant him everlasting days, the beloved friend of his people, just to all and greatly to be praised. as the soldiers drove the old man away with kindly insistence--for kaid had thrown him a handful of gold--mizraim, the chief eunuch, laughed wickedly. as nahoum had said, the greatest of all weapons was the mocking finger. he and mizraim had had their way with the governor of the prisons, and the murderer had gone in safety, while the father stayed to bless kaid. rahib the tent-maker had fooled the plotters. they were mad in derision. they did not know that kaid was as innocent as themselves of having pardoned the tent-maker's son. their moment had passed; they could not overtake it; the match had spluttered and gone out at the fuel laid for the fire of fanaticism. the morning of david's departure came. while yet it was dark he had risen, and had made his last preparations. when he came into the open air and mounted, it was not yet sunrise, and in that spectral early light, which is all egypt's own, cairo looked like some dream-city in a forgotten world. the mokattam hills were like vast dun barriers guarding and shutting in the ghostly place, and, high above all, the minarets of the huge mosque upon the lofty rocks were impalpable fingers pointing an endless flight. the very trees seemed so little real and substantial that they gave the eye the impression that they might rise and float away. the nile was hung with mist, a trailing cloud unwound from the breast of the nile-mother. at last the sun touched the minarets of the splendid mosque with shafts of light, and over at ghizeh and sakkarah the great pyramids, lifting their heads from the wall of rolling blue mist below, took the morning's crimson radiance with the dignity of four thousand years. on the decks of the little steamer which was to carry them south david, ebn ezra, lacey, and mahommed waited. presently kaid came, accompanied by his faithful nubians, their armour glowing in the first warm light of the rising sun, and crowds of people, who had suddenly emerged, ran shrilling to the waterside behind him. kaid's pale face had all last night's friendliness, as he bade david farewell with great honour, and commended him to the care of allah; and the swords of the nubians clashed against their breasts and on their shields in salaam. but there was another farewell to make; and it was made as david's foot touched the deck of the steamer. once again david looked at nahoum as he had done six years ago, in the little room where they had made their bond together. there was the same straight look in nahoum's eyes. was he not to be trusted? was it not his own duty to trust? he clasped nahoum's hand in farewell, and turned away. but as he gave the signal to start, and the vessel began to move, nahoum came back. he leaned over the widening space and said in a low tone, as david again drew near: "there is still an account which should be settled, saadat. it has waited long; but god is with the patient. there is the account of foorgat bey." the light fled from david's eyes and his heart stopped beating for a moment. when his eyes saw the shore again nahoum was gone with kaid. glossary aiwa----yes. allah hu achbar----god is most great. al'mah----female professional singers, signifying "a learned female." ardab----a measure equivalent to five english bushels. backsheesh----tip, douceur. balass----earthen vessel for carrying water. bdsha----pasha. bersim----clover. bismillah----in the name of god. bowdb----a doorkeeper. dahabieh----a nile houseboat with large lateen sails. darabukkeh----a drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. dourha----maize. effendina----most noble. el azhar----the arab university at cairo. fedddn----a measure of land representing about an acre. fellah----the egyptian peasant. ghiassa----small boat. hakim----doctor. hasheesh----leaves of hemp. inshallah----god willing. kdnoon----a musical instrument like a dulcimer. kavass----an orderly. kemengeh----a cocoanut fiddle. khamsin----a hot wind of egypt and the soudan. kourbash----a whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. la ilaha illa-llah----there is no deity but god. malaish----no matter. malboos----demented. mastaba----a bench. medjidie----a turkish order. mooshrabieh----lattice window. moufettish----high steward. mudir----the governor of a mudirieh, or province. muezzin----the sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. narghileh----a persian pipe. nebool----a quarter-staff. ramadan----the mahommedan season of fasting. saadat-el-bdsha----excellency pasha. sdis----groom. sakkia----the persian water-wheel. salaam----eastern salutation. sheikh-el-beled----head of a village. tarboosh----a turkish turban. ulema----learned men. wakf----mahommedan court dealing with succession, etc. welee----a holy man or saint. yashmak----a veil for the lower part of the face. yelek----a long vest or smock. etext editor's bookmarks: cherish any alleviating lie triumph of oriental duplicity over western civilisation when god permits, shall man despair? none marriage enrichment retreats story of a quaker project by david and vera mace friends general conference race street philadelphia, pennsylvania, about the maces david and vera mace have spent almost forty years making a vital relationship of their own marriage, and, because of their inherent sense of purpose, consequently have enriched the lives and marriages of innumerable persons in some sixty countries around the world. david mace's first degree was in science from the university of london. earlier family influence led him on to cambridge university, a degree in theology, and work in a mission church in the slums of london. vera, already in youth work, joined him after their marriage in the work of the mission church. from that point on theirs was a partnership which focused on counselling persons in trouble. later, a phd. in sociology for david and a masters degree with a thesis on christian marriage for vera, moved them into full time marriage guidance work. (two children, a war causing forced separation for a time, and a pacifist stand by david which also made life more difficult, only strengthened them in their life's purpose.) before leaving britain permanently in , they had set up more than one hundred marriage guidance centers and achieved their goal of recognition for the marriage guidance council. it would be impossible to enumerate specifically here all the activities of teaching, published writing, training seminars and travels the maces have shared. theirs has been a life of richly varied experiences and shared responsibilities. from - the maces served as joint executive directors of the american association of marriage counsellors. at present they are members of summit friends meeting in new jersey, currently living in winston-salem, north carolina, where david mace is professor of family sociology at the behavioral sciences center, bowman gray school of medicine. david mace delivered the rufus jones lecture, _marriage as vocation_. this pamphlet and the project it presents is an outgrowth of that experience. "how important is it that quakers should have good marriages, and what should friends general conference be doing about it?" this question was asked at a gathering of ten married couples, all of them friends, representing both the u.s. and canada. what brought these couples together was the common bond that all had been leading marriage enrichment retreats at which six to eight couples, all with stable marriages, spent an intensive weekend sharing marital growth around the theme "communications-in-depth about relationship-in-depth." the project of which they had been a part dates back to the rufus jones lecture, _marriage as vocation_.[a] the impact of the lecture and the weekend following resulted in the religious education committee of friends general conference sponsoring a project to train couples selected by yearly meetings to lead marriage enrichment programs in their own regions. the first group was trained in , the second in , and, as the majority of them met again the consensus grew that this project had been sufficiently tested to provide the basis for a more extensive movement within our fellowship. a number of concerns emerged that can best be expressed as questions: do friends reaffirm their traditional belief in marriage and the family as the foundation unit of the meeting? do friends believe that their mission to spread love and peace in the world begins with the practice of love and peace in their own primary relationships? are our meetings doing their utmost to make use of modern knowledge and experience in the preparation for marriage of those for whom they accept responsibility? are our meetings satisfied with what they are doing for the care and support of the marriages of their members, and that divorces that occur could not have been prevented by any means that lay in their power? would friends in positions of leadership be willing to demonstrate their support for this project by participating in retreats at which they can examine with others the potentialities for growth of their own marriages? those who met at pendle hill were not in a position to answer any of these questions in a definitive way. it is clear that answers would vary from one friend to another and from one meeting to another. they felt, however, that it would be appropriate and timely for these questions to be more widely considered. moreover, their own experiences of marital growth, resulting from their sharing with other married couples, had been so rich and rewarding that they felt they had "good news" to pass on, and were constrained to do so.[b] the plan yearly meetings throughout the united states were invited to select with care a married couple for a weekend of training at pendle hill, the quaker study center near philadelphia. during the six months following the training each couple would have the opportunity to conduct a marriage enrichment retreat arranged by their yearly meeting. then all the couples would reassemble at pendle hill to share their experiences. the project would be evaluated, and further action would depend on whatever judgment was reached. we two were asked to lead the two training weekends. our decision was to begin with an actual retreat for the group of couples since this experience would, in our judgment, provide the best training we could give them. premises from earlier experiences in joe and edith platt, a quaker couple who helped run a retreat center called kirkridge, invited us to conduct a weekend for married couples. we were at that time joint executive directors of the american association of marriage counselors, so this was a challenge we could hardly evade. although we had been involved in many lectures and conferences about marriage, and plenty of marriage counseling, a retreat for married couples was a new venture. however, we accepted the invitation, conducted the retreat to the best of our ability, and learned a great deal in the process. there is no need at this point to go into detail about the procedures we followed for we improved on them considerably later as we gained further experience. the first kirkridge retreat was successful enough to encourage the platts to ask us to come again and again. we then began to receive other requests as it became known that we were available for this kind of leadership, most of them being under religious auspices. the retreats generally began on friday evening and ended with sunday lunch. one, for methodist ministers and their wives, lasted five days, and proved to be the inauguration of a nation-wide program now being run by the united methodist church under the title "marriage communication labs." these experiences brought us into close touch with many "normal" married couples. our practice was to insist that the retreats were _not_ for couples with problems, but for those who considered they had satisfactory marriages and wanted to explore their potential for further growth. as counselors, we had previously dealt only with marriages in trouble. now we found that many of these "normal" couples were settling for relationships that were far short of their inherent potential. some exhibited the same self-defeating interaction patterns which we were accustomed to finding in couples with "problems"--but either they had accepted these poor patterns as inevitable, or the conflicts they caused had not yet reached crisis proportions. matching our observation of these couples with some of the research findings on marital interaction, we arrived at four important conclusions: . only a small proportion of marriages came anywhere near to realizing their full potential. lederer and jackson[c] suggest that the proportion of "stable-satisfactory" marriages in our culture does not exceed - percent. . most married couples desire, and hope for, the achievement we have called "relationship-in-depth." early in their married life, however, they find their growth together blocked by interpersonal conflicts which they either cannot understand or are not prepared to make the effort to resolve. they settle for a series of compromises, resulting in a superficial relationship. . as time passes, the couple either accepts this unsatisfactory situation, or it becomes progressively intolerable. they are usually so "locked into" their self-defeating interaction pattern that they are quite unable to change it by their own unaided efforts. some seek marriage counseling, but often too late for it to be effective. . this tragedy of undeveloped potential could be avoided in many instances if married couples had a clearer concept of the task of marriage and did not have to struggle in almost total isolation from other couples going through the same experiences. the potential of married couples for giving each other mutual help and support is very great; but it is unable to function because of an unrecognized taboo in our culture. this taboo, hitherto unrecognized as such, prevents married couples from sharing their intramarital experiences with other couples. in many settings married couples form friendships with each other, enjoy social contacts, even work together on projects; but there is always a tacit understanding that they do not reveal to each other, further than is unavoidable, what is going on in their husband-wife relationships. complex mechanisms for evasion and mutual defense exist. some of these are familiar, strong hostility in one partner when the other appears to be revealing too much; making jokes to relieve tension when some inner secret of the marriage accidently breaks to the surface; silence or withdrawal when "outsiders" appear to be probing too deeply. these defense systems work so well that it is not unusual when a couple begins divorce proceedings for others in their circle of acquaintance to express astonishment in such terms as "we are amazed! we had no idea that they were having trouble!" we could speculate about the reasons for this taboo: a protection against public humiliation, since we all want others to feel that we can manage competently such a basic undertaking as marriage; a safeguard against exploitation, since a discontented marriage partner offers fair game to a predatory third person; a link with our sexual taboos, since difficulties in marital adjustment often have a sexual component, and any suggestion of sexual incompetence is deeply wounding to our pride. it could reflect the traditional tendency to regard the family as a closed "in-group"--an attitude not without advantages for its strength and stability. what we are concerned about, however, is that this taboo is being maintained with a strictness that goes far beyond its usefulness in our changing society. it is depriving married couples of help and support from each other, at a time when marriage has become much more difficult and demanding than it was in the past. indeed, we believe that with the emergence of the nuclear family as the norm in our western culture, the individual marriage has been deprived of the supports derived from the extended family of the past precisely at a time when our rising expectations of highly rewarding interpersonal relationships are subjecting it to demands it is often unable to meet. in the larger family groupings of the orient, despite their hierarchical structure, a great deal of help and support can become available to the individual couple in times of trouble from those with whom they share a common corporate life. it may well be that the new "life styles" being experimented with today--mate-swapping, multilateral marriages, and group marriages, for example--represent attempts to enable the individual marriage to break out of its isolation and to gain better communication, interaction and needed support from other marital units. a striking illustration of this trend toward deep sharing between married couples has come to our notice from an unexpected quarter. two married couples from a conservative christian background decided to meet and talk together, with complete detailed frankness, about their sexual experiences. a series of such meetings was held, the conversations taped, and subsequently published in book form.[d] the couples, after careful consideration, decided not to hide behind a cloak of anonymity, but to use their real names and disclose their identity. confronted with this new trend, we take the view that the taboo against the sharing of husband-wife experiences between one married couple and other married couples can with impunity be relaxed in appropriate situations with benefit to all concerned. between such couples the development of great warmth, empathy, mutual understanding and support, can contribute significantly to the enrichment and growth of the individual marriages involved. this is essentially what happens in marriage enrichment retreats. comparison with therapy and encounter groups "how do our marriage enrichment groups differ from group marital therapy on the one hand, and from encounter groups on the other?" these questions are raised by many people. what are the answers? group therapy for married couples is now widely available, and its effectiveness has been established. our marriage enrichment groups differ from therapy groups in three important respects. first, marital therapy is undertaken with couples who have serious problems, often because the individuals concerned suffer from personality disorders. when marriages are not stable a good deal of pathology may emerge in the course of group interaction. severe conflict between husband and wife may have to be permitted to surface and be handled openly by the therapist. the second important difference is that therapy groups generally continue meeting, on a weekly or bi-weekly basis, over a long period of time--as long as a year in some cases. moreover, individual couples may also undergo counseling (individually, conjointly, or both) in association with the group therapy either before being admitted to the group or concurrently with the group experience. the third difference is in the leadership pattern. therapy groups are led by professionally qualified persons--psychiatrists, clinical psychologists, social workers, marriage counselors. they play a fairly directive role. the leaders are often male and female co-therapists, but are seldom husband and wife. the role model aspect of the enrichment group, as well as the participatory aspect, are therefore much less pronounced and the group is less free to find and follow its own direction. an enrichment group consists of several married couples not in need of therapy meeting on an intensive basis but for a limited time period. in our opinion such groups need not be led by professional therapists; although, other things being equal, that is of course a decided advantage. we have come to the conclusion, however, that effective leadership can be given by lay couples if they are carefully selected and trained. the encounter group, a general descriptive term, is intended to include many variants. we have participated in such groups, studied their procedures, and adapted some of these to our marriage enrichment retreats. couples who have been involved in encounter groups adjust quickly and easily to the methods we use in marriage enrichment, are generally very cooperative, and an asset to our groups. there are two significant respects in which our marriage enrichment retreats differ from encounter groups. first, encounter groups are composed of individuals, while our groups are confined to, and led by, married couples. this distinction calls for different approaches. there is a greater complexity in the leadership, and a greater complexity in the group itself. the encounter group is confined to interactions between separate individuals and usually these individuals have not known each other before joining the group and probably will not continue association afterwards. by contrast, we have at least three kinds of interaction: between individuals within the group, between couples (including the leading couple) within the group, and between husband and wife within the marital unit. this multidimensional aspect of the enrichment group not only makes it more complex, but also increases its potential. this is particularly true after the experience is over. from our knowledge of encounter groups we are aware of the problems encountered by the individual who, after experiencing a new and invigorating openness and warmth in interaction with others returns home to an atmosphere in which a similar quality of relationship cannot be sustained unless there are already friends and associates at home who have had the benefit of earlier encounter experiences. in the case of our marriage enrichment retreats, the experience is not gained by an isolated individual, but by a preexisting social unit, so that new levels of openness and warmth which the couple have experienced in the group can continue to be maintained after their return home. this would suggest that the "casualty rates" for couples would not be nearly so high as for individuals. we know of no precise study that has investigated this, but our general impressions would seem to confirm it. the second significant difference between encounter and marriage enrichment groups raises a somewhat controversial question. encounter groups are more ready to evoke negative interaction between participants, while we place major emphasis upon positive interaction. if our judgment of encounter groups is in this respect inaccurate we are open to correction. we have, however, gained the impression from many sources that an important technique used in these groups is to provide opportunities for the participants to secure cathartic release of their pent-up hostilities, including hostilities engendered by, or projected upon the group leader or one or more of its members. we recognize that many people in our culture are pregnant with suppressed hostility or rage, and that the provision of properly controlled opportunities for its release may constitute a commendable service; and since the group members are generally strangers who will not be personally and socially involved later, no entangling complications are likely to follow. for our married couples, the situation is different. we do not mean that they do not have hostile feelings toward each other. they often do, and this comes out clearly and unmistakably. we do not mean, either, that healthy discharge of these feelings might not be good for them--in our therapeutic work with individual couples in conjoint interviews, we make full use of such controlled opportunity for cathartic release with ensuing interpretation. it is our considered opinion, however, that in the particular context of our enrichment retreats, unrestrained discharge of hostile feelings should in general not be encouraged. our reasons? one, the shortness of the available time might not permit the proper resolution of such episodes. two, a couple who have openly discharged rage against each other may well react later with deep feelings of humiliation that are not easily assuaged. three, coping with this kind of explosive emotional discharge could be alarming for lay leaders not accustomed, as the therapist is, to the expression of deep feelings which normally are not displayed in public. four, other members of the group could be similarly disturbed and diverted from full participation in the main purpose of the retreat. this complaint has actually been made, and we think justly, by participating couples in a group where a violent and prolonged emotional episode took place. we have been criticized for taking this position, but have not been persuaded to change our considered opinion. that opinion is reinforced by another conclusion, namely, that when genuine positive interaction is promoted, negative emotion, even when it is strong and intense, tends to dissolve and wither away. couples have told us how their fierce hate melted in the atmosphere of warm and loving support engendered in the group, and with the stirring of compassion within them, they began to see each other in a new light. we are inclined to the view, after hearing such testimonies, that in deploying our therapeutic armament we have given short shrift to the power of love not only to cast out fear, but also to turn away wrath. lay leadership our decision to train lay couples for leadership was not hastily made. in fact in the early years during which we were leading retreats we knew of no other couples who were doing so. after seven years we felt that we knew what we were doing. although we expected criticism from some of our professional colleagues this has not developed to any significant degree, and we are now entirely satisfied that we were justified in taking such a calculated risk. we know of no case where our lay couples have encountered crisis situations which they were unable to handle with wisdom and skill. structuring the retreat these retreats require a minimum of organization and structure, but that minimum must be firmly insisted upon. we strongly favor the residential weekend retreat, although we have met with groups of couples for separate evening sessions spaced out over four to six weeks. this approach was found to be less effective, but decidedly better than nothing for couples who cannot get away from their homes. we would regard five or six couples as the optimum number, but seldom have we enjoyed this luxury. usually we have had to accept our upper limit of nine couples, in addition to ourselves, making a total group of twenty. often more couples apply than we can take, and the organizers plead with us to accept the maximum number because family crises can compel couples to drop out at the last moment. two couples short at a retreat planned for five couples would leave only three. therefore our normal procedure has been to ask for six to eight couples. although the selection of the couples has been left to the organizers we insist that husband and wife both undertake to come together, which means that if one has to drop out, both do so; we insist that they come only on condition that they both continuously participate in the entire retreat, from beginning to end. no requirements regarding age, race, vocation, education, or socio-economic status are made. there are advantages in having a homogeneous group of couples, but there are also advantages in a heterogenous group. our groups have included one engaged couple and one honeymooning couple who came straight from their wedding as well as couples old enough to be retired. they have included highly qualified professionals and blue-collar workers, phd.s. and high school drop-outs. couples coming to our retreats should have what they consider to be reasonably good and stable marriages since our purpose is not to provide group therapy, but to foster marital growth. the reason for this requirement is that we do not believe that group marital therapy can be attempted on a short-term basis, and it is not the purpose in these retreats. many couples come to these retreats with a good deal of apprehension, and some have told us that they would not have come at all had they not been assured that it was definitely not for "problem couples." despite all our efforts, couples with severe marital problems do get in occasionally under the wire and we found no way of avoiding this. we are often asked to provide preparatory material for the participants, including books to read, but we do not think there is any way to "prepare" for this kind of experience; and recommending books to read might convey the impression that we are going to engage in intellectual discussion, which is not the case. we ourselves do not "prepare" for the retreats and do not ask the couples to do so either. it is an adventure in sharing into which we all move together, ready to take it as it comes.[e] this does not mean, however, that our sessions are totally "unstructured." a timetable is worked out by the group, not imposed upon it. obviously it has to be planned in relation to the place and the circumstances of our meeting. introduction to the friends' experience in the living room of "waysmeet," the house at pendle hill in which we held our first training retreat, there was just room for ten couples to sit in a wide circle. "what we are going to do here," we explained, "is to experience together a marriage enrichment retreat. we hope this experience will be meaningful to you all personally, quite apart from the fact that you will be learning how to conduct a retreat yourselves after you return home. we know of no better way to train you than to let you go through first what others will later go through under your leadership. "however, we shall be working together at two levels. at any point we can break off and examine together, objectively, what has been happening to us subjectively. you can ask us as your leaders any questions you wish, about what we are doing, or why we are doing it. "our goal is very simple and very clear. as married couples we are here to engage together in communication-in-depth about relationship-in-depth. everything we do will be done with the intention of sharing with each other the directions in which we want our marriages to grow. how far we travel will be decided not by us as leaders, but by you as a group. no one will be put under pressure to do anything he does not wish to do, or to say anything he does not wish to say. "our function as leaders is to be 'participant facilitators.' we are in every sense members of the group, and will fully share all the group's experiences. we do not wish to be treated as experts or authorities. the only way in which we shall exercise our role as leaders is to help the group to achieve its goal, or to tell it if we think it is not taking the best direction toward that goal. we make no claim to be infallible. if at any point you don't agree with us, it is your duty to say so. if in any situation we don't know what to do next we shall say so frankly and ask you to help us. "now we are ready to begin. the first thing we must do is to get to know each other as couples. the sooner we get well acquainted, the faster we can move toward our goal." most of the first evening is devoted to the process of getting to know each other. our favorite method is to ask the couples to volunteer in turn to be freely questioned by the group. we usually volunteer first, and make it clear that we are prepared to answer the most personal questions. we indicate at this point that we would like to be called by our first names, and we hope the others will agree to do the same. the questions then begin, and when there are no more, we ask another couple to volunteer. we prefer not to go round the circle in order, or take names alphabetically. everything is done voluntarily as far as possible, to encourage spontaneity. time goes quickly as the questions come thick and fast, and it is usually necessary to limit the questioning, or to ask for brief answers. it should be emphasized that the participants are free at any time to ask each other personal questions; this understanding creates a climate of openness which emphasizes the goal of communication-in-depth. the group in action assembled again on saturday morning, we begin by preparing our "rolling agenda," as one of the trainee couples called it, in order to keep a record of what the group members want to talk about. the aspects of marriage they want to include for discussion before the weekend is over gives us clues to the issues that are important to them. the list with which one of our trainee couples started their retreat was: what is the state of our marriage now? how have things changed as our relationship has grown? what are the memorable experiences in our lives that have enriched our marriage? what have we found to be the most effective ways of handling conflict? what do we feel about a depth relationship between one of us and another person outside the marriage? have we found ways of sharing that have contributed to our spiritual growth? we ask the group members if they have any "concerns" explaining that if members of the group feel unhappy, or anxious, or angry, about anything that has happened, they have a duty to share their feelings with us all otherwise the fellowship will be broken. situations have occurred in which someone had a concern that another member of the group also had and neither was expressing. as a group cannot function effectively without openness to each other on the part of its members, neither can a marriage grow without the same kind of openness between its partners. this is what every married couple should be doing every day--raising issues that need to be discussed, and being honest about disturbed or negative feelings. there is a sequence of events that is typical of most retreats. nearly always, we begin with general discussion of some aspect of married life. at this stage we are testing each other, so we take refuge in generalizations. a common theme is the difficulties of raising children. we can all commiserate with each other about the problems of the generation gap for it is "safer" to talk about parenthood than about marriage. if the talk _does_ focus on marriage, such topics as working wives or overworked husbands or the sharing of household tasks can be discussed without risk. the group will move at its own pace from the superficial testing stage to the deeper sharing. the leaders can facilitate this process, but it isn't helpful if they try to hurry it. "personalizing" the discussion by using such questions as "mary, did you raise that subject because it's an issue between you and tom?" or "i wonder if any couple could give us an example from their own experience of what harold has been talking about?" is helpful. once a couple have shared some situation in their own relationship, one of the leaders can ask "did any of the rest of you identify with peg and larry as they were talking?" this will help other couples to share rather than discuss, and move the communication to a deeper level. a phrase we often use is "making yourself vulnerable"--an act of trust by sharing a problem about which the couple feels some embarrassment. the group's response to this is invariably warm and supportive with an effort to help by sharing similar problems which others have experienced or are experiencing. sometimes a major breakthrough is achieved when the _leaders_ are willing to be vulnerable. this process of deep sharing must not be seen as an orgy of humiliating confessions. not at all. the areas where the growth of a marriage is blocked are almost always sensitive ones which we tend to keep hidden because they make us feel inadequate or defeated. it may well be that a way out is not really difficult to achieve, but as long as we are avoiding the whole problem we are not likely to find a solution. bringing the issue out in the open, in the presence of other couples eager to help because of similar problems may suddenly break the log-jam and move the relationship along the path to enrichment. this happens quite often during retreats, and the results are usually decisive and lasting. the resolution may come for a particular couple when they are alone together later reporting it to the others; or it may actually come in the supportive atmosphere that the group is able to generate. such experiences are deeply reassuring and rewarding for all the participating couples. facilitating exercises the use of simple "exercises" in these retreats has been found to be very helpful. what they do is to break up our stereotyped and often rather sterile patterns of interaction when people get together. they are simply devices designed to bring about _couple_ interaction--sometimes for all the couples in the group together, sometimes for one couple at a time. a good example is asking each couple to draw a picture of their marriage. paper and crayons are made available, and the couples scatter about the room and work on their pictures. they may choose to do this verbally (discussing the drawing together as they go along) or non-verbally (working at it together in silence). when all have finished, we come back to the circle of chairs, and each couple in turn lays their picture on the floor and explains it to the group. this is an activity the couples always seem to enjoy; and it enables us to learn a good deal about each other. the leaders, of course, also draw their picture, and display it with the others. we have accumulated quite a collection! one of our trainee couples introduced dancing. lights are dimmed in the room, a record is played, and all the couples dance, each couple improvising whatever movements express their mood. they then sit round and report on what the experiment meant to them. occasionally when we are faced with a controversial subject (for example, "how far are you prepared to allow your partner to go in friendships with the opposite sex?"), we might ask all the couples to discuss this privately together for ten minutes, and then report to the whole group what conclusions they have reached. another kind of exercise is what we call "dialogues." a volunteer couple sit in the center on chairs or on the floor facing each other, and talk back and forth on a subject chosen by the group but accepted by them. some topics have been "how do we deal with conflict in our marriage?"; "how do we overcome fears of intimacy?"; "what are our procedures in decision-making?"; "how do we meet each other's dependency needs?" the subject should of course focus on husband-wife interaction. it is best for the interchange between the couple to be slow and deliberate. indeed, it is helpful for each to allow a period of silence before replying to the other (learning to pause in this way is a very helpful means of making husband-wife discussions more effective). sometimes two or three couples may volunteer; all sit in the center of the circle (the "fishbowl," as it is sometimes called) and the dialogue is taken up by each in turn. while the dialogue is going on, other members of the group should not intervene or in any way act as an "audience." the general discussion comes afterwards, and provides an opportunity for others who identified with the couples in dialogue to share what they felt. an interesting variant is to ask if another couple will volunteer to sit with the couple involved in dialogue, and to function as _alter egos_ (latin for "other selves"). the _alter ego_ on each side listens carefully to what is going on, and intervenes from time to time to verbalize deeper levels of communication and interaction that are not being expressed in words. playing the _alter ego_ role requires some insight and skill, but it is highly effective when well done. another exercise for individual couples is "positive interaction." a very simple device, it is usually highly effective and often deeply moving. for this reason we often make it the last activity on saturday evening. it can either be carried out by about three volunteer couples, or all couples may agree to take turns. the couple sit facing each other, holding hands, and are asked to tell each other, simply and directly, what they specially like about each other, being as specific as possible. surprisingly, it turns out that very few couples have ever done this before, and everyone finds it a heartwarming experience. we think we have encountered here another taboo in our society--married couples spend infinitely more time telling each other what they _don't_ like about each other than what they _do_ like. most of us have a strangely inhibited self-consciousness about spelling out in detail what we mean by "i love you." we generally conclude the retreat with a short session of perhaps half an hour in which we share with each other new insights and the rewarding experiences we have had together. this may appropriately be followed by a quaker meeting for worship. these exercises are no more than illustrations. leading couples are inventing new ones all the time, and there seems to be no limit to their ingenuity. the books by herbert otto and gerald smith, listed in the bibliography, are full of good ideas. in essence, these were the experiences in which we and our nine trainee couples were involved during the crowded hours we spent together at pendle hill. before they took their departure, we enjoined them not to try to repeat anything we had done unless they could do so entirely naturally and comfortably. they would develop their own patterns of leadership, and these would be more effective than anything we had taught them. evaluation and reaffirmation the follow-up retreat at pendle hill was much more than a reunion or season of rejoicing. we undertook together an intensive evaluation of what had been experienced. one couple, for example, had had to cope with a marriage in serious conflict so we set up a role-playing re-enactment of the situation to serve as a learning experience for the whole group. we also tried to pool our ideas about the best way to plan and lead marriage enrichment retreats. our agenda covered the following areas: _organizing the retreat._ time, place, cost, recruitment of couples, size of group, preparatory materials. _methods and techniques._ introductions, agenda, directing discussion, dividing up, special exercises, crisis situations, evaluation. _leadership roles._ qualifications, goals, training, couple teamwork, preparation, vulnerability, follow-up. _future plans._ further retreats, training new leaders, cooperation with other groups, books and materials. _other areas for enrichment._ retreats for youth, premarital couples, parents and teen-agers, solo parents, senior citizens, meeting members. a number of issues of particular concern to the group were extensively discussed. one was the distinction between our retreats and group marriage counseling on the one hand, sensitivity training and encounter groups on the other. another issue concerned our emphasis on positive interaction, and the discouragement, though not avoidance, of overt expression of negative feelings between members of the group. we also discussed what causes marriages to get "stuck" so that they cease to grow. this led us naturally to consider the limitations of lay leaders without training in marriage counseling, and how to make effective referrals to professionals when this seems to be indicated. we also talked about the use of silence, so natural to friends, and how far non-quakers could accept this. in all our discussions we were looking forward. there was a confident assurance that we had found something of great importance that must be communicated to others--to the society of friends generally, but to the wider world as well. the second round another training program was organized and a second group of couples were invited to pendle hill. on a friday evening in november , therefore, another wide circle of married couples assembled in the familiar living room at pendle hill; later went forth to conduct retreats arranged by their yearly meetings; and returned triumphantly in april to report to one another what had happened. six of these couples were new. with them we invited two experienced couples from the first group of trainees. our idea was that they might help in the training of the other six, and be ready then to graduate as trainers in later regional programs. we have used this method in training couples before, encouraging a couple conducting a retreat for the first time to team up with another trained couple, each supporting and helping the other in shared leadership. this is a good learning process; and now we were applying it at the level of training potential leaders, in the expectation of making ourselves dispensable. a movement of this kind should not be allowed to focus on personalities. it will prosper best by involving many couples in a broad sharing of leadership responsibility. we might have asked ourselves whether what had happened in - could happen again in - . would the high caliber of the earlier group of couples be sustained? would they again learn quickly enough through the experience of one retreat to function as successful leaders? would they come back with the same enthusiasm and delight? the answers to these questions would do a great deal to validate the plan we had adopted. when our couples returned in april , the answers were resoundingly in the affirmative. in one case, it was true, the local arrangements had broken down and they had not had the opportunity yet to conduct a retreat--but they came to the reunion just the same. (their opportunity for leadership came later.) reports from all the others, including the two "veteran" couples, had the same authentic ring of success that had been sounded so unmistakably a year earlier. quoting from the group: "we felt our job was to provide some structure to help the experience develop, and then let people sort it out for themselves. both of us felt it was most important to ride with the tone of the developing situation, and avoid any use of the more aggressive techniques of confrontation. stan was worried on saturday that the talk was too general. then one of the wives broke through by asking if we could discuss something "... down here, where i am ... like sex?" so we got there ..." "we viewed our task as leaders to be one of creating and sustaining an atmosphere in which each couple could speak personally concerning their marriage. we felt we best accomplished this task when we participated as a couple in the same way as we urged the others to participate." "we regarded ourselves as facilitators. we tried to be creative listeners; to put questions to the group that would help them to share personal experiences; to bring about a change of pace when we sensed this to be necessary." "we were quite relaxed. we tried to be perceptive of the needs of individual couples. we hope we didn't talk too much." "we saw ourselves as equal participants with the others, and facilitators of a process which started well with frank, meaningful conversation. we did agenda-building at several points. our aim was to create an atmosphere in which defensiveness could be replaced with tolerant acceptance, and trust and confidence could grow as we heard each other and learned from each other." the problem of unfelt need "the underlying problem is the fact that the marriage enrichment retreat meets unfelt needs. people don't feel keenly that they need it. if you think your marriage is sound, you aren't strongly motivated to spend a weekend making it even sounder. to get the tingle of a potential deepening and enriching takes emotional impact. this means hearing from someone obviously sensible who is warmly convinced about it." a number of theories were developed to explain this resistance to our project. in general, it is true that it takes _problems_ to motivate married couples to seek help, just as it takes pain to induce many people to visit a doctor; and in both cases, action may prove to be too late to be effective. on the other hand, many couples with basically stable marriages are wistfully aware that their relationship falls short of their expectations. but it takes a strong stimulus, in the form of a cordial personal invitation, to get them to take the necessary steps to enroll for a retreat. whatever the cause of this reticence, expressing itself on occasions as resistance, it seems an inappropriate response to the needs and opportunities of our day and age and one of the many factors responsible for the alienation between young and old which is popularly termed the "generation gap." our trainees were themselves mainly in the second half of life, and they well understood the "privatism" that is a legacy of our past. they themselves, however, had lost nothing, and gained a great deal by the efforts they had made to cultivate greater openness to others, both in their marriages and in their wider relationships, and they would lovingly invite other friends to make the same venture. they would also plead with friends to give stronger support to, and undertake more active participation in, a project to provide marriage enrichment retreats for the couples in the care of our meetings. some views were expressed suggesting a special reticence among friends. there seemed to be some foundation for two theories--first, that quakers tend to be very heavily involved in social projects, sometimes to the neglect of their own family relationships; and second, that they tend to be somewhat puritanical in the sense that they consider it improper to open their private lives to others. there may be a deep dichotomy in attitudes of friends here such as reported by one couple: "vivid impressions of honest encounters between those who regard the worship of god as a private affair, and those who feel the need to reach out to their meeting community for personal support and a sense of communion which includes closer relationships with other friends." like other friends, we are finding that these experiences can release hitherto unrealized and untapped resources of spiritual strength and power. as expressed by one couple: "for two years we passed through a dark time in our family, trying to find resources to deal with a seemingly insurmountable problem. at our first retreat, with the loving support of the group, we were able as a couple to recover our self-confidence, sense of worth, and well-being, and reaffirm our strengths to each other. "the family problem has now been happily resolved, and we have found extra strength to participate fully in the expression of our quaker concerns in the larger community. our meeting did much to sustain us through the bleakest times, and bring us back into clearness and light; but what helped us the most to help ourselves was our activities with the marriage enrichment project. we continue to nurture at home the new openness and depth we have discovered, and have committed ourselves to maintain the healthy growth that has been made possible for us." conclusion what has been described in this booklet could easily be dismissed as a new fad that will gain limited attention for a short time and then be forgotten, but it may instead be the discovery of vast untapped resources that can raise primary human relationships to new and higher levels of richness and creativity. if this should be the case the loss of this great opportunity would be tragic. the need of men and women today, as in all ages, is to learn to live together in love and peace--to build up rather than to tear down, to cooperate rather than to compete, to find meaning in life through open sharing with others rather than through narrow self-seeking. religion has always striven to further these goals, because they represent the spiritual development of man. but again and again the simple truths spoken by great religious leaders have been lost in the complexity of elaborate institutions and the lust for power. friends have been distinctive in their stubborn resistance to these diversions and distortions of the simple truth that we must learn to love god and man, and that there is no other path to redemption. in each new age, quakers have found ways to witness to the way of love and the way of peace. may it be that a central calling for friends today is to respond to the disintegration of marriages and the alienation of the generations by finding in their own marriages, and in their family relationships, a new quality of creativeness based on a deep and honest sharing of life? can love be spread abroad in the earth, if it cannot be nurtured in the close and intimate relationship between man and woman, the nuclear relationship where love begins and where life begins? can one proclaim peace among the nations if unable to contrive to live in harmony with those under one's own roof? the mood of our age is compounded of hope and despair. we have achieved so much, in terms of technological skill and power; and we have achieved so little, in terms of harmonious human relationships. we have created the power to make this world, compared with what it has been, a paradise for man to enjoy, but we have failed to make it possible for man to enjoy what has been achieved. with the threat of an atomic holocaust hanging like the sword of damocles over our heads, we know beyond doubt that we must learn the art of living together in love and peace or lose all we have. in such an hour, what can we do? we can make a beginning. we can begin at home--with ourselves, and those nearest and dearest to us. we can strive to learn the great art of living in the school that has been provided for us. we can build relationship-in-depth at the foundations of human society: for in the last resort the quality of relationships in any community cannot rise to any higher levels than the quality of relationships in the families that make up the community; and the quality of relationships in any family cannot rise any higher than the quality of relationships in the marriage that has brought it into being. yes, there _is_ something we can do to witness to the power of love and peace. we can make a beginning. marriage enrichment is such a beginning. footnotes: [footnote a: mace, david r., _marriage as vocation_, f.g.c. .] [footnote b: reprinted in slightly revised form from friends journal, december , .] [footnote c: lederer and jackson--_the mirages of marriage_, norton, , page .] [footnote d: cicero and fahs--_conversations on sex and love in marriage_, word books, .] [footnote e: we have capitulated at times and have prepared a brief book list. a larger list appears in the appendix.] books for further reading there is as yet little in the way of literature about marriage enrichment. here are a few books which have been found useful by leaders of retreats. bach, g. r. and wyden, p., _the intimate enemy_. morrow, , (available in paperback). a belligerent but challenging book about marital conflict. clinebell, h. j. and c. h., _the intimate marriage_. harper and row, . perhaps the best book available on marriage enrichment. hastings, d. w., _a doctor speaks on sexual expression in marriage_. little, brown, . a reliable guide written by a psychiatrist and marriage counselor. lederer, w. j. and jackson, don d., _the mirages of marriage_. norton, . a challenging and unusual book on contemporary marriage. mace, d. r., _success in marriage_. abingdon, . an easily read paperback on the areas of marital adjustment. mace, d. r., _getting ready for marriage_. abingdon, . a practical guide for the couple preparing for marriage. mace, d. r., _sexual difficulties in marriage_. fortress press, . a short and simple explanation of sexual inadequacy and the new approaches to its treatment. mcginnes, t., _your first year of marriage_. a very helpful guide for the recently married couple. o'neill, g. and n., _the open marriage_. a best-seller on some of today's new concepts of marriage. otto, h., _more joy in your marriage_. cornerstone library . a book full of practical ideas for increasing marital potential. peterson, j. a., _married love in the middle years_. association press, . an excellent book on a neglected subject. rubin, t. i., _the angry book_, macmillan, . samuel, dorothy, _the fun and games of marriage_. word books, . thoughts on marriage as a depth relationship, written by one of our quaker trainees. smith, g. w. and a. i., _me and you and us_. wyden, . a book of exercises ( in all) for couples seeking marriage enrichment. written by a couple who participated in one of our earliest retreats at kirkridge, then went into the field as full-time family therapists. west, jessamyn, _love is not what you think_. harcourt, brace, . written by a distinguished quaker novelist. made available by the hathitrust digital library. the quakers past and present the quakers past and present by dorothy m. richardson "the quaker religion ... is something which it is impossible to overpraise." william james: _the varieties of religious experience_ new york dodge publishing company - east rd street foreword the following chapters are primarily an attempt at showing the position of the quakers in the family to which they belong--the family of the mystics. in the second place comes a consideration of the method of worship and of corporate living laid down by the founder of quakerism, as best calculated to foster mystical gifts and to strengthen in the community as a whole that sense of the divine, indwelling and accessible, to which some few of his followers had already attained, and of which all those he had gathered round him had a dawning apprehension. the famous "peculiarities" of the quakers fall into place as following inevitably from their central belief. the ebb and flow of that belief, as it is found embodied in the history of the society of friends, has been dealt with as fully as space has allowed. my thanks are due to mr. norman penney, f.s.a., f.r.hist.s., librarian of the friends' reference library, for a helpful revision of my manuscript. d. m. r. london, . contents chapter page i. the birth of quakerism ii. the society of friends iii. the quaker church iv. the retreat of quakerism v. quakerism in america vi. quakerism and women vii. the present position chronological table bibliography note the quakers past and present chapter i the birth of quakerism the quakers appeared about a hundred years after the decentralization of authority in theological science. the reformers' dream of a remade church had ended in a europe where, over against an alienated parent, four young protestant communions disputed together as to the doctrinal interpretation of the scriptures. within these communions the goal towards which the breaking away from the roman centre had been an unconscious step was already well in view. it was obvious that the separated churches were helpless against the demands arising in their midst for the right of individual interpretation where they themselves drew such widely differing conclusions. the bible, abroad amongst the people for the first time, helped on the loosening of the hold of stereotyped beliefs. independent groups appeared in every direction. in england, the first movement towards the goal of "religious liberty" was made by a body of believers who declared that a national church was against the will of god. catholic in ideal, democratic in form, they set their hope upon a world-wide christendom of self-governing congregations. they increased with great rapidity, suffered persecution, martyrdom, and temporary dispersal.[ ] following on this first challenge came the earliest stirring of a more conservative catholicism. fed by such minds as that of nicholas farrer, grieving in scholarly seclusion over the ravages of the protestantisms, it found expression in laud's effort to restore the broken continuity of tradition in the english church, to reintroduce beauty into her services, and, while preserving her identity as a developing national body, to keep open a rearward window to the light of accumulated experience and teaching. but hardly-won freedom saw popery in his every act, and his final absolutism, his demand for executive power independent of parliament, wrecked the effort and cost him his life. [footnote : the brownists; now represented in the congregational union.] these characteristic neo-protestantisms were obscured at the moment of the appearance of the quakers by the opening in this country of the full blossom of the genevan theology. the fate of the presbyterian system, which covered england like a network, and had threatened during the shifting policies of charles's long struggle for absolute monarchy to become the established church of england, was sealed, it is true, when cromwell's independent army checked the proceedings of a presbyterian house of commons; but the calvinian reading of the scriptures had prevailed over the popular imagination, and in the protectorate church where baptists, independents, and presbyterians held livings side by side with the clergy of the protestant establishment, where the use of the prayer-book was forbidden and the scriptures were at last supreme, the predominant type of religious culture was what we have since learned to call puritanism. in puritanism had reached its great moment. its poet[ ] was growing to manhood, tortured by the uncertainty of election, half-maddened by his vision of the doom hanging over a sin-stained world. but far away beneath the institutional confusions and doctrinal dilemmas of this post-reformation century fresh life was welling up. the unsatisfied religious energy of the maturing germanic peoples, groping its own way home, had produced boehme and his followers, and filled the by-ways of europe with mystical sects. outwards from free holland--whose republic on a basis of religious toleration had been founded in --spread the anabaptists, mennonites, and others. coming to england, they reinforced the native groups--the baptists, familists, and seekers--who were preaching personal religion up and down the country under the protection of cromwell's indulgence for "tender" consciences, and found their characteristically english epitome and spokesman in george fox. [footnote : bunyan was born in , four years later than fox.] born in an english village[ ] of homely pious parents,[ ] who were both in sympathy with their thoughtful boy, his genius developed harmoniously and early. until his twentieth year he worked with a shoemaker, who was also a dealer in cattle and wool, and proved his capacity for business life. then a crisis came, brought about by an incident meeting him as he went about his master's affairs. he had been sent on business to a fair, and had come upon two friends, one of them a relative, who tried to draw him into a bout of health-drinking. george, who had had his one glass, laid down a groat and went home in a state of great disturbance, for he knew both these men to be professors of religion. he grappled with the difficulty at once. he spent the hours of that night in pacing up and down his room, in prayer and crying out, in sitting still and reflecting. in the light of the afternoon's incidents he saw and felt for the first time the average daily life of the world about him, "how young people go together into vanity, and old people into the earth," all that gave meaning to life for him had no existence in their lives, even in the lives of professing christians. he was thrown in on himself. if god was not with those who professed him, where was he? [footnote : in , at drayton-in-the-clay, in leicestershire.] [footnote : his father, a weaver by trade, and known as "righteous christer," is described by fox as a man "with a seed of god in him"; his mother, mary lago, as being "of the stock of the martyrs."] the labours and gropings of the night simplified before the dawn came to the single conviction that he must "forsake all, both young and old, and keep out of all, and be a stranger unto all." there was no hesitating. he went forth at once and wandered for four years up and down the midland counties seeking for light, for truth, for firm ground in the quicksands of disintegrating faiths, for a common principle where men seemed to pull every way at once. he sought all the "professors" of every shade and listened to all, but would associate with none, shunning those who sought him out: "i was afraid of them, for i was sensible they did not possess what they professed." he went to hear the great preachers of the day in london and elsewhere, but found no light in them. now and again amongst obscure groups to which hope drew him one and another were struck by his sayings, and responded to him, but he shrank from their approval. the clergy of different denominations in the neighbourhood of his home, where he returned for a while in response to the disquietude of his parents, could not understand his difficulties. how should they? he was perfectly sound in every detail of the calvinian doctrine. they could make nothing of a distress so unlike that of other pious young puritans. orthodox as he was, there is no sign in his outpourings of any concern for his soul, not a word of fear, nor any sense of sin, though he heartily acknowledges temptations, a divided nature, "two thirsts." he begs the priests to tell him the meaning of his troubled state--not as one doubting, but rather with the restiveness of one under a bondage, keeping him from that which he knows to be accessible. one minister advised tobacco and psalm-singing, another physic and bleeding. his family urged him to marry. his distress grew, amounting sometimes to acute agony of mind: "as i cannot declare the great misery i was in, it was so great and heavy upon me, so neither can i set forth the mercies of god unto me in all my misery." brief intermissions there were when he was "brought into such a joy that i thought i had been in abraham's bosom." but on the whole his wretchedness steadily increased. none could help. the written word had ceased to comfort him. he wandered days and nights in solitary places taking no food. illumination came at last--a series of convictions dawning in the mind that truth cannot be found in outward things, and, finally, the moment of release--the sense of which he tries to convey to us under the symbolism of a voice making his heart leap for joy--leaving him remade in a new world. two striking passages from his journal may serve to illustrate this period of his experience: "the lord did gently lead me along, and did let me see his love, which was endless and eternal, and surpasseth all the knowledge that men have in the natural state, or can get by history or books ... and i was afraid of all company, for i saw them perfectly where they were, through the love of god which let me see myself"; and, again, as he struggles to express the change that had taken place for him: "now i was come up in spirit through the flaming sword into the paradise of god. all things were new; and all the creation gave another smell unto me than before beyond what words can utter." two years of intense life followed. he came back to the world with his message for all men, all churches, with no new creed to preach, but to call all men to see their creeds in the light of the living experience which had first produced them, to live themselves in that light shining pure and original within each one of them, the light which wrote the scriptures and founded the churches; to refuse to be put off any longer with "notions," mere doctrines, derivative testimonies obscuring the immediate communication of life to the man himself. this message--the message of the inner light of immediate inspiration, of the existence in every man of some measure of the spirit of god--the quakers laid, as it were, side by side with the doctrines of the puritanism amidst which they were born. they did not escape the absolute dualism of the thought of their day. they believed man to be shut up in sin, altogether evil, and they declared at the same time that there is in every man that which will, if he yields to its guidance, lift him above sin, is able to make him here and now free and sinless. the essential irreconcilability of the two positions does not appear to have troubled them. this belief in the divine light within the individual soul was, of course, nothing new. the roman church had taught it. instruction as to the conditions whereby it may have its way with a man was the end of her less worldly labours. the protestants taught it; the acceptance of salvation, the birth of the light in the darkness of the individual soul was the message of the book. but george fox and his followers claimed that the measure of divine life, nesting, as it were, within the life of each man, was universal, was before churches and scriptures, and had always led mankind. yet it was not to be confused with the natural light of reason of the socinians and deists, for the first step towards union with it was a control of all creaturely activities, a total abandonment of each and every claim of the surface intelligence--"notions," as the quakers called them--a process of retirement into the innermost region of being, into "the light," "the seed," "the ground of the soul," "that which hath convinced you." the god of the quakers, then, was no literary obsession coming to meet them along the pages of history; no traditional immensity visiting man once, and silent ever since, to be momentarily invoked from infinite spatial distance by external means of grace; no "notion," no mere metaphysical absolute, but a living process, a changing, changeless absolute, a breath controlling all things, an amazing birth within the soul. tradition they valued as a record of god's dealings with man. the bible held for them no enfeebling spell. their controversial writings have, indeed, anticipated, as has recently been pointed out,[ ] the methods of the higher criticism; they touch on the synoptic problems; they ask their biblicist opponents whether they are talking of original autographs, transcribed copies, or translations. they rally them: "who was it that said to the spirit of god, o spirit, blow no more, inspire no more men, make no more prophets from ezra's days downward till christ, and from john's days downward for ever? but cease, be silent, and subject thyself, as well as all evil spirits, to be tried by the standard that's made up of some of the writings of some of those men thou hast moved to write already; and let such and such of them as are bound up in the bibles now used in england be the only means of measuring all truth for ever." [footnote : william c. braithwaite: _the beginnings of quakerism._ (macmillan, .)] the incarnation was to them the one instance of a perfect shining of the light, a perfect realization of the fusion of human and divine, the full indwelling of the godhead, which was their goal. the incidents of that life shone clear to them in the light of what went forward in themselves in proportion as they struggled to live in the spirit. but neither was this claim, the assertion of an immediate pathway to reality within the man himself, anything new in the world. each nation, each great period of civilization, has produced individuals, or groups separated by time and creed, but unanimous in their testimony as to its existence. the giants among them stand upon the highest peaks of human civilization. their art or method in debased or arrested forms is to be found in every valley. they have been called "mystics," and it is to the classical century of european mysticism, to the group (of which tauler was the mainstay) calling themselves the "friends of god," that we must go for an outbreak of mystical genius akin to that which took place in seventeenth-century england. both groups made war on the official christianity of their day, and strove to relate christendom afresh to its true source of vitality, to re-form the church on a spiritual basis. the testimony, the end, and the means for the attainment of the end were the same in both. the immense distinction between them arose from the difference in the conditions under which the two ventures were made. the fourteenth-century mystics opened their eyes in a congenial environment, in a church whose symbolism, teaching, and ordinances, were a coherent reflection of their own experiences, stood justified by their personal knowledge of the "law" of spiritual development, the conditions of advance in the way on which their feet were set. they owed much to tradition, to their theological studies, to their familiarity with the recorded experiences of holy men; they recognized their church as the transmitter of this tradition, as the guardian of saintly testimony on the subject of their art. they recognized her, not as an end but as a means, not as a prison, but as a home for all the human family, keeping open her doors, on the one hand, to the unconverted, providing, on the other, a suitable medium, the right atmosphere and opportunities, whereby pilgrims in the spiritual life might develop, to their full, possibilities in advance of the common measure of the group. they chid her, they exposed abuses, and called for reforms; they challenged the "carnal conception" of the sacraments, and denounced the loose lives of her dignitaries; but they remained in the church. the quakers, on the contrary, appeared when few of those who were in authority were able to understand what had arisen in their midst. fox brought his challenge by the wayside; untrammelled by tradition, fearless in inexperience, he endowed all men with his own genius, and called upon the whole world to join him in the venture of faith. chapter ii the society of friends i when fox came back to the world from his lonely wanderings, he had no thought of setting up a church in opposition to, or in any sort of competition with, existing churches. his message was for all, worshipping under whatever name or form; his sole concern to reveal to men their own wealth, to wean them to turn from words and ceremonials, from all merely outward things, to seek first the inner reality. many of the puritan leaders were brought by their contact with fox to a more vital attitude with regard to the faith in which they had been brought up. several of the magistrates before whom he and his followers were continually being haled, unable after hours of examination and discussion not only to find any cause of offence in these men, but unable, also, to resist the appeal of their strength and sincerity, espoused their cause with every degree of warmth, from whole-hearted adherence to lifelong, unflagging interest and sympathy. but the general attitude, from the panic-stricken behaviour of those who regarded the quakers as black magicians, incarnations of the evil one, or jesuits in disguise, to the grave concern of the calvinist divines, who saw in the quaker movement a profane attack upon the foundation-rock of holy scripture, was one of fear--fear based, as is usual, upon misunderstanding. a concise reasoned formulation of the quaker standpoint, though it may be picked out from the writings of fox and the early apologists, was to come, and then only imperfectly, when the scholarly robert barclay joined the group; meanwhile, the sometimes rather amorphous enthusiasm, the "mysterious meetings," the apocalyptic claims and denunciations--meaningless to those who had no key--stood as a barrier between the "children of the light" and the religious fellowship of the commonwealth church. fear is clearly visible at the root of the instant and savage persecution of the quakers, not only by the mob, but by official calvinism, throughout the chapter of its power. the keynote was struck by the local authorities at nottingham, who responded to fox's plea for the inner light during a sunday morning's service in the parish church by putting him in prison. it is usually maintained that his offence was brawling, but it is difficult to reconcile this reading with the facts of the case. theological disputations were the most popular diversions of the day. there were no newspapers, nor, in the modern sense of the word, either "politics" or books; popular literature consisted largely of religious pamphlets; amateur theologians abounded; the public meetings arousing the maximum of enthusiasm were those gathered for the duels of well-known controversialists; while speaking in church after the minister had finished was not only recognized, but far from unusual. in this instance the minister had preached from the text, "we have also a more sure word of prophecy; whereunto ye do well that ye take heed, as unto a light that shineth in a dark place, until the day dawn and the day star arise in your hearts," and had developed his theme in the sense that the sure word of prophecy was the record of the scripture. fox--whom we may imagine already much the man william penn later on described for us as "no busybody or self-seeker, neither touchy nor critical ... so meek, contented, modest, easy, steady, tender, it was a pleasure to be in his company.... i never saw him out of his place or not a match for every service and occasion; for in all things he acquitted himself like a man--yea, a strong man, a new and heavenly-minded man--civil beyond all forms of breeding in his behaviour"--rose with his challenge, threw down the gauntlet to biblicism, and declared that the light was not the scriptures, but the spirit of god.... but, as we have seen, religious england was not wholly puritan. fox's world was waiting for him. from every denomination and every rank of society the children of the light came forth. very many--notably the nuclear members of small independent groups--had reached the quaker experience before he came. the beliefs and customs which have since been identified with the society of friends were already in existence in the group of separated baptists at mansfield in nottingham, which formed in face of the closed doors of official religion the centre of the little quaker church. the singleness of type, moreover, in the missionary work of the early quakers, extending, as it did, over the whole of christendom, carried on independently by widely differing natures--"narrow" nonconformist ministers, prosperous business men, army officers and privates, shepherds, cloth-makers, gentlewomen and domestic servants, under every variety of circumstance, would be enough in itself to reveal fox as the child of his time. but as we watch the movement, as we see it assailed by those dangers arising wherever systems and doctrines are left behind and reason gets to work upon the facts of a man's own experience; as we find the fresh life threatening here to crystallize into formal idealism, there to flow away into pantheism or antinomianism, again to pour into a dead sea of placid illumination; as we see the little church surviving these dangers and continually reviving, we recognize that fox was more than the liberator of mystical activity. he was its steersman. his constructive genius cast the mould which has enabled this experiment to escape the fate overtaking similar efforts. seventeenth-century mysticism in france[ ] and spain was succumbing to quietism. molinos, the spanish monk, a contemporary of fox, popularized a debased form of teresian mysticism, formulating it as a state "where the soul loses itself in the soft and savoury sleep of nothingness, and enjoys it knows not what"; while in france the practice of passive contemplation had gained in the religious life of the time a popularity which even the mystical genius of madame guyon--who herself, it is true, lays in her writings over-much stress upon this, the first step of the mystic way--failed to disturb. [footnote : if we except the doomed port royalists.] for fox, we cannot keep too clearly in mind, the relationship of the soul to the light was a life-process; the "inner" was not in contradistinction to the outer. for him, the great adventure, the abstraction from all externality, the purging of the self, the godward energizing of the lonely soul, was in the end, as it has been in all the great "actives" among the mystics, the most practical thing in the world, and ultimately fruitful in life-ends. he surprises us by the intensity of his objective vision, by the number of modern movements he anticipates: popular education; the abolition of slavery; the substitution of arbitration for warfare amongst nations, and for litigation between individuals; prison reform, and the revising of accepted notions as to the status of women. he delights us with the strong balance of his godliness, his instant suspicion of religiosity and emotionalism, his dealing with those extremes of physical and mental disturbance which are apt in unstable natures to accompany any sudden flooding of the field of consciousness; his discouragement of ranting and "eloquence," of self-assertion and infallibility--of anything indicating lack of control, or militating against the full operation of the light. but, enormously powerful as was the influence of fox upon the movement which he liberated and steered, it was at the same time exceptionally free--even in relation to the comparatively imitative mass of the quaker church--from that limitation which justifies the famous description of an institution as the lengthened shadow of a man. the partial escape of the quaker church from this almost universal fate of institutions becomes clear when we fix our attention on the essential nature of fox's "discovery" and what was involved in his offering it to the laity, when we note that within the quaker borders there arose that insistence on the "originality" of life on all levels that has, at last, in our own day, made its appearance in official philosophy. ii the history of the quaker experiment reveals in england three main movements: the first corresponding roughly to the life of fox, and covering the period of expansion, persecution,[ ] and establishment; the second, which may be called the retreat of quakerism, the quiet cultivation of quaker method; and the third, the modern evangelistic revival. the first rapid spreading in the north of england was materially helped by the establishment, in , of a centre at swarthmoor hall, near ulverston in lancashire, the property of judge fell and his wife margaret, good churchpeople, much given to religious exercises, and holding open house for travelling ministers of all denominations. the capture of this stronghold gave the movement a northern headquarters, and a post-office. margaret fell, converted by fox at the age of thirty-eight, built the rest of her life into the movement; seventeen years later--more than ten years after the death of her husband--she became fox's wife. her voluminous and carefully preserved correspondence with the leading missionaries of the group alone forms almost a journal of the early years of the society.[ ] [footnote : toleration act passed . fox died two years later.] the whole of the countryside at swarthmoor, whose minister fox had repudiated, finding him filled with a ranting spirit, high words and "notions"--"full of filth," as he tersely notes in his journal--came out against him. he was given up to justice, ordered to be whipped, and then handed over to the mercy of the mob, who beat him until he fell senseless. presently, rising up, he bade them strike again. a mason numbed his arm with a blow from a staff; the arm recovered instantly under the power of his outgoing love for his persecutors. incidents of this kind--of beatings, stonings, and assaults of a more disgusting nature--are typical of the treatment received with unvarying sweetness by the quaker missionaries, both in england and in america. on several occasions fox's life was attempted. [footnote : the bulk of the "fell" correspondence is preserved at the headquarters of the society of friends, devonshire house, bishopsgate, e.c.] persecutions of all kinds, moreover, fell far more heavily upon the quakers than upon other nonconformists, owing to their persistence in holding their meetings openly--meeting in the street if their premises were burned down, the children meeting together when the parents were imprisoned. fines, flogging, pillory, the loathsomeness of damp and uncleansed dungeons, the brutality of gaolers, left their serenity unmoved; the exposure of women in the stocks for seventeen hours on a november night confirmed their faith. in the restoration period particularly, when the strong influence of the religious soldiers of the commonwealth--many of whom, including cromwell, were able to grasp the tendency of fox's conception--was removed, persecution became methodical. some three thousand odd had suffered before the king came back, twenty-one dying as a result of cruel treatment. three hundred died during the restoration period, and they were in prison thousands at a time, for although charles ii., once the leaders had made clear their lack of political ambition, promised them full freedom from disturbance, the panic of fear of sectaries of all kinds which followed the fifth monarchy outbreak in london opened an era of persecution and imprisonment. enormous sums of money were extracted from them under various pretexts; the quaker and conventicle acts were used against them with ingenious brutality, an inducement in the shape of the fine imposed being held out to informers. the militia act was, of course, a convenient weapon, and their refusal to pay tithes meant a perpetual series of heavy distraints. it was a common trick with judges and magistrates when they could find no legitimate ground of complaint, to tender to quakers the oaths of allegiance and supremacy and turn them into law-breakers on the ground of their refusal to swear. wales offered the most ferocious persecution suffered by them in these islands, but the welsh converts furnished pennsylvania with a fine group of vigorous, industrious colonists. in the "new doctrine" was brought to the south by some sixty travelling missionaries. the universities, inflamed, no doubt, in advance by the report of the quaker scorn of wisdom and high "notions"--having already revenged themselves upon four quaker girls who were the first to "publish truth" in the colleges and churches, cambridge following up the savagery of the students by public flogging, oxford by ducking--had little but rage and evil treatment for the missionaries. amongst the few converts made in oxford, however, was the man who, in his turn, brought william penn into the quaker fold. in pious london, sunk in theological strife, the obscure waiters, ranters, and seekers were the most favourable soil. the quakers, however, worked everywhere, ploughing up the land, calling men to cease the strife of words, and to wait before the lord for living experience. they had come down in june, and in august were so far settled as to undertake expansion east and west. the east, a stronghold of puritanism, was less receptive than the western country, where seekers abounded and convincements took place by hundreds. ireland was broken into by william edmondson, an ex-cromwellian soldier. the country was in process of being "settled" by english colonists, who, most of them being either baptists or independents, were already a sufficient source of irritation, and the progress of the new message was slow, and met with a persecution, borrowing much of its bitterness from the state of nervous fear prevailing amongst the civil and military authorities. for a time there was an attempt systematically to exclude friends from the country, but it gave way before the zeal and simplicity of the preachers, and quakerism, gaining most of its early converts from the army, became in the end a rapidly expanding force. in scotland quaker teaching progressed slowly. by the continent had been attacked, holland and germany, austria and hungary, adrianople, where a young girl who had gone out alone reasoned with the sultan, and was told that she spoke truth, and asked to remain in the country; rome--where john love was given up by the jesuits to the inquisition, examined by the pope, and hanged--the morea, and smyrna, and alexandria were visited. many attempts were made to land at the levantine ports, most of which were, however, frustrated by english consuls and merchants; george robinson reached jerusalem, and came near to meeting his death at the hands of the turks; and the first isolated attempt had been made in the west indies and america. these activities and expansions were helped forward and confirmed by fox during the intervals between his many imprisonments. he spent altogether some six years in prison. for the rest, his life was one long missionary enterprise, and during his detentions he worked unceasingly. he early recognized the need of a definite church organization, and matured a system whose final acceptance by the society as a whole was helped on by an incident occurring during his eight months' confinement in launceston gaol.[ ] james nayler, one of the sweetest and ablest of quaker writers and preachers, of an acutely "suggestible" temperament, and less stable than his followers, unsettled by the success attending his work both in the north and the south and by the adulations of some of the more excitable of his fellow-workers, permitted on the occasion of his entry into bristol a triumphant procession, the singing of hosannas, and messianic worship. it is noteworthy that of the thousand odd quakers in bristol at the time not one took any part in the outbreak. the matter was taken up by parliament, a committee was appointed, and nayler came near being put to death for blasphemy. he suffered in the pillory, was whipped through london and bristol, his tongue was bored, his forehead branded, and he was kept in prison for three years. he made full public recantation of his errors, and enjoyed full communion with the society which had never repudiated him, recognizing even in his time of aberration the fine spiritual character of the man. this incident, loaded with publicity, brought much discouragement to friends; but it also showed them their need of the organization and discipline insisted upon by fox. and so the quaker church--the most flexible of all religious organizations--came into being. [footnote : part of which was spent in a dungeon reserved for witches and murderers, and left uncleansed year after year.] chapter iii the quaker church at the heart of the quaker church is "meeting"--the silent quaker meeting so long a source of misunderstanding to those outside the body, so clearly illuminated now for all who care to glance that way, by the light of modern psychology. we have now at our disposal, marked out with all the wealth of spatial terminology characteristic of that science, a rough sketch of what takes place in our minds in moments of silent attention. we are told, for instance, that when in everyday life our attention is arrested by something standing out from the cinematograph show of our accustomed surroundings, we fix upon this one point, and everything else fades away to the "margin" of consciousness. the "thing" which has had the power of so arresting us, of making a breach in the normal, unnoticed rhythm of the senses, allows our "real self"--our larger and deeper being, to which so many names have been given--to flow up and flood the whole field of the surface intelligence. the typical instances of this phenomenon are, of course, the effect upon the individual of beauty on all its levels--the experience known as falling in love and the experience of "conversion." with most of us, beyond these more or less universal experiences, the times of illumination are intermittent, fluctuating, imperfectly accountable, and uncontrollable. the "artist" lives to a greater or less degree in a perpetual state of illumination, in perpetual communication with his larger self. but he remains within the universe constructed for him by his senses, whose rhythm he never fully transcends. his thoughts are those which the veil of sense calls into being, and though that veil for him is woven far thinner above the mystery of life than it is for most of us, it is there. imprisoned in beauty, he is content to dwell, reporting to his fellows the glory that he sees. the religious genius, as represented pre-eminently by the great mystics--those in whom the sense of an ultimate and essential goodness, beauty, and truth, is the dominant characteristic--have consciously bent all their energies to breaking through the veil of sense, to making a journey to the heart of reality, to winning the freedom of the very citadel of life itself. their method has invariably included what--again borrowing from psychology--we must call the deliberate control of all external stimuli, a swimming, so to say, against the whole tide of the surface intelligence, and this in no negative sense, no mere sinking into a state of undifferentiated consciousness, but rather, as we have seen with fox, a setting forth to seek something already found--something whose presence is in some way independent of the normal thinking and acting creature, something which has already proclaimed itself in moments of heightened consciousness--in the case of the religious temperament at "conversion." silence, bodily and mental, is necessarily the first step in this direction. there is no other way of entering upon the difficult enterprise of transcending the rhythms of sense, and this, and nothing else, has been invariably the first step taken by the mystic upon his pilgrimage. skirting chasms of metaphor, abysses of negation and fear, he has held along this narrowest of narrow ways. but the early quakers and the old-time mystics knew nothing of scientific psychology. they arrived "naturally" at their method of seeking in silence what modern thought is calling "the intuitive principle of action"--"the independent spiritual life fulfilling itself within humanity"--"the unformulated motive which is the greater part of mind." like every seeker, on whatever level, they were led by feeling. feeling passed into action. thought followed in due course, and was deposited as doctrine. they spoke, groping for symbols, of "the seed," "the light," "the true birth." in other words--lest we go too far with psychology's trinity of thought, feeling, and will as separable activities "doing the will"--they "knew the doctrine." from this standpoint of obedience to the "inner light" they found within, they "understood" what they saw around them, and brought a fresh revelation to the world. "i was afraid of all company," says fox during his early trials, "for i saw them perfectly where they were, through the love of god which let me see myself." for them the keynote of life is what an independent uninstructed french mystic, brother lawrence,[ ] has called "the practice of the presence of god," and the man to whom the practical spade-work of the mystics, the art of introversion and contemplation, the practice (very variously interpreted) of purgation, the pathway that leads to "unknowing" and to union with what men have called god, has not been entered on as a matter of living experience, is no quaker, no matter how pious, how philanthropically orthodox, how "religious" he may be. in a meeting for worship he is a foreign body, an unconverted person. side by side with the meeting for worship is the business meeting--a monthly meeting which is the executive unit of the society. it is held under the superintendence of a clerk, whose duty it is to embody the results of discussions in a series of minutes (voting and applause are unknown), and to send these up to the larger quarterly meeting of the district--a group of monthly meetings--delegates being appointed by each monthly meeting to secure representation. the meetings are open to all members and to outsiders on application. most local questions are settled by the quarterly meetings, whose deliberations are on the same plan as those of the monthly meetings. questions affecting the society as a whole, and matters otherwise of wide importance, go up to yearly meeting--the general assembly of the society--where, as in the subordinate meetings, decisions are reached by means of a taking by the clerk of the general "sense" of the gathering after free discussion. the decisions of yearly meeting are final. it issues periodically a book of discipline, in which are embodied, in the form of epistles and other documents, the general attitude of the society as a whole in matters of belief and conduct. a number of sub-committees are perpetually at work for special ends--social, philanthropic, etc.