{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19605/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19605","id":"gutenberg_19605","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19605","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Society of Friends"],"text":"E-text prepared by Mark C. Orton, Jeannie Howse, and the Project Gutenberg\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n file which includes the original lovely illustrations.\n See 19605-h.htm or 19605-h.zip:\n (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/6/0/19605/19605-h/19605-h.htm)\n or\n (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/6/0/19605/19605-h.zip)\n\n\n +--------------------------------------------------------+\n | Transcriber's Note: |\n | |\n | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original |\n | document have been preserved. |\n | |\n | Three obvious typographical errors were corrected in |\n | this text. For a complete list, please see the end of |\n | the book. |\n | |\n +--------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n\n\n\nA BOOK OF QUAKER SAINTS\n\n\n\n\n +------------------------------------------------+\n | _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ |\n | |\n | PILGRIMS IN PALESTINE. |\n | [_Out of print._] |\n | |\n | THE HAPPY WORLD. |\n | |\n | CONTRIBUTIONS TO 'THE |\n | FELLOWSHIP OF SILENCE.' |\n | |\n | SILENT WORSHIP: THE WAY OF WONDER. |\n | (_Swarthmore Lecture, 1919._) |\n +------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n[Illustration: LOIS AND HER NURSE]\n\n\n\n\nA BOOK OF QUAKER SAINTS\n\nby\n\nL. V. HODGKIN\n(Mrs. John Holdsworth)\n\nIllustrated By F. Cayley-Robinson, A.R.A.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMacMillan and Co., Limited\nSt. Martin's Street, London\n1922\nCopyright\nFirst Edition 1917 Reprinted 1918\nTransferred to Macmillan & Co. and reprinted 1922\nPrinted in Great Britain\n\n\n\n\n DEDICATED\n TO THE\n CHILDREN\n OF THE\n SOCIETY OF FRIENDS\n AND TO THE\n GRANDCHILDREN\n OF\n THOMAS HODGKIN\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThe following stories are intended for children of various ages. The\nintroductory chapter, 'A Talk about Saints,' and the stories marked\nwith an asterisk in the Table of Contents, were written first for an\neager listener of nine years old. But as the book has grown longer the\nage of its readers has grown older for two reasons:\n\n_First:_ because it was necessary to take for granted some knowledge\nof the course of English History at the period of the Civil Wars. To\nhave re-told the story of the contest between King and Parliament,\nleading up to the execution of Charles the First and the Protectorate\nof Oliver Cromwell, would have taken up much of the fresh, undivided\nattention that I was anxious to focus upon the lives and doings of\nthese 'Quaker Saints.' I have therefore presupposed a certain\nfamiliarity with the chief actors and parties, and an understanding of\nsuch names as Cavalier, Roundhead, Presbyterian, Independent, etc.;\nbut I have tried to explain any obsolete words, or those of which the\nmeaning has altered in the two and a half centuries that have elapsed\nsince the great struggle.\n\n_Secondly_: because the stories of the persecutions of the Early\nFriends are too harrowing for younger children. Even a very much\nsoftened and milder version was met with the repeated request: 'Do,\nplease, skip this part and make it come happy quickly.' I have\npreferred, therefore, to write for older boys and girls who will wish\nfor a true account of suffering bravely borne; though without undue\ninsistence on the physical side. For to tell the stories of these\nlives without the terrible, glorious account of the cruel beatings,\nimprisonments, and even martyrdom in which they often ended here, is\nnot truly to tell them at all. The tragic darkness in the picture is\nnecessary to enhance its high lights.\n\nMy youngest critic observes that 'it does not matter so much what\nhappens to grown-up people, because I can always skip that bit; but if\nanything bad is going to happen to children, you had better leave it\nout of your book altogether.' I have therefore obediently omitted the\nactual sufferings of children as far as possible, except in one or two\nstories where they are an essential part of the narrative.\n\nIt must be remembered that this is not a History of the Early Quaker\nMovement, but a book of stories of some Early Quaker Saints. I have\nbased my account on contemporary authorities; but I have not scrupled\nto supply unrecorded details or explanatory speeches in order to make\nthe scene more vivid to my listeners. In two stories of George Fox's\nyouth, as authentic records are scanty, I have even ventured to look\nthrough the eyes of imaginary spectators at 'The Shepherd of Pendle\nHill' and 'The Angel of Beverley.' But the deeper I have dug down into\nthe past, the less need there has been to fill in outlines; and the\nmore possible it has been to keep closely to the actual words of\nGeorge Fox's Journal, and other contemporary documents. The historical\nnotes at the end of the book will indicate where the original\nauthorities for each story are to be found, and they will show what\nliberties have been taken. The quotations that precede the different\nchapters are intended mainly for older readers, and to illustrate\neither the central thought or the history of the times.\n\nMany stories of other Quaker Saints that should have been included in\nthis book have had to be omitted for want of room. The records of\nWilliam Penn and his companions and friends on both sides of the\nAtlantic will, it is hoped, eventually find a place in a later volume.\nThe stories in the present book have been selected to show how the\nTruth of the Inward Light first dawned gradually on one soul, and then\nspread rapidly, in ever-widening circles, through a neighbourhood, a\nkingdom, and, finally, all over the world.\n\nI have to thank many kind friends who have helped me in this\ndelightful task. _The Book of Quaker Saints_ owes its existence to my\nfriend Ernest E. Taylor, who first suggested the title and plan, and\nthen, gently but inexorably, persuaded me to write it. Several of the\nstories and many of the descriptions are due to his intimate knowledge\nof the lives and homes of the Early Friends; he has, moreover, been my\nunfailing adviser and helper at every stage of the work.\n\nNo one can study this period of Quaker history without being\nconstantly indebted to William Charles Braithwaite, the author of\n_Beginnings of Quakerism_, and to Norman Penney, the Librarian at\nDevonshire House, and Editor of the Cambridge Edition of George Fox's\nJournal with its invaluable notes. But beyond this I owe a personal\ndebt of gratitude to these two Friends, for much wise counsel as to\nsources, for their kindness in reading my MS. and my proofs, and for\nthe many errors that their accurate scholarship has helped me to\navoid, or enabled me to detect.\n\nTo Ethel Crawshaw, Assistant at the same Library; to my sister, Ellen\nS. Bosanquet; and to several other friends who have helped me in\nvarious ways, my grateful thanks are also due.\n\nThe stories are intended in the first place for Quaker children, and\nare written throughout from a Quaker standpoint, though with the wish\nto be as fair as possible not only to our staunch forefathers, but\nalso to their doughty antagonists. Even when describing the fiercest\nencounters between them, I have tried to write nothing that might\nperplex or pain other than Quaker listeners; above all, to be ever\nmindful of what George Fox himself calls 'the hidden unity in the\nEternal Being.'\n\n L. V. HODGKIN.\n\n_29th July 1917._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n PREFACE _page_ vii\n\n* A TALK ABOUT SAINTS 1\n\n* I. 'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL' 19\n\n* II. 'PURE FOY, MA JOYE' 33\n\n* III. THE ANGEL OF BEVERLEY 57\n\n* IV. TAMING THE TIGER 79\n\n* V. 'THE MAN IN LEATHER BREECHES' 97\n\n VI. THE SHEPHERD OF PENDLE HILL 111\n\n VII. THE PEOPLE IN WHITE RAIMENT 121\n\n VIII. A WONDERFUL FORTNIGHT 131\n\n IX. UNDER THE YEW-TREES 149\n\n X. 'BEWITCHED!' 163\n\n XI. THE JUDGE'S RETURN 175\n\n* XII. 'STRIKE AGAIN!' 185\n\n* XIII. MAGNANIMITY 197\n\n* XIV. MILES HALHEAD AND THE HAUGHTY LADY 209\n\n XV. SCATTERING THE SEED 223\n\n XVI. WRESTLING FOR GOD 239\n\n XVII. LITTLE JAMES AND HIS JOURNEYS 255\n\n XVIII. THE FIRST QUAKER MARTYR 271\n\n* XIX. THE CHILDREN OF READING MEETING 285\n\n* XX. THE SADDEST STORY OF ALL 301\n\n* XXI. PALE WINDFLOWERS 321\n\n XXII. AN UNDISTURBED MEETING 343\n\n XXIII. BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS 353\n\n XXIV. THE VICTORY OF AMOR STODDART 367\n\n* XXV. THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP 'WOODHOUSE' 379\n\n* XXVI. RICHARD SELLAR AND THE 'MERCIFUL MAN' 403\n\n* XXVII. TWO ROBBER STORIES--WEST AND EAST 427\n\n XXVIII. SILVER SLIPPERS: OR A QUAKERESS AMONG THE TURKS 441\n\n* XXIX. FIERCE FEATHERS 465\n\n* XXX. THE THIEF IN THE TANYARD 479\n\n XXXI. HOW A FRENCH NOBLE BECAME A FRIEND 489\n\n XXXII. PREACHING TO NOBODY 509\n\n COME-TO-GOOD 523\n\n HISTORICAL NOTES 539\n\n_Note._--An Asterisk denotes stories suitable for younger children.\n\n\n\n\n LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n _reproduced from water-colour drawings by_\n F. CAYLEY-ROBINSON\n\n\n I. LOIS AND HER NURSE _Frontispiece_\n\n II. THE BOYHOOD OF GEORGE FOX _page_ 36\n\nIII. 'DREAMING OF THE COT IN THE VALE' 114\n\n IV. 'THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE' 306\n\n V. PALE WINDFLOWERS 324\n\n VI. FIERCE FEATHERS 474\n\nVII. A FRIENDS' MEETING 534\n\n\n\n\nA TALK ABOUT SAINTS\n\n\n\n\n _'What are these that glow from afar,_\n _These that lean over the golden bar,_\n _Strong as the lion, pure as the dove,_\n _With open arms and hearts of love?_\n _They the blessed ones gone before,_\n _They the blessed for evermore._\n _Out of great tribulation they went_\n _Home to their home of Heaven-content;_\n _Through flood or blood or furnace-fire,_\n _To the rest that fulfils desire.'_\n\n _CHRISTINA ROSSETTI._\n\n\n _St. Patrick's three orders of\n Saints: 'a glory on the mountain\n tops: a gleam on the sides of the\n hills: a few faint lights in the\n valleys.'_\n\n\n _'The Lord is King in His Saints,\n He guards them, and guides them\n with His mighty power, into His\n kingdom of glory and eternal rest,\n where they find joy, and peace,\n and rest eternal.'--GEORGE FOX._\n\n\n\n\nA TALK ABOUT SAINTS\n\n\n_'What is a Saint? How I do wish I knew!'_\n\n_A little girl asked herself this question a great many years ago, as\nshe sat looking up at a patch of sunset cloud that went sailing past\nthe bars of her nursery window late one Sunday afternoon; but the\nwindow was small and high up, and the cloud sailed by quickly._\n\n_As she watched it go, little Lois wished that she was back in her own\nnursery at home, where the windows were large and low down, and so\nnear the floor that even a small girl could see out of them easily.\nMoreover, her own windows had wide window-sills that she could sit on,\nwith toy-cupboards underneath._\n\n_There were no toy-cupboards in this old-fashioned nursery, where Lois\nwas visiting, and not many toys either. There was a doll's house, that\nher mother used to play with when she was a little girl; but the dolls\nin it were all made of wood and looked stiff and stern, and one\nhundred years older than the dolls of to-day, or than the children\neither, for that matter. Besides, the doll's house might not be opened\non Sundays._\n\n_So Lois turned again to the window, and looking up at it, she wished,\nas she had wished many times before on this visit, that it was rather\nlower down and much larger, and that the window ledge was a little\nwider, so that she could lean upon it and see where that rosy cloud\nhad gone._\n\n_She ran for a chair, and climbed up, hoping to be able to see out\nbetter. Alas! the window was a long way from the ground outside. She\nstill could not look out and see what was happening in the garden\nbelow. Even the sun had sunk too far down for her to say good-night to\nit before it set. But that did not matter, for the rosy cloud had\napparently gone to fetch innumerable other rosy cloudlets, and they\nwere all holding hands and dancing across the sky in a wide band, with\npale, clear pools of green and blue behind them._\n\n_'What lovely rainbow colours!' thought the little girl. And then the\nrainbow colours reminded her of the question that had been puzzling\nher when she began to watch the rosy cloud. So she repeated, out loud\nthis time and in rather a weary voice, 'Whatever is a Saint? How I do\nwish I knew! And why are there no Saints on the windows in Meeting?'_\n\n_No answer came to her questions. Lois and her nurse were paying a\nvisit all by themselves. They spent most of their days up in this old\nnursery at the top of the big house. Nurse had gone downstairs a long\ntime ago, saying that she would bring up tea for them both on a\ntea-tray, before it was time to light the lamps. For there was no gas\nor electric light in children's nurseries in those days._\n\n_If Lois had been at home she would herself have been having tea\ndownstairs in the dining-room at this time with her father and mother.\nThen she could have asked them what a Saint was, and have found out\nall about it at once. Father and mother always seemed to know the\nanswers to her questions. At least, very nearly always. For Lois was\nso fond of asking questions, that sometimes she asked some that had no\nanswer; but those were silly questions, not like this one. Lois felt\ncertain that either her father or her mother would have explained to\nher quite clearly all about Saints, and would have wanted her to\nunderstand about them. Away here there was nobody to ask. Nurse would\nonly say, 'If you ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.' Somehow\nwhenever she said that, Lois fancied it meant that nurse was not very\nsure of the answer herself. She had already asked Aunt Isabel in\nchurch that same morning, when the puzzle began; and Aunt Isabel's\nanswer about 'a halo' had left the little girl more perplexed than\never._\n\n_Lois had heard of people 'going to church' before, but she had never\nunderstood what it meant until to-day. At home on Sundays she went to\nMeeting with father and mother. She liked walking there, in between\nthem, holding a hand of each, skipping and jumping in order not to\nstep on the black lines of the pavement. She liked to see the shops\nwith their eyes all shut tight for Sunday, and to watch for the\nnaughty shops, here and there, who kept a corner of their blinds up,\njust to show a few toys or goodies underneath. Lois always thought\nthat those shops looked as if they were winking up at her; and she\nsmiled back at them a rather reproving little smile. She enjoyed the\nwalk and was sorry when it came to an end. For, to tell the truth, she\ndid not enjoy the Meeting that followed it at all._\n\n_Long before the hour was over she used to grow very tired of the\nsilence and of the quiet room, tired of kicking her blue footstool\n(gently of course, but still kicking it) and of counting her boot\nbuttons up and down, or else watching the hands of the clock move\nslowly round its big calm face. 'Church' was a more interesting place\nthan Meeting, certainly; but then 'Church' had disadvantages of its\nown. Everything there was strange to Lois. It had almost frightened\nher, this first time. She did not know when she ought to stand up, or\nwhen she ought to kneel, and when she might sit down. Then, when the\norgan played and everybody stood up and sang a hymn, Lois found to her\nsurprise that her throat was beginning to feel tight and choky. For\nsome reason she began to wonder if father and mother were sitting in\nMeeting alone, and if they had quite forgotten their little girl. Two\nsmall tears gathered. In another minute they might have slipped out of\nthe corners of her eyes, and have run down her cheeks. They might even\nhave fallen upon the page of the hymn-book she was carefully holding\nupside down. And that would have been dreadful!_\n\n_Happily, just in time, she looked up and saw something so beautiful\nabove her that the two tears ran back to wherever it was they came\nfrom, in less time than it takes to tell._\n\n_For there, above her head, was a tall, pointed, glass window, high up\non the wall. The glass in the window was of wonderful colours, like a\nrainbow:--deep purple and blue, shining gold, rich, soft red, and\nglowing crimson, with here and there a green that twinkled like young\nbeech-leaves in the woods in spring. Best of all, there was one bit of\npurest white, with sunlight streaming through it, that shone like\ndazzling snow. At first Lois only noticed the colours, and the ugly\nblack lines that separated them. She wondered why the beautiful glass\nwas divided up into such queer shapes. There are no black lines\nbetween the colours in a real rainbow._\n\n_Gradually, however, she discovered that all the different colours\nmeant something, that they were all part of a picture on the window,\nthat a tall figure was standing there, looking down upon her--upon\nher, fidgety little Lois, kicking her scarlet hassock in the pew. But\nLois was not kicking her hassock any longer. She was looking up into\nthe grave, kind face above her on the window. 