--and there is attached to yearly meeting a standing committee known as the meeting for sufferings, established in in the interest of the victims of persecution. it is composed of representatives of quarterly meetings and of certain officers. it is always engaged in the interest, not only of members of the quaker body in difficult circumstances, but of sufferers all over the world. it does an enormous amount of unpublished work. notorious, of course, is the history of the party of quakers who arrived in paris on the raising of the siege[ ] with food and funds for the famine-stricken town; less known is the constant quiet assistance, such as that rendered to famine and plague districts and at the seat of war in various parts of the world. there are two offices in the quaker body: that of elder, whose duty it is to use discretion in acting as a restraining or encouraging influence with younger members in their ministry; and that of overseer, exercising a general supervision over members of their meeting, admonishing them, if it should be necessary, as to the payment of just debts; the friendly settlement of "differences" about outward things; the discouraging and, as far as possible, restraining legal proceedings between members; "dealing" with any who may be conducting themselves, either in business or in private life, in a way such as to bring discredit upon their profession; caring for the poor, securing maintenance for them where necessary, and assisting them to educate their children. when any person has been found to be specially helpful in a meeting, and his or her ministry is recognized over a considerable period of time as being a true ministry, exercised "in the spirit," such a one is, after due deliberation, "acknowledged" or "recorded" as a "minister." this acknowledgment, however, confers no special status upon the individual, and implies no kind of appointment to preach or otherwise to exercise any special function in the society. there is, apparently, to-day a growing feeling against even this slight recognition of ministry as also against the custom hitherto prevailing of the special "bench" for elders, which is usually on a raised dais, and facing the meeting. men and women work, both in government and in ministry, side by side. until the year they held their yearly meeting separately,[ ] with occasional joint sittings. since then all yearly meetings are held jointly, though the women's meetings are still held for certain purposes. [footnote : nicholas hermann.] [footnote : .] the superficial structure of the society has existed, together with its founder's system of the methodical recording of births, marriages, and deaths, much as we know it to-day from the beginning. the distinctive quaker teaching--with its two main points, the direct communication of truth to a man's own soul: the presence, in other words, of a "seed of god" in every man; and the possibility here and now of complete freedom from sin, together with the many subsidiary testimonies, such as that against war, oaths, the exclusion of women from the ministry, etc., depending from these points--has also survived through many crises, and, in spite of the perpetual danger of being overwhelmed by the calvinism amidst which it was born, and which to this day takes large toll of the society, and perpetually threatens the whole group, is still represented in its original purity. [footnote : see chapter on quakerism and women.] the quakers have never, in spite of their deprecation of the written word and their insistence on the secondariness of even the highest "notions" and doctrines, been backward in defending their faith. they sat at the feet of no man, nor did they desire that any man should sit at theirs; but when they met, not merely at the hands of the wilder sectaries, but from sober, godly people, with accusations of blasphemy, when they were told that they denied christ and the scriptures, they rose up and justified themselves. they were fully equal to those who attacked them in the savoury vernacular of the period, in apocalyptic metaphor, in trouncings and denunciations. bunyan, their relentless opponent throughout, is thus apostrophized by burrough: "alas for thee, john bunion! thy several months' travail in grief and pain is a fruitless birth, and perishes as an untimely fig, and its praise is blotted out among men, and it's passed away as smoke." but throughout the vehemence of the friends' controversial writings runs the sense of fair play--the fearlessness of truth; the spirit, so to say, of tolerance of every belief in the midst of their intolerance of an "unvital" attitude in the believer. their positive attitude to life, their grand affirmation, redeems much that on other grounds seems regrettable. by the time the classical apologist of quakerism--robert barclay, a member of an ancient scottish family, liberally educated at aberdeen college and in paris, who had on his conversion forced himself to ride through the streets of his city in sackcloth and ashes--had published his book,[ ] any justification of quakerism had, from the point of view of the laity at large, ceased to be necessary. they had had some thirty years' experience of the fruits of the doctrine; they knew the quakers as neighbours; had scented something of the sweet fragrance of their austerity; had wondered at their independence of happenings, their freedom from fear, their centralized strength, their picking their way, so to say, amongst the externalities of life with the calm assurance of those who hold a clue where most men blunder, driven by fear or selfish desire. they knew them, moreover, as untiringly available outside their own circle on behalf of every sort of distress. the custodians, amateur and official, of theology still preyed upon them, though many of these were, no doubt, disarmed by the puritan orthodoxy of the background upon which barclay's rationale of the quaker's attitude is wrought. [footnote : _an apology for the true christian divinity._ .] there is ample evidence that he was widely read, both in england and abroad, and the fact that no one took up the challenge, though baxter and bunyan were still living and working, may perhaps be accounted for by the absence in the _apology_ of any clear statement of the real irreconcilability between quakerism and attitudes that are primarily doctrinal or institutional. he accepts the scriptures as a secondary light, saying that they may not be esteemed the "principal ground of all truth and knowledge, nor yet the adequate primary rule of faith and manners," that they cannot go before the teaching of the very spirit that makes them intelligible. he maintains that the closing adjuration in the book of revelation refers only to that particular prophecy, and is not intended to suggest that prophecy is at an end. the ground of knowledge is immediate revelation, which may not be "subjected to the examination either of the outward testimony of the scripture or of the natural reason of man as to a more noble or certain rule or touchstone." he considers that augustine's doctrine of original sin was called out by his zeal against the pelagian exaltation of the natural light of reason. he admits that man in sin--the natural man--can know no right; that, therefore, the socinians and pelagians are convicted in exalting a "natural light," but that, nevertheless, god in love gives universal light, convicting of sin, and teaching if not resisted. he qualifies the quaker claim to the possibility of absolute present salvation from sin by adding that there may be a falling off. the whole of his argument displays the impossibility of rationalizing the position to which the quakers had felt their way in terms of the absolute dualism of seventeenth-century philosophy. he places the doctrines of natural sinfulness and of universal light side by side, and so leaves them. the logical instability of quaker formulas due to the limitations of the scientific philosophy of the day (not until the dawn of our own century has a claim analogous to theirs been put forward on the intellectual plane)--due, in other words, to the characteristic lagging of thought behind life, while comparatively immaterial in the founders and leaders of the quaker movement, who were all mystics or mystically minded persons, a variation of humanity, peculiar people gathered together, with all their differences, by a common characteristic, seeing their universe in the same terms urged towards unanimous activity--began to bear fruit in the second generation. mystical genius is not hereditary, and to the comparatively imitative mass making up the later generations the inward light becomes a doctrine, a conception as mechanical and static as is the infallible scripture to the imitative mass of the protestants. we may not, of course, apply the term "imitative" in too absolute a sense. all have the light. we are all mystics. we all live our lives on our various levels, at first hand. but a full recognition of this fact need not blind us to the further fact that, while those who have mystical genius need no chart upon their journey, most of us need a plain way traced out for us through the desert. most of us follow the gleam of doctrine thrown out by first-hand experience, and cling to that as our guide. but if the quaker message failed as theology, and the later generations swung back to the simpler doctrine of protestantism and re-enthroned an infallible scripture, something, nevertheless, had been done. within the precincts of quakerism certain paths backwards were, so to say, permanently blocked. a fresh type of conduct was assured. the world, the environment in which the new lives of the group were to arise, had been changed for ever. the working out of the logical insecurity of the quaker position is interestingly shown in the person of george keith, intellectually the richest of the early quakers, a man whose writings have been acknowledged by his fellows, and would still stand if he had not left the group, as amongst the best expositions of the quaker attitude. he was a scotch presbyterian, and seems to have joined the quakers while still a student at aberdeen university. for nearly thirty years he was under the spell of the quaker reading of life, and lived during this time well in the forefront of public discussion and persecution. we find him writing books and pamphlets in and out of prison, full of the ardour and the joy of his discovery that there are to-day immediate revelations, speaking with delight of the meaning and use of silence, defending his new faith before presbyterian divines and university students, declaring that he found friends "wiser than all the teachers i ever formerly had been under." it was not until after the death of fox, when the first generation of "born friends" was growing up, that he began to express his sense of the danger he saw ahead. then we find him accusing friends of neglecting the historic evidences of their faith, of sacrificing the outer to the inner. his main doctrinal divergence from them was his assertion that salvation is impossible without the knowledge of and belief in the historic jesus. but doctrine was not his only difficulty. he went to the very heart of the situation. he saw that the quakers could never become in the world what they hoped to be--a mystical church, a body of men swayed without let or hindrance by the divine spirit, pioneers for the world upon the upward way--unless they were willing to pay the price of the saintly office. he begged for the abolition of birthright membership, for an open confession of faith for incoming members, that the children of friends should come and offer themselves as strangers, their spiritual claims weighed and considered; that marriage should not be celebrated according to the quaker rites between those who were not faithful friends; that a sort of register should be kept of those who, in and out of meeting, were live and consistent christians. his view of the situation, though put forward with a violence and bitterness which prejudiced it with his hearers, and brought his own spiritual life under suspicion, is largely justified by the subsequent experience of the society. his challenge attracted a large following in america, whither he had gone as headmaster of a friends' school. the other leaders of the society, both in london and pennsylvania, denied his assertion of the neglect by friends of the historical christ, while protesting that we must believe that the light of christ reaches every man, whether he have heard of him or no. in the matter came before the yearly meeting, and keith and his large body of followers were condemned in writing of the "spirit of reviling, railing, lying, slandering," and of mischievous and hurtful separation. so the schism was formed, and a new sect arose, which established many meetings amidst controversy and bitterness. the following year london yearly meeting, considering his case in sittings that sometimes lasted for days, finally declared him to have separated himself from the holy fellowship of the church of christ, and disowned him. his following gradually disappeared. for some years he travelled about in america, visiting meetings and protesting against his disownment. later on he became an independent, then an episcopalian. he died as a minister of the church of england. there is a story, which most authorities consider to be well authenticated, representing him as saying before he died that if god had taken him while he was a quaker, it would have been well with him. chapter iv the retreat of quakerism but the swing-back for the imitative mass to the easily grasped dogma of an infallible scripture did not take place at once. it appears as a clearly accomplished fact at the time of the mid-eighteenth-century departure of quakerism on its second missionary effort. meanwhile, we must consider the intervening hundred years--the second period of quakerism--generally known as the century of quietism. the first generation of quakers had passed away. the great mission--the going forth to win mankind to live by the inner light--had failed. better fitted, apparently, than any since the early christians to evangelize the world, catholic to the limit of the term, knowing nothing of "heathen" nor of any "living in darkness"; a body of devotees culled from all existing groups, hampered by no official church, unhindered by luxury, undaunted by distance and difficulty, working in the open under storms of persecution that had driven their companion groups to hiding or dissolution, the friends of truth had failed to bring even the churches to the acknowledgment of that on which they all ultimately rested. passing through european christendom and beyond, they gathered in their fellows, retreated to camp, gave up their original enterprise, and became a separatist sect. the greater number of them were flourishing tradespeople, owing their success in business largely to the fact that, whereas trade as a whole was still subject to those passions which had called forth in old times the law forbidding any transaction beyond the sum of twenty pennies to be made without the presence of the port-reeve or other responsible third person, here were men who required neither bond nor agreement, who were as good as their word, asking one price for their goods, and refusing to bargain. their social life at the beginning of the second period has been described for us by one of the last of the earlier generation, coming late in life to english quaker circles after twenty years of absence. william bromfield was a medical man who had followed james ii. to ireland because of his goodness to the quakers, had served him for years in paris as his secretary, and had suffered imprisonment in the bastille for conscience' sake. at one moment we see him visiting a trappist monastery, explaining to the fathers the quaker faith and manner of living--the trappists acknowledging the quakers as ripe for sainthood--and then we read of his bitter disillusionment. he finds[ ] "riches, pride, arrogancy, and falling into parties." he notes with grief that onlookers are saying "that the quakers, who might have converted the world had they kept their first faith, are now become apostates and hypocrites, as vain in their conversation, habits, and dresses, as any other people." even the poor tradesmen and mechanics amongst them wore periwigs: "a wicked covering of horse-hair and goats'-hair." men were "trick'd out in cock'd hats, their fine cloathes with their cuts _à la mode_ and long cravats." women went about with "bare neck, hoop'd petticoats, lac'd shoes, clock't hose, gold-chains, lockets, jewels, and fine silks." seeing in these characteristics of the main mass of the second generation nothing but the ravages of laxity, the faithful nucleus of the society determined on a measure of reform. a missionary party, with full powers to this end, went forth in from london yearly meeting. in every separate meeting throughout the country wayward members were dealt with. many were reclaimed; those who showed themselves either stubborn or indifferent were expelled from the society. disownment for marriage outside the group dates from this time, and it has been estimated that by this means alone the membership was reduced by one-third. [footnote : w. bromfield: _the faith of the true christian and the primitive quaker's faith._ .] amongst the remnant the quaker testimonies against extravagance in dress, unprofitable occupations and amusements, and advices as to simplicity in manners, were stereotyped into a code, and became matters of strict observance. it is from this middle period that the popular picture of quakerism is borrowed. the quakers went forward from their great purgation--a strictly closed sect, carefully guarded from outside influence, the younger generations forced either to conform to the traditional pattern or to suffer banishment--depleted and decreasing until the time of the modern revival taking place about the middle of the nineteenth century. the deductions made by modern commentators from these data fall into two groups. there is the view held generally by those standing outside the body, whether enemies or friends, that quakerism comes to an end with its heroic period. the first recognize its initial catholicity, rejoice in its successful tilting with puritan protestantism, but see it foredoomed by its heresies, by its neglect of the outward symbols of the sanctification of human life, and by the deleterious effect of the admission of women into the ministry. the sympathizers see the early quakers either as the glory of seventeenth-century christianity or the left wing of a widespread effort to democratize formal religion--a shifting of the centre of authority from the official custodian to the man himself. they come regretfully upon the undisciplined ranks of the second generation. they have no faith in the movement for reform; for them the little church of the spirit dwindles, lit with a faint sunset glow of romance down towards extinction. all, both enemies and friends, who see quakerism end with the seventeenth century, dispose of the modern revival by placing it within the general movement of protestant evangelicalism. the second group of deductions appears to be shared by the quakers themselves in so far as their present literary output is representative of the feelings and opinions of the body. they appear to attribute their failure to capture the world, on the one hand, to their exclusion from the main stream of thought and culture, and, on the other, to the inability of the early protagonists to present a formulation of their central doctrine free from contradictions, to their subjection to the dualistic philosophy of the day, which saddles their teaching of the inner light with a tendency to neglect all external means of enlightenment. beyond these two most usual readings of the early history of quakerism, we find the more recent apologists of christian mysticism, while freely admitting the quakers into the fellowship of the mystics, dispose inferentially of the possibility of the "free" mystical church of which friends dreamed on the ground of the rarity of the religious--the still greater rarity of the mystical temperament. in their opinion the art and science of religion will always be carried on by specialists; the torch-bearers will be few, though their light illumine the pathway of the world. a world-church, therefore--a church which must cast her wings over all in her striving to turn all towards the light--must organize primarily in the interest of conduct as an end. in this view the quaker system, in so far as it invites every man to be his own church, must always fail. we may, perhaps, accept something of all these readings; we may recognize the unsuitability for the daily need of the world at large of a church neither primarily institutional nor primarily doctrinal. we may admit, for many minds in a christendom generally ignorant of its own history of an episcopally ordained and invested female clergy, the handicap of recognized feminine ministry; we may see the full unreason of birthright membership, and the change of base in the modern revival, without, perhaps, being driven to conclude that england's attempt to introduce into field and market-place the hitherto cloistered mystical faith and practice has entirely failed. for amidst the stereotyped puritanism of this middle period, with its fear of beauty, its suspicion of all pursuits not directly utilitarian or devotional, saints were born. the century which produced john woolman and the men and women who initiated and took the lion's share in the movement for the abolition of slavery; which supplied to the cause of science and to the medical profession, in spite of exclusion from the main streams of learning, eminent men[ ] in numbers quite out of proportion to the size of the group; which saw the blossoming of public education in the form of the fine quaker schools where girls and boys were educated side by side,[ ] must have been rich in inarticulate and unrecorded saintly lives. [footnote : the biographies of quakers and ex-quakers amount to about per cent. of the whole of the entries in the _dictionary of national biography_ ( - ), reckoning from .] there must have been in the sober quaker homes, where affection ruled without softness, where love was heroic rather than sentimental, many who followed, not as imitators, but with all the strength of an original impulse the pathway chosen by those who have been willing to pay the price of an enhanced spiritual life; the withdrawal, in varying measure, from the values and standards accepted by the world at large. they kept watch. they worked amongst their fellows in a dusk between memory and anticipation. they felt to the uttermost and fought to the uttermost the weakness of the self. they were faithful, and in due time the society as a whole felt the breath of revival. [footnote : ackworth was founded in , sidcot remodelled on quaker lines in , the present saffron walden school opened in islington in , and several others since both in england and ireland, all now open to the general public.] chapter v quakerism in america the american colonies seemed to the early leaders of the quaker movement to offer at once a field for the free development of their faith and a base whence they might spread to the ends of the earth. the possibility of buying land from the indians was being discussed in the society as early as . but though, it is true, quaker influence was decisive in establishing religious toleration in america, though the relationship between the native tribes and the colonists was transformed through their substitution of unarmed treaty parties for the existing methods of intimidation and of strictly fair dealing for dishonesty and contract-breaking, though they initiated and took the lion's share in the abolition of slavery,[ ] and established the precedent of a state founded on brotherly love, although they did more than any other group of refugees or body of colonists to settle the foundations of the religious and civil life of the country; yet the texture of the religious life of the american people is to-day largely puritan protestantism, and of the quaker influence in government there remains not a trace. [footnote : as early as , and before he had come in contact with slavery, fox addressed a letter of advice from england to all slave-holding friends. in , seeing for himself the system at work in barbadoes, he recommended that the holders should free their slaves after a term of service, and should arrange for their welfare when freed. the first documentary protest against slavery put forward by any religious body came from the german quakers in philadelphia (germantown); they had come as settlers from kirchheim in germany, where penn's teaching had met with an ardent response. john woolman spent twenty years in ceaseless labour on behalf of the slaves. throughout the society the work went on; meetings were held, individual protests were made, slave-holding friends were visited. by it was generally agreed that negroes should be neither bought nor imported by friends, and less than thirty years later the society, with the exception of a few isolated and difficult cases, was free of slavery. many friends paid their slaves for past services, and in all cases provision was made for their welfare.] for more than half a century after the savage persecution[ ] by the puritans--reaching its fullest fury in boston under governor endicott--had come to an end, quakerism was a steadily growing power in america. the quakers flourished in rhode island, to whom they supplied many governors, and where at one time they were continually in office; they made fair headway in connecticut. in long island their establishment was finally secured by the advice of the dutch home government on the ground of their excellence as citizens. they achieved a foothold in virginia in face of the indignant persecutions of the episcopalians. their history in maryland is an excellent illustration of the nature of their work on behalf of religious toleration. when, in , an act was framed to secure the establishment of the protestant church, the quakers, who were by this time both numerous and influential in the colony, laboured in opposition to it until they brought the bill to nought. they supported the catholics in their struggle for emancipation, and were largely instrumental in securing the repeal, in , of the act against them. they also joined with rome to prevent the episcopalian church from being established by law, but in this they were only partially successful. in the carolinas they appear to have fared well. for years, though in a minority, they controlled the government. new jersey was thrown open to them by a large purchase of land. william penn's share in this transaction was the beginning of his practical interest in america, finally to express itself in the foundation of the quaker state of pennsylvania,[ ] which was very largely his own work. his labours as a religious apologist, filling some five volumes, and representing in his graceful, polished style the application to social life of the puritan morality upon which the quakers had grafted their beliefs, are secondary to his work in america, for which he gave up all he possessed--influence, the prospect of a brilliant career at home, friends, fortune, and health. [footnote : the first quakers to reach america were two women, anne austin and mary fisher. when they arrived at boston, their luggage was searched, their books were burned in the market-place by the hangman; they were stripped and examined for signs of witchcraft, and after five weeks' imprisonment and cruelty were shipped back to barbadoes. then followed a series of persecutions too horrible to be detailed, increasing in severity from fines--fireless, bedless, and almost foodless--imprisonment in chains in the boston winter, floggings (one part alone of the punishment of the aged william brand consisted of blows on his bare back with a barred rope, while two women were stripped to the waist in the mid-winter snow and lashed at the cart-tail through eleven towns), ear-croppings, and tongue-borings, to the death penalty suffered by three men and one woman. the intervention of charles ii. referred only to the death penalty. whippings continued until , and imprisonment for tithes until .] this colony, bought strip by strip in honest treaty with the indians, developed more quickly than any other. it was a home for refugees of every shade of opinion. friends at no time formed more than half the population, but their influence was supreme. [footnote : it is interesting that penn did his utmost--even to attempting to bribe the secretaries when the charter was drawn up--to abolish the _penn_ prefixed by james ii. to his own original _sylvania_.] two years after the settlement of the state[ ] penn writes that two general assemblies had been held with such concord and despatch that they sat but three weeks, and at least seventy laws were passed without one dissent in any material thing. for thirty years there was peace, liberty, and refuge for all, and an unrivalled prosperity. we may picture penn, in the days of witch crazes, holding his one trial of a witch, and establishing the precedent of finding the woman guilty of the common fame of being a witch, but not guilty as indicted; and in another characteristically friendly moment refusing, when greatly in need of funds, six thousand pounds for a trade monopoly which would have violated his principle of fairness to the indians. free thought was encouraged, and a little group of distinguished men appeared in philadelphia. the final downfall of friendly administration in pennsylvania was the result of the refusal on the part of the majority of the quakers to adjust their principles to the demand sent to the quaker legislature for means to proceed against the french and the indians. [footnote : in .] up to the time of this occurrence it had seemed as if america were on the way to becoming an autonomous province of the british empire, steered by quaker principles. privilege after privilege had been quietly secured by penn from the home government, and it is not difficult to believe that if on the eve of the revolution negotiations had been left in friendly hands, the war of separation need not have taken place. when it broke out, the quakers retired decisively from legislative and municipal positions. a quakerized liberty party carried on the traditions of civil liberty up to the last moment. the scotch-irish presbyterians, who despised the quakers, and treated the indians as heathen to be exterminated, formed the main body of the pennsylvanian revolutionary party. friends suffered under english taxation, and their principles prevented them from smuggling, yet they opposed not merely warfare, but revolution, disowning those who supported it, and reiterated their loyalty to england. they were arrested and imprisoned as friends of the british, their goodly farms and their meeting-houses were placed at the mercy of troopers and foragers, whose pay they would not accept. their decent streets were demoralized. they went quietly about their business as best they might, pursuing, even while the war was in progress, their labours in the aid of drunkards and slaves, their succour of the uneducated. they built schools for the negroes, and when, after the revolution was at an end (whereupon they duly suffered at the hands of the rejoicing multitude), there came the scandal of the "walking purchase" of land from the indians and the fear of a serious outbreak, they formed a private association and pacified the indians, preventing warfare at the cost to themselves of weeks of negotiation and the sum of five thousand pounds paid by them. incidents of this type occur again and again in quaker history, and are practical proof of the fact that their avoidance of the spirit of strife, so often present in political life, was no kind of timidity, of passive resistance, or comfortable retirement from the business of the world. least of all was it indifference to what went forward in the public affairs of the nation. apart from its temporary dominion of "affairs," american quakerism follows much the same line of development as does the movement at home. the original impulse tends to be superseded for the imitative mass by a doctrine embodied in an institution; the dogma of the inner light becomes dangerously absolutist. there is a corresponding return to the steadying refuge of an infallible scripture, and the modern church, while still united and distinguishable by the marks of quaker culture, of faith and practice, kindling here and there to the older insight and vision, shows a divided front. in a large group--now known as hicksites--separated under elias hicks, whose repudiation of doctrines and creeds, and insistence on right living, resulted, in the opinion of "orthodox" friends, in a wrong attitude towards christ and the scriptures. the evangelical reaction in england, which was, in part, a result of the hicksite controversy, brought about a further division in america under john wilbur, who protested against evangelical biblicism, and reasserted the doctrine of the inner light, insisted on plainness of speech and dress, and looked with suspicion upon "art." the orthodox group, deeply tinged with protestant evangelicalism, have largely adopted the pastoral system. there are now at least four distinct groups in america.[ ] [footnote : "according to recent statistics, the membership of the fourteen orthodox bodies is upward of , ; of philadelphia yearly meeting, , ; of the conservative yearly meeting, about , ; and of seven hicksite yearly meetings, under , --say, , friends belonging to yearly meetings in america with which we do not correspond" (_facts about friends._ headley bros. ).] chapter vi quakerism and women watching pilgrims who pass one by one along the mystic way, we see both women and men. teresa, catharine, elizabeth, mechthild, no less than francis, tauler, boehme, stand as high peaks of human achievement in entering into direct relationship with the transcendental life. but when we reach the humbler levels of institution and doctrine, the religious genius of womanhood tends to be pushed, so to say, into an oblique relationship. under organized christianity, and particularly under protestantism, has this been so. amongst the first christians, it is true, women preached and prophesied. there is, moreover, in the history of the early centuries sound evidence of an ordained and invested female clergy. taking that history as a whole, however, women have been, and are still, excluded from the councils of the churches and from the responsibilities and privileges of priesthood. devout churchwomen, and, in particular, devout protestants, are nourished on literal interpretation of records, which assure them of an essential inferiority to their male companions, and enjoin subjection in all things. at marriage, they sacramentally renounce individuality. quakerism stands as the first form of christian belief, which has, even in reaching its doctrinized and institutionized levels, escaped regarding woman as primarily an appendage to be controlled, guided, and managed by man. this escape was the result, not of any kind of feminism, any sort of special solicitude for or belief in women as a class. nor was it the result of a protest against any definitely recognized existing attitude. such unstable and fluctuating emotions could not have carried through the quaker reformation of the relations of the sexes. the recognition of the public ministry of women was an act of faith. it was a step that followed from a central belief in the universality of the inner light. it was taken in the face of difficulties. it hampered the quakers enormously in relation to the outside world. it was the occasion of profound disturbance within the body. heart-searching and hesitation rose here and there to an opposition so convinced as to form part of the programme of the first schismatics.[ ] fox had to fight valiantly. his central belief once clear, he cut clean through the pauline tangle of irreconcilable propositions, and forged from the depths of his conviction phrases that would, were they but known, do yeoman service in the present agitation for the release of the artificially inhibited responsibilities of women. he is never tired of reminding those who cling to the story of the fall that the restoration of humanity in the appearance of christ took the reproach from woman. he rallies men, often with delicious humour, on their desire to rule over women, and exhorts those who despise "the spirit of prophecy in the daughters" to be "ashamed for ever." but although faith won, it is probable that the majority took the step only under the urgency of deep-seated consciousness, the surface intelligence still loudly asserting the necessary pre-eminence of masculine standards. even amongst the most determined advocates of the recognition of a woman's spiritual identity, amongst those who condemned its suppression as blasphemous, we meet the suggestion that this recognition need not in any way interfere with her proper subjection to her husband. nevertheless, fox succeeded in equalizing the marriage covenant. [footnote : the perrot schism, .] the government of the society, therefore, was for many years carried on by men alone, a women's meeting coming into existence, as we have seen, only when obviously imperative--in relation to the care of the women and children suffering under persecution--and persisting only for special purposes quite apart from the business of the society as a whole. men and women, however, occasionally visited each other's meetings, and joint sittings were sometimes held. it was the experience coming to the support of dawning theory, of the superior working of these joint meetings, that finally enfranchised quaker womanhood. it is interesting to note that one of the most striking features of the technique of quaker meetings, whether for business or worship, is the working out of the distinctive characteristics of the sexes. their contradiction, and the tendency psychology has roughly summarized of women, as a class, to control thought by feeling, and of men, as a class, to allow "reason" the first place, is here at its height. the two rival and ever-competing definitions of reality both find expression. each must tolerate the other. reaction takes place without bitterness. again and again there is revealed the fruitfulness of that spirit which believes in and seeks goodness, beauty, and truth--these alone, and these in all. recent statistics have shown[ ] that women, though always numerically superior in the society, have supplied a comparatively small number of both officers and ministers, and of clerks relatively none, and that, moreover, this deficit is gradually increasing, and is not made good by any sufficiently compensating output of public work outside the society. [footnote : _the friend_, march, : "woman in the church."] it has been suggested that we may presume, in consideration of these facts, that women friends have by this time availed themselves of their opportunity to the full extent of their capacities, and that the result, as far as government is concerned, is that the conduct of large public meetings is almost entirely entrusted to men. in the correspondence that followed the publication of the statistics certain modifying statements were made. it was suggested that of late years the increasing membership had brought in women who were without the quaker tradition--a fact which would account for the growing deficit of feminine activities. attention was also drawn to the unseen mass of feminine initiative, the result of which is credited to men. it is, of course, evident that if we begin by assuming that equality of opportunity shall result in identity of function, if we believe, moreover, that government is merely a matter of machinery, and ministry can be estimated by the counting of heads and of syllables, we shall be led to the conclusion that, while the more obvious results of the quaker experiment may do something towards disarming haunting fears as to the safety of acknowledging the full spiritual and temporal fellowship of women, it does comparatively little to justify the claims and expectations of the feminists in general. but whatever standard we apply, however we may choose to approach the question of the public ministry of women; however, further, we may estimate the value of the fact that all the practical business of the society is talked out in their hearing, that measures are sometimes initiated, sometimes abolished, invariably commented on, modified and steered by them, we cannot form any idea of what quakerism has done for women or women for quakerism without some consideration of an aspect of the matter hitherto almost entirely neglected by historians and commentators, which yet, in the opinion of the present writer, may be claimed not only as giving some part of the explanation of the relative inactivity of women in the more obvious transactions of the society, but as being a very substantial part of the clue to the rapid development and the healthy persistence of quaker culture--and that is the profound reaction upon women of the changed conditions of home-life; for amongst the quakers the particularized home, with its isolated woman cut off from any responsible share in the life of "the world" and associating mainly with other equally isolated women, is unknown. a woman born into a quaker family inherits the tradition of a faith which is of the heart rather than of the head, of intuition rather than intellectation, of life primarily rather than of doctrine; and, therefore, it would seem particularly suited to the development of her religious consciousness; and she comes, moreover, into an atmosphere where her natural sense of direct relationship to life, her instinctive individual aspiration and sense of responsibility, instead of being either cancelled or left dormant, or thwarted and trained to run, so to say, indirectly, is immediately confirmed and fostered. she is in touch with, has, as we have seen, her stake and her responsibility in regard to every single activity of the meeting of which she is a member. through every meeting and through every home, moreover, there is the cleansing and ventilating ebb and flow of the life of the whole society, and this not merely by means of the circulation of matter relating to the deliberations and the work of the society, but also in the form of personal contact. beyond the exchange of hospitality in connection with monthly and quarterly meetings for worship and for business, there is a constant flow of itinerating ministers and others of both sexes between meetings either on special individual concerns or in the interest of some single branch of the society's work. simple easy intercourse between family and family, meeting and meeting, is part of the fabric of quaker home-life. perhaps for this reason, perhaps just because amongst the quakers, in a very true and deep sense, the world is home and home is the world, because, in other words, the inner is able without obstruction to flow out and realize itself in the outer, the sense of family-life, of home, and fireside, is particularly sweet and strong. the breaking of family ties is rare. the failure that leads to the divorce court is practically unknown. we may look with wonder and admiration at the great figures amongst quaker women, upon those who built their lives into the first spreadings of the message; upon those who went, under the urgency of their faith, alone into strange lands, where means of communication were the scantiest; upon the persecuted and martyred women, the women of initiative and organizing genius; upon anne knight of chelmsford pioneering female suffrage in england, founding the first political association for women; upon elizabeth fry, after a full career as house-keeper, mother, and social worker, turning, late in life, to the prisons of england, and transforming them, so to say, with her own hands. but, perhaps, it is in the daily home-life of the society that the distinctively feminine side of doctrinized and organized quakerism reaches its fairest development. chapter vii the present position the counter-agitation[ ] brought forth in england by the american hicksite movement, ended, after prolonged discussion and stress, in a decisive readjustment of the society of friends. there were numerous secessions into the evangelical church and the plymouth brotherhood. there were separations of those who followed elias hicks in his repudiation of doctrines and creeds, and of those who favoured wilbur in protesting against "book religion," reasserting the doctrines of the quaker fathers, and insisting on simplicity of life; but the society as a whole was swept forward, under the leadership of joseph john gurney (brother of elizabeth fry), by the invading wave of protestant evangelicalism. gurney, coming of old quaker stock, though religious and pious and full of zeal for the salvation of the world, never grasped the essentials of quakerism. he had no touch of the intuitive genius which makes the mystic. every line he has written betrays the protestant biblicist, the man who puts the verbal revelation before any other whatsoever. he did not repudiate the fathers, but he denied that they had ever questioned the supreme authority of the scriptures as the guide of mankind. [footnote : the beacon controversy, so named from isaac crewdson's publication in , expressing evangelical views of an advanced type.] his strong persuasive personality revived the enthusiasm of the imitative mass of the society, and once more the quakers faced the world. it was a new world. the religious liberty friends had prophesied and worked towards had come at last. the test act had been repealed. nonconformists were admitted to parliament and to the universities of oxford and cambridge. the london university had been established. the emerging quakers, on their side, began to break down the barriers they had erected between themselves and the world by their peculiarities of speech and of dress, and showed a tendency to relax their hostility towards "art." they were a little band, tempered and disciplined by their century of quiet cultivation of the quaker faith and method, and they were at once available for a share, strikingly disproportionate to their numbers, in the evangelical work of an awakening christendom. from the time of their emergence their missionary labours have been unremitting. they engaged in prison reform and the reform of the penal code. they initiated the reform of the lunacy laws, working for the substitution of kindly treatment in special institutions[ ] for the orthodox method of chains and imprisonment. they began to educate the poor. the foundation of their foreign missions dates from this period of revival. they have widening centres of missionary work in india, madagascar, syria, china, and ceylon. they have been the main movers in the work of abolishing the opium traffic, and are engaged, both at home and abroad, in all the many well-known efforts towards social amelioration, amongst which, perhaps, the leading part they have taken in experimental philanthropy, in educational method (their co-education schools scattered over the country are models of method, standing for common sense, humanity, and a wise use of modern resources), in the housing and betterment of the lot of the working classes, and in the establishment of garden suburbs, are particularly worthy of mention. [footnote : the friends' retreat at york, established in , was the beginning of humane treatment of the insane in this country.] from their sunday-school work, begun in bristol in , and gradually spreading over the country, has arisen what is perhaps the most widely influential of the present activities in which friends are interested on behalf of the working classes--the adult school movement. originally initiated[ ] in the interest of loafers at street corners, it has now become a national movement, with a complete organization, upwards of a thousand schools, and a membership in its ninetieth thousand. it is spreading on the continent and in america. at the meetings of its weekly classes, which are open to all who care to attend (the men's and women's classes are held independently), led by an elected president, who may be an adherent of any creed or of none, part of the time is devoted to the consideration of religious questions and part to lecturettes, debates, readings, and so on. each school develops secondary interests and engages in special work. [footnote : in by joseph sturge, of birmingham.] within the society from which this perpetual stream of evangelical work flows forth we must distinguish two distinct types of religious culture. there is, first of all, the main mass, differing only in its method of worship from the main body of protestant nonconformity--taking, as we have said, its stand first and foremost upon the scriptures. in most quaker meetings to-day this typically "protestant" attitude predominates numerically. but while we recognize this state of affairs as one of the inevitable consequences of any endeavour to found an "open" church upon a mystical basis, it is, nevertheless, amongst the quakers, modified, to a certain extent, in two ways: first, by its subjection to its environment, the framework of the old quaker culture, the training implied in fox's method both of private and public worship, in the expectation of unmediated divine leadership in all the circumstances of life, the training in freedom from the domination of formulæ and deductions, the insistence on the important meaning of the individual soul. it is modified, in the second place, by the nucleus of genuine mystical endowment, which has persisted through the centuries at the heart of the quaker church, both handed down in the direct line and coming in from without; the remnant whose influence has so often made this little church the sorting-house, so to say, amongst the sects for mystically minded persons. and during the last ten years--the years which have seen such a striking revival of the interest in mysticism, have felt a clearing and a growth of the recognition of the importance to the race as a whole of mystical genius, have produced a mass of seriously undertaken studies of this phenomenon from every point of approach--the quaker church has continued increasingly to fulfil this function. not only from the sects, but from the older establishments, and from the ranks of religiously unclassified "philosophy" and "culture," there is a steady migration towards the quaker fold. the vitality of this modern quaker group is expressing itself at the present time in a twofold activity over and above the home and foreign missionary work we have already noted. this activity is visible throughout the society, both in england and in america. there is, on the one hand, an effort emanating from the more intellectual section of the group, to express quakerism in terms of modern thought, to reach, as far as may be, with the help of modern psychology, a philosophical "description" of the doctrine of the "inner light"--a description which is thought to be much more possible to-day than it was at the time of george fox. this effort, which includes the rewriting in detail and from original documents of the history of the society of friends, is embodied in the work of a little group of quaker writers, prominent amongst whom are the late john wilhelm rowntree, the late miss caroline e. stephen, dr. rufus m. jones, mr. william c. braithwaite, mr. edward grubb, and miss joan m. fry. mr. edward grubb,[ ] perhaps one of the most illuminating of the quaker writers upon the doctrine of the inner light, realizes with perfect clearness that the dogma of the infallible spirit presents at least as many difficulties as that of an infallible church or bible; that in the case of either of these infallibilities the question immediately arises as to "_who_" is the infallible interpreter? fox, he points out, trusted urgency and unaccountability by mere thought processes for the sign of the higher source. he adds to this that "the spirit in one man must be tested by the spirit in many men. the individual must read his inward state in the light of the social spiritual group," ... and thus reaches a sort of spiritual democracy. on the whole, however, his appeal is to idealism as the supplanter of materialism; he claims thought as the _prius_ of knowledge, and identifies consciousness with thought. he leaves us with the "notional" god of transcendental idealism, who is just as far off as the corresponding matter-and-force god of consistent materialism. [footnote : _authority and the light within._] mr. william c. braithwaite is, perhaps, happier. "the consciousness," he says in _spiritual guidance in quaker experience_,[ ] "that our subjective impression of guidance needs correction to allow for the personal factor, and the sense that truth of all kinds and in all ages is harmoniously related, naturally point to the great advantage of co-ordinating the light that has come to our souls with the light that has come to others in our own day or in past ages. this is not the same thing as merely relying on tradition or accepting an experience second-hand; nor does it mean that we refuse to accept any guidance which goes beyond the experience of others--it means simply that over the country we have to traverse there are many paths already trodden along which we may have safe and speedy passage." [footnote : swarthmoor lecture. headley bros., .] professor rufus jones, who has done much in relation to the psychology of quakerism, also voices the corporate idea in declaring that the friend must test his light by the larger revelation of his co-believers, and they, again, by the larger revelation which has come to prophets and apostles, saints and martyrs; but here, again, we seem to find ourselves within a circle of ideas. in place of the simple homely imagery of fox, "the seed," "the light," the "new birth," "that which hath convinced you," we have in these modern descriptions, it is true, all the rich and intricate spatial terminology of modern science; but, so far, the most successful efforts in the direction of "description" of mystical religion in modern terms have not come from the society, where the belief in, and the attempt to live in sole dependence upon, the indwelling spirit is still, for very many of its members, the single aim, where there are still many with whom "knowing" is more important than "knowing about." the boldest and clearest sighted, the most comprehensive and lucid descriptions of the mystic type, of his distinctive genius, his aim and method, his kinship with his fellows throughout the ages, the world-old record of his search and its justification, are to be found elsewhere.[ ] side by side with the attempt to rationalize and restate in terms of modern thought the faith that is in them is a movement enrolling growing numbers, particularly of younger friends, in both continents, in the direction of expressing quakerism in terms of modern life. home life, social life, business life, every modern development, is brought to the test of quaker principles. there is a spirit abroad declaring that quakerism has become devitalized; that the religious life is stereotyped and perfunctory; that the joyous, all-conquering zeal of the early friends was the outcome of a secret unknown to their followers; that the way to the fount at which they were sustained is lost--that it may be found again if the daily life is brought under divine control. a call has gone forth to sacrifice, to scale the heights of right living in that purer air, that the sight may grow clear. [footnote : in the work, for example, of miss evelyn underhill, author of _mysticism_ (macmillan, ), _the mystic way_ (macmillan, ).] everywhere in quakerdom we meet this question as to the secret of the early quakers. do we read in this outcry an admission of the failure of group mysticism as it has so far been attempted by the society of friends? the little church of the spirit seems to be at the turning of the ways. all barriers are down. the rationale of primitive quakerism is fully established. the quakers no longer stand facing an outraged or indifferent christendom. the principles "discovered" by their founder are conceded in theory by the religious world as a whole. will they remain in their present position, which may be described as that of a protestant ethical society, with mystical traditions and methods, part of an organized and nationalized world-church, suffering the necessary limitations of a body thrown open to all, converted and unconverted, committed to the necessity of teaching doctrinal "half-truths," organizing necessarily in the interest of conduct as an end? or will they constitute themselves an order within, and co-operating with, the church--an order of lay mystics, held together externally by the sane and simple discipline laid down by fox, and guarded thus from the dangers to which mysticism is perennially open; an order of men and women willing corporately to fulfil, while living in the daily life of the world, the conditions of revelation, and admitting to membership only those similarly willing; a "free" group of mystics ready to pay the price, ready to travel along the way trodden by all their predecessors, by all who have truly yearned for the uncreated light? chronological table . birth of george fox. . fox's public ministry begins. . friends nicknamed quakers by a derby magistrate. . acquisition of headquarters at swarthmoor hall. . missions to the south and east. . first quakers in america. . fox appeals to friends on behalf of their slaves. . barclay's apology published in english. . pennsylvania founded. . toleration act passed. . death of george fox. . reform of society of friends. . modern evangelical revival. bibliography george fox: journal. edited by norman penney. cambridge university press, . george fox: journal. bi-centenary edition in two volumes. headley. george fox: works. eight volumes. philadelphia, . robert barclay: an apology for the true christian divinity. in english, . william penn: no cross, no crown. john woolman: journal. caroline e. stephen: quaker strongholds. headley, . john wilhelm rowntree: essays and addresses. headley, . t. edmund harvey: the rise of the quakers. headley, . elizabeth b. emmott: the story of quakerism. headley, . allen c. thomas: the history of the society of friends in america. rufus m. jones: the quakers in the american colonies. macmillan, . rufus m. jones: social law in the spiritual world. headley, . rufus m. jones: studies in mystical religion. macmillan, . rufus m. jones: children of the light (anthology of quaker mystics). headley, . evelyn underhill: mysticism. macmillan, . william c. braithwaite: the beginnings of quakerism. macmillan, . william c. braithwaite: spiritual guidance in quaker experience. headley, . edward grubb: authority and the light within. clarke, . the book of discipline. successive editions from . the society of friends. encyclopædia britannica. eleventh edition. note the bulk of quaker literature falls into two main groups: ( ) the voluminous writings of the early quakers--journals, epistles, doctrinal works, and controversial matter--most of which were issued under the censorship of a body of friends meeting in london, while a large mass of unprinted manuscripts and transcripts of manuscripts, admirably classified and indexed, is available at the headquarters of the society, devonshire house, bishopsgate, whose library contains also the largest collection of books relating to the society; ( ) the modern output of history, commentary, expository, apology, and evangelistic writing. most of the printed works of george fox have been collected in the eight volumes of the philadelphia edition. a considerable quantity is still in manuscript. the cambridge edition of his journal is particularly interesting in having been printed unaltered from the original manuscript. it is incomplete, and is best supplemented by the bi-centenary edition (see bibliography). billing and sons, ltd., printers, guildford transcriber's notes the original spelling and punctuation were mostly preserved. a few obvious typographical and formatting errors were silently corrected. further corrections are listed here (before/after): [p. ]: ... that the quakers, who might have converted ... ... "that the quakers, who might have converted ... this ebook was produced by david widger the weavers by gilbert parker book vi. xl. hylda seeks nahoum xli. in the land of shinar xlii. the loom of destiny chapter xl hylda seeks nahoum it was as though she had gone to sleep the night before, and waked again upon this scene unchanged, brilliant, full of colour, a chaos of decoration--confluences of noisy, garish streams of life, eddies of petty labour. craftsmen crowded one upon the other in dark bazaars; merchants chattered and haggled on their benches; hawkers clattered and cried their wares. it was a people that lived upon the streets, for all the houses seemed empty and forsaken. the sais ran before the pasha's carriage, the donkey-boys shrieked for their right of way, a train of camels calmly forced its passage through the swirling crowds, supercilious and heavy- laden. it seemed but yesterday since she had watched with amused eyes the sherbet-sellers clanking their brass saucers, the carriers streaming the water from the bulging goatskins into the earthen bottles, crying, "allah be praised, here is coolness for thy throat for ever!" the idle singer chanting to the soft kanoon, the chess-players in the shade of a high wall, lost to the world, the dancing-girls with unveiled, shameless faces, posturing for evil eyes. nothing had changed these past six years. yet everything had changed. she saw it all as in a dream, for her mind had no time for reverie or retrospect; it was set on one thing only. yet behind the one idea possessing her there was a subconscious self taking note of all these sights and sounds, and bringing moisture to her eyes. passing the house which david had occupied on that night when he and she and nahoum and mizraim had met, the mist of feeling almost blinded her; for there at the gate sat the bowab who had admitted her then, and with apathetic eyes had watched her go, in the hour when it seemed that she and david claridge had bidden farewell for ever, two driftwood spars that touched and parted in the everlasting sea. here again in the palace square were kaid's nubians in their glittering armour as of silver and gold, drawn up as she had seen them drawn then, to be reviewed by their overlord. she swept swiftly through the streets and bazaars on her mission to nahoum. "lady eglington" had asked for an interview, and nahoum had granted it without delay. he did not associate her with the girl for whom david claridge had killed foorgat pey, and he sent his own carriage to bring her to the palace. no time had been lost, for it was less than twenty-four hours since she had arrived in cairo, and very soon she would know the worst or the best. she had put her past away for the moment, and the duchess of snowdon had found at marseilles a silent, determined, yet gentle-tongued woman, who refused to look back, or to discuss anything vital to herself and eglington, until what she had come to egypt to do was accomplished. nor would she speak of the future, until the present had been fully declared and she knew the fate of david claridge. in cairo there were only varying rumours: that he was still holding out; that he was lost; that he had broken through; that he was a prisoner--all without foundation upon which she could rely. as she neared the palace entrance, a female fortune-teller ran forward, thrusting towards her a gazelle's skin, filled with the instruments of her mystic craft, and crying out: "i divine-i reveal! what is present i manifest! what is absent i declare! what is future i show! beautiful one, hear me. it is all written. to thee is greatness, and thy heart's desire. hear all! see! wait for the revealing. thou comest from afar, but thy fortune is near. hear and see. i divine--i reveal. beautiful one, what is future i show." hylda's eyes looked at the poor creature eagerly, pathetically. if it could only be, if she could but see one step ahead! if the veil could but be lifted! she dropped some silver into the folds of the gazelle- skin and waved the gipsy away. "there is darkness, it is all dark, beautiful one," cried the woman after her, "but it shall be light. i show--i reveal!" inside these palace walls there was a revealer of more merit, as she so well and bitterly knew. he could raise the veil--a dark and dangerous necromancer, with a flinty heart and a hand that had waited long to strike. had it struck its last blow? outside nahoum's door she had a moment of utter weakness, when her knees smote together, and her throat became parched; but before the door had swung wide and her eyes swept the cool and shadowed room, she was as composed as on that night long ago when she had faced the man who knew. nahoum was standing in a waiting and respectful attitude as she entered. he advanced towards her and bowed low, but stopped dumfounded, as he saw who she was. presently he recovered himself; but he offered no further greeting than to place a chair for her where her face was in the shadow and his in the light--time of crisis as it was, she noticed this and marvelled at him. his face was as she had seen it those years ago. it showed no change whatever. the eyes looked at her calmly, openly, with no ulterior thought behind, as it might seem. the high, smooth forehead, the full but firm lips, the brown, well-groomed beard, were all indicative of a nature benevolent and refined. where did the duplicity lie? her mind answered its own question on the instant; it lay in the brain and the tongue. both were masterly weapons, an armament so complete that it controlled the face and eyes and outward man into a fair semblance of honesty. the tongue--she remembered its insinuating and adroit power, and how it had deceived the man she had come to try and save. she must not be misled by it. she felt it was to be a struggle between them, and she must be alert and persuasive, and match him word for word, move for move. "i am happy to welcome you here, madame," he said in english. "it is years since we met; yet time has passed you by." she flushed ever so slightly--compliment from nahoum pasha! yet she must not resent anything to-day; she must get what she came for, if it was possible. what had lacey said? "a few thousand men by parcel-post, and some red seals-british officers." "we meet under different circumstances," she replied meaningly. "you were asking a great favour then." "ah, but of you, madame?" "i think you appealed to me when you were doubtful of the result." "well, madame, it may be so--but, yes, you are right; i thought you were claridge pasha's kinswoman, i remember." "excellency, you said you thought i was claridge pasha's kinswoman." "and you are not?" he asked reflectively. he did not understand the slight change that passed over her face. his kinswoman--claridge pasha's kinswoman! "i was not his kinswoman," she answered calmly. "you came to ask a favour then of claridge pasha; your life-work to do under him. i remember your words: 'i can aid thee in thy great task. thou wouldst remake our egypt, and my heart is with you. i would rescue, not destroy. . . . i would labour, but my master has taken away from me the anvil, the fire, and the hammer, and i sit without the door like an armless beggar.' those were your words, and claridge pasha listened and believed, and saved your life and gave you work; and now again you have power greater than all others in egypt." "madame, i congratulate you on a useful memory. may it serve you as the hill-fountain the garden in the city! those indeed were my words. i hear myself from your lips, and yet recognise myself, if that be not vanity. but, madame, why have you sought me? what is it you wish to know--to hear?" he looked at her innocently, as though he did not know her errand; as though beyond, in the desert, there was no tragedy approaching--or come. "excellency, you are aware that i have come to ask for news of claridge pasha." she leaned forward slightly, but, apart from her tightly interlaced fingers, it would not have been possible to know that she was under any strain. "you come to me instead of to the effendina. may i ask why, madame? your husband's position--i did not know you were lord eglington's wife-- would entitle you to the highest consideration." "i knew that nahoum pasha would have the whole knowledge, while the effendina would have part only. excellency, will you not tell me what news you have? is claridge pasha alive?" "madame, i do not know. he is in the desert. he was surrounded. for over a month there has been no word-none. he is in danger. his way by the river was blocked. he stayed too long. he might have escaped, but he would insist on saving the loyal natives, on remaining with them, since he could not bring them across the desert; and the river and the desert are silent. nothing comes out of that furnace yonder. nothing comes." he bent his eyes upon her complacently. her own dropped. she could not bear that he should see the misery in them. "you have come to try and save him, madame. what did you expect to do? your government did not strengthen my hands; your husband did nothing-- nothing that could make it possible for me to act. there are many nations here, alas! your husband does not take so great an interest in the fate of claridge pasha as yourself, madame." she ignored the insult. she had determined to endure everything, if she might but induce this man to do the thing that could be done--if it was not too late. before she could frame a reply, he said urbanely: "but that is not to be expected. there was that between claridge pasha and yourself which would induce you to do all you might do for him, to be anxious for his welfare. gratitude is a rare thing--as rare as the flower of the century--aloe; but you have it, madame." there was no chance to misunderstand him. foorgat bey--he knew the truth, and had known it all these years. "excellency," she said, "if through me, claridge pasha--" "one moment, madame," he interrupted, and, opening a drawer, took out a letter. "i think that what you would say may be found here, with much else that you will care to know. it is the last news of claridge pasha-- a letter from him. i understand all you would say to me; but he who has most at stake has said it, and, if he failed, do you think, madame, that you could succeed?" he handed her the letter with a respectful salutation. "in the hour he left, madame, he came to know that the name of foorgat bey was not blotted from the book of time, nor from fate's reckoning." after all these years! her instinct had been true, then, that night so long ago. the hand that took the letter trembled slightly in spite of her will, but it was not the disclosure nahoum had made which caused her agitation. this letter she held was in david claridge's hand, the first she had ever seen, and, maybe, the last that he had ever written, or that any one would ever see, a document of tears. but no, there were no tears in this letter! as hylda read it the trembling passed from her fingers, and a great thrilling pride possessed her. if tragedy had come, then it had fallen like a fire from heaven, not like a pestilence rising from the earth. here indeed was that which justified all she had done, what she was doing now, what she meant to do when she had read the last word of it and the firm, clear signature beneath. "excellency [the letter began in english], i came into the desert and into the perils i find here, with your last words in my ear, 'there is the matter of foorgat bey.' the time you chose to speak was chosen well for your purpose, but ill for me. i could not turn back, i must go on. had i returned, of what avail? what could i do but say what i say here, that my hand killed foorgat bey; that i had not meant to kill him, though at the moment i struck i took no heed whether he lived or died. since you know of my sorrowful deed, you also know why foorgat bey was struck down. when, as i left the bank of the nile, your words blinded my eyes, my mind said in its misery: 'now, i see!' the curtains fell away from between you and me, and i saw all that you had done for vengeance and revenge. you knew all on that night when you sought your life of me and the way back to kaid's forgiveness. i see all as though you spoke it in my ear. you had reason to hurt me, but you had no reason for hurting egypt, as you have done. i did not value my life, as you know well, for it has been flung into the midst of dangers for egypt's sake, how often! it was not cowardice which made me hide from you and all the world the killing of foorgat bey. i desired to face the penalty, for did not my act deny all that i had held fast from my youth up? but there was another concerned--a girl, but a child in years, as innocent and true a being as god has ever set among the dangers of this life, and, by her very innocence and unsuspecting nature, so much more in peril before such unscrupulous wiles as were used by foorgat bey. "i have known you many years, nahoum, and dark and cruel as your acts have been against the work i gave my life to do, yet i think that there was ever in you, too, the root of goodness. men would call your acts treacherous if they knew what you had done; and so indeed they were; but yet i have seen you do things to others--not to me--which could rise only from the fountain of pure waters. was it partly because i killed foorgat and partly because i came to place and influence and power, that you used me so, and all that i did? or was it the east at war with the west, the immemorial feud and foray? "this last i will believe; for then it will seem to be something beyond yourself--centuries of predisposition, the long stain of the indelible--that drove you to those acts of matricide. ay, it is that! for, armenian as you are, this land is your native land, and in pulling down what i have built up--with you, nahoum, with you-- you have plunged the knife into the bosom of your mother. did it never seem to you that the work which you did with me was a good work--the reduction of the corvee, the decrease of conscription, the lessening of taxes of the fellah, the bridges built, the canals dug, the seed distributed, the plague stayed, the better dwellings for the poor in the delta, the destruction of brigandage, the slow blotting-out of exaction and tyranny under the kourbash, the quiet growth of law and justice, the new industries started--did not all these seem good to you, as you served the land with me, your great genius for finance, ay, and your own purse, helping on the things that were dear to me, for egypt's sake? giving with one hand freely, did your soul not misgive you when you took away with the other? "when you tore down my work, you were tearing down your own; for, more than the material help i thought you gave in planning and shaping reforms, ay, far more than all, was the feeling in me which helped me over many a dark place, that i had you with me, that i was not alone. i trusted you, nahoum. a life for a life you might have had for the asking; but a long torture and a daily weaving of the web of treachery--that has taken more than my life; it has taken your own, for you have killed the best part of yourself, that which you did with me; and here in an ever-narrowing circle of death i say to you that you will die with me. power you have, but it will wither in your grasp. kaid will turn against you; for with my failure will come a dark reaction in his mind, which feels the cloud of doom drawing over it. without me, with my work falling about his ears, he will, as he did so short a time ago, turn to sharif and higli and the rest; and the only comfort you will have will be that you destroyed the life of him who killed your brother. did you love your brother? nay, not more than did i, for i sent his soul into the void, and i would gladly have gone after it to ask god for the pardon of all his sins--and mine. think: i hid the truth, but why? because a woman would suffer an unmerited scandal and shame. nothing could recall foorgat bey; but for that silence i gave my life, for the land which was his land. do you betray it, then? "and now, nahoum, the gulf in which you sought to plunge me when you had ruined all i did is here before me. the long deception has nearly done its work. i know from ebn ezra bey what passed between you. they are out against me--the slave-dealers--from senaar to where i am. the dominion of egypt is over here. yet i could restore it with a thousand men and a handful of european officers, had i but a show of authority from cairo, which they think has deserted me. "i am shut up here with a handful of men who can fight and thousands who cannot fight, and food grows scarcer, and my garrison is worn and famished; but each day i hearten them with the hope that you will send me a thousand men from cairo. one steamer pounding here from the north with men who bring commands from the effendina, and those thousands out yonder beyond my mines and moats and guns will begin to melt away. nahoum, think not that you shall triumph over david claridge. if it be god's will that i shall die here, my work undone, then, smiling, i shall go with step that does not falter, to live once more; and another day the work that i began will rise again in spite of you or any man. "nahoum, the killing of foorgat bey has been like a cloud upon all my past. you know me, and you know i do not lie. yet i do not grieve that i hid the thing--it was not mine only; and if ever you knew a good woman, and in dark moments have turned to her, glad that she was yours, think what you would have done for her, how you would have sheltered her against aught that might injure her, against those things women are not made to bear. then think that i hid the deed for one who was a stranger to me, whose life must ever lay far from mine, and see clearly that i did it for a woman's sake, and not for this woman's sake; for i had never seen her till the moment i struck foorgat bey into silence and the tomb. will you not understand, nahoum? "yonder, i see the tribes that harry me. the great guns firing make the day a burden, the nights are ever fretted by the dangers of surprise, and there is scarce time to bury the dead whom sickness and the sword destroy. from the midst of it all my eyes turn to you in cairo, whose forgiveness i ask for the one injury i did you; while i pray that you will seek pardon for all that you have done to me and to those who will pass with me, if our circle is broken. friend, achmet the ropemaker is here fighting for egypt. art thou less, then, than achmet? so, god be with thee. "david claridge." without a pause hylda had read the letter from the first word to the last. she was too proud to let this conspirator and traitor see what david's words could do to her. when she read the lines concerning herself, she became cold from head to foot, but she knew that nahoum never took his eyes from her face, and she gave no outward sign of what was passing within. when she had finished it, she folded it up calmly, her eyes dwelt for a moment on the address upon the envelope, and then she handed it back to nahoum without a word. she looked him in the eyes and spoke. "he saved your life, he gave you all you had lost. it was not his fault that prince kaid chose him for his chief counsellor. you would be lying where your brother lies, were it not for claridge pasha." "it may be; but the luck was with me; and i have my way." she drew herself together to say what was hard to say. "excellency, the man who was killed deserved to die. only by lies, only by subterfuge, only because i was curious to see the inside of the palace, and because i had known him in london, did i, without a thought of indiscretion, give myself to his care to come here. i was so young; i did not know life, or men--or egyptians." the last word was uttered with low scorn. he glanced up quickly, and for the first time she saw a gleam of malice in his eyes. she could not feel sorry she had said it, yet she must remove the impression if possible. "what claridge pasha did, any man would have done, excellency. he struck, and death was an accident. foorgat's temple struck the corner of a pedestal. "his death was instant. he would have killed claridge pasha if it had been possible--he tried to do so. but, excellency, if you have a daughter, if you ever had a child, what would you have done if any man had--" "in the east daughters are more discreet; they tempt men less," he answered quietly, and fingered the string of beads he carried. "yet you would have done as claridge pasha did. that it was your brother was an accident, and--" "it was an accident that the penalty must fall on claridge pasha, and on you, madame. i did not choose the objects of penalty. destiny chose them, as destiny chose claridge pasha as the man who should supplant me, who should attempt to do these mad things for egypt against the judgment of the world--against the judgment of your husband. shall i have better judgment than the chancellories of europe and england--and lord eglington?" "excellency, you know what moves other nations; but it is for egypt to act for herself. you ask me why i did not go to the effendina. i come to you because i know that you could circumvent the effendina, even if he sent ten thousand men. it is the way in egypt." "madame, you have insight--will you not look farther still, and see that, however good claridge pasha's work might be some day in the far future, it is not good to-day. it is too soon. at the beginning of the twentieth century, perhaps. men pay the penalty of their mistakes. a man's life"--he watched her closely with his wide, benevolent eyes--"is neither here nor there, nor a few thousands, in the destiny of a nation. a man who ventures into a lion's den must not be surprised if he goes as harrik went--ah, perhaps you do not know how harrik went! a man who tears at the foundations of a house must not be surprised if the timbers fall on him and on his workmen. it is destiny that claridge pasha should be the slayer of my brother, and a danger to egypt, and one whose life is so dear to you, madame. you would have it otherwise, and so would i, but we must take things as they are--and you see that letter. it is seven weeks since then, and it may be that the circle has been broken. yet it may not be so. the circle may be smaller, but not broken." she felt how he was tempting her from word to word with a merciless ingenuity; yet she kept to her purpose; and however hopeless it seemed, she would struggle on. "excellency," she said in a low, pleading tone, "has he not suffered enough? has he not paid the price of that life which you would not bring back if you could? no, in those places of your mind where no one can see lies the thought that you would not bring back foorgat bey. it is not an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth that has moved you; it has not been love of foorgat bey; it has been the hatred of the east for the west. and yet you are a christian! has claridge pasha not suffered enough, excellency? have you not had your fill of revenge? have you not done enough to hurt a man whose only crime was that he killed a man to save a woman, and had not meant to kill?" "yet he says in his letter that the thought of killing would not have stopped him." "does one think at such a moment? did he think? there was no time. it was the work of an instant. ah, fate was not kind, excellency! if it had been, i should have been permitted to kill foorgat bey with my own hands." "i should have found it hard to exact the penalty from you, madame." the words were uttered in so neutral a way that they were enigmatical, and she could not take offence or be sure of his meaning. "think, excellency. have you ever known one so selfless, so good, so true? for humanity's sake, would you not keep alive such a man? if there were a feud as old as adam between your race and his, would you not before this life of sacrifice lay down the sword and the bitter challenge? he gave you his hand in faith and trust, because your god was his god, your prophet and lord his prophet and lord. such faith should melt your heart. can you not see that he tried to make compensation for foorgat's death, by giving you your life and setting you where you are now, with power to save or kill him?" "you call him great; yet i am here in safety, and he is--where he is. have you not heard of the strife of minds and wills? he represented the west, i the east. he was a christian, so was i; the ground of our battle was a fair one, and--and i have won." "the ground of battle fair!" she protested bitterly. "he did not know that there was strife between you. he did not fight you. i think that he always loved you, excellency. he would have given his life for you, if it had been in danger. is there in that letter one word that any man could wish unwritten when the world was all ended for all men? but no, there was no strife between you--there was only hatred on your part. he was so much greater than you that you should feel no rivalry, no strife. the sword he carries cuts as wide as time. you are of a petty day in a petty land. your mouth will soon be filled with dust, and you will be forgotten. he will live in the history of the world. excellency, i plead for him because i owe him so much: he killed a man and brought upon himself a lifelong misery for me. it is all i can do, plead to you who know the truth about him--yes, you know the truth--to make an effort to save him. it may be too late; but yet god may be waiting for you to lift your hand. you said the circle may be smaller, but it may be unbroken still. will you not do a great thing once, and win a woman's gratitude, and the thanks of the world, by trying to save one who makes us think better of humanity? will you not have the name of nahoum pasha linked with his--with his who thought you were his friend? will you not save him?" he got slowly to his feet, a strange look in his eyes. "your words are useless. i will not save him for your sake; i will not save him for the world's sake; i will not save him--" a cry of pain and grief broke from her, and she buried her face in her hands. "--i will not save him for any other sake than his own." he paused. slowly, as dazed as though she had received a blow, hylda raised her face and her hands dropped in her lap. "for any other sake than his own!" her eyes gazed at him in a bewildered, piteous way. what did he mean? his voice seemed to come from afar off. "did you think that you could save him? that i would listen to you, if i did not listen to him? no, no, madame. not even did he conquer me; but something greater than himself within himself, it conquered me." she got to her feet gasping, her hands stretched out. "oh, is it true-- is it true?" she cried. "the west has conquered," he answered. "you will help him--you will try to save him?" "when, a month ago, i read the letter you have read, i tried to save him. i sent secretly four thousand men who were at wady halfa to relieve him--if it could be done; five hundred to push forward on the quickest of the armed steamers, the rest to follow as fast as possible. i did my best. that was a month ago, and i am waiting--waiting and hoping, madame." suddenly she broke down. tears streamed from her eyes. she sank into the chair, and sobs shook her from head to foot. "be patient, be composed, madame," nahoum said gently. "i have tried you greatly--forgive me. nay, do not weep. i have hope. we may hear from him at any moment now," he added softly, and there was a new look in his wide blue eyes as they were bent on her. chapter xli in the land of shinar "then i said to the angel that talked with me, whither do these bear the ephah? "and he said unto me, to build it an house in the land of shinar; and it shall be established, and set there upon her own base." david raised his head from the paper he was studying. he looked at lacey sharply. "and how many rounds of ammunition?" he asked. "ten thousand, saadat." "how many shells?" he continued, making notes upon the paper before him. "three hundred, saadat." "how many hundredweight of dourha?" "eighty--about." "and how many mouths to feed?" "five thousand." "how many fighters go with the mouths?" "nine hundred and eighty-of a kind." "and of the best?' "well, say, five hundred." "thee said six hundred three days ago, lacey." "sixty were killed or wounded on sunday, and forty i reckon in the others, saadat." the dark eyes flashed, the lips set. "the fire was sickening--they fell back?" "well, saadat, they reflected--at the wrong time." "they ran?" "not back--they were slow in getting on." "but they fought it out?" "they had to--root hog, or die. you see, saadat, in that five hundred i'm only counting the invincibles, the up-and-at-'ems, the blind-goers that 'd open the lid of hell and jump in after the enemy." the pale face lighted. "so many! i would not have put the estimate half so high. not bad for a dark race fighting for they know not what!" "they know that all right; they are fighting for you, saadat." david seemed not to hear. "five hundred--so many, and the enemy so near, the temptation so great." "the deserters are all gone to ali wad hei, saadat. for a month there have been only the deserted." a hardness crept into the dark eyes. "only the deserted!" he looked out to where the nile lost itself in the northern distance. "i asked nahoum for one thousand men, i asked england for the word which would send them. i asked for a thousand, but even two hundred would turn the scale--the sign that the inglesi had behind him cairo and london. twenty weeks, and nothing comes!" he got to his feet slowly and walked up and down the room for a moment, glancing out occasionally towards the clump of palms which marked the disappearance of the nile into the desert beyond his vision. at intervals a cannon-shot crashed upon the rarefied air, as scores of thousands had done for months past, torturing to ear and sense and nerve. the confused and dulled roar of voices came from the distance also; and, looking out to the landward side, david saw a series of movements of the besieging forces, under the arab leader, ali wad hei. here a loosely formed body of lancers and light cavalry cantered away towards the south, converging upon the nile; there a troop of heavy cavalry in glistening mail moved nearer to the northern defences; and between, battalions of infantry took up new positions, while batteries of guns moved nearer to the river, curving upon the palace north and south. suddenly david's eyes flashed fire. he turned to lacey eagerly. lacey was watching with eyes screwed up shrewdly, his forehead shining with sweat. "saadat," he said suddenly, "this isn't the usual set of quadrilles. it's the real thing. they're watching the river--waiting." "but south!" was david's laconic response. at the same moment he struck a gong. an orderly entered. giving swift instructions, he turned to lacey again. "not cairo--darfur," he added. "ebn ezra bey coming! ali wad hei's got word from up the nile, i guess." david nodded, and his face clouded. "we should have had word also," he said sharply. there was a knock at the door, and mahommed hassan entered, supporting an arab, down whose haggard face blood trickled from a wound in the head, while an arm hung limp at his side. "behold, saadat--from ebn ezra bey," mahommed said. the man drooped beside him. david caught a tin cup from a shelf, poured some liquor into it, and held it to the lips of the fainting man. "drink," he said. the arab drank greedily, and, when he had finished, gave a long sigh of satisfaction. "let him sit," david added. when the man was seated on a sheepskin, the huge mahommed squatting behind like a sentinel, david questioned him. "what is thy name--thy news?" he asked in arabic. "i am called feroog. i come from ebn ezra bey, to whom be peace!" he answered. "thy messenger, saadat, behold he died of hunger and thirst, and his work became mine. ebn ezra bey came by the river. . . ." "he is near?" asked david impatiently. "he is twenty miles away." "thou camest by the desert?" "by the desert, saadat, as ebn ezra effendi comes." "by the desert! but thou saidst he came by the river." "saadat, yonder, forty miles from where we are, the river makes a great curve. there the effendi landed in the night with four hundred men to march hither. but he commanded that the boats should come on slowly and receive the attack in the river, while he came in from the desert." david's eye flashed. "a great device. they will be here by midnight, then, perhaps?" "at midnight, saadat, by the blessing of god." "how wert thou wounded?" "i came upon two of the enemy. they were mounted. i fought them. upon the horse of one i came here." "the other?" "god is merciful, saadat. he is in the bosom of god." "how many men come by the river?" "but fifty, saadat," was the answer, "but they have sworn by the stone in the kaabah not to surrender." "and those who come with the effendi, with ebn ezra bey, are they as those who will not surrender?" "half of them are so. they were with thee, as was i, saadat, when the great sickness fell upon us, and were healed by thee, and afterwards fought with thee." david nodded abstractedly, and motioned to mahommed to take the man away; then he said to lacey: "how long do you think we can hold out?" "we shall have more men, but also more rifles to fire, and more mouths to fill, if ebn ezra gets in, saadat." david raised his head. "but with more rifles to fire away your ten thousand rounds"--he tapped the paper on the table--"and eat the eighty hundredweight of dourha, how long can we last?" "if they are to fight, and with full stomachs, and to stake everything on that one fight, then we can last two days. no more, i reckon." "i make it one day," answered david. "in three days we shall have no food, and unless help comes from cairo, we must die or surrender. it is not well to starve on the chance of help coming, and then die fighting with weak arms and broken spirit. therefore, we must fight to morrow, if ebn ezra gets in to-night. i think we shall fight well," he added. "you think so?" "you are a born fighter, saadat." a shadow fell on david's face, and his lips tightened. "i was not born a fighter, lacey. the day we met first no man had ever died by my hand or by my will." "there are three who must die at sunset--an hour from now-by thy will, saadat." a startled look came into david's face. "who?" he asked. "the three pashas, saadat. they have been recaptured." "recaptured!" rejoined david mechanically. "achmet pasha got them from under the very noses of the sheikhs before sunrise this morning." "achmet--achmet pasha!" a light came into david's face again. "you will keep faith with achmet, saadat. he risked his life to get them. they betrayed you, and betrayed three hundred good men to death. if they do not die, those who fight for you will say that it doesn't matter whether men fight for you or betray you, they get the same stuff off the same plate. if we are going to fight to-morrow, it ought to be with a clean bill of health." "they served me well so long--ate at my table, fought with me. but--but traitors must die, even as harrik died." a stern look came into his face. he looked round the great room slowly. "we have done our best," he said. "i need not have failed, if there had been no treachery. . . ." "if it hadn't been for nahoum!" david raised his head. supreme purpose came into his bearing. a grave smile played at his lips, as he gave that quick toss of the head which had been a characteristic of both eglington and himself. his eyes shone- a steady, indomitable light. "i will not give in. i still have hope. we are few and they are many, but the end of a battle has never been sure. we may not fail even now. help may come from cairo even to- morrow." "say, somehow you've always pulled through before, saadat. when i've been most frightened i've perked up and stiffened my backbone, remembering your luck. i've seen a blue funk evaporate by thinking of how things always come your way just when the worst seems at the worst." david smiled as he caught up a small cane and prepared to go. looking out of a window, he stroked his thin, clean-shaven face with a lean finger. presently a movement in the desert arrested his attention. he put a field-glass to his eyes, and scanned the field of operations closely once more. "good-good!" he burst out cheerfully. "achmet has done the one thing possible. the way to the north will be still open. he has flung his men between the nile and the enemy, and now the batteries are at work." opening the door, they passed out. "he has anticipated my orders," he added. "come, lacey, it will be an anxious night. the moon is full, and ebn ezra bey has his work cut out--sharp work for all of us, and . . ." lacey could not hear the rest of his words in the roar of the artillery. david's steamers in the river were pouring shot into the desert where the enemy lay, and achmet's "friendlies" and the egyptians were making good their new position. as david and lacey, fearlessly exposing themselves to rifle fire, and taking the shortest and most dangerous route to where achmet fought, rode swiftly from the palace, ebn ezra's three steamers appeared up the river, and came slowly down to where david's gunboats lay. their appearance was greeted by desperate discharges of artillery from the forces under ali wad hei, who had received word of their coming two hours before, and had accordingly redisposed his attacking forces. but for achmet's sharp initiative, the boldness of the attempt to cut off the way north and south would have succeeded, and the circle of fire and sword would have been complete. achmet's new position had not been occupied before, for men were too few, and the position he had just left was now exposed to attack. never since the siege began had the foe shown such initiative and audacity. they had relied on the pressure of famine and decimation by sickness, the steady effects of sorties, with consequent fatalities and desertions, to bring the liberator of the slaves to his knees. ebn ezra bey had sought to keep quiet the sheikhs far south, but he had been shut up in darffur for months, and had been in as bad a plight as david. he had, however, broken through at last. his ruse in leaving the steamers in the night and marching across the desert was as courageous as it was perilous, for, if discovered before he reached the beleaguered place, nothing could save his little force from destruction. there was one way in from the desert to the walled town, and it was through that space which achmet and his men had occupied, and on which ali wad hei might now, at any moment, throw his troops. david's heart sank as he saw the danger. from the palace he had sent an orderly with a command to an officer to move forward and secure the position, but still the gap was open, and the men he had ordered to advance remained where they were. every minute had its crisis. as lacey and himself left the town the misery of the place smote him in the eyes. filth, refuse, debris filled the streets. sick and dying men called to him from dark doorways, children and women begged for bread, carcasses lay unburied, vultures hovering above them--his tireless efforts had not been sufficient to cope with the daily horrors of the siege. but there was no sign of hostility to him. voices called blessings on him from dark doorways, lips blanching in death commended him to allah, and now and then a shrill call told of a fighter who had been laid low, but who had a spirit still unbeaten. old men and women stood over their cooking-pots waiting for the moment of sunset; for it was ramadan, and the faithful fasted during the day--as though every day was not a fast. sunset was almost come, as david left the city and galloped away to send forces to stop the gap of danger before it was filled by the foe. sunset--the three pashas were to die at sunset! they were with achmet, and in a few moments they would be dead. as david and lacey rode hard, they suddenly saw a movement of men on foot at a distant point of the field, and then a small mounted troop, fifty at most, detach themselves from the larger force and, in close formation, gallop fiercely down on the position which achmet had left. david felt a shiver of anxiety and apprehension as he saw this sharp, sweeping advance. even fifty men, well intrenched, could hold the position until the main body of ali wad hei's infantry came on. they rode hard, but harder still rode ali wad hei's troop of daring arabs. nearer and nearer they came. suddenly from the trenches, which they had thought deserted, david saw jets of smoke rise, and a half-dozen of the advancing troop fell from their saddles, their riderless horses galloping on. david's heart leaped: achmet had, then, left men behind, hidden from view; and these were now defending the position. again came the jets of smoke, and again more arabs dropped from their saddles. but the others still came on. a thousand feet away others fell. twenty-two of the fifty had already gone. the rest fired their rifles as they galloped. but now, to david's relief, his own forces, which should have moved half an hour before, were coming swiftly down to cut off the approach of ali wad hei's infantry, and he turned his horse upon the position where a handful of men were still emptying the saddles of the impetuous enemy. but now all that were left of the fifty were upon the trenches. then came the flash of swords, puffs of smoke, the thrust of lances, and figures falling from the screaming, rearing horses. lacey's pistol was in his hand, david's sword was gripped tight, as they rushed upon the melee. lacey's pistol snapped, and an arab fell; again, and another swayed in his saddle. david's sword swept down, and a turbaned head was gashed by a mortal stroke. as he swung towards another horseman, who had struck down a defender of the trenches, an arab raised himself in his saddle and flung a lance with a cry of terrible malice; but, even as he did so, a bullet from lacey's pistol pierced his shoulder. the shot had been too late to stop the lance, but sufficient to divert its course. it caught david in the flesh of the body under the arm--a slight wound only. a few inches to the right, however, and his day would have been done. the remaining arabs turned and fled. the fight was over. as david, dismounting, stood with dripping sword in his hand, in imagination, he heard the voice of kaid say to him, as it said that night when he killed foorgat bey: "hast thou never killed a man?" for an instant it blinded him, then he was conscious that, on the ground at his feet, lay one of the three pashas who were to die at sunset. it was sunset now, and the man was dead. another of the three sat upon the ground winding his thigh with the folds of a dead arab's turban, blood streaming from his gashed face. the last of the trio stood before david, stoical and attentive. for a moment david looked at the three, the dead man and the two living men, and then suddenly turned to where the opposing forces were advancing. his own men were now between the position and ali wad hei's shouting fanatics. they would be able to reach and defend the post in time. he turned and gave orders. there were only twenty men besides the two pashas, whom his commands also comprised. two small guns were in place. he had them trained on that portion of the advancing infantry of ali wad hei not yet covered by his own forces. years of work and responsibility had made him master of many things, and long ago he had learned the work of an artilleryman. in a moment a shot, well directed, made a gap in the ranks of the advancing foe. an instant afterwards a shot from the other gun fired by the unwounded pasha, who, in his youth, had been an officer of artillery, added to the confusion in the swerving ranks, and the force hesitated; and now from ebn ezra bey's river steamers, which had just arrived, there came a flank fire. the force wavered. from david's gun another shot made havoc. they turned and fell back quickly. the situation was saved. as if by magic the attack of the enemy all over the field ceased. by sunset they had meant to finish this enterprise, which was to put the besieged wholly in their hands, and then to feast after the day's fasting. sunset had come, and they had been foiled; but hunger demanded the feast. the order to cease firing and retreat sounded, and three thousand men hurried back to the cooking-pot, the sack of dourha, and the prayer mat. malaish, if the infidel inglesi was not conquered to-day, he should be beaten and captured and should die to-morrow! and yet there were those among them who had a well-grounded apprehension that the "inglesi" would win in the end. by the trenches, where five men had died so bravely, and a traitorous pasha had paid the full penalty of a crime and won a soldier's death, david spoke to his living comrades. as he prepared to return to the city, he said to the unwounded pasha: "thou wert to die at sunset; it was thy sentence." and the pasha answered: "saadat, as for death--i am ready to die, but have i not fought for thee?" david turned to the wounded pasha. "why did achmet pasha spare thee?" "he did not spare us, saadat. those who fought with us but now were to shoot us at sunset, and remain here till other troops came. before sunset we saw the danger, since no help came. therefore we fought to save this place for thee." david looked them in the eyes. "ye were traitors," he said, "and for an example it was meet that ye should die. but this that ye have done shall be told to all who fight to-morrow, and men will know why it is i pardon treachery. ye shall fight again, if need be, betwixt this hour and morning, and ye shall die, if need be. ye are willing?" both men touched their foreheads, their lips, and their breasts. "whether it be death or it be life, inshallah, we are true to thee, saadat!" one said, and the other repeated the words after him. as they salaamed david left them, and rode forward to the advancing forces. upon the roof of the palace mahommed hassan watched and waited, his eyes scanning sharply the desert to the south, his ears strained to catch that stir of life which his accustomed ears had so often detected in the desert, when no footsteps, marching, or noises could be heard. below, now in the palace, now in the defences, his master, the saadat, planned for the last day's effort on the morrow, gave directions to the officers, sent commands to achmet pasha, arranged for the disposition of his forces, with as strange a band of adherents and subordinates as ever men had--adventurers, to whom adventure in their own land had brought no profit; members of that legion of the non-reputable, to whom cairo offered no home; levantines, who had fled from that underground world where every coin of reputation is falsely minted, refugees from the storm of the world's disapproval. there were greeks with austrian names; armenians, speaking italian as their native tongue; italians of astonishing military skill, whose services were no longer required by their offended country; french pizarros with a romantic outlook, even in misery, intent to find new el dorados; englishmen, who had cheated at cards and had left the horse guards for ever behind; egyptian intriguers, who had been banished for being less successful than greater intriguers; but also a band of good gallant men of every nation. upon all these, during the siege, mahommed hassan had been a self- appointed spy, and had indirectly added to that knowledge which made david's decisive actions to circumvent intrigue and its consequences seem almost supernatural. in his way mahommed was a great man. he knew that david would endure no spying, and it was creditable to his subtlety and skill that he was able to warn his master, without being himself suspected of getting information by dark means. on the palace roof mahommed was happy to-night. tomorrow would be a great day, and, since the saadat was to control its destiny, what other end could there be but happiness? had not the saadat always ridden over all that had been in his way? had not he, mahommed, ever had plenty to eat and drink, and money to send to manfaloot to his father there, and to bribe when bribing was needed? truly, life was a boon! with a neboot of dom-wood across his knees he sat in the still, moonlit night, peering into that distance whence ebn ezra bey and his men must come, the moon above tranquil and pleasant and alluring, and the desert beneath, covered as it was with the outrages and terrors of war, breathing softly its ancient music, that delicate vibrant humming of the latent activities. in his uncivilised soul mahommed hassan felt this murmur, and even as he sat waiting to know whether a little army would steal out of the south like phantoms into this circle the saadat had drawn round him, he kept humming to himself-- had he not been, was he not now, an apollo to numberless houris who had looked down at him from behind mooshrabieh screens, or waited for him in the palm-grove or the cane-field? the words of his song were not uttered aloud, but yet he sang them silently-- "every night long and all night my spirit is moaning and crying o dear gazelle, that has taken away my peace! ah! if my beloved come not, my eyes will be blinded with weeping moon of my joy, come to me, hark to the call of my soul!" over and over he kept chanting the song. suddenly, however, he leaned farther forward and strained his ears. yes, at last, away to the south- east, there was life stirring, men moving--moving quickly. he got to his feet slowly, still listening, stood for a moment motionless, then, with a cry of satisfaction, dimly saw a moving mass in the white moonlight far over by the river. ebn ezra bey and his men were coming. he started below, and met david on the way up. he waited till david had mounted the roof, then he pointed. "now, saadat!" he said. "they have stolen in?" david peered into the misty whiteness. they are almost in, saadat. nothing can stop them now." "it is well done. go and ask ebn ezra effendi to come hither," he said. suddenly a shot was fired, then a hoarse shout came over the desert, then there was silence again. "they are in, saadat," said mahommed hassan. ....................... day broke over a hazy plain. on both sides of the nile the river mist spread wide, and the army of ali wad hei and the defending forces were alike veiled from each other and from the desert world beyond. down the river for scores of miles the mist was heavy, and those who moved within it and on the waters of the nile could not see fifty feet ahead. yet through this heavy veil there broke gently a little fleet of phantom vessels, the noise of the paddle-wheels and their propellers muffled as they moved slowly on. never had vessels taken such risks on the nile before, never had pilots trusted so to instinct, for there were sand- banks and ugly drifts of rock here and there. a safe journey for phantom ships; but these armed vessels, filled by men with white, eager faces and others with dark egyptian features, were no phantoms. they bristled with weapons, and armed men crowded every corner of space. for full two hours from the first streak of light they had travelled swiftly, taking chances not to be taken save in some desperate moment. the moment was desperate enough, if not for them. they were going to the relief of besieged men, with a message from nahoum pasha to claridge pasha, and with succour. they had looked for a struggle up this river as they neared the beleaguered city; but, as they came nearer and nearer, not a gun fired at them from the forts on the banks out of the mists. if they were heard they still were safe from the guns, for they could not be seen, and those on shore could not know whether they were friend or foe. like ghostly vessels they passed on, until at last they could hear the stir and murmur of life along the banks of the stream. boom! boom! boom! through the mist the guns of the city were pouring shot and shell out into ali wad hei's camp, and ali wad hei laughed contemptuously. surely now the inglesi was altogether mad, and to-day, this day after prayers at noon, he should be shot like a mad dog, for yesterday's defeat had turned some of his own adherent sheikhs into angry critics. he would not wait for starvation to compel the infidel to surrender. he would win freedom to deal in human flesh and blood, and make slave-markets where he willed, and win glory for the lord mahomet, by putting this place to the sword; and, when it was over, he would have the inglesi's head carried on a pole through the city for the faithful to mock at, a target for the filth of the streets. so, by the will of allah, it should be done! boom! boom! boom! the inglesi was certainly mad, for never had there been so much firing in any long day in all the siege as in this brief hour this morning. it was the act of a fool, to fire his shot and shell into the mist without aim, without a clear target. ali wad hei scorned to make any reply with his guns, but sat in desultory counsel with his sheikhs, planning what should be done when the mists had cleared away. but yesterday evening the arab chief had offered to give the inglesi life if he would surrender and become a muslim, and swear by the lord mahomet; but late in the night he had received a reply which left only one choice, and that was to disembowel the infidel, and carry his head aloft on a spear. the letter he had received ran thus in arabic: "to ali wad hei and all with him: "we are here to live or to die as god wills, and not as ye will. i have set my feet on the rock, and not by threats of any man shall i be moved. but i say that for all the blood that ye have shed here there will be punishment, and for the slaves which ye have slain or sold there will be high price paid. ye have threatened the city and me--take us if ye can. ye are seven to one. why falter all these months? if ye will not come to us, we shall come to you, rebellious ones, who have drawn the sword against your lawful ruler, the effendina. "claridge pasha" it was a rhetorical document couched in the phraseology they best understood; and if it begat derision, it also begat anger; and the challenge david had delivered would be met when the mists had lifted from the river and the plain. but when the first thinning of the mists began, when the sun began to dissipate the rolling haze, ali wad hei and his rebel sheikhs were suddenly startled by rifle-fire at close quarters, by confused noises, and the jar and roar of battle. now the reason for the firing of the great guns was plain. the noise was meant to cover the advance of david's men. the little garrison, which had done no more than issue in sorties, was now throwing its full force on the enemy in a last desperate endeavour. it was either success or absolute destruction. david was staking all, with the last of his food, the last of his ammunition, the last of his hopes. all round the field the movement was forward, till the circle had widened to the enemy's lines; while at the old defences were only handfuls of men. with scarce a cry david's men fell on the unprepared foe; and he himself, on a grey arab, a mark for any lance or spear and rifle, rode upon that point where ali wad hei's tent was set. but after the first onset, in which hundreds were killed, there began the real noise of battle--fierce shouting, the shrill cries of wounded and maddened horses as they struck with their feet, and bit as fiercely at the fighting foe as did their masters. the mist cleared slowly, and, when it had wholly lifted, the fight was spread over every part of the field of siege. ali wad hei's men had gathered themselves together after the first deadly onslaught, and were fighting fiercely, shouting the muslim battle-cry, "allah hu achbar!" able to bring up reinforcements, the great losses at first sustained were soon made up, and the sheer weight of numbers gave them courage and advantage. by rushes with lance and sword and rifle they were able, at last, to drive david's men back upon their old defences with loss. then charge upon charge ensued, and each charge, if it cost them much, cost the besieged more, by reason of their fewer numbers. at one point, however, the besieged became again the attacking party. this was where achmet pasha had command. his men on one side of the circle, as ebn ezra bey's men on the other, fought with a valour as desperate as the desert ever saw. but david, galloping here and there to order, to encourage, to prevent retreat at one point, or to urge attack at another, saw that the doom of his gallant force was certain; for the enemy were still four to one, in spite of the carnage of the first attack. bullets hissed past him. one carried away a button, one caught the tip of his ear, one pierced the fez he wore; but he felt nothing of this, saw nothing. he was buried in the storm of battle preparing for the end, for the final grim defence, when his men would retreat upon the one last strong fort, and there await their fate. from this absorption he was roused by lacey, who came galloping towards him. "they've come, saadat, they've come at last! we're saved--oh, my god, you bet we're all right now! see! see, saadat!" david saw. five steamers carrying the egyptian flag were bearing around the point where the river curved below the town, and converging upon david's small fleet. presently the steamers opened fire, to encourage the besieged, who replied with frenzied shouts of joy, and soon there poured upon the sands hundreds of men in the uniform of the effendina. these came forward at the double, and, with a courage which nothing could withstand, the whole circle spread out again upon the discomfited tribes of ali wad hei. dismay, confusion, possessed the arabs. their river- watchers had failed them, god had hidden his face from them; and when ali wad hei and three of his emirs turned and rode into the desert, their forces broke and ran also, pursued by the relentless men who had suffered the tortures of siege so long. the chase was short, however, for they were desert folk, and they returned to loot the camp which had menaced them so long. only the new-comers, nahoum's men, carried the hunt far; and they brought back with them a body which their leader commanded to be brought to a great room of the palace. towards sunset david and ebn ezra bey and lacey came together to this room. the folds of loose linen were lifted from the face, and all three looked at it long in silence. at last lacey spoke: "he got what he wanted; the luck was with him. it's better than leperland." "in the bosom of allah there is peace," said ebn ezra. "it is well with achmet." with misty eyes david stooped and took the dead man's hand in his for a moment. then he rose to his feet and turned away. "and nahoum also--and nahoum," he said presently. "read this," he added, and put a letter from nahoum into ebn ezra's hand. lacey reverently covered achmet's face. "say, he got what he wanted," he said again. chapter xlii the loom of destiny it was many a day since the duchess of snowdon had seen a sunrise, and the one on which she now gazed from the deck of the dahabieh nefert, filled her with a strange new sense of discovery and revelation. her perceptions were arrested and a little confused, and yet the undercurrent of feeling was one of delight and rejuvenation. why did this sunrise bring back, all at once, the day when her one lost child was born, and she looked out of the windows of snowdon hall, as she lay still and nerveless, and thought how wonderful and sweet and green was the world she saw and the sky that walled it round? sunrise over the greek temple of philae and the splendid ruins of a farther time towering beside it! in her sight were the wide, islanded nile, where cleopatra loitered with antony, the foaming, crashing cataracts above, the great quarries from which ancient temples had been hewed, unfinished obelisks and vast blocks of stone left where bygone workmen had forsaken them, when the invader came and another dynasty disappeared into that partial oblivion from which the egyptian still emerges triumphant over all his conquerors, unchanged in form and feature. something of its meaning got into her mind. "i wonder what windlehurst would think of it. he always had an eye for things like that," she murmured; and then caught her breath, as she added: "he always liked beauty." she looked at her wrinkled, childish hands. "but sunsets never grow old," she continued, with no apparent relevance. "la, la, we were young once!" her eyes were lost again in the pinkish glow spreading over the grey- brown sand of the desert, over the palm-covered island near. "and now it's others' turn, or ought to be," she murmured. she looked to where, not far away, hylda stood leaning over the railing of the dahabieh, her eyes fixed in reverie on the farthest horizon line of the unpeopled, untravelled plain of sand. "no, poor thing, it's not her turn," she added, as hylda, with a long sigh, turned and went below. tears gathered in her pale blue eyes. "not yet--with eglington alive. and perhaps it would be best if the other never came back. i could have made the world better worth living in if i had had the chance--and i wouldn't have been a duchess! la! la!" she relapsed into reverie, an uncommon experience for her; and her mind floated indefinitely from one thing to another, while she was half conscious of the smell of coffee permeating the air, and of the low resonant notes of the nubian boys, as, with locked shoulders, they scrubbed the decks of a dahabieh near by with hempshod feet. presently, however, she was conscious of another sound--the soft clip of oars, joined to the guttural, explosive song of native rowers; and, leaning over the rail, she saw a boat draw alongside the nefert. from it came the figure of nahoum pasha, who stepped briskly on deck, in his handsome face a light which flashed an instant meaning to her. "i know--i know! claridge pasha--you have heard?" she said excitedly, as he came to her. he smiled and nodded. "a messenger has arrived. within a few hours he should be here." "then it was all false that he was wounded--ah, that horrible story of his death!" "bismillah, it was not all false! the night before the great battle he was slightly wounded in the side. he neglected it, and fever came on; but he survived. his first messengers to us were killed, and that is why the news of the relief came so late. but all is well at last. i have come to say so to lady eglington--even before i went to the effendina." he made a gesture towards a huge and gaily-caparisoned dahabieh not far away. "kaid was right about coming here. his health is better. he never doubted claridge pasha's return; it was une idee fixe. he believes a magic hand protects the saadat, and that, adhering to him, he himself will carry high the flower of good fortune and live for ever. kismet! i will not wait to see lady eglington. i beg to offer to her my congratulations on the triumph of her countryman." his words had no ulterior note; but there was a shadow in his eyes which in one not an oriental would have seemed sympathy. "pasha, pasha!" the duchess called after him, as he turned to leave; "tell me, is there any news from england--from the government?" "from lord eglington? no," nahoum answered meaningly. "i wrote to him. did the english government desire to send a message to claridge pasha, if the relief was accomplished? that is what i asked. but there is no word. malaish, egypt will welcome him!" she followed his eyes. two score of dahabiehs lay along the banks of the nile, and on the shore were encampments of soldiers, while flags were flying everywhere. egypt had followed the lead of the effendina. claridge pasha's star was in its zenith. as nahoum's boat was rowed away, hylda came on deck again, and the duchess hastened to her. hylda caught the look in her face. "what has happened? is there news? who has been here?" she asked. the duchess took her hands. "nahoum has gone to tell prince kaid. he came to you with the good news first," she said with a flutter. she felt hylda's hands turn cold. a kind of mist filled the dark eyes, and the slim, beautiful figure swayed slightly. an instant only, and then the lips smiled, and hylda said in a quavering voice: "they will be so glad in england." "yes, yes, my darling, that is what nahoum said." she gave nahoum's message to her. "now they'll make him a peer, i suppose, after having deserted him. so english!" she did not understand why hylda's hands trembled so, why so strange a look came into her face, but, in an instant, the rare and appealing eyes shone again with a light of agitated joy, and suddenly hylda leaned over and kissed her cheek. "smell the coffee," she said with assumed gaiety. "doesn't fair-and- sixty want her breakfast? sunrise is a splendid tonic." she laughed feverishly. "my darling, i hadn't seen the sun rise in thirty years, not since the night i first met windlehurst at a foreign office ball." "you have always been great friends?" hylda stole a look at her. "that's the queer part of it; i was so stupid, and he so clever. but windlehurst has a way of letting himself down to your level. he always called me betty after my boy died, just as if i was his equal. la, la, but i was proud when he first called me that--the prime minister of england. i'm going to watch the sun rise again to-morrow, my darling. i didn't know it was so beautiful, and gave one such an appetite." she broke a piece of bread, and, not waiting to butter it, almost stuffed it into her mouth. hylda leaned over and pressed her arm. "what a good mother betty it is!" she said tenderly. presently they were startled by the shrill screaming of a steamer whistle, followed by the churning of the paddles, as she drove past and drew to the bank near them. "it is a steamer from cairo, with letters, no doubt," said hylda; and the duchess nodded assent, and covertly noted her look, for she knew that no letters had arrived from eglington since hylda had left england. a half-hour later, as the duchess sat on deck, a great straw hat tied under her chin with pale-blue ribbons, like a child of twelve, she was startled by seeing the figure of a farmer-looking person with a shock of grey-red hair, a red face, and with great blue eyes, appear before her in the charge of hylda's dragoman. "this has come to speak with my lady," the dragoman said, "but my lady is riding into the desert there." he pointed to the sands. the duchess motioned the dragoman away, and scanned the face of the new- comer shrewdly. where had she seen this strange-looking english peasant, with the rolling walk of a sailor? "what is your name, and where do you come from?" she asked, not without anxiety, for there was something ominous and suggestive in the old man's face. "i come from hamley, in england, and my name is soolsby, your grace. i come to see my lady eglington." now she remembered him. she had seen him in hamley more than once. "you have come far; have you important news for her ladyship? is there anything wrong?" she asked with apparent composure, but with heavy premonition. "ay, news that counts, i bring," answered soolsby, "or i hadn't come this long way. 