'Whoever was it? Who\ncould it be? Was it a man or a woman? A man,' Lois thought at first,\nuntil she saw that he was wearing a robe that fell into glowing folds\nat his feet. 'Men never wear robes, do they? unless they are\ndressing-gowns. This certainly was not a dressing-gown. And what was\nthe flat thing like a plate behind his head?' Lois had never seen\neither a man or a woman wear anything like that before. 'If it was a\nplate, how could it be fastened on? It would be sure to fall off and\nbreak....'_\n\n_The busy little mind had so much to wonder about, that Lois found it\neasy to sit still, until the sermon was over, as she watched the\nsunlight pour through the different colours in turn, making each one\nmore beautiful and full of light as it passed._\n\n_At length the organ stopped, and the last long 'AH-MEN' had been\nsung. 'Church sings \"AH-MEN\" out loud, and Meeting says \"Amen\" quite\ngently; p'raps that's what makes the difference between them,' Lois\nthought to herself wisely. As soon as the last notes of music had died\naway, she nestled close to Aunt Isabel's side and said in an eager\nvoice, 'What is that lovely window up there? Who is that beautiful\nperson? I do like his face. And is it a He or a She?'_\n\n_'Hush, darling!' her aunt whispered. 'Speak lower. That is a Saint,\nof course.'_\n\n_'But what is a Saint and how do you know it is one?' the little girl\nwhispered earnestly, pointing upwards to the tall figure through which\nthe sunshine streamed. Aunt Isabel was busy collecting her books and\nshe only whispered back, 'Don't you see the halo?' 'I don't know what\na halo can be, but a Saint is a kind of glass window, I suppose,'\nthought Lois, as she followed her aunt down the aisle. Afterwards on\nher way home, and at dinner, and all the afternoon, there had been so\nmany other things to see and to think about, that it was not until the\nrosy patch of cloud sailed past the nursery window-pane at sunset that\nshe was reminded of the beautiful colours in church, and of the puzzle\nabout Saints and haloes that till then she had forgotten._\n\n_'At least, no, I didn't exactly forget', she said to herself, 'but I\nthink p'raps I sort of disremembered--till the sunset colours reminded\nme. Only I haven't found out what a Saint is yet, or a halo. And why\ndon't we have them on our Sunday windows in Meeting?'_\n\n_Just at that moment the door opened, and nurse, who had been enjoying\na long talk downstairs in the kitchen, came in with the tea-tray. 'How\ndark you are up here!' nurse exclaimed in her cheerful voice. 'We\nshall have to light the lamp after all, or you will never find the way\nto your mouth.'_\n\n_So the lamp was lighted. The curtains were drawn. The sunset sky,\nfast fading now, was hidden. And Lois' questions remained unanswered._\n\n * * * * *\n\n_A few days later, the visit came to an end. The next Sunday, Lois was\nat home again, 'chattering like a little magpie,' as her mother said,\nabout everything she had seen and done. She had so much to think\nabout, that even Meeting did not seem as long as usual, though she\nthought the walls looked plainer than ever, and the glass windows very\nempty, till the sight of them reminded her that she could find out\nmore about Saints now. At home in the afternoon she began. Drawing her\nfootstool close to the big arm-chair, she put her elbows on her\nfather's knee and looked up searchingly into his face. 'Father, please\ntell me, if you possibly can,' pleaded an earnest little voice, 'for I\ndo very badly want to find out. Do you know what a Saint is?' Her\nfather laughed. 'Know what a Saint is? I should think I did! No man\nbetter!' he answered. Lois wondered why he glanced across to the other\nside of the fire where her mother was sitting; and why she glanced\nback at him and shook her head, meeting his eyes with a happy smile.\nThen her father jumped up, and from the lowest shelf of one of his\nbook-cases he fetched a fat, square volume, bound in brown leather and\ngold. This he put carefully on a table, and drawing Lois on to his\nknee and putting his arm round her, he showed her a number of\nphotographs. Lambs were there, and running fountains, and spangly\nstars, and peacocks, and doves. But those pages he turned over\nquickly, until he came to others: photographs of men and women dressed\nin white, carrying palms and holding crowns in their hands._\n\n_He told Lois that these people were 'Saints,' that they formed a long\nprocession on the walls of a big church at Ravenna, far away in Italy;\nand that they were made of little pieces of a sort of shining glass\ncalled 'mosaic.' 'Saints have something to do with glass then. But\nthese photographs are not a bit like my beautiful window,' Lois\nthought to herself, rather sadly. 'There are no colours here.' She\nturned over the photographs without much interest, until her father,\nexclaiming, 'There, that is the one I want!' showed her one portrait\nof a little girl standing among all the grown-up people, carrying just\nas big a palm and crown as any of the others. He told Lois that these\ncrowns and palms were to show that the people who carried them had all\nbeen put to death or 'martyred,' because they would not worship\nheathen gods. He made Lois spell out the letters 'SCA. EULALIA'\nwritten on the halo around the little girl's head, 'That is Saint\nEulalia,' her father explained. 'She was offered her freedom and her\nlife if she would sacrifice to idols just one tiny grain of corn, to\nshow that she renounced her allegiance to Jesus Christ; but when the\ncorn was put into her hands she threw it all back into the Judge's\nface. After that, there was no escape for her. She was condemned to\ndie, and she did die, Lois, very bravely, though she was only a little\ngirl, not much older than you.' Here Lois hid her face against her\nfather's coat and shivered. 'But after that cruel death, when her\nlittle body was lying unburied, a white dove hovered over it, until a\nfall of snowflakes came and hid it from people's sight. So you see,\nLois, though Eulalia was only twelve years old when she was put to\ndeath, she has been called Saint Eulalia ever since, though it all\nhappened hundreds of years ago. Children can be Saints as well as\ngrown-up people, if they are brave enough and faithful enough.'_\n\n_'Saints must be brave, and Saints must be faithful,' Lois repeated,\nas she shut up the big book and helped to carry it back to its shelf.\n'But lots of other children have died since Sancta Eulalia was killed\nand her body was covered by the snow. Surely some of those children\nmust have been brave and faithful too, even though they are not called\nSaints? They don't stand on glass windows, or wear those things that\nfather calls haloes, and that I call plates, round their heads, with\ntheir names written on them. So Saints really are rather puzzling sort\nof people still. I do hope I shall find out more about them some\nday.'_\n\n_Thus Lois went on wondering, till, gradually, she came to find out\nmore of the things that make a Saint--not purple robes, or shining\ngarments, or haloes; not even crowns and palms; but other things,\nquite different, and much more difficult to get._\n\n * * * * *\n\n_'It is enough to vex a Saint!' her kind nurse exclaimed when Lois\nspilled her jam at tea, all down her clean white frock. Or, on other\ndays, 'Oh dear! my patiences is not so good as they once were!' and,\n'These rheumatics would try the patience of a Saint!' nurse would say,\nwith a weary sigh._\n\n_'Then the reason my Nanny isn't a Saint is because she gets vexed\nwhen I'm naughty, and because she isn't patient when she has a pain,'\nreasoned Lois. 'What a number of things it does seem to take to make a\nSaint! But then it takes eggs and milk and butter and sugar and flour\nand currants and raisins too to make a cake. Saints must be brave_ and\n_faithful; never get vexed; have patience always. Mother said patience\nwas the beginning of everything, when I stamped my foot because I\nbroke my cotton. Do Saints have to begin with patience too? If only I\ncould see a real live one with my own eyes and find out!'_\n\n_Yet, strange to say, when Lois was told that she was looking at a\n'real live Saint' at last, the little girl did not even wish to\nbelieve it. This happened one Saturday afternoon. She was walking with\nher governess to a beautiful wooded Dene, through which a clear stream\nhurried to join the big black river that flowed past the windows of\nLois' home. On the way to the Dene they passed near a broad marsh with\nstepping-stones across it. Close to the river Lois saw, in the\ndistance, the roofs of some wretched-looking cottages. Evidently on\nher way to these cottages, balancing herself on the slippery\nstepping-stones, was a little old lady in a hideous black bonnet with\njet ornaments that waggled as she moved, and shiny black gloves\nscrewed up into tight corkscrews at the finger ends. She carried a\nlarge basket in one hand, and held up her skirts with the other,\nshowing that she wore boots with elastic sides, which Lois\nparticularly disliked._\n\n_'Look there!' her governess said to Lois, 'actually crossing the\nmarsh to visit that den of fever! Old Miss S ... may not be a beauty,\nbut she certainly is a perfect Saint!'_\n\n_'Oh no, she's not!' cried Lois with much vehemence. 'At least, I mean\nI hope she isn't,' she added the next minute. 'You see,' she went on\napologetically, 'I have a very special reason for being interested in\nSaints; I don't at all want any of my Saints to look ugly like that.\nAnd, what is more, I don't believe they do!'_\n\n * * * * *\n\n_Many months passed before the time came, when she was least expecting\nit, that Lois saw, she actually did see, a 'real live Saint' for\nherself._\n\n_How did she know it was a Saint? Lois could not tell how she knew;\nbut from the very first moment that she found herself looking up into\none of the kindest, most loving faces that she had ever seen, she was\nperfectly sure that she had found a Saint at last. She saw no halo--at\nleast no golden halo; but the white hair that tenderly framed the\nwhite face looked almost like a halo of silver, the little girl\nthought. It was not a beautiful face; at any rate not what Lois would\nhave called beautiful beforehand. It had many wrinkles though the skin\nwas fresh and clear. The eyes looked, somehow, as if they had shed so\nmany tears long ago, that now there were no tears left to shed;\nnothing remained but smiles. Perhaps that was the reason they were\nnearly always smiling. As Lois looked up and saw that gentle old face\nbending over her, it gave her the same sort of mysterious feeling that\nshe had when she gazed up into the cloudless blue sky at noonday, or\ninto a night sky full of stars. She seemed to be looking up, as high\nas ever she could, into something infinitely far above her; and yet to\nbe looking down into something as well, deep down into an endless\ndepth. Or rather, she felt that she was neither looking up nor down,\nbut that she was looking_ through....\n\n_'Why, Saints are a sort of window after all,' Lois said to herself,\nas she gave a jump of joy,--'real windows! Only not the glass kind! I\nhave found out at last what makes a Saint, and what real live Saints\nlook like. It is not being killed only; though I suppose they must\nalways be ready to be killed. It is not being made of all the\ndifficult things inside only; though, of course, they must always be\nfull of them. It certainly isn't wearing ugly clothes or anything\nhorrid. I know now what really and truly, and most especially, makes a\nSaint, and that is_\n\n LETTING THE SUNLIGHT THROUGH!'\n\n_So Lois had found out something for herself at last, had she not?\nThose are always the best sort of discoveries; but there are a great\nmany more things to find out about Saints that Lois never thought of,\nin those days long ago. Most interesting things they are! That is one\ncomfort about Saints--they are always interesting, never dull. Dull is\nthe one thing that real Saints can never be, or they would stop being\nSaints that very minute. Even when Saints are doing the dullest,\ndreariest, most difficult tasks, they themselves are always packed\nfull of sunshine inside that cannot help streaming out over the dull\npart and making it interesting._\n\n_This is one thing to remember about Saints; but there are many other\nthings to discover. See if you can find out some of them in the\nstories that follow._\n\n_Only a few Saint stories are written here. You will read for\nyourself, by and by, many others: stories of older Saints, and perhaps\nof brighter Saints, or it may be even of saintlier Saints than these.\nBut in this book are written the stories of some of the Saints who did\nnot know that they were Saints at all: they thought that they were\njust quite ordinary men and women and little children, and that makes\nthem rather specially comforting to us, who are just quite ordinary\npeople too._\n\n_Moreover, these Quaker Saints never have been, never will be put on\nglass windows, or given birthdays or haloes or emblems of their own,\nlike most of the other Saints. They have never even had their stories\ntold before in a way that it is easy for children to understand._\n\n_That is why these particular stories have been written now, in this\nparticular book_\n\n FOR YOU.\n\n\n\n\nI. 'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL'\n\n\n\n\n _'I am plenteuous in ioie in all\n oure tribulacione.'--ST. PAUL\n (Wiclif's Translation)._\n\n\n _'Stand firm like a smitten anvil\n under the blows of a hammer; be\n strong as an athlete of God, it is\n part of a great athlete to receive\n blows and to conquer.'--IGNATIUS._\n\n\n _'He was valiant for the truth,\n bold in asserting it, patient in\n suffering for it, unwearied in\n labouring in it, steady in his\n testimony to it, immoveable as a\n rock.'--T. ELLWOOD about G. FOX._\n\n\n _'George Fox never lost his\n temper--he left that to his\n opponents: and he had the most\n exasperating way of getting the\n best of an argument. His Journal\n ... is like a little rusty gate\n which opens right into the heart\n of the 17th Century, so that when\n we go in by it--hey presto! we\n find ourselves pilgrims with the\n old Quaker in the strangest kind\n of England.'--L.M. MACKAY._\n\n\n _'And there was never any\n persecution that came but we saw\n it was for good, and we looked\n upon it to be good as from GOD.\n And there was never any prisons or\n sufferings that I was in, but\n still it was for bringing\n multitudes more out of\n prison.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n\n\nI. 'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL'\n\n\nWhen the days are lengthening in the spring, even though the worst of\nthe winter may be over, there is often a sharp tooth in the March wind\nas it sweeps over the angry sea and bites into the north-eastern coast\nof England.\n\nChildren, warm and snug in cosy rooms, like to watch the gale and the\ndamage it does as it hurries past. It amuses them to see the wind at\nits tricks, ruffling up the manes of the white horses far out at sea,\nblowing the ships away from their moorings in the harbour, and playing\ntricks upon the passers-by, when it comes ashore. Off fly stout old\ngentlemen's hats, round like windmills go the smart ladies' skirts and\nribbons; even the milkman's fingers turn blue with cold. It is all\nvery well for children, safe indoors, to laugh at the antics of the\nmischievous wind, even on the bleak north-eastern coast nowadays; but\nin times long ago, that same wind could be a more cruel playfellow\nstill. Come back with me for two hundred and fifty years. Let us watch\nthe tricks the wind is playing on the prisoners in the castle high up\non Scarborough cliff in the year of our Lord 1666.\n\nThough the keen, cutting blast is the same, a very different\nScarborough lies around us from the Scarborough modern children know.\nThere is a much smaller town close down by the water's edge, and a\nmuch larger castle covering nearly the whole of the cliff.\n\nNowadays, when children go to Scarborough for their holidays in the\nsummer, as they run down the steep paths with their spades and buckets\nto dig on the beach, they are too busy to pay much attention to the\nhigh cliff that juts out against the sky above the steep red roofs of\nthe old town. But if they do look up for a moment they notice a pile\nof grey stones at the very top of the hill. 'Oh, that is the old\nruined castle,' they say to themselves; and then they forget all about\nit and devote themselves to the important task of digging a new castle\nof their own that shall not crumble into ruins in its turn, as even\nsand castles have an uncomfortable way of doing, if they are\nunskilfully made.\n\nThose children are only modern children. They have not gone back, as\nyou and I are trying to do, two hundred and fifty long years up the\nstream of time. If we are really to find out what Scarborough looked\nlike then, we must put on our thinking caps and flap our fancy wings,\nand, shutting our eyes very tight, not open them again until that\nlong-ago Scarborough is really clear before us. Then, looking up at\nthe castle, what shall we see? The same hill of course, but so covered\nwith stately buildings that we can barely make out its outline.