'tis a long way at sixty-five." "well, yes, at our age it is a long way," rejoined the duchess in a friendly voice, suddenly waving away the intervening air of class, for she was half a peasant at heart. "ay, and we both come for the same end, i suppose," soolsby added; "and a costly business it is. but what matters, so be that you help her ladyship and i help our man." "and who is 'our man'?" was the rejoinder. "him that's coming safe here from the south--david claridge," he answered. "ay, 'twas the first thing i heard when i landed here, me that be come all these thousand miles to see him, if so be he was alive." just then he caught sight of kate heaver climbing the stair to the deck where they were. his face flushed; he hurried forward and gripped her by the arm, as her feet touched the upper deck. "kate-ay, 'tis kate!" he cried. then he let go her arm and caught a hand in both of his and fondled it. "ay, ay, 'tis kate!" "what is it brings you, soolsby?" kate asked anxiously. "'tis not jasper, and 'tis not the drink-ay, i've been sober since, ever since, kate, lass," he answered stoutly. "quick, quick, tell me what it is!" she said, frowning. "you've not come here for naught, soolsby." still holding her hand, he leaned over and whispered in her ear. for an instant she stood as though transfixed, and then, with a curious muffled cry, broke away from him and turned to go below. "keep your mouth shut, lass, till proper time," he called after her, as she descended the steps hastily again. then he came slowly back to the duchess. he looked her in the face--he was so little like a peasant, so much more like a sailor here with his feet on the deck of a floating thing. "your grace is a good friend to her ladyship," he said at last deliberately, "and 'tis well that you tell her ladyship. as good a friend to her you've been, i doubt not, as that i've been to him that's coming from beyond and away." "go on, man, go on. i want to know what startled heaver yonder, what you have come to say." "i beg pardon, your grace. one doesn't keep good news waiting, and 'tis not good news for her ladyship i bring, even if it be for claridge pasha, for there was no love lost 'twixt him and second-best lordship that's gone." "speak, man, speak it out, and no more riddles," she interrupted sharply. "then, he that was my lord eglington is gone foreign--he is dead," he said slowly. the duchess fell back in her chair. for an instant the desert, the temples, the palms, the nile waters faded, and she was in some middle world, in which soolsby's voice seemed coming muffled and deep across a dark flood; then she recovered herself, and gave a little cry, not unlike that which kate gave a few moments before, partly of pain, partly of relief. "ay, he's dead and buried, too, and in the quaker churchyard. miss claridge would have it so. and none in hamley said nay, not one." the duchess murmured to herself. eglington was dead--eglington was dead --eglington was dead! and david claridge was coming out of the desert, was coming to-day-now! "how did it happen?" she asked, faintly, at last. "things went wrong wi' him--bad wrong in parliament and everywhere, and he didn't take it well. he stood the world off like-ay, he had no temper for black days. he shut himself up at hamley in his chemical place, like his father, like his father before him. when the week-end came, there he was all day and night among his bottles and jars and wires. he was after summat big in experiment for explosives, so the papers said, and so he said himself before he died, to miss claridge--ay, 'twas her he deceived and treated cruel, that come to him when he was shattered by his experimenting. no patience, he had at last--and reckless in his chemical place, and didn't realise what his hands was doing. 'twas so he told her, that forgave him all his deceit, and held him in her arms when he died. not many words he had to speak; but he did say that he had never done any good to any one--ay, i was standing near behind his bed and heard all, for i was thinking of her alone with him, and so i would be with her, and she would have it so. ay, and he said that he had misused cruel her that had loved him, her ladyship, that's here. he said he had misused her because he had never loved her truly, only pride and vainglory being in his heart. then he spoke summat to her that was there to forgive him and help him over the stile 'twixt this field and it that's beyond and away, which made her cry out in pain and say that he must fix his thoughts on other things. and she prayed out loud for him, for he would have no parson there. she prayed and prayed as never priest or parson prayed, and at last he got quiet and still, and, when she stopped praying, he did not speak or open his eyes for a longish while. but when the old clock on the stable was striking twelve, he opened his eyes wide, and when it had stopped, he said: 'it is always twelve by the clock that stops at noon. i've done no good. i've earned my end.' he looked as though he was waiting for the clock to go on striking, half raising himself up in bed, with miss faith's arm under his head. he whispered to her then--he couldn't speak by this time. 'it's twelve o'clock,' he said. then there came some words i've heard the priest say at mass, 'vanitas, vanitatum,'--that was what he said. and her he'd lied to, there with him, laying his head down on the pillow, as if he was her child going to sleep. so, too, she had him buried by her father, in the quaker burying-ground--ay, she is a saint on earth, i warrant." for a moment after he had stopped the duchess did not speak, but kept untying and tying the blue ribbons under her chin, her faded eyes still fastened on him, burning with the flame of an emotion which made them dark and young again. "so, it's all over," she said, as though to herself. "they were all alike, from old broadbrim, the grandfather, down to this one, and back to william the conqueror." "like as peas in a pod," exclaimed soolsby--"all but one, all but one, and never satisfied with what was in their own garden, but peeking, peeking beyond the hedge, and climbing and getting a fall. that's what they've always been evermore." his words aroused the duchess, and the air became a little colder about her-after all, the division between the classes and the masses must be kept, and the eglingtons were no upstarts. "you will say nothing about this till i give you leave to speak," she commanded. "i must tell her ladyship." soolsby drew himself up a little, nettled at her tone. "it is your grace's place to tell her ladyship," he responded; "but i've taken ten years' savings to come to egypt, and not to do any one harm, but good, if so be i might." the duchess relented at once. she got to her feet as quickly as she could, and held out her hand to him. "you are a good man, and a friend worth having, i know, and i shall like you to be my friend, mr. soolsby," she said impulsively. he took her hand and shook it awkwardly, his lips working. "your grace, i understand. i've got naught to live for except my friends. money's naught, naught's naught, if there isn't a friend to feel a crunch at his heart when summat bad happens to you. i'd take my affydavy that there's no better friend in the world than your grace." she smiled at him. "and so we are friends, aren't we? and i am to tell her ladyship, and you are to say 'naught.' "but to the egyptian, to him, your grace, it is my place to speak--to claridge pasha, when he comes." the duchess looked at him quizzically. "how does lord eglington's death concern claridge pasha?" she asked rather anxiously. had there been gossip about hylda? had the public got a hint of the true story of her flight, in spite of all windlehurst had done? was hylda's name smirched, now, when all would be set right? had everything come too late, as it were? "there's two ways that his lordship's death concerns claridge pasha," answered soolsby shrewdly, for though he guessed the truth concerning hylda and david, his was not a leaking tongue. "there's two ways it touches him. there'll be a new man in the foreign office--lord eglington was always against claridge pasha; and there's matters of land betwixt the two estates--matters of land that's got to be settled now," he continued, with determined and successful evasion. the duchess was deceived. "but you will not tell claridge pasha until i have told her ladyship and i give you leave? promise that," she urged. "i will not tell him until then," he answered. "look, look, your grace," he added, suddenly pointing towards the southern horizon, "there he comes! ay, 'tis our man, i doubt not--our man evermore!" miles away there appeared on the horizon a dozen camels being ridden towards assouan. "our man evermore," repeated the duchess, with a trembling smile. "yes, it is surely he. see, the soldiers are moving. they're going to ride out to meet him." she made a gesture towards the far shore where kaid's men were saddling their horses, and to nahoum's and kaid's dahabiehs, where there was a great stir. "there's one from hamley will meet them first," soolsby said, and pointed to where hylda, in the desert, was riding towards the camels coming out of the south. the duchess threw up her hands. "dear me, dear me," she said in distress, "if she only knew!" "there's thousands of women that'd ride out mad to meet him," said soolsby carefully; "women that likes to see an englishman that's done his duty--ay, women and men, that'd ride hard to welcome him back from the grave. her ladyship's as good a patriot as any," he added, watching the duchess out of the corners of his eyes, his face turned to the desert. the duchess looked at him quizzically, and was satisfied with her scrutiny. "you're a man of sense," she replied brusquely, and gathered up her skirts. "find me a horse or a donkey, and i'll go too," she added whimsically. "patriotism is such a nice sentiment." for david and lacey the morning had broken upon a new earth. whatever of toil and tribulation the future held in store, this day marked a step forward in the work to which david had set his life. a way had been cloven through the bloody palisades of barbarism, and though the dark races might seek to hold back the forces which drain the fens, and build the bridges, and make the desert blossom as the rose, which give liberty and preserve life, the good end was sure and near, whatever of rebellion and disorder and treachery intervened. this was the larger, graver issue; but they felt a spring in the blood, and their hearts were leaping, because of the thought that soon they would clasp hands again with all from which they had been exiled. "say, saadat, think of it: a bed with four feet, and linen sheets, and sleeping till any time in the morning, and, if you please, sir, breakfast's on the table.' say, it's great, and we're in it!" david smiled. "thee did very well, friend, without such luxuries. thee is not skin and bone." lacey mopped his forehead. "well, i've put on a layer or two since the relief. it's being scared that takes the flesh off me. i never was intended for the 'stricken field.' poetry and the hearth-stone was my real vocation--and a bit of silver mining to blow off steam with," he added with a chuckle. david laughed and tapped his arm. "that is an old story now, thy cowardice. thee should be more original. "it's worth not being original, saadat, to hear you thee and thou me as you used to do. it's like old times--the oldest, first times. you've changed a lot, saadat." "not in anything that matters, i hope." "not in anything that matters to any one that matters. to me it's the same as it ever was, only more so. it isn't that, for you are you. but you've had disappointment, trouble, hard nuts to crack, and all you could do to escape the rocks being rolled down the egyptian hill onto you; and it's left its mark." "am i grown so different?" lacey's face shone under the look that was turned towards him. "say, saadat, you're the same old red sandstone; but i missed the thee and thou. i sort of hankered after it; it gets me where i'm at home with myself." david laughed drily. "well, perhaps i've missed something in you. thee never says now--not since thee went south a year ago, 'well, give my love to the girls.' something has left its mark, friend," he added teasingly; for his spirits were boyish to-day; he was living in the present. there had gone from his eyes and from the lines of his figure the melancholy which hylda had remarked when he was in england. "well, now, i never noticed," rejoined lacey. "that's got me. looks as if i wasn't as friendly as i used to be, doesn't it? but i am--i am, saadat." "i thought that the widow in cairo, perhaps--" lacey chuckled. "say, perhaps it was--cute as she can be, maybe, wouldn't like it, might be prejudiced." suddenly david turned sharply to lacey. "thee spoke of silver mining just now. i owe thee something like two hundred thousand pounds, i think--egypt and i." lacey winked whimsically at himself under the rim of his helmet. "are you drawing back from those concessions, saadat?" he asked with apparent ruefulness. "drawing back? no! but does thee think they are worth--" lacey assumed an injured air. "if a man that's made as much money as me can't be trusted to look after a business proposition--" "oh, well, then!" "say, saadat, i don't want you to think i've taken a mean advantage of you; and if--" david hastened to put the matter right. "no, no; thee must be the judge!" he smiled sceptically. "in any case, thee has done a good deed in a great way, and it will do thee no harm in the end. in one way the investment will pay a long interest, as long as the history of egypt runs. ah, see, the houses of assouan, the palms, the river, the masts of the dahabiehs!" lacey quickened his camel's steps, and stretched out a hand to the inviting distance. "'my, it's great," he said, and his eyes were blinking with tears. presently he pointed. "there's a woman riding to meet us, saa dat. golly, can't she ride! she means to be in it--to salute the returning brave." he did not glance at david. if he had done so, he would have seen that david's face had taken on a strange look, just such a look as it wore that night in the monastery when he saw hylda in a vision and heard her say: "speak, speak to me!" there had shot into david's mind the conviction that the woman riding towards them was hylda. hylda, the first to welcome him back, hylda-- lady eglington! suddenly his face appeared to tighten and grow thin. it was all joy and torture at once. he had fought this fight out with himself--had he not done so? had he not closed his heart to all but duty and egypt? yet there she was riding out of the old life, out of hamley, and england, and all that had happened in cairo, to meet him. nearer and nearer she came. he could not see the face, but yet he knew. he quickened his camel and drew ahead of lacey. lacey did not understand, he did not recognise hylda as yet; but he knew by instinct the saadat's wishes, and he motioned the others to ride more slowly, while he and they watched horsemen coming out from assouan towards them. david urged his camel on. presently he could distinguish the features of the woman riding towards him. it was hylda. his presentiment, his instinct had been right. his heart beat tumultuously, his hand trembled, he grew suddenly weak; but he summoned up his will, and ruled himself to something like composure. this, then, was his home-coming from the far miseries and trials and battle-fields--to see her face before all others, to hear her voice first. what miracle had brought this thing to pass, this beautiful, bitter, forbidden thing? forbidden! whatever the cause of her coming, she must not see what he felt for her. he must deal fairly by her and by eglington; he must be true to that real self which had emerged from the fiery trial in the monastery. bronzed as he was, his face showed no paleness; but, as he drew near her, it grew pinched and wan from the effort at self-control. he set his lips and rode on, until he could see her eyes looking into his--eyes full of that which he had never seen in any eyes in all the world. what had been her feelings during that ride in the desert? she had not meant to go out to meet him. after she heard that he was coming, her desire was to get away from all the rest of the world, and be alone with her thoughts. he was coming, he was safe, and her work was done. what she had set out to do was accomplished--to bring him back, if it was god's will, out of the jaws of death, for england's sake, for the world's sake, for his sake, for her own sake. for her own sake? yes, yes, in spite of all, for her own sake. whatever lay before, now, for this one hour, for this moment of meeting he should be hers. but meet him, where? before all the world, with a smile of conventional welcome on her lips, with the same hand-clasp that any friend and lover of humanity would give him? the desert air blew on her face, keen, sweet, vibrant, thrilling. what he had heard that night at the monastery, the humming life of the land of white fire--the desert, the million looms of all the weavers of the world weaving, this she heard in the sunlight, with the sand rising like surf behind her horse's heels. the misery and the tyranny and the unrequited love were all behind her, the disillusion and the loss and the undeserved insult to her womanhood--all, all were sunk away into the unredeemable past. here, in egypt, where she had first felt the stir of life's passion and pain and penalty, here, now, she lost herself in a beautiful, buoyant dream. she was riding out to meet the one man of all men, hero, crusader, rescuer--ah, that dreadful night in the palace, and foorgat's face! but he was coming, who had made her live, to whom she had called, to whom her soul had spoken in its grief and misery. had she ever done aught to shame the best that was in herself--and had she not been sorely tempted? had she not striven to love eglington even when the worst was come, not alone at her own soul's command, but because she knew that this man would have it so? broken by her own sorrow, she had left england, eglington--all, to keep her pledge to help him in his hour of need, to try and save him to the world, if that might be. so she had come to nahoum, who was binding him down on the bed of torture and of death. and yet, alas! not herself had conquered nahoum, but david, as nahoum had said. she herself had not done this one thing which would have compensated for all that she had suffered. this had not been permitted; but it remained that she had come here to do it, and perhaps he would understand when he saw her. yes, she knew he would understand! she flung up her head to the sun and the pulse-stirring air, and, as she did so, she saw his cavalcade approaching. she was sure it was he, even when he was far off, by the same sure instinct that convinced him. for an instant she hesitated. she would turn back, and meet him with the crowd. then she looked around. the desert was deserted by all save herself and himself and those who were with him. no. her mind was made up. she would ride forward. she would be the first to welcome him back to life and the world. he and she would meet alone in the desert. for one minute they would be alone, they two, with the world afar, they two, to meet, to greet--and to part. out of all that fate had to give of sorrow and loss, this one delectable moment, no matter what came after. "david!" she cried with beating heart, and rode on, harder and harder. now she saw him ride ahead of the others. ah, he knew that it was she, though he could not see her face! nearer and nearer. now they looked into each other's eyes. she saw him stop his camel and make it kneel for the dismounting. she stopped her horse also, and slid to the ground, and stood waiting, one hand upon the horse's neck. he hastened forward, then stood still, a few feet away, his eyes on hers, his helmet off, his brown hair, brown as when she first saw it--peril and hardship had not thinned or greyed it. for a moment they stood so, for a moment of revealing and understanding, but speechless; and then, suddenly, and with a smile infinitely touching, she said, as he had heard her say in the monastery--the very words: "speak--speak to me!" he took her hand in his. "there is no need--i have said all," he answered, happiness and trouble at once in his eyes. then his face grew calmer. "thee has made it worth while living on," he added. she was gaining control of herself also. "i said that i would come when i was needed," she answered less, tremblingly. "thee came alone?" he asked gently. "from assouan, yes," she said in a voice still unsteady. "i was riding out to be by myself, and then i saw you coming, and i rode on. i thought i should like to be the first to say: 'well done,' and 'god bless you!'" he drew in a long breath, then looked at her keenly. "lord eglington is in egypt also?" he asked. her face did not change. she looked him in the eyes. "no, eglington would not come to help you. i came to nahoum, as i said i would." "thee has a good memory," he rejoined simply. "i am a good friend," she answered, then suddenly her face flushed up, her breast panted, her eyes shone with a brightness almost intolerable to him, and he said in a low, shaking voice: "it is all fighting, all fighting. we have done our best; and thee has made all possible." "david!" she said in a voice scarce above a whisper. "thee and me have far to go," he said in a voice not louder than her own, "but our ways may not be the same." she understood, and a newer life leaped up in her. she knew that he loved her--that was sufficient; the rest would be easier now. sacrifice, all, would be easier. to part, yes, and for evermore; but to know that she had been truly loved--who could rob her of that? "see," she said lightly, "your people are waiting--and there, why, there is my cousin lacey. tom, oh, cousin tom!" she called eagerly. lacey rode down on them. "i swan, but i'm glad," he said, as he dropped from his horse. "cousin hylda, i'm blest if i don't feel as if i could sing like aunt melissa." "you may kiss me, cousin tom," she said, as she took his hands in hers. he flushed, was embarrassed, then snatched a kiss from her cheek. "say, i'm in it, ain't i? and you were in it first, eh, cousin hylda? the rest are nowhere--there they come from assouan, kaid, nahoum, and the nubians. look at 'em glisten!" a hundred of kaid's nubians in their glittering armour made three sides of a quickly moving square, in the centre of which, and a little ahead, rode kaid and nahoum, while behind the square-in parade and gala dress- trooped hundreds of soldiers and egyptians and natives. swiftly the two cavalcades approached each other, the desert ringing with the cries of the bedouins, the nubians, and the fellaheen. they met on an upland of sand, from which the wide valley of the nile and its wild cataracts could be seen. as men meet who parted yesterday, kaid, nahoum, and david met, but kaid's first quiet words to david had behind them a world of meaning: "i also have come back, saadat, to whom be the bread that never moulds and the water that never stales!" he said, with a look in his face which had not been there for many a day. superstition had set its mark on him --on claridge pasha's safety depended his own, that was his belief; and the look of this thin, bronzed face, with its living fire, gave him vital assurance of length of days. and david answered: "may thy life be the nursling of time, effendina. i bring the tribute of the rebel lions once more to thy hand. what was thine, and was lost, is thine once more. peace and salaam!" between nahoum and david there were no words at first at all. they shook hands like englishmen, looking into each other's eyes, and with pride of what nahoum, once, in his duplicity, had called "perfect friendship." lacey thought of this now as he looked on; and not without a sense of irony, he said under his breath, "almost thou persuadest me to be a christian!" but in hylda's look, as it met nahoum's, there was no doubt--what woman doubts the convert whom she thinks she has helped to make? meanwhile, the nubians smote their mailed breasts with their swords in honour of david and kaid. under the gleaming moon, the exquisite temple of philae perched on its high rock above the river, the fires on the shore, the masts of the dahabiehs twinkling with lights, and the barbarous songs floating across the water, gave the feeling of past centuries to the scene. from the splendid boat which kaid had placed at his disposal david looked out upon it all, with emotions not yet wholly mastered by the true estimate of what this day had brought to him. with a mind unsettled he listened to the natives in the forepart of the boat and on the shore, beating the darabukkeh and playing the kemengeh. yet it was moving in a mist and on a flood of greater happiness than he had ever known. he did not know as yet that eglington was gone for ever. he did not know that the winds of time had already swept away all traces of the house of ambition which eglington had sought to build; and that his nimble tongue and untrustworthy mind would never more delude and charm, and wanton with truth. he did not know, but within the past hour hylda knew; and now out of the night soolsby came to tell him. he was roused from his reverie by soolsby's voice saying: "hast nowt to say to me, egyptian?" it startled him, sounded ghostly in the moonlight; for why should he hear soolsby's voice on the confines of egypt? but soolsby came nearer, and stood where the moonlight fell upon him, hat in hand, a rustic modern figure in this oriental world. david sprang to his feet and grasped the old man by the shoulders. "soolsby, soolsby," he said, with a strange plaintive-note in his voice, yet gladly, too. "soolsby, thee is come here to welcome me! but has she not come--miss claridge, soolsby?" he longed for that true heart which had never failed him, the simple soul whose life had been filled by thought and care of him, and whose every act had for its background the love of sister for brother--for that was their relation in every usual meaning--who, too frail and broken to come to him now, waited for him by the old hearthstone. and so soolsby, in his own way, made him understand; for who knew them both better than this old man, who had shared in david's destiny since the fatal day when lord eglington had married mercy claridge in secret, had set in motion a long line of tragic happenings? "ay, she would have come, she would have come," soolsby answered, "but she was not fit for the journey, and there was little time, my lord." "why did thee come, soolsby? only to welcome me back?" "i come to bring you back to england, to your duty there, my lord." the first time soolsby had used the words "my lord," david had scarcely noticed it, but its repetition struck him strangely. "here, sometimes they call me pasha and saadat, but i am not 'my lord,'" he said. "ay, but you are my lord, egyptian, as sure as i've kept my word to you that i'd drink no more, ay, on my sacred honour. so you are my lord; you are lord eglington, my lord." david stood rigid and almost unblinking as soolsby told his tale, beginning with the story of eglington's death, and going back all the years to the day of mercy claridge's marriage. "and him that never was lord eglington, your own father's son, is dead and gone, my lord; and you are come into your rights at last." this was the end of the tale. for a long time david stood looking into the sparkling night before him, speechless and unmoving, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent forward, as though in a dream. how, all in an instant, had life changed for him! how had soolsby's tale of eglington's death filled him with a pity deeper than he had ever felt- the futile, bitter, unaccomplished life, the audacious, brilliant genius quenched, a genius got from the same source as his own resistless energy and imagination, from the same wild spring. gone--all gone, with only pity to cover him, unloved, unloving, unbemoaned, save by the quaker girl whose true spirit he had hurt, save by the wife whom he had cruelly wronged and tortured; and pity was the thing that moved them both, unfathomable and almost maternal, in that sense of motherhood which, in spite of love or passion, is behind both, behind all, in every true woman's life. at last david spoke. "who knows of all this--of who i am, soolsby?" "lady eglington and myself, my lord." "only she and you?" "only us two, egyptian." "then let it be so--for ever." soolsby was startled, dumfounded. "but you will take your title and estates, my lord; you will take the place which is your own." "and prove my grandfather wrong? had he not enough sorrow? and change my life, all to please thee, soolsby?" he took the old man's shoulders in his hands again. "thee has done thy duty as few in this world, soolsby, and given friendship such as few give. but thee must be content. i am david claridge, and so shall remain ever." "then, since he has no male kin, the title dies, and all that's his will go to her ladyship," soolsby rejoined sourly. "does thee grudge her ladyship what was his?" "i grudge her what is yours, my lord--" suddenly soolsby paused, as though a new thought had come to him, and he nodded to himself in satisfaction. "well, since you will have it so, it will be so, egyptian; but it is a queer fuddle, all of it; and where's the way out, tell me that, my lord?" david spoke impatiently. "call me 'my lord' no more. . . . but i will go back to england to her that's waiting at the red mansion, and you will remember, soolsby--" slowly the great flotilla of dahabiehs floated with the strong current down towards cairo, the great sails swelling to the breeze that blew from the libyan hills. along the bank of the nile thousands of arabs and fellaheen crowded to welcome "the saadat," bringing gifts of dates and eggs and fowls and dourha and sweetmeats, and linen cloth; and even in the darkness and in the trouble that was on her, and the harrowing regret that she had not been with eglington in his last hour--she little knew what eglington had said to faith in that last hour--hylda's heart was soothed by the long, loud tribute paid to david. as she sat in the evening light, david and lacey came, and were received by the duchess of snowdon, who could only say to david, as she held his hand, "windlehurst sent his regards to you, his loving regards. he was sure you would come home--come home. he wished he were in power for your sake." so, for a few moments she talked vaguely, and said at last: "but lady eglington, she will be glad to see you, such old friends as you are, though not so old as windlehurst and me--thirty years, over thirty la, la!" they turned to go to hylda, and came face to face with kate heaver. kate looked at david as one would look who saw a lost friend return from the dead. his eyes lighted, he held out his hand to her. "it is good to see thee here," he said gently. "and 'tis the cross-roads once again, sir," she rejoined. "thee means thee will marry jasper?" "ay, i will marry jasper now," she answered. "it has been a long waiting." "it could not be till now," she responded. david looked at her reflectively, and said: "by devious ways the human heart comes home. one can only stand in the door and wait. he has been patient." "i have been patient, too," she answered. as the duchess disappeared with david, a swift change came over lacey. he spun round on one toe, and, like a boy of ten, careered around the deck to the tune of a negro song. "say, things are all right in there with them two, and it's my turn now," he said. "cute as she can be, and knows the game! twice a widow, and knows the game! waiting, she is down in cairo, where the orange blossom blows. i'm in it; we're all in it--every one of us. cousin hylda's free now, and i've got no past worth speaking of; and, anyhow, she'll understand, down there in cairo. cute as she can be--" suddenly he swung himself down to the deck below. "the desert's the place for me to-night," he said. stepping ashore, he turned to where the duchess stood on the deck, gazing out into the night. "well, give my love to the girls," he called, waving a hand upwards, as it were to the wide world, and disappeared into the alluring whiteness. "i've got to get a key-thought," he muttered to himself, as he walked swiftly on, till only faint sounds came to him from the riverside. in the letter he had written to hylda, which was the turning-point of all for her, he had spoken of these "key-thoughts." with all the childishness he showed at times, he had wisely felt his way into spheres where life had depth and meaning. the desert had justified him to himself and before the spirits of departed peoples, who wandered over the sands, until at last they became sand also, and were blown hither and thither, to make beds for thousands of desert wayfarers, or paths for camels' feet, or a blinding storm to overwhelm the traveller and the caravan; life giving and taking, and absorbing and destroying, and destroying and absorbing, till the circle of human existence wheel to the full, and the task of time be accomplished. on the gorse-grown common above hamley, david and faith, and david's mother mercy, had felt the same soul of things stirring--in the green things of green england, in the arid wastes of the libyan desert, on the bosom of the nile, where mahommed hassan now lay in a nugger singing a song of passion, nature, with burning voice, murmuring down the unquiet world its message of the final peace through the innumerable years. glossary aiwa----yes. allah hu achbar----god is most great. al'mah----female professional singers, signifying "a learned female." ardab----a measure equivalent to five english bushels. backsheesh----tip, douceur. balass----earthen vessel for carrying water. bdsha----pasha. bersim----clover. bismillah----in the name of god. bowdb----a doorkeeper. dahabieh----a nile houseboat with large lateen sails. darabukkeh----a drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. dourha----maize. effendina----most noble. el azhar----the arab university at cairo. fedddn----a measure of land representing about an acre. fellah----the egyptian peasant. ghiassa----small boat. hakim----doctor. hasheesh----leaves of hemp. inshallah----god willing. kdnoon----a musical instrument like a dulcimer. kavass----an orderly. kemengeh----a cocoanut fiddle. khamsin----a hot wind of egypt and the soudan. kourbash----a whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. la ilaha illa-llah----there is no deity but god. malaish----no matter. malboos----demented. mastaba----a bench. medjidie----a turkish order. mooshrabieh----lattice window. moufettish----high steward. mudir----the governor of a mudirieh, or province. muezzin----the sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. narghileh----a persian pipe. nebool----a quarter-staff. ramadan----the mahommedan season of fasting. saadat-el-bdsha----excellency pasha. sdis----groom. sakkia----the persian water-wheel. salaam----eastern salutation. sheikh-el-beled----head of a village. tarboosh----a turkish turban. ulema----learned men. wakf----mahommedan court dealing with succession, etc. welee----a holy man or saint. yashmak----a veil for the lower part of the face. yelek----a long vest or smock. the arm chair. "your fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live forever?" second edition. philadelphia-- . memorandum. the history of these rhymes is briefly this.--an arm chair, made many years ago by john letchworth, for leonard and jane snowdon, was presented to the author, with some information of the worthies who were wont to visit the estimable owners; accompanied with an intimation that it would be a suitable theme for some verses. the result follows. the arm chair. =cowper=, the poet of the christian muse, sung of the sofa; could i but infuse some of his talent in my laggard quill, some of his genius on my verse distil, then would i sing,--my theme too from the fair,-- of thy coevals, rhyme-creating chair! he who with artist's skill scooped out thy seat, trim made thy elbows, uprights, and thy feet, now fourscore years and four has measured o'er, and waits his summons to the heavenly shore. honest as sunshine, he "who runs may read," that =letchworth= is "an israelite indeed;" no guile within him ever finds a place, love of the father spreads to all the race. his gospel ministry is void of show, for "few and savory" are the words that flow: condensed and pithy are his periods found, rich in their matter, nothing for mere sound. so preaches he. ah, what a sad mistake, when empty sounds upon the people break, when a stentorian voice in efforts vain, roars to the people,--thunder without rain! its booming echoes may the soul appal, but no reviving showers on nature fall. --would that my age,--if age to me be given,-- might prove like his, who calmly looks to heaven, waiting with patience for the mandate blessed, "thy labour finished, enter into rest!" "here," said the patriarch, no more doomed to range, "quiet i lie, waiting my final change." go when thou wilt, thy faithful life will prove, a rich example, legacy of love! ah, my arm chair, supporter of the good, beneath how many a worthy hast thou stood! bear me awhile, assist me to portray, some of the faithful who have passed away. here =harrison=[ ] has spoke of what she saw in visions deep, when filled with holy awe, the curtain of the future half withdrew, while coming objects glided into view; or as the past on memory's tablet rose, rehearsed her gospel joys, her gospel woes. told how king george, as gushed the hidden springs, bowed at her message from the king of kings; of deep probations for her lord she past; of her fond hope of joining him at last. told how her soul, in sympathy, had long borne a deep burthen for the negro's wrong, 'till the church freed her at her master's will, in southern states love's purpose to fulfil. with gospel power for truth and right she spoke, 'till slumbering consciences to feeling woke, oppressors' hearts with justice learned to beat, while bondmen's shackles fell beneath their feet. her's was a righteous mission; to the door of selfish masters she her message bore; she shot no fiery missiles from afar, kindling those feelings that engender war, but face to face truth's message would impart, whilst love-tipped arrows entered many a heart; thus won she freedom for the sore oppressed; her work was honoured and her labour blessed. --or as the present did her thoughts engage, gave to her juniors dear-bought counsel sage. bade her loved niece preserve in vessel pure, her sacred gift, and make her calling sure; bade her true partner as an aaron be, uphold her hands, support her ministry. full well dear =leonard= thou that charge redeemed; when through her heart the gospel current streamed, in secret labour was thy spirit found, while trembling forth she sent the gospel sound; a very quaker,--as she gave the law her outward motion spoke her inward awe. here =scattergood=, when evening came at length, from the day's toil reposed his weary strength; from christian sympathy that solace drew, which those can grant who heavenly joys pursue. mournful of spirit, he was ever found, in sympathy with souls by sorrow bound. as fell his plaintive voice upon the ear, the poor in spirit felt a friend was near. prompt in his duty at the house of prayer, to plead with fervour for his master there, while crowds hung trembling on that zealous tongue, which only woke as living waters sprung. he never preached himself,--his every word directed to a slain and risen lord. he to the weary consolation brought, he for the burthened sweet deliverance wrought; though bound himself, the fettered oft set free,-- the jeremiah of his age was he! =savery= has here oft passed a friendly hour, feeling of sympathy the magic power, as heart to heart the secret influence sent,-- as prayer ascended where no knee was bent,-- as for each other's welfare sighs were given,-- unclothed with words, their wishes entering heaven. the indians' friend, he sought their native wood, an anxious labourer for the redman's good; beside the lake, beneath the spreading tree, his gospel message flowed as truth set free. here too has sat,--like him of stature small, great too of heart,--a minister like paul,-- one who, obedient to his master's will, was studious found his duty to fulfil. six times went =emlen=[ ] o'er the atlantic wave, on gospel errands sinful man to save, and still returning from his work of love, came with his olive-branch and peaceful dove. though years rolled on and outward sight grew dim, the lamp of truth still brightly burned with him, showing distinctly in its searching light, deeds that the actors deemed were hid in night. his urim and his thummim was with god, and he obedient to his master's nod. as secret feeling told him of distress, the sufferer's door-sill soon his foot would press. thus mercy led,--and pleasantly he said, that he "by jobbing earned his daily bread." ah, these were luscious morsels, ate with joy, a heavenly relish free from all alloy; some of that bread of which the righteous eat, that others know not of,--sustaining meat. here too =rebecca jones= sweet converse sought. with friends in unison of faith and thought; with both of whom in gospel yoke she knew to labour as her lord and master drew. honest of purpose,--ardent in reproof to those who stood from duty's path aloof,-- in public gatherings or in private hall, to warn the giddy of impending fall,-- rebuke the forward,--lead the fearful where a mighty rock did israel's lord prepare,-- instant in duty,--though severe, yet kind, she showed the vigour of a heaven-led mind. of ardent temper, quick and flashing zeal, keen as high polished but too brittle steel, in earlier life =james cresson= had been found, like a high steed when first in harness bound; but grace had tempered, and obedience wrought, a change of character in word and thought, his ardent feelings felt love's holy calm, fitting a follower of the lowly lamb. a pointing finger to none other shown, a secret whisper to none other known, bade =arthur howell= hasten on his way, where a secluded country grave-yard lay. a few sad mourners stood beside a grave, where "dust to dust" a solemn language gave. soon from his lips burst forth the ardent strain-- "i know not who this coffin may contain, "but my good master, in whose power i came, "now bids me clear from wrong an injured name. "she who now rests within this narrow bed, "by slander wounded bowed her sorrowing head; "accused of that, in which she had no part, "she died in innocence--a broken heart!" --as from a stranger came these words, a thrill of secret, wondering joy, the mourners fill; for she who died, told, as approached her end, that god a witness to her grave would send, who to her innocence should boldly bear, a clear, convincing testimony there. and he whose ways are wrapt in mystery still, blindfold his servant led to do his will! --oft to the grave this servant of the lord, was sent to preach the everlasting word; to rouse the thoughtless from delusion's dream, memento mori was his frequent theme. when pestilence her raven wing outspread, when terror swept the living from the dead,-- when love's own ties were severed in affright, and duty's call had lost its wonted might,-- =offley= and others, a devoted band, before the march of terror took their stand. they nobly dared in that dark hour to make themselves an offering for the people's sake. he was accepted! great the church's loss, she mourned a faithful champion of the cross, gathered at mid-day--soon the race was won,-- long e'er the evening shades his labour done! --two of the worthies linger of that day-- =letchworth= and =wistar=--hastening fast away. shrewd, witty, eloquent,--with ample store of all that schools could give of classic lore, sarcastic powers opposing views to chill, when such the purpose of his subtle will,-- a learned lawyer, =nicholas waln= could sway, a jury's feelings in his youthful day; but soon, like paul, when the unseen one spoke, humble he bowed and bore the christian yoke; gamaliel's lessons ceasing to repeat, he lay a learner at the saviour's feet. simple of heart, and of a feeble frame, feeling unworthy even christ to name, yet raised by him of living hopes to tell, and show his power,--himself a miracle,-- =james simpson=, like his lord, from things around, fit subjects for important lessons found; a cloud o'erspreading, or a bird on wing, would to the theme in hand instruction bring. filled by his master wonderously he shone, his emptied vessel scarce could stand alone! slow as a traveller wends o'er miry ways, whose prudent care his onward course delays, so =richard jordan= preached; at first each word came slowly forth, nor life nor feeling stirred; but soon, the channel cleared, the rippling flow, in freer volume swifter currents show; bolder and higher then it gathers force, a mountain torrent rushing down its course; so =jordan= ministered in life's mid-day, a boanerges thundering on his way! =bacons= and =wilsons=,[ ] worthies not a few, touched by love's magnet, hither often drew; =smith=, with his venerable locks of snow, sedately cautious the right path to know; devoted ministers, alas! no more, and worthy elders who the ark once bore. --when these were gone,--their bodies to the sod, their spirits taken to their fixed abode, a cloud around our israel's camp arose, while from our firesides started up our foes; when a bold infidel his poison spread, and with his scorpions hungry children fed;-- another race, part of the by-gone age, yet of the present, then employed the stage. when boding mists had gathering force and form, =ruth richardson= was taken from the storm. true to her master she was free to die, yet nature shrank from the last agony: gladly would she have left this scene of pain, the promised kingdom of her lord to gain, but awful feelings shadowed forth the strife, the dread concomitant of parting life. gently her spirit from its house of clay, was sent on wings of mercy on its way. when came the pale-faced messenger to free, her eyes were holden that she did not see. no pain--no sorrow--e'en her evening prayer, joined with her morning hymn of glory there. she felt no agony of parting breath, taken in kindness without tasting death! melodious singer of heart-thrilling songs, of zion's injuries and israel's wrongs, whose lonely harp still on the willow hung, till fresh-felt mercies every chord restrung; then touched to praise its tones in sweetness broke, that in each heart responsive feelings woke! --oh, i behold thee, as i last beheld, when gospel love thy grateful bosom swelled,-- when weeping listeners heard the tale of woe, of mental conflicts it was thine to know,-- when as a flood the enemy came in, sweeping away the barriers against sin,-- when from a pit of horror burst thy moan, illumined by no brightness from the throne,-- when sombre shadows compassed thee around,-- when satan's legions pierced with many a wound,-- when the rank weeds were wrapp'd about thy head,-- when boisterous billows over thee were spread,-- then he who died and triumphed o'er the grave, arose in might thy struggling soul to save; bade the waves sunder and temptations fly, the scattering clouds haste from the brightening sky, the sun of righteousness with cheering ray, shed the full radiance of perfected day. --then from thy lips poured forth a joyful song to thy redeemer!--yea, it poured along in most melodious energy of praise, to god, the saviour, he of ancient days, the heart and language rising with the theme, till praise gushed forth one living, glowing stream! then from thy lips the thrilling language fell, "glory to him who raised my soul from hell!" --baptized in tears was many a cheek that day, as =sarah cresson= told her checquered way. 't was her last gospel labour here of love,-- mercy soon gathered her to praise above. of polished manners and of graceful mien, lovely in life, was =mary morton= seen; each native talent sanctified by grace, was kept, obedient, in its proper place. not quick to offer, cautious still to try, as gideon did his fleece, both wet and dry. like leaven working where no eye could view, her spirit wrestled for the heavenly dew; she dug for water in a weary soil, till bubbling life-springs recompensed her toil. --as gently passed the fleeting breath away, retortive memory brought her youthful day, and one fond look back on the past she flung, while "oh, my mother!" trembled on her tongue; then the freed spirit passed--and beauteous lay the rifled casket, lovely in decay! widows and orphans ye may mourn indeed! who now shall clothe you, who the hungry feed? yes! show your garments, tattered ones, and say, these =sansom= gave us in a wintry day. from the bleak storm she clothed the shivering frame, when sickness pressed with healing cordials came; when age went tottering with no hand to save, she gave the crutch supporting to the grave! no cold philosophy was her's, to dream of benthem's theory or malthus's scheme, as the heart prompted, the concurring hand obeyed, instinctively, each kind command. when streams of suffering ran beside her door, the bitter waters lost their nauseous power; the prophet's salt she in the current threw, and soft and sweet the changing waters grew. careful her master's bounty to bestow, a faithful stewardship of gifts to show, that she might hear that language at the close, "to me ye did it, as ye did to those!" a pillar of the church, erect and strong, swayed by no friendship to the church's wrong; unwarped, unmoved, sound to the very core, and rendered firmer by the weight he bore; an honest watchman the alarm to sound, when foes were sowing tares within our ground,-- or rootless plants luxuriously would shoot in spreading branches, and produce no fruit,-- was =evans=. oft the archers' bows were bent, to turn the veteran from his firm intent; their malice moved not, and their threats were vain, fixed at his post determined to remain: and when at last the final goal was won, death's message found him with his armour on; no oilless lamp to trim, no loins to gird, ready to enter at the bridegroom's word, where his loved =hannah=, earlier called away, was his forerunner to the realms of day. so too our =sheppard=,[ ] when she heard the cry, her wings expanding sought her home on high; one thought upon a faithful sufferer cast, told her own hopes--then to her audit past. amid the terrors of that evil hour, when infidelity put forth its power, though meek of manners and of gentle heart, =jane bettle= played a christian soldier's part. though courteous, firm,--unwavering, though kind, pupil of christ, he disciplined her mind. secluded long from active service here, yet bearing burdens in her proper sphere, in humble waiting she was faithful found, until her fetters were in love unbound. her youthful =edward=, bud of promise rare, was early called to bloom in regions fair; another cord, strong though unseen, to move the heart to seek a resting place above. =allen=, when all around was clothed in night, passed from earth's darkness to eternal light. oh, what a blessed change to thee was given, to sleep in jesus and to wake in heaven; leave thy worn vestments with their earthly stain, a spotless robe of righteousness to gain! ye who my being gave,--ye too have flown, to join the ransomed round the eternal throne. --the venerable sire, as death drew near, saw the vale awful, but devoid of fear; he whom he loved was near him in that hour, death had no terrors and the grave no power. before thee, mother, rose a "brilliant path,"-- for thee thy saviour had no looks of wrath. oh, ye had owned him long, and at the last his arm supported as ye jordan passed! thus one by one, in quick succession, go those who have laboured in the church below! we dare not murmur as we kiss the rod, thou art our helper, save thy church, o god! thine is the cause, thy frowns we dare not shun, in earth and heaven alike, thy will be done! tell me, my old arm chair, when thou wert young, were quaker parlours with gilt pictures hung? did any quaker to his image fall, a household idol placed against the wall? ah, well might honest =catharine= cry to pride, "abomination!" as she turned aside. --but times are altered; splendid mansions glow, and gilded mirrors _humble quakers_ show. with turkey carpets are their parlours spread, while silken curtains hang about their bed! what contradiction!--grave the dame and sire; gorgeous their dwelling,--simple their attire! their children moulding to the place they dwell, in london fashions, paris manners, swell,-- while parents scarcely wish to set them free-- for what they won't restrain they love to see. are there no worthies now to fill the place, of those, victorious, who have run their race? are we deserted?--has all merit flown, and must the church in helpless anguish moan? oh, no! the grace that made them what they were, a living remnant in due measure share; and haply they on whom their mantles fit, may where the ancients sat, in judgment sit. faith, give me power to see a brighter day, when all these "letting things" shall pass away; when the convulsion which has now begun, shall pause in silence, all its purpose done; when the oppressors of the seed, shall wear the mask no longer, all their acts laid bare; when chaff and cheat shall to the wind be doomed, and dross and stubble be by fire consumed; when to the world the worldly part is given; when the redeemed shall closer walk with heaven; when to our zion shall the weary come, like "doves to windows," pressing to their home. oh, haste the day, when through his power divine, the father's light around his church shall shine! many there are whose prayers arise for this; whose greatest joy would be in zion's bliss; whose morning breathing, and whose evening prayer is that the lord would place his glory there. --what though a worldly spirit has crept in, that fain the kingdom through new ways would win, scorning the narrow path our fathers trod, and circling round would pass the cross and rod-- yet they who look from pisgah's height can see, such by-paths lead away from calvary,-- while they who seek in empty forms for bliss, will grasp at shadows and the substance miss. --no, no!--as ancient =pennock=[ ] clearly saw, still with this people shall abide the law; still shall the testimony here be found,-- still sons and daughters to the altar bound. the lord himself his attributes shall take; again shall order out of chaos break; then shall the church in rapturous numbers sing, and shout victorious as she owns her king; while those who seek to draw her from the way, themselves shall lose in errors paths astray! notes. note . sarah harrison was aunt to jane snowdon. when on a religious visit in great britain, she felt her mind engaged to speak to george iii. when she commenced addressing him, he took off his hat, and remained uncovered during her communication. she died in philadelphia, the th of twelfth month, , aged ; a minister years. note . samuel emlen, felt concerned often to look up the sick, weak and halt of the flock; and for this purpose, in the latter part of his life, he kept a one horse chair, in which he rode about "doing good:" in allusion to which practice, he sometimes said, he "earned his bread by jobbing." he died the th of twelfth month, , aged . note . david bacon and descendants.--william wilson, an elder of philadelphia monthly meeting.--sarah proctor wilson, a minister of the southern district monthly meeting. note . catharine sheppard, an elder of the northern district monthly meeting, died the th of twelfth month, , aged years. the following lines appeared a few days after in one of the daily papers, on the occasion of her death. sleep, mother, sleep, for thy work is now done, thy course is accomplished, the victory won! doubts and fears can no longer arise in thy path, nor tempest-cloud hover with threatening wrath. sleep, mother, sleep! our protector and guide! though we fain would have turned all death's arrows aside; though we clung to thee fondly, and watched every breath, thy spirit unnoticed departed with death. ah, cruel destroyer!--but cease ye, and hear what sounds of sweet melody break on the ear! 'tis the voice of rejoicing, oh, listen the sound, that a prisoner of hope from the earth is unbound! there!--hearken once more to the full-swelling strain, the words of rejoicing we even may name; they say, "come up here, see the bride of the lamb, that stands by the throne of the mighty i am!" "come home, mother, come!"--ah, how vain is that cry, the home of the righteous is fixed in the sky! earth's treasures wax old, its attractions all wither, the cry of the ransomed is, "come ye up hither!" note . caleb pennock, upwards of years of age, recently addressed the young men of his monthly meeting in a very remarkable manner, expressing his belief that the doctrines of this society would not be suffered to fall. transcriber's note: * text enclosed between equal signs was in bold face in the original (=bold=). produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) transcriber's note: "[_sic._]" has been inserted wherever there was an apparent typo or non-standard grammatical construction in the original. a sermon preached at the quaker's meeting house, in gracechurch-street, london, eighth month th, . by william penn. salvation from sin by christ alone. london: r. h. moore, , fleet-street; and bancks and co., exchange-street, manchester. . bancks and co., printers, manchester. the perusal of the first numbers of a series of tracts, containing extracts from the writings of "early friends," and published for the avowed purpose of lowering the estimation in which those writings are held by the society, and even of proving "that many of them would reflect discredit upon a private library, and ought truly to be accounted dangerous books," has given rise to the present re-publication. as an humble, but sincere admirer of those principles of gospel truth, which the early friends sought to promulgate, as well by their writings as by eminently devoted lives, and a constant and oft proved willingness to suffer for christ's sake, i must protest (whether to any purpose or not) against the illiberal, and unjust mode of conduct resorted to by the publishers of the "extracts," in selecting short and partial sentences, and thus, as i conceive, grossly misrepresenting some of the views of those worthies long since removed from the world on which they walked as strangers and as pilgrims, and long since, i doubt not, permitted, through the mercy of their god and saviour, to enter into that "better country," where they are no more exposed to the trials of time, no more exposed to the scoffs and persecutions of men, and no more affected by the calumnies of "false brethren." whilst, however, expressing a sincere and affectionate regard for the memories of those who have preceded me in religious professions, i would add that i consider them worthy to be followed only as they followed christ, and that if i go forth by the footsteps of this flock of my saviour's companions, it is that i may feed beside that good shepherd's tents, where, i believe, they found plentiful pasture. i would most explicitly state, the present publication is no party act, or an act originating in party feeling, for though i must take a heartfelt interest in the present proceedings in our society, yet i deeply feel that, even if i see, or think i see, the ark of the covenant of our god unsteadily placed as upon a new cart, there is a danger of putting forth, like uzza of old, uncalled and unprepared hands for its support. to the serious attention of all honest hearted enquirers after truth do i commend this little pamphlet, believing that the principles set forth in the annexed sermon, are the principles uniformly avowed and supported by the "early friends," and that (however their views and writings may be distorted and belied) the whole gospel of a crucified and risen saviour, in all its freeness, and in all its fullness, was what they sought to publish, and by their lives to adorn. c. gilpin. _manchester, th month, ._ sermon. the great and blessed god that made heaven and earth, the seas and the great fountains of the deep, and rivers of water, the almighty jehovah, who is from everlasting to everlasting. he also made man and woman; and his design was to make them eternally happy and blessed. and therefore he made man in his own image; "in the image of god created he him, male and female created he them:" he made them after his own likeness holy, wise, merciful, just, patient, and humble, endued them with knowledge, righteousness, and true holiness. but man and woman through their transgressions lost this image of god, and with it lost their happiness and true blessedness, that god made them in a capacity to enjoy. now in this state of misery into which we are fallen, we are come short of the glory of god; and it is out of this wretched woful state we must be brought, else we shall never see the face of god with comfort. this is an eternal truth of god, and recorded in the holy scriptures. john iii. . that "god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life." god so loved the world, he gave his son to be a light unto the world, that all might see their way back to god again: for sin hath darkened the understanding, and clouded the mind of man and woman, and alienated them from the life of god, and their hearts are hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. but now is the acceptable time, now is the day of salvation, the day of god's grace and favourable visitation, wherein he visits men and women, illuminates their minds and spirits with a light from heaven, that they might see the deplorable state and condition wherein they are, and what they are doing: it is in this light, that they have a day of grace vouchsafed to them, that it may be well with them, both here and for ever. they that receive this light, and come out of that which they are called from, which is sin, they may come to enjoy peace with god. it was sin that first separated between god and man; and it is sin now that hinders man from acquaintance with the lord, who brings peace unto him: it is by this light, that we are to acquaint ourselves with god, that we may be at peace. thus saith the lord by the prophet, "it is sin has separated between me and you:" sin hath made a partition wall between god and us, and god hath sent his son into the world to break down this partition wall that sin hath made; that so fallen man might return to god, and come into paradise again, out of which sin hath cast him. now, none can bring us back to god, and into favour and communion with him, but our lord jesus christ: he is the light and leader of his people. there is no name under heaven by which we can be saved, but the name of jesus: it is he that saves his people from their sins; and it is in him alone that we are blessed: "blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, and whose sin is covered:" and for the sake of christ alone it is, that the lord imputeth not iniquity to us. now pray "examine yourselves, whether you be in the faith," cor. xiii. . "prove your own selves, how that jesus christ is in you, except you be reprobates." examine yourselves, whether you have chosen the lord for your god, and christ for your redeemer? and whether you have forsaken your sins, and returned from your evil ways, and answered the visitation of the love of god in your souls? do you believe in the lord jesus christ, who came to seek and to save them that were lost? he is the physician of value, that was wounded to heal our wounds: "he was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities, and had the chastisement of our peace upon him; that by his stripes we might be healed:" it is he alone that could do this. who is sufficient for these things? the lord found out one that is sufficient; he hath "laid help upon one that is mighty," that is "able to save to the uttermost all that come unto god by him." god hath given him the spirit without measure, and filled him with grace and truth, that of his fullness we might all receive, and grace for grace: he is mighty to save the sons and daughters of men, and to give them power to become the children of god. this was testified of old, john i. . "but as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of god, even to them who believe on his name." men want power over their sins: when sin appears to be exceeding sinful, they would overcome it, and be rid of it, when it is troublesome: and when they are under a deep conviction of the evil of it, and see the woful and miserable state that sin hath brought mankind into how they have lost the image of god and the favour of god; they then desire to be restored, and brought back again into their primitive state. you that know the truth of god, see how the work goes on in your hearts, see how the image of god is carrying on upon you. consider, that the lord is a holy god, of purer eyes than to behold iniquity with approbation: "there is no peace to the wicked," that walk in the broad way, and grieve the holy spirit, and do not answer his divine call. there is a two-fold call concerning man, a call to repentance, and a call to judgment. the call to repentance is in this day of god's visitation; they that receive it now, that are so wise, as to answer god's call, and believe in the son of god, and in his inward appearance, that obey his voice, when they hear his call, saying, come away, come out of thy sins, come out of the wickedness, filthiness, and pollution of the world; come into the divine nature of the son of god; come into his life: into what life? into the spiritual life, the divine life? thou hast been dead to god and alive to the world: now that thou mayst [_sic._] be dead to sin, and alive to god, come unto him that hath all power in heaven and in earth committed to him. o come unto christ, the dear and blessed son of god, in this day of grace and salvation, and receive power to overcome thy sins! then thou wilt be a conqueror, and overcome the devil. we are of ourselves altogether insufficient for these things, we are weak and impotent; and our saviour hath told us, "without me ye can do nothing:" we are justified freely by god's grace, through the redemption that is in jesus christ; not justified by our own works. how great a contradiction is it to charge them with the contrary, that say, they cannot preach nor pray, but as the spirit of god moveth them. blessed be god that hath made us sensible of our own weakness, emptiness, and poverty. our help hath been in the name of the lord, who made heaven and earth, who hath given his son to be an helper, and an all-sufficient saviour to us; with him he hath given sufficient power and strength, whereby we are enabled to overcome the devil, the enemy of our souls: so that we may be enabled to stand against principalities and powers, against spiritual wickedness, and conquer all the powers, of darkness, and fight the good fight of faith, and finish our course with joy, and keep the faith: seeing there is laid up for us a crown of righteousness, which the lord, the righteous judge, shall give us at that day; "and not only to us, (saith the apostle,) but unto all them that love his appearing." we have not an high-priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin: christ, our redeemer, was tempted, that he might succour those that are tempted. when the devil tempted our saviour in the wilderness, and could not prevail, he went away and left him: the prince of this world found nothing in him, upon which he could fasten his temptation. christ will enable those that believe in him to overcome the devil, and to be more than conquerors, through him that loved them: he came into the world to purge and purify his people, and to be the author of eternal salvation to all them that believe in him, and obey him. but it is said, "he did not many mighty works" among some to whom he preached the everlasting gospel, because of their unbelief: many will not believe in the inward and spiritual appearance of jesus christ the son of god, who is the light of the world; they will neither believe in the light, nor walk in the light, which will enable them to conquer the evil one, who is the prince of darkness: it is only through christ jesus, the great captain of our salvation, that we are victorious. therefore, my friends, open your hearts to the lord jesus christ, receive this blessed gift of god which he offers to you: and can god give you a greater gift than the son of his love? and will not you gladly receive him, and that great salvation which he hath purchased for you with his own blood! but, say some people, we have received christ, and believe in him, and believe the divine authority of the holy scriptures. but let me ask you, who keeps house all this while? what have you done for christ? christ hath died for you; but hast thou lived to him? and hast thou died to the world, and died to thy sins and lusts? consider with yourselves, it is both your great duty and interest to die to sin, and live to christ that died for you. and we must stand at christ's tribunal, and give an account to him, of whatsoever we have done, whether good or bad; and he will judge us at the great day of his appearing. blessed are you, that receive the blessed son of god, that now stands in spirit at the door, and knocks: open your heart, and make room for him, and let not the world keep him out, and he will come in, and sup with you, and you with him: and he will do that for you, which you cannot do for yourselves. "the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak:" he will give thee power over sin, and over the world, and over the devil: whenever he shall assault thee with his temptations, say, "get thee behind me satan, thou savourest not the things that be of god." when people come to be spiritually minded they will taste and savour the things that are spiritual and heavenly: if they be not things of god, do not touch with them, have nothing to do with them; but walk in the spirit, and savour the things of the spirit. and hearken to the counsel of christ, who speaks to you in the name of wisdom; "o ye simple ones understand wisdom, and ye fools be of an understanding heart; hear, for i will speak of excellent things, and the opening of my lips shall be right things: blessed is the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors: for whoso findeth me findeth life." hearken to the blessed counsel of christ, hear his voice and obey it: they that do his will, shall know his doctrine: "the secret of the lord is with them that fear him, and he will shew them his covenant." they that have the saving knowledge of god, and christ jesus, which is life eternal, they will walk in a correspondent and suitable manner to that knowledge, and be holy in all manner of conversation: they will not be only nominal christians, but true christians, israelites indeed in whom there is no guile; they will receive christ jesus who is god's gift, and knows [_sic._] the operation of his power in their souls. these persons are fit to live and prepared to die; when christ, who is their life, shall appear, they shall appear with him in glory. when the sound of the last trumpet shall be heard at the end of the world, time shall be no more; come away! that day shall not be terrible to them that have put off the old man, and put on the new man; and have begun to live a new life, and to have new affections, new thoughts and resolutions, and have laid up their treasure in heaven, where their hearts are also: they have that peace, which the world cannot give, and which death cannot take away. blessed are they that take sanctuary in the name of jesus, as in a strong tower; they shall get power over their sins, and over the vanity of their minds, that die to sin and live to god, and feel the constraining power and efficacy of the love of christ, "who hath loved them, and washed them from their sins, in his own blood, and made them kings and priests to god." my friends, hear the voice of wisdom, who hath said, "whoso findeth me, findeth life, and shall obtain favour of the lord: but he that sinneth against me, wrongeth his own soul." be you early seekers: seek the kingdom of god in the first place. the lord calls from heaven; "my son, give me thine heart:" let thy answer be, lord, take my heart, purify and cleanse it; break it, and make it new, make it fit for thy acceptance, that i may find favour in thy sight. "without me (saith our saviour) ye can do nothing:" therefore desire him to do it for thee, and to work in thee both to will and to do of his own good pleasure. how dreadful is it to appear at the bar of god's justice as miserable sinners! those that have not christ, the great mediator, to plead for them, are miserable indeed: therefore lay hold on christ now; believe in him, lay hold on his power and spirit in this day of your visitation. if thou art under the power of sin and satan, thou mayst [_sic._] receive power from christ, to overcome all the power of darkness: if the strong man armed hath got possession of thy heart, christ will lay siege to it; and if thou be willing to open the door, christ will come in and cast out the strong man, and spoil him of all his goods. he will cast out the grand enemy of thy soul, and take possession for himself; that thou mayest be delivered from the power of satan, and from the bondage of corruption, and brought into the glorious liberty of the sons of god: and if the son of god make thee free, thou shalt be free indeed. for this end christ came into the world, "for this purpose was the son of god manifested, that he might destroy the works of the devil:" and he will not lose the design of his coming, but will "finish transgression, and make an end of sin, and bring in everlasting righteousness." let us all come to christ, and let none deceive themselves, and live in their sins, and yet think to come to heaven: "be not deceived, (saith the apostle,) god is not mocked; for whatsoever a man sows, that shall he also reap: he that soweth to the flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the spirit reap everlasting life." labour for a sure grounded hope, a just hope in the mercy of god for pardon and salvation; then you must know a work of christ upon you, and the power of the spirit of christ within you, subduing your will to a holy subjection to the divine will; that you may say with the apostle; "i am crucified with christ; nevertheless i live, yet not i, but christ liveth in me; and the life which i now live in the flesh, i live by the faith of the son of god, who loved me, and gave himself for me." then the call to judgment will be joyful to you; for you shall then be justified and acquitted before the whole world, at that great and general judgment, and have an abundant entrance into the everlasting kingdom of our lord and saviour jesus christ, and it shall be well with you for ever. now, "say to the righteous, it shall be well with him;" not that it doth so appear at present; for through many tribulations we must expect to enter into the kingdom of heaven; and many are the troubles of the righteous, but the lord will deliver them out of them all. so that "if in this life only (saith the apostle) we have hope, we are of all men most miserable". yet "say to the righteous, it shall be well with him;" whatsoever their trials, troubles, and tribulations are, the lord will deliver them in the best time; they have heaven in their eye and they look to the recompense of reward. now what hast thou in thine eye? is it the high calling in christ? is this the mark thou aimest at, and which thou hast in view? is this the port and haven, that thou art sailing to, "looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of our faith who for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame?" heb. xii . the apostle, after he had been speaking of the suffering and martyrdom of those great saints, of whom the world was not worthy; heb. xi. how that "through faith they subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopt the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, and turned to flight the armies of the aliens; of women, that received their dead to life again, and others were tortured, not accepting of deliverance, that they might obtain a better resurrection." then he comes to speak of the sufferings of our lord jesus christ, and bids us "look unto him." heb. xii. , , . wherefore, "seeing we are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin that doth so easily beset us; and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of our faith: who for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross and despised the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of god: for consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against himself, lest ye be wearied and faint in your minds." blessed are they that can endure all these things, shame, reproach, contumely, and disdain, persecutions and afflictions that attend the testimony of jesus! blessed are they that can endure the cross, and despise the shame! it is an internal cross, which thou must endure for christ, or thy own heart will reprove thee, check thee and condemn thee for it: but if thou comest to know a being crucified with christ, thou shalt reign with him, and be raised up to eternal glory with him. unless thou knowest a dying to the world, and a being crucified with christ, thou canst not have a well grounded hope of everlasting happiness. therefore now, friends, examine yourselves about your title to heaven. it is the wisdom and practice of the world, to examine their titles and settlements, and to see, they be sure, and firm, and stable beforehand: so we should make sure for heaven and eternal glory, and of "an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens," before this earthly tabernacle be dissolved; then for us to live will be christ, and to die will be eternal gain. blessed are they that bear record of the word of god, and of the testimony of jesus, that bear his name, and testify and join with him against the spirit of the world, and the prince of the power of the air. it is within that thou must join with christ's appearance, that so thou mayest be christianized, and thy mind made truly christian: thou must be purified in thy spirit, and baptized with the holy ghost, and with fire, and know the powerful operation of the lord: they that have not experience of the new birth, they cannot enter into the kingdom of god. o my friends, set before you the example of christ, who was holy, harmless, and undefiled; his life was glorious in holiness: and as it becomes you, so it highly concerns you, to be holy in all manner of conversation. for if you imitate not the life of christ, you cannot be saved by his death: he came into the world, to redeem you from all iniquity, and to save you from sin and hell; labour to answer the dignity of your high and holy calling, with a conversation becoming the gospel of christ: for you are called to glory and virtue. whatsoever troubles, temptations and tribulations may attend you in your pilgrimage here below, if you be faithful and sincere, you will have peace with god through our lord jesus christ. in all your labours and travels on this earth, you may look up with joy for you have a serene heaven over your heads; let christ be precious to you; open the door of your hearts to him, who is the king of glory: he is oppressed in the hearts of the unclean, but he is exalted and lifted up in the hearts of the faithful: blessed are they that set him upon his throne in their hearts! o learn of christ to be meek and lowly: your humility will exalt him, and will also exalt you at the last: "be faithful to the death and you shall receive a crown of life:" those that have eternal life in their eye, and depend upon christ alone for salvation, they have laid a sure foundation. all other foundations will come to nothing; they are founded in time, and in time they will come to moulder away: but that city that god is the builder and maker of, that abraham had in his eye, will never decay, nor moulder away: let us have this always in our eye, that nothing may intercept our view. "we have here (saith the apostle) no continuing city; we seek one that is to come." in this world we are as sheep among wolves: "fear not, little flock, (saith our saviour,) it is your father's good pleasure to give you a kingdom." if we be the sheep of christ, we shall follow him: "for his sheep follow him, and know his voice, and a stranger they will not follow, but they will flee from him, for they know not the voice of a stranger." "my sheep (saith christ) hear my voice, and i know them, and they follow me, and i give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hands." here is encouragement for us to labour abundantly in the work of the lord; "for our labour shall not be in vain in the lord." let us, with moses, "choose rather to suffer affliction with the people of god, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season;" and "esteem the reproach of christ greater riches than the treasures of egypt; and have respect to the recompense of reward." friends, i beseech you, in the fear of god, "look up unto jesus, the great mediator of the new covenant, the author and finisher of your faith; that by patient continuance in well doing, you may seek for glory, honour, immortality, and eternal life:" which you shall obtain, if you persevere to the end: "for he that endureth unto the end shall be saved." "be not weary of well doing; for in due time you shall reap if you faint not." he that hath appeared, as a god of salvation, and a mighty preserver of his people in all ages of the world, and hath been so both to the primitive christians, and to all our christian friends, that are gone before us to an eternal rest, if you faint not, but follow them, who through faith and patience do inherit the promises, you shall lay down your heads in peace in him, when you come to die; and when time shall be no more, you shall be for ever with the lord. to god be praise, honour, and glory, who hath stretched forth his mighty arm to save: who is the arm of the lord but christ jesus, the redeemer of souls? when we had undone ourselves, and lost ourselves, in wandering and departing from the lord, the true and living god, into darkness and the shadow of death, he stretched forth his almighty arm, to gather us, and to bring us into the paradise of god again, when we were driven out by our own sin, from the face and presence of the lord. christ jesus, the great and good shepherd of his sheep, came to seek and to save them that were lost: the lost sheep that have wandered from him, he will take them on his shoulder, and bring them to his fold: and he will make them lie down in green pastures, and lead them by the still waters, and satisfy them with the rivers of pleasure that are at god's right hand for evermore. he hath promised, "that he will feed his flock like a shepherd, and gather his lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom:" i hope christ jesus, the great shepherd, will find some here this day, that have gone astray, and gather them with his divine arm, and keep them by his mighty power, through faith unto salvation. to him be all praise, honour, glory, dominion, and thanksgiving: for he alone is worthy, who is god over all, blessed for ever and ever.--_amen._ bancks and co., printers, manchester. [transcriber's notes: corrections made: canvass corrected to canvas buffetted corrected to buffeted multipled corrected to multiplied equiped corrected to equipped steadfastnesss corrected to steadfastness] the ancient banner; or brief sketches of persons and scenes in the early history of friends. "thou hast given a banner to them that feared thee, that it may be displayed because of the truth." psalm ,-- . philadelphia: joseph kite & co., printers, no. north fourth street. . the ancient banner. in boundless mercy, the redeemer left, the bosom of his father, and assumed a servant's form, though he had reigned a king, in realms of glory, ere the worlds were made, or the creating words, "let there be light" in heaven were uttered. but though veiled in flesh, his deity and his omnipotence, were manifest in miracles. disease fled at his bidding, and the buried dead rose from the sepulchre, reanimate, at his command, or, on the passing bier sat upright, when he touched it. but he came, not for this only, but to introduce a glorious dispensation, in the place of types and shadows of the jewish code. upon the mount, and round jerusalem, he taught a purer, and a holier law,-- his everlasting gospel, which is yet to fill the earth with gladness; for all climes shall feel its influence, and shall own its power. he came to suffer, as a sacrifice acceptable to god. the sins of all were laid upon him, when in agony he bowed upon the cross. the temple's veil was rent asunder, and the mighty rocks, trembled, as the incarnate deity, by his atoning blood, opened that door, through which the soul, can have communion with its great creator; and when purified, from all defilements, find acceptance too, where it can finally partake of all the joys of his salvation. but the pure church he planted,--the pure church which his apostles watered,--and for which, the blood of countless martyrs freely flowed, in roman amphitheatres,--on racks,-- and in the dungeon's gloom,--this blessed church, which grew in suffering, when it overspread surrounding nations, lost its purity. its truth was hidden, and its light obscured by gross corruption, and idolatry. as things of worship, it had images, and even painted canvas was adored. it had a head and bishop, but this head was not the saviour, but the pope of rome. religion was a traffic. men defiled, professed to pardon sin, and even sell, the joys of heaven for money,--and to raise souls out of darkness to eternal light, for paltry silver lavished upon them. and thus thick darkness, overspread the church as with a mantle. at length the midnight of apostacy passed by, and in the horizon appeared, day dawning upon christendom. the light, grew stronger, as the reformation spread. for luther, and melancthon, could not be silenced by papal bulls, nor by decrees of excommunication thundered forth out of the vatican. and yet the light, of luther's reformation, never reached beyond the morning's dawn. the noontide blaze of truth's unclouded day, he never saw. yet after him, its rising sun displayed more and more light upon the horizon. though thus enlightened, the professing church, was far from many of the precious truths of the redeemer's gospel; and as yet, owned not his spirit's government therein. but now the time approached, when he would pour a larger measure of his light below; and as he chose unlearned fishermen to spread his gospel when first introduced, so now he passed mere human learning by, and chose an instrument, comparable to the small stone the youthful david used, to smite the champion who defied the lord. apart from human dwellings, in a green rich pasturage of england, sat a youth, who seemed a shepherd, for around him there a flock was feeding, and the sportive lambs gambolled amid the herbage. but his face bore evidence of sadness. on his knee the sacred book lay open, upon which the youth looked long and earnestly, and then, closing the book, gazed upward, in deep thought this was the instrument by whom the lord designed to spread a clearer light below and fuller reformation. he appeared, like ancient samuel, to be set apart for the lord's service from his very birth. even in early childhood, he refrained from youthful follies, and his mind was turned to things of highest moment. he was filled with awful feelings, by the wickedness he saw around him. as he grew in years, horror of sin grew stronger; and his mind became so clothed with sadness, and so full of soul-felt longings, for the healing streams of heavenly consolation, that he left his earthly kindred, seeking quietude in solitary places, where he read the book of inspiration, and in prayer, sought heavenly counsel. in this deep-proving season he was told, of priests, whose reputation had spread wide for sanctity and wisdom; and from these he sought for consolation,--but in vain. one of these ministers became enraged, because the youth had inadvertently misstepped within his garden; and a priest of greater reputation, counselled him to use tobacco, and sing holy psalms! and the inquirer found a third to be but as an empty, hollow cask at best. finding no help in man, the youthful fox, turned to a higher and a holier source, for light and knowledge. in his saviour's school, he sat a scholar, and was clearly shown the deep corruption, that had overspread professing christendom. and one by one, the doctrines of the gospel, were unveiled, to the attentive student,--doctrines, which, though clearly written on the sacred page, had long been hidden, by the rubbish man's perversions and inventions heaped thereon. he saw that colleges, could not confer, a saving knowledge of the way of truth, nor qualify a minister to preach the everlasting gospel; but that christ, is the true teacher, and that he alone has power to call, anoint, and qualify, and send a gospel minister to preach glad tidings of salvation. he was shown, no outward building, made of wood and stone could be a holy place,--and that the church-- the only true and living church--must be a holy people gathered to the lord, and to his teaching. he was clearly taught, the nature of baptism, by which souls are purified and fitted for this church; that this was not, by being dipped into, or sprinkled with clear water, but it was the one baptism of the holy ghost. he saw the supper was no outward food, made and administered by human hands,-- but the lord's table was within the heart; where in communion with him, holy bread was blessed and broken, and the heavenly wine, which cheers the fainting spirit, handed forth. the saviour showed him that all outward wars, are now forbidden,--that the warfare here, is to be waged within. its weapons too, though mighty, even to the pulling down, of the strong holds of satan, are yet all the spirit's weapons. he was shown, that oaths judicial or profane, are banished from the christian dispensation, which commands, "swear not at all." he saw the compliments,-- hat honour, and lip service of the world, sprang from pride's evil root, and were opposed to the pure spirit of christ's holy law. and by his inward light, was clearly seen the perfect purity of heart and life for which that saviour calls, who never asked, things unattainable. these truths and others, being thus revealed, fox was prepared and qualified to preach, the unveiled gospel, to the sons of men. clothed with divine authority, he went abroad through britain, and proclaimed that light, which christ's illuminating spirit sheds, in the dark heart of man. some heard of this, who seemed prepared and waiting, to receive his gospel message, and were turned to him, whose holy spirit sealed it on their hearts. and not a few of these, were called upon, to take the message, and themselves declare the way of truth to others. but the priests, carnal professors, and some magistrates, heard of the inward light, and purity, with indignation, and they seized upon, and thrust the preacher within prison walls. not once alone, but often was he found, amid the very dregs of wickedness-- with robbers, and with blood-stained criminals, locked up in loathsome jails. and when abroad upon his master's service, he was still reviled and buffeted, and spit upon. but none of these things moved him, for within he felt that soul-sustaining evidence, which bore his spirit high above the waves, of bitter persecution. but now the time approached, for his release from suffering and from labour. he had spent, long years in travel for the cause of truth,-- not all in britain,--for he preached its light, and power in holland,--the west indian isles, and north america. far through the wild, and trackless wilderness, this faithful man, carried his master's message; he lived, to see truth's banner fearlessly displayed upon both continents. he lived to see, pure hearted men and women gathered to the inward teaching of the saviour's will,-- banded together in the covenant, of light and life. but his allotted work, was now accomplished, and his soul prepared, for an inheritance with saints in light, and with his loins all girded, he put off his earthly shackles, triumphing in death, that the seed reigned, and truth was over all! where the dark waters of the delaware, roll onward to the ocean, sweeping by, primeval forests, where the red man still, built his rude wigwam, and the timid deer fled for concealment from the indian's eye, and the unerring arrow of his bow; there, in the shadow of these ancient woods, a sea-worn ship has anchored. on her deck, men of grave mien are gathered. one of whom, of noble figure, and quick searching eyes, surveys the scene, wrapt in the deepest thought. and this is william penn. he stands among, fellow believers, who have sought a home, and place of refuge, in this wilderness. born of an ancient family, his sire an english admiral, the youthful penn, might, with his talents, have soon ranked among the proudest subjects of the british throne. he chose the better part--to serve that king who is immortal and invisible. while yet a student within college halls, he heard truth's message, and his heart was reached, and fully owned it, though it came through one of that despised and persecuted class, called in derision quakers. thus convinced, he left the college worship, to commune in spirit with his maker. and for this, he was expelled from oxford; and was soon maltreated by his father, who, enraged, because his only son, had turned away from brilliant prospects, to pursue the path of self-denial, drove him harshly forth from the paternal roof. but william penn, had still a father, who supported him, with strength and courage to perform his will; and he was called and qualified to preach, and to bear witness of that blessed light which shines within. he suffered in the cause, his share of trial. he was dragged before judges and juries, and was shut within the walls of prisons. looking abroad through england, he was filled with deep commiseration, for the jails-- the loathsome, filthy jails--were crowded with his brethren in the truth. for their relief, he sought the ear of royalty, and plead their cruel sufferings; and their innocence; and thus became the instrument through which some prison doors were opened. but he sought a place of refuge from oppression's power, that friends might worship the creator there, free from imprisonment and penalties. and such a place soon opened to his view, far in the western wilderness, beyond the atlantic's wave. and here is william penn, and here a band of weary emigrants, who now behold the promised land before them; but it is the indian's country, and the indian's home. penn had indeed, received a royal grant, to occupy it; but a grant from one who had no rightful ownership therein; he therefore buys it honestly from those whose claims are aboriginal, and just. with these inhabitants, behold, he stands beneath an ancient elm, whose spreading limbs o'erhang the delaware. the forest chiefs sit in grave silence, while the pipe of peace goes round the circle. they have made a league with faithful onas--a perpetual league, and treaty of true friendship, to endure while the sun shines, and while the waters run. and here was founded in the wilderness, a refuge from oppression, where all creeds found toleration, and where truth and right were the foundation of its government, and its protection. in that early day, the infant colony sought no defence but that of justice and of righteousness; the only guarantees of peace on earth, because they ever breathe, good will to men. his colony thus planted, william penn sought his old field of labour, and again, both through the press and vocally, he plead the right of conscience, and the rights of man; and frequently, and forcibly he preached christ's universal and inshining light. his labour was incessant; and the cares, and the perplexities connected with his distant province, which he visited a second time, bore heavily upon his burdened spirit, which demanded rest;-- that rest was granted. in the midst of all his labour and his trials, there was drawn a veil, in mercy, round his active mind, which dimmed all outward things; but he still saw the beauty and the loveliness of truth, and found sweet access to the source of good. and thus, shut out from the perplexities and sorrows of the world, he was prepared to hear the final summons, to put off his tattered garments, and be clothed upon with heavenly raiment. scotland, thou hadst a noble citizen, in him of ury! born amid thy hills, though educated where enticing scenes, crowd giddy paris, he rejected all the world's allurements, and unlike the youth who talked with jesus, barclay turned away from great possessions, and embraced the truth. he early dedicated all the powers of a well cultivated intellect to the redeemer and his holy cause. he was a herald, to proclaim aloud, glad tidings of salvation; and his life preached a loud sermon by its purity. not only were his lips made eloquent, by the live coal that touched them, but his pen, moved by a force from the same altar, poured light, truth, and wisdom. from it issued forth the great apology, which yet remains one of the best expositors of truth that man has published, since that sacred book anciently written. seekers are still led by its direction, to that blessed light, and inward teacher, who is jesus christ. but now, this noble servant of the lord, rests from his faithful labour, while his works yet follow him. early believers in the light of truth, dwelt not at ease in zion. they endured conflicts and trials, and imprisonments. even the humble penington, whose mind seemed purged and purified from all the dross of human nature--who appeared as meek and harmless as an infant--was compelled to dwell in loathsome prisons. but he had, though in the midst of wickedness, sublime and holy visions of the purity, and the true nature of christ's living church. while edmundson, the faithful pioneer of truth in ireland, was compelled to drink deeply of suffering for the blessed cause. dragged from his home, half naked, by a mob who laid that home in ashes, he endured heart-rending cruelties. but all of these, stars of the morning, felt oppression's hand, and some endured it to the closing scene. burroughs, a noble servant of the lord, whose lips and pen were eloquent for truth, drew his last breath in prison. parnel, too, a young and valiant soldier of the lamb, died, a true martyr in a dungeon's gloom. howgill and hubberthorn, both ministers of christ's ordaining, were released from all their earthly trials within prison walls. and beside these, there was a multitude of faithful men, and noble women too, who past from scenes of conflict, to the joys of the redeemer's kingdom, within jails, and some in dungeons. but amid it all, light spread in britain, and a living church was greatly multiplied. the tender minds, even of children, felt the power of truth, and showed the fruit and firmness it affords. when persecution, rioted within the town of bristol, and all older friends were locked in prison, little children met, within their place of worship, by themselves, to offer praises, in the very place from which their parents had been dragged to jail. but let us turn from britain, and look down, upon an inland sea whose swelling waves encircle malta. there a cloudless sun, in eastern beauty, pours its light upon the inquisition. all without its walls seems calm and peaceful, let us look within. there, stretched upon the floor, within a close, dark, narrow cell, inhaling from a crack a breath of purer air, two women lie. but who are these, and wherefore are they here? these are two ministers of christ, who left their homes in england, faithfully to bear, the saviour's message into eastern lands. and here at malta they were seized upon by bigotted intolerance, and shut within this fearful engine of the pope. priests and inquisitor assail them here, and urge the claims of popery. the rack, and cruel deaths are threatened; and again sweet liberty is offered, as the price of their apostacy. all, all in vain! for years these tender women have been thus, victims of cruelty. at times apart, confined in gloomy, solitary cells. but all these efforts to convert them failed: the inquisition had not power enough to shake their faith and confidence in him, whose holy presence was seen anciently to save his children from devouring flames; he, from this furnace of affliction, brought these persecuted women, who came forth out of the burning, with no smell of fire upon their garments, and again they trod, their native land rejoicing. in hungary, two ministers of christ, were stretched upon the rack. their tortured limbs were almost torn asunder, but no force could tear them from their master, and they came out of the furnace, well refined gold. nor were these all who suffered for the cause of truth and righteousness, in foreign lands. for at mequinez and algiers, some toiled, and died in slavery. but nothing could discourage faithful messengers of christ from his required service. they were found preaching repentance where the israelites once toiled in egypt, and the ancient nile still rolls its waters. and the holy light of the eternal gospel was proclaimed, where its great author had first published it-- where the rich temple of king solomon, stood in its ancient glory. even there, the haughty musselmen, were told of him, the one great prophet, who now speaks within. for their refusing to participate in carnal warfare, many early friends, were made to suffer. on a ship of war equipped for battle, richard sellers bore, with a meek, christian spirit, cruelties the most atrocious, for obeying him who was his heavenly captain, and by whom, war is forbidden. sellers would not touch, the instruments of carnage, nor could all the cruelties inflicted, move his soul from a reliance on that holy arm, which had sustained him in the midst of all his complicated trials; and he gained a peaceful, but a greater victory than that of battle, for he wearied out oppression, by his constancy, and left a holy savor, with that vessel's crew. but let us turn from persecuting scenes, that stain the annals of the older world, to young america, whose virgin shores offer a refuge from oppression's power. here lies a harbour in the noble bay of massachusetts. many little isles dot its expanding waters, and nahant spreads its long beach and eminence beyond, a barrier to the ocean. the whole scene, looks beautiful, in the clear northern air, and loveliness of morning. on the heights that overlook the harbour, there is seen an infant settlement. let us approach, and anchor where the puritans have sought, for liberty of conscience. but there seems, disquietude in boston. men appear urged on by stormy passions, and some wear a look of unrelenting bitterness. but what is that now rising into view, where crowds are gathered on an eminence? these are the puritans. they now surround a common gallows. on its platform, stands a lovely woman in the simple garb worn by the early quakers. of the throng, she only seems unmoved, although her blood they madly thirst for. the first professors of christ's inward light, who brought this message into boston bay, were inoffensive women. they were searched for signs of witchcraft, and their books were burned. the captain who had brought them, was compelled to carry them away. but others came, both men and women, zealous for the truth. these were received with varied cruelties-- by frequent whippings and imprisonments. law after law was made excluding them; but all in vain, for still these faithful ones carried their master's message undismayed among the puritans, and still they found those who received it, and embraced the truth, and steadily maintained it, in the midst of whipping posts, and pillories, and jails! a law was then enacted, by which all the banished quakers, who were found again within the province, were to suffer death. but these, though ever ready to obey all just enactments, when laws trespassed on the rights of conscience, and on god's command, could never for a moment hesitate, which to obey.--and soon there stood upon a scaffold of new england, faithful friends, who, in obeying christ, offended man! of these was mary dyer, who exclaimed, while passing to this instrument of death, "no eye can witness, and no ear can hear, no tongue can utter, nor heart understand the incomes and refreshings from the lord which now i feel." and in the spirit which these words a little pictured, robinson, past to the presence of that holy one for whom he laboured, and in whom he died. then stevenson, another faithful steward and servant of the lamb, was ushered from deep scenes of suffering into scenes of joy. but mary dyer, who was all prepared, to join these martyrs in their heavenward flight, was left a little longer upon earth. but a few fleeting months had rolled away, ere this devoted woman felt constrained, again to go among the puritans, in massachusetts, and in boston too. and here she stands! the second time, upon a gallows of new england. no reprieve arrests her sentence now. but still she feels the same sweet incomes, and refreshing streams from the lord's holy spirit. in the midst of that excited multitude, she seems the most resigned and peaceful.--but the deed is now accomplished, and the scene is closed! among the faithful martyrs of the lamb, gathered forever round his holy throne, she doubtless wears a pure and spotless robe, and bears the palm of victory. the blood of leddra was soon after shed, which closed the scene of martyrdom among the early quakers in this colony, but not the scene of suffering. women were dragged through its towns half-naked, tied to carts, while the lash fell upon their unclothed backs, and bloody streets, showed where they past along. and such inhuman treatment was bestowed on the first female minister of christ, who preached the doctrine of his inward light. but in new england, there was really found a refuge from oppression, justice reigned upon rhode island. in that early day, the rights of conscience were held sacred there, and persecution was a thing unknown. a bright example, as a governor, was william coddington. he loved the law-- the perfect law of righteousness--and strove to govern by it; and all faithful friends felt him a brother in the blessed truth. in north america, the puritans stood not alone in efforts to prevent the introduction and the spread of light. the dutch plantation of new amsterdam, sustained a measure of the evil work. the savage cruelties inflicted on the faithful hodgson, have few parallels in any age or country; but the lord was with his servant in the midst of all, and healed his tortured and his mangled frame. the early friends were bright and shining stars, for they reflected the clear holy light the sun of righteousness bestowed on them. they followed no deceiving, transient glare-- no ignis fatuus of bewildered minds; they followed jesus in the holiness of his unchanging gospel. they endured stripes and imprisonment and pillories, torture and slavery and banishment, and even death; but they would not forsake their holy leader, or his blessed cause. their patient suffering, and firm steadfastness, secured a rich inheritance for those who have succeeded them. do these now feel that firm devotion to the cause of truth--that singleheartedness their fathers felt? do they appreciate the price and worth of the great legacy and precious trust held for their children? the great cruelties borne by the fathers, have not been entailed on their descendants, who now dwell at ease. the world does not revile them. do not some love it the more for this? and do they not make more alliance with it, and partake more and more freely of its tempting baits, its fashions and its spirit? but are these more pure and holy than they were of old, when in the light of truth, their fathers saw that deep corruption overspread the world? other professors latterly have learned to speak of quakers with less bitterness than when the name reproachfully was cast in ridicule upon them. has not this drawn watchmen from the citadel of truth? has it not opened doors that had been closed, and should have been forever? and by these, has not an enemy been stealing in, to spoil the goods of many; to assail, and strive in secrecy to gather strength, to overcome the citadel at last? is it not thought illiberal to refuse alliances with those who now profess respect and friendship? must the quaker then bow in the house of rimmon, saying, lord pardon in this thy servant? do not some fail to resist encroachments, when they come clothed in enticing words, and wear the guise of charity and kindness, and are veiled, or sweetened to the taste, by courtesy? but is a snare less certain, when concealed by some enticing bait? or is a ball less sure and fatal, when it flies unheard, or, when the hand that sends it is unseen, or offers friendship? did not joab say, "art thou in health my brother?" and appeared to kiss amasa, while he thrust his sword into his life-blood? and when jonas fled from the lord's service, and the stormy waves threatened the ship that bore him, was the cause not found within it? was there not a calm when he, whose disobedience to the lord had raised the tempest, was no longer there? truth has a standard openly displayed, untorn--unsullied. man indeed may change, and may forsake it; but the standard still remains immutable. may all who love this holy banner, rally to it now! may all whose dwellings are upon the sand, seek for a building on that living rock, which stands forever;--for a storm has come-- a storm that tries foundations! even now, the flooding rains are falling, and the winds rapidly rising to a tempest, beat upon all dwellings. they alone can stand which have the rock beneath them, and above the omnipresent and omnipotent creator and defender of his church! a short history of a long travel from babylon to bethel by stephen crisp [illustration] introduction writings of the first quakers, even minor writings, often kindle in us today an ardor to seek what they sought and to find what they found. the excellent book by luella m. wright entitled "the literary life of the early friends, - " is a pleasant and convenient introduction to these numerous and often lengthy productions of which have been listed for the first years. among them all, luella wright singles out one allegory; the only one, and it remained unpublished fully two decades after its composition. why was this? was it because, though the author was as sound a thinker and as persuasive an author as any among the followers of george fox, an imaginary pilgrimage was inherently suspect, while the record of actual experiences in the form of a journal was not? be this as it may, the slight loosening of standards with the opening of the eighteenth century allowed the "second day's morning meeting," which then censored quaker manuscripts, to approve for printing "a short history of a long travel from babylon to bethel." it was put out in . how entertaining it would be to know the number of copies that were printed in that first edition. stephen crisp was a famous preacher. "he had a gift of utterance beyond many" said his brethren in colchester at the time of his decease. he was listened to by many outside the society of friends and his sermons, together with the prayer at the end of every one of them, were "exactly taken in character," that is in shorthand "as they were delivered ... in the meeting houses of the people called quakers." though stephen crisp's letters, sermons, and journal promptly appeared in print and were widely circulated, the "short history" remained after his death in the bundle of his papers in colchester. john bunyan's famous book "the pilgrim's progress" had appeared with its primitive woodcuts in . it received immediate recognition and in due time was acclaimed the greatest religious book produced in england. stephen crisp's allegory is minimal besides it (some pages as against ), but the "long travel" retains significance because of its more modern point of view. this tiny tract usually printed in pocket size ( " x ") sometimes with a passage from the author's journal included, was reprinted more than twenty times. i happened upon it in the friends historical library at swarthmore college twenty years ago. they then had four copies. today they have more than a dozen. how does stephen crisp's theology differ from that of bunyan's? in the first place, while crisp's pilgrim starts off with a pack on his back of luggage for his journey, bunyan's pilgrim had as his pack the burden of guilt which is original sin. second, crisp's pilgrim soon gives up confidence in human leadership having discovered a measure of the light. third, he crosses the river early on his journey, whereas for bunyan's pilgrim the river is at the end, the river of death. fourth, crisp's pilgrim reaches the house of god in this life. he finds a satisfied multitude in the outer court. they invite him to stay with them in easy circumstances but catching sight of his guide, the light, as it passes through a narrow door (compare bunyan's wicket gate) he presses on, divests himself of his travel-worn garments and enters the house of god. here, like the friends with whom stephen crisp had found peace after his own period of seeking, he first rests from struggle, then finds his calling which is to supply the needs of the young, and finally aspires to bring his good tidings to the babylon from which he had set out. "the pilgrim's progress" is incomparably more exciting with raging beasts, giant despair, and apollyon with all his hosts. the people bunyan's pilgrim meets are more vivid, portrayed with cruel detail and lusty humor. theologically the quaker tract is of a different age, not less exacting, but less pictorial. the medieval detail is gone but intense inwardness, devotion, and obedience are still required of the seeker to enable him to become a finder. in his "varieties of religious experience," which i heard william james deliver as a series of lectures at stanford university when i was a freshman over sixty years ago, he said of the religion of the quakers: in a day of shams it was a religion of veracity rooted in spiritual inwardness and a return to something more like the original gospel truth than men had ever known in england. he continued, so far as our christian sects are evolving into liberality, they are simply reverting in essence to the position which fox and the early quakers so long ago assumed. with this conclusion i heartily commend to sympathetic seekers today the brief allegory by stephen crisp: "a short history of a long travel from babylon to bethel." anna cox brinton a short history in the days of my youth, when i lived at home in my father's house, i heard many people talk of the house of god; and that whosoever did attain to get into it did enjoy all manner of happiness, both in this world and that which is to come. and a great desire kindled in me, if it were possible, to get into the house; yet i know not where it was, neither did they who talked of it; but they had heard the report, and they reported what they had heard. there were also some books, that had been written by men who had been in that house; which books did declare much of the joy and felicity they had in the house. these books i got, and read them over and over; which did much strengthen my belief in the truth of the reports: yet by no means could i tell which was my way. but so ardent were my desires, that i thought myself willing to forsake my father's house, my country, and all, and travel anywhere, wherever my legs would carry me, so that i might find this house. and upon a time, as i was breaking my mind to a friend of mine upon this subject, he readily told me, there were men appointed in every place to guide those who were willing to go thither, and it was their business, and they had nothing else to do. when i heard this i was comforted, and desired him, if he loved me, to make me acquainted with one of those men. he told me he would; which he did. when i came to treat with the man, i let him know the fervent desire i had to get to the house of god, of which i had heard such excellent things; and that i understood he was one appointed to guide any thither, who were willing to go, and to persuade people to go, who were not willing. he very readily answered, and told me, it was his business to guide any thither who were willing to go; and if i would comply with his terms, and follow him, he would lead me thither. i asked him what his terms were. he said the way was long, and would lead him from home, and i must bear his charges, and something over, to all of which i agreed. so we set forward on our journey, early in the morning; but before we had gone one whole day's journey, i saw my guide sometimes stand still, and look about him, and sometimes he would pull a little book out of his pocket, and read a little to himself; which made me begin to mistrust that he knew the way no better than i. however, i said nothing; but went on following him several days journey after this manner; and the farther we went, the more my guide was at a loss. sometimes he went a little on, and then would look about him, and turn another way, and sometimes right back again for a while, and then turn again. so my suspicions grew very strong, and i began to be in great anxiety of spirit, but said little to him about it. [illustration: these books i got, and read them over and over; which did much strengthen my belief in the truth of the reports: yet by no means could i tell which was my way.] but one day, as we were travelling along, we met with a man that took notice of my sad countenance and tired condition. and he spake very kindly to me; "young man," said he, "whither art thou bound?" and when i began to tell him something of my travel, he desired me to sit down upon the grass, in a shady place, and discourse a little about my journey: and so we did, and i told him how things had gone with me to that very hour. whilst i was telling him my story, my guide fell asleep; at which i was not sorry, for thereby i had the more freedom to discourse with the man; and when i had told him all, he pitied me; and withal, told me, to his certain knowledge, this guide of mine had never been at the house, neither did he know the way to it, but as he had got some marks of the way, which he had received, as i or any other may do; and, if i followed him all my days, i should be never the nearer to it, and should find at last, i had spent my time, money and labour to no purpose. this discourse did so astonish me, that i was at my wits end, and did not know what course to take. the man seeing what an agony i was in, began to comfort me, and told me that the house i sought was much nearer than i was aware of; and if i would forsake that guide, and follow him, he would soon bring me in sight of the house. "and," quoth he, "i am one that belongs to that house, and have done so several years. and whereas," said he, "thou art to bear his charges, and give him money besides, i will assure thee, it is not the manner of the guides that belong to this house of god, to take money for guiding people thither. i myself have been guide to many a one in my time, but never took one penny of them for it." [illustration: i saw my guide sometimes stand still, and look about him, and sometimes he would pull a little book out of his pocket, and read a little to himself.] by this time, you must think within yourselves, how my drooping spirits were comforted; a new hope sprang up, and a resolution to forsake my wandering guide, and to follow this new one. upon which i awaked my guide, and told him my mind, and paid him what i had agreed for, and advised him never to serve any poor soul as he had done me: for i see, said i, thou knowest not the way, but as thou hast learned about it in some book. if book-learning would have served my turn, to find this famous house, i needed not thee, nor any body else to guide me to it; for there are very few who have written experimentally of it, but i have read them diligently: but now i have met a man that i judge has more experience of the way than thou hast, and i am resolved to go with him; and if thou wilt honestly confess thy ignorance, and go along with us, come and welcome; one guide will serve two travellers, as well as one in the way. but i could not persuade him; so i left him to take his own way as he pleased. [illustration: and he spake very kindly to me; "young man," said he, "whither art thou bound?"] i now set forward with my new guide pretty cheerfully; and he entertained me with a good deal of discourse by the way. as he went on in pretty smooth paths, and without stopping, he told me, in a short time we should come in sight of the house; which made my travel easier. he also told me something of the rules and orders of the house, at which i was not at all discouraged; for i considered god was a god of order, and i doubted not but there were good orders in his house, to which i was willing to submit. and as we were thus travelling along, he of a sudden spake to me, saying, "yonder is the house." at which i was exceeding glad; for now i thought i had not spent my labour in vain. the nearer we drew to it, the more my joy increased; and when i came in view of it, i pleased myself extremely with looking at it, and viewing the towers and turrets that were upon it, and the excellent carvings and paintings, with which it was adorned; and there was as much art in setting it forth as could be imagined. oh! thought i, if there be so much glory without, surely there is more within, which i shall shortly be a partaker of. as i was thus contemplating my happiness, and was come within as it were a bow-shot of the house, we were to go down into a valley; which we did: and in the bottom of the valley, glided along a small river, and i looked about to see a bridge to go over it, but could see none; at which i wondered; but on we went till we came to the river side; then i asked my guide where the bridge was. truly, he told me, there was none, but we must go through it, and so must all that go into that house. [illustration: upon which i awaked my guide, and told him my mind, and paid him what i had agreed for, and advised him never to serve any poor soul as he had done me.] i was a little troubled within myself; but he told me he had been through it, and there was no danger at all. with that i began to think within myself, have i taken all these pains, and shall i give over for so small a matter as this? what would i have gone through, when in my father's house, to attain to the knowledge of the house of god, and a possession therein? not water, nor verily fire would have stopped me then, if i had so fair a prospect of it as i now have. i told my guide if he pleased to go before, i would follow him: so in he went, and i after him; but when i came at the middle, there it was so deep that the water went over my head, but i made shift to keep my feet to the ground, and got well on the other side; and my guide and i went up together very pleasantly. when we came to the top of the hill, there was a wide plain, and in the middle thereof the house stood. so we went apace and drew near to it; and there i saw a very stately porch at the west end of the house, and at the door stood a strong tall porter, to whom my guide spake, and said to him on this wise:--"this young man hath long had a desire to be entertained in the house of god; thereupon i have conducted him hither." the porter asked him which way i came thither; he said, through the river: and i do not remember he asked me any more questions, but bid me welcome, and led me into the house, my guide going in with me, through many turnings and windings into a great hall. mine eyes went to and fro as i went about the house; and in the great hall, there i saw many people, who bade me welcome, but none knew the anguish of my soul; for i began to question whether i was not again beguiled: for i found the house foul and dirty, in almost every part, and so belined with spiders and cobwebs, that i thought in myself it had never been swept clean since it was built. and some things i met withal that displeased me yet worse, as ye shall hear; howbeit, a good bed was provided for me to rest upon if i could; and i having little stomach, after i saw how it was made ready, went to bed, and disposed myself to sleep as i could. but, alas! sleep departed from me, and my spirits were grievously vexed, and my cogitations were many and grievous. sometimes i thought of the paintings without, and how that suited not with the dirtiness that was within; and, if i was deceived, what course i should take. [illustration: the nearer we drew to it, the more my joy increased; and when i came in view of it, i pleased myself extremely with looking at it, and viewing the towers and turrets that were upon it, and the excellent carvings and paintings, with which it was adorned; and there was as much art in setting it forth as could be imagined.] after long and tedious thinking, i pleased myself with this: it may be better to-morrow. so i fell into a slumber a pretty while; but in the morning before i arose, i heard two or three contending about some accounts, in which one laid fraud to the other's charge; the other instead of vindicating himself, fell to twitting him in the teeth, with something of the like kind: they grew so hot in words, that one threatened to turn the other out of doors, and drive him back through the river, and never suffer him to come into the house any more. [illustration: i was not again beguiled: for i found the house foul and dirty, in almost every part, and so belined with spiders and cobwebs, that i thought in myself it had never been swept clean since it was built.] my heart was ready to burst with sorrow; and in the anguish of my spirit i arose and went to them, and told them, i little thought to have found such doings, or heard such language, in the house of god. i fear, said i, i am deceived; and brought in amongst you by a fair show, but see not the glory, peace and tranquillity which i expected. so i walked away to another part of the house; where i heard a great noise and hard words; as i drew near, i understood it was about choosing an officer; and two were striving for it, and each of them had got a party, and each party grew hot against the other. as soon as i could be heard, i spake to them, and told them, such kind of doings as this, did more resemble a place in the world called billingsgate, than the house of god. i went a little farther; and there i heard some women scolding about taking the upper hand, and about fashions in their clothes; and others about getting their children's play-things from each other. all this, and much more than i shall mention, increased my sorrow. [illustration: so i walked away to another part of the house; where i heard a great noise and hard words; as i drew near, i understood it was about choosing an officer; and two were striving for it, and each of them had got a party, and each party grew hot against the other.] i now began to long to speak with my guide that brought me thither; and with diligent search at last i found him, and began with him in this manner: whither hast thou brought me? and where are the rules and orders thou toldest me were in the house of god? i have often read of the beauty, order, peace and purity of the house of god, but here i find nothing but the contrary. i fear thou hast brought me to a wrong house, and hast beguiled me. so i rehearsed to him what i had met withal; to which he replied; i must expect men to have their human frailties, and that men were but men: and he would have persuaded me to be satisfied, and make further trial. and as for the orders he spake of, they were mostly about meats and drinks, and about rules for electing of officers to rule the house of god; as i would see in time, if i stayed: and as to the dirtiness of the house, he confessed, that those to whom the care was committed to keep the house clean, had not been so diligent as they ought to have been; but he hoped, upon admonition, they would be more careful. to which i returned this answer: what! dost thou talk of human frailties in the house of god? that complaint is at large in the world, but doth not become the house of god; into which i have heard none can come, but such as are redeemed from the earth, and are washed from their pollutions; for god saith, all the vessels in my house shall be holy; and they that dwell in the house of god must have pure hearts and clean hands. and much more i told him of what i had heard and read concerning the house of god. i also told him plainly, i had let in such a belief of the peace, purity, glory and comeliness of the house of god, that i was persuaded _that_ was none of it; and where to find it, i knew not; but if i never found it whilst i lived, i would never give over seeking, for my desires were after it, and i thought nothing would satisfy me short of the enjoyment of it. but as for your house here, said i, i have no satisfaction in it; it is not the place i seek for, so i must leave you. his answer to me was, he was sorry i could not be satisfied there as well as he; but if i could not, he would lay no restraint upon me: for his part, he had directed me as far as he knew, and he could do no more for me. [illustration: several in the house threw things after me, in a spiteful manner, but none hurt me.] after our discourse was ended, i got up, and went out, but knew not where to go. several in the house threw things after me, in a spiteful manner, but none hurt me. so i wandered sometimes north, and sometimes south; and every way that came in my mind. but whithersoever i went, the anguish of my soul went along with me; which was more than tongue can utter, or pen can declare, or any one can believe, except this relation should meet with some one that hath experienced the same travel; which, if it doth they will understand. but so it was, i had no comfort night nor day, but still kept going on, whether right or wrong i knew not, nor durst i ask anybody, for fear of being beguiled as before. thus i got into a vast howling wilderness, where there seemed to be no way, only now and then i found some men and women's footsteps, which was some comfort to me in my sorrow; but whether they got out without being devoured by wild beasts, or whither i should go, i knew not. but in this woeful state i travelled from day to day, casting within myself what i had best to do;--whether utterly to despair in that condition, or whether i had best to seek some other town or city, to see if i could get some other guide. the first i saw to be desperate; i also despaired of the last, having been so deceived from time to time; so that all these consultations did but increase the bitterness of my soul. [illustration: thus i got into a vast howling wilderness, where there seemed to be no way, only now and then i found some men and women's footsteps, which was some comfort to me in my sorrow.] one day, as i was travelling in the afternoon, a terrible storm arose, with hail and thunder, and great wind, which lasted till night, and in the night also. and being weary, both of body and mind, i laid me down under a great tree, and after some time fell asleep. when i awaked and came to myself, it was still very dark; and, looking about, i saw a small light near me; and it came into my mind to go to it, and see what it was; and as i went, the light went before me. then it came into my mind, that i had heard of false lights, as _ignis fatuus_, and such like, that would lead people out of their way. then thought i again, how shall i be led out of my way, that know no way of safety? and whilst i sat down to let these striving thoughts have their course, i took notice, and beheld the light as near me as at the first, as if it had waited for me. at which i was strongly affected, and thought within myself, maybe some good spirit has come to take pity on me, and to lead me out of this miserable condition. and so a resolution arose in my mind that i would get up and follow it, concluding in myself, that i could not be brought into a much worse condition, than i was now in. so i arose and followed it; and it went a gentle, easy pace at first, and i kept my eye straight to it. but afterwards, i found a great part of the luggage and provision i had got together, did but burden me in my journey; so i threw away one thing, and then another, that i thought i could best spare; but kept a great bundle of clothes still by me, not knowing whether i should need them. [illustration: and whilst i sat down to let these striving thoughts have their course, i took notice, and beheld the light as near me as at the first, as if it had waited for me.] as i thus went on, and the light before me, it led me out of the wilderness, along a plain country, without trees or inhabitants; only it appeared as if some few had gone that way;--and the light kept in that strait path, without any winding or turning, till i came to the foot of a great mountain; and, going up that mountain, i found it very hard getting up, and began to consider my large bundle of clothes and garments, and that several of them were of no use for a traveller as i was, that did not know how far i should go, nor whether i should want them, if ever i was so happy as to attain what i aimed at; nor whether the fashions would suit the place i was going to. so i threw away some, and anon other some, till none was left but what i wore. [illustration: going up that mountain, i found it very hard getting up.] thus, following my guide, i at last got up to the top of this mountain, where i saw another yet higher; i also saw a man that asked me whither i was going? i told him i could not well tell, but would tell whither i desired to go. he asked, whither? i said, to the house of god. he told me it was the way; but he thought i should never get there. i asked him, why? "why," quoth he, "there are in yonder mountain so many vipers, adders, and serpents, and such venomous beasts, that they devour many people that are going that way. for my part," he said, "i also was going, but was so affrighted with those venomous serpents, that i was forced to turn back, and so would have you." i answered him, friend, i have for a pretty while taken yonder light to be my guide, and it hath directed me along this way, and i see it doth not leave me; look, dost thou see it there before me? he answered, "yes, i see it." well, said i, i have heard by travellers, that if a man have fire or light, the venomous beasts cannot hurt him; and i intend to quicken my pace a little, and keep as close to the light as i can. come, go along with me and venture it. he said it was true, he had heard that fire would preserve from them, but he thought light would not; however, for his part he would not venture his sweet life amongst them; if i would i might; he wished me well, and so we parted. i then made haste, and got pretty near the light, and up i went the second mountain; and when i came almost to the top of it, i saw many serpents' dens and vipers' holes, both on the right hand and on the left; and the venomous beasts drew near me, and hissed at me, and i began to be in great fear, and trembled exceedingly. but many times, when they were ready to sting me, the light would step in, or appear betwixt me and them, and they were affrighted, and ran away into their holes and dens. [illustration: i saw many serpents' dens and vipers' holes, both on the right hand and on the left: and the venomous beasts drew near me, and hissed at me, and i began to be in great fear, and trembled exceedingly.] oh! when i perceived this, how did my heart leap for joy within me! my joy abounded,--my fear of the serpents abated,--my love to my kind and tender guide increased,--and my courage and confidence were renewed,--and i began to believe i was in the right way to attain my desire. so on i went, keeping my eye to the light through them all, without harm, till i came to the top of the mountain; and then i saw an exceeding large valley, so that i could not see the farther side of it: it seemed to be all moors, or places of water, and bogs and mire all over the valley, which began again to dishearten me; but, thought i, what shall i do? all is well hitherto. i was strangely delivered from the serpents; and whatever comes of it, if this light leave me not, i will follow it, if it be through fire and water. [illustration: so that sometimes the light shined round about me, and i walked in the shinings of it with great fulness of spirit.] so i kept on, and went down the mountain, a gentle easy pace, and saw many of those cruel creatures by the way, who put out their stings at me, but none hurt me. and i took notice the nearer i kept to the light, the more they kept from me. so i got down to the bottom of the mountain, into the large valley, which was very green and pleasant for a little way; but by and by, the light went toward a great moorish ground full of water, and that i thought was very dangerous; but coming just to the side of the place, i saw a small narrow path through the middle of it, just broad enough for a man to go upon it; and into that narrow way the light led me, and went before me. whilst i kept my eye steady to it, i went on safely: but if at any time i began to gaze about, my feet slipt into the mire and puddles; and then i had much ado to get into my way again. had not the light kindly and tenderly waited for me, i had lost sight of it, and had perished in the way; for sometimes it was so far before me, that i could hardly discern it; and then i would quicken my diligence, and be more careful of my goings, and keep as close to it as i could; so that sometimes the light shined round about me, and i walked in the shinings of it with great fulness of spirit. after a long time walking in this narrow way, i lifted up my eyes to the farther side of the moorish valley, and saw beyond, that there was a very high mountain, and on the top of it there was a great house: at the sight of which i was greatly comforted, supposing that might be the house i had for a long time sought. [illustration: for there were many who i perceived had been travelling in that narrow way, and had fallen into the mire; some on the right hand and some on the left, and they lay wallowing full of envy; some plucking at me, to pull me in; others throwing mire and dirt upon me to discourage me.] but after this i met with another sore exercise: for there were many who i perceived had been travelling in that narrow way, and had fallen into the mire; some on the right hand and some on the left, and they lay wallowing full of envy; some plucking at me, to pull me in; others throwing mire and dirt upon me to discourage me: others would speak very fair, on purpose to draw me into discourse with them, that whilst thus spending my precious time, i might be cast so far behind, as to lose the sight of my good guide. but i saw their evil designs, and was aware of them. so, keeping in my narrow way till i came to the end of the boggy valley, i then found firm ground under my feet, to my great comfort. i had gone but a little way, when my guide, the light, went into a narrow lane, well hedged on both sides; at which i was glad, thinking i could not go wrong, and need not now take so much care. but alas! i quickly found so many by-lanes, and ways, which lay almost as straight forward as that i went in, that if it had not been for the light, which went a little before me, i might certainly many times have gone wrong; but by carefully keeping to my good guide, i at last got up the mountain, and saw the house again. i then discerned a man of that country a pretty way off, and called to him, friend, ho! friend, what is the name of yonder great house? he told me the name of it was bethel. then i presently remembered that that was the name by which the house of god was called in my father's country, where i had heard the reports of it, and so earnestly set out to find it. [illustration: drawing nearer to it. i saw it had a large outward court, and a pretty large gate to go into it, so that a man might go in with a large burden on his back.] oh! the joy and consolation that i felt in my soul, no tongue can express,--to think that now after all my travels, perils and disappointments, i had found what i sought for. so on i went, journeying with joy unspeakable; and as i went, i viewed the outside of the house: it was very large, and had but one tower; there was no carved work about it, no paintings, nor any kind of device that could be discerned; but all the stones were curiously joined together from the top to the bottom. i also took notice, that all the stones of the building were transparent, some more and some less; and i saw no windows to let in light from without; and, drawing nearer to it, i saw it had a large outward court, and a pretty large gate to go into it, so that a man might go in with a large burden on his back. so, coming to it, in i went; and there i saw many people that were very cheerful, and appeared to live very pleasant lives. some of them told me, they had lived there many years, were well contented, and wanted for nothing; for there was a mighty tree grew in the midst of the court, and the fruit thereof was good, and the leaves also, and it bore fruit all the year long. and many of them were so kind as to invite me to sit down and eat with them; but that i refused; and they showed me a great cistern, which they had hewn out to themselves, to catch water from the elements; and they had made themselves convenient lodgings in the sides of the court, to lodge in. [illustration: and when i was stripped stark naked as ever i was born, i tried to enter, and found no great difficulty.] but all this did not satisfy me; for i saw my beloved guide pass through them all, and enter in at a little narrow door at the farther side of it. whereupon i left them, and made haste to the door, where i saw my guide had entered; and i attempted to enter in thereat, but could not, it was so strait; which put me in great sorrow of mind, and what to do i knew not; my thoughts troubled me on every side, and all ways i tried, but in vain. oh! thought i, are all my troubles and labours come to this? must i be shut out at the last? what shall i do? as i was thus perplexing myself, i thought i heard a voice, but knew not from whence it came, which said, "young man, strip thee of thy old garments, and so thou mayest enter." this occasioned yet more trouble of mind; for i was loth to go naked: but at last thought it better to go in naked, than not at all. so i at last fell to stripping, thinking that a few pitiful rags should not hinder me of so great an enjoyment.--and when i was stripped stark naked as ever i was born, i tried to enter, and found no great difficulty; and so soon as i was entered, one met me, and cast a garment of pure white linen over me, which reached to my feet; and he brought me into a narrow room and said, "rest here awhile." then i lay me down in so much joy and comfort as is impossible to be expressed; all things were so pleasant about me, and my resting place was so delightful, and my heart was so fully satisfied, that it overcame me with songs of joy. but i found it my business to be still and quiet in my happy condition, that i was come to enjoy. [illustration: as i was entered, one met me, and cast a garment of pure white linen over me, which reached to my feet; and he brought me into a narrow room and said, "rest here awhile."] i had not been long in this room, before i was called out to see the beauty and comeliness of the house. as i walked through it, i found every thing so clean and bright, that i was ravished in an admirable manner. i also met with some people that welcomed me to the house of god with such kindness as refreshed my heart: and as i came to be acquainted with them, i marked their conversation, and their discourses were exceedingly comfortable to me; no quarrelling, no contention, no high nor hot words, but all passed with meekness and reverence, and due respect one for another. the young men waited for the words of the ancients, and the virgins carried a reverent respect to the matrons; and there was an universal concord and unity, so that i wondered greatly. one day as i was opening my mind to an ancient, i told him i admired much, and wondered greatly at the universal concord that i had taken notice of, beyond all i had met with in my life. he said it must needs be so, and could not be otherwise, for that was the guide to lead me hither, which had been the guide to them all. and further told me, there could be no contention, but where two spirits strove for mastery; but it was not so in this house. his answer was so full and satisfactory to me, that i said no more to him at that time, but went on viewing, and beholding the order of every thing i saw, till my soul was filled, and i might say my cup did overflow. so that my former labours and disappointments, sorrows and perils, did signify nothing to me, having now a full reward, an hundred fold. [illustration: then he that talked with me, told me it was my work to teach the children so far as i knew, and had learned, and as far as i should from time to time be further instructed.] so i returned to my rest again, in a larger room than before, singing praises to my god, and setting forth the praises of the house, and of them that dwelt therein. and awhile after, i was called forth from the room where i was, and told i was not brought to that place only to take pleasure and delight therein; but there was work to be done, and i must take my part of it, and be faithful and diligent in my employment, to which i answered, it was enough that i had attained my desires in being admitted into this heavenly place; but if there was any business that i could do, i was willing to do it, be it what it would; for it would be my greatest joy to do anything to the advancement of the honour of the house of god, and them that dwell therein. then he that talked with me, told me it was my work to teach the children so far as i knew, and had learned, and as far as i should from time to time be further instructed. i was a little amazed thereat, knowing my inabilities: but having a little pondered that part of the sentence, that i should be from time to time further instructed, i took courage in my work, and made some progress in it, with great fear and reverence; waiting daily for those instructions i was to receive, and which i did receive in an abundant manner; and the work prospered in my hand, and the children loved me, and i loved them entirely, as though they had been my own children: and many of them grew up to a good understanding, and observed their places and orders to my great delight. [illustration: and let none of them say, it happened better with me than with many; for i have understood, since coming into this house, that the same light that appeared to me, doth appear to any poor distressed soul in the whole world.] after i had thus continued a while, he that talked with me came and told me i must take the charge of part of the household, and give them their meat in due season; and suit every one's meat, in dividing to every one's state and condition, and not feed strong men with milk, and babes with strong meat; for which purpose he gave me a key that led into the treasury or store-house; which, when i came to see and behold, was abundantly filled with all sorts of nourishments, that never could be exhausted, or spent, while the world endured. and i observed that whatever i and others took out to distribute daily among the household of god, the store-house was still full as at the beginning, and so continues to this day, and forever. and now, having continued a long time in this heavenly habitation, it comes into my mind to let my countrymen, and the children of my old father, whom i left in babylon, hear of me; for i suppose they judge me lost or devoured; but i could be glad if any, yea, all of them, were here to behold, and taste and feel what i do. and let none of them say, it happened better with me than with many; for i have understood, since coming into this house, that the same light that appeared to me, doth appear to any poor distressed soul in the whole world; but the reason that so few come here is, because they fear the perils and dangers that are in the way, more than they love the light that would lead them through them; and so turn aside, and shelter themselves in an old rotten building, that at one time or other, will fall on their heads, and they perish in the ruins. [illustration: so i went not, but sought a city whose builder is god; and now i have found it; hallelujah in the highest; glory, honour, and renown to his worthy name and power, throughout all ages and generations. amen.] now if any have a mind to know my name, let them know i had a name in my father's country, but in this long and tedious journey i have lost it. but since i came hither i have a "new name," but have no characters to signify it by, that i can write, or they can read. yet if any will come where i am, they shall know my name. but for further satisfaction, i was born in egypt, spiritually called; and my father went and lived in babylon, about the time the true children of israel were in captivity; there i became acquainted with some of the stock of the jews, about the time they were returning to their own land; and they told me wonderful things of the glory of the house they had at jerusalem, and would have had me go with them. and i understood that solomon, with many thousands of carpenters and masons had built it; upon which i considered within myself, that if solomon and the carpenters and masons had built it, carpenters and masons might at one time or another pull it down again. so i went not, but sought a city whose builder is god; and now i have found it; hallelujah in the highest; glory, honour, and renown to his worthy name and power, throughout all ages and generations. _amen_. no sect in heaven. published by h. longstreth, chestnut st. . no sect in heaven. talking of sects till late one eve, of the various doctrines the saints believe, that night i stood in a troubled dream, by the side of a darkly flowing stream. and a "churchman" down to the river came: when i heard a strange voice call his name, "good father, stop; when you cross this tide you must leave your robes on the other side." but the aged father did not mind, and his long gown floated out behind, as down to the stream his way he took, his pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. "i'm bound for heaven, and when i'm there, i shall want my book of common prayer; and though i put on a starry crown, i should feel quite lost without my gown." then he fixed his eye on the shining track, but his gown was heavy, and held him back, and the poor old father tried in vain a single step in the flood to gain. i saw him again on the other side, but his silk gown floated on the tide; and no one asked in that blissful spot, whether he belonged to "_the_ church" or not. then down to the river a quaker strayed, his dress of a sober hue was made; "my coat and hat must be all of gray, i cannot go any other way." then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, and staidly, solemnly, waded in, and his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight over his forehead, so cold and white. but a strong wind carried away his hat; a moment he silently sighed over that, and then, as he gazed to the farther shore, the coat slipped off, and was seen no more. as he entered heaven, his suit of gray went quietly sailing--away--away, and none of the angels questioned him about the width of his beaver's brim. next came dr. watts, with a bundle of psalms tied nicely up in his aged arms, and hymns as many, a very wise thing, that the people in heaven, "all round," might sing. but i thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, as he saw that the river ran broad and high, and looked rather surprised as, one by one, the psalms and hymns in the wave went down. and after him, with his mss., came wesley, the pattern of godliness, but he cried, "dear me, what shall i do? the water has soaked them through and through." and there on the river, far and wide, away they went down the swollen tide, and the saint astonished, passed through alone, without his manuscripts, up to the throne. then, gravely walking, two saints by name, down to the stream together came, but as they stopped at the river's brink, i saw one saint from the other shrink. "sprinkled or plunged, may i ask you, friend, how you attained to life's great end?" "_thus_, with a few drops on my brow." "but _i_ have been dipped, as you'll see me now. "and i really think it will hardly do, as i'm 'close communion,' to cross with you; you're bound, i know, to the realms of bliss, but you must go that way, and i'll go this." then straightway plunging with all his might, away to the left--his friend at the right, apart they went from this world of sin, but at last together they entered in. and now, when the river was rolling on, a presbyterian church went down; of women there seemed an innumerable throng, but the men i could count as they passed along. and concerning the road they could never agree, the _old_ or the _new_ way, which it could be, nor ever a moment paused to think that both would lead to the river's brink. and a sound of murmuring long and loud came ever up from the moving crowd, "you're in the old way, and i'm in the new, that is the false, and this is the true,"-- or, "i'm in the old way, and you're in the new, _that_ is the false, and _this_ is the true." but the _brethren_ only seemed to speak, modest the sisters walked, and meek, and if ever one of then chanced to say what troubles she met with on the way, how she longed to pass to the other side, nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, a voice arose from the brethren then: "let no one speak but the 'holy men;' for have ye not heard the words of paul, 'oh, let the women keep silence all?'" i watched them long in my curious dream, till they stood by the borders of the stream; then, just as i thought, the two ways met, but all the brethren were talking yet, and would talk on, till the heaving tide carried them over, side by side; side by side, for the way was one, the toilsome journey of life was done, and priest and quaker, and all who died, came out alike on the other side. no forms, or crosses, or books had they, no gowns of silk, or suits of gray, no creeds to guide them, or mss., for all had put on christ's righteousness. this ebook was produced by david widger <widger@cecomet.net> the weavers by gilbert parker book ii. v. the wider way vi. "hast thou never billed a many" vii. the compact viii. for his soul's sake and the land's sake ix. the letter, the night, and the woman x. the four who knew xi. against the hour of midnight xii. the jehad and the lions xiii. achmet the ropemaker strikes xiv. beyond the pale chapter v the wider way some months later the following letter came to david claridge in cairo from faith claridge in hamley: david, i write thee from the village and the land of the people which thou didst once love so well. does thee love them still? they gave thee sour bread to eat ere thy going, but yet thee didst grind the flour for the baking. thee didst frighten all who knew thee with thy doings that mad midsummer time. the tavern, the theatre, the cross-roads, and the cockpit--was ever such a day! now, davy, i must tell of a strange thing. but first, a moment. thee remembers the man kimber smitten by thee at the public-house on that day? what think thee has happened? he followed to london the lass kissed by thee, and besought her to return and marry him. this she refused at first with anger; but afterwards she said that, if in three years he was of the same mind, and stayed sober and hard- working meanwhile, she would give him an answer, she would consider. her head was high. she has become maid to a lady of degree, who has well befriended her. how do i know these things? even from jasper kimber, who, on his return from london, was taken to his bed with fever. because of the hard blows dealt him by thee, i went to make amends. he welcomed me, and soon opened his whole mind. that mind has generous moments, david, for he took to being thankful for thy knocks. now for the strange thing i hinted. after visiting jasper kimber at heddington, as i came back over the hill by the path we all took that day after the meeting--ebn ezra bey, my father, elder fairley, and thee and me--i drew near the chairmaker's but where thee lived alone all those sad months. it was late evening; the sun had set. yet i felt that i must needs go and lay my hand in love upon the door of the empty hut which had been ever as thee left it. so i came down the little path swiftly, and then round the great rock, and up towards the door. but, as i did so, my heart stood still, for i heard voices. the door was open, but i could see no one. yet there the voices sounded, one sharp and peevish with anger, the other low and rough. i could not hear what was said. at last, a figure came from the door and went quickly down the hillside. who, think thee, was it? even "neighbour eglington." i knew the walk and the forward thrust of the head. inside the hut all was still. i drew near with a kind of fear, but yet i came to the door and looked in. as i looked into the dusk, my limbs trembled under me, for who should be sitting there, a half-finished chair between his knees, but soolsby the old chair-maker! yes, it was he. there he sat looking at me with his staring blue eyes and shock of redgrey hair. "soolsby! soolsby!" said i, my heart hammering at my breast; for was not soolsby dead and buried? his eyes stared at me in fright. "why do you come?" he said in a hoarse whisper. "is he dead, then? has harm come to him?" by now i had recovered myself, for it was no ghost i saw, but a human being more distraught than was myself. "do you not know me, soolsby?" i asked. "you are mercy claridge from beyond--beyond and away," he answered dazedly. "i am faith claridge, soolsby," answered i. he started, peered forward at me, and for a moment he did not speak; then the fear went from his face. "ay, faith claridge, as i said," he answered, with apparent understanding, his stark mood passing. "no, thee said mercy claridge, soolsby," said i, "and she has been asleep these many years." "ay, she has slept soundly, thanks be to god!" he replied, and crossed himself. "why should thee call me by her name?" i inquired. "ay, is not her tomb in the churchyard?" he answered, and added quickly, "luke claridge and i are of an age to a day--which, think you, will go first?" he stopped weaving, and peered over at me with his staring blue eyes, and i felt a sudden quickening of the heart. for, at the question, curtains seemed to drop from all around me, and leave me in the midst of pains and miseries, in a chill air that froze me to the marrow. i saw myself alone--thee in egypt and i here, and none of our blood and name beside me. for we are the last, davy, the last of the claridges. but i said coldly, and with what was near to anger, that he should link his name and fate with that of luke claridge: "which of ye two goes first is god's will, and according to his wisdom. which, think thee," added i--and now i cannot forgive myself for saying it--"which, think thee, would do least harm in going?" "i know which would do most good," he answered, with a harsh laugh in his throat. yet his blue eyes looked kindly at me, and now he began to nod pleasantly. i thought him a little mad, but yet his speech had seemed not without dark meaning. "thee has had a visitor," i said to him presently. he laughed in a snarling way that made me shrink, and answered: "he wanted this and he wanted that--his high-handed, second-best lordship. ay, and he would have it, because it pleased him to have it--like his father before him. a poor sparrow on a tree-top, if you tell him he must not have it, he will hunt it down the world till it is his, as though it was a bird of paradise. and when he's seen it fall at last, he'll remember but the fun of the chase; and the bird may get to its tree-top again--if it can--if it can--if it can, my lord! that is what his father was, the last earl, and that is what he is who left my door but now. he came to snatch old soolsby's palace, his nest on the hill, to use it for a telescope, or such whimsies. he has scientific tricks like his father before him. now is it astronomy, and now chemistry, and suchlike; and always it is the eglington mind, which let god a'mighty make it as a favour. he would have old soolsby's palace for his spy-glass, would he then? it scared him, as though i was the devil himself, to find me here. i had but come back in time--a day later, and he would have sat here and seen me in the pit below before giving way. possession's nine points were with me; and here i sat and faced him; and here he stormed, and would do this and should do that; and i went on with my work. then he would buy my colisyum, and i wouldn't sell it for all his puffball lordship might offer. isn't the house of the snail as much to him as the turtle's shell to the turtle? i'll have no upstart spilling his chemicals here, or devilling the stars from a seat on my roof." "last autumn," said i, "david claridge was housed here. thy palace was a prison then." "i know well of that. haven't i found his records here? and do you think his makeshift lordship did not remind me?" "records? what records, soolsby?" asked i, most curious. "writings of his thoughts which he forgot-- food for mind and body left in the cupboard." "give them to me upon this instant, soolsby," said i. "all but one," said he, "and that is my own, for it was his mind upon soolsby the drunken chair-maker. god save him from the heathen sword that slew his uncle. two better men never sat upon a chair!" he placed the papers in my hand, all save that one which spoke of him. ah, david, what with the flute and the pen, banishment was no pain to thee! . . . he placed the papers, save that one, in my hands, and i, womanlike, asked again for all. "some day," said he, "come, and i will read it to you. nay, i will give you a taste of it now," he added, as he brought forth the writing. "thus it reads." here are thy words, davy. what think thee of them now? "as i dwell in this house i know soolsby as i never knew him when he lived, and though, up here, i spent many an hour with him. men leave their impressions on all around them. the walls which have felt their look and their breath, the floor which has taken their footsteps, the chairs in which they have sat, have something of their presence. i feel soolsby here at times so sharply that it would seem he came again and was in this room, though he is dead and gone. i ask him how it came he lived here alone; how it came that he made chairs, he, with brains enough to build great houses or great bridges; how it was that drink and he were such friends; and how he, a catholic, lived here among us quakers, so singular, uncompanionable, and severe. i think it true, and sadly true, that a man with a vice which he is able to satisfy easily and habitually, even as another satisfies a virtue, may give up the wider actions of the world and the possibilities of his life for the pleasure which his one vice gives him, and neither miss nor desire those greater chances of virtue or ambition which he has lost. the simplicity of a vice may be as real as the simplicity of a virtue." ah, david, david, i know not what to think of those strange words; but old soolsby seemed well to understand thee, and he called thee "a first-best gentleman." is my story long? well, it was so strange, and it fixed itself upon my mind so deeply, and thy writings at the hut have been so much in my hands and in my mind, that i have put it all down here. when i asked soolsby how it came he had been rumoured dead, he said that he himself had been the cause of it; but for what purpose he would not say, save that he was going a long voyage, and had made up his mind to return no more. "i had a friend," he said, "and i was set to go and see that friend again. . . . but the years go on, and friends have an end. life spills faster than the years," he said. and he would say no more, but would walk with me even to my father's door. "may the blessed virgin and all the saints be with you," he said at parting, "if you will have a blessing from them. and tell him who is beyond and away in egypt that old soolsby's busy making a chair for him to sit in when the scarlet cloth is spread, and the east and west come to salaam before him. tell him the old man says his fluting will be heard." and now, david, i have told thee all, nearly. remains to say that thy one letter did our hearts good. my father reads it over and over, and shakes his head sadly, for, truth is, he has a fear that the world may lay its hand upon thee. one thing i do observe, his heart is hard set against lord eglington. in degree it has ever been so; but now it is like a constant frown upon his forehead. i see him at his window looking out towards the cloistered house; and if our neighbour comes forth, perhaps upon his hunter, or now in his cart, or again with his dogs, he draws his hat down upon his eyes and whispers to himself. i think he is ever setting thee off against lord eglington; and that is foolish, for eglington is but a man of the earth earthy. his is the soul of the adventurer. now what more to be set down? i must ask thee how is thy friend ebn ezra bey? i am glad thee did find all he said was true, and that in damascus thee was able to set a mark by my uncle's grave. but that the prince pasha of egypt has set up a claim against my uncle's property is evil news; though, thanks be to god, as my father says, we have enough to keep us fed and clothed and housed. but do thee keep enough of thy inheritance to bring thee safe home again to those who love thee. england is ever grey, davy, but without thee it is grizzled--all one "quaker drab," as says the philistine. but it is a comely and a good land, and here we wait for thee. in love and remembrance. i am thy mother's sister, thy most loving friend. faith. david received this letter as he was mounting a huge white syrian donkey to ride to the mokattam hills, which rise sharply behind cairo, burning and lonely and large. the cities of the dead khalifas and mamelukes separated them from the living city where the fellah toiled, and arab, bedouin, copt strove together to intercept the fruits of his toiling, as it passed in the form of taxes to the palace of the prince pasha; while in the dark corners crouched, waiting, the cormorant usurers--greeks, armenians, and syrians, a hideous salvage corps, who saved the house of a man that they might at last walk off with his shirt and the cloth under which he was carried to his grave. in a thousand narrow streets and lanes, in the warm glow of the bazaars, in earth-damp huts, by blistering quays, on the myriad ghiassas on the river, from long before sunrise till the sunset-gun boomed from the citadel rising beside the great mosque whose pinnacles seem to touch the blue, the slaves of the city of prince kaid ground out their lives like corn between the millstones. david had been long enough in egypt to know what sort of toiling it was. a man's labour was not his own. the fellah gave labour and taxes and backsheesh and life to the state, and the long line of tyrants above him, under the sting of the kourbash; the high officials gave backsheesh to the prince pasha, or to his mouffetish, or to his chief eunuch, or to his barber, or to some slave who had his ear. but all the time the bright, unclouded sun looked down on a smiling land, and in cairo streets the din of the hammers, the voices of the boys driving heavily laden donkeys, the call of the camel-drivers leading their caravans into the great squares, the clang of the brasses of the sherbet-sellers, the song of the vendor of sweetmeats, the drone of the merchant praising his wares, went on amid scenes of wealth and luxury, and the city glowed with colour and gleamed with light. dark faces grinned over the steaming pot at the door of the cafes, idlers on the benches smoked hasheesh, female street-dancers bared their faces shamelessly to the men, and indolent musicians beat on their tiny drums, and sang the song of "o seyyid," or of "antar"; and the reciter gave his sing-song tale from a bench above his fellows. here a devout muslim, indifferent to the presence of strangers, turned his face to the east, touched his forehead to the ground, and said his prayers. there, hung to a tree by a deserted mosque near by, the body of one who was with them all an hour before, and who had paid the penalty for some real or imaginary crime; while his fellows blessed allah that the storm had passed them by. guilt or innocence did not weigh with them; and the dead criminal, if such he were, who had drunk his glass of water and prayed to allah, was, in their sight, only fortunate and not disgraced, and had "gone to the bosom of allah." now the muezzin from a minaret called to prayer, and the fellah in his cotton shirt and yelek heard, laid his load aside, and yielded himself to his one dear illusion, which would enable him to meet with apathy his end--it might be to-morrow!--and go forth to that plenteous heaven where wives without number awaited him, where fields would yield harvests without labour, where rich food in gold dishes would be ever at his hand. this was his faith. david had now been in the country six months, rapidly perfecting his knowledge of arabic, speaking it always to his servant mahommed hassan, whom he had picked from the streets. ebn ezra bey had gone upon his own business to fazougli, the tropical siberia of egypt, to liberate, by order of prince kaid,--and at a high price--a relative banished there. david had not yet been fortunate with his own business--the settlement of his uncle benn's estate--though the last stages of negotiation with the prince pasha seemed to have been reached. when he had brought the influence of the british consulate to bear, promises were made, doors were opened wide, and pasha and bey offered him coffee and talked to him sympathetically. they had respect for him more than for most franks, because the prince pasha had honoured him with especial favour. perhaps because david wore his hat always and the long coat with high collar like a turk, or because prince kaid was an acute judge of human nature, and also because honesty was a thing he greatly desired--in others--and never found near his own person; however it was, he had set david high in his esteem at once. this esteem gave greater certainty that any backsheesh coming from the estate of benn claridge would not be sifted through many hands on its way to himself. of benn claridge prince kaid had scarcely even heard until he died; and, indeed, it was only within the past few years that the quaker merchant had extended his business to egypt and had made his headquarters at assiout, up the river. david's donkey now picked its way carefully through the narrow streets of the moosky. arabs and fellaheen squatting at street corners looked at him with furtive interest. a foreigner of this character they had never before seen, with coat buttoned up like an egyptian official in the presence of his superior, and this wide, droll hat on his head. david knew that he ran risks, that his confidence invited the occasional madness of a fanatical mind, which makes murder of the infidel a passport to heaven; but as a man he took his chances, and as a christian he believed he would suffer no mortal hurt till his appointed time. he was more oriental, more fatalist, than he knew. he had also early in his life learned that an honest smile begets confidence; and his face, grave and even a little austere in outline, was usually lighted by a smile. from the mokattam hills, where he read faith's letter again, his back against one of the forts which napoleon had built in his egyptian days, he scanned the distance. at his feet lay the great mosque, and the citadel, whose guns controlled the city, could pour into it a lava stream of shot and shell. the nile wound its way through the green plains, stretching as far to the north as eye could see between the opal and mauve and gold of the libyan hills. far over in the western vista a long line of trees, twining through an oasis flanking the city, led out to a point where the desert abruptly raised its hills of yellow sand. here, enormous, lonely, and cynical, the pyramids which cheops had built, the stone sphinx of ghizeh, kept faith with the desert in the glow of rainless land-reminders ever that the east, the mother of knowledge, will by knowledge prevail; that: "the thousand years of thy insolence the thousand years of thy faith, will be paid in fiery recompense, and a thousand years of bitter death." "the sword--for ever the sword," david said to himself, as he looked: "rameses and david and mahomet and constantine, and how many conquests have been made in the name of god! but after other conquests there have been peace and order and law. here in egypt it is ever the sword, the survival of the strongest." as he made his way down the hillside again he fell to thinking upon all faith had written. the return of the drunken chair-maker made a deep impression on him--almost as deep as the waking dreams he had had of his uncle calling him. "soolsby and me--what is there between soolsby and me?" he asked himself now as he made his way past the tombs of the mamelukes. "he and i are as far apart as the poles, and yet it comes to me now, with a strange conviction, that somehow my life will be linked with that of the drunken romish chair-maker. to what end?" then he fell to thinking of his uncle benn. the east was calling him. "something works within me to hold me here, a work to do." from the ramparts of the citadel he watched the sun go down, bathing the pyramids in a purple and golden light, throwing a glamour over all the western plain, and making heavenly the far hills with a plaintive colour, which spoke of peace and rest, but not of hope. as he stood watching, he was conscious of people approaching. voices mingled, there was light laughter, little bursts of admiration, then lower tones, and then he was roused by a voice calling. he turned round. a group of people were moving towards the exit from the ramparts, and near himself stood a man waving an adieu. "well, give my love to the girls," said the man cheerily. merry faces looked back and nodded, and in a moment they were gone. the man turned round, and looked at david, then he jerked his head in a friendly sort of way and motioned towards the sunset. "good enough, eh?" "surely, for me," answered david. on the instant he liked the red, wholesome face, and the keen, round, blue eyes, the rather opulent figure, the shrewd, whimsical smile, all aglow now with beaming sentimentality, which had from its softest corner called out: "well, give my love to the girls." "quaker, or i never saw germantown and philadelphy," he continued, with a friendly manner quite without offence. "i put my money on quakers every time." "but not from germantown or philadelphia," answered david, declining a cigar which his new acquaintance offered. "bet you, i know that all right. but i never saw quakers anywhere else, and i meant the tribe and not the tent. english, i bet? of course, or you wouldn't be talking the english language--though i've heard they talk it better in boston than they do in england, and in chicago they're making new english every day and improving on the patent. if chicago can't have the newest thing, she won't have anything. 'high hopes that burn like stars sublime,' has chicago. she won't let shakespeare or milton be standards much longer. she won't have it--simply won't have england swaggering over the english language. oh, she's dizzy, is chicago--simply dizzy. i was born there. parents, one philadelphy, one new york, one pawtucket--the pawtucket one was the step-mother. father liked his wives from the original states; but i was born in chicago. my name is lacey--thomas tilman lacey of chicago." "i thank thee," said david. "and you, sir?" "david claridge." "of--?" "of hamley." "mr. claridge of hamley. mr. claridge, i am glad to meet you." they shook hands. "been here long, mr. claridge?" "a few months only." "queer place--gilt-edged dust-bin; get anything you like here, from a fresh gutter-snipe to old haroun-al-raschid. it's the biggest jack-pot on earth. barnum's the man for this place--p. t. barnum. golly, how the whole thing glitters and stews! out of shoobra his high jinks pasha kennels with his lions and lives with his cellars of gold, as if he was going to take them with him where he's going--and he's going fast. here --down here, the people, the real people, sweat and drudge between a cake of dourha, an onion, and a balass of water at one end of the day, and a hemp collar and their feet off the ground at the other." "you have seen much of egypt?" asked david, feeling a strange confidence in the garrulous man, whose frankness was united to shrewdness and a quick, observant eye. "how much of egypt i've seen, the egypt where more men get lost, strayed, and stolen than die in their beds every day, the egypt where a eunuch is more powerful than a minister, where an official will toss away a life as i'd toss this cigar down there where the last mameluke captain made his great jump, where women--lord a'mighty! where women are divorced by one evil husband, by the dozen, for nothing they ever did or left undone, and yet 'd be cut to pieces by their own fathers if they learned that 'to step aside is human--' mr. claridge, of that egypt i don't know much more'n would entitle me to say, how d'ye do. but it's enough for me. you've seen something--eh?" "a little. it is not civilised life here. yet--yet a few strong patriotic men--" lacey looked quizzically at david. "say," he said, "i thought that about mexico once. i said manana-- this manana is the curse of mexico. it's always to-morrow--to-morrow --to-morrow. let's teach 'em to do things to-day. let's show 'em what business means. two million dollars went into that experiment, but manana won. we had good hands, but it had the joker. after five years i left, with a bald head at twenty-nine, and a little book of noble thoughts--tips for the tired, or things you can say to-day on what you can do to-morrow. i lost my hair worrying, but i learned to be patient. the dagos wanted to live in their own way, and they did. it's one thing to be a missionary and say the little word in season; it's another to run your soft red head against a hard stone wall. i went to mexico a conquistador, i left it a child of time, who had learned to smile; and i left some millions behind me, too. i said to an old padre down there that i knew--we used to meet in the cafe manrique and drink chocolate-- i said to him, 'padre, the lord's prayer is a mistake down here.' 'si, senor,' he said, and smiled his far-away smile at me. 'yes,' said i, 'for you say in the lord's prayer, "give us this day our daily bread."' 'si, senor,' he says, 'but we do not expect it till to-morrow!' the padre knew from the start, but i learned at great expense, and went out of business--closed up shop for ever, with a bald head and my tips for the tired. well, i've had more out of it all, i guess, than if i'd trebled the millions and wiped manana off the mexican coat of arms." "you think it would be like that here?" david asked abstractedly. lacey whistled. "there the government was all right and the people all wrong. here the people are all right and the government all wrong. say, it makes my eyes water sometimes to see the fellah slogging away. he's a jim-dandy--works all day and half the night, and if the tax-gatherer isn't at the door, wakes up laughing. i saw one"--his light blue eyes took on a sudden hardness--"laughing on the other side of his mouth one morning. they were 'kourbashing' his feet; i landed on them as the soles came away. i hit out." his face became grave, he turned the cigar round in his mouth. "it made me feel better, but i had a close call. lucky for me that in mexico i got into the habit of carrying a pop-gun. it saved me then. but it isn't any use going on these special missions. we americans think a lot of ourselves. we want every land to do as we do; and we want to make 'em do it. but a strong man here at the head, with a sword in his hand, peace in his heart, who'd be just and poor--how can you make officials honest when you take all you can get yourself--! but, no, i guess it's no good. this is a rotten cotton show." lacey had talked so much, not because he was garrulous only, but because the inquiry in david's eyes was an encouragement to talk. whatever his misfortunes in mexico had been, his forty years sat lightly on him, and his expansive temperament, his childlike sentimentality, gave him an appearance of beaming, sophisticated youth. david was slowly apprehending these things as he talked--subconsciously, as it were; for he was seeing pictures of the things he himself had observed, through the lens of another mind, as primitive in some regards as his own, but influenced by different experiences. "say, you're the best listener i ever saw," added lacey, with a laugh. david held out his hand. "thee sees things clearly," he answered. lacey grasped his hand. at that moment an orderly advanced towards them. "he's after us--one of the palace cavalry," said lacey. "effendi--claridge effendi! may his grave be not made till the karadh- gatherers return," said the orderly to david. "my name is claridge," answered david. "to the hotel, effendi, first, then to the mokattam hills after thee, then here--from the effendina, on whom be god's peace, this letter for thee." david took the letter. "i thank thee, friend," he said. as he read it, lacey said to the orderly in arabic "how didst thou know he was here?" the orderly grinned wickedly. "always it is known what place the effendi honours. it is not dark where he uncovers his face." lacey gave a low whistle. "say, you've got a pull in this show," he said, as david folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. "in egypt, if the master smiles on you, the servant puts his nose in the dust." "the prince pasha bids me to dinner at the palace to-night. i have no clothes for such affairs. yet--" his mind was asking itself if this was a door opening, which he had no right to shut with his own hand. there was no reason why he should not go; therefore there might be a reason why he should go. it might be, it no doubt was, in the way of facilitating his business. he dismissed the orderly with an affirmative and ceremonial message to prince kaid--and a piece of gold. "you've learned the custom of the place," said lacey, as he saw the gold piece glitter in the brown palm of the orderly. "i suppose the man's only pay is in such service," rejoined david. "it is a land of backsheesh. the fault is not with the people; it is with the rulers. i am not sorry to share my goods with the poor." "you'll have a big going concern here in no time," observed lacey. "now, if i had those millions i left in mexico--" suddenly he stopped. "is it you that's trying to settle up an estate here--at assiout--belonged to an uncle?" david inclined his head. "they say that you and prince kaid are doing the thing yourselves, and that the pashas and judges and all the high-mogul sharks of the medjidie think that the end of the world has come. is that so?" "it is so, if not completely so. there are the poor men and humble--the pashas and judges and the others of the medjidie, as thee said, are not poor. but such as the orderly yonder--" he paused meditatively. lacey looked at david with profound respect. "you make the poorest your partners, your friends. i see, i see. jerusalem, that's masterly! i admire you. it's a new way in this country." then, after a moment: "it'll do--by golly, it'll do! not a bit more costly, and you do some good with it. yes--it--will--do." "i have given no man money save in charity and for proper service done openly," said david, a little severely. "say--of course. and that's just what isn't done here. everything goes to him who hath, and from him who hath not is taken away even that which he hath. one does the work and another gets paid--that's the way here. but you, mr. claridge, you clinch with the strong man at the top, and, down below, you've got as your partners the poor man, whose name is legion. if you get a fall out of the man at the top, you're solid with the legion. and if the man at the top gets up again and salaams and strokes your hand, and says, 'be my brother,' then it's a full nile, and the fig-tree putteth forth its tender branches, and the date-palm flourisheth, and at the village pond the thanksgiving turkey gobbles and is glad. 'selah'!" the sunset gun boomed out from the citadel. david turned to go, and lacey added: "i'm waiting for a pasha who's taking toll of the officers inside there --achmet pasha. they call him the ropemaker, because so many pass through his hands to the nile. the old muslin i call him, because he's so diaphanous. thinks nobody can see through him, and there's nobody that can't. if you stay long in egypt, you'll find that achmet is the worst, and nahoum the armenian the deepest, pasha in all this sickening land. achmet is cruel as a tiger to any one that stands in his way; nahoum, the whale, only opens out to swallow now and then; but when nahoum does open out, down goes jonah, and never comes up again. he's a deep one, and a great artist is nahoum. i'll bet a dollar you'll see them both to-night at the palace--if kaid doesn't throw them to the lions for their dinner before yours is served. here one shark is swallowed by another bigger, till at last the only and original sea-serpent swallows 'em all." as david wound his way down the hills, lacey waved a hand after him. "well, give my love to the girls," he said. chapter vi "hast thou never killed a man?" "claridge effendi!" as david moved forward, his mind was embarrassed by many impressions. he was not confused, but the glitter and splendour, the oriental gorgeousness of the picture into which he stepped, excited his eye, roused some new sense in him. he was a curious figure in those surroundings. the consuls and agents of all the nations save one were in brilliant uniform, and pashas, generals, and great officials were splendid in gold braid and lace, and wore flashing orders on their breasts. david had been asked for half-past eight o'clock, and he was there on the instant; yet here was every one assembled, the prince pasha included. as he walked up the room he suddenly realised this fact, and, for a moment, he thought he had made a mistake; but again he remembered distinctly that the letter said half-past eight, and he wondered now if this had been arranged by the prince--for what purpose? to afford amusement to the assembled company? he drew himself up with dignity, his face became graver. he had come in a quaker suit of black broadcloth, with grey steel buttons, and a plain white stock; and he wore his broad-brimmed hat--to the consternation of the british consul-general and the europeans present, to the amazement of the turkish and native officials, who eyed him keenly. they themselves wore red tarbooshes, as did the prince; yet all of them knew that the european custom of showing respect was by doffing the hat. the prince pasha had settled that with david, however, at their first meeting, when david had kept on his hat and offered kaid his hand. now, with amusement in his eyes, prince kaid watched david coming up the great hall. what his object was in summoning david for an hour when all the court and all the official europeans should be already present, remained to be seen. as david entered, kaid was busy receiving salaams, and returning greeting, but with an eye to the singularly boyish yet gallant figure approaching. by the time david had reached the group, the prince pasha was ready to receive him. "friend, i am glad to welcome thee," said the effendina, sly humour lurking at the corner of his eye. conscious of the amazement of all present, he held out his hand to david. "may thy coming be as the morning dew, friend," he added, taking david's willing hand. "and thy feet, kaid, wall in goodly paths, by the grace of god the compassionate and merciful." as a wind, unfelt, stirs the leaves of a forest, making it rustle delicately, a whisper swept through the room. official egypt was dumfounded. many had heard of david, a few had seen him, and now all eyed with inquisitive interest one who defied so many of the customs of his countrymen; who kept on his hat; who used a mahommedan salutation like a true believer; whom the effendina honoured--and presently honoured in an unusual degree by seating him at table opposite himself, where his chief chamberlain was used to sit. during dinner kaid addressed his conversation again and again to david, asking questions put to disconcert the consuls and other official folk present, confident in the naive reply which would be returned. for there was a keen truthfulness in the young man's words which, however suave and carefully balanced, however gravely simple and tactful, left no doubt as to their meaning. there was nothing in them which could be challenged, could be construed into active criticism of men or things; and yet much he said was horrifying. it made achmet pasha sit up aghast, and nahoum pasha, the astute armenian, for a long time past the confidant and favourite of the prince pasha, laugh in his throat; for, if there was a man in egypt who enjoyed the thrust of a word or the bite of a phrase, it was nahoum. christian though he was, he was, nevertheless, oriental to his farthermost corner, and had the culture of a french savant. he had also the primitive view of life, and the morals of a race who, in the clash of east and west, set against western character and directness, and loyalty to the terms of a bargain, the demoralised cunning of the desert folk; the circuitous tactics of those who believed that no man spoke the truth directly, that it must ever be found beneath devious and misleading words, to be tracked like a panther, as an antipodean bushman once said, "through the sinuosities of the underbrush." nahoum pasha had also a rich sense of grim humour. perhaps that was why he had lived so near the person of the prince, had held office so long. there were no grand viziers in egypt; but he was as much like one as possible, and he had one uncommon virtue, he was greatly generous. if he took with his right hand he gave with his left; and mahommedan as well as copt and armenian, and beggars of every race and creed, hung about his doors each morning to receive the food and alms he gave freely. after one of david's answers to kaid, which had had the effect of causing his highness to turn a sharp corner of conversation by addressing himself to the french consul, nahoum said suavely: "and so, monsieur, you think that we hold life lightly in the east--that it is a characteristic of civilisation to make life more sacred, to cherish it more fondly?" he was sitting beside david, and though he asked the question casually, and with apparent intention only of keeping talk going, there was a lurking inquisition in his eye. he had seen enough to-night to make him sure that kaid had once more got the idea of making a european his confidant and adviser; to introduce to his court one of those mad englishmen who cared nothing for gold--only for power; who loved administration for the sake of administration and the foolish joy of labour. he was now set to see what sort of match this intellect could play, when faced by the inherent contradictions present in all truths or the solutions of all problems. "it is one of the characteristics of that which lies behind civilisation, as thee and me have been taught," answered david. nahoum was quick in strategy, but he was unprepared for david's knowledge that he was an armenian christian, and he had looked for another answer. but he kept his head and rose to the occasion. "ah, it is high, it is noble, to save life--it is so easy to destroy it," he answered. "i saw his highness put his life in danger once to save a dog from drowning. to cherish the lives of others, and to be careless of our own; to give that of great value as though it were of no worth--is it not the great lesson?" he said it with such an air of sincerity, with such dissimulation, that, for the moment, david was deceived. there was, however, on the face of the listening kaid a curious, cynical smile. he had heard all, and he knew the sardonic meaning behind nahoum's words. fat high pasha, the chief chamberlain, the corrupt and corruptible, intervened. "it is not so hard to be careless when care would be useless," he said, with a chuckle. "when the khamsin blows the dust- storms upon the caravan, the camel-driver hath no care for his camels. 