\nInstead of one old pile of crumbling stones, roofless, doorless,\nwindowless, there is a massive fortress towering over us, ringed round\nwith walls and guarded with battlements and turrets. High above all\nstands the frowning Norman Keep, of which only some of the thick outer\nstones remain to-day. Scarborough Castle was a grand place, and a\nstrong place too, in the seventeenth century.\n\nIn order to reach it, then as now, it was necessary to climb the long\nflights of stone steps that stretch up from the lower town near the\nwater's edge to the high, arched gateway upon the Castle Hill. We will\nclimb those steps, only of course the stones were newer and cleaner\nthen, and less worn by generations of climbing feet. Up them we mount\ntill we reach the gateway with its threatening portcullis, where the\nsoldiers of King Charles the Second, in their jackboots, are walking\nup and down on guard, determined to keep out all intruders. Intruders\nwe certainly are, seeing that we belong to another generation and\nanother century. There is no entrance at that gateway for us. Yet\nexcept through that gateway there is no way into the castle, and all\nthe windows on this side are high up in the walls, and barred and\nfilled with strong thick glass.\n\nNow let us go round to the far side of the cliff where the castle\noverlooks the sea. Here the fortress still frowns above us; but lower\ndown, nearer our level, we can see some holes and caves scooped out of\nthe solid rock, through which the wind blows and shrieks eerily. As\nthese caves can only be reached by going through the castle, some of\nthe prisoners are kept here for safety. The windows have no glass.\nThey are merely holes in the rock, open to fog and snow and bitter\nwind. Another hole in the cliff does duty for a chimney after a\nfashion, but even if the prisoners are allowed to light a fire they\nare scarcely any warmer, for the whole cave becomes filled with smoke.\nAnd now we must flap our fancy wings still more vigorously, until\nsomehow we stand outside one of those prison holes, scooped out of the\ncliff, and can look down and see what is to be seen inside it.\n\nThere is only one man in this particular prison cave, and what is he\ndoing? Is he moving about to keep himself warm? At first he seems to\nbe, for he walks from side to side without a moment's rest. Every now\nand then he stretches his arm out of the window, apparently throwing\nsomething away. He is certainly ill. His body and legs are badly\nswollen, and there are great lumps in the places where his joints and\nknuckles ought to be. Well then, if he is ill, why does he not lie\nstill in bed and rest and get well? For even in this wretched\ncave-room there is something that looks like a bed in one corner. It\nhas no white sheets or soft blankets, but still it has four legs and a\nsort of coverlet, and at least the prisoner could rest upon it, which\nwould be better for him than dancing about. Look again! The bed stands\nunder a gaping hole in the roof, and a stream of water is dripping\nsteadily down upon it. The coarse coverings must be soaked through\nalready, and the hard mattress too. It is really less like a bed than\na damp and nasty little pond. No wonder the prisoner does not choose\nto lie there. But then, why not move the bed somewhere else? And what\nis that round thing like a platter in his hand, and what is he doing\nwith it? Is he playing 'Turn the Trencher' to keep himself warm?\n\nLook again! How could he move the bed? He is in a tiny cave, and all\nits walls are leaky. The bed must stand in that particular corner\nbecause there is nowhere else that it could be placed. Now look down\nat the floor. Notice how uneven it is, and the big pools of water\nstanding on it, and then you will understand what the prisoner is\ndoing. Indeed he is not playing 'Turn the Trencher'; he is trying to\nscoop up some of the water in that shallow platter, because he has\nnothing else in the room that will hold it. If he can do this fast\nenough, and can manage to pour enough of the water away out of one of\nthe holes in the walls, he may be able to keep himself from being\nflooded out, and thus he may preserve one little dry patch of floor,\ndry enough for his swollen feet to stand on, till the storm is over.\nBut it is like trying to bale water out of a very leaky boat; for\nalways faster than he can scoop it up and pour it away, more rain\ncomes pouring in steadily, dripping and drenching. The wind shrieks\nand whistles and the prisoner is numb with cold.\n\nWhat a wicked man he must be, to be punished by being put in this\ndreadful place! Certainly, if he has committed some dreadful crime, he\nhas found a terrible punishment. But does he look wicked? See, at last\nhe is too stiff and weary to move about any longer. In spite of the\nrain and the wind he sinks down exhausted upon a rickety chair and\ndraws it to the spot where there is the best chance of a little\nshelter. There he sits in silence for some time. He is soaked to the\nskin, as well as tired and stiff and hungry. There is a small mug by\nthe door, but it is empty and there is not a sign of food. Some bitter\nwater to drink and a small piece of bread are all the food he has had\nto-day, and that is all gone now, for it was so very little. In this\nplace a small threepenny loaf of bread has sometimes to last for three\nweeks. This poor man must be utterly miserable and wretched. But is\nhe? Let us watch him.\n\nDo you think he can be a wicked man after all? Is not the prisoner\nbeing punished through some dreadful mistake? He looks kind and good,\nand, stranger still, he looks happy, even through all his sufferings\nin this horrible prison. His face has a sort of brightness in it, like\nthe mysterious light there is sometimes to be seen in a dark sky,\nbehind a thunderstorm. A radiance is about him too as if, in spite of\nall he is enduring, he has some big joy that shines through everything\nand makes it seem worth while.\n\nHe is actually 'letting the sunlight through,' even in this dismal\nplace. Any one who can do that must be a very real and a very big\nsaint indeed. We must just find out all that we can about him. Let us\ntake a good look at him now, while we have the chance. Then we shall\nknow him another time, when we meet him again, having all sorts of\nadventures in all sorts of places. It is impossible to see his eyes,\nas he sits by the bed, for they are downcast, but we can see that he\nhas a long, nearly straight nose, and lips tightly pressed together.\nHis hair is parted and hangs down on each side of his head, stiff and\nlank now, owing to the wet, but in happier days it must have hung in\nlittle curls round his neck, just below his ears. He is a tall man,\nwith a big strong-looking body. In spite of the coarse clothes he\nwears, there is a strange dignity about him. You feel something\ndrawing you to him, making you want to know more about him.\n\nYou feel somehow as if you were in the presence of some one who is\nvery big, and that you yourself are very small, smaller perhaps than\nyou ever felt in your life. Yet you feel ready to do anything for him,\nand, at the same time, you believe that, if only you could make him\nknow that you are there, he would be ready to do anything for you.\nEven in this wretched den he carries himself with an air of authority,\nas if he were accustomed to command. Now, at last he is looking up;\nand we can see his eyes. Most wonderful eyes they are! Eyes that look\nas if they could pierce through all sorts of disguises, and read the\ndeepest secrets of a man's heart. They are kind eyes too; and look as\nif they could be extraordinarily tender at times. They are something\nlike a shepherd's eyes, as if they were accustomed to gazing out far\nand wide in search of strayed sheep and lost lambs. Yet they are also\nlike the eyes of a Judge; thoroughly well able to distinguish right\nfrom wrong. It would be terrible to meet those eyes after doing\nanything the least bit crooked or shabby or untrue. They look as if\nthey would know at the first glance just how much excuses were worth;\nand what was the truth. No wonder that once, when those eyes fell on a\nman who was arguing on the wrong side, he felt ashamed all of a sudden\nand cried out in terror: 'Do not pierce me so with thine eyes! Keep\nthine eyes off me!' Another time when this same prisoner was reasoning\nwith a crowd of people, who did not agree with him, they all cried out\nwith one accord: 'Look at his eyes, look at his eyes!' And yet another\ntime when he was riding through an angry mob, in a city where men were\nready to take his life, they dared not touch him. 'Oh, oh,' they\ncried, 'see, he shines! he glisters!'\n\nThen what happened next? We do not want to look at the prisoner in\nfancy any longer. We want really to know about him: to hear the\nbeginnings and endings of those stories and of many others. And that\nis exactly what we are going to do. The prisoner is going to tell us\nhis own true story in his own real words. There is no need for our\nfancy wings any longer. They may shrivel up and drop off unheeded. For\nthat prisoner is GEORGE FOX, and he belongs to English history. He has\nleft the whole story of his life and adventures written in two large\nfolio volumes that may still be seen in London. The pages are so old\nand the edges have worn so thin in the two hundred and fifty years\nsince they were written, that each page has had to be most carefully\nframed in strong paper to keep it from getting torn. The ink is faded\nand brown, and the writing is often crabbed and difficult to read. But\nit can be read, and it is full of stories. In olden times, probably,\nthe book was bound in a brown leather cover, but now, because it is\nvery old and valuable, it has been clothed with beautiful red leather,\non which is stamped in gold letters, the title:\n\n GEORGE FOX'S JOURNAL.\n\nNow let us open it at the right place, and, before any of the other\nstories, let us hear what the writer says about that dismal prison in\nScarborough Castle: how long he stayed there, and how he was at last\nset free.\n\n'One day the governor of Scarborough castle, Sir Jordan Crosland, came\nto see me. I desired the governor to go into my room and see what a\nplace I had. I had got a little fire made in it, and it was so filled\nwith smoke that when they were in it they could hardly find their way\nout again.... I told him I was forced to lay out about fifty\nshillings to stop out the rain, and keep the room from smoking so\nmuch. When I had been at that charge and had made it somewhat\ntolerable, they removed me into a worse room, where I had neither\nchimney nor fire hearth.'\n\n(This last is the room in the castle cliff that is still called\n'George Fox's prison,' where we have been standing in imagination and\nlooking in upon him. We will listen while he describes it again, so as\nto get accustomed to his rather old-fashioned English.)\n\n'This being to the sea-side and lying much open, the wind drove in the\nrain forcibly, so that the water came over my bed, and ran about the\nroom, that I was fain to skim it up with a platter. And when my\nclothes were wet, I had no fire to dry them; so that my body was\nbenumbed with cold, and my fingers swelled, that one was grown as big\nas two. Though I was at some charge in this room also, yet I could not\nkeep out the wind and rain.... Afterwards I hired a soldier to fetch\nme water and bread, and something to make a fire of, when I was in a\nroom where a fire could be made. Commonly a threepenny loaf served me\nthree weeks, and sometimes longer, and most of my drink was water,\nwith wormwood steeped or bruised in it.... As to friends I was as a\nman buried alive, for though many came far to see me, yet few were\nsuffered to come to me.... The officers often threatened that I should\nbe hanged over the wall. Nay, the deputy governor told me once, that\nthe King, knowing that I had a great interest in the people, had sent\nme thither, that if there should be any stirring in the nation, they\nshould hang me over the wall to keep the people down. A while after\nthey talked much of hanging me. But I told them that if that was what\nthey desired and it was permitted them, I was ready; for I never\nfeared death nor sufferings in my life, but I was known to be an\ninnocent, peaceable man, free from all stirrings and plottings, and\none that sought the good of all men. Afterwards, the Governor growing\nkinder, I spoke to him when he was going to London, and desired him to\nspeak to Esquire Marsh, Sir Francis Cobb, and some others, and let\nthem know how long I had lain in prison, and for what, and he did so.\nWhen he came down again, he told me that Esquire Marsh said he would\ngo a hundred miles barefoot for my liberty, he knew me so well; and\nseveral others, he said, spoke well of me. From which time the\nGovernor was very loving to me.\n\n'There were among the prisoners two very bad men, who often sat\ndrinking with the officers and soldiers; and because I would not sit\nand drink with them, it made them the worse against me. One time when\nthese two prisoners were drunk, one of them (whose name was William\nWilkinson, who had been a captain), came in and challenged me to fight\nwith him. I seeing what condition he was in, got out of his way; and\nnext morning, when he was more sober, showed him how unmanly a thing\nit was in him to challenge a man to fight, whose principle he knew it\nwas not to strike; but if he was stricken on one ear to turn the\nother. I told him that if he had a mind to fight, he should have\nchallenged some of the soldiers, that could have answered him in his\nown way. But, however, seeing he had challenged me, I was now come to\nanswer him, with my hands in my pockets: and, reaching my head\ntowards him, \"Here,\" said I, \"here is my hair, here are my cheeks,\nhere is my back.\" With that, he skipped away from me and went into\nanother room, at which the soldiers fell a-laughing; and one of the\nofficers said, \"You are a happy man that can bear such things.\" Thus\nhe was conquered without a blow.\n\n'... After I had lain a prisoner above a year in Scarborough Castle, I\nsent a letter to the King, in which I gave him an account of my\nimprisonment, and the bad usage I had received in prison; and also I\nwas informed no man could deliver me but he. After this, John\nWhitehead being at London, and being acquainted with Esquire Marsh,\nwent to visit him, and spoke to him about me; and he undertook, if\nJohn Whitehead would get the state of my case drawn up, to deliver it\nto the master of requests, Sir John Birkenhead, and endeavour to get a\nrelease for me. So John Whitehead ... drew up an account of my\nimprisonment and sufferings and carried it to Marsh; and he went with\nit to the master of requests, who procured an order from the King for\nmy release. The substance of this order was that the King, being\ncertainly informed, that I was a man principled against plotting and\nfighting, and had been ready at all times to discover plots, rather\nthan to make any, therefore his royal pleasure was, that I should be\ndischarged from my imprisonment. As soon as this order was obtained,\nJohn Whitehead came to Scarborough with it and delivered it to the\nGovernor; who, upon receipt thereof, gathered the officers together,\n... and being satisfied that I was a man of peaceable life, he\ndischarged me freely, and gave me the following passport:--\n\n'\"Permit the bearer hereof, GEORGE FOX, late a prisoner here, and now\ndischarged by his majesty's order, quietly to pass about his lawful\noccasions, without any molestation. Given under my hand at Scarborough\nCastle, this first day of September 1666.--JORDAN CROSLAND, Governor\nof Scarborough Castle.\"\n\n'After I was released, I would have made the Governor a present for\nhis civility and kindness he had of late showed me; but he would not\nreceive anything; saying \"Whatever good he could for me and my\nfriends, he would do it, and never do them any hurt.\" ... He continued\nloving unto me unto his dying day. The officers also and the soldiers\nwere mightily changed, and became very respectful to me; when they had\noccasion to speak of me they would say, \"HE IS AS STIFF AS A TREE, AND\nAS PURE AS A BELL; FOR WE COULD NEVER BOW HIM.\"'\n\n\n\n\nII. 'PURE FOY, MA JOYE'\n\n\n\n\n _'Outwardly there was little\n resemblance between George Fox and\n Francis of Assisi, between the\n young Leicestershire Shepherd of\n the XVIIth Century and the young\n Italian merchant of the XIIIth,\n but they both felt the power of\n GOD and yielded themselves wholly\n to it: both left father and mother\n and home: both defied the opinions\n of their time: both won their way\n through bitter opposition to solid\n success: both cast themselves\n \"upon the infinite love of GOD\":\n both were most truly surrendered\n souls; but Francis submitted\n himself to established authority,\n Fox only to the spirit of GOD\n speaking in the single soul.'_\n\n _'In solitude and silence Fox found\n GOD and heard Him. He proclaimed\n that the Kingdom of GOD is the\n Kingdom of a living Spirit Who\n holds converse with His\n people.'--BISHOP WESTCOTT._\n\n\n _'Some place their religion in\n books, some in images, some in the\n pomp and splendour of external\n worship, but some with illuminated\n understandings hear what the Holy\n Spirit speaketh in their\n hearts'--THOMAS A KEMPIS._\n\n\n _'Lord, when I look upon mine own\n life it seems Thou hast led me so\n carefully, so tenderly, Thou canst\n have attended to none else; but\n when I see how wonderfully Thou\n hast led the world and art leading\n it, I am amazed that Thou hast had\n time to attend to such as\n I.'