'malaish!' he says, and buries his face in his yelek." "life is beautiful and so difficult--to save," observed nahoum, in a tone meant to tempt david on one hand and to reach the ears of the notorious achmet pasha, whose extortions, cruelties, and taxations had built his master's palaces, bribed his harem, given him money to pay the interest on his european loans, and made himself the richest man in egypt, whose spies were everywhere, whose shadow was across every man's path. kaid might slay, might toss a pasha or a slave into the nile now and then, might invite a bey to visit him, and stroke his beard and call him brother and put diamond-dust in the coffee he drank, so that he died before two suns came and went again, "of inflammation and a natural death"; but he, achmet pasha, was the dark inquisitor who tortured every day, for whose death all men prayed, and whom some would have slain, but that another worse than himself might succeed him. at nahoum's words the dusky brown of achmet's face turned as black as the sudden dilation of the pupil of an eye deepens its hue, and he said with a guttural accent: "every man hath a time to die." "but not his own time," answered nahoum maliciously. "it would appear that in egypt he hath not always the choice of the fashion or the time," remarked david calmly. he had read the malice behind their words, and there had flashed into his own mind tales told him, with every circumstance of accuracy, of deaths within and without the palace. also he was now aware that nahoum had mocked him. he was concerned to make it clear that he was not wholly beguiled. "is there, then, for a man choice of fashion or time in england, effendi?" asked nahoum, with assumed innocence. "in england it is a matter between the giver and taker of life and himself--save where murder does its work," said david. "and here it is between man and man--is it that you would say?" asked nahoum. "there seem wider privileges here," answered david drily. "accidents will happen, privileges or no," rejoined nahoum, with lowering eyelids. the prince intervened. "thy own faith forbids the sword, forbids war, or--punishment." "the prophet i follow was called the prince of peace, friend," answered david, bowing gravely across the table. "hast thou never killed a man?" asked kaid, with interest in his eyes. he asked the question as a man might ask another if he had never visited paris. "never, by the goodness of god, never," answered david. "neither in punishment nor in battle?" "i am neither judge nor soldier, friend." "inshallah, thou hast yet far to go! thou art young yet. who can tell?" "i have never so far to go as that, friend," said david, in a voice that rang a little. "to-morrow is no man's gift." david was about to answer, but chancing to raise his eyes above the prince pasha's head, his glance was arrested and startled by seeing a face--the face of a woman-looking out of a panel in a mooshrabieh screen in a gallery above. he would not have dwelt upon the incident, he would have set it down to the curiosity of a woman of the harem, but that the face looking out was that of an english girl, and peering over her shoulder was the dark, handsome face of an egyptian or a turk. self-control was the habit of his life, the training of his faith, and, as a rule, his face gave little evidence of inner excitement. demonstration was discouraged, if not forbidden, among the quakers, and if, to others, it gave a cold and austere manner, in david it tempered to a warm stillness the powerful impulses in him, the rivers of feeling which sometimes roared through his veins. only nahoum pasha had noticed his arrested look, so motionless did he sit; and now, without replying, he bowed gravely and deferentially to kaid, who rose from the table. he followed with the rest. presently the prince sent higli pasha to ask his nearer presence. the prince made a motion of his hand, and the circle withdrew. he waved david to a seat. "to-morrow thy business shall be settled," said the prince suavely, "and on such terms as will not startle. death-tribute is no new thing in the east. it is fortunate for thee that the tribute is from thy hand to my hand, and not through many others to mine." "i am conscious i have been treated with favour, friend," said david. "i would that i might show thee kindness. though how may a man of no account make return to a great prince?" "by the beard of my father, it is easily done, if thy kindness is a real thing, and not that which makes me poorer the more i have of it--as though one should be given a herd of horses which must not be sold but still must be fed." "i have given thee truth. is not truth cheaper than falsehood?" "it is the most expensive thing in egypt; so that i despair of buying thee. yet i would buy thee to remain here--here at my court; here by my hand which will give thee the labour thou lovest, and will defend thee if defence be needed. thou hast not greed, thou hast no thirst for honour, yet thou hast wisdom beyond thy years. kaid has never besought men, but he beseeches thee. once there was in egypt, joseph, a wise youth, who served a pharaoh, and was his chief counsellor, and it was well with the land. thy name is a good name; well-being may follow thee. the ages have gone, and the rest of the world has changed, but egypt is the same egypt, the nile rises and falls, and the old lean years and fat years come and go. though i am in truth a turk, and those who serve and rob me here are turks, yet the fellah is the same as he was five thousand years ago. what joseph the israelite did, thou canst do; for i am no more unjust than was that rameses whom joseph served. wilt thou stay with me?" david looked at kaid as though he would read in his face the reply that he must make, but he did not see kaid; he saw, rather, the face of one he had loved more than jonathan had been loved by the young shepherd-prince of israel. in his ears he heard the voice that had called him in his sleep-the voice of benn claridge; and, at the same instant, there flashed into his mind a picture of himself fighting outside the tavern beyond hamley and bidding farewell to the girl at the crossroads. "friend, i cannot answer thee now," he said, in a troubled voice. kaid rose. "i will give thee an hour to think upon it. come with me." he stepped forward. "to-morrow i will answer thee, kaid." "to-morrow there is work for thee to do. come." david followed him. the eyes that followed the prince and the quaker were not friendly. what kaid had long foreshadowed seemed at hand: the coming of a european counsellor and confidant. they realised that in the man who had just left the room with kaid there were characteristics unlike those they had ever met before in europeans. "a madman," whispered high pasha to achmet the ropemaker. "then his will be the fate of the swine of gadarene," said nahoum pasha, who had heard. "at least one need not argue with a madman." the face of achmet the ropemaker was not more pleasant than his dark words. "it is not the madman with whom you have to deal, but his keeper," rejoined nahoum. nahoum's face was heavier than usual. going to weight, he was still muscular and well groomed. his light brown beard and hair and blue eyes gave him a look almost saxon, and bland power spoke in his face and in every gesture. he was seldom without the string of beads so many orientals love to carry, and, armenian christian as he was, the act seemed almost religious. it was to him, however, like a ground-wire in telegraphy-- it carried off the nervous force tingling in him and driving him to impulsive action, while his reputation called for a constant outward urbanity, a philosophical apathy. he had had his great fight for place and power, alien as he was in religion, though he had lived in egypt since a child. bar to progress as his religion had been at first, it had been an advantage afterwards; for, through it, he could exclude himself from complications with the wakfs, the religious court of the muslim creed, which had lands to administer, and controlled the laws of marriage and inheritance. he could shrug his shoulders and play with his beads, and urbanely explain his own helplessness and ineligibility when his influence was summoned, or it was sought to entangle him in warring interests. oriental through and through, the basis of his creed was similar to that of a muslim: mahomet was a prophet and christ was a prophet. it was a case of rival prophets--all else was obscured into a legend, and he saw the strife of race in the difference of creed. for the rest, he flourished the salutations and language of the arab as though they were his own, and he spoke arabic as perfectly as he did french and english. he was the second son of his father. the first son, who was but a year older, and was as dark as he was fair, had inherited--had seized--all his father's wealth. he had lived abroad for some years in france and england. in the latter place he had been one of the turkish embassy, and, having none of the outward characteristics of the turk, and being in appearance more of a spaniard than an oriental, he had, by his gifts, his address and personal appearance, won the good-will of the duchess of middlesex, and had had that success all too flattering to the soul of a libertine. it had, however, been the means of his premature retirement from england, for his chief at the embassy had a preference for an oriental entourage. he was called foorgat bey. sitting at table, nahoum alone of all present had caught david's arrested look, and, glancing up, had seen the girl's face at the panel of mooshrabieh, and had seen also over her shoulder the face of his brother, foorgat bey. he had been even more astonished than david, and far more disturbed. he knew his brother's abilities; he knew his insinuating address--had he not influenced their father to give him wealth while he was yet alive? he was aware also that his brother had visited the palace often of late. it would seem as though the prince pasha was ready to make him, as well as david, a favourite. but the face of the girl--it was an english face! familiar with the palace, and bribing when it was necessary to bribe, foorgat bey had evidently brought her to see the function, there where all women were forbidden. he could little imagine foorgat doing this from mere courtesy; he could not imagine any woman, save one wholly sophisticated, or one entirely innocent, trusting herself with him--and in such a place. the girl's face, though not that of one in her teens, had seemed to him a very flower of innocence. but, as he stood telling his beads, abstractedly listening to the scandal talked by achmet and higli, he was not thinking of his brother, but of the two who had just left the chamber. he was speculating as to which room they were likely to enter. they had not gone by the door convenient to passage to kaid's own apartments. he would give much to hear the conversation between kaid and the stranger; he was all too conscious of its purport. as he stood thinking, kaid returned. after looking round the room for a moment, the prince came slowly over to nahoum, and, stretching out a hand, stroked his beard. "oh, brother of all the wise, may thy sun never pass its noon!" said kaid, in a low, friendly voice. despite his will, a shudder passed through nahoum pasha's frame. how often in egypt this gesture and such words were the prelude to assassination, from which there was no escape save by death itself. into nahoum's mind there flashed the words of an arab teacher, "there is no refuge from god but god himself," and he found himself blindly wondering, even as he felt kaid's hand upon his beard and listened to the honeyed words, what manner of death was now preparing for him, and what death of his own contriving should intervene. escape, he knew, there was none, if his death was determined on; for spies were everywhere, and slaves in the pay of kaid were everywhere, and such as were not could be bought or compelled, even if he took refuge in the house of a foreign consul. the lean, invisible, ghastly arm of death could find him, if kaid willed, though he delved in the bowels of the cairene earth, or climbed to an eagle's eyrie in the libyan hills. whether it was diamond-dust or achmet's thin thong that stopped the breath, it mattered not; it was sure. yet he was not of the breed to tremble under the descending sword, and he had long accustomed himself to the chance of "sudden demise." it had been chief among the chances he had taken when he entered the high and perilous service of kaid. now, as he felt the secret joy of these dark spirits surrounding him--achmet, and high pasha, who kept saying beneath his breath in thankfulness that it was not his turn, praise be to god!--as he, felt their secret self-gratulations, and their evil joy over his prospective downfall, he settled himself steadily, made a low salutation to kaid, and calmly awaited further speech. it came soon enough. "it is written upon a cucumber leaf--does not the world read it?--that nahoum pasha's form shall cast a longer shadow than the trees; so that every man in egypt shall, thinking on him, be as covetous as ashaah, who knew but one thing more covetous than himself--the sheep that mistook the rainbow for a rope of hay, and, jumping for it, broke his neck." kaid laughed softly at his own words. with his eye meeting kaid's again, after a low salaam, nahoum made answer: "i would that the lance of my fame might sheathe itself in the breasts of thy enemies, effendina." "thy tongue does that office well," was the reply. once more kaid laid a gentle hand upon nahoum's beard. then, with a gesture towards the consuls and europeans, he said to them in french: "if i might but beg your presence for yet a little time!" then he turned and walked away. he left by a door leading to his own apartments. when he had gone, nahoum swung slowly round and faced the agitated groups. "he who sleeps with one eye open sees the sun rise first," he said, with a sarcastic laugh. "he who goes blindfold never sees it set." then, with a complacent look upon them all, he slowly left the room by the door out of which david and kaid had first passed. outside the room his face did not change. his manner had not been bravado. it was as natural to him as david's manner was to himself. each had trained himself in his own way to the mastery of his will, and the will in each was stronger than any passion of emotion in them. so far at least it had been so. in david it was the outcome of his faith, in nahoum it was the outcome of his philosophy, a simple, fearless fatalism. david had been left by kaid in a small room, little more than an alcove, next to a larger room richly furnished. both rooms belonged to a spacious suite which lay between the harem and the major portion of the palace. it had its own entrance and exits from the palace, opening on the square at the front, at the back opening on its own garden, which also had its own exits to the public road. the quarters of the chief eunuch separated the suite from the harem, and mizraim, the present chief eunuch, was a man of power in the palace, knew more secrets, was more courted, and was richer than some of the princes. nahoum had an office in the palace, also, which gave him the freedom of the place, and brought him often in touch with the chief eunuch. he had made mizraim a fast friend ever since the day he had, by an able device, saved the chief eunuch from determined robbery by the former prince pasha, with whom he had suddenly come out of favour. when nahoum left the great salon, he directed his steps towards the quarters of the chief eunuch, thinking of david, with a vague desire for pursuit and conflict. he was too much of a philosopher to seek to do david physical injury--a futile act; for it could do him no good in the end, could not mend his own fortunes; and, merciless as he could be on occasion, he had no love of bloodshed. besides, the game afoot was not of his making, and he was ready to await the finish, the more so because he was sure that to-morrow would bring forth momentous things. there was a crisis in the soudan, there was trouble in the army, there was dark conspiracy of which he knew the heart, and anything might happen to-morrow! he had yet some cards to play, and achmet and higli--and another very high and great--might be delivered over to kaid's deadly purposes rather than himself tomorrow. what he knew kaid did not know. he had not meant to act yet; but new facts faced him, and he must make one struggle for his life. but as he went towards mizraim's quarters he saw no sure escape from the stage of those untoward events, save by the exit which is for all in some appointed hour. he was not, however, more perplexed and troubled than david, who, in the little room where he had been brought and left alone with coffee and cigarettes, served by a slave from some distant portion of the palace, sat facing his future. david looked round the little room. upon the walls hung weapons of every kind--from a polished dagger of toledo to a damascus blade, suits of chain armour, long-handled, two-edged arab swords, pistols which had been used in the syrian wars of ibrahim, lances which had been taken from the druses at palmyra, rude battle-axes from the tribes of the soudan, and neboots of dom-wood which had done service against napoleon at damietta. the cushions among which he sat had come from constantinople, the rug at his feet from tiflis, the prayer-rug on the wall from mecca. all that he saw was as unlike what he had known in past years as though he had come to mars or jupiter. all that he had heard recalled to him his first readings in the old testament--the story of nebuchadnezzar, of belshazzar, of ahasuerus--of ahasuerus! he suddenly remembered the face he had seen looking down at the prince's table from the panel of mooshrabieh. that english face--where was it? why was it there? who was the man with her? whose the dark face peering scornfully over her shoulder? the face of an english girl in that place dedicated to sombre intrigue, to the dark effacement of women, to the darker effacement of life, as he well knew, all too often! in looking at this prospect for good work in the cause of civilisation, he was not deceived, he was not allured. he knew into what subterranean ways he must walk, through what mazes of treachery and falsehood he must find his way; and though he did not know to the full the corruption which it was his duty to kaid to turn to incorruption, he knew enough to give his spirit pause. what would be --what could be--the end? would he not prove to be as much out of place as was the face of that english girl? the english girl! england rushed back upon him--the love of those at home; of his father, the only father he had ever known; of faith, the only mother or sister he had ever known; of old john fairley; the love of the woods and the hills where he had wandered came upon him. there was work to do in england, work too little done--the memory of the great meeting at heddington flashed upon him. could his labour and his skill, if he had any, not be used there? ah, the green fields, the soft grey skies, the quiet vale, the brave, self- respecting, toiling millions, the beautiful sense of law and order and goodness! could his gifts and labours not be used there? could not-- he was suddenly startled by a smothered cry, then a call of distress. it was the voice of a woman. he started up. the voice seemed to come from a room at his right; not that from which he had entered, but one still beyond this where he was. he sprang towards the wall and examined it swiftly. finding a division in the tapestry, he ran his fingers quickly and heavily down the crack between. it came upon the button of a spring. he pressed it, the door yielded, and, throwing it back, he stepped into the room-to see a woman struggling to resist the embraces and kisses of a man. the face was that of the girl who had looked out of the panel in the mooshrabieh screen. then it was beautiful in its mirth and animation, now it was pale and terror-stricken, as with one free hand she fiercely beat the face pressed to hers. the girl only had seen david enter. the man was not conscious of his presence till he was seized and flung against the wall. the violence of the impact brought down at his feet two weapons from the wall above him. he seized one-a dagger-and sprang to his feet. before he could move forward or raise his arm, however, david struck him a blow in the neck which flung him upon a square marble pedestal intended for a statue. in falling his head struck violently a sharp corner of the pedestal. he lurched, rolled over on the floor, and lay still. the girl gave a choking cry. david quickly stooped and turned the body over. there was a cut where the hair met the temple. he opened the waistcoat and thrust his hand inside the shirt. then he felt the pulse of the limp wrist. for a moment he looked at the face steadily, almost contemplatively it might have seemed, and then drew both arms close to the body. foorgat bey, the brother of nahoum pasha, was dead. rising, david turned, as if in a dream, to the girl. he made a motion of the hand towards the body. she understood. dismay was in her face, but the look of horror and desperation was gone. she seemed not to realise, as did david, the awful position in which they were placed, the deed which david had done, the significance of the thing that lay at their feet. "where are thy people?" said david. "come, we will go to them." "i have no people here," she said, in a whisper. "who brought thee?" she made a motion behind her towards the body. david glanced down. the eyes of the dead man were open. he stooped and closed them gently. the collar and tie were disarranged; he straightened them, then turned again to her. "i must take thee away," he said calmly. "but it must be secretly." he looked around, perplexed. "we came secretly. my maid is outside the garden--in a carriage. oh, come, let us go, let us escape. they will kill you--!" terror came into her face again. "thee, not me, is in danger--name, goodness, future, all. . . . which way did thee come?" "here--through many rooms--" she made a gesture to curtains beyond. "but we first entered through doors with sphinxes on either side, with a room where was a statue of mehemet ali." it was the room through which david had come with kaid. he took her hand. "come quickly. i know the way. it is here," he said, pointing to the panel-door by which he had entered. holding her hand still, as though she were a child, he led her quickly from the room, and shut the panel behind them. as they passed through, a hand drew aside the curtains on the other side of the room which they were leaving. presently the face of nahoum pasha followed the hand. a swift glance to the floor, then he ran forward, stooped down, and laid a hand on his brother's breast. the slight wound on the forehead answered his rapid scrutiny. he realised the situation as plainly as if it had been written down for him--he knew his brother well. noiselessly he moved forward and touched the spring of the door through which the two had gone. it yielded, and he passed through, closed the door again and stealthily listened, then stole a look into the farther chamber. it was empty. he heard the outer doors close. for a moment he listened, then went forward and passed through into the hall. softly turning the handle of the big wooden doors which faced him, he opened them an inch or so, and listened. he could hear swiftly retreating footsteps. presently he heard the faint noise of a gate shutting. he nodded his head, and was about to close the doors and turn away, when his quick ear detected footsteps again in the garden. some one--the man, of course--was returning. "may fire burn his eyes for ever! he would talk with kald, then go again among them all, and so pass out unsuspected and safe. for who but i--who but i could say he did it? and i--what is my proof? only the words which i speak." a scornful, fateful smile passed over his face. "'hast thou never killed a man?' said kaid. 'never,' said he--'by the goodness of god, never!' the voice of him of galilee, the hand of cain, the craft of jael. but god is with the patient." he went hastily and noiselessly-his footfall was light for so heavy a man-through the large room to the farther side from that by which david and kaid had first entered. drawing behind a clump of palms near a door opening to a passage leading to mizraim's quarters, he waited. he saw david enter quickly, yet without any air of secrecy, and pass into the little room where kaid had left him. for a long time there was silence. the reasons were clear in nahoum's mind why he should not act yet. a new factor had changed the equation which had presented itself a short half hour ago. a new factor had also entered into the equation which had been presented to david by kaid with so flattering an insistence. he sat in the place where kaid had left him, his face drawn and white, his eyes burning, but with no other "sign of agitation. he was frozen and still. his look was fastened now upon the door by which the prince pasha would enter, now upon the door through which he had passed to the rescue of the english girl, whom he had seen drive off safely with her maid. in their swift passage from the palace to the carriage, a thing had been done of even greater moment than the killing of the sensualist in the next room. in the journey to the gateway the girl david served had begged him to escape with her. this he had almost sharply declined; it would be no escape, he had said. she had urged that no one knew. he had replied that kaid would come again for him, and suspicion would be aroused if he were gone. "thee has safety," he had said. "i will go back. i will say that i killed him. i have taken a life, i will pay for it as is the law." excited as she was, she had seen the inflexibility of his purpose. she had seen the issue also clearly. he would give himself up, and the whole story would be the scandal of europe. "you have no right to save me only to kill me," she had said desperately. "you would give your life, but you would destroy that which is more than life to me. you did not intend to kill him. it was no murder, it was punishment." her voice had got harder. "he would have killed my life because he was evil. will you kill it because you are good? will you be brave, quixotic, but not pitiful? . . . no, no, no!" she had said, as his hand was upon the gate, "i will not go unless you promise that you will hide the truth, if you can." she had laid her hand upon his shoulder with an agonised impulse. "you will hide it for a girl who will cherish your memory her whole life long. ah--god bless you!" she had felt that she conquered before he spoke as, indeed, he did not speak, but nodded his head and murmured something indistinctly. but that did not matter, for she had won; she had a feeling that all would be well. then he had placed her in her carriage, and she was driven swiftly away, saying to herself half hysterically: "i am safe, i am safe. he will keep his word." her safety and his promise were the new factor which changed the equation for which kaid would presently ask the satisfaction. david's life had suddenly come upon problems for which his whole past was no preparation. conscience, which had been his guide in every situation, was now disarmed, disabled, and routed. it had come to terms. in going quickly through the room, they had disarranged a table. the girl's cloak had swept over it, and a piece of brie-a-brae had been thrown upon the floor. he got up and replaced it with an attentive air. he rearranged the other pieces on the table mechanically, seeing, feeling another scene, another inanimate thing which must be for ever and for ever a picture burning in his memory. yet he appeared to be casually doing a trivial and necessary act. he did not definitely realise his actions; but long afterwards he could have drawn an accurate plan of the table, could have reproduced upon it each article in its exact place as correctly as though it had been photographed. there were one or two spots of dust or dirt on the floor, brought in by his boots from the garden. he flicked them aside with his handkerchief. how still it was! or was it his life which had become so still? it seemed as if the world must be noiseless, for not a sound of the life in other parts of the palace came to him, not an echo or vibration of the city which stirred beyond the great gateway. was it the chilly hand of death passing over everything, and smothering all the activities? his pulses, which, but a few minutes past, were throbbing and pounding like drums in his ears, seemed now to flow and beat in very quiet. was this, then, the way that murderers felt, that men felt who took human life--so frozen, so little a part of their surroundings? did they move as dead men among the living, devitalised, vacuous calm? his life had been suddenly twisted out of recognition. all that his habit, his code, his morals, his religion, had imposed upon him had been overturned in one moment. to take a human life, even in battle, was against the code by which he had ever been governed, yet he had taken life secretly, and was hiding it from the world. accident? but had it been necessary to strike at all? his presence alone would have been enough to save the girl from further molestation; but, he had thrown himself upon the man like a tiger. yet, somehow, he felt no sorrow for that. he knew that if again and yet again he were placed in the same position he would do even as he had done--even as he had done with the man kimber by the fox and goose tavern beyond hamley. he knew that the blow he had given then was inevitable, and he had never felt real repentance. thinking of that blow, he saw its sequel in the blow he had given now. thus was that day linked with the present, thus had a blow struck in punishment of the wrong done the woman at the crossroads been repeated in the wrong done the girl who had just left him. a sound now broke the stillness. it was a door shutting not far off. kaid was coming. david turned his face towards the room where foorgat bey was lying dead. he lifted his arms with a sudden passionate gesture. the blood came rushing through his veins again. his life, which had seemed suspended, was set free; and an exaltation of sorrow, of pain, of action, possessed him. "i have taken a life, o my god!" he murmured. "accept mine in service for this land. what i have done in secret, let me atone for in secret, for this land--for this poor land, for christ's sake!" footsteps were approaching quickly. with a great effort of the will he ruled himself to quietness again. kaid entered, and stood before him in silence. david rose. he looked kaid steadily in the eyes. "well?" said kaid placidly. "for egypt's sake i will serve thee," was the reply. he held out his hand. kaid took it, but said, in smiling comment on the action: "as the viceroy's servant there is another way!" "i will salaam to-morrow, kaid," answered david. "it is the only custom of the place i will require of thee, effendi. come." a few moments later they were standing among the consuls and officials in the salon. "where is nahoum?" asked kaid, looking round on the agitated throng. no one answered. smiling, kaid whispered in david's ear. chapter vii the compact one by one the lights went out in the palace. the excited guests were now knocking at the doors of cairene notables, bent upon gossip of the night's events, or were scouring the bazaars for ears into which to pour the tale of how david was exalted and nahoum was brought low; how, before them all, kaid had commanded nahoum to appear at the palace in the morning at eleven, and the inglesi, as they had named david, at ten. but they declared to all who crowded upon their words that the inglesi left the palace with a face frozen white, as though it was he that had met debacle, while nahoum had been as urbane and cynical as though he had come to the fulness of his power. some, on hearing this, said: "beware nahoum!" but those who had been at the palace said: "beware the inglesi!" this still quaker, with the white shining face and pontifical hat, with his address of "thee" and "thou," and his forms of speech almost oriental in their imagery and simplicity, himself an archaism, had impressed them with a sense of power. he had prompted old diaz pasha to speak of him as a reincarnation, so separate and withdrawn he seemed at the end of the evening, yet with an uncanny mastery in his dark brown eyes. one of the ulema, or holy men, present had said in reply to diaz: "it is the look of one who hath walked with death and bought and sold with sheitan the accursed." to nahoum pasha, dim had said, as the former left the palace, a cigarette between his fingers: "sleep not nor slumber, nahoum. the world was never lost by one earthquake." and nahoum had replied with a smooth friendliness: "the world is not reaped in one harvest." "the day is at hand--the east against the west," murmured old diaz, as he passed on. "the day is far spent," answered nahoum, in a voice unheard by diaz; and, with a word to his coachman, who drove off quickly, he disappeared in the shrubbery. a few minutes later he was tapping at the door of mizraim, the chief eunuch. three times he tapped in the same way. presently the door opened, and he stepped inside. the lean, dark figure of mizraim bowed low; the long, slow fingers touched the forehead, the breast, and the lips. "may god preserve thy head from harm, excellency, and the night give thee sleep," said mizraim. he looked inquiringly at nahoum. "may thy head know neither heat nor cold, and thy joys increase," responded nahoum mechanically, and sat down. to an european it would have seemed a shameless mockery to have wished joy to this lean, hateful dweller in the between-worlds; to nahoum it was part of a life which was all ritual and intrigue, gabbling superstition and innate fatalism, decorated falsehood and a brave philosophy. "i have work for thee at last, mizraim," said nahoum. "at last?" "thou hast but played before. to-night i must see the sweat of thy brow." mizraim's cold fingers again threw themselves against his breast, forehead, and lips, and he said: "as a woman swims in a fountain, so shall i bathe in sweat for thee, who hath given with one hand and hath never taken with the other." "i did thee service once, mizraim--eh?" "i was as a bird buffeted by the wind; upon thy masts my feet found rest. behold, i build my nest in thy sails, excellency." "there are no birds in last year's nest, mizraim, thou dove," said nahoum, with a cynical smile. "when i build, i build. where i swear by the stone of the corner, there am i from dark to dark and from dawn to dawn, pasha." suddenly he swept his hand low to the ground and a ghastly sort of smile crossed over his face. "speak--i am thy servant. shall i not hear? i will put my hand in the entrails of egypt, and wrench them forth for thee." he made a gesture so cruelly, so darkly, suggestive that nahoum turned his head away. there flashed before his mind the scene of death in which his own father had lain, butchered like a beast in the shambles, a victim to the rage of ibrahim pasha, the son of mehemet ali. "then listen, and learn why i have need of thee to-night." first, nahoum told the story of david's coming, and kaid's treatment of himself, the foreshadowing of his own doom. then of david and the girl, and the dead body he had seen; of the escape of the girl, of david's return with kaid--all exactly as it had happened, save that he did; not mention the name of the dead man. it did not astonish mizraim that nahoum had kept all this secret. that crime should be followed by secrecy and further crime, if need be, seems natural to the oriental mind. mizraim had seen removal follow upon removal, and the dark nile flowed on gloomily, silently, faithful to the helpless ones tossed into its bosom. it would much have astonished him if nahoum had not shown a gaping darkness somewhere in his tale, and he felt for the key to the mystery. "and he who lies dead, excellency?" "my brother." "foorgat bey!" "even he, mizraim. he lured the girl here--a mad man ever. the other madman was in the next room. he struck--come, and thou shalt see." together they felt their way through the passages and rooms, and presently entered the room where foorgat bey was lying. nahoum struck a light, and, as he held the candle, mizraim knelt and examined the body closely. he found the slight wound on the temple, then took the candle from nahoum and held it close to the corner of the marble pedestal. a faint stain of blood was there. again he examined the body, and ran his fingers over the face and neck. suddenly he stopped, and held the light close to the skin beneath the right jaw. he motioned, and nahoum laid his fingers also on the spot. there was a slight swelling. "a blow with the fist, excellency--skilful, and english." he looked inquiringly at nahoum. "as a weasel hath a rabbit by the throat, so is the inglesi in thy hands." nahoum shook his head. "and if i went to kaid, and said, 'this is the work of the inglesi,' would he believe? kaid would hang me for the lie-- would it be truth to him? what proof have i, save the testimony of mine own eyes? egypt would laugh at that. is it the time, while yet the singers are beneath the windows, to assail the bride? all bridegrooms are mad. it is all sunshine and morning with the favourite, the inglesi. only when the shadows lengthen may he be stricken. not now." "why dost thou hide this from kaid, o thou brother of the eagle?" "for my gain and thine, keeper of the gate. to-night i am weak, because i am poor. to-morrow i shall be rich and, it may be, strong. if kaid knew of this tonight, i should be a prisoner before cockcrow. what claims has a prisoner? kaid would be in my brother's house at dawn, seizing all that is there and elsewhere, and i on my way to fazougli, to be strangled or drowned." "o wise and far-seeing! thine eye pierces the earth. what is there to do? what is my gain--what thine?" "thy gain? the payment of thy debt to me." mizraim's face lengthened. his was a loathsome sort of gratitude. he was willing to pay in kind; but what oriental ever paid a debt without a gift in return, even as a bartering irishman demands his lucky penny. "so be it, excellency, and my life is thine to spill upon the ground, a scarlet cloth for thy feet. and backsheesh?" nahoum smiled grimly. "for backsheesh, thy turban full of gold." mizraim's eyes glittered-the dull black shine of a mongrel terrier's. he caught the sleeve of nahoum's coat and kissed it, then kissed his hand. thus was their bargain made over the dead body; and mizraim had an almost superstitious reverence for the fulfilment of a bond, the one virtue rarely found in the oriental. nothing else had he, but of all men in egypt he was the best instrument nahoum could have chosen; and of all men in egypt he was the one man who could surely help him. "what is there now to do, excellency?" "my coachman is with the carriage at the gate by which the english girl left. it is open still. the key is in foorgat's pocket, no doubt; stolen by him, no doubt also. . . . this is my design. thou wilt drive him"--he pointed to the body--"to his palace, seated in the carriage as though he were alive. there is a secret entrance. the bowab of the gate will show the way; i know it not. but who will deny thee? thou comest from high places--from kaid. who will speak of this? will the bowab? in the morning foorgat will be found dead in his bed! the slight bruise thou canst heal--thou canst?" mizraim nodded. "i can smooth it from the sharpest eye." "at dawn he will be found dead; but at dawn i shall be knocking at his gates. before the world knows i shall be in possession. all that is his shall be mine, for at once the men of law shall be summoned, and my inheritance secured before kaid shall even know of his death. i shall take my chances for my life." "and the coachman, and the bowab, and others it may be?" "shall not these be with thee--thou, kaid's keeper of the harem, the lion at the door of his garden of women? would it be strange that foorgat, who ever flew at fruit above his head, perilous to get or keep, should be found on forbidden ground, or in design upon it? would it be strange to the bowab or the slave that he should return with thee stark and still? they would but count it mercy of kaid that he was not given to the serpents of the nile. a word from thee--would one open his mouth? would not the shadow of thy hand, of the swift doom, be over them? would not a handful of gold bind them to me? is not the man dead? are they not mine--mine to bind or break as i will?" "so be it! wisdom is of thee as the breath of man is his life. i will drive foorgat bey to his home." a few moments later all that was left of foorgat bey was sitting in his carriage beside mizraim the chief eunuch--sitting upright, stony, and still, and in such wise was driven swiftly to his palace. chapter viii for his soul's sake and the land's sake david came to know a startling piece of news the next morning-that foorgat bey had died of heart-disease in his bed, and was so found by his servants. he at once surmised that foorgat's body had been carried out of the palace; no doubt that it might not be thought he had come to his death by command of kaid. his mind became easier. death, murder, crime in egypt was not a nine days' wonder; it scarce outlived one day. when a man was gone none troubled. the dead man was in the bosom of allah; then why should the living be beset or troubled? if there was foul play, why make things worse by sending another life after the life gone, even in the way of justice? the girl david saved had told him her own name, and had given him the name of the hotel at which she was staying. he had an early breakfast, and prepared to go to her hotel, wishing to see her once more. there were things to be said for the first and last time and then be buried for ever. she must leave the country at once. in this sick, mad land, in this whirlpool of secret murder and conspiracy, no one could tell what plot was hatching, what deeds were forward; and he could not yet be sure that no one save himself and herself knew who had killed foorgat bey. her perfect safety lay in instant flight. it was his duty to see that she went, and at once--this very day. he would go and see her. he went to the hotel. there he learned that, with her aunt, she had left that morning for alexandria en route to england. he approved her wisdom, he applauded her decision. yet--yet, somehow, as he bent his footsteps towards his lodgings again he had a sense of disappointment, of revelation. what might happen to him--evidently that had not occurred to her. how could she know but that his life might be in danger; that, after all, they might have been seen leaving the fatal room? well, she had gone, and with all his heart he was glad that she was safe. his judgment upon last night's event was not coloured by a single direct criticism upon the girl. but he could not prevent the suggestion suddenly flashing into his mind that she had thought of herself first and last. well, she had gone; and he was here to face the future, unencumbered by aught save the weight of his own conscience. yet, the weight of his conscience! his feet were still free--free for one short hour before he went to kaid; but his soul was in chains. as he turned his course to the nile, and crossed over the great bridge, there went clanking by in chains a hundred conscripts, torn from their homes in the fayoum, bidding farewell for ever to their friends, receiving their last offerings, for they had no hope of return. he looked at their haggard and dusty faces, at their excoriated ankles, and his eyes closed in pain. all they felt he felt. what their homes were to them, these fellaheen, dragged forth to defend their country, to go into the desert and waste their lives under leaders tyrannous, cruel, and incompetent, his old open life, his innocence, his integrity, his truthfulness and character, were to him. by an impulsive act, by a rash blow, he had asserted his humanity; but he had killed his fellow-man in anger. he knew that as that fatal blow had been delivered, there was no thought of punishment--it was blind anger and hatred: it was the ancient virus working which had filled the world with war, and armed it at the expense, the bitter and oppressive expense, of the toilers and the poor. the taxes for wars were wrung out of the sons of labour and sorrow. these poor fellaheen had paid taxes on everything they possessed. taxes, taxes, nothing but taxes from the cradle! their lands, houses, and palm- trees would be taxed still, when they would reap no more. and having given all save their lives, these lives they must now give under the whip and the chain and the sword. as david looked at them in their single blue calico coverings, in which they had lived and slept-shivering in the cold night air upon the bare ground--these thoughts came to him; and he had a sudden longing to follow them and put the chains upon his own arms and legs, and go forth and suffer with them, and fight and die? to die were easy. to fight?. . . . was it then come to that? he was no longer a man of peace, but a man of the sword; no longer a man of the palm and the evangel, but a man of blood and of crime! he shrank back out of the glare of the sun; for it suddenly seemed to him that there was written upon his fore head, "this is a brother of cain." for the first time in his life he had a shrinking from the light, and from the sun which he had loved like a persian, had, in a sense, unconsciously worshipped. he was scarcely aware where he was. he had wandered on until he had come to the end of the bridge and into the great groups of traffickers who, at this place, made a market of their wares. here sat a seller of sugar cane; there wandered, clanking his brasses, a merchant of sweet waters; there shouted a cheap-jack of the nile the virtues of a knife from sheffield. yonder a camel-driver squatted and counted his earnings; and a sheepdealer haggled with the owner of a ghiassa bound for the sands of the north. the curious came about him and looked at him, but he did not see or hear. he sat upon a stone, his gaze upon the river, following with his eyes, yet without consciously observing, the dark riverine population whose ways are hidden, who know only the law of the river and spend their lives in eluding itpirates and brigands now, and yet again the peaceful porters of commerce. to his mind, never a criminal in this land but less a criminal than he! for their standard was a standard of might the only right; but he--his whole life had been nurtured in an atmosphere of right and justice, had been a spiritual demonstration against force. he was with out fear, as he was without an undue love of life. the laying down of his life had never been presented to him; and yet, now that his conscience was his only judge, and it condemned him, he would gladly have given his life to pay the price of blood. that was impossible. his life was not his own to give, save by suicide; and that would be the unpardonable insult to god and humanity. he had given his word to the woman, and he would keep it. in those brief moments she must have suffered more than most men suffer in a long life. not her hand, however, but his, had committed the deed. and yet a sudden wave of pity for her rushed over him, because the conviction seized him that she would also in her heart take upon herself the burden of his guilt as though it were her own. he had seen it in the look of her face last night. for the sake of her future it was her duty to shield herself from any imputation which might as unjustly as scandalously arise, if the facts of that black hour ever became known. ever became known? the thought that there might be some human eye which had seen, which knew, sent a shiver through him. "i would give my life a thousand times rather than that," he said aloud to the swift-flowing river. his head sank on his breast. his lips murmured in prayer: "but be merciful to me, thou just judge of israel, for thou hast made me, and thou knowest whereof i am made. here will i dedicate my life to thee for the land's sake. not for my soul's sake, o my god! if it be thy will, let my soul be cast away; but for the soul of him whose body i slew, and for his land, let my life be the long sacrifice." dreams he had had the night before--terrible dreams, which he could never forget; dreams of a fugitive being hunted through the world, escaping and eluding, only to be hemmed in once more; on and on till he grew grey and gaunt, and the hunt suddenly ended in a great morass, into which he plunged with the howling world behind him. the grey, dank mists came down on him, his footsteps sank deeper and deeper, and ever the cries, as of damned spirits, grew in his ears. mocking shapes flitted past him, the wings of obscene birds buffeted him, the morass grew up about him; and now it was all a red moving mass like a dead sea heaving about him. with a moan of agony he felt the dolorous flood above his shoulders, and then a cry pierced the gloom and the loathsome misery, and a voice he knew called to him, "david, david, i am coming!" and he had awaked with the old hallucination of his uncle's voice calling to him in the dawn. it came to him now as he sat by the water-side, and he raised his face to the sun and to the world. the idlers had left him alone; none were staring at him now. they were all intent on their own business, each man labouring after his kind. he heard the voice of a riverman as he toiled at a rope standing on the corn that filled his ghiassa from end to end, from keel to gunwale. the man was singing a wild chant of cheerful labour, the soul of the hard-smitten of the earth rising above the rack and burden of the body: "o, the garden where to-day we sow and to-morrow we reap! o, the sakkia turning by the garden walls; o, the onion-field and the date-tree growing, and my hand on the plough-by the blessing of god; strength of my soul, o my brother, all's well!" the meaning of the song got into his heart. he pressed his hand to his breast with a sudden gesture. it touched something hard. it was his flute. mechanically he had put it in his pocket when he dressed in the morning. he took it out and looked at it lovingly. into it he had poured his soul in the old days--days, centuries away, it seemed now. it should still be the link with the old life. he rose and walked towards his home again. the future spread clearly before him. rapine, murder, tyranny, oppression, were round him on every side, and the ruler of the land called him to his counsels. here a great duty lay--his life for this land, his life, and his love, and his faith. he would expiate his crime and his sin, the crime of homicide for which he alone was responsible, the sin of secrecy for which he and another were responsible. and that other? if only there had been but one word of understanding between them before she left! at the door of his house stood the american whom he had met at the citadel yesterday-it seemed a hundred years ago. "i've got a letter for you," lacey said. "the lady's aunt and herself are cousins of mine more or less removed, and originally at home in the u. s. a. a generation ago. her mother was an american. she didn't know your name--miss hylda maryon, i mean. i told her, but there wasn't time to put it on." he handed over the unaddressed envelope. david opened the letter, and read: "i have seen the papers. i do not understand what has happened, but i know that all is well. if it were not so, i would not go. that is the truth. grateful i am, oh, believe me! so grateful that i do not yet know what is the return which i must make. but the return will be made. i hear of what has come to you--how easily i might have destroyed all! my thoughts blind me. you are great and good; you will know at least that i go because it is the only thing to do. i fly from the storm with a broken wing. take now my promise to pay what i owe in the hour fate wills--or in the hour of your need. you can trust him who brings this to you; he is a distant cousin of my own. do not judge him by his odd and foolish words. they hide a good character, and he has a strong nature. he wants work to do. can you give it? farewell." david put the letter in his pocket, a strange quietness about his heart. he scarcely realised what lacey was saying. "great girl that. troubled about something in england, i guess. going straight back." david thanked him for the letter. lacey became red in the face. he tried to say something, but failed. "thee wishes to say something to me, friend?" asked david. "i'm full up; i can't speak. but, say--" "i am going to the palace now. come back at noon if you will." he wrung david's hand in gratitude. "you're going to do it. you're going to do it. i see it. it's a great game--like abe lincoln's. say, let me black your boots while you're doing it, will you?" david pressed his hand. chapter ix the letter, the night, and the woman "to-day has come the fulfilment of my dream, faith. i am given to my appointed task; i am set on a road of life in which there is no looking back. my dreams of the past are here begun in very truth and fact. when, in the night, i heard uncle benn calling, when in the meeting-house voices said, 'come away, come away, and labour, thou art idle,' i could hear my heart beat in the ardour to be off. yet i knew not whither. now i know. "last night the prince pasha called me to his council, made me adviser, confidant, as one who has the ear of his captain--after he had come to terms with me upon that which uncle benn left of land and gold. think not that he tempted me. "last night i saw favourites look upon me with hate because of kaid's favour, though the great hall was filled with show of cheerful splendour, and men smiled and feasted. to-day i know that in the palace where i was summoned to my first: duty with the prince, every step i took was shadowed, every motion recorded, every look or word noted and set down. i have no fear of them. they are not subtle enough for the unexpected acts of honesty in the life of a true man. yet i do not wonder men fail to keep honest in the midst of this splendour, where all is strife as to who shall have the prince's favour; who shall enjoy the fruits of bribery, backsheesh, and monopoly; who shall wring from the slave and the toil-ridden fellah the coin his poor body mints at the corvee, in his own taxed fields of dourha and cucumbers. "is this like anything we ever dreamed at hamley, faith? yet here am i set, and here shall i stay till the skein be ravelled out. soon i shall go into the desert upon a mission to the cities of the south, to dongola, khartoum, and darfur and beyond; for there is trouble yonder, and war is near, unless it is given to me to bring peace. so i must bend to my study of arabic, which i am thankful i learned long ago. and i must not forget to say that i shall take with me on my journey that faithful muslim ebn ezra. others i shall take also, but of them i shall write hereafter. "i shall henceforth be moving in the midst of things which i was taught to hate. i pray that i may not hate them less as time goes on. to-morrow i shall breathe the air of intrigue, shall hear footsteps of spies behind me wherever i go; shall know that even the roses in the garden have ears; that the ground under my feet will telegraph my thoughts. shall i be true? shall i at last whisper, and follow, and evade, believe in no one, much less in myself, steal in and out of men's confidences to use them for my own purposes? does any human being know what he can bear of temptation or of the daily pressure of the life around him? what powers of resistance are in his soul? how long the vital energy will continue to throw off the never-ending seduction, the freshening force of evil? therein lies the power of evil, that it is ever new, ever fortified by continuous conquest and achievements. it has the rare fire of aggression; is ever more upon the offence than upon the defence; has, withal, the false lure of freedom from restraint, the throbbing force of sympathy. "such things i dreamed not of in soolsby's but upon the hill, faith, though, indeed, that seemed a time of trial and sore-heartedness. how large do small issues seem till we have faced the momentous things! it is true that the larger life has pleasures and expanding capacities; but it is truer still that it has perils, events which try the soul as it is never tried in the smaller life--unless, indeed, the soul be that of the epicurean. the epicurean i well understand, and in his way i might have walked with a wicked grace. i have in me some hidden depths of luxury, a secret heart of pleasure, an understanding for the forbidden thing. i could have walked the broad way with a laughing heart, though, in truth, habit of mind and desire have kept me in the better path. but offences must come, and woe to him from whom the offence cometh! i have begun now, and only now, to feel the storms that shake us to our farthest cells of life. i begin to see how near good is to evil; how near faith is to unfaith; and how difficult it is to judge from actions only; how little we can know to-day what we shall feel tomorrow. yet one must learn to see deeper, to find motive, not in acts that shake the faith, but in character which needs no explanation, which--" he paused, disturbed. then he raised his head, as though not conscious of what was breaking the course of his thoughts. presently he realised a low, hurried knocking at his door. he threw a hand over his eyes, and sprang up. an instant later the figure of a woman, deeply veiled, stood within the room, beside the table where he had been writing. there was silence as they faced each other, his back against the door. "oh, do you not know me?" she said at last, and sank into the chair where he had been sitting. the question was unnecessary, and she knew it was so; but she could not bear the strain of the silence. she seemed to have risen out of the letter he had been writing; and had he not been writing of her--of what concerned them both? how mean and small-hearted he had been, to have thought for an instant that she had not the highest courage, though in going she had done the discreeter, safer thing. but she had come--she had come! all this was in his eyes, though his face was pale and still. he was almost rigid with emotion, for the ancient habit of repose and self- command of the quaker people was upon him. "can you not see--do you not know?" she repeated, her back upon him now, her face still veiled, her hands making a swift motion of distress. "has thee found in the past that thee is so soon forgotten?" "oh, do not blame me!" she raised her veil suddenly, and showed a face as pale as his own, and in the eyes a fiery brightness. "i did not know. it was so hard to come--do not blame me. i went to alexandria--i felt that i must fly; the air around me seemed full of voices crying out. did you not understand why i went?" "i understand," he said, coming forward slowly. "thee should not have returned. in the way i go now the watchers go also." "if i had not come, you would never have understood," she answered quickly. "i am not sorry i went. i was so frightened, so shaken. my only thought was to get away from the terrible thing. but i should have been sorry all my life long had i not come back to tell you what i feel, and that i shall never forget. all my life i shall be grateful. you have saved me from a thousand deaths. ah, if i could give you but one life! yet--yet--oh, do not think but that i would tell you the whole truth, though i am not wholly truthful. see, i love my place in the world more than i love my life; and but for you i should have lost all." he made a protesting motion. "the debt is mine, in truth. but for you i should never have known what, perhaps--" he paused. his eyes were on hers, gravely speaking what his tongue faltered to say. she looked and looked, but did not understand. she only saw troubled depths, lighted by a soul of kindling purpose. "tell me," she said, awed. "through you i have come to know--" he paused again. what he was going to say, truthful though it was, must hurt her, and she had been sorely hurt already. he put his thoughts more gently, more vaguely. "by what happened i have come to see what matters in life. i was behind the hedge. i have broken through upon the road. i know my goal now. the highway is before me." she felt the tragedy in his words, and her voice shook as she spoke. "i wish i knew life better. then i could make a better answer. you are on the road, you say. but i feel that it is a hard and cruel road--oh, i understand that at least! tell me, please, tell me the whole truth. you are hiding from me what you feel. i have upset your life, have i not? you are a quaker, and quakers are better than all other christian people, are they not? their faith is peace, and for me, you--" she covered her face with her hands for an instant, but turned quickly and looked him in the eyes: "for me you put your hand upon the clock of a man's life, and stopped it." she got to her feet with a passionate gesture, but he put a hand gently upon her arm, and she sank back again. "oh, it was not you; it was i who did it!" she said. "you did what any man of honour would have done, what a brother would have done." "what i did is a matter for myself only," he responded quickly. "had i never seen your face again it would have been the same. you were the occasion; the thing i did had only one source, my own heart and mind. there might have been another way; but for that way, or for the way i did take, you could not be responsible." "how generous you are!" her eyes swam with tears; she leaned over the table where he had been writing, and the tears dropped upon his letter. presently she realised this, and drew back, then made as though to dry the tears from the paper with her handkerchief. as she did so the words that he had written met her eye: "'but offences must come, and woe to him from whom the offence cometh!' i have begun now, and only now, to feel the storms that shake us to our farthest cells of life." she became very still. he touched her arm and said heavily: "come away, come away." she pointed to the words she had read. "i could not help but see, and now i know what this must mean to you." "thee must go at once," he urged. "thee should not have come. thee was safe--none knew. a few hours and it would all have been far behind. we might never have met again." suddenly she gave a low, hysterical laugh. "you think you hide the real thing from me. i know i'm ignorant and selfish and feeble-minded, but i can see farther than you think. you want to tell the truth about--about it, because you are honest and hate hiding things, because you want to be punished, and so pay the price. oh, i can understand! if it were not for me you would not. . . . " with a sudden wild impulse she got to her feet. "and you shall not," she cried. "i will not have it." colour came rushing to her cheeks. "i will not have it. i will not put myself so much in your debt. i will not demand so much of you. i will face it all. i will stand alone." there was a touch of indignation in her voice. somehow she seemed moved to anger against him. her hands were clasped at her side rigidly, her pulses throbbing. he stood looking at her fixedly, as though trying to realise her. his silence agitated her still further, and she spoke excitedly: "i could have, would have, killed him myself without a moment's regret. he had planned, planned--ah, god, can you not see it all! i would have taken his life without a thought. i was mad to go upon such an adventure, but i meant no ill. i had not one thought that i could not have cried out from the housetops, and he had in his heart--he had what you saw. but you repent that you killed him--by accident, it was by accident. do you realise how many times others have been trapped by him as was i? do you not see what he was--as i see now? did he not say as much to me before you came, when i was dumb with terror? did he not make me understand what his whole life had been? did i not see in a flash the women whose lives he had spoiled and killed? would i have had pity? would i have had remorse? no, no, no! i was frightened when it was done, i was horrified, but i was not sorry; and i am not sorry. it was to be. it was thetrue end to his vileness. ah!" she shuddered, and buried her face in her hands for a moment, then went on: "i can never forgive myself for going to the palace with him. i was mad for experience, for mystery; i wanted more than the ordinary share of knowledge. i wanted to probe things. yet i meant no wrong. i thought then nothing of which i shall ever be ashamed. but i shall always be ashamed because i knew him, because he thought that i--oh, if i were a man, i should be glad that i had killed him, for the sake of all honest women!" he remained silent. his look was not upon her, he seemed lost in a dream; but his face was fixed in trouble. she misunderstood his silence. "you had the courage, the impulse to--to do it," she said keenly; "you have not the courage to justify it. i will not have it so. "i will tell the truth to all the world. i will not shrink i shrank yesterday because i was afraid of the world; to-day i will face it, i will--" she stopped suddenly, and another look flashed into her face. presently she spoke in a different tone; a new light had come upon her mind. "but i see," she added. "to tell all is to make you the victim, too, of what he did. it is in your hands; it is all in your hands; and i cannot speak unless--unless you are ready also." there was an unintended touch of scorn in her voice. she had been troubled and tried beyond bearing, and her impulsive nature revolted at his silence. she misunderstood him, or, if she did not wholly misunderstand him, she was angry at what she thought was a needless remorse or sensitiveness. did not the man deserve his end? "there is only one course to pursue," he rejoined quietly, "and that is the course we entered upon last night. i neither doubted yourself nor your courage. thee must not turn back now. thee must not alter the course which was your own making, and the only course which thee could, or i should, take. i have planned my life according to the word i gave you. i could not turn back now. we are strangers, and we must remain so. thee will go from here now, and we must not meet again. i am--" "i know who you are," she broke in. "i know what your religion is; that fighting and war and bloodshed is a sin to you." "i am of no family or place in england," he went on calmly. "i come of yeoman and trading stock; i have nothing in common with people of rank. our lines of life will not cross. it is well that it should be so. as to what happened--that which i may feel has nothing to do with whether i was justified or no. but if thee has thought that i have repented doing what i did, let that pass for ever from your mind. i know that i should do the same, yes, even a hundred times. i did according to my nature. thee must not now be punished cruelly for a thing thee did not do. silence is the only way of safety or of justice. we must not speak of this again. we must each go our own way." her eyes were moist. she reached out a hand to him timidly. "oh, forgive me," she added brokenly, "i am so vain, so selfish, and that makes one blind to the truth. it is all clearer now. you have shown me that i was right in my first impulse, and that is all i can say for myself. i shall pray all my life that it will do you no harm in the end." she remained silent, for a moment adjusting her veil, preparing to go. presently she spoke again: "i shall always want to know about you--what is happening to you. how could it be otherwise?" she was half realising one of the deepest things in existence, that the closest bond between two human beings is a bond of secrecy upon a thing which vitally, fatally concerns both or either. it is a power at once malevolent and beautiful. a secret like that of david and hylda will do in a day what a score of years could not accomplish, will insinuate confidences which might never be given to the nearest or dearest. in neither was any feeling of the heart begotten by their experiences; and yet they had gone deeper in each other's lives than any one either had known in a lifetime. they had struck a deeper note than love or friendship. they had touched the chord of a secret and mutual experience which had gone so far that their lives would be influenced by it for ever after. each understood this in a different way. hylda looked towards the letter lying on the table. it had raised in her mind, not a doubt, but an undefined, undefinable anxiety. he saw the glance, and said: "i was writing to one who has been as a sister to me. she was my mother's sister though she is almost as young as i. her name is faith. there is nothing there of what concerns thee and me, though it would make no difference if she knew." suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. "the secret is of thee and me. there is safety. if it became another's, there might be peril. the thing shall be between us only, for ever?" "do you think that i--" "my instinct tells me a woman of sensitive mind might one day, out of an unmerciful honesty, tell her husband--" "i am not married-" "but one day--" she interrupted him. "sentimental egotism will not rule me. tell me," she added, "tell me one thing before i go. you said that your course was set. what is it?" "i remain here," he answered quietly. "i remain in the service of prince kaid." "it is a dreadful government, an awful service--" "that is why i stay." "you are going to try and change things here--you alone?" "i hope not alone, in time." "you are going to leave england, your friends, your family, your place-- in hamley, was it not? my aunt has read of you--my cousin--" she paused. "i had no place in hamley. here is my place. distance has little to do with understanding or affection. i had an uncle here in the east for twenty-five years, yet i knew him better than all others in the world. space is nothing if minds are in sympathy. my uncle talked to me over seas and lands. i felt him, heard him speak." "you think that minds can speak to minds, no matter what the distance-- real and definite things?" "if i were parted from one very dear to me, i would try to say to him or her what was in my mind, not by written word only, but by the flying thought." she sat down suddenly, as though overwhelmed. "oh, if that were possible!" she said. "if only one could send a thought like that!" then with an impulse, and the flicker of a sad smile, she reached out a hand. "if ever in the years to come you want to speak to me, will you try to make me understand, as your uncle did with you?" "i cannot tell," he answered. "that which is deepest within us obeys only the laws of its need. by instinct it turns to where help lies, as a wild deer, fleeing, from captivity, makes for the veldt and the watercourse." she got to her feet again. "i want to pay my debt," she said solemnly. "it is a debt that one day must be paid--so awful--so awful!" a swift change passed over her. she shuddered, and grew white. "i said brave words just now," she added in a hoarse whisper, "but now i see him lying there cold and still, and you stooping over him. i see you touch his breast, his pulse. i see you close his eyes. one instant full of the pulse of life, the next struck out into infinite space. oh, i shall never--how can i ever-forget!" she turned her head away from him, then composed herself again, and said quietly, with anxious eyes: "why was nothing said or done? perhaps they are only waiting. perhaps they know. why was it announced that he died in his bed at home?" "i cannot tell. when a man in high places dies in egypt, it may be one death or another. no one inquires too closely. he died in kaid pasha's palace, where other men have died, and none has inquired too closely. to-day they told me at the palace that his carriage was seen to leave with himself and mizraim the chief eunuch. whatever the object, he was secretly taken to his house from the palace, and his brother nahoum seized upon his estate in the early morning. "i think that no one knows the truth. but it is all in the hands of god. we can do nothing more. thee must go. thee should not have come. in england thee will forget, as thee should forget. in egypt i shall remember, as i should remember." "thee," she repeated softly. "i love the quaker thee. my grandmother was an american quaker. she always spoke like that. will you not use thee and thou in speaking to me, always?" "we are not likely to speak together in any language in the future," he answered. "but now thee must go, and i will--" "my cousin, mr. lacey, is waiting for me in the garden," she answered. "i shall be safe with him." she moved towards the door. he caught the handle to turn it, when there came the noise of loud talking, and the sound of footsteps in the court-yard. he opened the door slightly and looked out, then closed it quickly. "it is nahoum pasha," he said. "please, the other room," he added, and pointed to a curtain. "there is a window leading on a garden. the garden-gate opens on a street leading to the ezbekiah square and your hotel." "but, no, i shall stay here," she said. she drew down her veil, then taking from her pocket another, arranged it also, so that her face was hidden. "thee must go," he said--"go quickly." again he pointed. "i will remain," she rejoined, with determination, and seated herself in a chair. chapter x the four who knew there was a knocking at the door. david opened it. nahoum pasha stepped inside, and stood still a moment looking at hylda. then he made low salutation to her, touched his hand to his lips and breast saluting david, and waited. "what is thy business, pasha?" asked david quietly, and motioned towards a chair. "may thy path be on the high hills, saadat-el-basha. i come for a favour at thy hands." nahoum sat down. "what favour is mine to give to nahoum pasha?" "the prince has given thee supreme place--it was mine but yesterday. it is well. to the deserving be the fruits of deserving." "is merit, then, so truly rewarded here?" asked david quietly. "the prince saw merit at last when he chose your excellency for councillor." "how shall i show merit, then, in the eyes of nahoum pasha?" "even by urging the prince to give me place under him again. not as heretofore--that is thy place--yet where it may be. i have capacity. i can aid thee in the great task. thou wouldst remake our egypt--and my heart is with you. i would rescue, not destroy. in years gone by i tried to do good to this land, and i failed. i was alone. i had not the strength to fight the forces around me. i was overcome. i had too little faith. but my heart was with the right--i am an armenian and a christian of the ancient faith. i am in sorrow. death has humbled me. my brother foorgat bey--may flowers bloom for ever on his grave!--he is dead,"--his eyes were fixed on those of david, as with a perfectly assured candour--"and my heart is like an empty house. but man must not be idle and live--if kaid lets me live. i have riches. are not foorgat's riches mine, his palace, his gardens, his cattle, and his plantations, are they not mine? i may sit in the court-yard and hear the singers, may listen to the tale-tellers by the light of the moon; i may hear the tales of al-raschid chanted by one whose tongue never falters, and whose voice is like music; after the manner of the east i may give bread and meat to the poor at sunset; i may call the dancers to the feast. but what comfort shall it give? i am no longer a youth. i would work. i would labour for the land of egypt, for by work shall we fulfil ourselves, redeem ourselves. saadat, i would labour, but my master has taken away from me the anvil, the fire, and the hammer, and i sit without the door like an armless beggar. what work to do in egypt save to help the land, and how shall one help, save in the prince's service? there can be no reform from outside. if i laboured for better things outside kaid's palace, how long dost thou think i should escape the nile, or the diamond-dust in my coffee? the work which i did, is it not so that it, with much more, falls now to thy hands, saadat, with a confidence from kaid that never was mine?" "i sought not the office." "have i a word of blame? i come to ask for work to do with thee. do i not know prince kaid? he had come to distrust us all. as stale water were we in his taste. he had no pleasure in us, and in our deeds he found only stones of stumbling. he knew not whom to trust. one by one we all had yielded to ceaseless intrigue and common distrust of each other, until no honest man was left; till all were intent to save their lives by holding power; for in this land to lose power is to lose life. no man who has been in high place, has had the secrets of the palace and the ear of the prince, lives after he has lost favour. the prince, for his safety, must ensure silence, and the only silence in egypt is the grave. in thee, saadat, kaid has found an honest man. men will call thee mad, if thou remainest honest, but that is within thine own bosom and with fate. for me, thou hast taken my place, and more. malaish, it is the decree of fate, and i have no anger. i come to ask thee to save my life, and then to give me work." "how shall i save thy life?" "by reconciling the effendina to my living, and then by giving me service, where i shall be near to thee; where i can share with thee, though it be as the ant beside the beaver, the work of salvation in egypt. i am rich since my brother was--" he paused; no covert look was in his eyes, no sign of knowledge, nothing but meditation and sorrowful frankness--"since foorgat passed away in peace, praise be to god! he lay on his bed in the morning, when one came to wake him, like a sleeping child, no sign of the struggle of death upon him." a gasping sound came from the chair where hylda sat; but he took no notice. he appeared to be unconscious of david's pain-drawn face, as he sat with hands upon his knees, his head bent forward listening, as though lost to the world. "so did foorgat, my brother, die while yet in the fulness of his manhood, life beating high in his veins, with years before him to waste. he was a pleasure-lover, alas! he laid up no treasure of work accomplished; and so it was meet that he should die as he lived, in a moment of ease. and already he is forgotten. it is the custom here. he might have died by diamond-dust, and men would have set down their coffee-cups in surprise, and then would have forgotten; or he might have been struck down by the hand of an assassin, and, unless it was in the palace, none would have paused to note it. and so the sands sweep over his steps upon the shore of time." after the first exclamation of horror, hylda had sat rigid, listening as though under a spell. through her veil she gazed at nahoum with a cramping pain at her heart, for he seemed ever on the verge of the truth she dreaded; and when he spoke the truth, as though unconsciously, she felt she must cry out and rush from the room. he recalled to her the scene in the little tapestried room as vividly as though it was there before her eyes, and it had for the moment all the effect of a hideous nightmare. at last, however, she met david's eyes, and they guided her, for in them was a steady strength and force which gave her confidence. at first he also had been overcome inwardly, but his nerves were cool, his head was clear, and he listened to nahoum, thinking out his course meanwhile. he owed this man much. he had taken his place, and by so doing had placed his life in danger. he had killed the brother upon the same day that he had dispossessed the favourite of office; and the debt was heavy. in office nahoum had done after his kind, after the custom of the place and the people; and yet, as it would seem, the man had had stirrings within him towards a higher path. he, at any rate, had not amassed riches out of his position, and so much could not be said of any other servant of the prince pasha. much he had heard of nahoum's powerful will, hidden under a genial exterior, and behind his friendly, smiling blue eyes. he had heard also of cruelty--of banishment, and of enemies removed from his path suddenly, never to be seen again; but, on the whole, men spoke with more admiration of him than of any other public servant, armenian christian in a mahommedan country though he was. that very day kaid had said that if nahoum had been less eager to control the state, he might still have held his place. besides, the man was a christian--of a mystic, half-legendary, obscure christianity; yet having in his mind the old faith, its essence and its meaning, perhaps. might not this oriental mind, with that faith, be a power to redeem the land? it was a wonderful dream, in which he found the way, as he thought, to atone somewhat to this man for a dark injury done. when nahoum stopped speaking david said: "but if i would have it, if it were well that it should be, i doubt i have the power to make it so." "saadat-el-bdsha, kaid believes in thee to-day; he will not believe to-morrow if thou dost remain without initiative. action, however startling, will be proof of fitness. his highness shakes a long spear. those who ride with him must do battle with the same valour. excellency, i have now great riches--since death smote foorgat bey in the forehead" --still his eyes conveyed no meaning, though hylda shrank back--"and i would use them for the good thou wouldst do here. money will be needed, and sufficient will not be at thy hand-not till new ledgers be opened, new balances struck." he turned to hylda quietly, and with a continued air of innocence said: "shall it not be so-madame? thou, i doubt not, are of his kin. it would seem so, though i ask pardon if it be not so--wilt thou not urge his excellency to restore me to kaid's favour? i know little of the english, though i know them humane and honest; but my brother, foorgat bey, he was much among them, lived much in england, was a friend to many great english. indeed, on the evening that he died i saw him in the gallery of the banquet-room with an english lady--can one be mistaken in an english face? perhaps he cared for her; perhaps that was why he smiled as he lay upon his bed, never to move again. madame, perhaps in england thou mayst have known my brother. if that is so, i ask thee to speak for me to his excellency. my life is in danger, and i am too young to go as my brother went. i do not wish to die in middle age, as my brother died." he had gone too far. in david's mind there was no suspicion that nahoum knew the truth. the suggestion in his words had seemed natural; but, from the first, a sharp suspicion was in the mind of hylda, and his last words had convinced her that if nahoum did not surely know the truth, he suspected it all too well. her instinct had pierced far; and as she realised his suspicions, perhaps his certainty, and heard his words of covert insult, which, as she saw, david did not appreciate, anger and determination grew in her. yet she felt that caution must mark her words, and that nothing but danger lay in resentment. she felt the everlasting indignity behind the quiet, youthful eyes, the determined power of the man; but she saw also that, for the present, the course nahoum suggested was the only course to take. and david must not even feel the suspicion in her own mind, that nahoum knew or suspected the truth. if david thought that nahoum knew, the end of all would come at once. it was clear, however, that nahoum meant to be silent, or he would have taken another course of action. danger lay in every direction, but, to her mind, the least danger lay in following nahoum's wish. she slowly raised her veil, showing a face very still now, with eyes as steady as david's. david started at her action, he thought it rash; but the courage of it pleased him, too. "you are not mistaken," she said slowly in french; "your brother was known to me. i had met him in england. it will be a relief to all his friends to know that he passed away peacefully." she looked him in the eyes determinedly. "monsieur claridge is not my kinsman, but he is my fellow-countryman. if you mean well by monsieur, your knowledge and your riches should help him on his way. but your past is no guarantee of good faith, as you will acknowledge." he looked her in the eyes with a far meaning. "but i am giving guarantees of good faith now," he said softly. "will you--not?" she understood. it was clear that he meant peace, for the moment at least. "if i had influence i would advise him to reconcile you to prince kaid," she said quietly, then turned to david with an appeal in her eyes. david stood up. "i will do what i can," he said. "if thee means as well by egypt as i mean by thee, all may be well for all." "saadat! saadat!" said nahoum, with show of assumed feeling, and made salutation. then to hylda, making lower salutation still, he said: "thou hast lifted from my neck the yoke. thou hast saved me from the shadow and the dust. i am thy slave." his eyes were like a child's, wide and confiding. he turned towards the door, and was about to open it, when there came a knocking, and he stepped back. hylda drew down her veil. david opened the door cautiously and admitted mizraim the chief eunuch. mizraim's eyes searched the room, and found nahoum. "pasha," he said to nahoum, "may thy bones never return to dust, nor the light of thine eyes darken! there is danger." nahoum nodded, but did not speak. "shall i speak, then?" he paused and made low salutation to david, saying, "excellency, i am thine ox to be slain." "speak, son of the flowering oak," said nahoum, with a sneer in his voice. "what blessing dost thou bring?" "the effendina has sent for thee." nahoum's eyes flashed. "by thee, lion of abdin?" the lean, ghastly being smiled. "he has sent a company of soldiers and achmet pasha." "achmet! is it so? they are here, mizraim, watcher of the morning?" "they are at thy palace--i am here, light of egypt." "how knewest thou i was here?" mizraim salaamed. "a watch was set upon thee this morning early. the watcher was of my slaves. he brought the word to me that thou wast here now. a watcher also was set upon thee, excellency"--he turned to david. "he also was of my slaves. word was delivered to his highness that thou" --he turned to nahoum again--"wast in thy palace, and achmet pasha went thither. he found thee not. now the city is full of watchers, and achmet goes from bazaar to bazaar, from house to house which thou was wont to frequent--and thou art here." "what wouldst thou have me do, mizraim?" "thou art here; is it the house of a friend or a foe?" nahoum did not answer. his eyes were fixed in thought upon the floor, but he was smiling. he seemed without fear. "but if this be the house of a friend, is he safe here?" asked david. "for this night, it may be," answered mizraim, "till other watchers be set, who are no slaves of mine. tonight, here, of all places in cairo, he is safe; for who could look to find him where thou art who hast taken from him his place and office, excellency--on whom the stars shine for ever! but in another day, if my lord nahoum be not forgiven by the effendina, a hundred watchers will pierce the darkest corner of the bazaar, the smallest room in cairo." david turned to nahoum. "peace be to thee, friend. abide here till to-morrow, when i will speak for thee to his highness, and, i trust, bring thee pardon. it shall be so--but i shall prevail," he added, with slow decision; "i shall prevail with him. my reasons shall convince his highness." "i can help thee with great reasons, saadat," said nahoum. "thou shalt prevail. i can tell thee that which will convince kaid." while they were speaking, hylda had sat motionless watching. at first it seemed to her that a trap had been set, and that david was to be the victim of oriental duplicity; but revolt, as she did, from the miserable creature before them, she saw at last that he spoke the truth. "thee will remain under this roof to-night, pasha?" asked david. "i will stay if thy goodness will have it so," answered nahoum slowly. "it is not my way to hide, but when the storm comes it is well to shelter." salaaming low, mizraim withdrew, his last glance being thrown towards hylda, who met his look with a repugnance which made her face rigid. she rose and put on her gloves. nahoum rose also, and stood watching her respectfully. "thee will go?" asked david, with a movement towards her. she inclined her head. "we have finished our business, and it is late," she answered. david looked at nahoum. "thee will rest here, pasha, in peace. in a moment i will return." he took up his hat. there was a sudden flash of nahoum's eyes, as though he saw an outcome of the intention which pleased him, but hylda, saw the flash, and her senses were at once alarmed. "there is no need to accompany me," she said. "my cousin waits for me." david opened the door leading into the court-yard. it was dark, save for the light of a brazier of coals. a short distance away, near the outer gate, glowed a star of red light, and the fragrance of a strong cigar came over. "say, looking for me?" said a voice, and a figure moved towards david. "yours to command, pasha, yours to command." lacey from chicago held out his hand. "thee is welcome, friend," said david. "she's ready, i suppose. wonderful person, that. stands on her own feet every time. she don't seem as though she came of the same stock as me, does she?" "i will bring her if thee will wait, friend." "i'm waiting." lacey drew back to the gateway again and leaned against the wall, his cigar blazing in the dusk. a moment later david appeared in the garden again, with the slim, graceful figure of the girl who stood "upon her own feet." david drew her aside for a moment. "thee is going at once to england?" he asked. "to-morrow to alexandria. there is a steamer next day for marseilles. in a fortnight more i shall be in england." "thee must forget egypt," he said. "remembrance is not a thing of the will," she answered. "it is thy duty to forget. thee is young, and it is spring with thee. spring should be in thy heart. thee has seen a shadow; but let it not fright thee." "my only fear is that i may forget," she answered. "yet thee will forget." with a motion towards lacey he moved to the gate. suddenly she turned to him and touched his arm. "you will be a great man herein egypt," she said. "you will have enemies without number. the worst of your enemies always will be your guest to-night." he did not, for a moment, understand. "nahoum?" he asked. "i take his place. it would not be strange; but i will win him to me." "you will never win him," she answered. "oh, trust my instinct in this! watch him. beware of him." david smiled slightly. "i shall have need to beware of many. i am sure thee does well to caution me. farewell," he added. "if it should be that i can ever help you--" she said, and paused. "thee has helped me," he replied. "the world is a desert. caravans from all quarters of the sun meet at the cross-roads. one gives the other food or drink or medicine, and they move on again. and all grows dim with time. and the camel-drivers are forgotten; but the cross-roads remain, and the food and the drink and the medicine and the cattle helped each caravan upon the way. is it not enough?" she placed her hand in his. it lay there for a moment. "god be with thee, friend," he said. the next instant thomas tilman lacey's drawling voice broke the silence. "there's something catching about these nights in egypt. i suppose it's the air. no wind--just the stars, and the ultramarine, and the nothing to do but lay me down and sleep. it doesn't give you the jim-jumps like mexico. it makes you forget the world, doesn't it? you'd do things here that you wouldn't do anywhere else." the gate was opened by the bowab, and the two passed through. david was standing by the brazier, his hand held unconsciously over the coals, his eyes turned towards them. the reddish flame from the fire lit up his face under the broad-brimmed hat. his head, slightly bowed, was thrust forward to the dusk. hylda looked at him steadily for a moment. their eyes met, though hers were in the shade. again lacey spoke. "don't be anxious. i'll see her safe back. good-bye. give my love to the girls." david stood looking at the closed gate with eyes full of thought and wonder and trouble. he was not thinking of the girl. there was no sentimental reverie in his look. already his mind was engaged in scrutiny of the circumstances in which he was set. he realised fully his situation. the idealism which had been born with him had met its reward in a labour herculean at the least, and the infinite drudgery of the practical issues came in a terrible pressure of conviction to his mind. the mind did not shrink from any thought of the dangers in which he would be placed, from any vision of the struggle he must have with intrigue, and treachery and vileness. in a dim, half-realised way he felt that honesty and truth would be invincible weapons with a people who did not know them. they would be embarrassed, if not baffled, by a formula of life and conduct which they could not understand. it was not these matters that vexed him now, but the underlying forces of life set in motion by the blow which killed a fellow-man. this fact had driven him to an act of redemption unparalleled in its intensity and scope; but he could not tell--and this was the thought that shook his being--how far this act itself, inspiring him to a dangerous and immense work in life, would sap the best that was in him, since it must remain a secret crime, for which he could not openly atone. he asked himself as he stood by the brazier, the bowab apathetically rolling cigarettes at his feet, whether, in the flow of circumstance, the fact that he could not make open restitution, or take punishment for his unlawful act, would undermine the structure of his character. he was on the threshold of his career: action had not yet begun; he was standing like a swimmer on a high shore, looking into depths beneath which have never been plumbed by mortal man, wondering what currents, what rocks, lay beneath the surface of the blue. would his strength, his knowledge, his skill, be equal to the enterprise? would he emerge safe and successful, or be carried away by some strong undercurrent, be battered on unseen rocks? he turned with a calm face to the door behind which sat the displaced favourite of the prince, his mind at rest, the trouble gone out of his eyes. "uncle benn! uncle benn!" he said to himself, with a warmth at his heart as he opened the door and stepped inside. nahoum sat sipping coffee. a cigarette was between his fingers. he touched his hand to his forehead and his breast as david closed the door and hung his hat upon a nail. david's servant, mahommed hassan, whom he had had since first he came to egypt, was gliding from the room--a large, square-shouldered fellow of over six feet, dressed in a plain blue yelek, but on his head the green turban of one who had done a pilgrimage to mecca. nahoum waved a hand after mahommed and said: "whence came thy servant sadat?" "he was my guide to cairo. i picked him from the street." nahoum smiled. there was no malice in the smile, only, as it might seem, a frank humour. "ah, your excellency used independent judgment. thou art a judge of men. but does it make any difference that the man is a thief and a murderer--a murderer?" david's eyes darkened, as they were wont to do when he was moved or shocked. "shall one only deal, then, with those who have neither stolen nor slain --is that the rule of the just in egypt?" nahoum raised his eyes to the ceiling as though in amiable inquiry, and began to finger a string of beads as a nun might tell her paternosters. "if that were the rule," he answered, after a moment, "how should any man be served in egypt? hereabouts is a man's life held cheap, else i had not been thy guest to-night; and kaid's palace itself would be empty, if every man in it must be honest. but it is the custom of the place for political errors to be punished by a hidden hand; we do not call it murder." "what is murder, friend?" "it is such a crime as that of mahommed yonder, who killed--" david interposed. "i do not wish to know his crime. that is no affair between thee and me." nahoum fingered his beads meditatively. "it was an affair of the housetops in his town of manfaloot. i have only mentioned it because i know what view the english take of killing, and how set thou art to have thy household above reproach, as is meet in a christian home. so, i took it, would be thy mind--which heaven fill with light for egypt's sake!