--AUGUSTINE._\n\n\n\n\nII. 'PURE FOY, MA JOYE'\n\n\n'He is stiff as a tree and pure as a bell, and we could never bow\nhim.' So spoke the rough soldiers of Scarborough Castle of their\nprisoner, George Fox, after he had been set at liberty. A splendid\nthing it was for soldiers to say of a prisoner whom they had held\nabsolutely in their power. But a tree does not grow stiff all at once.\nIt takes many years for a tiny seedling to grow into a sturdy oak. A\nbell has to undergo many processes before it gains its perfect form\nand pure ringing note. And a whole lifetime of joys and sorrows had\nbeen needed to develop the 'stiffness' (or steadfastness, as we should\ncall it now) and purity of character that astonished the soldiers in\ntheir prisoner. There will not be much story in this history of George\nFox's early days, but it is the foundation-stone on which most of the\nlater stories will be built.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt was in July 1624, the last year in which James the First, King of\nEngland, ruled in his palace at Whitehall, that far away in a quiet\nLeicestershire village their first baby was born to a weaver and his\nwife. They lived in a small cottage with a thatched roof and wooden\nshutters, in a village then known as 'Drayton-in-the-Clay,' because of\nthe desolate waters of the marshlands that lay in winter time close\nround the walls of the little hamlet. Even though the fens and marshes\nhave now long ago been drained and turned into fertile country, the\nvillage is still called 'Fenny Drayton.' The weaver's name was\nChristopher Fox. His wife's maiden name had been Mary Lago; and the\nname they gave to their first little son was George.\n\nMary Lago came 'of the stock of the martyrs': that is to say, either\nher parents or her grand-parents had been put to death for their\nfaith. They had been burnt at the stake, probably, in one of the\npersecutions in the reign of Queen Mary. From her 'martyr stock' Mary\nLago must have learned, when she was quite a little girl, to worship\nGod in purity of faith. Later on, after she had become the mother of\nlittle George, it was no wonder that her baby son sitting on her knee,\nlooking up into her face, or listening to her stories, learned from\nthe very beginning to try to be 'Pure as a Bell.'\n\nMary Lago's husband, Christopher Fox, did not come 'of the stock of\nthe martyrs,' but evidently he had inherited from his ancestors plenty\nof tough courage and sturdy sense. Almost the only story remembered\nabout him is that one day he stuck his cane into the ground after\nlistening to a long dispute and exclaimed: 'Now I see that if a man\nwill but stick to the truth it will bear him out.'\n\nWhen little George grew old enough to scramble down from his mother's\nknee and to walk with unsteady steps across the stone-flagged floor of\nthe cottage, there was his weaver father sitting at his loom, making a\npleasant rhythmic sound that filled the small house with music. As the\nboy watched the skilful hands sending the flying shuttle in and out\namong the threads, he learned from his father, not only the right way\nto weave good reliable stuff, but also how to weave the many coloured\nthreads of everyday life into a strong character. The village\npeople called his father 'Righteous Christer,' which shows that he too\nmust have been 'stiff as a tree' in following what he knew to be\nright; for a name like that is not very easily earned where village\neyes are sharp and village tongues are shrewd.\n\n[Illustration: THE BOYHOOD OF GEORGE FOX]\n\nLess than a mile from the weaver's cottage stood the Church and the\nManor House side by side. The churchyard had a wall of solid red\nbricks, overshadowed by a border of solemn old yew-trees. The Manor\nHouse was encircled by a moat on which graceful white swans swam to\nand fro. For centuries the Purefoy family had been Squires of Drayton\nvillage. They had inhabited the Manor House while they were alive, and\nhad been buried in the churchyard close by after they were dead. The\npresent Squire was a certain COLONEL GEORGE PUREFOY. It may have been\nafter him that 'Righteous Christer' called his eldest son George, or\nit may have been after that other George, 'Saint George for Merrie\nEngland,' whose image killing the Dragon was to be seen engraved on\neach rare golden 'noble' that found its way to the weaver's home.\nChristopher and Mary Fox were both of them possessed of more education\nthan was usual among country people at that time, when reading and\nwriting were still rare accomplishments. 'Righteous Christer' was an\nimportant man in the small village. Besides being a weaver, he was\nalso a churchwarden, and was able to sign his own name in bold\ncharacters, as may still be seen to-day in the parish registers, where\nhis fellow-churchwarden, being unable to read or write, was only able\nto sign his name with a cross. Unfortunately this same register,\nwhich ought to record the exact day of July 1624 on which little\nGeorge was baptized here in the old church, no longer mentions him,\nsince, more than a hundred years after his time, the wife of the\nSexton of Fenny Drayton, running short of paper to cover her jam-pots,\nmust needs lay hands on the valuable Church records and tear out a few\npriceless pages just here. So, although several other brothers and\nsisters followed George and came to live in the weaver's cottage\nduring the next few years, we know none of their ages or birthdays,\nuntil we come to the record of the baptism of the youngest sister\nSarah. Happily her page came last of all, after the Sexton's jam was\nfinished, and thus Sarah's name escaped being made into the lid of a\njam-pot. But we will hope that the weaver and his wife remembered and\nkept all their children's birthdays on the right days, even though\nthey are forgotten now. However that may have been, George's parents\n'endeavoured to train him up, as they did their other children, in the\ncommon way of worship--his mother especially being eminent for piety:\nbut even from a child he was seen to be of another frame of mind from\nhis brethren, for he was more religious, retired, still and solid, and\nwas also observing beyond his age. His mother, seeing this\nextraordinary temper and godliness, which so early did shine through\nhim, so that he would not meddle with childish games, carried herself\nindulgent towards him.... Meanwhile he learned to read pretty well,\nand to write as much as would serve to signify his meaning to others.'\n\nWhen he saw older people behaving in a rowdy, frivolous way, it\ndistressed him, and the little boy used to say to himself: 'If ever I\ncome to be a man, surely I will not be so wanton.'\n\n'When I came to eleven years of age,' he says himself in his Journal,\n'I knew pureness and righteousness; for while I was a child I was\ntaught how to walk so as to be kept pure, and to be faithful in two\nways, both inwardly to God, and outwardly to man, and to keep to Yea\nand Nay in all things.'\n\nAt that time there was a law obliging everybody to attend Church on\nSundays, and as the services lasted for several hours at a time, the\nweaver's children doubtless had time to look about them, and learned\nto know the stones of the old church well. When the Squire and his\nfamily were at home they sat in the Purefoy Chapel in the North Aisle.\nFrom this Chapel a door in the wall opened on to a path that led\nstraight over the drawbridge across the moat to the Manor House. It\nmust have been interesting for all the village children to watch for\nthe opening and shutting of that door. But up in the chancel there\nwas, and still is, something even more interesting: the big tomb that\na certain Mistress Jocosa or Joyce Purefoy had put up to the memory of\nher husband, who had died in the days of good Queen Bess.\n\n'PURE FOY, MA JOYE,' the black letters of the family motto, can still\nbe read on a marble scroll. If George in his boyhood ever asked his\nmother what the French words meant, Mary Fox, who was, we are told,\n'accomplished above her degree in the place where she lived,' may have\nbeen able to tell him that they mean, in English, 'Pure faith is my\nJoy'; or that, keeping the rhyme, they might be translated as\nfollows:--\n\n 'MY FAITH PURE, MY JOY SURE.'\n\nThen remembering what had happened in her own family, surely she would\nadd, 'And I, who come of martyr stock, know that that is true. Even if\nyou have to suffer for it, my son, even if you have to die for it,\nkeep your Faith pure, and your Joy will be sure in the end.'\n\nThen Righteous Christer would take the little lad up on his shoulder\nand show him the broken spear above the tomb, the crest of the\nPurefoys, and tell him its story. Hundreds of years before, one of the\nSquires of this family had defended his liege lord on the battle-field\nat the risk of his own life, and even after his weapon, a spear, had\nbeen broken in his hand. His lord, out of gratitude for this, had\ngiven his faithful follower, not only the right to wear the broken\nspear in token of his valour ever after as a crest, but also by his\nname and by his motto to proclaim to all men the PURE FAITH (PUREFOY)\nthat had given him this sure and lasting joy. Ever since, for hundreds\nof years, the Purefoy family had handed down, by their name, by their\nmotto, and by the broken spear on their crest, this noble tradition of\nloyalty and allegiance--enshrined like a shining jewel in the centre\nof the muddy village of Drayton-in-the-Clay.\n\nThis was not the only battle story the boy must have known well. A few\nmiles from Fenny Drayton is 'the rising ground of Market Bosworth,'\nbetter known as Bosworth Field. As he grew older George loved to\nwander over the fields that surrounded his birthplace. He 'must have\noften passed the site of Henry's camp, perhaps may have drunk\nsometimes at the well at which Richard is said to have quenched his\nthirst.' But although his home was near this old battlefield, the boy\ngrew up in a peaceful England. Probably no one in Fenny Drayton\nimagined that in a very few years the smiling English meadows would\nonce more be drenched in blood. George Fox in his country home was\nbrought up to follow country pursuits, and was especially skilful in\nthe management of sheep. He says in his Journal: 'As I grew up, my\nrelations thought to have made me a priest, but others persuaded to\nthe contrary. Whereupon I was put to a man who was a shoemaker by\ntrade, and dealt in wool. He also used grazing and sold cattle; and a\ngreat deal went through my hands. While I was with him he was blest,\nbut after I left him, he broke and came to nothing. I never wronged\nman or woman in all that time.... While I was in that service, I used\nin my dealings the word \"Verily,\" and it was a common saying among\nthose that knew me, \"if George says Verily, there is no altering him.\"\nWhen boys and rude persons would laugh at me, I let them alone, but\npeople generally had a love to me for my innocence and honesty.\n\n'When I came towards 19 years of age, being upon business at a Fair,\none of my cousins, whose name was Bradford, a professor, having\nanother professor with him, asked me to drink part of a jug of beer\nwith them. I, being thirsty, went with them, for I loved any that had\na sense of good. When we had drunk a glass apiece, they began to drink\nhealths and called for more drink, agreeing together that he that\nwould not drink should pay for all. I was grieved that they should do\nso, and putting my hand into my pocket took out a groat and laid it on\nthe table before them, saying, \"If it be so, I will leave you.\" So I\nwent away, and when I had done my business I returned home, but did\nnot go to bed that night, nor could I sleep, but sometimes walked up\nand down and prayed and cried unto the Lord, who said to me: \"Thou\nmust forsake all, young and old, keep out of all and be a stranger to\nall.\"\n\n'Then at the command of God, the 9th of the 7th month,[1] 1643, I left\nmy relations, and broke off all familiarity or fellowship with young\nor old.'\n\nThe old-fashioned English of the 'Journal' makes this story rather\npuzzling at the first reading, because several words have changed in\nmeaning since it was written. The name 'professors,' did not then mean\nlearned men who teach or lecture in a University, but any men who\n'professed' to be particularly religious and good. These\n'professionally religious people' are generally known as 'the\nPuritans,' and it was meeting with these bad specimens among them who\n'professed' a religion they did not attempt to practise, that so\ndismayed George Fox. Here at any rate 'Pure Faith' was not being kept\neither to God or men. He must find a more solid foundation on which to\nrest his own soul's loyalty and allegiance. Over the porch of the\nChurch at Fenny Drayton is painted now, not the Purefoy motto, but the\nwords: 'I will go forth in the strength of the Lord God.' It was from\nthis place that George Fox set forth on the long search for a 'Pure\nFaith' that, when he found it, was to bring both to him and to many\nthousands of his countrymen a 'Sure Joy.'\n\nWhy Righteous Christer and his wife did not help George more at this\ntime remains a puzzle. They may have been afraid lest he was making a\nterrible mistake in leaving the worship they knew and followed, or\nthey may have guessed that God was really calling him to do some work\nfor Him bigger than they could understand, and may have felt that they\ncould help their boy best by leaving him free to follow the Voice that\nspoke to him in the depths of his own heart, even if he had to fight\nhis own battles unaided. Or possibly their thoughts were too full of\nall the actual battles that were filling the air just then to think\nany other troubles important. For our Quaker Saints are not legendary\npeople; they are a real part of English History.\n\nAll through the years of George's boyhood the struggle between King\nCharles the First and his Parliament had been getting more tense and\nembittered. The abolition of the Star Chamber (May 1640), the\nattempted arrest of the five Members (October 1642), the trial and\ndeath, first of Strafford (May 1641) and then of Laud (January\n1645)--all these events had been convulsing the great heart of the\nEnglish nation during the long years while young George had been\nquietly keeping his master's sheep and cattle in his secluded\nLeicestershire village.\n\nA year before he left home the long-dreaded Civil War had at last\nbroken out. But the Civil War that broke out in the soul of the young\nshepherd lad, the struggle between good and evil when he saw his\nPuritan cousin tempting other people to drink and carouse, was to him\na more momentous event than all the outward battles that were raging.\nHis Journal hardly mentions the rival armies of King and Parliament\nthat were marching through the land. Yet in reading of his early\nstruggles in his own spirit, we must always keep in the background of\nour minds the thought of the great national struggle that was raging\nat the same time. It was not in the orderly, peaceful, settled England\nof his earliest years that the boy grew to manhood, but in an England\nthat was being torn asunder by the rival faiths and passions of her\nsons. Men's minds were filled with the perplexities of great national\nproblems of Church and State, of tyranny and freedom. No wonder that\nat such a time everyone was too busy to spare much sympathy or many\nthoughts for the spiritual perplexities of one obscure country lad.\n\nRight into the very middle, then, of this troubled, seething England,\nGeorge Fox plunged when he left his home at Fenny Drayton. The battle\nof Marston Moor was fought the following year, July 1644, and Naseby\nthe summer after that. But George was not heeding outward battles. Up\nand down the country he walked, seeking for help in his spiritual\ndifficulties from all the different kinds of people he came across;\nand there were a great many different kinds. The England of that day\nwas not only torn by Civil War, it was also split up into innumerable\ndifferent sects, now that the attempt to force everyone to worship\naccording to one prescribed fashion was at length being abandoned. In\none small Yorkshire town it is recorded that there were no less than\nforty of these sects worshipping in different ways about this time,\nwhile new sects were continually arising.\n\nPerhaps it was a generous wish to give the professors another chance\nand not to judge the whole party from the bad specimens he had met,\nthat made George go back to the Puritans for help. At first they made\nmuch of the young enquirer; but, alas! they all had the same defect as\nthose he had met already. Their spoken profession sounded very fine,\nbut they did not carry it out in their lives.\n\n'They sought to be acquainted with me, but I was afraid of them, for I\nwas sensible they did not possess what they professed.' In other\nwords, their faith did not ring true. The professors were certainly\nnot 'Pure as a Bell.'\n\nGeorge Fox's test was always the same, both for his own religion and\nother people's: 'Is this faith real? Is it true? Can you actually live\nout what you profess to believe? And do you? Is your faith pure? Is\nyour joy sure?'\n\nFinding that, in the case of the professors, a sorrowful 'No' was the\nonly answer that their lives gave to these questions, George says: 'A\nstrong temptation to despair came over me. I then saw how Christ was\ntempted, and mighty troubles I was in. Sometimes I kept myself retired\nin my chamber, and often walked solitary in the Chace to wait upon the\nLord.'\n\nIt must not be forgotten that part of the Puritan worship consisted in\nmaking enormously long prayers in spoken words, and preaching sermons\nthat lasted several hours at a time. George Fox became more and more\nsure that this was not the worship God wanted from him, as he thought\nover these matters in solitude under the trees of Barnet Chace.\n\nAfter a time he went back to his relations in Leicestershire. They saw\nthe youth was unhappy, and very naturally thought it would be far\nbetter for him to settle down and have a happy home of his own than to\ngo wandering about the country in distress about the state of his\nsoul.\n\n'Being returned into Leicestershire, my relations would have had me\nmarried; but I told them I was but a lad and must get wisdom.' Other\npeople said: 'No, don't marry him yet. Put him into the auxiliary band\namong the soldiery. Once he gets fighting, that will soon knock the\nnotions out of his head.'\n\nYoung George would not consent to this plan either. He had his own\nbattle to fight, his own victory to win, unaided and alone. He did not\nyet know that it was useless for him to seek for outward help. Being\nstill only a lad of nineteen he thought that surely there must be\nsomeone among his elders who could help him, if only he could find out\nthe right person. Having failed with the professors, he determined\nnext to consult the priests and see if they could advise him in his\nperplexities. 'Priests' is another word that has changed its meaning\nalmost as much as 'professors' has done. By 'priests' George Fox does\nnot mean Anglican or Roman Catholic clergy, but simply men of any\ndenomination who were paid for preaching. At this particular time the\nEnglish Rectories and Vicarages were mostly occupied by Presbyterians\nand Independents. It was they who preached and who were paid for\npreaching in the village churches, which is what he means by calling\nthem 'priests' in his Journal.\n\nIn these stories there is no need to think of George Fox as arguing or\nfighting against real Christianity in any of the churches. He was\nfighting, rather, against sham religion, formality and hypocrisy\nwherever he found them. In that great fight all who truly love Truth\nand God are on the same side, even though they are called by different\nnames. So remember that these old labels that he uses for his\nopponents have changed their meaning very considerably in the three\nhundred years that have passed since his birth. Remember too that the\nworld had had at that time nearly three hundred years less in which to\nlearn good manners than it has now. The manners and customs of the day\nwere much rougher than those of modern times. However much we may\ndisagree with people, there is no need for us to tell them so in the\nsame sort of harsh language that was too often used by George Fox and\nhis contemporaries.\n\nTo these Presbyterian priests, therefore, George went next to ask for\ncounsel and help. The first he tried was the Reverend Nathaniel\nStephens, the priest of his own village of Fenny Drayton. At first\nPriest Stephens and young George seemed to get on very well together.\nAnother priest was often with Stephens, and the two learned men would\noften talk and argue with the boy, and be astonished at the wise\nanswers he gave. 'It is a very good, full answer,' Stephens once said\nto George, 'and such an one as I have not heard.' He applauded the boy\nand spoke highly of him, and even used the answers he gave in his own\nsermons on Sundays. This was a compliment, but it cost him George's\nfriendship and respect, because he felt it was a deceitful practice.\nThe Journal says: 'What I said in discourse to him on week-days, he\nwould preach of on first days, which gave me a dislike to him. This\npriest afterwards became my great persecutor.'\n\nPriest Stephens' wife was also very much opposed to Fox, and it is\nsaid that on one occasion she 'very unseemly plucked and haled him up\nand down, and scoffed and laughed.' Fox always felt that this priest\nand his wife were his bitter foes; but other people described Priest\nStephens as 'a good scholar and a useful preacher, in his younger days\na very hard student, in his old age pleasant and cheerful.' So, as\ngenerally happens, there may have been a friendly side to this couple\nfor those who took them the right way.\n\nAfter this, Fox continues, 'I went to another ancient priest at\nMancetter in Warwickshire, and reasoned with him about the ground of\ndespair and temptations; but he was ignorant of my condition; he bade\nme take tobacco and sing psalms. Tobacco was a thing I did not love,\nand psalms I was not in a state to sing; I could not sing. Then he bid\nme come again and he would tell me many things; but when I came he was\nangry and pettish; for my former words had displeased him. He told my\ntroubles, sorrows and griefs to his servants so that it got among the\nmilk-lasses. It grieved me that I should have opened my mind to such a\none. I saw they were all miserable comforters, and this brought my\ntroubles more upon me. Then I heard of a priest living about Tamworth,\nwhich was accounted an experienced man, and I went seven miles to\nhim; but I found him like an empty hollow cask. I heard also of one\ncalled Dr. Craddock of Coventry, and went to him. I asked him the\nground of temptations and despair, and how troubles came to be wrought\nin man? He asked me, \"Who was Christ's Father and Mother?\" I told him\nMary was His Mother, and that He was supposed to be the son of Joseph,\nbut He was the Son of God. Now, as we were walking together in his\ngarden, the alley being narrow, I chanced, in turning, to set my foot\non the side of a bed, at which the man was in a rage, as if his house\nhad been on fire. Thus all our discourse was lost, and I went away in\nsorrow, worse than I was when I came. I thought them miserable\ncomforters, and saw they were all as nothing to me; for they could not\nreach my condition. After this I went to another, one Macham, a priest\nin high account. He would needs give me some physic, and I was to have\nbeen let blood; but they could not get one drop of blood from me,\neither in arms or head (though they endeavoured to do so), my body\nbeing, as it were, dried up with sorrows, grief and troubles, which\nwere so great upon me that I could have wished I had never been born,\nor that I had been born blind, that I might never have seen wickedness\nor vanity; and deaf, that I might never have heard vain and wicked\nwords, or the Lord's name blasphemed. When the time called Christmas\ncame, while others were feasting and sporting themselves, I looked out\npoor widows from house to house, and gave them some money. When I was\ninvited to marriages (as I sometimes was) I went to none at all, but\nthe next day, or soon after, I would go to visit them; and if they\nwere poor, I gave them some money; for I had wherewith both to keep\nmyself from being chargeable to others, and to administer something to\nthe necessities of those who were in need.'\n\nThree years passed in this way, and then at last the first streaks of\nlight began to dawn in the darkness. They came, not in any sudden or\nstartling way, but little by little his soul was filled with the hope\nof dawn:\n\n Silently as the morning\n Comes on when night is done,\n Or the crimson streak, on ocean's cheek,\n Grows into the great sun.\n\nHe says, 'About the beginning of the year 1646, as I was going into\nCoventry, a consideration arose in me how it was said, \"All Christians\nare believers, both Protestants and Papists,\" and the Lord opened to\nme, that if all were believers, then they were all born of God, and\nwere passed from death unto life, and that none were true believers\nbut such, and though others said they were believers, yet they were\nnot.'\n\nPossibly George Fox was looking up at the 'Three Tall Spires' of\nCoventry when this thought came to him, and remembering in how many\ndifferent ways Christians had worshipped under their shadow: first the\nLatin Mass, then the order of Common Prayer, and now the Puritan\nservice. 'At another time,' he says, 'as I was walking in a field on a\nfirst day morning, the Lord opened to me \"That being bred at Oxford or\nCambridge was not enough to fit and qualify men to be ministers of\nChrist:\" and I wondered at it because it was the common belief of\npeople. But I saw it clearly as the Lord had opened it to me, and was\nsatisfied and admired the goodness of the Lord, who had opened the\nthing to me this morning.... So that which opened in me struck I saw\nat the priests' ministry. But my relations were much troubled that I\nwould not go with them to hear the priest; for I would go into the\norchard or the fields with my Bible by myself.... I saw that to be a\ntrue believer was another thing than they looked upon it to be ... so\nneither them nor any of the dissenting people could I join with.\n\n'At another time it was opened in me, \"That God who made the world did\nnot dwell in temples made with hands.\" This at the first seemed\nstrange, because both priests and people used to call their temples or\nchurches dreadful places, holy ground and the temples of God. But the\nLord showed me clearly that He did not dwell in these temples which\nmen had made, but in people's hearts.'\n\nIn this way George Fox had found out for himself three of the\nfoundation truths of a pure faith:--\n\n 1st. That all Christians are believers, Protestants and Papists\n alike.\n\n 2nd. That Christ was come to teach His people Himself.\n\n 3rd. That the Temple in which God wishes to dwell is in the\n hearts of His children.\n\nNow that George Fox was sure of these three things, it troubled him\nless if he was with people whose beliefs he could not share.\n\nThe first set of people he came among believed that women had no\nsouls, 'no more than a goose has a soul' added one of them in a light,\njesting tone. George Fox reproved them and told them it was a wrong\nthing to say, and added that Mary in her song said, 'My soul doth\nmagnify the Lord, My spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour,' so she\nmust have had a soul. George by this time had learned to know his\nBible so well in the long quiet hours out of doors, when it had been\nhis only companion, that it was easy to him to find the exact\nquotation he wanted in an argument. It was said of him, later on, by\nwise and learned men, that if the Bible itself were ever to be lost it\nmight almost be found again in the mouth of George Fox, so well did he\nknow it.\n\nThe next set of people he came to were great dreamers. They guided\ntheir lives in the daytime according to the dreams they had happened\nto dream during the night. And I should think a fine mess they must\nhave made of things! George helped these dreamers to know more of\nrealities, till, later on, many of them came out of their dream-world\nand became Friends.\n\nAfter this at last he came upon a set of people who really did seem to\nunderstand him and to care for the same things that he did. They were\ncalled 'Shattered Baptists,' because they had broken off from the\nother Baptists in the neighbourhood who 'did the Lord's work\nnegligently' and did not act up to what they professed. This was the\nvery same fault that had driven George forth from among the professors\nat the beginning of his long quest. It is easy to imagine that he and\nthese people were happy together. 'With these,' he says, 'I had some\nmeetings and discourses, but my troubles continued and I was often\nunder great temptations. I fasted much, walked abroad in solitary\nplaces many days, and often took my Bible and sat in hollow trees and\nlonesome places till night came on, and frequently in the night walked\nabout by myself.... O the everlasting love of God to my soul, when I\nwas in great distress! when my troubles and torments were great, then\nwas His love exceeding great.... When all my hopes in all men were\ngone so that I had nothing outwardly to help me, nor could I tell what\nto do, then, O then, I heard a Voice which said, \"There is one, even\nChrist Jesus, that can speak to thy condition.\" When I heard it, my\nheart did leap for joy.'\n\nThis message was like the rising of the sun to George Fox. The long\nnight of darkness was over now, the sun had risen, and though there\nmight be clouds and storms ahead of him still he had come out into the\nfull clear light of day.\n\n'My desires after the Lord grew stronger,' he writes, 'and zeal in the\npure knowledge of God and of Christ alone, without the help of any\nman, book, or writing.... Then the Lord gently led me along and let me\nsee His love which was endless and eternal, surpassing all the\nknowledge that men have in the natural state or can get by history and\nbooks. That love let me see myself as I was without him.... At another\ntime I saw the great love of God, and was filled with admiration at\nthe infiniteness of it.'\n\nThe truths that George Fox is trying to express are difficult to put\ninto words. It is the more difficult for us to understand what he\nmeans because his language is not quite the same as ours. Other words\nbesides 'priest' and 'professor' have altered their meanings. When he\nspeaks of having had things 'opened' to him, we should be more likely\nto say he had had them revealed to him, or had had a revelation.\nPerhaps these 'openings' and 'seeings' that he describes, though they\nmeant much to him, do not sound to us now like very great discoveries.\nThey are only what we have been accustomed to hear all our lives. But\nthen, whom have we to thank for that? In large measure George Fox\nhimself.\n\nIn the immense bush forests that cover an unexplored country or\ncontinent the first man who attempts to make a track through them has\nthe hardest task. He has to guess the right direction, to cut down the\nfirst trees, to 'blaze a trail,' to help every one who follows him to\nfind the way a little more easily. That man is called a Pioneer.\nGeorge Fox was a pioneer in the spiritual world. He discovered a true\npath for himself, a path leading right through the thick forest of\nhuman selfishness and sin and out into the bright sunshine beyond. In\nhis lonely Quest through those years of struggle he was indeed\n'blazing a trail' for us. If the track we tread nowadays is smooth and\neasy to tread, that is because of the pioneers who have gone before\nus. Our ease has been gained through their labours and sufferings and\nsteadfastness.\n\nThe track was not fully clear even yet to George Fox. He had more to\nlearn before he could make the right path plain to others; more to\nlearn, but chiefly more to suffer. To strengthen him beforehand for\nthose sufferings, he was given an assurance that never afterwards\nentirely left him. 'I saw the Infinite Love of God. I saw also that\nthere was an ocean of darkness and death; but an infinite ocean of\nlight and love which flowed over the ocean of darkness. In that also I\nsaw the infinite love of God, and I had great openings.' The Quest was\nended. Faith was pure, and Joy was sure at last.\n\n'Now was I come up in spirit, through the flaming sword, into the\nParadise of God. All things were made new, and all the creation gave\nanother smell to me beyond what words can utter. I knew nothing but\npureness, innocency, and righteousness, being renewed up to the image\nof God by Christ Jesus.... Great things did the Lord lead me into, and\nwonderful depths were opened to me, beyond what can by words be\ndeclared; but as people come into subjection by the Spirit of God, and\ngrow up in the Image and Power of the Almighty they may receive the\nword of wisdom that opens all things, and come to know the hidden\nunity in the Eternal Being.'\n\n'Thus travelled I in the Lord's service, as He led me.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The 7th month would be September, because the years then began\nwith March.\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE ANGEL OF BEVERLEY\n\n\n\n\n _'To instruct young lasses and\n maidens in whatever things was\n useful in the creation.'--R.\n ABRAHAM._\n\n\n _'It was the age of long\n discourses and ecstatic\n exercises.'--MORLEY'S CROMWELL._\n\n\n _'George Fox's preaching, in those\n early years, chiefly consisted of\n some few, but powerful and\n piercing words, to those whose\n hearts were already in some\n measure prepared to be capable of\n receiving this doctrine.'--SEWEL'S\n HISTORY._\n\n\n _'But at the first convincement\n when friends could not put off\n their hats to people, nor say you\n to a particular but thee and thou;\n and could not bowe nor use the\n world's fashions nor customs ...\n people would not trade with them\n nor trust them ... but afterwards\n people came to see friends honesty\n and truthfulness.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'The light which shows us our\n sins is that which heals us.'--G.\n FOX._\n\n\n _'GOD works slowly.'