-- that thou wouldst have none about thee who were not above reproach, neither liars, nor thieves, nor murderers." "but thee would serve with me, friend," rejoined david quietly. "thee has men's lives against thy account." "else had mine been against their account." "was it not so with mahommed? if so, according to the custom of the land, then mahommed is as immune as thou art." "saadat, like thee i am a christian, yet am i also oriental, and what is crime with one race is none with another. at the palace two days past thou saidst thou hadst never killed a man; and i know that thy religion condemns killing even in war. yet in egypt thou wilt kill, or thou shalt thyself be killed, and thy aims will come to naught. when, as thou wouldst say, thou hast sinned, hast taken a man's life, then thou wilt understand. thou wilt keep this fellow mahommed, then?" "i understand, and i will keep him." "surely thy heart is large and thy mind great. it moveth above small things. thou dost not seek riches here?" "i have enough; my wants are few." "there is no precedent for one in office to withhold his hand from profit and backsheesh." "shall we not try to make a precedent?" "truthfulness will be desolate--like a bird blown to sea, beating 'gainst its doom." "truth will find an island in the sea." "if egypt is that sea, saadat, there is no island." david came over close to nahoum, and looked him in the eyes. "surely i can speak to thee, friend, as to one understanding. thou art a christian--of the ancient fold. out of the east came the light. thy church has preserved the faith. it is still like a lamp in the mist and the cloud in the east. thou saidst but now that thy heart was with my purpose. shall the truth that i would practise here not find an island in this sea--and shall it not be the soul of nahoum pasha?" "have i not given my word? nay, then, i swear it by the tomb of my brother, whom death met in the highway, and because he loved the sun, and the talk of men, and the ways of women, rashly smote him out of the garden of life into the void. even by his tomb i swear it." "hast thou, then, such malice against death? these things cannot happen save by the will of god." "and by the hand of man. but i have no cause for revenge. foorgat died in his sleep like a child. yet if it had been the hand of man, prince kaid or any other, i would not have held my hand until i had a life for his." "thou art a christian, yet thou wouldst meet one wrong by another?" "i am an oriental." then, with a sudden change of manner, he added: "but thou hast a christianity the like of which i have never seen. i will learn of thee, saadat, and thou shalt learn of me also many things which i know. they will help thee to understand egypt and the place where thou wilt be set--if so be my life is saved, and by thy hand." mahommed entered, and came to david. "where wilt thou sleep, saadat?" he asked. "the pasha will sleep yonder," david replied, pointing to another room. "i will sleep here." he laid a hand upon the couch where he sat. nahoum rose and, salaaming, followed mahommed to the other room. in a few moments the house was still, and remained so for hours. just before dawn the curtain of nahoum's room was drawn aside, the armenian entered stealthily, and moved a step towards the couch where david lay. suddenly he was stopped by a sound. he glanced towards a corner near david's feet. there sat mahommed watching, a neboot of dom-wood across his knees. their eyes remained fixed upon each other for a moment. then nahoum passed back into his bedroom as stealthily as he had come. mahommed looked closely at david. he lay with an arm thrown over his head, resting softly, a moisture on his forehead as on that of a sleeping child. "saadat! saadat!" said mahommed softly to the sleeping figure, scarcely above his breath, and then with his eyes upon the curtained room opposite, began to whisper words from the koran: "in the name of allah, the compassionate, the merciful--" chapter xi against the hour of midnight achmet the ropemaker was ill at ease. he had been set a task in which he had failed. the bright cairene sun starkly glittering on the french chandeliers and viennese mirrors, and beating on the brass trays and braziers by the window, irritated him. he watched the flies on the wall abstractedly; he listened to the early peripatetic salesmen crying their wares in the streets leading to the palace; he stroked his cadaverous cheek with yellow fingers; he listened anxiously for a footstep. presently he straightened himself up, and his fingers ran down the front of his coat to make sure that it was buttoned from top to bottom. he grew a little paler. he was less stoical and apathetic than most egyptians. also he was absurdly vain, and he knew that his vanity would receive rough usage. now the door swung open, and a portly figure entered quickly. for so large a man prince kaid was light and subtle in his movements. his face was mobile, his eye keen and human. achmet salaamed low. "the gardens of the first heaven be thine, and the uttermost joy, effendina," he said elaborately. "a thousand colours to the rainbow of thy happiness," answered kaid mechanically, and seated himself cross-legged on a divan, taking a narghileh from the black slave who had glided ghostlike behind him. "what hour didst thou find him? where hast thou placed him?" he added, after a moment. achmet salaamed once more. "i have burrowed without ceasing, but the holes are empty, effendina," he returned, abjectly and nervously. he had need to be concerned. the reply was full of amazement and anger. "thou hast not found him? thou hast not brought nahoum to me?" kaid's eyes were growing reddish; no good sign for those around him, for any that crossed him or his purposes. "a hundred eyes failed to search him out. ten thousand piastres did not find him; the kourbash did not reveal him." kaid's frown grew heavier. "thou shalt bring nahoum to me by midnight to-morrow!" "but if he has escaped, effendina?" achmet asked desperately. he had a peasant's blood; fear of power was ingrained. "what was thy business but to prevent escape? son of a nile crocodile, if he has escaped, thou too shalt escape from egypt--into fazougli. fool, nahoum is no coward. he would remain. he is in egypt." "if he be in egypt, i will find him, effendina. have i ever failed? when thou hast pointed, have i not brought? have there not been many, effendina? should i not bring nahoum, who has held over our heads the rod?" kaid looked at him meditatively, and gave no answer to the question. "he reached too far," he muttered. "egypt has one master only." the door opened softly and the black slave stole in. his lips moved, but scarce a sound travelled across the room. kaid understood, and made a gesture. an instant afterwards the vast figure of higli pasha bulked into the room. again there were elaborate salutations and salaams, and kaid presently said: "foorgat?" "effendina," answered high, "it is not known how he died. he was in this palace alive at night. in the morning he was found in bed at his own home." "there was no wound?" "none, effendina." "the thong?" "there was no mark, effendina." "poison?" "there was no sign, effendina." "diamond-dust?" "impossible, effendina. there was not time. he was alive and well here at the palace at eleven, and--" kaid made an impatient gesture. "by the stone in the kaabah, but it is not reasonable that foorgat should die in his bed like a babe and sleep himself into heaven! fate meant him for a violent end; but ere that came there was work to do for me. he had a gift for scenting treason--and he had treasure." his eyes shut and opened again with a look not pleasant to see. "but since it was that he must die so soon, then the loan he promised must now be a gift from the dead, if he be dead, if he be not shamming. foorgat was a dire jester." "but now it is no jest, effendina. he is in his grave." "in his grave! bismillah! in his grave, dost thou say?" high's voice quavered. "yesterday before sunset, effendina. by nahoum's orders." "i ordered the burial for to-day. by the gates of hell, but who shall disobey me!" "he was already buried when the effendina's orders came," high pleaded anxiously. "nahoum should have been taken yesterday," he rejoined, with malice in his eyes. "if i had received the orders of the effendina on the night when the effendina dismissed nahoum--" achmet said softly, and broke off. "a curse upon thine eyes that did not see thy duty!" kaid replied gloomily. then he turned to high. "my seal has been put upon foorgat's doors? his treasure-places have been found? the courts have been commanded as to his estate, the banks--" "it was too late, effendina," replied high hopelessly. kaid got to his feet slowly, rage possessing him. "too late! who makes it too late when i command?" "when foorgat was found dead, nahoum at once seized the palace and the treasures. then he went to the courts and to the holy men, and claimed succession. that was while it was yet early morning. then he instructed the banks. the banks hold foorgat's fortune against us, effendina." "foorgat had turned mahommedan. nahoum is a christian. my will is law. shall a christian dog inherit from a true believer? the courts, the wakfs shall obey me. and thou, son of a burnt father, shalt find nahoum! kaid shall not be cheated. foorgat pledged the loan. it is mine. allah scorch thine eyes!" he added fiercely to achmet, "but thou shalt find this christian gentleman, nahoum." suddenly, with a motion of disgust, he sat down, and taking the stem of the narghileh, puffed vigorously in silence. presently in a red fury he cried: "go--go--go, and bring me back by midnight nahoum, and foorgat's treasures, to the last piastre. let every soldier be a spy, if thine own spies fail." as they turned to go, the door opened again, the black slave appeared, and ushered david into the room. david salaamed, but not low, and stood still. on the instant kaid changed, the rage left his face. he leaned forward eagerly, the cruel and ugly look faded slowly from his eyes. "may thy days of life be as a river with sands of gold, effendi," he said gently. he had a voice like music. "may the sun shine in thy heart and fruits of wisdom flourish there, effendina," answered david quietly. he saluted the others gravely, and his eyes rested upon achmet in a way which higli pasha noted for subsequent gossip. kaid pulled at his narghileh for a moment, mumbling good-humouredly to himself and watching the smoke reel away; then, with half-shut eyes, he said to david: "am i master in egypt or no, effendi?" "in ruling this people the prince of egypt stands alone," answered david. "there is no one between him and the people. there is no parliament." "it is in my hand, then, to give or to withhold, to make or to break?" kaid chuckled to have this tribute, as he thought, from a christian, who did not blink at oriental facts, and was honest. david bowed his head to kaid's words. "then if it be my hand that lifts up or casts down, that rewards or that punishes, shall my arm not stretch into the darkest corner of egypt to bring forth a traitor? shall it not be so?" "it belongs to thy power," answered david. "it is the ancient custom of princes here. custom is law, while it is yet the custom." kaid looked at him enigmatically for a moment, then smiled grimly--he saw the course of the lance which david had thrown. he bent his look fiercely on achmet and higli. "ye have heard. truth is on his lips. i have stretched out my arm. ye are my arm, to reach for and gather in nahoum and all that is his." he turned quickly to david again. "i have given this hawk, achmet, till to-morrow night to bring nahoum to me," he explained. "and if he fails--a penalty? he will lose his place?" asked david, with cold humour. "more than his place," kaid rejoined, with a cruel smile. "then is his place mine, effendina," rejoined david, with a look which could give achmet no comfort. "thou will bring nahoum--thou?" asked kaid, in amazement. "i have brought him," answered david. "is it not my duty to know the will of the effendina and to do it, when it is just and right?" "where is he--where does he wait?" questioned kaid eagerly. "within the palace--here," replied david. "he awaits his fate in thine own dwelling, effendina." kaid glowered upon achmet. "in the years which time, the scytheman, will cut from thy life, think, as thou fastest at ramadan or feastest at beiram, how kaid filled thy plate when thou wast a beggar, and made thee from a dog of a fellah into a pasha. go to thy dwelling, and come here no more," he added sharply. "i am sick of thy yellow, sinful face." achmet made no reply, but, as he passed beyond the door with higli, he said in a whisper: "come--to harrik and the army! he shall be deposed. the hour is at hand." high answered him faintly, however. he had not the courage of the true conspirator, traitor though he was. as they disappeared, kaid made a wide gesture of friendliness to david, and motioned to a seat, then to a narghileh. david seated himself, took the stem of a narghileh in his mouth for an instant, then laid it down again and waited. "nahoum--i do not understand," kaid said presently, his eyes gloating. "he comes of his own will, effendina." "wherefore?" kaid could not realise the truth. this truth was not oriental on the face of it. "effendina, he comes to place his life in thy hands. he would speak with thee." "how is it thou dost bring him?" "he sought me to plead for him with thee, and because i knew his peril, i kept him with me and brought him hither but now." "nahoum went to thee?" kaid's eyes peered abstractedly into the distance between the almost shut lids. that nahoum should seek david, who had displaced him from his high office, was scarcely oriental, when his every cue was to have revenge on his rival. this was a natural sequence to his downfall. it was understandable. but here was david safe and sound. was it, then, some deeper scheme of future vengeance? the oriental instinctively pierced the mind of the oriental. he could have realised fully the fierce, blinding passion for revenge which had almost overcome nahoum's calculating mind in the dark night, with his foe in the next room, which had driven him suddenly from his bed to fall upon david, only to find mahommed hassan watching--also with the instinct of the oriental. some future scheme of revenge? kaid's eyes gleamed red. there would be no future for nahoum. "why did nahoum go to thee?" he asked again presently. "that i might beg his life of thee, highness, as i said," david replied. "i have not ordered his death." david looked meditatively at him. "it was agreed between us yesterday that i should speak plainly--is it not so?" kaid nodded, and leaned back among the cushions. "if what the effendina intends is fulfilled, there is no other way but death for nahoum," added david. "what is my intention, effendi?" "to confiscate the fortune left by foorgat bey. is it not so?" "i had a pledge from foorgat--a loan." "that is the merit of the case, effendina. i am otherwise concerned. there is the law. nahoum inherits. shouldst thou send him to fazougli, he would still inherit." "he is a traitor." "highness, where is the proof?" "i know. my friends have disappeared one by one--nahoum. lands have been alienated from me--nahoum. my income has declined--nahoum. i have given orders and they have not been fulfilled--nahoum. always, always some rumour of assassination, or of conspiracy, or the influence and secret agents of the sultan--all nahoum. he is a traitor. he has grown rich while i borrow from europe to pay my army and to meet the demands of the sultan." "what man can offer evidence in this save the effendina who would profit by his death?" "i speak of what i know. i satisfy myself. it is enough." "highness, there is a better way; to satisfy the people, for whom thee lives. none should stand between. is not the effendina a father to them?" "the people! would they not say nahoum had got his due if he were blotted from their sight?" "none has been so generous to the poor, so it is said by all. his hand has been upon the rich only. now, effendina, he has brought hither the full amount of all he has received and acquired in thy service. he would offer it in tribute." kaid smiled sardonically. "it is a thin jest. when a traitor dies the state confiscates his goods!" "thee calls him traitor. does thee believe he has ever conspired against thy life?" kaid shrugged his shoulders. "let me answer for thee, effendina. again and again he has defeated conspiracy. he has blotted it out--by the sword and other means. he has been a faithful servant to his prince at least. if he has done after the manner of all others in power here, the fault is in the system, not in the man alone. he has been a friend to thee, kaid." "i hope to find in thee a better." "why should he not live?" "thou hast taken his place." "is it, then, the custom to destroy those who have served thee, when they cease to serve?" david rose to his feet quickly. his face was shining with a strange excitement. it gave him a look of exaltation, his lips quivered with indignation. "does thee kill because there is silence in the grave?" kaid blew a cloud of smoke slowly. "silence in the grave is a fact beyond dispute," he said cynically. "highness, thee changes servants not seldom," rejoined david meaningly. "it may be that my service will be short. when i go, will the long arm reach out for me in the burrows where i shall hide?" kaid looked at him with ill-concealed admiration. "thou art an englishman, not an egyptian, a guest, not a subject, and under no law save my friendship." then he added scornfully: "when an englishman in england leaves office, no matter how unfaithful, though he be a friend of any country save his own, they send him to the house of lords--or so i was told in france when i was there. what does it matter to thee what chances to nahoum? thou hast his place with me. my secrets are thine. they shall all be thine--for years i have sought an honest man. thou art safe whether to go or to stay." "it may be so. i heed it not. my life is as that of a gull--if the wind carry it out to sea, it is lost. as my uncle went i shall go one day. thee will never do me ill; but do i not know that i shall have foes at every corner, behind every mooshrabieh screen, on every mastaba, in the pasha's court-yard, by every mosque? do i not know in what peril i serve egypt?" "yet thou wouldst keep alive nahoum! he will dig thy grave deep, and wait long." "he will work with me for egypt, effendina." kaid's face darkened. "what is thy meaning?" "i ask nahoum's life that he may serve under me, to do those things thou and i planned yesterday--the land, taxation, the army, agriculture, the soudan. together we will make egypt better and greater and richer--the poor richer, even though the rich be poorer." "and kaid--poorer?" "when egypt is richer, the prince is richer, too. is not the prince egypt? highness, yesterday--yesterday thee gave me my commission. if thee will not take nahoum again into service to aid me, i must not remain. i cannot work alone." "thou must have this christian oriental to work with thee?" he looked at david closely, then smiled sardonically, but with friendliness to david in his eyes. "nahoum has prayed to work with thee, to be a slave where he was master? he says to thee that he would lay his heart upon the altar of egypt?" mordant, questioning humour was in his voice. david inclined his head. "he would give up all that is his?" "it is so, effendina." "all save foorgat's heritage?" "it belonged to their father. it is a due inheritance." kaid laughed sarcastically. "it was got in mehemet ali's service." "nathless, it is a heritage, effendina. he would give that fortune back again to egypt in work with me, as i shall give of what is mine, and of what i am, in the name of god, the all-merciful!" the smile faded out of kaid's face, and wonder settled on it. what manner of man was this? his life, his fortune for egypt, a country alien to him, which he had never seen till six months ago! what kind of being was behind the dark, fiery eyes and the pale, impassioned face? was he some new prophet? if so, why should he not have cast a spell upon nahoum? had he not bewitched himself, kaid, one of the ablest princes since alexander or amenhotep? had nahoum, then, been mastered and won? was ever such power? in how many ways had it not been shown! he had fought for his uncle's fortune, and had got it at last yesterday without a penny of backsheesh. having got his will, he was now ready to give that same fortune to the good of egypt--but not to beys and pashas and eunuchs (and that he should have escaped mizraim was the marvel beyond all others!), or even to the prince pasha; but to that which would make "egypt better and greater and richer--the poor richer, even though the rich be poorer!" kaid chuckled to himself at that. to make the rich poorer would suit him well, so long as he remained rich. and, if riches could be got, as this pale frank proposed, by less extortion from the fellah and less kourbash, so much the happier for all. he was capable of patriotism, and this quaker dreamer had stirred it in him a little. egypt, industrial in a real sense; egypt, paying her own way without tyranny and loans: egypt, without corvee, and with an army hired from a full public purse; egypt, grown strong and able to resist the suzerainty and cruel tribute--that touched his native goodness of heart, so long, in disguise; it appealed to the sense of leadership in him; to the love of the soil deep in his bones; to regard for the common people--for was not his mother a slave? some distant nobleness trembled in him, while yet the arid humour of the situation flashed into his eyes, and, getting to his feet, he said to david: "where is nahoum?" david told him, and he clapped his hands. the black slave entered, received an order, and disappeared. neither spoke, but kaid's face was full of cheerfulness. presently nahoum entered and salaamed low, then put his hand upon his turban. there was submission, but no cringing or servility in his manner. his blue eyes looked fearlessly before him. his face was not paler than its wont. he waited for kaid to speak. "peace be to thee," kaid murmured mechanically. "and to thee, peace, o prince," answered nahoum. "may the feet of time linger by thee, and death pass thy house forgetful." there was silence for a moment, and then kaid spoke again. "what are thy properties and treasure?" he asked sternly. nahoum drew forth a paper from his sleeve, and handed it to kaid without a word. kaid glanced at it hurriedly, then said: "this is but nothing. what hast thou hidden from me?" "it is all i have got in thy service, highness," he answered boldly. "all else i have given to the poor; also to spies--and to the army." "to spies--and to the army?" asked kaid slowly, incredulously. "wilt thou come with me to the window, effendina?" kaid, wondering, went to the great windows which looked on to the palace square. there, drawn up, were a thousand mounted men as black as ebony, wearing shining white metal helmets and fine chain-armour and swords and lances like medieval crusaders. the horses, too, were black, and the mass made a barbaric display belonging more to another period in the world's history. this regiment of nubians kaid had recruited from the far south, and had maintained at his own expense. when they saw him at the window now, their swords clashed on their thighs and across their breasts, and they raised a great shout of greeting. "well?" asked kaid, with a ring to the voice. "they are loyal, effendina, every man. but the army otherwise is honeycombed with treason. effendina, my money has been busy in the army paying and bribing officers, and my spies were costly. there has been sedition-- conspiracy; but until i could get the full proofs i waited; i could but bribe and wait. were it not for the money i had spent, there might have been another prince of egypt." kald's face darkened. he was startled, too. he had been taken unawares. "my brother harrik--!" "and i should have lost my place, lost all for which i cared. i had no love for money; it was but a means. i spent it for the state--for the effendina, and to keep my place. i lost my place, however, in another way." "proofs! proofs!" kaid's voice was hoarse with feeling. "i have no proofs against prince harrik, no word upon paper. but there are proofs that the army is seditious, that, at any moment, it may revolt." "thou hast kept this secret?" questioned kaid darkly and suspiciously. "the time had not come. read, effendina," he added, handing some papers over. "but it is the whole army!" said kaid aghast, as he read. he was convinced. "there is only one guilty," returned nahoum. their eyes met. oriental fatalism met inveterate oriental distrust and then instinctively kaid's eyes turned to david. in the eyes of the inglesi was a different thing. the test of the new relationship had come. ferocity was in his heart, a vitriolic note was in his voice as he said to david, "if this be true-- the army rotten, the officers disloyal, treachery under every tunic-- bismillah, speak!" "shall it not be one thing at a time, effendina?" asked david. he made a gesture towards nahoum. kaid motioned to a door. "wait yonder," he said darkly to nahoum. as the door opened, and nahoum disappeared leisurely and composedly, david caught a glimpse of a guard of armed nubians in leopard-skins filed against the white wall of the other room. "what is thy intention towards nahoum, effendina?" david asked presently. kaid's voice was impatient. "thou hast asked his life--take it; it is thine; but if i find him within these walls again until i give him leave, he shall go as foorgat went." "what was the manner of foorgat's going?" asked david quietly. "as a wind blows through a court-yard, and the lamp goes out, so he went --in the night. who can say? wherefore speculate? he is gone. it is enough. were it not for thee, egypt should see nahoum no more." david sighed, and his eyes closed for an instant. "effendina, nahoum has proved his faith--is it not so?" he pointed to the documents in kaid's hands. a grim smile passed over kaid's face. distrust of humanity, incredulity, cold cynicism, were in it. "wheels within wheels, proofs within proofs," he said. "thou hast yet to learn the eastern heart. when thou seest white in the east, call it black, for in an instant it will be black. malaish, it is the east! have i not trusted--did i not mean well by all? did i not deal justly? yet my justice was but darkness of purpose, the hidden terror to them all. so did i become what thou findest me and dost believe me--a tyrant, in whose name a thousand do evil things of which i neither hear nor know. proof! when a woman lies in your arms, it is not the moment to prove her fidelity. nahoum has crawled back to my feet with these things, and by the beard of the prophet they are true!" he looked at the papers with loathing. "but what his purpose was when he spied upon and bribed my army i know not. yet, it shall be said, he has held harrik back--harrik, my brother. son of sheitan and slime of the nile, have i not spared harrik all these years!" "hast thou proof, effendina?" "i have proof enough; i shall have more soon. to save their lives, these, these will tell. i have their names here." he tapped the papers. "there are ways to make them tell. now, speak, effendi, and tell me what i shall do to harrik." "wouldst thou proclaim to egypt, to the sultan, to the world that the army is disloyal? if these guilty men are seized, can the army be trusted? will it not break away in fear? yonder nubians are not enough --a handful lost in the melee. prove the guilt of him who perverted the army and sought to destroy thee. punish him." "how shall there be proof save through those whom he has perverted? there is no writing." "there is proof," answered david calmly. "where shall i find it?" kaid laughed contemptuously. "i have the proof," answered david gravely. "against harrik?" "against prince harrik pasha." "thou--what dost thou know?" "a woman of the prince heard him give instructions for thy disposal, effendina, when the citadel should turns its guns upon cairo and the palace. she was once of thy harem. thou didst give her in marriage, and she came to the harem of prince harrik at last. a woman from without who sang to her--a singing girl, an al'mah--she trusted with the paper to warn thee, effendina, in her name. her heart had remembrance of thee. her foster-brother mahommed hassan is my servant. him she told, and mahommed laid the matter before me this morning. here is a sign by which thee will remember her, so she said. zaida she was called here." he handed over an amulet which had one red gem in the centre. kaid's face had set into fierce resolution, but as he took the amulet his eyes softened. "zaida. inshallah! zaida, she was called. she has the truth almost of the english. she could not lie ever. my heart smote me concerning her, and i gave her in marriage." then his face darkened again, and his teeth showed in malice. a demon was roused in him. he might long ago have banished the handsome and insinuating harrik, but he had allowed him wealth and safety--and now . . . his intention was unmistakable. "he shall die the death," he said. "is it not so?" he added fiercely to david, and gazed at him fixedly. would this man of peace plead for the traitor, the would-be fratricide? "he is a traitor; he must die," answered david slowly. kald's eyes showed burning satisfaction. "if he were thy brother, thou wouldst kill him?" "i would give a traitor to death for the country's sake. there is no other way." "to-night he shall die." "but with due trial, effendina?" "trial--is not the proof sufficient?" "but if he confess, and give evidence himself, and so offer himself to die?" "is harrik a fool?" answered kaid, with scorn. if there be a trial and sentence is given, the truth concerning the army must appear. is that well? egypt will shake to its foundations--to the joy of its enemies." "then he shall die secretly." "the prince pasha of egypt will be called a murderer." kaid shrugged his shoulders. "the sultan--europe--is it well?" "i will tell the truth," kaid rejoined angrily. "if the effendina will trust me, prince harrik shall confess his crime and pay the penalty also." "what is thy purpose?" "i will go to his palace and speak with him." "seize him?" "i have no power to seize him, effendina." "i will give it. my nubians shall go also." "effendina, i will go alone. it is the only way. there is great danger to the throne. who can tell what a night will bring forth?" "if harrik should escape--" "if i were an egyptian and permitted harrik to escape, my life would pay for my failure. if i failed, thou wouldst not succeed. if i am to serve egypt, there must be trust in me from thee, or it were better to pause now. if i go, as i shall go, alone, i put my life in danger--is it not so?" suddenly kaid sat down again among his cushions. "inshallah! in the name of god, be it so. thou art not as other men. there is something in thee above my thinking. but i will not sleep till i see thee again." "i shall see thee at midnight, effendina. give me the ring from thy finger." kaid passed it over, and david put it in his pocket. then he turned to go. "nahoum?" he asked. "take him hence. let him serve thee if it be thy will. yet i cannot understand it. the play is dark. is he not an oriental?" "he is a christian." kaid laughed sourly, and clapped his hands for the slave. in a moment david and nahoum were gone. "nahoum, a christian! bismillah!" murmured kaid scornfully, then fell to pondering darkly over the evil things he had heard. meanwhile the nubians in their glittering armour waited without in the blistering square. chapter xii the jehad and the lions "allah hu achbar! allah hu achbar! ashhadu an la illaha illalla!" the sweetly piercing, resonant voice of the muezzin rang far and commandingly on the clear evening air, and from bazaar and crowded street the faithful silently hurried to the mosques, leaving their slippers at the door, while others knelt where the call found them, and touched their foreheads to the ground. in his palace by the nile, harrik, the half-brother of the prince pasha, heard it, and breaking off from conversation with two urgent visitors, passed to an alcove near, dropping a curtain behind him. kneeling reverently on the solitary furniture of the room--a prayer-rug from medina--he lost himself as completely in his devotions as though his life were an even current of unforbidden acts and motives. cross-legged on the great divan of the room he had left, his less pious visitors, unable to turn their thoughts from the dark business on which they had come, smoked their cigarettes, talking to each other in tones so low as would not have been heard by a european, and with apparent listlessness. their manner would not have indicated that they were weighing matters of life and death, of treason and infamy, of massacre and national shame. only the sombre, smouldering fire of their eyes was evidence of the lighted fuse of conspiracy burning towards the magazine. one look of surprise had been exchanged when harrik pasha left them suddenly--time was short for what they meant to do; but they were muslims, and they resigned themselves. "the inglesi must be the first to go; shall a christian dog rule over us?" it was achmet the ropemaker who spoke, his yellow face wrinkling with malice, though his voice but murmured hoarsely. "nahoum will kill him." higli pasha laughed low--it was like the gurgle of water in the narghileh--a voice of good nature and persuasiveness from a heart that knew no virtue. "bismillah! who shall read the meaning of it? why has he not already killed?" "nahoum would choose his own time--after he has saved his life by the white carrion. kaid will give him his life if the inglesi asks. the inglesi, he is mad. if he were not mad, he would see to it that nahoum was now drying his bones in the sands." "what each has failed to do for the other shall be done for them," answered achmet, a hateful leer on his immobile features. "to-night many things shall be made right. to-morrow there will be places empty and places filled. egypt shall begin again to-morrow." "kaid?" achmet stopped smoking for a moment. "when the khamsin comes, when the camels stampede, and the children of the storm fall upon the caravan, can it be foretold in what way fate shall do her work? so but the end be the same--malaish! we shall be content tomorrow." now he turned and looked at his companion as though his mind had chanced on a discovery. "to him who first brings word to a prince who inherits, that the reigning prince is dead, belong honour and place," he said. "then shall it be between us twain," said high, and laid his hot palm against the cold, snaky palm of the other. "and he to whom the honour falls shall help the other." "aiwa, but it shall be so," answered achmet, and then they spoke in lower tones still, their eyes on the curtain behind which harrik prayed. presently harrik entered, impassive, yet alert, his slight, handsome figure in sharp contrast to the men lounging in the cushions before him, who salaamed as he came forward. the features were finely chiselled, the forehead white and high, the lips sensuous, the eyes fanatical, the look concentrated yet abstracted. he took a seat among the cushions, and, after a moment, said to achmet, in a voice abnormally deep and powerful: "diaz--there is no doubt of diaz?" "he awaits the signal. the hawk flies not swifter than diaz will act." "the people--the bazaars--the markets?" "as the air stirs a moment before the hurricane comes, so the whisper has stirred them. from one lip to another, from one street to another, from one quarter to another, the word has been passed--'nahoum was a christian, but nahoum was an egyptian whose heart was muslim. the stranger is a christian and an inglesi. reason has fled from the prince pasha, the inglesi has bewitched him. but the hour of deliverance draweth nigh. be ready! to-night!' so has the whisper gone." harrik's eyes burned. "god is great," he said. "the time has come. the christians spoil us. from france, from england, from austria--it is enough. kaid has handed us over to the greek usurers, the inglesi and the frank are everywhere. and now this new-comer who would rule kaid, and lay his hand upon egypt like joseph of old, and bring back nahoum, to the shame of every muslim--behold, the spark is to the tinder, it shall burn." "and the hour, effendina?" "at midnight. the guns to be trained on the citadel, the palace surrounded. kaid's nubians?" "a hundred will be there, effendina, the rest a mile away at their barracks." achmet rubbed his cold palms together in satisfaction. "and prince kaid, effendina?" asked higli cautiously. the fanatical eyes turned away. "the question is foolish--have ye no brains?" he said impatiently. a look of malignant triumph flashed from achmet to high, and he said, scarce above a whisper: "may thy footsteps be as the wings of the eagle, effendina. the heart of the pomegranate is not redder than our hearts are red for thee. cut deep into our hearts, and thou shalt find the last beat is for thee--and for the jehad!" "the jehad--ay, the jehad! the time is at hand," answered harrik, glowering at the two. "the sword shall not be sheathed till we have redeemed egypt. go your ways, effendis, and peace be on you and on all the righteous worshippers of god!" as high and achmet left the palace, the voice of a holy man--admitted everywhere and treated with reverence--chanting the koran, came somnolently through the court-yard: "bismillah hirrahmah, nirraheem. elhamdu lillahi sabbila!" rocking his body backwards and forwards and dwelling sonorously on each vowel, the holy man seemed the incarnation of muslim piety; but as the two conspirators passed him with scarce a glance, and made their way to a small gate leading into the great garden bordering on the nile, his eyes watched them sharply. when they had passed through, he turned towards the windows of the harem, still chanting. for a long time he chanted. an occasional servant came and went, but his voice ceased not, and he kept his eyes fixed ever on the harem windows. at last his watching had its reward. something fluttered from a window to the ground. still chanting, he rose and began walking round the great court-yard. twice he went round, still chanting, but the third time he stooped to pick up a little strip of linen which had fallen from the window, and concealed it in his sleeve. presently he seated himself again, and, still chanting, spread out the linen in his palm and read the characters upon it. for an instant there was a jerkiness to the voice, and then it droned on resonantly again. now the eyes of the holy man were fixed on the great gates through which strangers entered, and he was seated in the way which any one must take who came to the palace doors. it was almost dark, when he saw the bowab, after repeated knocking, sleepily and grudgingly open the gates to admit a visitor. there seemed to be a moment's hesitation on the bowab's part, but he was presently assured by something the visitor showed him, and the latter made his way deliberately to the palace doors. as the visitor neared the holy man, who chanted on monotonously, he was suddenly startled to hear between the long-drawn syllables the quick words in arabic: "beware, saadat! see, i am mahommed hassan, thy servant! at midnight they surround kaid's palace--achmet and higli--and kill the prince pasha. return, saadat. harrik will kill thee." david made no sign, but with a swift word to the faithful mahommed hassan, passed on, and was presently admitted to the palace. as the doors closed behind him, he would hear the voice of the holy man still chanting: "waladalleen--ameen-ameen! waladalleen--ameen!" the voice followed him, fainter and fainter, as he passed through the great bare corridors with the thick carpets on which the footsteps made no sound, until it came, soft and undefined, as it were from a great distance. then suddenly there fell upon him a sense of the peril of his enterprise. he had been left alone in the vast dim hall while a slave, made obsequious by the sight of the ring of the prince pasha, sought his master. as he waited he was conscious that people were moving about behind the great screens of mooshrabieh which separated this room from others, and that eyes were following his every motion. he had gained easy ingress to this place; but egress was a matter of some speculation. the doors which had closed behind him might swing one way only! he had voluntarily put himself in the power of a man whose fatal secret he knew. he only felt a moment's apprehension, however. he had been moved to come from a whisper in his soul; and he had the sure conviction of the predestinarian that he was not to be the victim of "the scytheman" before his appointed time. his mind resumed its composure, and he watchfully waited the return of the slave. suddenly he was conscious of some one behind him, though he had heard no one approach. he swung round and was met by the passive face of the black slave in personal attendance on harrik. the slave did not speak, but motioned towards a screen at the end of the room, and moved towards it. david followed. as they reached it, a broad panel opened, and they passed through, between a line of black slaves. then there was a sudden darkness, and a moment later david was ushered into a room blazing with light. every inch of the walls was hung with red curtains. no door was visible. he was conscious of this as the panel clicked behind him, and the folds of the red velvet caught his shoulder in falling. now he saw sitting on a divan on the opposite side of the room prince harrik. david had never before seen him, and his imagination had fashioned a different personality. here was a combination of intellect, refinement, and savagery. the red, sullen lips stamped the delicate, fanatical face with cruelty and barbaric indulgence, while yet there was an intensity in the eyes that showed the man was possessed of an idea which mastered him --a root-thought. david was at once conscious of a complex personality, of a man in whom two natures fought. he understood it. by instinct the man was a mahdi, by heredity he was a voluptuary, that strange commingling of the religious and the evil found in so many criminals. in some far corner of his nature david felt something akin. the rebellion in his own blood against the fine instinct of his quaker faith and upbringing made him grasp the personality before him. had he himself been born in these surroundings, under these influences! the thought flashed through his mind like lightning, even as he bowed before harrik, who salaamed and said: "peace be unto thee!" and motioned him to a seat on a divan near and facing him. "what is thy business with me, effendi?" asked harrik. "i come on the business of the prince pasha," answered david. harrik touched his fez mechanically, then his breast and lips, and a cruel smile lurked at the corners of his mouth as he rejoined: "the feet of them who wear the ring of their prince wait at no man's door. the carpet is spread for them. they go and they come as the feet of the doe in the desert. who shall say, they shall not come; who shall say, they shall not return!" though the words were spoken with an air of ingenuous welcome, david felt the malignity in the last phrase, and knew that now was come the most fateful moment of his life. in his inner being he heard the dreadful challenge of fate. if he failed in his purpose with this man, he would never begin his work in egypt. of his life he did not think--his life was his purpose, and the one was nothing without the other. no other man would have undertaken so quixotic an enterprise, none would have exposed himself so recklessly to the dreadful accidents of circumstance. there had been other ways to overcome this crisis, but he had rejected them for a course fantastic and fatal when looked at in the light of ordinary reason. a struggle between the east and the west was here to be fought out between two wills; between an intellectual libertine steeped in oriental guilt and cruelty and self-indulgence, and a being selfless, human, and in an agony of remorse for a life lost by his hand. involuntarily david's eyes ran round the room before he replied. how many slaves and retainers waited behind those velvet curtains? harrik saw the glance and interpreted it correctly. with a look of dark triumph he clapped his hands. as if by magic fifty black slaves appeared, armed with daggers. they folded their arms and waited like statues. david made no sign of discomposure, but said slowly: "dost thou think i did not know my danger, eminence? do i seem to thee such a fool? i came alone as one would come to the tent of a bedouin chief whose son one had slain, and ask for food and safety. a thousand men were mine to command, but i came alone. is thy guest imbecile? let them go. i have that to say which is for prince harrik's ear alone." an instant's hesitation, and harrik motioned the slaves away. "what is the private word for my ear?" he asked presently, fingering the stem of the narghileh. "to do right by egypt, the land of thy fathers and thy land; to do right by the prince pasha, thy brother." "what is egypt to thee? why shouldst thou bring thine insolence here? couldst thou not preach in thine own bazaars beyond the sea?" david showed no resentment. his reply was composed and quiet. "i am come to save egypt from the work of thy hands." "dog of an unbeliever, what hast thou to do with me, or the work of my hands?" david held up kaid's ring, which had lain in his hand. "i come from the master of egypt--master of thee, and of thy life, and of all that is thine." "what is kaid's message to me?" harrik asked, with an effort at unconcern, for david's boldness had in it something chilling to his fierce passion and pride. "the word of the effendina is to do right by egypt, to give thyself to justice and to peace." "have done with parables. to do right by egypt wherein, wherefore?" the eyes glinted at david like bits of fiery steel. "i will interpret to thee, eminence." "interpret." harrik muttered to himself in rage. his heart was dark, he thirsted for the life of this arrogant inglesi. did the fool not see his end? midnight was at hand! he smiled grimly. "this is the interpretation, o prince! prince harrik has conspired against his brother the prince pasha, has treacherously seduced officers of the army, has planned to seize cairo, to surround the palace and take the life of the prince of egypt. for months, prince, thee has done this: and the end of it is that thee shall do right ere it be too late. thee is a traitor to thy country and thy lawful lord." harrik's face turned pale; the stem of the narghileh shook in his fingers. all had been discovered, then! but there was a thing of dark magic here. it was not a half-hour since he had given the word to strike at midnight, to surround the palace, and to seize the prince pasha. achmet--higli, had betrayed him, then! who other? no one else knew save zaida, and zaida was in the harem. perhaps even now his own palace was surrounded. if it was so, then, come what might, this masterful inglesi should pay the price. he thought of the den of lions hard by, of the cage of tigers-the menagerie not a thousand feet away. he could hear the distant roaring now, and his eyes glittered. the christian to the wild beasts! that at least before the end. a muslim would win heaven by sending a christian to hell. achmet--higli! no others knew. the light of a fateful fanaticism was in his eyes. david read him as an open book, and saw the madness come upon him. "neither higli, nor achmet, nor any of thy fellow-conspirators has betrayed thee," david said. "god has other voices to whisper the truth than those who share thy crimes. i have ears, and the air is full of voices." harrik stared at him. was this inglesi, then, with the grey coat, buttoned to the chin, and the broad black hat which remained on his head unlike the custom of the english--was he one of those who saw visions and dreamed dreams, even as himself! had he not heard last night a voice whisper through the dark "harrik, harrik, flee to the desert! the lions are loosed upon thee!" had he not risen with the voice still in his ears and fled to the harem, seeking zaida, she who had never cringed before him, whose beauty he had conquered, but whose face turned from him when he would lay his lips on hers? and, as he fled, had he not heard, as it were, footsteps lightly following him--or were they going before him? finding zaida, had he not told her of the voice, and had she not said: "in the desert all men are safe--safe from themselves and safe from others; from their own acts and from the acts of others"? were the lions, then, loosed upon him? had he been betrayed? suddenly the thought flashed into his mind that his challenger would not have thrust himself into danger, given himself to the mouth of the pit, if violence were intended. there was that inside his robe, than which lightning would not be more quick to slay. had he not been a hunter of repute? had he not been in deadly peril with wild beasts, and was he not quicker than they? this man before him was like no other he had ever met. did voices speak to him? were there, then, among the christians such holy men as among the muslims, who saw things before they happened, and read the human mind? were there sorcerers among them, as among the arabs? in any case his treason was known. what were to be the consequences? diamond-dust in his coffee? to be dropped into the nile like a dog? to be smothered in his sleep?--for who could be trusted among all his slaves and retainers when it was known he was disgraced, and that the prince pasha would be happier if harrik were quiet for ever? mechanically he drew out his watch and looked at it. it was nine o'clock. in three hours more would have fallen the coup. but from this man's words he knew that the stroke was now with the prince pasha. yet, if this pale inglesi, this christian sorcerer, knew the truth in a vision only, and had not declared it to kaid, there might still be a chance of escape. the lions were near--it would be a joy to give a christian to the lions to celebrate the capture of cairo and the throne. he listened intently to the distant rumble of the lions. there was one cage dedicated to vengeance. five human beings on whom his terrible anger fell in times past had been thrust into it alive. two were slaves, one was an enemy, one an invader of his harem, and one was a woman, his wife, his favourite, the darling of his heart. when his chief eunuch accused her of a guilty love, he had given her paramour and herself to that awful death. a stroke of the vast paw, a smothered roar as the teeth gave into the neck of the beautiful fatima, and then--no more. fanaticism had caught a note of savage music that tuned it to its height. "why art thou here? for what hast thou come? do the spirit voices give thee that counsel?" he snarled. "i am come to ask prince harrik to repair the wrong he has done. when the prince pasha came to know of thy treason--" harrik started. "kaid believes thy tale of treason?" he burst out. "prince kaid knows the truth," answered david quietly. "he might have surrounded this palace with his nubians, and had thee shot against the palace walls. that would have meant a scandal in egypt and in europe. i besought him otherwise. it may be the scandal must come, but in another way, and--" "that i, harrik, must die?" harrik's voice seemed far away. in his own ears it sounded strange and unusual. all at once the world seemed to be a vast vacuum in which his brain strove for air, and all his senses were numbed and overpowered. distempered and vague, his soul seemed spinning in an aching chaos. it was being overpowered by vast elements, and life and being were atrophied in a deadly smother. the awful forces behind visible being hung him in the middle space between consciousness and dissolution. he heard david's voice, at first dimly, then understandingly. "there is no other way. thou art a traitor. thou wouldst have been a fratricide. thou wouldst have put back the clock in egypt by a hundred years, even to the days of the mamelukes--a race of slaves and murderers. god ordained that thy guilt should be known in time. prince, thou art guilty. it is now but a question how thou shalt pay the debt of treason." in david's calm voice was the ring of destiny. it was dispassionate, judicial; it had neither hatred nor pity. it fell on harrik's ear as though from some far height. destiny, the controller--who could escape it? had he not heard the voices in the night--"the lions are loosed upon thee"? he did not answer david now, but murmured to himself like one in a dream. david saw his mood, and pursued the startled mind into the pit of confusion. "if it become known to europe that the army is disloyal, that its officers are traitors like thee, what shall we find? england, france, turkey, will land an army of occupation. who shall gainsay turkey if she chooses to bring an army here and recover control, remove thy family from egypt, and seize upon its lands and goods? dost thou not see that the hand of god has been against thee? he has spoken, and thy evil is discovered." he paused. still harrik did not reply, but looked at him with dilated, fascinated eyes. death had hypnotised him, and against death and destiny who could struggle? had not a past prince pasha of egypt safeguarded himself from assassination all his life, and, in the end, had he not been smothered in his sleep by slaves? "there are two ways only," david continued--"to be tried and die publicly for thy crimes, to the shame of egypt, its present peril, and lasting injury; or to send a message to those who conspired with thee, commanding them to return to their allegiance, and another to the prince pasha, acknowledging thy fault, and exonerating all others. else, how many of thy dupes shall die! thy choice is not life or death, but how thou shalt die, and what thou shalt do for egypt as thou diest. thou didst love egypt, eminence?" david's voice dropped low, and his last words had a suggestion which went like an arrow to the source of all harrik's crimes, and that also which redeemed him in a little. it got into his inner being. he roused himself and spoke, but at first his speech was broken and smothered. "day by day i saw egypt given over to the christians," he said. "the greek, the italian, the frenchman, the englishman, everywhere they reached out, their hands and took from us our own. they defiled our mosques; they corrupted our life; they ravaged our trade, they stole our customers, they crowded us from the streets where once the faithful lived alone. such as thou had the ear of the prince, and such as nahoum, also an infidel, who favoured the infidels of europe. and now thou hast come, the most dangerous of them all! day by day the muslim has loosed his hold on cairo, and alexandria, and the cities of egypt. street upon street knows him no more. my heart burned within me. i conspired for egypt's sake. i would have made her muslim once again. i would have fought the turk and the frank, as did mehemet ali; and if the infidels came, i would have turned them back; or if they would not go, i would have destroyed them here. such as thou should have been stayed at the door. in my own house i would have been master. we seek not to take up our abode in other nations and in the cities of the infidel. shall we give place to them on our own mastaba, in our own court-yard--hand to them the keys of our harems? i would have raised the jehad if they vexed me with their envoys and their armies." he paused, panting. "it would not have availed," was david's quiet answer. "this land may not be as tibet--a prison for its own people. if the door opens outward, then must it open inward also. egypt is the bridge between the east and the west. upon it the peoples of all nations pass and repass. thy plan was folly, thy hope madness, thy means to achieve horrible. thy dream is done. the army will not revolt, the prince will not be slain. now only remains what thou shalt do for egypt--" "and thou--thou wilt be left here to lay thy will upon egypt. kaid's ear will be in thy hand--thou hast the sorcerer's eye. i know thy meaning. thou wouldst have me absolve all, even achmet, and higli, and diaz, and the rest, and at thy bidding go out into the desert"--he paused--"or into the grave." "not into the desert," rejoined david firmly. "thou wouldst not rest. there, in the desert, thou wouldst be a mahdi. since thou must die, wilt thou not order it after thine own choice? it is to die for egypt." "is this the will of kaid?" asked harrik, his voice thick with wonder, his brain still dulled by the blow of fate. "it was not the effendina's will, but it hath his assent. wilt thou write the word to the army and also to the prince?" he had conquered. there was a moment's hesitation, then harrik picked up paper and ink that lay near, and said: "i will write to kaid. i will have naught to do with the army." "it shall be the whole, not the part," answered david determinedly. "the truth is known. it can serve no end to withhold the writing to the army. remember what i have said to thee. the disloyalty of the army must not be known. canst thou not act after the will of allah, the all-powerful, the all-just, the all-merciful?" there was an instant's pause, and then suddenly harrik placed the paper in his palm and wrote swiftly and at some length to kaid. laying it down, he took another and wrote but a few words--to achmet and diaz. this message said in brief, "do not strike. it is the will of allah. the army shall keep faithful until the day of the mahdi be come. i spoke before the time. i go to the bosom of my lord mahomet." he threw the papers on the floor before david, who picked them up, read them, and put them into his pocket. "it is well," he said. "egypt shall have peace. and thou, eminence?" "who shall escape fate? what i have written i have written." david rose and salaamed. harrik rose also. "thou wouldst go, having accomplished thy will?" harrik asked, a thought flashing to his mind again, in keeping with his earlier purpose. why should this man be left to trouble egypt? david touched his breast. "i must bear thy words to the palace and the citadel." "are there not slaves for messengers?" involuntarily harrik turned his eyes to the velvet curtains. no fear possessed david, but he felt the keenness of the struggle, and prepared for the last critical moment of fanaticism. "it were a foolish thing to attempt my death," he said calmly. "i have been thy friend to urge thee to do that which saves thee from public shame, and egypt from peril. i came alone, because i had no fear that thou wouldst go to thy death shaming hospitality." "thou wast sure i would give myself to death?" "even as that i breathe. thou wert mistaken; a madness possessed thee; but thou, i knew, wouldst choose the way of honour. i too have had dreams--and of egypt. if it were for her good, i would die for her." "thou art mad. but the mad are in the hands of god, and--" suddenly harrik stopped. there came to his ears two distant sounds--the faint click of horses' hoofs and that dull rumble they had heard as they talked, a sound he loved, the roar of his lions. he clapped his hands twice, the curtains parted opposite, and a slave slid silently forward. "quick! the horses! what are they? bring me word," he said. the slave vanished. for a moment there was silence. the eyes of the two men met. in the minds of both was the same thing. "kaid! the nubians!" harrik said, at last. david made no response. the slave returned, and his voice murmured softly, as though the matter were of no concern: "the nubians--from the palace." in an instant he was gone again. "kaid had not faith in thee," harrik said grimly. "but see, infidel though thou art, thou trustest me, and thou shalt go thy way. take them with thee, yonder jackals of the desert. i will not go with them. i did not choose to live; others chose for me; but i will die after my own choice. thou hast heard a voice, even as i. it is too late to flee to the desert. fate tricks me. 'the lions are loosed on thee'--so the voice said to me in the night. hark! dost thou not hear them--the lions, harrik's lions, got out of the uttermost desert?" david could hear the distant roar, for the menagerie was even part of the palace itself. "go in peace," continued harrik soberly and with dignity, "and when egypt is given to the infidel and muslims are their slaves, remember that harrik would have saved it for his lord mahomet, the prophet of god." he clapped his hands, and fifty slaves slid from behind the velvet curtains. "i have thy word by the tomb of thy mother that thou wilt take the nubians hence, and leave me in peace?" he asked. david raised a hand above his head. "as i have trusted thee, trust thou me, harrik, son of mahomet." harrik made a gesture of dismissal, and david salaamed and turned to go. as the curtains parted for his exit, he faced harrik again. "peace be to thee," he said. but, seated in his cushions, the haggard, fanatical face of harrik was turned from him, the black, flaring eyes fixed on vacancy. the curtain dropped behind david, and through the dim rooms and corridors he passed, the slaves gliding beside him, before him, and behind him, until they reached the great doors. as they swung open and the cool night breeze blew in his face, a great suspiration of relief passed from him. what he had set out to do would be accomplished in all. harrik would keep his word. it was the only way. as he emerged from the doorway some one fell at his feet, caught his sleeve and kissed it. it was mahommed hassan. behind mahommed was a little group of officers and a hundred stalwart nubians. david motioned them towards the great gates, and, without speaking, passed swiftly down the pathway and emerged upon the road without. a moment later he was riding towards the citadel with harrik's message to achmet. in the red- curtained room harrik sat alone, listening until he heard the far clatter of hoofs, and knew that the nubians were gone. then the other distant sound which had captured his ear came to him again. in his fancy it grew louder and louder. with it came the voice that called him in the night, the voice of a woman--of the wife he had given to the lions for a crime against him which she did not commit, which had haunted him all the years. he had seen her thrown to the king of them all, killed in one swift instant, and dragged about the den by her warm white neck--this slave wife from albania, his adored fatima. and when, afterwards, he came to know the truth, and of her innocence, from the chief eunuch who with his last breath cleared her name, a terrible anger and despair had come upon him. time and intrigue and conspiracy had distracted his mind, and the jehad became the fixed aim and end of his life. now this was gone. destiny had tripped him up. kaid and the infidel inglesi had won. as the one great passion went out like smoke, the woman he loved, whom he had given to the lions, the memory of her, some haunting part of her, possessed him, overcame him. in truth, he had heard a voice in the night, but not the voice of a spirit. it was the voice of zaida, who, preying upon his superstitious mind--she knew the hallucination which possessed him concerning her he had cast to the lions--and having given the terrible secret to kaid, whom she had ever loved, would still save harrik from the sure vengeance which must fall upon him. her design had worked, but not as she intended. she had put a spell of superstition on him, and the end would be accomplished, but not by flight to the desert. harrik chose the other way. he had been a hunter. he was without fear. the voice of the woman he loved called him. it came to him through the distant roar of the lions as clear as when, with one cry of "harrik !" she had fallen beneath the lion's paw. he knew now why he had kept the great beast until this hour, though tempted again and again to slay him. like one in a dream, he drew a dagger from the cushions where he sat, and rose to his feet. leaving the room and passing dark groups of waiting slaves, he travelled empty chambers and long corridors, the voices of the lions growing nearer and nearer. he sped faster now, and presently came to two great doors, on which he knocked thrice. the doors opened, and two slaves held up lights for him to enter. taking a torch from one of them, he bade them retire, and the doors clanged behind them. harrik held up the torch and came nearer. in the centre of the room was a cage in which one great lion paced to and fro in fury. it roared at him savagely. it was his roar which had come to harrik through the distance and the night. he it was who had carried fatima, the beloved, about his cage by that neck in which harrik had laid his face so often. the hot flush of conflict and the long anger of the years were on him. since he must die, since destiny had befooled him, left him the victim of the avengers, he would end it here. here, against the thing of savage hate which had drunk of the veins and crushed the bones of his fair wife, he would strike one blow deep and strong and shed the blood of sacrifice before his own was shed. he thrust the torch into the ground, and, with the dagger grasped tightly, carefully opened the cage and stepped inside. the door clicked behind him. the lion was silent now, and in a far corner prepared to spring, crouching low. "fatima!" harrik cried, and sprang forward as the wild beast rose at him. he struck deep, drew forth the dagger--and was still. chapter xiii achmet the ropemaker strikes war! war! the chains of the conscripts clanked in the river villages; the wailing of the women affrighted the pigeons in a thousand dovecotes on the nile; the dust of despair was heaped upon the heads of the old, who knew that their young would no more return, and that the fields of dourha would go ungathered, the water-channels go unattended, and the onion-fields be bare. war! war! war! the strong, the broad-shouldered --aka, mahmoud, raschid, selim, they with the bodies of seti and the faces of rameses, in their blue yeleks and unsandalled feet--would go into the desert as their forefathers did for the shepherd kings. but there would be no spoil for them--no slaves with swelling breasts and lips of honey; no straight-limbed servants of their pleasure to wait on them with caressing fingers; no rich spoils carried back from the fields of war to the mud hut, the earth oven, and the thatched roof; no rings of soft gold and necklaces of amber snatched from the fingers and bosoms of the captive and the dead. those days were no more. no vision of loot or luxury allured these. they saw only the yellow sand, the ever-receding oasis, the brackish, undrinkable water, the withered and fruitless date- tree, handfuls of dourha for their food by day, and the keen, sharp night to chill their half-dead bodies in a half-waking sleep. and then the savage struggle for life--with all the gain to the pashas and the beys, and those who ruled over them; while their own wounds grew foul, and, in the torturing noon-day heat of the white waste, death reached out and dragged them from the drooping lines to die. fighting because they must fight--not patriot love, nor understanding, nor sacrifice in their hearts. war! war! war! war! david had been too late to stop it. it had grown to a head with revolution and conspiracy. for months before he came conscripts had been gathered in the nile country from rosetta to assouan, and here and there, far south, tribes had revolted. he had come to power too late to devise another course. one day, when this war was over, he would go alone, save for a faithful few, to deal with these tribes and peoples upon another plane than war; but here and now the only course was that which had been planned by kaid and those who counselled him. troubled by a deep danger drawing near, kaid had drawn him into his tough service, half-blindly catching at his help, with a strange, almost superstitious belief that luck and good would come from the alliance; seeing in him a protection against wholesale robbery and debt--were not the english masters of finance, and was not this englishman honest, and with a brain of fire and an eye that pierced things? david had accepted the inevitable. the war had its value. it would draw off to the south--he would see that it was so--achmet and higli and diaz and the rest, who were ever a danger. not to himself: he did not think of that; but to kaid and to egypt. they had been out-manoeuvred, beaten, foiled, knew who had foiled them and what they had escaped; congratulated themselves, but had no gratitude to him, and still plotted his destruction. more than once his death had been planned, but the dark design had come to light--now from the workers of the bazaars, whose wires of intelligence pierced everywhere; now from some hungry fellah whose yelek he had filled with cakes of dourha beside a bread-shop; now from mahommed hassan, who was for him a thousand eyes and feet and hands, who cooked his food, and gathered round him fellaheen or copts or soudanese or nubians whom he himself had tested and found true, and ruled them with a hand of plenty and a rod of iron. also, from nahoum's spies he learned of plots and counterplots, chiefly on achmet's part; and these he hid from kaid, while he trusted nahoum--and not without reason, as yet. the day of nahoum's wrath and revenge was not yet come; it was his deep design to lay the foundation for his own dark actions strong on a rock of apparent confidence and devotion. a long torture and a great over- whelming was his design. he knew himself to be in the scheme of a master-workman, and by-and-by he would blunt the chisel and bend the saw; but not yet. meanwhile, he hated, admired, schemed, and got a sweet taste on his tongue from aiding david to foil achmet--higli and diaz were of little account; only the injury they felt in seeing the sluices being closed on the stream of bribery and corruption kept them in the toils of achmet's conspiracy. they had saved their heads, but they had not learned their lesson yet; and achmet, blinded by rage, not at all. achmet did not understand clemency. one by one his plots had failed, until the day came when david advised kaid to send him and his friends into the soudan, with the punitive expedition under loyal generals. it was david's dream that, in the field of war, a better spirit might enter into achmet and his friends; that patriotism might stir in them. the day was approaching when the army must leave. achmet threw dice once more. evening was drawing down. over the plaintive pink and golden glow of sunset was slowly being drawn a pervasive silver veil of moonlight. a caravan of camels hunched alone in the middle distance, making for the western desert. near by, village life manifested itself in heavily laden donkeys; in wolfish curs stealing away with refuse into the waste; in women, upright and modest, bearing jars of water on their heads; in evening fires, where the cover of the pot clattered over the boiling mass within; in the voice of the muezzin calling to prayer. returning from alexandria to cairo in the special train which kaid had sent for him, david watched the scene with grave and friendly interest. there was far, to go before those mud huts of the thousand years would give place to rational modern homes; and as he saw a solitary horseman spread his sheepskin on the ground and kneel to say his evening prayer, as mahomet had done in his flight between mecca and medina, the distance between the egypt of his desire and the ancient egypt that moved round him sharply impressed his mind, and the magnitude of his task settled heavily on his spirit. "but it is the beginning--the beginning," he said aloud to himself, looking out upon the green expanses of dourha and lucerne, and eyeing lovingly the cotton-fields here and there, the origin of the industrial movement he foresaw--"and some one had to begin. the rest is as it must be--" there was a touch of oriental philosophy in his mind--was it not galilee and the nazarene, that oriental source from which mahomet also drew? but he added to the "as it must be" the words, "and as god wills." he was alone in the compartment with lacey, whose natural garrulity had had a severe discipline in the months that had passed since he had asked to be allowed to black david's boots. he could now sit for an hour silent, talking to himself, carrying on unheard conversations. seeing david's mood, he had not spoken twice on this journey, but had made notes in a little "book of experience,"--as once he had done in mexico. at last, however, he raised his head, and looked eagerly out of the window as david did, and sniffed. "the nile again," he said, and smiled. the attraction of the nile was upon him, as it grows on every one who lives in egypt. the nile and egypt--egypt and the nile--its mystery, its greatness, its benevolence, its life-giving power, without which egypt is as the sahara, it conquers the mind of every man at last. "the nile, yes," rejoined david, and smiled also. "we shall cross it presently." again they relapsed into silence, broken only by the clang, clang of the metal on the rails, and then presently another, more hollow sound--the engine was upon the bridge. lacey got up and put his head out of the window. suddenly there was a cry of fear and horror over his head, a warning voice shrieking: "the bridge is open--we are lost. effendi--master--allah!" it was the voice of mahommed hassan, who had been perched on the roof of the car. like lightning lacey realised the danger, and saw the only way of escape. he swung open the door, even as the engine touched the edge of the abyss and shrieked its complaint under the hand of the terror-stricken driver, caught david's shoulder, and cried: "jump-jump into the river-- quick!" as the engine toppled, david jumped--there was no time to think, obedience was the only way. after him sprang, far down into the grey- blue water, lacey and mahommed. when they came again to the surface, the little train with its handful of human freight had disappeared. two people had seen the train plunge to destruction--the solitary horseman whom david had watched kneel upon his sheepskin, and who now from a far hill had seen the disaster, but had not seen the three jump for their lives, and a fisherman on the bank, who ran shouting towards a village standing back from the river. as the fisherman sped shrieking and beckoning to the villagers, david, lacey, and mahommed fought for their lives in the swift current, swimming at an angle upstream towards the shore; for, as mahommed warned them, there were rocks below. lacey was a good swimmer, but he was heavy, and david was a better, but mahommed had proved his merit in the past on many an occasion when the laws of the river were reaching out strong hands for him. now, as mahommed swam, he kept moaning to himself, cursing his father and his father's son, as though he himself were to blame for the crime which had been committed. here was a plot, and he had discovered more plots than one against his master. the bridge-opener--when he found him he would take him into the desert and flay him alive; and find him he would. his watchful eyes were on the hut by the bridge where this man should be. no one was visible. he cursed the man and all his ancestry and all his posterity, sleeping and waking, until the day when he, mahommed, would pinch his flesh with red hot irons. but now he had other and nearer things to occupy him, for in the fierce struggle towards the shore lacey found himself failing, and falling down the stream. presently both mahommed and david were beside him, lacey angrily protesting to david that he must save himself. "say, think of egypt and all the rest. you've got to save yourself--let me splash along!" he spluttered, breathing hard, his shoulders low in the water, his mouth almost submerged. but david and mahommed fought along beside him, each determined that it must be all or none; and presently the terror-stricken fisherman who had roused the village, still shrieking deliriously, came upon them in a flat-bottomed boat manned by four stalwart fellaheen, and the tragedy of the bridge was over. but not the tragedy of achmet the ropemaker. chapter xiv beyond the pale mahommed hassan had vowed a vow in the river, and he kept it in so far as was seemly. his soul hungered for the face of the bridge-opener, and the hunger grew. he was scarce passed from the shivering nile into a dry yelek, had hardly taken a juicy piece from the cooking-pot at the house of the village sheikh, before he began to cultivate friends who could help him, including the sheikh himself; for what money mahommed lacked was supplied by lacey, who had a reasoned confidence in him, and by the fiercely indignant kaid himself, to whom lacey and mahommed went secretly, hiding their purpose from david. so, there were a score of villages where every sheikh, eager for gold, listened for the whisper of the doorways, and every slave and villager listened at the sheikh's door. but neither to sheikh nor to villager was it given to find the man. but one evening there came a knocking at the door of the house which mahommed still kept in the lowest muslim quarter of the town, a woman who hid her face and was of more graceful figure than was familiar in those dark purlieus. the door was at once opened, and mahommed, with a cry, drew her inside. "zaida--the peace of god be upon thee," he said, and gazed lovingly yet sadly upon her, for she had greatly changed. "and upon thee peace, mahommed," she answered, and sat upon the floor, her head upon her breast. "thou hast trouble at," he said, and put some cakes of dourha and a meated cucumber beside her. she touched the food with her fingers, but did not eat. "is thy grief, then, for thy prince who gave himself to the lions?" he asked. "inshallah! harrik is in the bosom of allah. he is with fatima in the fields of heaven--was i as fatima to him? nay, the dead have done with hurting." "since that night thou hast been lost, even since harrik went. i searched for thee, but thou wert hid. surely, thou knewest mine eyes were aching and my heart was cast down--did not thou and i feed at the same breast?" "i was dead, and am come forth from the grave; but i shall go again into the dark where all shall forget, even i myself; but there is that which i would do, which thou must do for me, even as i shall do good to thee, that which is the desire of my heart." "speak, light of the morning and blessing of thy mother's soul," he said, and crowded into his mouth a roll of meat and cucumber. "against thy feddan shall be set my date-tree; it hath been so ever." "listen then, and by the stone of the kaabah, keep the faith which has been throe and mine since my mother, dying, gave me to thy mother, whose milk gave me health and, in my youth, beauty--and, in my youth, beauty!" suddenly she buried her face in her veil, and her body shook with sobs which had no voice. presently she continued: "listen, and by abraham and christ and all the prophets, and by mahomet the true revealer, give me thine aid. when harrik gave his life to the lions, i fled to her whom i had loved in the house of kaid--laka the syrian, afterwards the wife of achmet pasha. by harrik's death i was free--no more a slave. once laka had been the joy of achmet's heart, but, because she had no child, she was despised and forgotten. was it not meet i should fly to her whose sorrow would hide my loneliness? and so it was--i was hidden in the harem of achmet. but miserable tongues--may god wither them!--told achmet of my presence. and though i was free, and not a bondswoman, he broke upon my sleep. . . ." mahommed's eyes blazed, his dark skin blackened like a coal, and he muttered maledictions between his teeth. ". . . in the morning there was a horror upon me, for which there is no name. but i laughed also when i took a dagger and stole from the harem to find him in the quarters beyond the women's gate. i found him, but i held my hand, for one was with him who spake with a tone of anger and of death, and i listened. then, indeed, i rejoiced for thee, for i have found thee a road to honour and fortune. the man was a bridge-opener--" "ah!--o, light of a thousand eyes, fruit of the tree of eden!" cried mahommed, and fell on his knees at her feet, and would have kissed them, but that, with a cry, she said: "nay, nay, touch me not. but listen. . . . ay, it was achmet who sought to drown thy pasha in the nile. thou shalt find the man in the little street called singat in the moosky, at the house of haleel the date-seller." mahommed rocked backwards and forwards in his delight. "oh, now art thou like a lamp of paradise, even as a star which leadeth an army of stars, beloved," he said. he rubbed his hands together. "thy witness and his shall send achmet to a hell of scorpions, and i shall slay the bridge- opener with my own hand--hath not the effendina secretly said so to me, knowing that my pasha, the inglesi, upon whom be peace for ever and forever, would forgive him. ah, thou blossom of the tree of trees--" she rose hastily, and when he would have kissed her hand she drew back to the wall. "touch me not--nay, then, mahommed, touch me not--" "why should i not pay thee honour, thou princess among women? hast thou not the brain of a man, and thy beauty, like thy heart, is it not--" she put out both her hands and spoke sharply. "enough, my brother," she said. "thou hast thy way to great honour. thou shalt yet have a thousand feddans of well-watered land and slaves to wait upon thee. get thee to the house of haleel. there shall the blow fall on the head of achmet, the blow which was mine to strike, but that allah stayed my hand that i might do thee and thy pasha good, and to give the soul-slayer and the body-slayer into the hands of kaid, upon whom be everlasting peace!" her voice dropped low. "thou saidst but now that i had beauty. is there yet any beauty in my face?" she lowered her yashmak and looked at him with burning eyes. "thou art altogether beautiful," he answered, "but there is a strangeness to thy beauty like none i have seen; as if upon the face of an angel there fell a mist--nay, i have not words to make it plain to thee." with a great sigh, and yet with the tenseness gone from her eyes, she slowly drew the veil up again till only her eyes were visible. "it is well," she answered. "now, i have heard that to-morrow night prince kaid will sit in the small court-yard of the blue tiles by the harem to feast with his friends, ere the army goes into the desert at the next sunrise. achmet is bidden to the feast." "it is so, o beloved!" "there will be dancers and singers to make the feast worthy?" "at such a time it will be so." "then this thou shalt do. see to it that i shall be among the singers, and when all have danced and sung, that i shall sing, and be brought before kaid." "inshallah! it shall be so. thou dost desire to see kaid--in truth, thou hast memory, beloved." she made a gesture of despair. "go upon thy business. dost thou not desire the blood of achmet and the bridge-opener?" mahommed laughed, and joyfully beat his breast, with whispered exclamations, and made ready to go. "and thou?" he asked. "am i not welcome here?" she replied wearily. "o, my sister, thou art the master of my life and all that i have," he exclaimed, and a moment afterwards he was speeding towards kaid's palace. for the first time since the day of his banishment achmet the ropemaker was invited to kaid's palace. coming, he was received with careless consideration by the prince. behind his long, harsh face and sullen eyes a devil was raging, because of all his plans that had gone awry, and because the man he had sought to kill still served the effendina, putting a blight upon egypt. to-morrow he, achmet, must go into the desert with the army, and this hated inglesi would remain behind to have his will with kaid. the one drop of comfort in his cup was the fact that the displeasure of the effendina against himself was removed, and that he had, therefore, his foot once more inside the palace. when he came back from the war he would win his way to power again. meanwhile, he cursed the man who had eluded the death he had prepared for him. with his own eyes had he not seen, from the hill top, the train plunge to destruction, and had he not once more got off his horse and knelt upon his sheepskin and given thanks to allah--a devout arab obeying the sunset call to prayer, as david had observed from the train? one by one, two by two, group by group, the unveiled dancers came and went; the singers sang behind the screen provided for them, so that none might see their faces, after the custom. at last, however, kaid and his guests grew listless, and smoked and talked idly. yet there was in the eyes of kaid a watchfulness unseen by any save a fellah who squatted in a corner eating sweetmeats, and a hidden singer waiting until she should be called before the prince pasha. the singer's glances continually flashed between kaid and achmet. at last, with gleaming eyes, she saw six nubian slaves steal silently behind achmet. one, also, of great strength, came suddenly and stood before him. in his hands was a leathern thong. achmet saw, felt the presence of the slaves behind him, and shrank back numbed and appalled. a mist came before his eyes; the voice he heard summoning him to stand up seemed to come from infinite distances. the hand of doom had fallen like a thunderbolt. the leathern thong in the hands of the slave was the token of instant death. there was no chance of escape. the nubians had him at their mercy. as his brain struggled to regain its understanding, he saw, as in a dream, david enter the court-yard and come towards kaid. suddenly david stopped in amazement, seeing achmet. inquiringly he looked at kaid, who spoke earnestly to him in a low tone. whereupon david turned his head away, but after a moment fixed his eyes on achmet. kaid motioned all his startled guests to come nearer. then in strong, unmerciful voice he laid achmet's crime before them, and told the story of the bridge-opener, who had that day expiated his crime in the desert by the hands of mahommed--but not with torture, as mahommed had hoped might be. "what shall be his punishment--so foul, so wolfish?" kaid asked of them all. a dozen voices answered, some one terrible thing, some another. "mercy!" moaned achmet aghast. "mercy, saadat!" he cried to david. david looked at him calmly. there was little mercy in his eyes as he answered: "thy crimes sent to their death in the nile those who never injured thee. dost thou quarrel with justice? compose thy soul, and i pray only the effendina to give thee that seemly death thou didst deny thy victims." he bowed respectfully to kaid. kaid frowned. "the ways of egypt are the ways of egypt, and not of the land once thine," he answered shortly. then, under the spell of that influence which he had never yet been able to resist, he added to the slaves: "take him aside. i will think upon it. but he shall die at sunrise ere the army goes. shall not justice be the gift of kaid for an example and a warning? take him away a little. i will decide." as achmet and the slaves disappeared into a dark corner of the court- yard, kaid rose to his feet, and, upon the hint, his guests, murmuring praises of his justice and his mercy and his wisdom, slowly melted from the court-yard; but once outside they hastened to proclaim in the four quarters of cairo how yet again the english pasha had picked from the tree of life an apple of fortune. the court-yard was now empty, save for the servants of the prince, david and mahommed, and two officers in whom david had advised kaid to put trust. presently one of these officers said: "there is another singer, and the last. is it the effendina's pleasure?" kaid made a gesture of assent, sat down, and took the stem of a narghileh between his lips. for a moment there was silence, and then, out upon the sweet, perfumed night, over which the stars hung brilliant and soft and near, a voice at first quietly, then fully, and palpitating with feeling, poured forth an eastern love song: "take thou thy flight, o soul! thou hast no more the gladness of the morning! ah, the perfumed roses my love laid on my bosom as i slept! how did he wake me with his lips upon mine eyes, how did the singers carol--the singers of my soul that nest among the thoughts of my beloved! . . . all silent now, the choruses are gone, the windows of my soul are closed; no more mine eyes look gladly out to see my lover come. there is no more to do, no more to say: take flight, my soul, my love returns no more!" at the first note kaid started, and his eyes fastened upon the screen behind which sat the singer. then, as the voice, in sweet anguish, filled the court-yard, entrancing them all, rose higher and higher, fell and died away, he got to his feet, and called out hoarsely: "come--come forth!" slowly a graceful, veiled figure came from behind the great screen. he took a step forward. "zaida! zaida!" he said gently, amazedly. she salaamed low. "forgive me, o my lord!" she said, in a whispering voice, drawing her veil about her head. "it was my soul's desire to look upon thy face once more." "whither didst thou go at harrik's death? i sent to find thee, and give thee safety; but thou wert gone, none knew where." "o my lord, what was i but a mote in thy sun, that thou shouldst seek me?" kaid's eyes fell, and he murmured to himself a moment, then he said slowly: "thou didst save egypt, thou and my friend"--he gestured towards david"--and my life also, and all else that is worth. therefore bounty, and safety, and all thy desires were thy due. kaid is no ingrate--no, by the hand of moses that smote at sinai!" she made a pathetic motion of her hands. "by harrik's death i am free, a slave no longer. o my lord, where i go bounty and famine are the same." kaid took a step forward. "let me see thy face," he said, something strange in her tone moving him with awe. she lowered her veil and looked him in the eyes. her wan beauty smote him, conquered him, the exquisite pain in her face filled kaid's eyes with foreboding, and pierced his heart. "o cursed day that saw thee leave these walls! i did it for thy good-- thou wert so young; thy life was all before thee! but now--come, zaida, here in kaid's palace thou shalt have a home, and be at peace, for i see that thou hast suffered. surely it shall be said that kaid honours thee." he reached out to take her hand. she had listened like one in a dream, but, as he was about to touch her, she suddenly drew back, veiled her face, save for the eyes, and said in a voice of agony: "unclean, unclean! my lord, i am a leper!" an awed and awful silence fell upon them all. kaid drew back as though smitten by a blow. presently, upon the silence, her voice sharp with agony said: "i am a leper, and i go to that desert place which my lord has set apart for lepers, where, dead to the world, i shall watch the dreadful years come and go. behold, i would die, but that i have a sister there these many years, and her sick soul lives in loneliness. o my lord, forgive me! here was i happy; here of old i did sing to thee, and i came to sing to thee once more a death-song. also, i came to see thee do justice, ere i went from thy face for ever." kaid's head was lowered on his breast. he shuddered. "thou art so beautiful--thy voice, all! thou wouldst see justice--speak! justice shall be made plain before thee." twice she essayed to speak, and could not; but from his sweetmeats and the shadows mahommed crept forward, kissed the ground before kaid, and said: "effendina, thou knowest me as the servant of thy high servant, claridge pasha." "i know thee--proceed." "behold, she whom god has smitten, man smote first. i am her foster- brother--from the same breast we drew the food of life. thou wouldst do justice, o effendina; but canst thou do double justice--ay, a thousandfold? then"--his voice raised almost shrilly--"then do it upon achmet pasha. she--zaida--told me where i should find the bridge- opener." "zaida once more!" kaid murmured. "she had learned all in achmet's harem--hearing speech between achmet and the man whom thou didst deliver to my hands yesterday." "zaida-in achmet's harem?" kaid turned upon her. swiftly she told her dreadful tale, how, after achmet had murdered all of her except her body, she rose up to kill herself; but fainting, fell upon a burning brazier, and her hand thrust accidentally in the live coals felt no pain. "and behold, o my lord, i knew i was a leper; and i remembered my sister and lived on." so she ended, in a voice numbed and tuneless. kaid trembled with rage, and he cried in a loud voice: "bring achmet forth." as the slave sped upon the errand, david laid a hand on kaid's arm, and whispered to him earnestly. kaid's savage frown cleared away, and his rage calmed down; but an inflexible look came into his face, a look which petrified the ruined achmet as he salaamed before him. "know thy punishment, son of a dog with a dog's heart, and prepare for a daily death," said kaid. "this woman thou didst so foully wrong, even when thou didst wrong her, she was a leper." a low cry broke from achmet, for now when death came he must go unclean to the after-world, forbidden allah's presence. broken and abject he listened. "she knew not, till thou wert gone," continued kaid. she is innocent before the law. but thou--beast of the slime--hear thy sentence. there is in the far desert a place where lepers live. there, once a year, one caravan comes, and, at the outskirts of the place unclean, leaves food and needful things for another year, and returns again to egypt after many days. from that place there is no escape--the desert is as the sea, and upon that sea there is no ghiassa to sail to a farther shore. it is the leper land. thither thou shalt go to wait upon this woman thou hast savagely wronged, and upon her kind, till thou diest. it shall be so." "mercy! mercy!" achmet cried, horror-stricken, and turned to david. "thou art merciful. speak for me, saadat." "when didst thou have mercy?" asked david. "thy crimes are against humanity." kaid made a motion, and, with dragging feet, achmet passed from the haunts of familiar faces. for a moment kaid stood and looked at zaida, rigid and stricken in that awful isolation which is the leper's doom. her eyes were closed, but her head was high. "wilt thou not die?" kaid asked her gently. she shook her head slowly, and her hands folded on her breast. "my sister is there," she said at last. there was an instant's stillness, then kaid added with a voice of grief: "peace be upon thee, zaida. life is but a spark. if death comes not to-day, it will tomorrow, for thee-- for me. inshallah, peace be upon thee!" she opened her eyes and looked at him. seeing what was in his face, they lighted with a great light for a moment. "and upon thee peace, o my lord, for ever and for ever!" she said softly, and, turning, left the court-yard, followed at a distance by mahommed hassan. kaid remained motionless looking after her. david broke in on his abstraction. "the army at sunrise--thou wilt speak to it, effendina?" kaid roused himself. "what shall i say?" he asked anxiously. "tell them they shall be clothed and fed, and to every man or his family three hundred piastres at the end." "who will do this?" asked kaid incredulously. "thou, effendina--egypt and thou and i." "so be it," answered kaid. as they left the court-yard, he said suddenly to an officer behind him: "the caravan to the place of lepers--add to the stores fifty camel-loads this year, and each year hereafter. have heed to it. ere it starts, come to me. i would see all with mine own eyes." glossary aiwa----yes. allah hu achbar----god is most great. al'mah----female professional singers, signifying "a learned female." ardab----a measure equivalent to five english bushels. backsheesh----tip, douceur. balass----earthen vessel for carrying water. bdsha----pasha. bersim----clover. bismillah----in the name of god. bowdb----a doorkeeper. dahabieh----a nile houseboat with large lateen sails. darabukkeh----a drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. dourha----maize. effendina----most noble. el azhar----the arab university at cairo. fedddn----a measure of land representing about an acre. fellah----the egyptian peasant. ghiassa----small boat. hakim----doctor. hasheesh----leaves of hemp. inshallah----god willing. kdnoon----a musical instrument like a dulcimer. kavass----an orderly. kemengeh----a cocoanut fiddle. khamsin----a hot wind of egypt and the soudan. kourbash----a whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. la ilaha illa-llah----there is no deity but god. malaish----no matter. malboos----demented. mastaba----a bench. medjidie----a turkish order. mooshrabieh----lattice window. moufettish----high steward. mudir----the governor of a mudirieh, or province. muezzin----the sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. narghileh----a persian pipe. nebool----a quarter-staff. ramadan----the mahommedan season of fasting. saadat-el-bdsha----excellency pasha. sdis----groom. sakkia----the persian water-wheel. salaam----eastern salutation. sheikh-el-beled----head of a village. tarboosh----a turkish turban. ulema----learned men. wakf----mahommedan court dealing with succession, etc. welee----a holy man or saint. yashmak----a veil for the lower part of the face. yelek----a long vest or smock. etext editor's bookmarks: begin to see how near good is to evil but the years go on, and friends have an end does any human being know what he can bear of temptation heaven where wives without number awaited him honesty was a thing he greatly desired--in others how little we can know to-day what we shall feel tomorrow how many conquests have been made in the name of god one does the work and another gets paid to-morrow is no man's gift we want every land to do as we do; and we want to make 'em do it none this ebook was produced by david widger the weavers by gilbert parker book v. xxxv. the flight of the wounded xxxvi. "is it always so-in life?" xxxvii. the flying shuttle xxxviii. jasper kimber speaks xxxix. faith journeys to london chapter xxxv the flight of the wounded "and mario can soothe with a tenor note the souls in purgatory." "non ti scordar di mi!" the voice rang out with passionate stealthy sweetness, finding its way into far recesses of human feeling. women of perfect poise and with the confident look of luxury and social fame dropped their eyes abstractedly on the opera-glasses lying in their laps, or the programmes they mechanically fingered, and recalled, they knew not why--for what had it to do with this musical narration of a tragic italian tale!--the days when, in the first flush of their wedded life, they had set a seal of devotion and loyalty and love upon their arms, which, long ago, had gone to the limbo of lost jewels, with the chaste, fresh desires of worshipping hearts. young egotists, supremely happy and defiant in the pride of the fact that they loved each other, and that it mattered little what the rest of the world enjoyed, suffered, and endured--these were suddenly arrested in their buoyant and solitary flight, and stirred restlessly in their seats. old men whose days of work were over; who no longer marshalled their legions, or moved at a nod great ships upon the waters in masterful manoeuvres; whose voices were heard no more in chambers of legislation, lashing partisan feeling to a height of cruelty or lulling a storm among rebellious followers; whose intellects no longer devised vast schemes of finance, or applied secrets of science to transform industry--these heard the enthralling cry of a soul with the darkness of eternal loss gathering upon it, and drew back within themselves; for they too had cried like this one time or another in their lives. stricken, they had cried out, and ambition had fled away, leaving behind only the habit of living, and of work and duty. as hylda, in the duchess of snowdon's box, listened with a face which showed nothing of what she felt, and looking straight at the stage before her, the words of a poem she had learned but yesterday came to her mind, and wove themselves into the music thrilling from the voice in the stage prison: "and what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence for the fulness of the days? have we withered or agonised? why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?" "and what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence? was it then so? the long weeks which had passed since that night at hamley, when she had told eglington the truth about so many things, had brought no peace, no understanding, no good news from anywhere. the morning after she had spoken with heart laid bare. eglington had essayed to have a reconciliation; but he had come as the martyr, as one injured. his egotism at such a time, joined to his attempt to make light of things, of treating what had happened as a mere "moment of exasperation," as "one of those episodes inseparable from the lives of the high-spirited," only made her heart sink and grow cold, almost as insensible as the flesh under a spray of ether. he had been neither wise nor patient. she had not slept after that bitter, terrible scene, and the morning had found her like one battered by winter seas, every nerve desperately alert to pain, yet tears swimming at her heart and ready to spring to her eyes at a touch of the real thing, the true note--and she knew so well what the true thing was! their great moment had passed, had left her withdrawn into herself, firmly, yet without heart, performing the daily duties of life, gay before the world, the delightful hostess, the necessary and graceful figure at so many functions. even as soolsby had done, who went no further than to tell eglington his dark tale, and told no one else, withholding it from "our man"; as sybil lady eglington had shrunk when she had been faced by her obvious duty, so hylda hesitated, but from better reason than either. to do right in the matter was to strike her husband--it must be a blow now, since her voice had failed. to do right was to put in the ancient home and house of eglington one whom he--with anger and without any apparent desire to have her altogether for himself, all the riches of her life and love--had dared to say commanded her sympathy and interest, not because he was a man dispossessed of his rights, but because he was a man possessed of that to which he had no right. the insult had stung her, had driven her back into a reserve, out of which she seemed unable to emerge. how could she compel eglington to do right in this thing--do right by his own father's son? meanwhile, that father's son was once more imperilling his life, once more putting england's prestige in the balance in the soudan, from which he had already been delivered twice as though by miracles. since he had gone, months before, there had been little news; but there had been much public anxiety; and she knew only too well that there had been 'pourparlers' with foreign ministers, from which no action came safe- guarding david. many a human being has realised the apathy, the partial paralysis of the will, succeeding a great struggle, which has exhausted the vital forces. many a general who has fought a desperate and victorious fight after a long campaign, and amid all the anxieties and miseries of war, has failed to follow up his advantage, from a sudden lesion of the power for action in him. he has stepped from the iron routine of daily effort into a sudden freedom, and his faculties have failed him, the iron of his will has vanished. so it was with hylda. she waited for she knew not what. was it some dim hope that eglington might see the right as she saw it? that he might realise how unreal was this life they were living, outwardly peaceful and understanding, deluding the world, but inwardly a place of tears. how she dreaded the night and its recurrent tears, and the hours when she could not sleep, and waited for the joyless morning, as one lost on the moor, blanched with cold, waits for the sun-rise! night after night at a certain hour--the hour when she went to bed at last after that poignant revelation to eglington--she wept, as she had wept then, heart-broken tears of disappointment, disillusion, loneliness; tears for the bitter pity of it all; for the wasting and wasted opportunities; for the common aim never understood or planned together; for the precious hours lived in an air of artificial happiness and social excitement; for a perfect understanding missed; for the touch which no longer thrilled. but the end of it all must come. she was looking frail and delicate, and her beauty, newly refined, and with a fresh charm, as of mystery or pain, was touched by feverishness. an old impatience once hers was vanished, and kate heaver would have given a month's wages for one of those flashes of petulance of other days ever followed by a smile. now the smile was all too often there, the patient smile which comes to those who have suffered. hardness she felt at times, where eglington was concerned, for he seemed to need her now not at all, to be self-contained, self- dependent--almost arrogantly so; but she did not show it, and she was outwardly patient. in his heart of hearts eglington believed that she loved him, that her interest in david was only part of her idealistic temperament--the admiration of a woman for a man of altruistic aims; but his hatred of david, of what david was, and of his irrefutable claims, reacted on her. perverseness and his unhealthy belief that he would master her in the end, that she would one day break down and come to him, willing to take his view in all things, and to be his slave--all this drove him farther and farther on a fatal, ever-broadening path. success had spoiled him. he applied his gifts in politics, daringly unscrupulous, superficially persuasive, intellectually insinuating, to his wife; and she, who had been captured once by all these things, was not to be captured again. she knew what alone could capture her; and, as she sat and watched the singers on the stage now, the divine notes of that searching melody still lingering in her heart, there came a sudden wonder whether eglington's heart could not be wakened. she knew that it never had been, that he had never known love, the transfiguring and reclaiming passion. no, no, surely it could not be too late--her marriage with him had only come too soon! he had ridden over her without mercy; he had robbed her of her rightful share of the beautiful and the good; he had never loved her; but if love came to him, if he could but once realise how much there was of what he had missed! if he did not save himself--and her--what would be the end? she felt the cords drawing her elsewhere; the lure of a voice she had heard in an egyptian garden was in her ears. one night at hamley, in an abandonment of grief-life hurt her so--she had remembered the prophecy she had once made that she would speak to david, and that he would hear; and she had risen from her seat, impelled by a strange new feeling, and had cried: "speak! speak to me!" as plainly as she had ever heard anything in her life, she had heard his voice speak to her a message that sank into the innermost recesses of her being, and she had been more patient afterwards. she had no doubt whatever; she had spoken to him, and he had answered; but the answer was one which all the world might have heard. down deep in her nature was an inalienable loyalty, was a simple, old-fashioned feeling that "they two," she and eglington, should cleave unto each other till death should part. he had done much to shatter that feeling; but now, as she listened to mario's voice, centuries of predisposition worked in her, and a great pity awoke in her heart. could she not save him, win him, wake him, cure him of the disease of self? the thought brought a light to her eyes which had not been there for many a day. out of the deeps of her soul this mist of a pure selflessness rose, the spirit of that idealism which was the real chord of sympathy between her and egypt. yes, she would, this once again, try to win the heart of this man; and so reach what was deeper than heart, and so also give him that without which his life must be a failure in the end, as sybil eglington had said. how often had those bitter anguished words of his mother rung in her ears-- "so brilliant and unscrupulous, like yourself; but, oh, so sure of winning a great place in the world . . . so calculating and determined and ambitious !" they came to her now, flashed between the eager solicitous eyes of her mind and the scene of a perfect and everlasting reconciliation which it conjured up--flashed and were gone; for her will rose up and blurred them into mist; and other words of that true palimpsest of sybil eglington's broken life came instead: "and though he loves me little, as he loves you little too, yet he is my son, and for what he is we are both responsible one way or another." as the mother, so the wife. she said to herself now in sad paraphrase, "and though he loves me little, yet he is my husband, and for what he is it may be that i am in some sense responsible." yet he is my husband! all that it was came to her; the closed door, the drawn blinds; the intimacy which shut them away from all the world; the things said which can only be said without desecration between two honest souls who love each other; and that sweet isolation which makes marriage a separate world, with its own sacred revelation. this she had known; this had been; and though the image of the sacred thing had been defaced, yet the shrine was not destroyed. for she believed that each had kept the letter of the law; that, whatever his faults, he had turned his face to no other woman. if she had not made his heart captive and drawn him by an ever-shortening cord of attraction, yet she was sure that none other had any influence over him, that, as he had looked at her in those short-lived days of his first devotion, he looked at no other. the way was clear yet. there was nothing irretrievable, nothing irrevocable, which would for ever stain the memory and tarnish the gold of life when the perfect love should be minted. whatever faults of mind or disposition or character were his-- or hers--there were no sins against the pledges they had made, nor the bond into which they had entered. life would need no sponge. memory might still live on without a wound or a cowl of shame. it was all part of the music to which she listened, and she was almost oblivious of the brilliant throng, the crowded boxes, or of the duchess of snowdon sitting near her strangely still, now and again scanning the beautiful face beside her with a reflective look. the duchess loved the girl--she was but a girl, after all--as she had never loved any of her sex; it had come to be the last real interest of her life. to her eyes, dimmed with much seeing, blurred by a garish kaleidoscope of fashionable life, there had come a look which was like the ghost of a look she had, how many decades ago. presently, as she saw hylda's eyes withdraw from the stage, and look at her with a strange, soft moisture and a new light in them, she laid her fan confidently on her friend's knee, and said in her abrupt whimsical voice: "you like it, my darling; your eyes are as big as saucers. you look as if you'd been seeing things, not things on that silly stage, but what verdi felt when he wrote the piece, or something of more account than that." "yes, i've been seeing things," hylda answered with a smile which came from a new-born purpose, the dream of an idealist. "i've been seeing things that verdi did not see, and of more account, too. . . . do you suppose the house is up yet?" a strange look flashed into the duchess's eyes, which had been watching her with as much pity as interest. hylda had not been near the house of commons this session, though she had read the reports with her usual care. she had shunned the place. "why, did you expect eglington?" the duchess asked idly, yet she was watchful too, alert for every movement in this life where the footsteps of happiness were falling by the edge of a precipice, over which she would not allow herself to look. she knew that hylda did not expect eglington, for the decision to come to the opera was taken at the last moment. "of course not--he doesn't know we are here. but if it wasn't too late, i thought i'd go down and drive him home." the duchess veiled her look. here was some new development in the history which had been torturing her old eyes, which had given her and lord windlehurst as many anxious moments as they had known in many a day, and had formed them into a vigilance committee of two, who waited for the critical hour when they should be needed. "we'll go at once if you like," she replied. "the opera will be over soon. we sent word to windlehurst to join us, you remember, but he won't come now; it's too late. so, we'll go, if you like." she half rose, but the door of the box opened, and lord windlehurst looked in quizzically. there was a smile on his face. "i'm late, i know; but you'll forgive me--you'll forgive me, dear lady," he added to hylda, "for i've been listening to your husband making a smashing speech for a bad cause." hylda smiled. "then i must go and congratulate him," she answered, and withdrew her hand from that of lord windlehurst, who seemed to hold it longer than usual, and pressed it in a fatherly way. "i'm afraid the house is up," he rejoined, as hylda turned for her opera- cloak; "and i saw eglington leave palace yard as i came away." he gave a swift, ominous glance towards the duchess, which hylda caught, and she looked at each keenly. "it's seldom i sit in the peers' gallery," continued windlehurst; "i don't like going back to the old place much. it seems empty and hollow. but i wouldn't have missed eglington's fighting speech for a good deal." "what was it about?" asked hylda as they left the box. she had a sudden throb of the heart. was it the one great question, that which had been like a gulf of fire between them? "oh, turkey--the unpardonable turk," answered windlehurst. "as good a defence of a bad case as i ever heard." "yes, eglington would do that well," said the duchess enigmatically, drawing her cloak around her and adjusting her hair. hylda looked at her sharply, and lord windlehurst slyly, but the duchess seemed oblivious of having said anything out of the way, and added: "it's a gift seeing all that can be said for a bad cause, and saying it, and so making the other side make their case so strong that the verdict has to be just." "dear duchess, it doesn't always work out that way," rejoined windlehurst with a dry laugh. "sometimes the devil's advocate wins." "you are not very complimentary to my husband," retorted hylda, looking him in the eyes, for she was not always sure when he was trying to baffle her. "i'm not so sure of that. he hasn't won his case yet. he has only staved off the great attack. it's coming--soon." "what is the great attack? what has the government, or the foreign office, done or left undone?" "well, my dear--" suddenly lord windlehurst remembered himself, stopped, put up his eyeglass, and with great interest seemed to watch a gay group of people opposite; for the subject of attack was egypt and the government's conduct in not helping david, in view not alone of his present danger, but of the position of england in the country, on which depended the security of her highway to the east. windlehurst was a good actor, and he had broken off his words as though the group he was now watching had suddenly claimed his attention. "well, well, duchess," he said reflectively, "i see a new nine days' wonder yonder." then, in response to a reminder from hylda, he continued: "ah, yes, the attack! oh, persia--persia, and our feeble diplomacy, my dear lady, though you mustn't take that as my opinion, opponent as i am. that's the charge, persia--and her cats." the duchess breathed a sigh of relief; for she knew what windlehurst had been going to say, and she shrank from seeing what she felt she would see, if egypt and claridge pasha's name were mentioned. that night at harnley had burnt a thought into her mind which she did not like. not that she had any pity for eglington; her thought was all for this girl she loved. no happiness lay in the land of egypt for her, whatever her unhappiness here; and she knew that hylda must be more unhappy still before she was ever happy again, if that might be. there was that concerning eglington which hylda did not know, yet which she must know one day--and then! but why were hylda's eyes so much brighter and softer and deeper to-night? there was something expectant, hopeful, brooding in them. they belonged not to the life moving round her, but were shining in a land of their own, a land of promise. by an instinct in each of them they stood listening for a moment to the last strains of the opera. the light leaped higher in hylda's eyes. "beautiful--oh, so beautiful!" she said, her hand touching the duchess's arm. the duchess gave the slim warm fingers a spasmodic little squeeze. "yes, darling, beautiful," she rejoined; and then the crowd began to pour out behind them. their carriages were at the door. lord windlehurst put hylda in. "the house is up," he said. "you are going on somewhere?" "no--home," she said, and smiled into his old, kind, questioning eyes. "home!" "home!" he murmured significantly as he turned towards the duchess and her carriage. "home!" he repeated, and shook his head sadly. "shall i drive you to your house?" the duchess asked. "no, i'll go with you to your door, and walk back to my cell. home!" he growled to the footman, with a sardonic note in the voice. as they drove away, the duchess turned to him abruptly. "what did you mean by your look when you said you had seen eglington drive away from the house?" "well, my dear betty, she--the fly-away--drives him home now. it has come to that." "to her house--windlehurst, oh, windlehurst!" she sank back in the cushions, and gave what was as near a sob as she had given in many a day. windlehurst took her hand. "no, not so bad as that yet. she drove him to his club. don't fret, my dear betty." home! hylda watched the shops, the houses, the squares, as she passed westward, her mind dwelling almost happily on the new determination to which she had come. it was not love that was moving her, not love for him, but a deeper thing. he had brutally killed love--the full life of it--those months ago; but there was a deep thing working in her which was as near nobility as the human mind can feel. not in a long time had she neared her home with such expectation and longing. often on the doorstep she had shut her eyes to the light and warmth and elegance of it, because of that which she did not see. now, with a thrill of pleasure, she saw its doors open. it was possible eglington might have come home already. lord windlehurst had said that he had left the house. she did not ask if he was in--it had not been her custom for a long time--and servants were curious people; but she looked at the hall-table. yes, there was a hat which had evidently just been placed there, and gloves, and a stick. he was at home, then. she hurried to her room, dropped her opera-cloak on a chair, looked at herself in the glass, a little fluttered and critical, and then crossed the hallway to eglington's bedroom. she listened for a moment. there was no sound. she turned the handle of the door softly, and opened it. a light was burning low, but the room was empty. it was as she thought, he was in his study, where he spent hours sometimes after he came home, reading official papers. she went up the stairs, at first swiftly, then more slowly, then with almost lagging feet. why did she hesitate? why should a woman falter in going to her husband--to her own one man of all the world? was it not, should it not be, ever the open door between them? confidence--confidence--could she not have it, could she not get it now at last? she had paused; but now she moved on with quicker step, purpose in her face, her eyes softly lighted. suddenly she saw on the floor an opened letter. she picked it up, and, as she did so, involuntarily observed the writing. almost mechanically she glanced at the contents. her heart stood still. the first words scorched her eyes. "eglington--harry, dearest," it said, "you shall not go to sleep to-night without a word from me. this will make you think of me when . . . " frozen, struck as by a mortal blow, hylda looked at the signature. she knew it--the cleverest, the most beautiful adventuress which the aristocracy and society had produced. she trembled from head to foot, and for a moment it seemed that she must fall. but she steadied herself and walked firmly to eglington's door. turning the handle softly, she stepped inside. he did not hear her. he was leaning over a box of papers, and they rustled loudly under his hand. he was humming to himself that song she heard an hour ago in il trovatore, that song of passion and love and tragedy. it sent a wave of fresh feeling over her. she could not go on--could not face him, and say what she must say. she turned and passed swiftly from the room, leaving the door open, and hurried down the staircase. eglington heard now, and wheeled round. he saw the open door, listened to the rustle of her skirts, knew that she had been there. he smiled, and said to himself: "she came to me, as i said she would. i shall master her--the full surrender, and then--life will be easy then." hylda hurried down the staircase to her room, saw kate heaver waiting, beckoned to her, caught up her opera-cloak, and together they passed down the staircase to the front door. heaver rang a bell, a footman appeared, and, at a word, called a cab. a minute later they were ready: "snowdon house," hylda said; and they passed into the night. chapter xxxvi "is it always so--in life?" the duchess and her brother, an ex-diplomatist, now deaf and patiently amiable and garrulous, had met on the doorstep of snowdon house, and together they insisted on lord windlehurst coming in for a talk. the two men had not met for a long time, and the retired official had been one of lord windlehurst's own best appointments in other days. the duchess had the carriage wait in consequence. the ex-official could hear little, but he had cultivated the habit of talking constantly and well. there were some voices, however, which he could hear more distinctly than others, and lord windlehurst's was one of them--clear, well-modulated, and penetrating. sipping brandy and water, lord windlehurst gave his latest quip. they were all laughing heartily, when the butler entered the room and said, "lady eglington is here, and wishes to see your grace." as the butler left the room, the duchess turned despairingly to windlehurst, who had risen, and was paler than the duchess. "it has come," she said, "oh, it has come! i can't face it." "but it doesn't matter about you facing it," lord windlehurst rejoined. "go to her and help her, betty. you know what to do--the one thing." he took her hand and pressed it. she dashed the tears from her eyes and drew herself together, while her brother watched her benevolently. he had not heard what was said. betty had always been impulsive, he thought to himself, and here was some one in trouble--they all came to her, and kept her poor. "go to bed, dick," the duchess said to him, and hurried from the room. she did not hesitate now. windlehurst had put the matter in the right way. her pain was nothing, mere moral cowardice; but hylda--! she entered the other room as quickly as rheumatic limbs would permit. hylda stood waiting, erect, her eyes gazing blankly before her and rimmed by dark circles, her face haggard and despairing. before the duchess could reach her, she said in a hoarse whisper: "i have left him--i have left him. i have come to you." with a cry of pity the duchess would have taken the stricken girl in her arms, but hylda held out a shaking hand with the letter in it which had brought this new woe and this crisis foreseen by lord windlehurst. "there--there it is. he goes from me to her--to that!" she thrust the letter into the duchess's fingers. "you knew--you knew! i saw the look that passed between you and windlehurst at the opera. i understand all now. he left the house of commons with her--and you knew, oh, you knew! all the world knows--every one knew but me." she threw up her hands. "but i've left him--i've left him, for ever." now the duchess had her in her arms, and almost forcibly drew her to a sofa. "darling, my darling," she said, "you must not give way. it is not so bad as you think. you must let me help to make you understand." hylda laughed hysterically. "not so bad as i think! read--read it," she said, taking the letter from the duchess's fingers and holding it before her face. "i found it on the staircase. i could not help but read it." she sat and clasped and unclasped her hands in utter misery. "oh, the shame of it, the bitter shame of it! have i not been a good wife to him? have i not had reason to break my heart? but i waited, and i wanted to be good and to do right. and to-night i was going to try once more--i felt it in the opera. i was going to make one last effort for his sake. it was for his sake i meant to make it, for i thought him only hard and selfish, and that he had never loved; and if he only loved, i thought--" she broke off, wringing her hands and staring into space, the ghost of the beautiful figure that had left the opera house with shining eyes. the duchess caught the cold hands. "yes, yes, darling, i know. i understand. so does windlehurst. he loves you as much as i do. we know there isn't much to be got out of life; but we always hoped you would get more than anybody else." hylda shrank, then raised her head, and looked at the duchess with an infinite pathos. "oh, is it always so--in life? is no one true? is every one betrayed sometime? i would die--yes, a thousand times yes, i would rather die than bear this. what do i care for life--it has cheated me! i meant well, and i tried to do well, and i was true to him in word and deed even when i suffered most, even when--" the duchess laid a cheek against the burning head. "i understand, my own dear. i understand--altogether." "but you cannot know," the broken girl replied; "but through everything i was true; and i have been tempted too when my heart was aching so, when the days were so empty, the nights so long, and my heart hurt--hurt me. but now, it is over, everything is done. you will keep me here--ah, say you will keep me here till everything can be settled, and i can go away --far away--far--!" she stopped with a gasping cry, and her eyes suddenly strained into the distance, as though a vision of some mysterious thing hung before her. the duchess realised that that temptation, which has come to so many disillusioned mortals, to end it all, to find quiet somehow, somewhere out in the dark, was upon her. she became resourceful and persuasively commanding. "but no, my darling," she said, "you are going nowhere. here in london is your place now. and you must not stay here in my house. you must go back to your home. your place is there. for the present, at any rate, there must be no scandal. suspicion is nothing, talk is nothing, and the world forgets--" "oh, i do not care for the world or its forgetting!" the wounded girl replied. "what is the world to me! i wanted my own world, the world of my four walls, quiet and happy, and free from scandal and shame. i wanted love and peace there, and now . . . !" "you must be guided by those who love you. you are too young to decide what is best for yourself. you must let windlehurst and me think for you; and, oh, my darling, you cannot know how much i care for your best good!" "i cannot, will not, bear the humiliation and the shame. this letter here--you see!" "it is the letter of a woman who has had more affaires than any man in london. she is preternaturally clever, my dear--windlehurst would tell you so. the brilliant and unscrupulous, the beautiful and the bad, have a great advantage in this world. eglington was curious, that is all. it is in the breed of the eglingtons to go exploring, to experiment." hylda started. words from the letter sybil lady eglington had left behind her rushed into her mind: "experiment, subterfuge, secrecy. 'reaping where you had not sowed, and gathering where you had not strawed.' always experiment, experiment, experiment!" "i have only been married three years," she moaned. "yes, yes, my darling; but much may happen after three days of married life, and love may come after twenty years. the human heart is a strange thing." "i was patient--i gave him every chance. he has been false and shameless. i will not go on." the duchess pressed both hands hard, and made a last effort, looking into the deep troubled eyes with her own grown almost beautiful with feeling --the faded world-worn eyes. "you will go back to-night-at once," she said firmly. "to-morrow you will stay in bed till noon-at any rate, till i come. i promise you that you shall not be treated with further indignity. your friends will stand by you, the world will be with you, if you do nothing rash, nothing that forces it to babble and scold. but you must play its game, my dearest. i'll swear that the worst has not happened. she drove him to his club, and, after a man has had a triumph, a woman will not drive him to his club if--my darling, you must trust me! if there must be the great smash, let it be done in a way that will prevent you being smashed also in the world's eyes. you can live, and you will live. is there nothing for you to do? is there no one for whom you would do something, who would be heart-broken if you--if you went mad now?" suddenly a great change passed over hylda. "is there no one for whom you would do something?" just as in the desert a question like this had lifted a man out of a terrible and destroying apathy, so this searching appeal roused in hylda a memory and a pledge. "is there no one for whom you would do something?" was life, then, all over? was her own great grief all? was her bitter shame the end? she got to her feet tremblingly. "i will go back," she said slowly and softly. "windlehurst will take you home," the duchess rejoined eagerly. "my carriage is at the door." a moment afterwards lord windlehurst took hylda's hands in his and held them long. his old, querulous eyes were like lamps of safety; his smile had now none of that cynicism with which he had aroused and chastened the world. the pitiful understanding of life was there and a consummate gentleness. he gave her his arm, and they stepped out into the moonlit night. "so peaceful, so bright!" he said, looking round. "i will come at noon to-morrow," called the duchess from the doorway. a light was still shining in eglington's study when the carriage drove up. with a latch-key hylda admitted herself and her maid. the storm had broken, the flood had come. the storm was over, but the flood swept far and wide. chapter xxxvii the flying shuttle hour after hour of sleeplessness. the silver-tongued clock remorselessly tinkled the quarters, and hylda lay and waited for them with a hopeless strained attention. in vain she tried devices to produce that monotony of thought which sometimes brings sleep. again and again, as she felt that sleep was coming at last, the thought of the letter she had found flashed through her mind with words of fire, and it seemed as if there had been poured through every vein a subtle irritant. just such a surging, thrilling flood she had felt in the surgeon's chair when she was a girl and an anesthetic had been given. but this wave of sensation led to no oblivion, no last soothing intoxication. its current beat against her heart until she could have cried out from the mere physical pain, the clamping grip of her trouble. she withered and grew cold under the torture of it all--the ruthless spoliation of everything which made life worth while or the past endurable. about an hour after she had gone to bed she heard eglington's step. it paused at her door. she trembled with apprehension lest he should enter. it was many a day since he had done so, but also she had not heard his step pause at her door for many a day. she could not bear to face it all now; she must have time to think, to plan her course--the last course of all. for she knew that the next step must be the last step in her old life, and towards a new life, whatever that might be. a great sigh of relief broke from her as she heard his door open and shut, and silence fell on everything, that palpable silence which seems to press upon the night-watcher with merciless, smothering weight. how terribly active her brain was! pictures--it was all vivid pictures, that awful visualisation of sorrow which, if it continues, breaks the heart or wrests the mind from its sanity. if only she did not see! but she did see eglington and the woman together, saw him look into her eyes, take her hands, put his arm round her, draw her face to his! her heart seemed as if it must burst, her lips cried out. with a great effort of the will she tried to hide from these agonies of the imagination, and again she would approach those happy confines of sleep, which are the only refuge to the lacerated heart; and then the weapon of time on the mantelpiece would clash on the shield of the past, and she was wide awake again. at last, in desperation, she got out of bed, hurried to the fireplace, caught the little sharp-tongued recorder in a nervous grasp, and stopped it. as she was about to get into bed again, she saw a pile of letters lying on the table near her pillow. in her agitation she had not noticed them, and the devoted heaver had not drawn her attention to them. now, however, with a strange premonition, she quickly glanced at the envelopes. the last one of all was less aristocratic-looking than the others; the paper of the envelope was of the poorest, and it had a foreign look. she caught it up with an exclamation. the handwriting was that of her cousin lacey. she got into bed with a mind suddenly swept into a new atmosphere, and opened the flimsy cover. shutting her eyes, she lay still for a moment --still and vague; she was only conscious of one thing, that a curtain had dropped on the terrible pictures she had seen, and that her mind was in a comforting quiet. presently she roused herself, and turned the letter over in her hand. it was not long--was that because its news was bad news? the first chronicles of disaster were usually brief! she smoothed the paper out-it had been crumpled and was a little soiled-and read it swiftly. it ran: dear lady cousin--as the poet says, "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward," and in egypt the sparks set the stacks on fire oftener than anywhere else, i guess. she outclasses mexico as a "precious example" in this respect. you needn't go looking for trouble in mexico; it's waiting for you kindly. if it doesn't find you to-day, well, manana. but here it comes running like a native to his cooking-pot at sunset in ramadan. well, there have been "hard trials" for the saadat. his cotton-mills were set on fire- can't you guess who did it? and now, down in cairo, nahoum runs egypt; for a messenger that got through the tribes worrying us tells us that kaid is sick, and nahoum the armenian says, you shall, and you shan't, now. which is another way of saying, that between us and the front door of our happy homes there are rattlesnakes that can sting--nahoum's arm is long, and his traitors are crawling under the canvas of our tents! i'm not complaining for myself. i asked for what i've got, and, dear lady cousin, i put up some cash for it, too, as a man should. no, i don't mind for myself, fond as i am of loafing, sort of pottering round where the streets are in the hands of a pure police; for i've seen more, done more, thought more, up here, than in all my life before; and i've felt a country heaving under the touch of one of god's men--it gives you minutes that lift you out of the dust and away from the crawlers. and i'd do it all over a thousand times for him, and for what i've got out of it. i've lived. but, to speak right out plain, i don't know how long this machine will run. there's been a plant of the worst kind. tribes we left friendly under a year ago are out against us; cities that were faithful have gone under to rebels. nahoum has sowed the land with the tale that the saadat means to abolish slavery, to take away the powers of the great sheikhs, and to hand the country over to the turk. ebn ezra bey has proofs of the whole thing, and now at last the saadat knows too late that his work has been spoiled by the only man who could spoil it. the saadat knows it, but does he rave and tear his hair? he says nothing. he stands up like a rock before the riot of treachery and bad luck and all the terrible burden he has to carry here. if he wasn't a quaker i'd say he had the pride of an archangel. you can bend him, but you can't break him; and it takes a lot to bend him. men desert, but he says others will come to take their place. and so they do. it's wonderful, in spite of the holy war that's being preached, and all the lies about him sprinkled over this part of africa, how they all fear him, and find it hard to be out on the war-path against him. we should be gorging the vultures if he wasn't the wonder he is. we need boats. does he sit down and wring his hands? no, he organises, and builds them--out of scraps. hasn't he enough food for a long siege? he goes himself to the tribes that have stored food in their cities, and haven't yet declared against him, and he puts a hand on their hard hearts, and takes the sulkiness out of their eyes, and a fleet of ghiassas comes down to us loaded with dourha. the defences of this place are nothing. does he fold his hands like a man of peace that he is, and say, 'thy will be done'? not the saadat. he gets two soldier- engineers, one an italian who murdered his wife in italy twenty years ago, and one a british officer that cheated at cards and had to go, and we've got defences that'll take some negotiating. that's the kind of man he is; smiling to cheer others when their hearts are in their boots, stern like a commander-in-chief when he's got to punish, and then he does it like steel; but i've seen him afterwards in his tent with a face that looks sixty, and he's got to travel a while yet before he's forty. none of us dares be as afraid as we could be, because a look at him would make us so ashamed we'd have to commit suicide. he hopes when no one else would ever hope. the other day i went to his tent to wait for him, and i saw his bible open on the table. a passage was marked. it was this: "behold, i have taken out of thy hand the cup of trembling, even the dregs of the cup of my fury; thou shalt no more drink it again: "but i will put it into the hand of them that afflict thee; which have said to thy soul, bow down, that we may go over; and thou hast laid thy body as the ground, and as the street, to them that went over. i'd like to see nahoum with that cup of trembling in his hand, and i've got an idea, too, that it will be there yet. i don't know how it is, but i never can believe the worst will happen to the saadat. reading those verses put hope into me. that's why i'm writing to you, on the chance of this getting through by a native who is stealing down the river with a letter from the saadat to nahoum, and one to kaid, and one to the foreign minister in london, and one to your husband. if they reach the hands they're meant for, it may be we shall pan out here yet. but there must be display of power; an army must be sent, without delay, to show the traitors that the game is up. five thousand men from cairo under a good general would do it. will nahoum send them? does kaid, the sick man, know? i'm not banking on kaid. i think he's on his last legs. unless pressure is put on him, unless some one takes him by the throat and says: if you don't relieve claridge pasha and the people with him, you will go to the crocodiles, nahoum won't stir. so, i am writing to you. england can do it. the lord, your husband, can do it. england will have a nasty stain on her flag if she sees this man go down without a hand lifted to save him. he is worth another alma to her prestige. she can't afford to see him slaughtered here, where he's fighting the fight of civilisation. you see right through this thing, i know, and i don't need to palaver any more about it. it doesn't matter about me. i've had a lot for my money, and i'm no use--or i wouldn't be, if anything happened to the saadat. no one would drop a knife and fork at the breakfast-table when my obit was read out--well, yes, there's one, cute as she can be, but she's lost two husbands already, and you can't be hurt so bad twice in the same place. but the saadat, back him, hylda--i'll call you that at this distance. make nahoum move. send four or five thousand men before the day comes when famine does its work and they draw the bowstring tight. salaam and salaam, and the post is going out, and there's nothing in the morning paper; and, as aunt melissa used to say: "well, so much for so much!" one thing i forgot. i'm lucky to be writing to you at all. if the saadat was an old-fashioned overlord, i shouldn't be here. i got into a bad corner three days ago with a dozen arabs-- i'd been doing a little work with a friendly tribe all on my own, and i almost got caught by this loose lot of fanatics. i shot three, and galloped for it. i knew the way through the mines outside, and just escaped by the skin of my teeth. did the saadat, as a matter of discipline, have me shot for cowardice? cousin hylda, my heart was in my mouth as i heard them yelling behind me-- and i never enjoyed a dinner so much in my life. would the saadat have run from them? say, he'd have stayed and saved his life too. well, give my love to the girls! your affectionate cousin, tom lacey. p.s.-there's no use writing to me. the letter service is bad. send a few thousand men by military parcel-post, prepaid, with some red seals--majors and colonels from aldershot will do. they'll give the step to the gyppies. t. hylda closed her eyes. a fever had passed from her veins. here lay her duty before her--the redemption of the pledge she had made. whatever her own sorrow, there was work before her; a supreme effort must be made for another. even now it might be too late. she must have strength for what she meant to do. she put the room in darkness, and resolutely banished thought from her mind. the sun had been up for hours before she waked. eglington had gone to the foreign office. the morning papers were full of sensational reports concerning claridge pasha and the soudan. a times leader sternly admonished the government. chapter xxxviii jasper kimber speaks that day the adjournment of the house of commons was moved "to call attention to an urgent matter of public importance"--the position of claridge pasha in the soudan. flushed with the success of last night's performance, stung by the attacks of the opposition morning papers, confident in the big majority behind, which had cheered him a few hours before, viciously resenting the letter he had received from david that morning, eglington returned such replies to the questions put to him that a fire of angry mutterings came from the forces against him. he might have softened the growing resentment by a change of manner, but his intellectual arrogance had control of him for the moment; and he said to himself that he had mastered the house before, and he would do so now. apart from his deadly antipathy to his half-brother, and the gain to himself--to his credit, the latter weighed with him not so much, so set was he on a stubborn course--if david disappeared for ever, there was at bottom a spirit of anti-expansion, of reaction against england's world- wide responsibilities. he had no largeness of heart or view concerning humanity. he had no inherent greatness, no breadth of policy. with less responsibility taken, there would be less trouble, national and international--that was his point of view; that had been his view long ago at the meeting at heddington; and his weak chief had taken it, knowing nothing of the personal elements behind. the disconcerting factor in the present bitter questioning in the house was, that it originated on his own side. it was jasper kimber who had launched the questions, who moved the motion for adjournment. jasper had had a letter from kate heaver that morning early, which sent him to her, and he had gone to the house to do what he thought to be his duty. he did it boldly, to the joy of the opposition, and with a somewhat sullen support from many on his own side. now appeared jasper's own inner disdain of the man who had turned his coat for office. it gave a lead to a latent feeling among members of the ministerial party, of distrust, and of suspicion that they were the dupes of a mind of abnormal cleverness which, at bottom, despised them. with flashing eyes and set lips, vigilant and resourceful, eglington listened to jasper kimber's opening remarks. by unremitting industry jasper had made a place for himself in the house. the humour and vitality of his speeches, and his convincing advocacy of the cause of the "factory folk," had gained him a hearing. thickset, under middle size, with an arm like a giant and a throat like a bull, he had strong common sense, and he gave the impression that he would wear his heart out for a good friend or a great cause, but that if he chose to be an enemy he would be narrow, unrelenting, and persistent. for some time the house had been aware that he had more than a gift for criticism of the under-secretary for foreign affairs. his speech began almost stumblingly, his h's ran loose, and his grammar became involved, but it was seen that he meant business, that he had that to say which would give anxiety to the government, that he had a case wherein were the elements of popular interest and appeal, and that he was thinking and speaking as thousands outside the house would think and speak. he had waited for this hour. indirectly he owed to claridge pasha all that he had become. the day in which david knocked him down saw the depths of his degradation reached, and, when he got up, it was to start on a new life uncertainly, vaguely at first, but a new life for all that. he knew, from a true source, of eglington's personal hatred of claridge pasha, though he did not guess their relationship; and all his interest was enlisted for the man who had, as he knew, urged kate heaver to marry himself--and kate was his great ambition now. above and beyond these personal considerations was a real sense of england's duty to the man who was weaving the destiny of a new land. "it isn't england's business?" he retorted, in answer to an interjection from a faithful soul behind the ministerial front bench. "well, it wasn't the business of the good samaritan to help the man that had been robbed and left for dead by the wayside; but he did it. as to david claridge's work, some have said that--i've no doubt it's been said in the cabinet, and it is the thing the under-secretary would say as naturally as he would flick a fly from his boots--that it's a generation too soon. who knows that? i suppose there was those that thought john the baptist was baptising too soon, that luther preached too soon, and savonarola was in too great a hurry, all because he met his death and his enemies triumphed--and galileo and hampden and cromwell and john howard were all too soon. who's to be judge of that? god almighty puts it into some men's minds to work for a thing that's a great, and maybe an impossible, thing, so far as the success of the moment is concerned. well, for a thing that has got to be done some time, the seed has to be sown, and it's always sown by men like claridge pasha, who has shown millions of people--barbarians and half-civilised alike--what a true lover of the world can do. god knows, i think he might have stayed and found a cause in england, but he elected to go to the ravaging soudan, and he is england there, the best of it. and i know claridge pasha--from his youth up i have seen him, and i stand here to bear witness of what the working men of england will say to-morrow. right well the noble lord yonder knows that what i say is true. he has known it for years. claridge pasha would never have been in his present position, if the noble lord had not listened to the enemies of claridge pasha and of this country, in preference to those who know and hold the truth as i tell it here to-day. i don't know whether the noble lord has repented or not; but i do say that his government will rue it, if his answer is not the one word 'intervention!' mistaken, rash or not, dreamer if you like, claridge pasha should be relieved now, and his policy discussed afterwards. i don't envy the man who holds a contrary opinion; he'll be ashamed of it some day. but"--he pointed towards eglington--"but there sits the minister in whose hands his fate has been. let us hope that this speech of mine needn't have been made, and that i've done injustice to his patriotism and to the policy he will announce." "a set-back, a sharp set-back," said lord windlehurst, in the peers' gallery, as the cheers of the opposition and of a good number of ministerialists sounded through the chamber. there were those on the treasury bench who saw danger ahead. there was an attempt at a conference, but kimber's seconder only said a half-dozen words, and sat down, and eglington had to rise before any definite confidences could be exchanged. one word only he heard behind him as he got up. it was the word, "temporise," and it came from the prime minister. eglington was in no mood for temporising. attack only nerved him. he was a good and ruthless fighter; and last night's intoxication of success was still in his brain. he did not temporise. he did not leave a way of retreat open for the prime minister, who would probably wind up the debate. he fought with skill, but he fought without gloves, and the house needed gentle handling. he had the gift of effective speech to a rare degree, and when he liked he could be insinuating and witty, but he had not genuine humour or good feeling, and the house knew it. in debate he was biting, resourceful, and unscrupulous. he made the fatal mistake of thinking that intellect and gifts of fence, followed by a brilliant peroration, in which he treated the commonplaces of experienced minds as though they were new discoveries and he was their columbus, could accomplish anything. he had never had a political crisis, but one had come now. in his reply he first resorted to arguments of high politics, historical, informative, and, in a sense, commanding; indeed, the house became restless under what seemed a piece of intellectual dragooning. signs of impatience appeared on his own side, and, when he ventured on a solemn warning about hampering ministers who alone knew the difficulties of diplomacy and the danger of wounding the susceptibilities of foreign and friendly countries, the silence was broken by a voice that said sneeringly, "the kid-glove government!" then he began to lose place with the chamber. he was conscious of it, and shifted his ground, pointing out the dangers of doing what the other nations interested in egypt were not prepared to do. "have you asked them? have you pressed them?" was shouted across the house. eglington ignored the interjections. "answer! answer!" was called out angrily, but he shrugged a shoulder and continued his argument. if a man insisted on using a flying-machine before the principle was fully mastered and applied--if it could be mastered and applied--it must not be surprising if he was killed. amateurs sometimes took preposterous risks without the advice of the experts. if claridge pasha had asked the advice of the english government, or of any of the chancellories of europe, as to his incursions into the soudan and his premature attempts at reform, he would have received expert advice that civilisation had not advanced to that stage in this portion of the world which would warrant his experiments. it was all very well for one man to run vast risks and attempt quixotic enterprises, but neither he nor his countrymen had any right to expect europe to embroil itself on his particular account. at this point he was met by angry cries of dissent, which did not come from the opposition alone. his lips set, he would not yield. the government could not hold itself responsible for claridge pasha's relief, nor in any sense for his present position. however, from motives of humanity, it would make representations in the hope that the egyptian government would act; but it was not improbable, in view of past experiences of claridge pasha, that he would extricate himself from his present position, perhaps had done so already. sympathy and sentiment were natural and proper manifestations of human society, but governments were, of necessity, ruled by sterner considerations. the house must realise that the government could not act as though it were wholly a free agent, or as if its every move would not be matched by another move on the part of another power or powers. then followed a brilliant and effective appeal to his own party to trust the government, to credit it with feeling and with a due regard for english prestige and the honour brought to it by claridge pasha's personal qualities, whatever might be thought of his crusading enterprises. the party must not fall into the trap of playing the game of the opposition. then, with some supercilious praise of the "worthy sentiments" of jasper kimber's speech and a curt depreciation of its reasoning, he declared that: "no government can be ruled by clamour. the path to be trodden by this government will be lighted by principles of progress and civilisation, humanity and peace, the urbane power of reason, and the persuasive influence of just consideration for the rights of others, rather than the thunder and the threat of the cannon and the sword!" he sat down amid the cheers of a large portion of his party, for the end of his speech had been full of effective if meretricious appeal. but the debate that followed showed that the speech had been a failure. he had not uttered one warm or human word concerning claridge pasha, and it was felt and said, that no pledge had been given to insure the relief of the man who had caught the imagination of england. the debate was fierce and prolonged. eglington would not agree to any modification of his speech, to any temporising. arrogant and insistent, he had his way, and, on a division, the government was saved by a mere handful of votes--votes to save the party, not to indorse eglington's speech or policy. exasperated and with jaw set, but with a defiant smile, eglington drove straight home after the house rose. he found hylda in the library with an evening paper in her hands. she had read and reread his speech, and had steeled herself for "the inevitable hour," to this talk which would decide for ever their fate and future. eglington entered the room smiling. he remembered the incident of the night before, when she came to his study and then hurriedly retreated. he had been defiant and proudly disdainful at the house and on the way home; but in his heart of hearts he was conscious of having failed to have his own way; and, like such men, he wanted assurance that he could not err, and he wanted sympathy. almost any one could have given it to him, and he had a temptation to seek that society which was his the evening before; but he remembered that she was occupied where he could not reach her, and here was hylda, from whom he had been estranged, but who must surely have seen by now that at hamley she had been unreasonable, and that she must trust his judgment. so absorbed was he with self and the failure of his speech, that, for a moment, he forgot the subject of it, and what that subject meant to them both. "what do you think of my speech, hylda?" he asked, as he threw himself into a chair. "i see you have been reading it. is it a full report?" she handed the paper over. "quite full," she answered evenly. he glanced down the columns. "sentimentalists!" he said as his eye caught an interjection. "cant!" he added. then he looked at hylda, and remembered once again on whom and what his speech had been made. he saw that her face was very pale. "what do you think of my speech?" he repeated stubbornly. "if you think an answer necessary, i regard it as wicked and unpatriotic," she answered firmly. "yes, i suppose you would," he rejoined bitingly. she got to her feet slowly, a flush passing over her face. "if you think i would, did you not think that a great many other people would think so too, and for the same reason?" she asked, still evenly, but very slowly. "not for the same reason," he rejoined in a low, savage voice. "you do not treat me well," she said, with a voice that betrayed no hurt, no indignation. it seemed to state a fact deliberately; that was all. "no, please," she added quickly, as she saw him rise to his feet with anger trembling at his lips. "do not say what is on your tongue to say. let us speak quietly to-night. it is better; and i am tired of strife, spoken and unspoken. i have got beyond that. but i want to speak of what you did to-day in parliament." "well, you have said it was wicked and unpatriotic," he rejoined, sitting down again and lighting a cigar, in an attempt to be composed. "what you said was that; but i am concerned with what you did. did your speech mean that you would not press the egyptian government to relieve claridge pasha at once?" "is that the conclusion you draw from my words?" he asked. "yes; but i wish to know beyond doubt if that is what you mean the country to believe?" "it is what i mean you to believe, my dear." she shrank from the last two words, but still went on quietly, though her eyes burned and she shivered. "if you mean that you will do nothing, it will ruin you and your government," she answered. "kimber was right, and--" "kimber was inspired from here," he interjected sharply. she put her hand upon herself. "do you think i would intrigue against you? do you think i would stoop to intrigue?" she asked, a hand clasping and unclasping a bracelet on her wrist, her eyes averted, for very shame that he should think the thought he had uttered. "it came from this house--the influence," he rejoined. "i cannot say. it is possible," she answered; "but you cannot think that i connive with my maid against you. i think kimber has reasons of his own for acting as he did to-day. he speaks for many besides himself; and he spoke patriotically this afternoon. he did his duty." "and i did not? do you think i act alone?" "you did not do your duty, and i think that you are not alone responsible. that is why i hope the government will be influenced by public feeling." she came a step nearer to him. "i ask you to relieve claridge pasha at any cost. he is your father's son. if you do not, when all the truth is known, you will find no shelter from the storm that will break over you." "you will tell--the truth?" "i do not know yet what i shall do," she answered. "it will depend on you; but it is your duty to tell the truth, not mine. that does not concern me; but to save claridge pasha does concern me." "so i have known." her heart panted for a moment with a wild indignation; but she quieted herself, and answered almost calmly: "if you refuse to do that which is honourable--and human, then i shall try to do it for you while yet i bear your name. if you will not care for your family honour, then i shall try to do so. if you will not do your duty, then i will try to do it for you." she looked him determinedly in the eyes. "through you i have lost nearly all i cared to keep in the world. i should like to feel that in this one thing you acted honourably." he sprang to his feet, bursting with anger, in spite of the inward admonition that much that he prized was in danger, that any breach with hylda would be disastrous. but self-will and his native arrogance overruled the monitor within, and he said: "don't preach to me, don't play the martyr. you will do this and you will do that! you will save my honour and the family name! you will relieve claridge pasha, you will do what governments choose not to do; you will do what your husband chooses not to do--well, i say that you will do what your husband chooses to do, or take the consequences." "i think i will take the consequences," she answered. "i will save claridge pasha, if it is possible. it is no boast. i will do it, if it can be done at all, if it is god's will that it should be done; and in doing it i shall be conscious that you and i will do nothing together again--never! but that will not stop me; it will make me do it, the last right thing, before the end." she was so quiet, so curiously quiet. her words had a strange solemnity, a tragic apathy. what did it mean? he had gone too far, as he had done before. he had blundered viciously, as he had blundered before. she spoke again before he could collect his thoughts and make reply. "i did not ask for too much, i think, and i could have forgiven and forgotten all the hurts you have given me, if it were not for one thing. you have been unjust, hard, selfish, and suspicious. suspicious--of me! no one else in all the world ever thought of me what you have thought. i have done all i could. i have honourably kept the faith. but you have spoiled it all. i have no memory that i care to keep. it is stained. my eyes can never bear to look upon the past again, the past with you-- never." she turned to leave the room. he caught her arm. "you will wait till you hear what i have to say," he cried in anger. her last words had stung him so, her manner was so pitilessly scornful. it was as though she looked down on him from a height. his old arrogance fought for mastery over his apprehension. what did she know? what did she mean? in any case he must face it out, be strong--and merciful and affectionate afterwards. "wait, hylda," he said. "we must talk this out." she freed her arm. "there is nothing to talk out," she answered. "so far as our relations are concerned, all reason for talk is gone." she drew the fatal letter from the sash at her waist. "you will think so too when you read this letter again." she laid it on the table beside him, and, as he opened and glanced at it, she left the room. he stood with the letter in his hand, dumfounded. "good god!" he said, and sank into a chair. chapter xxxix faith journeys to london faith withdrew her eyes from hylda's face, and they wandered helplessly over the room. they saw, yet did not see; and even in her trouble there was some subconscious sense softly commenting on the exquisite refinement and gentle beauty which seemed to fill the room; but the only definite objects which the eyes registered at the moment were the flowers filling every corner. hylda had been lightly adjusting a clump of roses when she entered; and she had vaguely noticed how pale was the face that bent over the flowers, how pale and yet how composed--as she had seen a quaker face, after some sorrow had passed over it, and left it like a quiet sea in the sun, when wreck and ruin were done. it was only a swift impression, for she could think of but one thing, david and his safety. she had come to hylda, she said, because of lord eglington's position, and she could not believe that the government would see david's work undone and david killed by the slave-dealers of africa. hylda's reply had given her no hope that eglington would keep the promise he had made that evening long ago when her father had come upon them by the old mill, and because of which promise she had forgiven eglington so much that was hard to forgive. hylda had spoken with sorrowful decision, and then this pause had come, in which faith tried to gain composure and strength. there was something strangely still in the two women. from the far past, through quaker ancestors, there had come to hylda now this grey mist of endurance and self-control and austere reserve. yet behind it all, beneath it all, a wild heart was beating. presently, as they looked into each other's eyes, and faith dimly apprehended something of hylda's distress and its cause, hylda leaned over and spasmodically pressed her hand. "it is so, faith," she said. "they will do nothing. international influences are too strong." she paused. "the under-secretary for foreign affairs will do nothing; but yet we must hope. claridge pasha has saved himself in the past; and he may do so now, even though it is all ten times worse. then, there is another way. nahoum pasha can save him, if he can be saved. and i am going to egypt--to nahoum." faith's face blanched. something of the stark truth swept into her brain. she herself had suffered--her own life had been maimed, it had had its secret bitterness. her love for her sister's son was that of a mother, sister, friend combined, and he was all she had in life. that he lived, that she might cherish the thought of him living, was the one thing she had; and david must be saved, if that might be; but this girl --was she not a girl, ten years younger than herself?--to go to egypt to do--what? she herself lived out of the world, but she knew the world! to go to egypt, and--"thee will not go to egypt. what can thee do?" she pleaded, something very like a sob in her voice. "thee is but a woman, and david would not be saved at such a price, and i would not have him saved so. thee will not go. say thee will not. he is all god has left to me in life; but thee to go--ah, no! it is a bitter world--and what could thee do?" hylda looked at her reflectively. should she tell faith all, and take her to egypt? no, she could not take her without telling her all, and that was impossible now. there might come a time when this wise and tender soul might be taken into the innermost chambers, when all the truth might be known; but the secret of david's parentage was eglington's concern most of all, and she would not speak now; and what was between nahoum and david was david's concern; and she had kept his secret all these years. no, faith might not know now, and might not come with her. on this mission she must go alone. hylda rose to her feet, still keeping hold of faith's hand. "go back to hamley and wait there," she said, in a colourless voice. "you can do nothing; it may be i can do much. whatever can be done i can do, since england will not act. pray for his safety. it is all you can do. it is given to some to work, to others to pray. i must work now." she led faith towards the door; she could not endure more; she must hold herself firm for the journey and the struggle before her. if she broke down now she could not go forward; and faith's presence roused in her an emotion almost beyond control. at the door she took both of faith's hands in hers, and kissed her cheek. "it is your place to stay; you will see that it is best. good-bye," she added hurriedly, and her eyes were so blurred that she could scarcely see the graceful, demure figure pass into the sunlit street. that afternoon lord windlehurst entered the duchess of snowdon's presence hurried and excited. she started on seeing his face. "what has happened?" she asked breathlessly. "she is gone," he answered. "our girl has gone to egypt." the duchess almost staggered to her feet. "windlehurst--gone!" she gasped. "i called to see her. her ladyship had gone into the country, the footman said. i saw the butler, a faithful soul, who would die--or clean the area steps--for her. he was discreet; but he knew what you and i are to her. it was he got the tickets--for marseilles and egypt." the duchess began to cry silently. big tears ran down a face from which the glow of feeling had long fled, but her eyes were sad enough. "gone--gone! it is the end!" was all she could say. lord windlehurst frowned, though his eyes were moist. "we must act at once. you must go to egypt, betty. you must catch her at marseilles. her boat does not sail for three days. she thought it went sooner, as it was advertised to do. it is delayed--i've found that out. you can start to-night, and-- and save the situation. you will do it, betty?" "i will do anything you say, as i have always done." she dried her eyes. "she is a good girl. we must do all we can. i'll arrange everything for you myself. i've written this paragraph to go into the papers to-morrow morning: 'the duchess of snowdon, accompanied by lady eglington, left london last night for the mediterranean via calais, to be gone for two months or more.' that is simple and natural. i'll see eglington. he must make no fuss. he thinks she has gone to hamley, so the butler says. there, it's all clear. your work is cut out, betty, and i know you will do it as no one else can." "oh, windlehurst," she answered, with a hand clutching at his arm, "if we fail, it will kill me." "if she fails, it will kill her," he answered, "and she is very young. what is in her mind, who can tell? but she thinks she can help claridge somehow. we must save her, betty." "i used to think you had no real feeling, windlehurst. you didn't show it," she said in a low voice. "ah, that was because you had too much," he answered. "i had to wait till you had less." he took out his watch. glossary aiwa----yes. allah hu achbar----god is most great. al'mah----female professional singers, signifying "a learned female." ardab----a measure equivalent to five english bushels. backsheesh----tip, douceur. balass----earthen vessel for carrying water. bdsha----pasha. bersim----clover. bismillah----in the name of god. bowdb----a doorkeeper. dahabieh----a nile houseboat with large lateen sails. darabukkeh----a drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. dourha----maize. effendina----most noble. el azhar----the arab university at cairo. fedddn----a measure of land representing about an acre. fellah----the egyptian peasant. ghiassa----small boat. hakim----doctor. hasheesh----leaves of hemp. inshallah----god willing. kdnoon----a musical instrument like a dulcimer. kavass----an orderly. kemengeh----a cocoanut fiddle. khamsin----a hot wind of egypt and the soudan. kourbash----a whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. la ilaha illa-llah----there is no deity but god. malaish----no matter. malboos----demented. mastaba----a bench. medjidie----a turkish order. mooshrabieh----lattice window. moufettish----high steward. mudir----the governor of a mudirieh, or province. muezzin----the sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. narghileh----a persian pipe. nebool----a quarter-staff. ramadan----the mahommedan season of fasting. saadat-el-bdsha----excellency pasha. sdis----groom. sakkia----the persian water-wheel. salaam----eastern salutation. sheikh-el-beled----head of a village. tarboosh----a turkish turban. ulema----learned men. wakf----mahommedan court dealing with succession, etc. welee----a holy man or saint. yashmak----a veil for the lower part of the face. yelek----a long vest or smock. book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google books project.) transcriber's note: this version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_. footnotes have been moved to follow the paragraphs in which they are referenced. observations on the sermons of elias hicks in several letters to him; with some introductory remarks, addressed to the junior members of the society of friends. by a demi-quaker. robert waln "to expect that we should be informed of the divine economy with the same distinctness as of our own duty, would be a piece of arrogance above ordinary."--_burgh._ "dim, as the borrowed beams of moon and stars to lonely, weary, wandering travellers, is reason to the soul: and as on high, those rolling fires discover but the sky, not light us here: so reason's glimmering ray was lent, not _to assure_ our doubtful way, but guide us upward to a better day."--_dryden._ philadelphia . to the junior members of the society of friends. the situation in which the society of friends has of late been placed, has, i have no doubt, attracted the attention of all its members; and that even those among you who have not been in the habit of attending its meetings for discipline, are no strangers to their proceedings, although you have not yet felt it your duty to take any part in them. and to you more especially i submit the observations contained in the following letters. when in my early days i sometimes attended these meetings, my mind was filled with admiration at the harmony and prudence with which their affairs were conducted, and that genuine christian forbearance, one with another, which enabled them to triumph over all the difficulties which are imposed by conflicting opinions, and generally to unite in the adoption of such measures as true wisdom dictated; and it was gratifying to me to observe that it was, to other sects, a subject of wonder, how any numerous association could conduct their business without the intervention of votes or other substitutes, to ascertain the opinions of the majority of the assembly. the form is, i have no doubt, yet preserved, and the language of forbearance and humility retained by many who in their hearts entertain far different feelings; and the proceedings have in several instances proved, that the spirit which formerly pervaded these assemblies, no longer prevails in some of them. why this great change has taken place, will no doubt be ascribed to different causes by the parties more immediately interested: an impartial spectator may form conclusions different from many of them, and may be permitted to ask, whether the leading causes may not have been produced by some of that class, to whom the great majority of the members of the society look for instruction. the situation of a christian teacher is of awful responsibility, and in the society of friends peculiarly beset with dangers, not only because of the high claim on which their ministry is founded, and which seems to require a degree of unremitting watchfulness with which it is difficult for man to comply; but also, because it requires a constant attention to keeping the mind in that state of lowliness and humility, which can alone preserve them from mistaking the wanderings of the imagination for a call of duty; and from those feelings which lead them to seek after the applause of men. hence it must necessarily follow, that but few among them are always preserved in such a state of mind, as not to require the caution and advice of their friends: and consequently, that some portion of the society must be selected to watch over their conduct; and as this is an office of the greatest importance to their well being, the greatest care ought to be observed in the appointment. the elders are the depositaries of this power, so essential to the very existence of the society; and as the most prudent and cautious use of it cannot always prevent the objects of their attention from feelings of resentment, so it will naturally follow, that those to whom the exercise of it is most necessary, will always be the most zealous in abridging it. this impatience of control is increased by a ranting spirit which seems of late to have infected a portion of the society, and which, in its consequences, is always more injurious than infidelity itself; and generally arises from a restlessness of disposition, which not content with the measure of light which may have been imparted, is always aspiring after greater things. it arises from a desire after distinction; and as this disposition must prevent a growth in genuine religion, the delusions of self-love easily enable a man to substitute his own imaginations for revelations; and as every passion is strengthened by indulgence, he proceeds from one step to another, until he fancies himself under the constant and peculiar guidance of the spirit, not only in his religious duties, but in all the temporal concerns of life. it naturally follows, that when he has persuaded himself that he is thus gifted and endowed, he will feel himself above the advice of men, and regard all regulations which may have a tendency to restrain his wanderings, as obstructing him in his duties, and it will be one of his favourite objects to relieve himself from all control. how individuals actuated by such passions can subject the minds of others to their illusions, would indeed be wonderful, did not history furnish sufficient proof that it is difficult to calculate too largely on the credulity of a portion of mankind. whenever this disposition of mind is discovered, especially in any part of the ministry, every reflecting member of society must perceive the necessity of adopting means to prevent the injurious consequences of it; and as that duty more especially devolves on the elders, (who are, and always have been, the true and efficient support of the society,) they soon become objects of dislike to the sublimated spirits opposed to them, and the diminution of their power and authority, the first and favourite scheme. that they will not succeed, i am fully persuaded; because i think it must be evident to every unclouded mind, that without such salutary interference as they often find it necessary to exercise, all order and propriety would be banished from the society. cunning is not more inconsistent with fanaticism, than it is with lunacy; for however perverted the mind may be in relation to particular subjects, we often see individuals in both situations, adopting the most plausible means for the accomplishment of the most irrational objects. it is not therefore to be expected that any attempts will be made totally to abolish the eldership: such a proposal would hardly be successful; but if means are found to render that body less independent, and to diminish the weight and authority which they have long and deservedly possessed, it may subserve the cause, and lead to ultimate success in their projects: and here, if any where, the danger seems to be.[ ] footnote : since writing the above, i have been informed that this attempt has actually been made in the yearly meetings in philadelphia and new york, under the pretext of a necessity of subjecting all important appointments to change at stated periods. no measure could be devised more injurious to the society, and every friend to its welfare must rejoice that it was rejected. i know there are many very pious labourers in the ministry of this people, yet i think it must be evident to every observing mind, that there never was a period since the existence of the society, in which there was greater necessity of unremitting watchfulness on the part of the elders; and that so far from its being expedient to diminish their control, it ought, if possible, to be rendered more efficient. there is a spirit now abroad, which if not checked, will devastate this society. who would be the principal agents is not for me to say; but one thing is certain, that if there is any disposition on the part of its ministers to relieve themselves from this control, it is sufficient evidence of the necessity of it. such a disposition must proceed from a mind not imbued with true christian humility, but presumptuously confident in itself. it is spiritual pride, than which nothing is more injurious and odious in a christian professor. it is with this disposition that such extraordinary solicitude has been manifested, to induce the youth of the society and others of its members, who had before silently attended to its proceedings, to take part in its deliberations, and to flatter them into a belief that they are qualified to administer to its affairs and direct its proceedings; instead of recommending an endeavour to discipline the mind to the weighty business of the society, and cautioning them against indulging a spirit of judging without a serious and solemn consideration of the subject; and against interrupting the business by their councils, unless it is under a solemn impression of duty. the effect has been such as might be expected, and was probably intended. individuals who had before taken no part in the deliberations of the society, and who, (however respectable in life,) had never evinced that disposition of mind which had before been thought a necessary qualification of an active member, are now among the most busy; and some of the younger portion of the society forgetting that modesty is the most becoming ornament of youth, are found opposing their unripe notions with unhesitating pertinacity, to the wisdom and experience of age. under these circumstances is it not proper for you to consider whether you have not a part to act? when you look back to the history of your society and consider its admirable organization; and when you reflect on the respectable standing, to which the unostentatious propriety by which all its transactions have been governed, has raised it; you must be impressed with an honest zeal for its welfare; and that reverence which every ingenuous mind feels for the institutions and practices of their ancestors, strengthened as it is in this case by the best of all tests, a long experience, must induce you to oppose the innovations of the restless agitators of the present day: and your good sense will, i trust, enable you to distinguish between true religion and fanaticism, and not permit you to lose your reverence for the one, in contemplating the wild deformity of the other. and perhaps you may be induced to believe that your attendance at the meetings for discipline, may not be without its use; that your presence may give additional strength and encouragement to the long tried standard bearers, and though you may not feel yourselves called upon to take a very active part in their deliberations, your example may be of use to some of those froward spirits, who, whatever may be their exterior appearance, are less qualified for the important business than many of yourselves. i know there are individuals in every stage of life, who judge of preaching as others do of music, by the concord of sweet sounds; and who are convinced more by the harmony of a well turned sentence, than by the sentiment it is intended to convey; whose religion is founded on sensation rather than reflection, and is an affair of feeling instead of a deliberate sense of duty. to these i have nothing to say. my endeavour has been to show the inconsistencies into which men are led, by unfounded pretensions to a state of perfectability,[ ] and an acquaintance with the inscrutable workings of providence, (which all experience proves to be unattainable by man;) to show that such lofty aspirations are not in accordance with the genuine principles of the religion of jesus christ; and that it is by a submissive acquiescence in the measure of knowledge communicated, and an anxious endeavour to fulfil the obligations it imposes, rather than by curious researches into hidden things, that we best perform our duties here; and as no intelligent mind among you can believe that the suggestions of infinite wisdom are ever contradictory, it was part of my plan to show the inconsistencies in the doctrines of the great leader of the illuminati of your society. footnote : perfection, in the sense in which it is understood by some people, frequently leads to great extravagance on religious subjects, by inducing men to believe that they have eradicated from their hearts every propensity to evil, and have arrived at a state of stainless purity. there is a great difference between the perfection of the creator and man. the perfection of man consists in his possessing all that is requisite to attain the end of his creation; and the proper question for him to consider, is not whether he has arrived at that perfection which is the promised reward in another state of being, but whether he has by careful diligence and attention secured for himself that reward. if i have succeeded in this, and to your deliberate examination i submit it, my task is accomplished; for if we are permitted to judge of the sermons as the arguments of a simple individual, sure i am, there are none among you habituated to reflection, who will not discover that they abound with inconsistencies, and are totally irreconcileable with reason, and the authority of the scriptures. and you must unite with me in lamenting the strange illusion which induced the author of such discourses to declare that "he dare not speak at random, otherwise he should show that he departed from god's illuminating spirit." letter i. when i some time since addressed you, i expressed an anxious wish that you would submit to the consideration of your friends, your scheme of religion, in such a form as would enable them to examine it with deliberation; because i did believe that on this momentous subject, too much care could not be exercised. my wish has been gratified, not by your immediate agency, but by the zeal of your followers, who have caused a number of your discourses to be printed and published to the world. when i sat down to read them, i did not expect to find a regularly concocted system, because i did not believe you had a mind capable of very extensive combination; but i did imagine you had given to your plan some semblance of consistency, and that if there was no adhesion, there would be no striking incongruity in its parts. in this i have been disappointed; for in it, nothing can be discovered but disjointed effusions, and attempts to give to different passages of scripture novel constructions; to amuse the fancy, and engage the mind in useless enquiries after hidden things; to withdraw it from its proper business; to entangle it in the web which the vanity and restlessness of man has woven; and to substitute for that pure and simple worship which consists in prostration of spirit before the throne of grace, a grateful acknowledgment of his goodness, and humble thankfulness for the measure of light received; lofty speculations on subjects more curious than beneficial; which can have no tendency to mend the heart, and which often lead into unprofitable controversies and perplexity of mind; for it will ever remain a truth that "the judgments of the lord are unsearchable and his ways past finding out." the christian religion is of so much importance, and has so long engaged the attention of men; it has occasioned so much research and so many controversies; so many sermons have been preached, and so many books written, upon every part of it, that nothing new can be said upon the subject: yet such is the nature of man, that he is always requiring some novelty to rouse his attention and amuse his mind. this may perhaps furnish some apology for the preacher of a sect whose form of worship requires sermons at stated times, if he sometimes indulges in metaphorical allusion, or contrives to expand his discourse by ingenious digression. with the genuine quaker this plea must be unavailing: impressed with the sublime idea that it is by silence and abstraction from all outward things, that the mind is best fitted for true and acceptable worship, it must follow, that when a minister imbued with this spirit feels himself called upon to offer advice or instruction, he will be careful "not to multiply words without knowledge, by which counsel is darkened." but prolixity is the vice of oratory; it infects the pulpit, the senate, and the bar. there is something so gratifying to the pride and vanity of man in the display of this talent, or so fascinating is the music of his own voice, that it is almost always carried to excess; and we often see the orator pursuing his course with undiminished vigour, long after his exhausted auditors have withdrawn their attention from him. you possess some of the qualities essential to the orator; you are voluble of speech and impressive in your delivery, and you have that confidence in the powers of your own mind, which secures you from hesitation and embarrassment: but you are deficient in others, without which all is unavailing; your perception is obscure, and your ratiocination singularly defective; and you are peculiarly unfortunate in the belief that you excel in that faculty in which you are most deficient. hence we find you plunging into the fathomless depths of metaphysics with fearless confidence; stating propositions and assuming inferences in direct opposition to them, and such is your fondness for amplification, that even when the truth of your proposition is self-evident, you contrive to involve it in obscurity by the redundancy of your expletives, and the profusion of your attempts at illustration. you contemn all human science, for you are ignorant; yet from the whole body of ministers of that society of which you are still a member, you cannot select an individual who makes such a lofty display of technical terms, or more frequently endeavours to elucidate his observations by reference to it. you believe in the doctrine of inspiration, and you seem to claim the possession of it to a degree with which few are favoured: you say it is an unerring director, and plainly to be understood, and yet declare that all its dictates must be governed by the fallible reason of man. having given to reason this unlimited dictatorship, it was natural to expect that you would recommend the most assiduous cultivation of it; but you have interdicted the only means by which it is improved, and denounced by a curse those who are engaged in extending it.[ ] footnote : see discourses delivered in philadelphia, page . "oh that men of science might be aware what a curse they are to the inhabitants of the earth; what a great curse." there is no novelty in this opinion, for we find a poet more than two hundred years ago making jack cade exclaim, "thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm, in erecting a grammar school: and whereas before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and tally, thou hast caused printing to be used; and contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper mill. it will be proved to thy face, that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no christian can endure to hear." all this confusion arises from your not having formed any precise idea of the terms you apply. with the words _reason_ and _rational_ continually in your mouth, you have never enquired into the nature and operation of that distinguishing faculty of man, nor of the manner in which alone it can be properly applied to the truths of our religion. you appear to consider it as of physical organization; an instinct of our nature which is perfected without care or cultivation, and that like one of our natural senses, it may be summoned to our aid without fear of error in its perceptions. you cannot be ignorant of the great inferiority of the reasoning powers of man in his savage state, and a little enquiry would have taught you, that observation and experience are the foundation of all knowledge, and that as we can only reason from the ideas existing in our own minds, it is by their increase alone that our reasoning faculty is extended. hence it must follow, that as it is the noblest gift of the almighty to man; a germ which without cultivation can never flourish, it is our duty to promote its growth and expansion by every means in our power. i am not insensible of the evils which have arisen from the presumption with which some learned men have endeavoured to destroy that religion which is the foundation of our hope; but we ought to recollect that such is the perversity of man, that if the abuse of the blessings of providence can be adduced as an argument against their enjoyment, there are few indeed in which we can innocently indulge. nor is ignorance any security against this presumption; on the contrary its decisions are always more bold and dogmatic; and if they are less injurious, it is only because they are more foolish. that we could never have arrived at a knowledge of our spiritual duties, or of many gospel truths by the deductions of human reason, is evident; were it otherwise, the revelations under the christian dispensation would have been unnecessary; but we are not to infer from this, that our reason is to be silent on this all important object; for if it is the subject of our cogitations, it is of course under the examination of our reasoning powers, and hence arises the importance of endeavouring so to improve this talent, as to enable us to unravel the subtilty of the sophist, and separate the gold, from the dross of the enthusiast. were we all well instructed in the right use of our reason, we should be able to distinguish between that which is above, and that which is contrary to it; and we should confine it to its proper place, which is, _not to judge of things revealed, but of the reality of revelation._ to attempt to test the truth of the things revealed, by our reason, is inconsistent with it: they are given to us in a supernatural way, which of itself, discovers the impossibility of examining them by deductions from our own ideas; but the reality of the revelations themselves, stands on very different ground. admirable as is the instruction to be drawn from them, the almighty in mercy to man, did not leave them on their intrinsic merits alone; they were accompanied by signs and wonders, the evidence of the divine power by which they were sent. the life of our blessed saviour, his doctrines, and the miracles which he wrought, have been recorded in the scriptures, and handed down for our instruction and government; and as no man can be a christian who does not believe in them, i am fully persuaded that every candid and diligent enquirer, will find sufficient evidence of their authenticity to satisfy his mind; and that being satisfied, his faith in the things revealed will be established. now although i agree with you, that the inspirations of man in our day, are to be examined by the rule of right reason, i fear we shall not concur in our manner of conducting the enquiry. we have no extraordinary signs accompanying them, and we all know, how easy it is to mistake the suggestions of the imagination for the operations of the spirit of truth on the mind; and the strange visions which enthusiasm often produces, and as it is sometimes difficult to discover the source from which they spring, it is a satisfaction to know that we have a standard by which error itself may be rendered innoxious. "i am far (says locke,) from denying that god can, or doth sometimes, enlighten men's minds in the apprehending of certain truths, or excite them to good actions, by the immediate influence and assistance of the holy spirit, without any extraordinary signs accompanying it. but in such cases we have reason and scripture, unerring rules, to know whether it be from god or no. where the truth embraced is consonant to the revelation in the written word of god, or the action conformable to the dictates of right reason, or holy writ, we may be assured that we run no risk in entertaining it as such; because, though it be not an immediate revelation from god, extraordinarily operating on our minds, yet we are sure it is warranted by that revelation which he has given us of truth. but it is not the strength of our private persuasion within ourselves, that can warrant it to be a light or motion from heaven; nothing can do that but the written word of god without us, or that standard of reason which is common to us with all men. where reason or scripture is express for any opinion or action, we may receive it as of divine authority; but it is not the strength of our own persuasions which can by itself give it that stamp. the bent of our own minds may favour it as much as we please; that may show it a fondling of our own, but will by no means prove it to be an offspring of heaven, and of divine original." here is a great coincidence between the opinions of the christian philosopher and the quaker apologist; and although they refer to right reason as well as the scriptures, as our guide, they meant not to use them in contradistinction to each other. when we refer to either of two rules to solve a proposition, it is because both will produce the same result; and they introduced the word reason, as applicable only to those opinions and actions, respecting which, the scriptures are silent. if, says the philosopher, the doctrine is consonant to reason or scripture, it may be received without risk, although it may not proceed from an immediate revelation of god. divine revelation, says the apologist, can never contradict the outward testimony of the scriptures or right reason; and whatever any do, pretending to the spirit, which is contrary to the scriptures, must be accounted and reckoned a delusion of the devil. by this test no genuine quaker can object to being tried,[ ] "for he preaches no new gospel, but that which is confirmed by all the miracles of christ and his apostles; and he offers nothing but that which he is able and ready to confirm by the authority of the scriptures, which all protestants acknowledge to be true." it is indeed the only criterion by which we can judge of the faith of man, and by that criterion, how few of your sermons would escape condemnation. footnote : barclay. letter ii. it may now be proper to state the motives which have again induced me publicly to address you, and to inform you what course it is my intention to pursue; and as i have no standing in the church, and am aloof from those scenes which must sometimes give rise to asperities, even in the bosom of meekness, have no personal acquaintance with you, and have been taught to respect your private character, i enter upon the subject, uninfluenced by many of the passions and prejudices which sway and control the opinions of man. but although not in membership, i feel a deep interest in the society of friends, and while i am without that sectarian spirit, which in the narrow breasts of some individuals, confines all true worship to a particular description of people, (and which i am happy in believing is no part of a quaker's faith;) long observation has convinced me, that there is no society whose principles and discipline are more eminently successful in inculcating the moral doctrines of christianity, and there is none whose religious tenets are more in conformity with my own ideas of true spiritual worship. i have perused your religious discourses with some attention, and as they appear to me to be in a style, seldom, if ever before, heard in the meetings of the society of friends; are abounding in terms which if not rightly understood may lead into great error, and with propositions, which, in the conclusions that may be drawn from them, may be destructive to religion, i thought i should not be unprofitably employed in endeavouring to separate your principles from the mass of expletives and allusions, in which they are enveloped; to discover the true object which you have in view, and to show the inconsistencies in which you have involved yourself by your attempts to define inscrutable things: and if i should sometimes be thought to indulge in language unsuitable to the solemnity of the subject, my only excuse can be, that when you occasionally favour your auditors with a display of your reasoning powers, there is such a neglect of all order in your arrangement, and such metaphorical confusion in your ideas, that when you arrive at your usual conclusion, "now how plain this is," the effect is so comic that it would extort a smile from gravity itself. in the examination of the doctrines of every christian teacher, the first and most essential point, is their conformity to the scriptures; but as your many deviations from them have been shown with sufficient clearness in a pamphlet lately published, i shall not enter into the subject generally, although i may occasionally refer to them. neither do i propose to enter upon an analysis of each particular discourse, for they are mixed up of so many heterogeneous materials, are so diversified in their objects, and so devious in their courses, that the end i have in view will perhaps be best answered, by referring only to such topics, as in their consequences, are of most importance. in the first discourse in the volume now before me, which was delivered at friends' meeting house in mulberry street, your principal objects appear to be, to depreciate the value of the scriptures, and to disprove the account of the miraculous birth of our saviour. on the first subject it may hereafter be proper to make some observations; to the latter i shall now give my attention. after several allusions to the birth of our saviour, you come forward and explicitly state your own belief; and unlike those who have preceded you in this path, and who have endeavoured to destroy our faith in the miracle, by arguments drawn from the scriptures, you take a shorter road, and declare _it is impossible_. you say "by the analogy of reason, _spirit cannot beget a material body,_ because the thing begotten, must be of the same nature with its father. _spirit cannot beget any thing but spirit, it cannot beget flesh and blood._ no, my friends, it is impossible."[ ] footnote : see discourse delivered at friends' meeting house, in mulberry street, page . i have in a former letter referred to this assertion, and had you confirmed the opinion which i then intimated, that it was a hasty expression, and uttered without your perceiving its tendency, i should not again allude to the subject. but you found yourself seated between the horns of a dilemma. if you admitted it was an inconsiderate expression, you abandoned your high claim to inspiration; and if you re-affirmed it, in its obvious meaning, it would be an adoption of principles which i sincerely hope you do not entertain; and you have endeavoured to escape by an explanation which, although it narrows the meaning, does not relieve it from the stain of impiety; and is a proof, (if any further proof is wanting,) that such a course cannot proceed from the inspirations of the spirit of truth. you say, that in denying the power of the spirit to _beget_, you did not mean to question the power to _create_. to limit is to destroy the omnipotency of the creator; and when we see such a creature as man, presuming to scan his power and determine what he can, or cannot do, the feelings which its profanity would otherwise occasion, are lost in our astonishment at its arrogance and presumption. but you have announced your opinion not only as sanctioned by divine inspiration, but as being according to "the true analogy of reason," and yet, taken with your subsequent explanation, it is enveloped in absurdity. in admitting the power to create, you have destroyed your own argument; for you cannot suppose that there was an individual present in the meeting, so grossly dull as to believe that when the prophecy was accomplished in the birth of our saviour, it was by the means which your explanation points to; or that it was other than a miraculous intervention of that merciful being, who in his unlimited power and inscrutable wisdom, has chosen his own way in directing us to a knowledge of those truths which the gospel unfolds. and if we assent to your doctrine in the restricted sense in which you say you intended the word _beget_ to be understood; we must believe there are sexes in spirit, and that it can only be produced by a corporeal union of incorporeal beings. here is no proof of your ability to draw conclusions from the _analogy of reason_, but it is a striking illustration of the wisdom of the counsel, "not to multiply words without knowledge." a very keen and accurate observer of the foibles and infirmities of man remarks, "it would be well, if people would not lay so much weight on _their own reason_ in matters of religion, as to think every thing impossible and absurd, which they cannot conceive: how often do we contradict the right rules of reason in the whole course of our lives? _reason_ itself is true and just, but the reason of every particular man is weak and wavering, perpetually swayed and turned by his interests, his passions, and his vices."[ ] footnote : swift. if, as i truly believe, the christian religion is intended to subdue the wanderings of the imagination, and bring the mind into a humble dependance on our creator, it seems necessarily to follow, that we ought to be anxiously careful to prevent its being drawn into a too great fondness for enquiries into unsearchable things. in the course of my reading, i have lately perused the prayer of a very learned man,[ ] which, for its rational and fervent piety, must be instructive to all, and in a particular manner to those who are _our teachers_. it is the prayer of one whose writings will be read with instruction and delight as long as our language endures; whose intellectual faculties were of the highest order, and who was sufficiently sensible of his superiority, when compared with most other men: yet, when in solitude and private worship, he looked beyond all sublunary things, and contemplated the immensurable distance between the wisdom of man and his creator, with deep prostration of mind he prayed "oh, lord, my maker and protector, who hast graciously sent me into this world to work out my salvation, enable me to drive from me all such unquiet and perplexing thoughts as may mislead or hinder me in the practice of those duties which thou hast required. when i behold the works of thy hands, and consider the course of thy providence, give me grace always to remember that thy thoughts are not my thoughts, nor thy ways my ways: and while it shall please thee to continue me in this world, where much is to be done, and little to be known; teach me by thy holy spirit, to withdraw my mind from unprofitable and dangerous enquiries, from difficulties vainly curious, and doubts impossible to be solved. let me rejoice in the light which thou hast imparted, let me serve thee with active zeal and humble confidence, and wait with patient expectation for the time in which the soul which thou receivest, shall be satisfied with knowledge. grant this, o lord, for jesus christ's sake." footnote : dr. johnson. and that it is with minds thus disciplined, that all ought to be prepared for prayer, and that in this spirit alone, can the preacher awaken the mind to true worship, are truths which few professors of the christian name, and none who believe in the doctrines of friends, can doubt. letter iii. if, in my succeeding observations, i refer to the opinions held by any other sect than that in which i have been educated, i wish it to be understood, that it is neither to approve nor censure. believing, (as i sincerely do,) that christianity consists not in forms or observances; neither in subscriptions to curiously contrived creeds, nor in confessions of faith; but in that worship which purifies and cleanseth the heart; so i believe that he who ministers to a congregation in this spirit, (whatever may be his name among men,) ministers profitably; "and that both he that soweth, and he that reapeth, may rejoice together." in reading your sermons, it evidently appears that you have imbibed the notions of a sect, who attribute much more to reason, than any other christian society, and you have asserted that you are unable to believe any thing which you cannot bring down to the level of your own understanding;[ ] yet you believe in direct revelation, and with singular inconsistency assert that all your discourses are from its immediate dictates, and without the intervention of any other cause; thus calling upon your auditors to assent to that which you assert to be impossible; for by no process of human reason can the reality of your revelations be tested, and if they are assented to, it must be by faith alone. footnote : see letter to dr. atlee. "i admit that i did assert and have long done it, that we cannot believe what we do not understand." this assertion is in curious contrast to some others which he has made. in a discourse before alluded to, he has declared the miraculous birth of our saviour to be impossible; and in his letter to thomas willis, he says, that after believing in the miracle for many years, he has read the ancient history of the church and the evangelists with a view to this subject, and that according to his best judgment, jesus christ is the son of joseph; yet he declares in the same letter, that he still retains his original belief: thus proving that he has a mind capable of believing not only what he does not understand, but also against the convictions of his understanding. i know that you have been hailed as an _efficient fellow labourer_ in destroying our belief in some doctrines which are considered as fundamental by almost every christian sect, and i am apprehensive that this applause has stimulated you to greater daring: but you ought to recollect how much easier it is to destroy than to build up, and you may be assured that when the work of destruction is accomplished, your services will be at an end: your coadjutors have too much understanding not to perceive, that you have not sufficient knowledge to aid in erecting the building which is to be raised on the ruins, and that you are without the skill necessary to give uniformity to its appearance, or embellishment to its parts. when the temple of reason is finished and dedicated, you may be permitted to worship in its vestibule, but will never be called upon to administer the rites at its altar. it seems, however, that you are not quite ignorant of the apparent inconsistency of these contradictory assertions, and it is proper that your explanations should be fairly examined, that we should endeavour to ascertain what you really mean by the word _reason_, and how it is to be applied to your own inspirations: in order to do this, it will be necessary to quote your own words. in a discourse delivered in new york, you say, "now we learn as rational creatures, that god spoke to the israelites not only as such, but that he always addresses us as rational creatures. were we not rational creatures we could not understand; for nothing is a recipient for the spirit of god but the rational soul, and therefore we are always to understand him rationally; for this is _according to the nature of things_." in this remark, the only novelty is, the confusion in which your ideas are involved; for i cannot believe there were any of your audience so ignorant as not to know that it is _according to the nature of things_, that as we were created rational creatures, we should be addressed as such; and that if we were without understanding, we could not understand. again you say, "as reason is a dormant principle without revelation, so when god is pleased to reveal things unto the immortal souls of the children of men, they are then seen rationally: and then reason has an opportunity to exercise its _balancing and comparing principle_ in man, and therefore there is a two-fold revelation to man." you surely cannot intend to persuade us, that reason has always been dormant without revelation, or you must yourself be ignorant, or believe that we are ignorant, of the writings handed down to us, and which sufficiently attest the powers of the human mind, even when unilluminated by the revelations of the gospel, and in the darkest ages of paganism. and if, as i suppose, you meant to limit this dormant principle, (as you call it,) to the revelations of the spirit, you involve it in absurdity. we will now examine your propositions, and endeavour to discover the deductions to be drawn from them. you say that reason is a dormant principle without revelation:--when any thing is revealed by god, it is seen rationally;--that then reason is to exercise its balancing and comparing principle, and the result is, that there is a two-fold revelation in man. we have heretofore been taught to believe, that the only way in which we can arrive at a knowledge of the truth of any thing by our reason, is by the deductions drawn from the ideas which have been impressed on our minds by the use of our natural faculties; and that revelation is a special communication, in a manner independent of these faculties. but admitting that all the theologians and metaphysicians who have preceded you, have been in error, and that you alone are acquainted with the nature and operation of the faculty of reason, in what does it result? why, when the almighty reveals any thing to our souls, he, by another revelation, enables us to examine and discover whether the first revelation is right; but you have not told us, by which we are to be governed, if they differ. if you say they always accord, then a two-fold revelation is superfluous, and you admit that "our creator never deals superfluously with us;"[ ] and if they should disagree, how are we to decide? your great and leading maxim, "that for which a thing is such, the thing itself is more such," will not apply, for both revelations are immediate and from the same source; and it will be necessary for the _numerous[ ] converts_ which your maxim has made, again to apply to you to solve the difficulty. can folly itself believe that the truth of any thing revealed to our immortal souls by infinite wisdom, requires confirmation; or that if it does, that confirmation can be found in the authority from which it was first derived? and is it not extraordinary, that any individual can go on day after day, and year after year, professing to explain to us the nature and object of revelation, and the use of our reason when applied to it; and yet not know, that divine revelation must be immutably true, and that as it is communicated in a way wholly unconnected with our reason, all reasoning upon it is vain. whether the revelation is from a divine source is another question, and one which our reason may sometimes enable us to resolve. footnote : see sermon preached in philadelphia, page . footnote : see letter to dr. atlee. in the discourse you delivered at newtown in bucks county, you enter more largely on this subject; and as it seems to comprise all your notions in relation to reason, as connected with our religion, it is proper to examine it with particular attention. you say, "right reason is as much a gift of god, as any gift that we can receive: therefore, nothing but the rational soul is a recipient for divine revelation; and when the light shines upon it and shows any object, reason brings it to the test. if it is kept in right order, and under the regulating influence of the divine law, it brings things to balance, and it is brought to know every thing which may rise up, although at first sight. if it will not accord with right reason, we must cast it off as the work of antichrist. all that the almighty requires of us, will always result in reality; and we are not to believe any thing which does not so result. here now we see how easy it is to go along, if we pursue the right course; but as free agents, we can reason ourselves into the belief that wrong is right."