--BISHOP\n WESTCOTT._\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE ANGEL OF BEVERLEY\n\n\nAmong all the children of Drayton village who watched eagerly for the\ndoor to open into the Purefoy Chapel on Sundays, when the Squire's\nfamily were at home, none watched for it more intently than blue-eyed\nCecily, the old huntsman's granddaughter. Cecily's parents were both\ndead, and she lived with her grandfather in one of the twin lodges\nthat guarded the Manor gates. Old Thomas had fought at the Squire's\nside abroad in years gone by. Now, aged and bent, he, too, watched for\nthat door to open, as he sat in his accustomed place in the church\nwith Cecily by his side. Old Thomas's eyes followed his master\nlovingly, when Colonel Purefoy entered, heading the little\nprocession,--a tall, erect, soldierly-looking man, though his hair was\ndecidedly grey, and grey too was the pointed beard that he still wore\nover a small ruff, in the fashion of the preceding reign.\n\nClose behind him came his wife. The village people spoke of her as\n'Madam,' since, although English born, and, indeed, possessed of\nconsiderable property in her own native county of Yorkshire, she was\nattached to the Court of Queen Henrietta Maria, and had caught\nsomething of the foreign grace of her French mistress.\n\nBut it was the two children for whose coming Cecily waited most\neagerly, as they followed their parents. Edward Purefoy, the heir, a\ntall, handsome boy, came in first, leading by the hand his dainty\nlittle sister Jocosa, who seemed too fairy-like to support the\nstately family name, and who was generally known by its shorter form\nof Joyce.\n\nLast of all came a portly waiting-maid, carrying a silky-haired\nspaniel on a cushion under each arm. These petted darlings, King\nCharles' own special favourites, were all the rage at Court at this\ntime, and accompanied their masters and mistresses everywhere, even to\nchurch, where--fortunate beings--they were allowed to slumber\npeacefully on cushions at their owners' feet throughout the long\nservices, when mere human creatures were obliged at any rate to\nendeavour to keep awake.\n\nCecily had no eyes to spare, even for the pet-dogs, on the eventful\nSunday when the Squire and his family first appeared again at church\nafter an unusually long absence. For there was little Mistress Jocosa,\nall clad in white satin, like a princess in a fairy tale, and as\npretty as a picture. And so the great Court painter, Sir Anthony\nVandyck, must have thought, seeing he had chosen to paint her portrait\nand make a picture of her himself in this same costume, with its\nstiff, straight, shining skirt, tight bodice, pointed lace collar, and\nclose-fitting transparent cap that covered, but could not hide, the\nwaves of dark crisp hair. When Cecily discovered that a string of\npearls was clasped round the other little girl's neck, she gave a long\ngasp of delight, a gasp that ended in an irrepressible sigh. For, a\nmoment later, this dazzling vision, with its dancing eyes, delicate\nfeatures, and glowing cheeks, was lost to sight. All through the\nremainder of the service it stayed hidden in the depths of the high\nold family pew, whence nothing could be seen save the top of the\nSquire's silver head, rising occasionally, like an erratic half moon,\nover the edge of the dark oak wood.\n\nNot another glimpse was to be had of the white satin princess; there\nwas no one to look at but the ordinary village folk whom Cecily could\nsee every day of her life: young George Fox, for instance, the\nWeaver's son, who was staring straight before him as usual, paying not\nthe smallest heed to the entrance of all these marvellous beings.\nFancy staring at the marble tomb erected by a long dead Lady Jocosa,\nand never even noticing her living namesake of to-day, with all her\nsparkles and flushes! Truly the Weaver's son was a strange lad, as the\nwhole village knew.\n\nA strange boy indeed, Joyce Purefoy thought in her turn, as, passing\nclose by him on her way out of church, she happened to look up and to\nmeet the steady gaze of the young eyes that were at the same time so\npiercing and yet so far away. She could not see his features clearly,\nsince the sun, pouring in through a tall lancet window behind him,\ndazzled her eyes. Yet, even through the blurr of light, she felt the\nclear look that went straight through and found the real Joyce lying\ndeep down somewhere, though hidden beneath all the finery with which\nshe had hoped to dazzle the village children.\n\nLate that same evening it was no fairy princess but a contrite little\ngirl who approached her mother's side at bed-time.\n\n'Forgive me, mother mine, I did pick just a few cherries from the tree\nabove the moat,' she whispered hesitatingly 'I was hot and they were\njuicy. Then, when you and my father crossed the bridge on our way to\nchurch and asked me had I taken any, I,--no--I did not exactly forget,\nbut I suppose I disremembered, and I said I had not had one.'\n\n'Jocosa!' exclaimed her mother sternly: 'What! You a Purefoy and my\ndaughter, yet not to be trusted to tell the truth! For the cherries,\nthey are a small matter, I gave you plenty myself later, but to lie\nabout even a trifle, it is that, that I mind.'\n\nThe little girl hung her head still lower. 'I know,' she said, 'it was\nshameful. Yet, in truth, I did confess at length.'\n\n'True,' answered her mother, 'and therefore thou art forgiven, and\nwithout a punishment; only remember thy name and take better heed of\nthy Pure Faith another time. What made thee come and tell me even\nnow?'\n\n'The sight of the broken spear in church,' stammered the little girl.\n'That began it, and then I partly remembered....'\n\nShe got no further. Even to her indulgent mother (and Madam Purefoy\nwas accounted an unwontedly tender parent in those days), Joyce could\nnot explain how it was, that, as the glance from those grave boyish\neyes fell upon her, out of the sunlit window, her 'disremembering'\nbecame suddenly a weight too heavy to be borne.\n\nJocosa Purefoy never forgot that Sunday, or her childish fault.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe visits of the Squire and his family to the old Manor House were\nfew and far between. The estates in Yorkshire that Madam Purefoy had\nbrought to her husband on her marriage were the children's real home.\nIt was several years after this before Cecily saw her fairy princess\nagain. The next glimpse was even more fleeting than their appearance\nin church, just a mere flash at the lodge gates as Jocosa and her\nbrother cantered past on their way out for a day's hunting. Old\nThomas, sitting in his arm-chair in the sun, looked critically and\nenviously at the man-servant who accompanied them. 'Too young--too\nyoung,' he muttered. His own hunting days were long past, but he could\nnot bear, even crippled with rheumatism as he was, that any one but\nhe, who had taught their father to sit a horse, should ride to hounds\nwith his children.\n\nCecily had some envious thoughts too. 'I should like very well to wear\na scarlet riding-dress and fur tippet, and a long red feather in my\nhat, and go a-hunting on old Snowball, instead of having to stop at\nhome and take care of grandfather and mind the house.'\n\nAfter she had closed the heavy iron gates with a clang, she pressed\nher nose between the bars and looked wistfully along the straight\nroad, carried on its high causeway above the fens, down which the gay\nriders were swiftly disappearing.\n\nBut, in spite of envious looks, the gaiety of the day was short-lived.\nDuring the very first run, Snowball put her foot into a rabbit-hole,\nand almost came down. 'Lamed herself, sure enough,' said the\nman-servant grimly. No more hunting for Snowball that day. The best\nthat could be hoped was that she might be able to carry her little\nmistress's light weight safely home, at a walking pace, over the few\nmiles that separated them from Drayton. Joyce could not return alone,\nand Edward would not desert his sister, though he could not repress a\nfew gloomy remarks on the homeward way.\n\n'To lose such a splendid dry day at this season! Once the weather\nbreaks and the floods are out, there will be no leaving the Manor\nHouse again for weeks, save by the causeway over the fens!'\n\nThus it was a rather melancholy trio that returned slowly by the same\nroad over which the ponies' feet had scampered gaily an hour or two\nbefore.\n\nWhen the chimneys of Drayton were coming in sight, a loud 'Halloo'\nmade the riders look round. A second fox must have led the hunt back\nin their direction after all. Sure enough, a speck of ruddy brown was\nto be seen slinking along beneath a haystack in the distance. Already\nthe hounds were scrambling across the road after him, while, except\nfor the huntsman, not a solitary rider was as yet to be seen anywhere.\n\nThe temptation was too strong for Edward. The brush might still be\nhis, if he were quick.\n\n'We are close at home. You will come to no harm now, sister,' he\ncalled. Then, raising his whip, he was off at a gallop, beckoning\nperemptorily to the groom to follow him. Not without a shade of\nremorse for deserting his little mistress, the man-servant obediently\ngave Snowball's bridle to Joyce, and set spurs to his horse. Then, as\nhe galloped away, he salved his conscience with the reflection that\n'after all, young Master's neck is in more danger than young Missie's,\nnow home is in sight.'\n\nJoyce, left alone, dismounted, in order to lead Snowball herself on\nthe uneven road across the fens. It was difficult to do this\nsatisfactorily, owing to the pony's lameness, and her long, clinging\nskirt, over which she was perpetually tripping. Therefore, looking\ndown over the hedgeless country for someone to help her, it was with\nreal relief that she caught sight of a tall youth close at hand, in a\npasture where sheep and cattle were grazing. All her life Joyce was\naccustomed to treat the people she met with the airs of a queen.\nTherefore, 'Hey! boy,' she called imperiously, 'come and help me!\nquick!'\n\nShe had to call more than once before the youth looked up, and when he\ndid, at first he made no motion in response. Then, seeing that the\npony really was limping badly, and that the little lady was obviously\nin difficulty, and was, moreover, a very little lady still, in spite\nof her peremptory tones, he changed his mind. Striding slowly towards\nher, he rather reluctantly closed the book he had been reading, and\nplaced it in his pocket. Then, without saying a single word, he put\nout his hand and taking Snowball's bridle from Joyce he proceeded to\nlead the pony carefully and cleverly over the stones.\n\nThe silence remained unbroken for a few minutes: the lad buried in his\nown thoughts, grave, earnest and preoccupied; the dainty damsel, her\nskirt held up now, satisfactorily, on both sides, skipping along, with\nglancing footsteps, as she tried to keep up with her companion's\nlonger paces, and at the same time to remember why this tall, silent\nboy seemed to her vaguely familiar. She could not see his face, for it\nwas turned towards Snowball, and Joyce herself scarcely came up to her\ncompanion's elbow.\n\nThey passed a cottage, set back at some distance from the road and\nhalf hidden by a cherry-tree with a few late leaves upon it, crimsoned\nby the first touch of November frost. A cherry-tree! The old memory\nflashed back in a moment.\n\n'I know who you are,' exclaimed Joyce, 'even though you don't speak a\nword. And I know your name. You are Righteous Christer the Weaver's\nson, and you are called George, like my father. You have grown so big\nand tall I did not know you at first, but now I do. Where do you\nlive?'\n\nThe boy pointed in the direction of the cottage under the cherry-tree.\nThe gentle whirr of the loom stole through the window as they\napproached.\n\n'And I have seen you before,' Joyce went on, 'a long time ago, the\nlast time we were here, on Sunday. It was in church,' she concluded\ntriumphantly.\n\n'Aye, in yon steeple-house,' answered her companion moodily, and with\nno show of interest. 'Very like.' His eyes wandered from the thatched\nroof of the cottage to where, high above the tall old yew-trees, a\nslender spire pointed heavenward.\n\nJoyce laughed at the unfamiliar word. 'That is a church, not a\nsteeple-house,' she corrected. 'Of course it has a steeple, but\nwherefore give it such a clumsy name?'\n\nHer companion made no reply. He seemed absorbed in a world of his own,\nthough still leading the pony carefully.\n\nJoyce, piqued at having her presence ignored even by a village lad,\ndetermined to arouse him. 'Moreover, I have heard Priest Stephens\nspeak of you to my father,' she went on, with a little pin-prick of\nemphasis on each word, though addressing her remarks apparently to no\none in particular, and with her dainty head tilted in the air.\n\nHer companion turned to her at once. 'What said the Priest?' he\nenquired quickly.\n\n'The Priest said, \"Never was such a plant bred in England before!\"\nWhat his words meant I know not--unless he was thinking of the proverb\nof certain plants that grow apace,' she added maliciously, looking up\nwith a gleam of fun at the tall figure beside her. 'And my father\nsaid....'\n\nColonel Purefoy's remark was not destined to be revealed, for they had\nreached the tall gateway by this time. Old Thomas, seeing his little\nmistress approaching, accompanied only by the Weaver's son, and with\nSnowball obviously damaged, had hobbled to meet them in spite of his\nrheumatics. Close at hand was Cecily, brimful of excitement at the\nsight of her fairy princess actually stopping at their own cottage\ndoor. The tall youth handed the pony's bridle to the old man, and was\ndeparting with evident relief, when a clear, imperious voice stopped\nhim--\n\n'Good-bye and good-day to you, Weaver's son, and thanks for your aid,'\nsaid Jocosa, like a queen dismissing a subject.\n\nThe tall figure looked down upon the patronizing little lady, as if\nfrom a remote height. 'Mayest thou verily fare well,' he said, almost\nwith solemnity, and then, without removing his hat or making any\ngesture of respect, he turned abruptly and was gone.\n\n'A strange boy,' Joyce said to herself a few minutes later as she\nstood on the stone bridge that crossed the moat in front of the Manor\nHouse. 'I did not like him; in fact I rather disliked him--but I\nshould like to see him again and find out what he meant by his\n\"steeple-house\" and \"verily.\"'\n\nCecily, left behind at the Lodge, very happy because her fairy\nprincess had actually thrown her a smile as she passed, was still\nfollowing the distant figure on the bridge with wistful eyes, as Joyce\nbusily searched her pockets for a few stray crumbs with which to feed\nthe swans in the moat. The scarlet riding-dress, glossy tippet, and\nscarlet feather in the big brown hat were all faithfully reflected in\nthe clear water below, except where the swans interrupted the vivid\npicture with dazzling snowy curves and orange webbed feet.\n\nMore critical eyes than Cecily's were also watching Joyce. High up on\nthe terrace, where a few late roses and asters were still in bloom,\ntwo figures were leaning over the stone parapet, looking down over the\nmoat. 'A fair maiden, indeed,' a voice was saying, in low, polished\ntones. The next moment the sound of her own name made the girl look\nup. There, coming towards her, at the very top of the flight of\nshallow stone steps that led from the terrace to the low stone bridge,\nshe saw her father, and with him a stranger, dressed, not like Colonel\nPurefoy, in a slightly archaic costume, but in the very latest fashion\nof King Charles's Court at Whitehall.\n\n'My father come home already! and a stranger with him! What an unlucky\nchance after the misadventure of the morning!'\n\nThrowing her remaining crumbs over the swans in a swift shower, Joyce\nmade haste up the stone steps, to greet the two gentlemen with the\nreverence always paid by children to their elders in those days.\n\nSomewhat to her surprise, her father bent down and kissed her cheek.\nThen, taking her hand, he led her towards the stranger, and presented\nher very gravely. 'My daughter, Jocosa: my good friend, Sir Everard\nDanvers.' 'Exactly as if I had been a grown-up lady at Court,' thought\nJoyce, delighted, with the delight of thirteen, at her own unexpected\nimportance. Her father had never paid her so much attention before.\nWell, at least he should see that she was worthy of it now. And Joyce\ndropped her lowest, most formal, curtsey, as the stranger bowed low\nover her hand. To curtsey at the edge of a flight of steps, and in a\nclinging riding skirt, was an accomplishment of which anyone might be\nproud. Was the stranger properly impressed? He appeared grave enough,\nanyhow, and a very splendid figure in his suit of sky-blue satin,\nshort shoulder cape, and pointed lace collar. He was a strikingly\nhandsome man, of a dark-olive complexion, with good features, and\njet-black hair; but strangely enough, the sight of him made Joyce turn\nback to her father, feeling as if she had never understood before the\ncomfort of his quiet, familiar face. Even the old-fashioned ruff gave\nher a sense of home and security. She would tell him about the\nmorning's disasters now after all. But Colonel Purefoy's questions\ncame first. 'How now, Jocosa, and wherefore alone? My daughter rides\nwith her brother in my absence,' he added, turning to his companion.\n\n'Father,--Snowball,...' began Joyce bravely, her colour rising as she\nspoke.\n\n'Talk not of snowballs,' interrupted Sir Everard gallantly, 'it may\nbe November by the calendar, but here it is high summer yet, with\nroses all abloom.' He pointed to her crimsoning cheeks.\n\nThey quickly flushed a deeper crimson, evidently to the stranger's\namusement. 'Why here comes Maiden's Blush, Queen of all the Roses' he\nwent on, in a teasing voice. Then, turning to Colonel Purefoy, 'By my\nfaith, Purefoy,' he said, 'my scamp of a nephew is a lucky dog.'\n\nJoyce's bewilderment increased. What did it all mean? Was he\nplay-acting? Why did they both treat her so? The stranger's\npunctilious politeness had flattered her at first, but, since the\nmocking tone stole into his voice she felt that she hated him, and\nlooked round hoping to escape. Sir Everard was too quick for her. In\nthat instant he had managed to possess himself of her hand, and now he\nwas kissing it with exaggerated homage and deference, yet still with\nthat mocking smile that seemed to say--'Like it, or like it not,\nlittle I care.'\n\nJoyce had often seen people kiss her mother's hand, and had thought,\nas she watched the delightful process, how much she should enjoy it,\nwhen her own turn came. She knew better now: it was not a delightful\nprocess at all, it was simply hateful. A new Joyce suddenly woke up\nwithin her, a frightened, angry Joyce, who wanted to run away and\nhide. All her new-born dignity vanished in a moment. Scarcely waiting\nfor her father's amused permission: 'There then, maiden, haste to thy\nmother: she has news for thee'--she flew along the terrace and in at\nthe hall door. As she fled up the oak staircase that led to her\nmother's withdrawing-room, she vainly tried to shut her ears to the\nsounds of laughter that floated after her from the terrace below.\n\nMadam Purefoy was seated, half hidden behind her big, upright\nembroidery frame, in one of the recesses formed by the high, deeply\nmullioned windows. Thin rays of autumn sunshine filled the tapestried\nroom with pale, clear light. There was no possibility of mistaking the\ncolours of the silks that lay in their varied hues close under her\nhand. Why, then, had this skilful embroideress deliberately threaded\nher needle with a shade of brilliant blue silk? Why was she carefully\nusing it to fill in a lady's cheek without noticing, apparently, that\nanything was wrong? Yet, at the first sound of Joyce's light footfall\non the stairs she laid down her needle and listened, and held out her\narms, directly her daughter appeared, flushed and agitated, in the\ndoorway, waiting for permission to enter.\n\nMothers were mothers, it seems, even in the seventeenth century. In\nanother minute Joyce was in her arms, pouring out the whole history of\nthe morning. By this time Snowball's lameness had faded behind the\nremembrance of the encounter on the terrace.\n\n'Who is that man, mother? A courtier, I know, since he wears such\nbeautiful clothes. But wherefore comes he here? I thought I liked him,\nuntil he kissed my hand and laughed at me, and then I detested him. I\nhope I shall never see him again.' And she hid her face.\n\nBefore speaking, Mistress Purefoy left her seat and carefully closed\nthe casement, in order that their voices might not reach the ears of\nanyone on the terrace below. Then, taking Joyce on her knee as if she\nhad been still a child, she explained to her that the stranger, Sir\nEverard Danvers, was a well-known and favourite attendant of the\nQueen's. 'And it is by her wish that he comes hither for thee,\nMignonne.'\n\n'For me?' Joyce grew rosier than ever; 'I am too young yet to be a\nMaid of Honour as thou wert in thy girlhood. What does her Majesty\nknow about me?' she questioned.\n\n'Only that thou art my daughter, and that she is my very good friend.\nHer Majesty knows also that, in time, thou wilt inherit some of my\nYorkshire estates; and therefore she hath sent Sir Everard to demand\nthy hand in marriage for his nephew and ward, the young Viscount\nDanvers, whose property marches with ours. Moreover, seeing that the\ntimes are unsettled, her Majesty hath signified her pleasure that not\na mere betrothal, but the marriage ceremony itself, shall take place\nas soon as possible in the Chapel Royal at St. James's, since the\nyoung Viscount, thy husband to be, is attached to her suite as a\npage.'\n\n'But I am not fourteen yet,' faltered Joyce, ''tis full soon to be\nwed.' A vista of endless court curtseys and endless mocking strangers\nswam before her eyes, and prevented her being elated with the prospect\nthat would otherwise have appeared so dazzling.\n\nHer mother stifled a sigh. 'Aye truly,' she replied, 'thy father and I\nhave both urged that. But her Majesty hath never forgotten the French\nfashion of youthful marriages, and is bent on the scheme. She says,\nwith truth, that thou must needs have a year or two's education after\nthy marriage for the position thou wilt have in future to fill at\nCourt, and 'tis better to have the contract settled first.'\n\nEducation! To be married at thirteen might be a glorious thing, but to\nbe sent back, a bride, for a year or two of education thereafter was a\ndismal prospect.\n\nThat night there were tears of excitement and dismay on the pillow of\nthe Viscountess-to-be as she thought of the alarming future. Yet she\nwoke up, laughing, in the morning sunlight, for she had dreamt that\nshe was fastening a coronet over her brown hair.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe wedding festivities a few weeks later left nothing to be desired.\nDay after day Joyce found herself the caressed centre of a brilliant\nthrong that held but one disappointing figure--her boy bridegroom. 'He\nhas eyes like a weasel, and a nose like a ferret,' was the bride's\nsecret criticism, when the introduction took place. But, after all,\nthe bridegroom was one of the least important parts of the wedding:\nfar less important than the Prince of Wales, who led her out to dance,\nand whom she much preferred: far less important also than the\nbridegroom's cousin, Abigail, a bold, black-eyed girl who took\ncountry-bred Joyce under her protection at once, and saved her from\nmany a mistake. Abigail was already at the school to which Joyce was\nto be sent. She herself was betrothed, though not as yet married, to\nmy Lord Darcy, and was therefore able to instruct Joyce herself in\nmany of the needful accomplishments of her new position.\n\nThe school days that followed were not unhappy ones, since, far better\nthan their books, both girls loved their embroidery work and other\n'curious and ingenious manufactures,' especially the new and\nfashionable employment of making samplers, which had just been\nintroduced. But when, in a short time, the Civil Wars broke out, their\npeaceful world collapsed like a house of cards. The 'position' of the\nyoung Viscountess and her husband vanished into thin air. One winter\nat Court the young couple spent together, it is true, when the King\nand Queen were in Oxford, keeping state that was like a faint echo of\nWhitehall.\n\nAll too soon the fighting began again. In one of the earliest battles\nyoung Lord Danvers was severely wounded and sent home maimed for life.\nHis days at Court and camp were over. Summoning his wife to nurse him,\nhe returned to his estate near Beverley in Yorkshire, where the next\nfew years of Joyce's life were spent, to her ill-concealed\ndispleasure.\n\nHer husband's days were evidently numbered, and as he grew weaker, he\ngrew more exacting. Patience had never been one of Joyce's strong\npoints, and, though she did her best, time often dragged, and she\nmourned the cruel fate that had cast her lot in such an unquiet age.\nInstead of wearing her coronet at Court, here she was moping and mewed\nup in a stiff, puritanical countryside.\n\nAfter the triumph of the Parliamentarians, things grew worse. It would\nhave gone hard with the young couple had not a neighbour of theirs, of\nmuch influence with the Protector, one Justice Hotham, made\nrepresentations as to the young lord's dying state and so ensured\ntheir being left unmolested.\n\nJustice Hotham was a fatherly old man with a genius for understanding\nhis neighbours, especially young people. He was a good friend to\nJoyce, and perpetually urged her to cherish her husband while he\nremained with her. Judge then of the good Justice's distress, when,\none fine day, a note was brought to him from his wilful neighbour to\nsay that she could bear her lot no longer, that her dear friend\nAbigail, Lady Darcy, was now on her way to join the Queen in France,\nand had persuaded Joyce to leave her husband and accompany her\nthither.\n\nThe Justice looked up in dismay: a dismay reflected on the face of the\nwaiting-woman to whom Joyce had entrusted her confidential letter.\nThis was a certain blue-eyed Cecily, now a tall and comely maiden, who\nhad followed her mistress from her old home at Drayton-in-the-Clay.\n\n'She must be stopped,' said the good Judge. 'Spending the night with\nLady Darcy at the Inn at Beverley is she, sayest thou? And thou art to\njoin her there? Hie thee after her then, and delay her at all costs.\nPlague on this gouty foot that ties me here! Maiden, I trust in thee\nto bring her home.'\n\nCecily needed no second bidding. 'She will not heed me. No mortal man\nor woman can hinder my lady, once her mind is made up. Still I will do\nmy best,' was her only answer to the Judge; while 'It would take an\nangel to stop her! May Heaven find one to do the work and send her\nhome, or ever my lord finds out that she has forsaken him,' she prayed\nin the depths of her faithful heart.\n\nWas it in answer to her prayer that the rain came down in such\ntorrents that for two days the roads were impassable? Cecily was\ninclined to think so. Anyhow, Joyce and Abigail, growing tired of the\nstuffy inn parlour while the torrents descended, and having nothing to\ndo, seeing that the day was the Sabbath, and therefore scrupulously\nobserved without doors in Puritan Beverley, strolled through the\nMinster, meaning to make sport of the congregation and its ways\nthereafter. The sermon was long and tedious, but it was nearing its\nend as they entered. At the close a stranger rose to speak in the body\nof the Church, a tall stranger, who stood in the rays of the sun that\nstreamed through a lancet window behind him. His first words arrested\ncareless Joyce, though she paid small heed to preaching as a rule.\n\nMore than the words, something vaguely familiar in the tones of the\nvoice and the piercing gaze that fell upon her out of the flood of\nsunlight, awoke in her the memory of that long ago Sunday of her\nchildhood, of her theft of the cherries, of her 'disremembering,' and\nthen of her mother's words, 'You, a Purefoy, to forget to be worthy of\nyour name.'\n\nAlas! where was her Pure Faith now? The preacher seemed to be speaking\nto her, to her alone: yet, strangely enough, to almost every heart in\nthat vast congregation the message went home. Did the building itself\nrock and shake as if filled with power? The real Joyce was reached\nagain: the real Joyce, though hidden now under the weight of years of\nself-pleasing, a heavier burden than any childish finery. Certainly\nreached she was, though Lady Darcy preserved through it all her\ncynical smile, and made sport of her friend's earnestness.\nNevertheless Lady Darcy went to France alone. Lady Danvers returned to\nher husband--too much accustomed to be left alone, poor man, to have\nbeen seriously disquieted by her absence. For the remainder of his\nshort life his wife did her best to tend him dutifully. But she did\nleave him for an hour or two the day after her return, in order to go\nand throw herself on her knees beside kind old Justice Hotham, and\nconfess to him how nearly she had deserted her post.\n\n'And then what saved you?' enquired the wise old man, smoothing back\nthe wavy hair from the wilful, lovely face that looked up to him,\npleading for forgiveness.\n\n'I think it was an angel,' said Joyce simply--'an angel or a spirit.\nIt rose up in Beverley Minster: it preached to us of the wonderful\nthings of God: words that burned. The whole building shook. Afterwards\nit passed away.'\n\nLittle she guessed that George Fox, the Weaver's son, the Judge's\nguest, seated in a deep recess of the long, panelled library, was\nobliged to listen to every word she spoke. Joyce never knew that the\nangel who had again enabled her to keep her 'Faith pure' was no\nstranger to her. Neither did it occur to him, whose thoughts were ever\nfull of weightier matters than wilful woman's ways, that he had met\nthis 'great woman of Beverley,' as he calls her, long before.\n\nOnly waiting-maid Cecily, who had prayed for an angel; Cecily, who had\nrecognised the Weaver's son the first moment she saw him at the inn\ndoor; Cecily who had found in him, also, the messenger sent by God in\nanswer to her prayer--wise Cecily kept silence until the day of her\ndeath.\n\n * * * * *\n\nGeorge Fox says in his Journal:\n\n'I was moved of the Lord to go to Beverley steeple-house, which was a\nplace of high profession. Being very wet with rain, I went first to an\ninn. As soon as I came to the door, a young woman of the house said,\n\"What, is it you? Come in,\" as if she had known me before, for the\nLord's power bowed their hearts. So I refreshed myself and went to\nbed. In the morning, my clothes being still wet, I got ready, and,\nhaving paid for what I had, went up to the steeple-house where was a\nman preaching. When he had done, I was moved to speak to him and to\nthe people in the mighty power of God, and turned them to their\nteacher, Christ Jesus. The power of the Lord was so strong that it\nstruck a mighty dread among the people. The Mayor came and spoke a few\nwords to me, but none had power to meddle with me, so I passed out of\nthe town, and the next day went to Justice Hotham's. He was a pretty\ntender man and had some experience of God's workings in his heart.\nAfter some discourse with him of the things of God he took me into his\ncloset, where, sitting together, he told me he had known that\nprinciple these ten years, and was glad that the Lord did now send his\nservants to publish it abroad among the people. While I was there a\ngreat woman of Beverley came to Justice Hotham about some business. In\ndiscourse she told him that \"The last Sabbath day,\" as she called it,\n\"an Angel or Spirit came into the church at Beverley and spoke the\nwonderful things of God, to the astonishment of all that were there:\nand when it had done, it passed away, and they did not know whence it\ncame or whither it went; but it astonished all, priests, professors\nand magistrates.\" This relation Justice Hotham gave me afterwards, and\nthen I gave him an account that I had been that day at Beverley\nsteeple-house and had declared truth to the priest and people there.'\n\n\n\n\nIV. TAMING THE TIGER\n\n\n\n\n _'The state of the English law in\n the 17th century with regard to\n prisons was worthy of Looking\n Glass Land. The magistrates'\n responsibility was defined by ...\n the justice. \"They were to commit\n them to prison but not to provide\n prisons for them.\" This duty\n devolved upon the gaoler, who was\n an autocrat and responsible to no\n authority. It frequently happened\n that he was a convicted & branded\n felon, chosen for the position by\n reason of his strength &\n brutality. Prisoners were ...\n required to pay for this enforced\n hospitality, & their first act\n must be to make the most\n favourable terms possible with\n their gaoler landlord or his wife,\n for food & lodging.'--M.R.\n BRAILSFORD._\n\n\n _'You are bidden to fight with\n your own selves, with your own\n desires, with your own affections,\n with your own reason, and with\n your own will; and therefore if\n you will find your enemies, never\n look without.... You must expect\n to fight a great battle.'--JOHN\n EVERARD. 1650._\n\n\n _'The real essential battlefield\n is always in the heart itself. It\n is the victory over ourselves,\n over the evil within, which alone\n enables us to gain any real\n victory over the evil\n without.'--E.R. CHARLES._\n\n\n _'They who defend war, must defend\n the dispositions that lead to war,\n and these are clean against the\n gospel.'--ERASMUS._\n\n\n\n\nIV. TAMING THE TIGER\n\n\nPerhaps some boys and girls have said many times since the War began:\n'I wish Friends did not think it wrong to fight for their King and\nCountry. Why did George Fox forbid Quakers to fight for the Right like\nother brave men? Is it not right to fight for our own dear England?'\n\nBut did George Fox ever forbid other people to fight? He was not in\nthe habit of laying down rules for other people, even his own\nfollowers. Let us see what he himself did when, as a young man, he was\nfaced with this very same difficulty, or an even more perplexing one,\nsince it was our own dear England itself in those days that was tossed\nand torn with Civil War.\n\nFirst of all, listen to the story of a man who tamed a Tiger:--\n\nFar away in India, a savage, hungry Tiger, with stealthy steps and a\nyellow, striped skin, came padding into a defenceless native village,\nto seek for prey. In the early morning he had slunk out of the Jungle,\nwith soft, cushioned paws that showed no signs of the fierce nails\nthey concealed. All through the long, hot day he had lain hidden in\nthe thick reeds by the riverside; but at sunset he grew hungry, and\nsprang, with a great bound, up from his hiding-place. Right into the\nvillage itself he came, trampling down the patches of young, green\ncorn that the villagers had sown, and that were just beginning to\nspring up, fresh and green, around the mud walls of their homes. All\nthe villagers fled away in terror at the first glimpse of the yellow,\nstriped skin. The fathers and mothers snatched up their brown babies,\nthe older children ran in front screaming, 'Tiger! Tiger!' Young and\nold they all fled away, as fast as ever they could, into the safest\nhiding-places near at hand.