[ ] footnote : see sermons, page . i have perused this passage with great attention, and so far from discovering any thing to enable me to get easily along, it appears to be wholly inexplicable. i have examined it as a whole, and in its different divisions, without being able to arrive at any result. in this perplexity i recollected that i was, in my youth, in company with several ancient friends, when some discussion occurred respecting the true interpretation of a passage in a book which was the subject of conversation. an individual present, with some flippancy observed, that he had read it with great attention both backwards and forwards several times, and thought he was able to explain it; when he was interrupted by a venerable old man, who with admirable gravity of countenance and simplicity of manner, said "he wished the friend to inform the company, in which way of reading, he understood it best." but here even this novel experiment must fail, and had the ingenious expounder tried it on the passage i have quoted, i fear he must have confessed it was equally unintelligible in either way; and that, being contrary to all reason, it must, if examined by the severity of your own rule, be deemed the work of antichrist. if you had said that no revelation can be the suggestion of infinite wisdom, if contrary to right reason, it would have been intelligible and true: but if the divine light really discovers any thing to us, we want no test to confirm it. again you say, that reason, if kept under the regulating influence of the divine law, will know everything that rises up at first sight; but that as free agents, we can reason ourselves into a belief that wrong is right. now what kind of reason can this be? it does seem that reason is given to us because we are free agents, and that it would be a very useless gift were it otherwise: and we do know that this faculty is improved by observation and experience, and that so far from its enabling us to know every thing at first sight, it is by study and meditation that our knowledge is extended, and that at last, we know but little. but the reason of which you speak, is a reason that arrives at all knowledge without deduction, and can act and determine with unerring certainty, although contrary to that reason which is given to us as free agents. it must follow, that the faculty which you call reason, is an instinct never before known to exist; or that all this circumlocution ends in the production of one of those phantasms which are sometimes engendered by the imagination, and which has persuaded you that two inspirations are necessary to confirm our belief, that they are distinct in their nature, and that one of them is right reason. when the sensations occasioned by the sonorous voice in which the pompous terms _analogy of reason, rational souls, and recipients for truth_ are delivered, have passed away; and we seriously meditate the manner in which they are applied; low indeed must that man be in the scale of intellectual being, who does not discover that all "is but as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal." letter iv. every reader of your discourses, must be surprised at the extent to which you have carried the practice of allegorising the scriptures: you declare your assent to them, and yet in practice, you seem to consider each part as a fable from which you can draw a moral to suit the purpose of the moment; and the belief which you profess in their divine origin, does not restrain you from indulging in all the licentiousness of fiction. "sacred history, (says an eminent writer,) has always been read with submissive reverence, and an imagination over-awed and controlled. we have been accustomed to acquiesce in the nakedness and simplicity of the authentic narrative, and to repose on its veracity with such humble confidence, as suppresses curiosity. we go with the historian as he goes, and stop with him when he stops. all amplification is frivolous and vain; all addition to that which is already sufficient for the purposes of religion, seems not only useless, but is in some degree profane. such events as were produced by the visible interposition of divine power, are above the power of human genius to dignify. the miracle of creation, however it may teem with images, is best described with little diffusion of language: _he spake the word and they were made._"[ ] footnote : life of cowley. that an argument may sometimes be illustrated by a moral drawn from the events recorded in scripture, i do not deny; but i think a pious mind must always indulge in the practice with great caution, and be careful not to make an allegory of the fact itself. nor do i think that the passage of scripture "the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life"[ ] which you so often quote, is at variance with this view of the subject, or can furnish any argument in excuse for the spirit of mysticism by which you involve every part of them in obscurity. it is true that this passage is in the figurative language generally used in the east, but the meaning appears so plain, that only those can mistake it, whose minds have been perverted by the habit of speculating in the airy regions of the imagination. the new testament is a code of moral law and spiritual instruction, teaching man his duty to his neighbour, and the true way in which he can render acceptable worship to god. for the outward order of this worship, and the government of religious society, certain rules and ordinances must be necessary, and were found to be so, even in the days of the apostles; but as under the old covenant many had been led to consider the outward observance of the law as their _only_ duty, and that "if they paid their tithe of mint and anise and cummin, they might omit the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy and faith; although _both_ ought to have been observed;"[ ] so this exhortation is intended to caution the flock, not against the observance of the rules of discipline which had been established, but that they might not sink down into the belief that such observance was all that was required; and that they ought always to remember that "god is a spirit;" and they that "worship him, must worship _him_ in spirit and in truth." footnote : corinthians, chap. . footnote : matthew, xxiii. now let us see the use you have made of this passage of scripture, and to how many purposes your inventive fancy has applied it. in your discourse at the meeting house in germantown,[ ] you enter largely into this subject, but as the passage is too long to be transcribed, i shall endeavour to give the different inferences you draw from it. footnote : see sermon at germantown, page . first, that from the letter of the scriptures, every thing suitable to deceive the people can be taken. secondly, that as every thing we read in the scriptures must necessarily be received through our outward senses, they are only fit for the outward creature. thirdly, that it was the letter of the scriptures that led men to the apostacy. fourthly, that all that has ever been written, is nothing but that which the wisdom of man has devised. fifthly, in your discourse at middletown[ ], you say, it is but a shadow which may do for young beginners; and may point them to the right thing. footnote : sermons, page . had the commentators who have preceded you, possessed such fertility of imagination, their works, voluminous as they are, must have been multiplied to an extent which it is difficult to conceive. yet after all, you appear at some moments to have a view of the true use of scripture, and of the meaning of that passage which you have perverted to so many purposes, although you conclude by one of those strange involutions of ideas with which your attempts at illustration so often abound. you say, "all letter written under the influence of god, points us back to the place from whence it came, and this is all; because as the letter never could be written without the spirit which stands above it, the great first cause of all wisdom and knowledge; therefore, unless by the letter we are gathered to the spirit, we cannot see the letter aright, for it is the effect; and when we face the letter we turn our backs upon the cause, just as a man turns his back upon the sun to see his own shadow."[ ] footnote : see sermons, page . here the sentiment is in itself correct, although the conclusion attempted to be drawn by the puerile conceit with which the sentence ends, is in direct opposition to it. the needle points to the pole, and the careful mariner does not turn his back upon it, but with a steady eye keeps it constantly in view as the guide by which alone he can be directed through the trackless ocean: so the christian pilgrim, with the gospel in his hand, endeavours to explore his way. the book itself contains not that for which he is seeking, but it has been in mercy handed down to him by the inspirations of infinite wisdom, as a landmark to direct him in the way in which he should walk: it has not only taught him the nature and efficacy of spiritual worship, but it affords a standard by which all his thoughts may be tried, and enables him to distinguish between the wanderings of the imagination and the dictates of eternal wisdom. if contrary to the scriptures, he rejects them; and whatever you may think of the superiority of your two-fold revelations, and the accuracy of your knowledge of the nature and use of right reason, no _reasonable_ being who is convinced that the scriptures were given to us by divine revelation, can believe in the truth of any thing which does not accord with them. such a tissue of inconsistencies has seldom been brought together--you say that the scriptures were written under the inspiration of infinite wisdom, and also assert that they only proceed from the wisdom of man: you consider them as the box of pandora from which the apostacy was derived, and every thing calculated to deceive us may be taken; and still continue to recommend them as proper to be read by young beginners in religion: that they, and every thing else that is received by man through his outward senses, is suitable only to the outward creature; and yet you are continually addressing your hearers through these senses, for the purposes of reproof and spiritual instruction. that passages of scripture have often been perverted to purposes far different from the spirit and original intention of them, must be admitted by all; and the sources from which these perversions have been derived it is not difficult to conceive. it was long before any of the outward professors of christianity had the hardihood to question their authority: they knew that the whole christian world considered this book as the standard by which their doctrines were to be tested, and whenever their inclinations, or their vices, impelled them to actions contrary to the pure and obvious meaning of gospel ordinances, they sought to veil their aberrations by the perversion of the book itself. the man of the world found in it so many restraints upon his ambition and fancied enjoyments, that it is not surprising that he should be anxious to avail himself of every pretence to enlarge its boundaries and relax the rigour of his bonds. in this struggle, many of the priesthood were his faithful coadjutors, for they too felt the uneasiness of the straightened path prescribed to them, and that the pure christian doctrines and principles could afford no field for the indulgence of their vanity by pompous declamation, or for the display of a superiority of mind by subtile disquisition: all was simple and practical, such as fishermen could teach and herdsmen understand. then began that system of mysticising and allegorising the scriptures, a practice which accorded so well with the lively and subtle characters of the modern greeks, that every priest became a mystagogue, and the pulpit a chair of theological alchymy, from which men were taught "how to reduce divinity to the maxims of the laboratory, explain morality by sal sulphur and mercury, and allegorize the scripture itself, and the sacred mysteries thereof, into the philosopher's stone."[ ] footnote : locke. hence the scriptures became as one of the sibylline books of paganism, to be opened by the priests alone, for they only could explain the oracles of god; and they acted with more consistency than you have done, by endeavouring to conceal them from the view of the laity; for if they are indeed such as _you_ have described, and _they_ have strove to make them, they ought not only to be concealed from the view of young beginners in religion, but prohibited to all but the initiated. thus was the simplicity of the christian religion deformed, and the understandings of men subdued by an ambitious priesthood. they knew that gravity and meekness were the attributes and best ornaments of a gospel minister, and while pride and the spirit of domination reigned within them uncontrolled, they sought, by a sanctimonious exterior and affected humility, to prolong their sway; and we find the most imperious of the roman pontiffs, when treading on the necks of kings, subscribing himself the servant of the servants of god. i fear you will consider me as presumptuous, yet i must venture to entreat you to examine the course you have been pursuing; to consider whether the habit you have acquired of looking for some hidden novelty in every passage of scripture, does not prevent you from perceiving its obvious meaning; and whether the manifest inconsistencies in which this practice involves you, is not sufficient proof of your being under the guidance of a different spirit from that which you claim as a director. i have no disposition to question the uprightness of your motives, but i am fully persuaded that the applause with which you have been surrounded, has given an unhappy bias to your mind; and that if it was under a right direction, you would be enabled to see, that it is not the letter of the scripture, but the habit, (in which you so largely indulge,) of seeking for meanings other than the letter, which has caused so many false interpretations and divisions among men: that the letter is intended to teach us our moral and spiritual duties, and points out with sufficient clearness the way in which we should walk; and that the nice distinctions and elaborate refinements of the orator, neither have a tendency to enlighten the understandings nor purify the hearts of the audience, though they often gratify the vanity of the one and amuse the imaginations of the other. letter v. in reading your discourses my attention was particularly engaged by the sermon delivered at newtown, in bucks county, and it did seem to me so much at variance with the principles which induce the quakers to assemble for public worship, that were there no other evidence, it would be sufficient to prove that you are not under the guidance of that spirit, by which, in former days, their ministers were governed. that society believe that the great object of such assembling is to endeavour, by shutting out all external things, to discipline the mind to that pure and silent worship and waiting upon god, in which they may experience christ to be their shepherd and teacher; and although this solemn silence may sometimes be profitably interrupted for the purposes of admonition, instruction and encouragement, yet that no minister can, (when under right direction,) expatiate on topics irrelevant to the subject. a little examination must, i think, convince us that your sermon, so far from being delivered under such impressions, carries on the face of it, the proof of a mind struggling for distinction: and that in this effort, much has been introduced foreign to the subject on which you professed to treat, and however innocent in itself, very unsuitable to the place, and peculiarly calculated to withdraw the mind from the object for which the assembly were ostensibly gathered. you commence your sermon by stating your apprehensions that there are individuals who are not sufficiently impressed with the necessity of order and discipline in society, and seem to consider it your duty to convince them of its importance. to a plain understanding this does not appear difficult, for the arguments in favour of it are so palpable, that a very few minutes indeed, would be sufficient to any one not in the habit of multiplying words, to establish it beyond all controversy. you, however, seem never disposed to take the common road: the arguments would be but the repetition of a thrice told tale, and would therefore command no extraordinary attention: they might beget conviction, but would not produce _that effect_ upon the audience, which, if not always the object, is so dear to the orator. but in deviating from the road, you have lost yourself in the wilderness; and such has been your entanglement, that after all the time which you consumed, i am sure there was not an individual present in the meeting, who could tell what you really meant by discipline, how it is to be established, or in what manner it is to be enforced. i form this opinion from having read the sermon: for with all the advantages of frequent recurrence to particular passages, and of re-perusal, i found it very difficult to form any idea of your meaning: how then could your audience, with none of these advantages, in the very few moments in which they could preserve unbroken the slight concatenation of your ideas, encumbered as they are with references unconnected with the subject, receive any information or instruction from them. if i am correct in my conclusion, and sure i am that no one who heard you can contradict me, it must follow, that being incomprehensible to those to whom it was addressed, it could not proceed from the suggestions of true wisdom. after a few observations on the subject of discipline, you give to your audience a kind of lecture on astronomy. had you confined yourself to recalling to their recollection the wonderful harmony in the works of the almighty, it would not have been incongruous; but to enter into a long dissertation on the sun, moon, and stars, and on vacuum and unmeasured space, was neither adapted to the place or company. it was no doubt quite new and entertaining to such of them as had never read the elementary treatises in use in some of our schools; and it is certainly the most sublime of all sciences, and that in which the powers of the human mind have been displayed in the greatest degree; yet i cannot think you were judicious in selecting a quaker meeting as a proper theatre for the display of your talents, nor can i believe that your ingenuity can make any application of the facts you have stated to the subject of your discourse. you tell us that the sun, although it emits so much light, never lessens; that there is harmonious and social commune between the heavenly bodies;[ ] that the earth, if kept too long in the cold, would grow heavier, and falling from its proper place, derange the other bodies; that the moon has a great effect upon our globe, &c. &c. the moon, we know, is thought by many to have a considerable influence on the imaginations of men in certain situations, but i never heard that such influence had any effect in producing good order and discipline, and no one supposes that the rays of the sun can throw any light upon the subject. besides you ought to have recollected that you were subjecting yourself to the charge of ingratitude; for surely the men of science must think you ungrateful in availing yourself so largely of those labours, which you have endeavoured to persuade your friends are a curse to mankind.[ ] footnote : this information, i must acknowledge, is an exception to the generality of my assertion, for i do not believe it is contained in any of the elementary books i have mentioned; nor do i think it can be found in the writings of either newton or herschell, or that either of them, although so long engaged in examining the planetary system, were so fortunate as to observe any of these bodies at the moment when they were engaged in these friendly conversations. perhaps the author has been led into a mistake by some obstruction in his glass, like a celebrated member of the royal society, who announced the discovery of an elephant in the moon, which, on examination, was found to be only a mouse in his telescope. footnote : sermons, page and . i am not so ignorant of the situation of the society of friends, as to be uninformed of the uneasiness which is felt by some of its members under its established rules of order and discipline; and as i know that your preaching was one of the principal causes of it, i did think it of some importance to endeavour to ascertain your opinions on the subject. it was indeed a laborious work to travel through the many pages over which they are dispersed; to remove the various matters with which they were encumbered, and collect the scattered fragments. yet after all my toil, i found my work not half accomplished. these fragments when brought together, were of such various sizes and colours, so diversified in shape, and heterogeneous in their materials, that it surpassed my skill to arrange them in any way consistent with order and propriety; and if the knowledge of them can afford any instruction, it must be from the striking contrast between their wild deformity, and the rational rules of order and discipline which they are intended to supersede. you say that all aversion to order and discipline arises from the want of a right knowledge of ourselves: that when we come to this right knowledge, we shall be so perfect in these things, that there will be no contests or divisions among us: that all order and discipline must be fixed by the divine lawgiver, and that then it cannot be violated; and therefore that all attempts to censure or control a member must proceed from those who counterfeit its meaning, in order to _lord_ it over others: that each member of society is in himself a little world, which, if kept in right order and subjection, all would be harmony and discipline; but, when this is not the case, all attempts to enforce them tend to increase the confusion: that we all have the law within ourselves, therefore order and discipline must never be contrived by mortals: that the quaker discipline is unsound, because it is in the letter; but that there are some true quakers, and that each of these has all discipline and order within himself. now what is all this? is it not a second growth of that _fungus_ which was engendered in the hot bed of fanaticism many years past; and has not the sober sense of the humble christian, or the wit and humour of a butler, been able to eradicate it from the soil of the christian church? are we again to have among us those men above ordinances, who mistake confusion for order, and the destruction of our faith for the consummation of religion? these questions must present themselves to every mind when examining your opinions; for, when stripped of all glosses, and exhibited in their genuine colours, they mean that all written rules of order and discipline are restraints upon the liberty of the saints: that no rules should be established by men, for that every man has the rule written in his own heart, and that there alone he is accountable. that no man is accountable to another for his religious belief, and that every man has a right to worship in the way which he may believe most acceptable to his creator, are undeniable truths; but as the different christian sects have congregated on account of a unity in their religious tenets, and assemble together for the purpose of uniting in divine worship, they have a right, and, (if they are firm in their belief,) it is their duty, to establish such rules and regulations as will best preserve their religion in, what they believe to be, its greatest purity; and in an especial manner to prevent the preaching of doctrines adverse to it. and this is no infringement of the liberty of conscience; for any man who dissents from their doctrines may separate himself from them; he may unite himself with any other sect; or if, in his career, his spiritual knowledge has set him above all ordinances, he may erect his own standard, and, unrestrained by forms and unfettered by creeds, he may give the utmost strain to his imagination, and perhaps become himself the head of a sect. but no casuistry can justify, or pretence excuse a man, who continues to be ostensibly the member of a religious community, for the purpose of undermining its principles or destroying the belief in its tenets. let him believe them erroneous and the substitutes he offers unquestionably true; it alters not the case. the source will be impure, and the waters which flow from it, tainted. if the mind can be brought to conceive the possibility of the existence of a society formed according to your rules and orders of discipline, it must present itself to the imagination in all the sublime confusion of another chaos--you may offer yourself to explain the word of god, and you will be reminded that this is all in the letter: you may tell them that the scriptures may be read to advantage, when all things in them have been previously revealed;[ ] and they may reply, that reading them will then be quite unnecessary--you may exhort them to assemble together for the purpose of divine worship, "for that then we should be instructed what to do, and how to bring our offerings, to be handed over to the priest, so that they may be made acquainted with our state, and may preach the true gospel to us;"[ ] and they may tell you "that such assemblies are not the places to gather spiritual food."[ ] if you are asked why you waste so much time in preaching, you will tell them "the reason is plain; that although the letter directs us to the law, and nothing else can teach us, yet we flee from it; and therefore outward instruments are raised up and clothed with power:"[ ] and they may reply that this is also the letter, and "that the lord is too kind to send them away for instruction; and that he is always present, a schoolmaster to every soul."[ ] if you explain to them your own growth and experience in spiritual knowledge, they will ask you of what use it can be to them, and tell you, "that each individual requires a law peculiar to himself; and that the law of the spirit of life in one, is not the law of the spirit of life in another"[ ]--and if, (adopting this opinion,) you should declare to them that the law of the spirit of life is different in each individual, some of your audience may assert, "that the divine law which is written by the finger of god upon the tablet of our hearts, is the same to every individual"[ ]--and if fatigued with these objections, you should express your surprise at their number, inconsistency and futility, you will be told that they are all furnished by yourself. footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . footnote : page . footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons in new york, page . if, then, the great founder of the sect is yet so indistinct in his vision, what must be the situation of those who are less advanced in the religious experience of your new school? if he is so frequently involved in contradictions, what must be the accumulated mass when collected together? should your project be realised, and such a congregation assembled, those who, like yourself, search the scriptures for types and figures, may, with much less violation of probability than occurs in your discourses, consider the meeting as a consummation of that confusion of tongues typified in the building of the tower of babel. letter vi. the extraordinary and unhesitating confidence with which you state your opinions, even on the most important and solemn subjects, and the air of authority with which you endeavour to enforce them, is in such striking contrast to that humility and reverence with which we are accustomed to hear such subjects treated, that it naturally excites some suspicion that there are views and feelings in the mind of the preacher not in accordance with that meek and quiet spirit which is the necessary qualification of a christian teacher: and when we turn from the tone and manner of the discourse to some of the opinions delivered, i am afraid that suspicion will ripen into certainty, and that there will be too much evidence of a mind not habituated to reflections on its own infirmities, but proud[ ] in its acquirements, and vaunting in its own strength. for we find you glorying in the ability to withstand the enemy of your peace, and gratifying yourself with the honour to be derived from the victory.[ ] in this elevation of mind you say, that it would be a debasement to man, were he placed by the almighty in a situation from which he could not fall;[ ] and that had we been content to remain in a state of innocence, we should have continued to be but as mere machines.[ ] to rely on any other than your own exertions you think degrading, and would not accept the sacrifice which is offered for your sins by the sufferings and death of jesus christ.[ ] footnote : sermons, page . "i challenge the whole host of mankind." footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, pages , . footnote : letter to doctor shoemaker. we are, indeed, placed in a state of probation, surrounded with temptations and perplexed with dangers: we have before us the prospect of a change into a never-ending state, and that state is promised to be one of endless felicity to those who, with a sincere and humble heart, seek the god of israel for their portion. to such, and such alone, is promised _the exceeding great reward_; and, though it is our duty to acquiesce, without repining, in our station and allotment here, temeracious indeed must that man be, who, with such a prize before him, would, for the gratification which the honour of a victory over his own evil propensities might afford, prefer the hazardous contest to that state of innocence with which our first parents were blessed before the fall; and confident indeed must he be in his own merits, if he rejects the offer of an intercessor, and relies on them alone for a fund not only to redeem his errors here, but to purchase the rich inheritance of eternal happiness. such a state of mind alone could conceive the singular idea of opening an account current with the creator,[ ] and call it religion; to ask a record of our sins, and boldly claim our offsets; and to rely on the accumulated balance of our own works: to gain the prize of everlasting life from the justice and not from the mercy of the almighty, and not to pray with david, "have mercy upon me, o god, according to thy loving kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, _blot out my transgressions_." footnote : sermons, page . such an account would indeed be a novelty: there is no difficulty in filling the debtor side of the ledger: the melancholy list of man's frailties and vices furnish ample materials; but, from whence the mighty balance reserved for the great purchase should arise is not easily to be conceived. let us figure to ourselves a man not immured in sloth or sunk in wickedness, but one whose march through life has been in the path of propriety and virtue, arranging his account, i have lived a life of temperance, regularity and virtue. thou hast been blessed with the enjoyment of health. i have been, through life, frugal and industrious. thou hast acquired wealth. i have been humane and charitable to the poor and needy. i gave thee the fat of the land. i have been a good husband and a careful and tender father. thy wife has been virtuous and faithful, and thy children a blessing to thee. and if he could add, i have gone about preaching to, and exhorting large assemblies of people in thy name. may not the answer sometimes be, and hast thou not been richly rewarded by the incense of flattery and applause which thou hast received. here, then, is no balance; virtue is generally rewarded in this life; and, if the christian is to look for redemption, is it not "by standing fast and holding to the traditions which we have been taught," by which we shall know that as all have sinned and fallen short, so we can only be justified by grace "through the redemption that is in christ jesus; whom god hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of god."[ ] footnote : romans, d chap. you may say that your idea of opening an account with the creator was only by way of illustration, but what does it illustrate? is our situation with our creator such, that works are sufficient to insure our salvation? and do you believe that if "in looking over the leaf and seeing where the balance strikes,"[ ] we should find it to be in our favour, we may indulge in sin and iniquity until the balance is brought to an equilibrium? do not you believe in the efficacy of repentance, and that the truly repentant sinner may receive remission of his sins, although it may be in the eleventh hour, and when they are of a crimson colour, or a scarlet dye? footnote : sermons, p. . the idea is indeed cold and heartless; in sentiment most degrading, and in its deductions most pernicious. how different from the inspirations of the man of old, when musing on the sacred mount of zion, or on the banks of shiloah's stream fast, by the oracles of god, he saw the dawn of that auspicious day, when he, our promise would appear to blot out our transgressions and redeem us from our sins--and with what holy rapture did he announce the joyful tidings? "speak ye comfortably to jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned; for she hath received of the lord's hand double for all her sins. behold a virgin shall conceive and bear a son. unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called wonderful, counsellor, the mighty god, the everlasting father, the prince of peace. the sun shall be no more thy light by day: neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy god thy glory." but this is not the messiah of whom you preach: yours is like yourself, a peccable man clothed with infirmities and liable to transgression; and who, so far from having the power to give salvation to others, was himself tempted to sin.[ ] you profess to believe that jesus christ is "the way, the truth, and the life," but in direct opposition to the plain intent and purport of the sentence, you declare it only means that he had power to cure outward diseases and give strength of body to enjoy the good things of this life;[ ] that for this only was he sent, and his power was but as a figure or shadow of the great comforter. but even with this perversion, the facts you state will not support your argument. it is true that jesus christ healed the diseases of individuals; but surely no rational being can suppose that such was the object of his mission, for the number of the healed was so small that it could have had no perceptible effect on the general outward health of mankind, or even of the particular people to whom he appeared. footnote : sermons, p. . e. hicks says, "he, (jesus,) was tempted in all points as we are. now how could he be tempted if he had been fixed in a state of perfection in which he could not turn aside. could you suppose as rational beings that such a being could be _tempted_? no, not any more than god could be tempted. perfection is perfection, and cannot be tempted, it is impossible." here is an evident perversion of the scriptures; for we nowhere find that jesus yielded to temptation; and it is a most irrational conclusion, that because there was a tempter he was subject to temptation; and so far from such attempts evincing that _he was not perfect and could turn aside_; the resistance and reproof of the tempter proves, (and was probably intended to prove,) the very reverse. it is one thing to be tempted, and another to yield to temptation, and e. hicks could not have forgotten that the authority from which he drew his account of the temptations likewise declares that though jesus "was in all points tempted like as we are, _yet without sin_." heb. . . by e. hicks's erroneous construction of the sentence, he could with equal ease prove the fallibility of the almighty, for the scriptures in several places speak of his being tempted by the people. footnote : sermons, p. . you say you believe that the scriptures were written by divine inspiration, and that jesus did nothing "but as he received power and command from his heavenly father;"[ ] and these scriptures tell us that when the pharisees began to reason and said "who can forgive sins but god alone?" jesus answered, is it "easier to say thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, rise up and walk? but that ye may know that the _son of man hath power upon earth to forgive sins_, he said unto the sick of the palsy, i say unto thee arise, and take up thy couch and go unto thine house: and immediately he rose up before them, and took up that whereon he lay, and departed to his own house glorifying god."[ ] footnote : new york sermons, p. . footnote : luke, chap. th. here we have a plain historical narration, from which it is evident that the sick was healed to convince an unbelieving people, by an act of supernatural power perceptible to their senses, that jesus was clothed with authority to forgive sins. you however say it was a figure or shadow, and as these terms are often in your mouth, it may be proper to enquire whether you understand their true meaning, and whether by any possible construction of language they can be considered as illustrative of your view of the subject. they are here used as synonymous, and mean _the expression of an idea by resemblances_: if i speak of persons in the morning of life, i am understood to mean youth; and if i say, the king of day is rising in the east, every body understands it to mean the sun; and there are other figurative resemblances more obscure, but no one can, without violating every principle of reason, attempt to adduce as authority for, and illustrative of his opinions, expressions which so far from resembling are in direct opposition to them, merely because he chooses to call them figurative. if indeed there are any individuals who believe they can perceive any resemblance between your inferences and the facts; and that when jesus said he healed the sick, in order that the pharisees might know that he had power on earth to forgive sins, he meant it only as a figure, and that he claimed authority only as to the cure of outward diseases; their conclusion must be arrived at by a process which the uninitiated do not understand: and if your argument is according to the _analogy of reason_, it cannot be of that reason which arrives at the truth by observation and deduction, but the reason of your new school of metaphysics, which discerns _without reflection_ all things at first sight.[ ] footnote : sermons, p. . were you reading a letter informing you that a friend had departed on a journey, riding on a black horse, and was told by one of your auditors that the expression was figurative and that he meant a white cow, you would probably laugh; and yet the incongruity is not greater than some of your own discoveries. for instance, paul said "let your women keep silence in your churches;" and you observe that all who _are truly enlightened_ will understand that the woman means the selfish spirit which ought not to be permitted to speak in churches; but you have forgot to tell us how to apply the succeeding observation that "if they will learn any thing they must consult their husbands at home." nor is it probable that paul, (although a bachelor,) was so uncharitable as to believe the selfish spirit so identified with woman, as to render her a proper emblem of it. in this instance paul was recommending a rule of conduct, and ought to be allowed to speak for himself: so thought robert barclay, and in accounting for the exhortation he has given the probable reason of it. he considered it neither as an allegory or a figure; but he had not arrived at that degree of spiritual knowledge which enabled him to discover in every page of the bible a meaning in direct contradiction to the plain and obvious sense of the written language. religion was with him not an occult science, nor the bible a caballistick book which can never be read to advantage until the truths contained in it have been previously revealed to us.[ ] on the contrary, he believed with the apostle paul "that these things were written for our learning," that "the holy scriptures are able to make wise unto salvation, through faith which is in christ jesus," and that "all scripture is given by inspiration of god, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of god may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto every good work."[ ] footnote : sermons, p. . footnote : nd timothy, chap. d. letter vii. when the early quakers, dissatisfied with the formal worship of the existing protestant church, separated themselves and formed a society of their own, they were reproached by some with denying the authenticity of the sacred writings, and by others with setting up their own inspirations in opposition to them; and they seem at an early period to have discovered the necessity of recording their belief on this subject, not only to refute the calumnies circulated by their opponents, but as a guide to the inexperienced of their own sect. for, such was the ferment of men's minds at that moment, and the violence of the change from the dull uniformity of formal belief, to all the extravagancies of unrestrained enthusiasm, that it appeared like an epidemic affecting all descriptions of people; and their imaginations became so exalted, that every fancy was mistaken for a revelation, and every preacher, however wild his doctrines, had his followers. nor did their own members wholly escape the infection; for with all their care, there were those among them who indulged in extravagancies, to the great grief of their more sober friends. it fell to the lot of robert barclay to record the doctrines of the early quakers, and none of them was better fitted for the task; for he was learned and pious, clear in his perceptions and logical in his arrangement, and well able to give his reasons for his faith. he knew that superstition and fanaticism were the scylla and charybdis of religion, and how much care was necessary to prevent us, while avoiding the one, from being swept into the whirlpool of the other. he was surrounded by instances of the unhappy effects of that exaltation of mind, which induced individuals to believe they had arrived at such an unerring state of spiritual knowledge, that the recorded opinions and advice of their pious predecessors, and even the scriptures, (being only in the letter,) were to them neither authority nor a guide; and that they had derived the fulness of knowledge from the fountain itself. that to them reason itself had ceased to be of use, since they were under the constant influence of a clear and distinct revelation, as stable and certain as any of the instincts of our nature: and such was the fever of the brain, that when their prophecies were contradicted by the event, it did not impair their confidence in their own inspirations, _because it was the lord who chose to deceive them, and they were deceived_. he had not adopted the fantastical idea that every passage of scripture has a mystical meaning; but declares them to be the revelations of the spirit of god to the saints, and that they contain a faithful historical account of the actings of god's people in various ages; a prophetical account of several things, whereof some have passed, and some to come; and a full and ample account of all the chief principles of the doctrine of christ. that they are profitable for correction and instruction in righteousness, and that _divine inward revelations can never contradict the outward testimony of the scriptures, or sound reason_. here all is plain and consistent. no man of sound mind can believe that the revelations of infinite wisdom are ever contradictory; and as the evidence of the divine origin of the scriptures is such as no individual can produce, he was warranted in his conclusion, that all pretensions to the spirit in contradiction to them, are delusions of the devil. and indeed no man of observation can cast his eyes round him, and contemplate the various illusions into which the human mind is seduced on religious subjects, without perceiving the absolute necessity of a standard or rule by which its wanderings may be checked and its aberrations corrected, and we find locke concurring with barclay, in stating the scripture revelations and right reason, as the true standards by which our faith is to be tried. you also seem to perceive the necessity of some check, but in the very spirit which induces that necessity, your own standard is as visionary, and as fruitful a source of evil, as the propensity it is intended to correct; for yours is not that reason which proceeds from premises to consequences, but an actual illusion, which has persuaded you that there is a reason which can see all things immediately and by intuition;[ ] and your bible, a book written in cypher,[ ] the key of which is one of the most vigorous plants of the wilderness of fanaticism. hence it follows, that your standard, so far from being a true test or corrector of your opinions, must always, when used, confirm you in error; for it is a magnifying mirror, reflecting the exaggerated image of the delusion it is intended to control. footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . there is not a more prolific source of error, than assuming principles without a careful examination of their correctness, and drawing conclusions from them; and even when the principle is correct, and the inference fairly deducible, men in the ardour of their zeal, often push it to an extreme far beyond its just limits. it is not difficult to conceive, that a man whose mind is convinced by internal evidence of the truth of the christian religion, and who, under an awful impression of its incalculable importance, opens the sacred volume, finds more instruction and comfort in it, than he who only reads it as history, or from an indistinct sense of duty; because he has a greater degree of inward acquaintance with the same spirit and work in the heart. but this simple exposition is too plain to satisfy the lofty imaginations of the high professors of the present day: because the lukewarm and indifferent do not receive the same instruction and profit from the scriptures as the more serious and pious, the perusal can afford them no benefit; and even to the sincere inquirer it is a sealed book, until its contents are previously communicated by an especial revelation.[ ] footnote : sermons, page . this is the doctrine you have preached, and yet your own practice proves that you have no reliance on it; and that it was only one of those inconsiderate excursions, in which the orator, when not under the strict control of duty or reason, too often indulges; for when, in your cooler moments, you wished to instruct your mind on the subject of our saviour's birth, you sought it, not only by reading the scriptures, but also by consulting the traditions of the christian church, as recorded by one of its historians.[ ] footnote : letter to thomas willis. these are the inconsistencies to which extravagance always leads; for when the mind, tired of its aerial flight, revisits the earth, and is again employed in its proper duties, it finds that practical objects can only be attained by practicable means. exaggeration in public speaking is always blameable, and in the preacher particularly objectionable: it is generally resorted to for the purpose of increasing the impression, but seldom produces that effect; and it is upon religious subjects, above all others, that amplification should be avoided, and that pure and simple style adopted which admits of no adventitious ornaments. you, however, pursue a different course, and by the extravagance of your epithets, not only defeat your own views, but sometimes occasion the subject itself to be considered, if not with ridicule, at least with but little seriousness. thus in speaking of the propriety of plainness in apparel, instead of giving the simple and obvious reason why the society of friends adopted it, you consider it as a vital principle of religion; and you mistake, (to use your own favourite expression,) the effect for the cause, when you exclaim that there is religion in clothing, and exaggerate beyond all bounds, when you declare, that all the sin in the world is created by men's following foolish fashions: and when you seriously assure us that high-crowned hats were never devised in the wisdom of god, the obvious inference that low-crowned hats were, is so ludicrous, that we should be tempted to laugh, were not all merriment on a subject in which that sacred name is introduced, (however improperly,) incongruous, if not profane.[ ] footnote : sermons, page . again, in speaking of the necessity of a living faith in god, you exclaim that, faith in creeds and the traditions of your fathers, is worse than nothing; that we had better have no faith at all, for it is no better than the faith of devils; and in confirmation of this rash assertion, you quote a passage of scripture which has not the most remote application to the subject.[ ] footnote : sermons, page . to this, no rational christian can ever assent: he believes in the necessity of spiritual worship, and that all ought to feel the power of religion in their own souls: but that the faith which is derived from the lessons of a pious parent, although it may not be accompanied with that degree of spiritual knowledge which it ought to be our endeavour to attain, is no better than the faith of devils, no man in his sober senses can believe. you would no doubt think me very daring were i to say that your own faith is as bad as the faith of devils; and yet, admitting the truth of your own assertion, i can prove it by testimony, which, to you at least, ought to be conclusive. for in your letter to thomas willis, before alluded to, you declare your belief in the scripture account of our saviour's birth from your _reliance_ on _tradition_, although it is contrary to your judgment. if then that faith which a child admits and believes to be true from a firm reliance on the wisdom and experience of a pious father, is as bad as the faith of devils; how are we to describe the faith of that man who gives to tradition such supreme control, as to make a reliance on it a point of duty, although a belief in it, is contrary to his deliberate judgment. this is one of the instances of the wanderings of your imagination, and the strange inconsistencies into which your metaphysical divinity leads you: and i cite it as a proof of the pernicious consequences of substituting mystical reveries in the place of the simple religion taught by jesus christ; and not to censure your reliance on the faith of your predecessors: for i truly believe that did you, like many of them, endeavour to preserve your mind in that meek and lowly state recommended by his example and precepts, all propensity to curious speculation on hidden things would be suppressed, and when called to testify to your faith, you would be ready "always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you, with _meekness and fear_." in alluding to the reasons which prevent many friends from taking a part in the governments of the earth, instead of ascribing them to that peaceable principle which does not permit them to be agents in any measures connected with war, you denounce the governments of this world as standing _eternally_ in opposition to the government of the god of heaven; and this because all laws made in the wisdom of man are foolishness with god: yet you acknowledge them to be necessary, although you say it is no reason why the law of the almighty should not prevail, which would take away the necessity of all other laws.[ ] footnote : sermons, p. . this reasoning is as confused, as the conclusion to which it leads is extraordinary. how laws in opposition to the will of the almighty can be necessary, when there is no reason why his law should not prevail, you have not explained; and if human governments are in eternal opposition to the government of god, and yet are necessary, then is there not only a necessity for man's being in eternal opposition to god's will; but the necessity is a justification of it, and your argument, if sound, affords a complete vindication of the persons engaged in the administration of those governments. we need not be told that if all men were under the strict influence of virtue and religion, most of the existing laws would be unnecessary, because they are enacted in consequence of the vices and frailties of man; but that such a state of things will ever exist on earth, in which all regulations and covenants of society may with safety and convenience be abolished, is an idea too extravagant to require refutation. nor can it be believed that all laws made by the wisdom of man, are foolishness with god, in the sense in which you understand it. the creator in his wisdom seems to have ordained that the improvement of man in this state of being should be progressive. the first step is associating in societies, and they necessarily require rules for their government; and as they multiply, new circumstances are continually arising, which require additional regulations. and herein that reason with which man alone, of all created beings, has been favoured, is properly applied: for this it was given to him, and its application to the purposes for which it was originally intended, can never be foolishness in the sight of the almighty. the scriptures indeed tell us that the wisdom of this world is foolishness with god; but it is used in reference to our religious duties; to teach us the vanity of building up systems for ourselves, and pretending to explain the hidden things of omnipotence; and to warn us that "as it is the gospel that has brought life and immortality to light," so "other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is jesus christ."[ ] footnote : corinthians, chap. d. letter viii. when we consider the ingenuity of the mind of man, in drawing inferences from propositions to suit his present passions and prejudices, and how often they are perverted to the most injurious purposes, every person of reflection must admit that it is of the most serious importance that the ministers of religion should be extremely guarded in the terms they use, and not suffer a sentence to escape from their lips without a careful examination of its bearing and tendency. nor is it any justification of such persons, although they may with truth assert that the pernicious deductions drawn from their declarations were not intended by them, if such deductions can fairly be made. these reflections were impressed upon my mind in reading your sermons, in which are to be found many assertions which appear to me to have a very injurious tendency; and with whatever views they were uttered, (for i inquire not into your motives,) seem to strike at the very foundation of revealed religion. in your vain attempts to describe the nature of the almighty, we should be induced to believe, from some of your expressions, that you had adopted the opinion of some sects of unbelieving philosophers, that god is not the governor, but the soul of the universe; not a being, but a principle or element, which, although it acts efficaciously, implies the absence of all personal agency. for you say, "every child of god _has the full and complete nature, spirit, and, may i not say, the divinity of god almighty_; because there is nothing but divinity in god, and therefore, if they are partakers of his divine nature,[ ] so far they are partakers of his divinity, according to the portion which he is pleased to dispense: and he _must_ dispense that portion which will make them like himself. _for his children are as much like their almighty father, as the children of men are like their fathers._"[ ] footnote : this is not the doctrine or belief of the society. they believe in a divine principle of light and life, wherewith christ hath enlightened every man that cometh into the world; but _by this they understand, not the proper essence and nature of god precisely taken, who is not divisible into parts and measures, but is a pure and simple being, void of all composition and division_. see barclay. footnote : new york sermons, page . in speaking of the operation of the great first cause, you compare it to the sun: "what, (you say,) would become of us, were it not for the enlivening beams of the sun? although it emits so much, yet it never lessens.[ ] our immortal spirits receive all their light from that celestial and invisible sun which is the creator of all things. _he emits of his excellency to us, yet he does not lessen, but remains eternally the same, for all that comes from him will return to him._"[ ] footnote : philadelphia sermons, page . footnote : philadelphia sermons, page . consistent with this idea, you totally reject the scripture declarations respecting heaven and the kingdom of god, and consider them only as a condition of the mind, and that we can enjoy them in this state of being. in alluding to the account of the apostle's being taken up into the third heaven, you say, "what is this third heaven but a three-fold manifestation of the divine presence;"[ ] and you ask, "is heaven of so little value to us that we put it off till the day of our death?"[ ] "we are led to believe that there is an opportunity to lay up treasure in heaven; that is, to be in possession of heavenly treasure; or, _to use a more proper expression, to be in possession of heaven_; because heaven is a state; it is every where where god is;"[ ] "god comes alike into the hearts of all the children of men, as much in the fornicator, the thief, and the liar, as in me. but there it is dead, because the creature is in opposition to god."[ ] "now this leading by the spirit of god is the same as the kingdom of god, and being subject to the leaven. they are still one and the same thing; they are not two things; and as we yield to the leaven it leavens us, and brings us into the divine nature, so that _we come to partake of the nature of god_."[ ] footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page - .--in one of his sermons, (page ,) the preacher declares that god never set jesus christ above us, "_because if he did he would be partial_." in this, he sets himself above christ by undertaking to correct his erroneous notion of heaven. christ, in his sermon on the mount, says, "lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven." this _humble teacher_ says the proper expression would be "to be in possession of heaven, because heaven is _a state_, and every where, where god is." footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . it is an observation of doctor paley, that contrivance is a proof of the personality of the deity; and we have been accustomed to contemplate with admiration and awe the stupendous works of creation as emanating from his wisdom and will. but you, in strict accordance with the notion to which i have alluded, seem not to admit the argument, or the fact on which it is founded; for, in speaking of the earth's revolving in its orbit, you say, "so it has been through all ages past, and so it will continue through the _eternal_ ages to come."[ ] "as the moon receives all its light from the sun, for itself in the first place, so by that means it is enabled to emit a part of the power received to the next orb; and here the heavenly order is kept up--so it has been through all the previous _eternal ages_, and so it will continue to all future ages."[ ] footnote : sermons, page . footnote : sermons, page . is this christianity, or is it not a renewal of the old doctrines of pagan philosophy? they held that matter is eternal, although they did not think with you that our system had existed through all eternity. plato believed the world to be the work of god out of existing matter; but it was the general belief of the learned at a period preceding the coming of jesus christ, (as it appears to be your's,) that the soul of man is an emission of the divine nature, and that all are partakers of it--and from hence they drew the natural, and indeed unavoidable inference, that as god is immortal and the soul of man a part of him, it must necessarily have existed from all eternity. this idea, so incompatible with god's moral government, completely excludes the doctrine of rewards and punishments; for if "all that comes from him must return to him, and is part of his nature," how can the soul, when absorbed in the divine essence, be rewarded for its virtues or punished for its vices practised on earth? so far from being alarmed at this conclusion, you appear to have adopted both the idea and the inference; for you say, "to be in the image of god we must partake of his own nature, and have a portion of his own blessed spirit _to animate the soul and make it immortal, as god is immortal_."[ ] footnote : sermons, page . hence it must follow, that if the only immortal part in man is the portion of the blessed spirit of which he is the partaker, and that this is a part of the nature of god, it must be bestowed equally on the good and the wicked, or that no part of the latter can be immortal; and this extraordinary consequence must result, that _worship in spirit_ is not the homage of man to his creator, but the divinity adoring himself.[ ] footnote : as much you pull religion's altars down, by owning all things god, as owning none; for should all beings be alike divine, of worship, if an object you assign, god to himself must veneration show, must be the object and the votary too; and their assertions are alike absurd, who own no god, or none to be adored. blackmore. socrates alone, of all the ancient philosophers, had adopted the belief of a future state of rewards and punishments; and the reason why he arrived at this truth, affords an instructive lesson to the metaphysical preachers of the present day--he confined himself to the study of morality. "what, (says an eminent writer,) could be the cause of his belief, but this restraint, of which his belief was the natural consequence? for, having confined himself to morals, he had nothing to mislead him; whereas, the rest of the philosophers, applying themselves with a kind of fanaticism to physics and metaphysics, had drawn a number of absurd but subtile conclusions, which directly opposed the consequences of those moral arguments."[ ] footnote : warburton. and the great newton, in reference to this subject, finishes his principles of natural philosophy with these reflections:--"this most elegant frame of things could not have arisen, unless by the contrivance and direction of a wise and powerful being: and if the fixed stars are the centres of systems, these systems must be similar; and all these, constructed according to the same plan, are subject to the government of _one_ being. all these he governs, _not as the soul of the world_, but as the lord of all; and therefore, on account of his government, he is called the lord god; for god is a relative term, and refers to subjects. deity is god's government, not of his own body, as those think who consider him as the soul of the world, but of his servants. the supreme god is a _being_, eternal, infinite, and absolutely perfect. but a being, however perfect, without government is not god; for we say my god, your god, the god of israel. we cannot say my eternal, my infinite. we may have some notions, indeed, of his attributes, but can have none of his nature. with respect to bodies, we see only shapes and colour, hear only sounds, touch only surfaces. these are attributes of bodies, but of their essence we know nothing. as a blind man can form no notion of colours, we can form none of the manner in which god perceives, and understands, and influences every thing. "therefore, we know god only by his attributes. what are these? the wise and excellent contrivance, structure, and final aim of all things. in these his perfections we admire him, and we wonder. in his direction or government, we venerate and worship him--we worship him as his servants; for god without dominion, without providence, and final aims, is _fate_--not the object either of reverence, of hope, of love, or of fear." you may say that you never intended to inculcate such doctrines as i have alluded to, and you can produce various instances in which you have described the almighty as the supreme governor of the universe; and if these facts are a justification of the course you have pursued, you may continue your career completely sheltered from censure or reproach; for i cannot observe a single novelty in your opinions, or deviation from the established doctrines of the christian church, which have not been contradicted by yourself. but such an excuse cannot be availing; you declare that you dare not speak at random, otherwise you would show that you departed from _god's illuminating spirit_; and although those who have had an opportunity to read and compare your different sermons, can contemplate that solemn declaration with no other than feelings of astonishment and regret at the strange delusion, with others it may have a different effect. you are a travelling preacher, scattering one doctrine here, and another there; and interlarding your discourses with bold assertions, which are remembered, when the prolix and visionary distinctions by which you attempt to qualify them are forgotten. i remember hearing an individual who had attended at a meeting in the vicinity of philadelphia, at which you preached, when asked what was the subject of your discourse, reply, that you preached very comfortable doctrine for some of the company, for you had assured them there was no devil. i am not so uncharitable as to believe that you are intentionally instrumental in removing the salutary restraints upon the vices of man; and yet i am surprised that you do not perceive the inevitable and pernicious consequences of such declarations; and that, if you do not believe in the authority of the scriptures yourself, you do not avoid assertions which, while they can have no tendency to strengthen and encourage the pious mind, must necessarily diminish those feelings of future responsibility which, awful as they are, unhappily are not sufficient to restrain the wickedness of man.[ ] footnote : if the reader wishes to know what elias hicks says on this subject, let him peruse the sermons, pages , , , , , and , and he will there have a fair specimen of the darkness which surrounds him--a cloud of words unilluminated by a ray of light. many to whom you preach are illiterate, and without capacity to investigate your doctrines and their tendency. they have been accustomed to listen to the simple truths of our religion, enforced in language which they can understand; and they often found in their attendance at places of worship, consolation, instruction, and encouragement. they have been taught to believe in the revelations unfolded in the sacred volume, and to look forward with the cheering hope, of a mediator and redeemer, "who ever liveth to make intercession for them."[ ] footnote : hebrews, chap. vii. these are the lessons of practical piety, which bring the mind into a situation to worship acceptably, and under the influence of which, men but little instructed in human learning, are often enabled to counsel the wise of this world in the things that lead to their peace. but if these things are all to be changed: if in place of this simple, practical religion, our places of worship are to be converted into theatres for metaphysical disquisitions, and the discussion of questions more curious than useful; and we are to be instructed in the unprofitable controversies which have so long perplexed and disturbed the christian world: if faith is no longer a christian principle, and the revelations of the scriptures rejected when not to be arrived at by the analogy of reason, then indeed must the quaker ministry be constituted anew, and even your own labours cease. the old and unchanged servants can take no part or portion in the new order of things; and it cannot be expected that the disciples of the new school will take for a master to lead them to the truth by analogous reasoning, one, who has yet to be taught what reason really is. letter ix. your assertion that "you cannot believe what you do not understand," is often quoted by your followers, as a proof of your having emancipated yourself from the thraldom of tradition, and risen superior to those prejudices, which early education, and the authority of antiquity have fastened on the minds of men; and yet when we examine and compare this assertion with the doctrines you inculcate, it appears evident that you have not a correct idea of the meaning of your favourite maxim. this understanding can only be arrived at by the natural faculties of perception, judgment, and reasoning, and as the truth of the especial revelations of which you speak, are propositions which cannot be demonstrated by the use of these faculties; they must, if assented to, be purely matters of faith, arising from our belief in the general truth of the christian dispensation. there is a clear distinction between things which are according to, above, and contrary to, reason. the first are propositions, the truth of which may be discovered by the use of the ideas we have acquired from sensation and reflection. the second are propositions whose truth cannot be investigated by these means: and the third, such as are inconsistent and irreconcileable to our clear and distinct ideas. thus, were you to tell us, that without other impulse than your own _will_, you can give mobility to matter, and at your pleasure reduce it to a quiescent state, we cannot withhold our assent, because we see you exercising that dominion in the government of your limbs; and yet so far from understanding the operation of this wonderful power, the mind cannot form the least idea how the effect is produced. but when we hear you declare to one set of people "that the law of the spirit of life in one, is not the law of the spirit of life in his brother; and that each individual requires a peculiar law to himself;"[ ] and to another, "that this divine law which is written by the finger of god upon the tablet of our hearts, is the same to every individual;"[ ] we know that these contradictory assertions cannot both be true; and must withhold our belief when you declare "that you dare not speak at random, otherwise you should show that you departed from god's illuminating spirit;" because our reason will never permit us to believe that such inconsistencies can proceed from the illuminations of infinite wisdom. footnote : philadelphia sermons, page . footnote : new york sermons, page . "reason," (says locke,) "is natural revelation, whereby the eternal father of light, and fountain of all knowledge, communicates to mankind that portion of truth which he has laid within the reach of their natural faculties. _revelation_ is natural reason, enlarged by a new set of discoveries, communicated by god immediately, which reason vouches the truth of, by the testimony and proof it gives that they come from god." and he rebukes the presumption of those who reduce the measure of their belief to the narrow limits of their own understanding, and declares "it is an over-valuing of ourselves, to reduce all to the narrow measure of our capacities; and to conclude all things impossible to be done, whose manner of doing exceeds our comprehension. this is to make our comprehension _infinite_, or god _finite_, when what he can do, is limited to what we can conceive of it. if you do not understand the operations of your own finite mind, that thinking thing, within you, do not deem it strange, that you cannot comprehend the operations of that eternal, infinite mind, who made and governs all things, and whom the heaven of heavens cannot contain." if a socinian tells me that he cannot assent to any doctrine which is not on a level with the comprehension of the human understanding, he is at least intelligible; for he necessarily rejects the doctrine of inspiration; but when you make the same assertion, and yet declare that god is incomprehensible to us as rational creatures, and that all the aids which science and philosophy can give, can never bring man to believe rightly in god,[ ] and that it is by his inward manifestations only that we can discover the path of our duty; the assertions are evidently incompatible; and if any deduction can be drawn from them, it is, that the indications by which alone we are taught aright, we are not bound to believe. footnote : philadelphia sermons, pages , , and . reduce your argument to a syllogism, and reflect on the result. _prop._ i. we cannot believe any thing which the human understanding cannot comprehend. _prop._ ii. science and philosophy, and all the knowledge which man can derive from his natural faculties, can never bring him to comprehend or believe rightly in god. _conclusion._ as it is impossible for man to believe any thing which the human understanding cannot comprehend, and he not being able by the aid of these faculties to comprehend or believe rightly in god, it is impossible for him to comprehend or believe rightly in god. suppose, (and i think it actually the case,) that you do not perceive the extent to which your assertion leads, and that you intended to convey the idea that we are not to believe any thing above the limits of our natural capacities on the testimony of another, and only when the same is especially revealed to us; then i would ask why you waste so much time in descanting on them? according to your own rule, none but those who are favoured with the same especial revelations can believe you, and to them your preaching is useless. these are the inconsistencies of those _who bow the knee to the image of the baal of the present day_; who, neglecting the exhortation "not to think more highly of themselves than they ought to think; but to think soberly, according as god hath dealt to every man the measure of faith,"[ ] have become wise in their own conceits. footnote : romans, chap. xiv. if indeed the doctrine is true, that nothing is to be believed as of divine origin, which cannot be accounted for by that faculty of comprehending and judging which we derive from nature, the number of religions must be nearly in proportion to the number of individuals. what will be clear and evident to the more discerning, will be unintelligible to the superficial and ignorant, and our unbelief will be increased in the same ratio in which our intellectual faculties are diminished. look from the hillock on which you stand, at the ascending and descending grades of human intellect, and contemplate the immeasurable distance between the minds of a newton and a hicks; of a hicks and an esquimaux: you will find the last unable to comprehend truths of which you possess indubitable evidence, and yourself unable to understand many of the laws by which the universe is governed, although you may have before you, the demonstrations by which the great philosopher has proved their truth. indeed after all this boast of regulating the conduct by those facts and circumstances only which we understand, every observer must perceive, that under the practical exercise of this principle, even the common affairs of life would stand still; that we all act on the moral certainty of the existence and operation of things, the cause or production of which is beyond our comprehension; and that it is from the evidence of their actual existence, and not the discovery of the means of it, that our belief in them is established. and such is the weakness of that understanding on which you so much rely, that even on subjects where it can with propriety be exercised, we every day see men believing and disbelieving propositions under the influence of their interests and inclinations, and sincerely changing their opinions, with their situations and circumstances. "reason," (says the author[ ] of a review of the internal evidence of the christian religion,) "is undoubtedly our surest guide in all matters which lie within the narrow circle of her intelligence. on the subject of revelation her province is only to examine its authority and when that is once proved, she has no more to do, but to acquiesce in its doctrines; and is therefore never so ill employed as when she pretends to accommodate them to her own ideas of rectitude and truth. god, says this _self sufficient teacher_, is perfectly wise, just, and good; and what is the inference? that all his dispensations must be conformable to our notions of perfect wisdom, justice, and goodness: but it should first be proved, that man is as perfect and as wise as his creator, or this consequence will by no means follow; but rather the reverse, that is, that the dispensations of a perfect and all wise being, must probably, appear unreasonable, and perhaps unjust, to a being imperfect and ignorant." and in reply to the objections to the divine origin of the christian religion, from the apparent incredibility of some of its doctrines, particularly those concerning the trinity, and atonement for sin by the sufferings and death of christ, one of which is asserted to be contrary to all the principles of human reason, and the other to all our ideas of divine justice, he says, "no arguments founded on principles which we cannot comprehend, can possibly disprove a proposition already proved on principles which we do understand: and therefore on this subject they ought not to be attended to: that three beings should be one being, is a proposition which certainly contradicts reason, that is _our_ reason; but it does not from thence follow that it cannot be true; for there are many propositions which contradict our reason, and yet are demonstrably true: one is, the very first principle of all religion, the being of a god; for that any thing should exist without a cause, or that any thing should be the cause of its own existence, are propositions equally contradictory to our reason; yet one of them must be true, or nothing could ever have existed. in like manner the overruling grace of the creator, and the free will of his creatures; his foreknowledge of future events, and the uncertain contingency of these events, are to our apprehensions absolute contradictions to each other; and yet the truth of every one of them is demonstrable from scripture, reason, and experience. all these difficulties arise from our imagining that the mode of existence of all beings must be similar to our own, that is, that they must all exist in time and space; and hence proceeds our embarrassment on this subject. we know that no two beings, with whose mode of existence we are acquainted, can exist at the same point of time, in the same point of space, and that therefore they cannot be one: but how far beings whose mode of existence bears no relation to time or space, may be united, we cannot comprehend; and therefore the possibility of such an union we cannot positively deny." and to those who assert that even if these doctrines are true, it is inconsistent with the justice and goodness of the creator to require from them the belief of propositions which contradict, or are above the understanding which he has bestowed on them, he says, "to this i answer, that christianity requires no such belief: it has discovered to us many important truths, with which we were before entirely unacquainted, and amongst them are these, that three beings are sometimes united in the divine essence, and that god will accept of the sufferings of christ as an atonement for the sins of mankind. these, considered as declarations of facts only, neither contradict, nor are above the reach of human reason: the first is a proposition as plain, as that three equilateral lines compose one triangle; the other as intelligible as that one man should discharge the debts of another. in what manner this union is formed, or why god accepts these vicarious punishments, or to what purposes they may be subservient, it informs us not, because no information would enable us to comprehend these mysteries, and therefore it does not require that we should know or believe any thing about them. the truth of these doctrines must rest entirely on the authority of those who taught them; but then we should reflect that those were the same persons who taught us a system of religion more sublime, and of ethics more perfect, than any which our faculties were ever able to discover, but which, when discovered, are exactly consonant to our reason, and that therefore we should not hastily reject those informations which they have vouchsafed to give us, of which our reason is not a competent judge. if an able mathematician proves to us the truth of several propositions by demonstrations which we understand, we hesitate not on his authority to assent to others, the process of whose proofs we are not able to follow: why therefore should we refuse that credit to christ and his apostles which we think reasonable to give to one another." footnote : soame jenyns. we know that the first preachers of the gospel were generally illiterate men, and that the first converts were among the unlearned and ignorant; and it was sufficiently intelligible to them because the practical parts were then taught; which, if not the only, are certainly the most essential portion of it. its intrinsic excellence is perhaps the best evidence of its divine origin; yet it cannot be denied that proofs of its authority may sometimes be drawn from the speculative inquiries of learned and pious men. but a very little reflection must convince us how little the reasoning of uninformed men can be depended on; and that when they are so unwise as to habituate their minds to such speculations, their ignorance must continually involve them in error and contradictions: and it surely would be prudent in these to pause, before they reject a revelation which does not accord with their crude notions of reason and the fitness of things, when they recollect that the diligent and learned researches of the master minds of such men as grotius, bacon, newton, locke, and paley, have ended in convincing them of its truth. there are in the scriptures, allusions to mysteries which it seems not given to us to comprehend in this state of being; and, consequently, all inquiries into them are vain: is it not, therefore, reasonable to believe, that such is not our proper business, and that our concern is with those truths only, which have a practical operation on the minds and conduct of men, and which are clearly revealed: and if we examine the consequences to many of those who are engaged in these theoretic inquiries, must we not conclude that they tend little to righteousness, and less to their own peace. letter x. religion being a subject of the greatest importance to man, and a matter solely between the creator and the individual who worships him, its rewards and its punishments appertaining to that kingdom which is not of this world, and "the conscience of man being the seat and throne of god in him, of which he alone is the proper and infallible judge, who by his power and spirit can rectify its mistakes;"[ ] and it being man's duty to worship according to the dictates of that conscience, it must follow, not only from the precepts of the christian religion, but also from the clearest dictates of reason, that every attempt on the part of others to control or direct his belief, is a usurpation; and the injustice is not greater than the folly of such attempts; for who is there that can believe that the coerced acquiescence in any form of worship, can be grateful in the sight of the almighty; or that he who, by the exertion of power, thus makes hypocrites, can render a service acceptable to him. footnote : barclay. yet, notwithstanding this self-evident truth, we find the spirit of persecution had taken such fast hold of the minds of men, and had become so identified with the priestly character, that although they were always ready to complain, and recommend moderation, when suffering from its exercise by others, they generally resorted to it when their own sect became dominant, and ages elapsed before the principles of toleration gained the ascendency in any portion of the globe. and it is, indeed, painful to observe with what reluctance this wicked prerogative of power has been abandoned, and that in this country, in the full exercise of the rights of conscience, and in the midst of the blessings which accrue from it, individuals are found in different christian societies who evince by their conduct, the old spirit; and who, happily restrained by the law from the use of the sword and faggot, freely indulge in contumely and reproach, the only weapons left them. the society of friends early distinguished themselves as champions for the rights of conscience, and the consequences which resulted from the practical exercise of this principle in settling the province of pennsylvania, have, both mediately and immediately, been of incalculable advantage in softening the hearts, and enlarging the minds of men, and have caused the name of penn to be enrolled in the first class of the benefactors of mankind. the soil of pennsylvania was dedicated by the great proprietor to religious freedom; it was the asylum offered to all sufferers for conscience sake; and our legislators, acting on the same principles, have done their part by protecting it from the actual violence of bigotry. this is all that they could do, and the duty remains to each religious community to suppress that spirit, which, when indulged, eradicates from the human heart all the charities of life. this is the duty of all, and, in a more especial manner, of those who, professing to be of the same faith, also profess to walk in the path of that man: and that they are now called to the exercise of this duty must be evident from the course which you and some others have pursued. "who art thou that judgest another man's servant? to his own master he standeth or falleth; yea, he shall be holden up; for god is able to make him stand. but why dost thou judge thy brother? or why dost thou set at nought thy brother? for we shall all stand before the judgment seat of christ. let us not judge one another any more."[ ] footnote : romans, chap. xiv. this was the exhortation of paul to the romans, when instructing them in the use of christian liberty; for he had been taught by his master, _that there were other sheep, though not of this fold_.[ ] you, however, seem to be in the state of peter before his vision, who thought it unlawful to eat with the uncircumcised, and knew not, _that on the gentiles also, was poured out the gift of the holy ghost_: and, like james and john, you seem ready to call down the fire of heaven on those who do not receive the gospel according to your own particular ritual, although you must have read the rebuke of their master, "ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of; for the son of man is not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them."[ ] footnote : john, chap. x. footnote : luke, chap. ix. you denounce the members of bible and missionary societies, and the ministers of most other sects, and stigmatise their endeavours to spread the gospel, _as an abomination in the land_; and accuse them of taking from the widow for their own aggrandisement.[ ] you say that they compass sea and land to make a proselyte, and that _when he is made, they have made him two-fold more the child of hell than he was before_;[ ] and, in speaking of the studies which many religious societies enjoin as a preparation for the ministry, you call it inventing religions by earthly science; and, usurping the judgment seat, you boldly pronounce every priest, thus made, to be _an enemy to his god_;[ ] thus indiscriminately anathematising thousands and tens of thousands of men, of whom you know nothing. footnote : philadelphia sermons, pages , , . footnote : phil. sermons, page . footnote : philadelphia sermons, page . yet, when it answered a present purpose, we find you asserting, "that the law of the spirit of life in you, is not the law of the spirit of life in your brother, whose bondage here may be different from your own; that each requires a law peculiar to himself; and that the law in another man's mind is no law to us;" and you say you believe that there are among the christian professors, many who are industriously seeking the lord, although under the power of tradition and education, and the superstition that reigns in the land.[ ] footnote : philada. sermons, pages , . that no man can tell how far his own opinions are influenced by tradition and education is unquestionable, and it ought to render us cautious in censuring those of others; and if it is indeed true, that each requires a law peculiar to himself, and that the law in another man's mind is no law to us, it must follow that we can form no idea of another's duty, and that to attempt to censure or direct his conduct, is as unwise as it is presumptuous. and we can account for your inconsistency, only by supposing, that you believe yourself possessed of a faculty heretofore thought to be an attribute of omnipotence only, and that you also are a searcher of hearts; or that, like mahomet, you have especial revelations which release you from the obligations which you impose on others. neither of your positions appear to me to be correct. i believe with one of the most exemplary ministers that the society of friends ever produced,[ ] that all true christians are of the same spirit, though their gifts may be diverse; that sincere, upright hearted people in every society who love god, are accepted of him; and that christianity is a pure principle in the human mind, _which is confined to no forms of religion, nor excluded from any_, where the heart stands in perfect sincerity. footnote : john woolman, pages , , . these are the opinions of one, who i cannot be mistaken in considering, as of greater authority than yourself; for the history of his life discovers the uniformity of his belief; and the moderation which characterised his language and opinions, sufficiently prove that he adopted in practice the recommendation of a very pious man,[ ] "turn your eyes inward upon yourself, for you can hardly exceed in judging your own actions, nor be too cautious and sparing in censuring those of others; and _censuring_, indeed, this deserves to be called, in the worst sense of the word, rather than _judging_; if we consider, not only how unprofitable to any good end, but how liable to infinite mistakes, and very often how _exceedingly sinful_, all such judgments are." footnote : thomas a kempis. i am not a member of any missionary or bible society, nor are all the measures pursued by either of them, in accordance with my opinions; but i see among them, men who, by their lives and conversations, evince the purity and uprightness of their motives, and i dare _not judge them, lest i be judged_. in reading the rash and uncharitable assertions which i have quoted, i have imagined one of these men expostulating with you. suppose him to say, look to the many pious, charitable, and distinguished men who are among us, and say whether you really believe they would rob the widow of her mite for their own aggrandisement? or do you believe that the labours of a wilberforce,[ ] who has devoted all his talents, and passed a life in unparalleled exertions for the relief of the oppressed africans, and in communicating to them a knowledge of the christian religion, are an abomination in the land? you appear to have your mind exercised on account of this people, and have expressed great zeal on their behalf; but your labours seem to be confined to declamations among your friends in pennsylvania and new jersey, among whom slavery does not exist, and whose abhorrence of the practice is equal to your own. footnote : he is one of the most active members of the society for propagating the gospel. compare these labours with those of one of our brethren,[ ] who, under a like concern, believed himself called to visit the mansions of misery, and endeavour to pour into the afflicted bosom of wretchedness, the consolations unfolded by the gospel. he knew the perils and privations that awaited him, and he encountered them all. excluded from the society of the white inhabitants, and continually assailed with contumely, he passed his days among this miserable and degraded race, until, under the pretext that he fomented rebellion among the slaves, he was imprisoned and condemned to die, on the oaths of some of these wretched beings, whose own lives depended on the testimony they gave. this was all that his enemies could do, for the regulations of the government of england did not permit the execution of the sentence until ratified by them, and the proceedings were no sooner known there than they were annulled. but it was too late! the severity of his imprisonment in an unhealthy climate had hurried him to his grave. his journal and letters show the extent of his labours, and that in many instances, even the imperfect knowledge and experience which his converts must necessarily have had of our religion, had produced a striking improvement in their conduct and conversation, and afforded great encouragement to expect the happiest results. footnote : the missionary smith. now, can you believe that this man, who has given such evidence of the sincerity of his belief, and of his devotedness to what he deemed his duty, could be numbered among the enemies of his god? or that the glimpse of gospel light which he had been instrumental in communicating to the benighted minds of the miserable beings around him, had made them _two-fold more the children of hell than before_? to such expostulations you could make no reply, nor can the imagination conceive any plausible apology for the terms you have used. the inconsistency and extravagance of the assertions carry with them their own refutation, and the coarseness of the language can inspire nothing but disgust in every liberal mind. in one point of view only, can they be of importance to any but yourself, and that is, as it affects the reputation of the society of which you are a member; and as these sentiments are alien to those of that respectable body, it is to be lamented that a meeting which was probably attended by people of various religious professions, was permitted to separate, without some individual whose mind was imbued with their truly catholic principles, explaining what they really are; so that none might go away in the belief that _this people also_, presume to scan the limits of the mercy of the almighty, "and deal damnation round the land, on each they judge his foe." nor do i believe that your own heart responds to such sentiments, or that in your cooler moments you can possibly believe them correct. the tongue is an unruly member, and he who talks much, will sometimes talk unwisely. we are told that although man can tame the beasts of the forest, "the tongue no man can tame." "behold," (says the apostle,[ ]) "how great a matter a little fire kindleth." "therewith bless we god, even the father; and therewith curse we men, who are made after the similitude of god. out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing. _my brethren these things ought not to be so._ this wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish. but the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality and without hypocrisy. and the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace, of them that make peace." footnote : james, chap. . an accurate observer will often discover how erroneously the zeal of individuals operates: he will see around him numbers always ready to counsel and advise their neighbours; to detect their errors and reprove their aberrations: but how few among us scan with equal severity their own; and this, because there is something gratifying in the superiority which attaches to the counsellor and censor of others, but always troublesome, and often painful, to sit in judgment on ourselves. so when the preacher is followed and applauded, it often begets a restless spirit: silent worship no longer affords him satisfaction, and he seldom permits it to others, when he is present. few men have such fertility of imagination as to be able to vary such frequent discourses; he is often at a loss for a subject, and seizes with avidity every new idea, regardless of its correctness, if it possesses the charm of novelty. the author of an essay on practical piety[ ] makes some reflections on the situation of ministers of the gospel, which ought to be attentively considered by them. "there are perils on the right hand and on the left. it is not among the least, that though a pious clergyman may, at first, have tasted with trembling caution of the delicious cup of applause, he may gradually grow, as thirst is increased by indulgence, to drink too deeply of the enchanted chalice. the dangers arising from any thing that is good, are formidable because unsuspected. and such are the perils of popularity, that we will venture to say that the victorious general, who has conquered a kingdom, or the sagacious statesman who has preserved it, is almost in less danger of being spoiled than the popular preacher; because their danger is likely to happen but once, his is perpetual: theirs is only on a day of triumph, his day of triumph occurs every week; we mean, the admiration he excites. every fresh success ought to be a fresh motive to humiliation: he who feels his danger will vigilantly guard against swallowing too greedily, _the indiscriminate_ and often _undistinguishing_ plaudits, which his _doctrines_, or his _manner_, his _talents_ or his _voice_, may equally procure for him. if he be not prudent as well as pious, he may be brought to humour his audience, and his audience to flatter him with a dangerous emulation, till they will scarcely endure truth itself, from any other lips. the spirit of excessive fondness generates a spirit of controversy. some of the followers will rather improve in casuistry than in christianity. they will be more busied in opposing paul to apollos, than in looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of their faith, than in bringing forth fruits meet for repentance. _religious gossip_ may assume the place of religion itself. a party spirit is thus generated, and christianity may begin to be considered as a thing to be discussed and disputed, to be heard and talked about, rather than as the productive principle of virtuous conduct." footnote : h. moore. that this spirit exists in a considerable degree among a portion of the society of friends, i think cannot be doubted; and it would indeed be wise in each individual, seriously to scrutinize his own conduct, and consider whether he has been instrumental in generating or propagating it. conclusion. when i first undertook to review some of the prominent features in the sermons alluded to, i did expect to confine my remarks within a narrow compass; but the topics which the author discusses are so various and the applications so numerous, that it unavoidably led to their extension, and i have at last left many untouched which are entitled to very serious consideration. i know there are some very serious and pious men who lament that these sermons were published; but i am not of their opinion; for although they may, in one point of view, be prejudicial, an accurate knowledge of the whole scheme, must i think convince every thinking mind, that it is not only inconsistent with the christian religion, but that its parts are so discordant, and its doctrines so darkly mysterious, as to elude the comprehension of man; and that the author, so far from elucidating that religion by his boasted reliance on the human understanding, has been led by that modicum of it possessed by himself, into many notions totally irreconcileable to right reason. in one respect they may be injurious; not by making converts to the system, but by impairing the belief of individuals in the truths recorded in scripture, and thus paving the way to complete infidelity; for there are few minds so stolid as really to have faith in a religion, founded on a book, which they believe to be itself a fiction. it would perhaps be advisable for every member of the society, after perusing these sermons, to read the life and writings of john woolman. contrast often serves to elucidate the truth, and the dissimilitude is so great, that they will have little difficulty in discovering which has been actuated by that humble, peaceable, and gentle spirit, recommended by the example and precepts of the founder of our religion. they were probably equally deficient in human learning; but while the one, confident in his own abilities, is continually involving himself in contradictions by allusions to subjects which he does not understand; the other, favoured with what learning can never supply, a large fund of _good sense_, pursues the even tenor of his way without entanglement or inconsistency: the one, labouring to clothe his arguments in the brilliant language of the orator, leaves them involved in inextricable confusion; the other, explains his ideas with a precision and clearness, which if they do not convince cannot be misunderstood. indeed there is such a sober seriousness and mildness of spirit which breathes through all the writings of john woolman; such unbounded charity for others, and such severity in the examination of himself; such persuasive earnestness in his exhortations, and such a perfect conformity between all his principles and practices, that however men may differ respecting some of his doctrines and opinions, all must acknowledge that he possessed a mind imbued with a truly christian spirit, and regard his tone and manner of writing as a model which ought to be imitated by all christian professors. the doctrine of divine inspiration was the belief of every christian church in its primitive simplicity, and is yet the doctrine of almost all of them, under different names and modifications; and if the belief in it is impaired, i fear it must, in a great degree, be attributed to some of those who profess to be under the guidance of it. not content with the measure of light which it affords, and which is sufficient for the great purpose of enabling him "to work out his own salvation," man, in the pride of his heart, is prone to get from under that humble state, in which alone its manifestations are rightly impressed on the mind; to believe it is given as a substitute for, and not in aid of, our reason; and mistaking his own visionary fancies for revelations, actually persuades himself that he also is invested with the attribute of omniscience. the inconsistencies in which minds thus sublimated are always involved, are stumbling blocks to many, who are from thence led to consider all as an illusive or hypocritical pretension. these are the whims of the imagination; when man in his exaltation releases himself from the control of his reason, and eradicates from his heart the pure and unadulterated principles of the christian religion; when, forgetting his infirmities, and vaunting in his strength, he assumes that station to which he is not called, and ministers to others, when his own light is extinguished. these are they who are described by the poet-- "aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, aspiring to be angels, men rebel." but, notwithstanding the discouraging prospects which surround this people, i trust that all is not lost; that the ark is yet upborne by hallowed hands; and that sion's mount is still encircled by a chosen band, who read with humility, reverence, and instruction, that _great spiritual and moral code_, given to man in the name and in the majesty of him, "who is from everlasting to everlasting, the almighty." the end. transcriber's notes: missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. typographical errors were silently corrected. errata provided at the end of the book have been applied to the text.