\n\nOne man alone, a Stranger, did not fly. He remained standing right in\nthe middle of the Tiger's path, and fearlessly faced the savage beast.\nWith a howl of rage, the Tiger prepared for a spring. The man showed\nno sign of fear. He never moved a muscle. Not an eyelash quivered.\nSuch unusual behaviour puzzled the Tiger. What could this strange\nthing be, that stood quite still in the middle of the path? It could\nhardly be a man. Men were always terrified of tigers, and fled\nscreaming when they approached. The Tiger actually stopped short in\nits spring, to gaze upon this perplexing, motionless Being who knew no\nfear. There he stood, perfectly silent, perfectly calm, gazing back at\nthe Tiger with the look of a conqueror. Several long, heavy minutes\npassed. At length the villagers, peeping out from their hiding-places,\nlooking between the broad plantain leaves or through the chinks of\ntheir wooden huts, beheld a miracle. They saw, to their amazement, the\nTiger slink off, sullen and baffled, to the jungle, while the Stranger\nremained alone and unharmed in possession of the path. At first they\nscarcely dared to believe their eyes. It was only gradually, as they\nsaw that the Tiger had really departed not to return, that they\nventured to creep back, by twos and threes first of all, and then in\nlittle timid groups, to where the Stranger stood. Then they fell at\nhis feet and embraced his knees and worshipped him, almost as if he\nhad been a god. 'Tell us your Magic, Sahib,' they cried, 'this mighty\nmagic, whereby you have managed to overcome the Monarch of the Jungle\nand tame him to your will.'\n\n'I know no magic,' answered the Stranger, 'I used no spells. I was\nable to overcome this savage Tiger only because I have already learned\nhow to overcome and tame THE TIGER IN MY OWN HEART.'\n\nThat was his secret. That is the story. And now let us return to\nGeorge Fox.\n\nThink of the England he lived in when he was a young man, the\ndistracted England of the Civil Wars. Think of all the tiger spirits\nof hatred that had been unloosed and that were trampling the land. The\nwhole country lay torn and bleeding. Some bad men there were on both\nsides certainly; but the real misery was that many good men on each\nside were trying to kill and maim one another, in order that the cause\nthey believed to be 'the Right' might triumph.\n\n'Have at you for the King!' cried the Cavaliers, and rushed into the\nfiercest battle with a smile.\n\n'God with us!' shouted back the deep-voiced Puritans. 'For God and the\nLiberties of England!' and they too laid down their lives gladly.\n\nFar away from all the hurly-burly, though in the very middle of the\nclash of arms, George Fox, the unknown Leicestershire shepherd lad,\nwent on his way, unheeded and unheeding. He, too, had to fight; but\nhis was a lonely battle, in the silence of his own heart. It was there\nthat he fought and conquered first of all, there that he tamed his own\nTiger at last--more than that, he learned to find God.\n\n'One day,' he says in his Journal, 'when I had been walking solitarily\nabroad and was come home, I was taken up into the love of God, and it\nwas opened to me by the eternal light and power, and I therein clearly\nsaw that all was to be done in and by Christ, and how He conquers and\ndestroys the Devil and all his works and is atop of him.' He means\nthat he saw that all the outward fighting was really part of one great\nbattle, and that to be on the right side in that fight is the thing\nthat matters eternally to every man.\n\nAnother time he writes: 'I saw into that which was without end, things\nwhich cannot be uttered and of the greatness and infiniteness of the\nlove of God, which cannot be expressed by words, for I had been\nbrought through the very ocean of darkness and death, and through and\nover the power of Satan by the eternal glorious power of Christ; even\nthrough that darkness was I brought which covered over all the world\nand shut up all in the death.... And I saw the harvest white and the\nseed of God lying thick in the ground, as ever did wheat that was sown\noutwardly, and I mourned that there was none to gather it.'\n\nWhen George Fox speaks of the 'seed,' he means the tender spot that\nthere must always be in the hearts of all men, however wicked, since\nthey are made in the likeness of God. A tiny, tiny something, the\nfirst stirring of life, that God's Spirit can find and work on,\nhowever deeply it may be buried (like a seed under heavy clods of\nearth), if men will only yield to It. In another place he calls this\nseed 'THAT OF GOD WITHIN YOU.' And it is this tender growing 'seed'\nthat gets trampled down when fierce angry passions are unloosed in\npeople's hearts, just as the tender springing corn in the Indian\nvillage was trampled down by the hungry Tiger. George Fox believed\nthat that seed lay hidden in the hearts of all men, because he had\nfound it in his own. Everywhere he longed to set that seed free to\ngrow, and to tame the Tiger spirits that would trample it down and\ndestroy it. Let us watch and see how he did this.\n\nOne day when he was about twenty-five years old, he heard that some\npeople had been put in prison at Coventry for the sake of their\nreligion. He thought that there must be a good crop of seed in the\nhearts of those people, since they were willing to suffer for their\nfaith, so he determined to go and see them. As he was on his way to\nthe gaol a message came to him from God. He seemed to hear God's own\nVoice saying to him, 'MY LOVE WAS ALWAYS TO THEE, AND THOU ART IN MY\nLOVE.' 'Always to thee.' Then that love had always been round him,\neven in his loneliest struggles, and now that he knew that he was in\nit, nothing could really hurt him. No wonder that he walked on towards\nthe gaol with a feeling of new joy and strength. But when he came to\nthe dark, frowning prison where numbers of men and women were lying in\nsin and misery, this joyfulness left him. He says, 'A great power of\ndarkness struck at me.' The prisoners were not the sort of people he\nhad hoped to find them. They were a set of what were then called\n'Ranters.' They began to swear and to say wicked things against God.\nGeorge Fox sat silent among them, still fastening his mind on the\nthought of God's conquering love; but as they went on to say yet\nwilder and more wicked things, at last that very love forced him to\nreprove them. They paid no attention, and at length Fox was obliged to\nleave them. He says he was 'greatly grieved, yet I admired the\ngoodness of the Lord in appearing so to me, before I went among them.'\n\nFor the time it did seem as if the Tiger spirits had won, and were\nable to trample down the living seed. But wait! A little while after,\none of these same prisoners, named Joseph Salmon, wrote a paper\nconfessing that he was sorry for what he had said and done, whereupon\nthey were all set at liberty.\n\nMeanwhile, George Fox went on his way, and travelled through 'markets,\nfairs, and divers places, and saw death and darkness everywhere, where\nthe Lord had not shaken them.' In one place he heard that a great man\nlay dying and that his recovery was despaired of by all the doctors.\nSome of his friends in the town desired George Fox to visit the\nsufferer. 'I went up to him in his chamber,' says Fox in his Journal,\n'and spake the word of life to him, and was moved to pray by him, and\nthe Lord was entreated and restored him to health. When I was come\ndown the stairs into a lower room and was speaking to the servants, a\nserving-man of his came raving out of another room, with a naked\nrapier in his hand, and set it just to my side. I looked steadfastly\non him and said \"Alack for thee, poor creature! what wilt thou do with\nthy carnal weapon, it is no more to me than a straw.\" The standers-by\nwere much troubled, and he went away in a rage; but when news came of\nit to his master, he turned him out of his service.'\n\nAlthough that particular man's Tiger spirit had been foiled in its\nspring, the man himself had not been really tamed. Perhaps George Fox\nneeded to learn more, and to suffer more himself, before he could\nreally change other men's hearts. If so, he had not long to wait.\n\nShortly after this, it was his own turn to be imprisoned. He was shut\nup in Derby Gaol, and given into the charge of a very cruel Gaoler.\nThis man was a strict Puritan, and he hated Fox, and spoke wickedly\nagainst him. He even refused him permission to go and preach to the\npeople of the town, which, strangely enough, the prisoners in those\ndays were allowed to do.\n\nOne morning, however, Fox was walking up and down in his cell, when he\nheard a doleful noise. He stopped his walk to listen. Through the wall\nhe could hear the voice of the Gaoler speaking to his wife--'Wife,' he\nsaid, 'I have had a dream. I saw the Day of Judgment, and I saw George\nthere!' How the listener must have wondered what was coming! 'I saw\nGeorge there,' the Gaoler continued, 'and I was afraid of him, because\nI had done him so much wrong, and spoken so much against him to the\nministers and professors, and to the Justices and in taverns and\nalehouses.' But there the voice stopped, and the prisoner heard no\nmore. When evening came, however, the Gaoler visited the cell, no\nlonger raging and storming at his prisoner, but humbled and still. 'I\nhave been as a lion against you,' he said to Fox, 'but now I come like\na lamb, or like the Gaoler that came to Paul and Silas, trembling.'\nHe came to ask as a favour that he might spend the night in the same\nprison chamber where Fox lay. Fox answered that he was in the Gaoler's\npower: the keeper of the prison of course could sleep in any place he\nchose. 'No,' answered the Gaoler, 'I wish to have your permission. I\nshould like to have you always with me, but not as my prisoner.' So\nthe two strange companions spent that night together lying side by\nside. In the quiet hours of darkness the Gaoler told Fox all that was\nin his heart. 'I have found that what you said of the true faith and\nhope is really true, and I want you to know that even before I had\nthat terrible vision, whenever I refused to let you go and preach, I\nwas sorry afterwards when I had treated you roughly, and I had great\ntrouble of mind.'\n\nThere had been a little seed of kindness even in this rough Gaoler's\nheart. Deeply buried though it was, it had been growing in the\ndarkness all the time, though no one guessed it--the Gaoler himself\nperhaps least of all until his dream showed him the truth about\nhimself. When the night was over and morning light had come, the\nGaoler was determined to do all he could to help his new friend. He\nwent straight to the Justices and told them that he and all his\nhousehold had been plagued because of what they had done to George Fox\nthe prisoner.\n\n'Well, we have been plagued too for having him put in prison,'\nanswered one of the Justices, whose name was Justice Bennett. And here\nwe must wait a minute, for it is interesting to know that it was this\nsame Justice Bennett who first gave the name of Quakers to George Fox\nand his followers as a nickname, to make fun of them. Fox declared in\nhis preaching that 'all men should tremble at the word of the Lord,'\nwhereupon the Justice laughingly said that 'Quakers and Tremblers was\nthe name for such people.' The Justice might have been much surprised\nif he could have known that centuries after, thousands of people all\nover the world would still be proud to call themselves by the name he\nhad given in a moment of mockery.\n\nNeither Justice Bennett nor his prisoner could guess this, however;\nand therefore, although his Gaoler's heart had been changed, George\nFox still lay in Derby Prison. There was more work waiting for him to\ndo there.\n\nOne day he heard that a soldier wanted to see him, and in there came a\nrough trooper, with a story that he was very anxious to tell. 'I was\nsitting in Church,' he began. 'Thou meanest in the steeple-house,'\ncorrected Fox, who was always very sure that a 'Church' meant a\n'Company of Christ's faithful people,' and that the mere outward\nbuilding where they were gathered should only be called a\nsteeple-house if it had a steeple, or a meeting-house if it had none.\n'Sitting in Church, listening to the Priest,' continued the trooper,\npaying no attention to the interruption, 'I was in an exceeding great\ntrouble, thinking over my sins and wondering what I should do, when a\nVoice came to me--I believe it was God's own Voice and it said--\"Dost\nthou not know that my servant is in prison? Go thou to him for\ndirection.\" So I obeyed the Voice,' the man continued, 'and here I\nhave come to you, and now I want you to tell me what I must do to get\nrid of the burden of these sins of mine.' He was like Christian in\n_Pilgrim's Progress_, with a load of sins on his back, was he not? And\njust as Christian's burden rolled away when he came to the Cross, so\nthe trooper's distress vanished when Fox spoke to him, and told him\nthat the same power that had shown him his sins and troubled him for\nthem, would also show him his salvation, for 'That which shows a man\nhis sin is the Same that takes it away!'\n\nFox did not speak in vain. The trooper 'began to have great\nunderstanding of the Lord's truth and mercyes.' He became a bold man\ntoo, and took his new-found happiness straight back to the other\nsoldiers in his quarters, and told them of the truths he had learnt in\nthe prison. He even said that their Colonel--Colonel Barton--was 'as\nblind as Nebuchadnezzar, to cast such a true servant of God as Fox\nwas, into Gaol.'\n\nBefore long this saying came to Colonel Barton's ears, and then there\nwas a fine to do. Naturally he did not like being compared with\nNebuchadnezzar. Who would? But it would have been undignified for a\nColonel to take any notice then of the soldiers' tittle-tattle; so he\nsaid nothing, only bided his time and waited until he could pay back\nhis grudge against the sergeant. A whole year he waited--then his\nchance came. It was at the Battle of Worcester, when the two armies\nwere lying close together, but before the actual fighting had begun,\nthat two soldiers of the King's Army came out and challenged any two\nsoldiers of the Parliamentary Army to single combat, whereupon Colonel\nBarton ordered the soldier who had likened him to Nebuchadnezzar to\ngo with one other companion on this dangerous errand. They went; they\nfought with the two Royalists, and one of the two Parliamentarians was\nkilled; but it was the other one, not Fox's friend. He, left alone,\nwith his comrade lying dead by his side, suddenly found that not even\nto save his own life could he kill his enemies. So he drove them both\nbefore him back to the town, but he did not fire off his pistol at\nthem. Then, as soon as Worcester fight was over, he himself returned\nand told the whole tale to Fox. He told him 'how the Lord had\nmiraculously preserved him,' and said also that now he had 'seen the\ndeceit and hypocrisy of the officers he had seen also to the end of\nFighting.' Whereupon he straightway laid down his arms.\n\nThe trooper left the army. Meanwhile his friend and teacher had\nsuffered for refusing to join it. We must go back a little to the\ntime, some months before the Battle of Worcester, when the original\nterm of Fox's imprisonment in the House of Correction in Derby was\ndrawing to a close.\n\nAt this time many new soldiers were being raised for the Parliamentary\nArmy, and among them the authorities were anxious to include their\nstalwart prisoner, George Fox. Accordingly the Gaoler was asked to\nbring his charge out to the market-place, and there, before the\nassembled Commissioners and soldiers, Fox was offered a good position\nin the army if he would take up arms for the Commonwealth against\nCharles Stuart. The officers could not understand why George Fox\nshould refuse to regain his liberty on what seemed to them to be such\neasy terms. 'Surely,' they said, 'a strong, big-boned man like you\nwill be not only willing but eager to take up arms against the\noppressor and abuser of the liberties of the people of England!'\n\nFox persisted in his refusal. 'I told them,' he writes in his Journal,\n'that I knew whence all wars arose, even from men's lusts ... and that\nI lived in the virtue of that life and power that took away the\noccasion of all wars. Yet they courted me to accept their offer, and\nthought I did but compliment them. But I told them I was come into\nthat covenant of peace which was before wars and strifes were. They\nsaid they offered it in love and kindness to me, because for my\nvirtue, and such like flattering words they used. But I told them if\nthat was their love and kindness, I trampled it under my feet. Then\ntheir rage got up, and they said, \"Take him away, Gaoler, and put him\ninto the prison among the rogues and thieves.\"'\n\nThis prison was a much worse place than the House of Correction where\nFox had been confined hitherto. In it he was obliged to remain for a\nweary half-year longer, knowing all the time that he might have been\nat liberty, could he have consented to become an officer in the army.\nHis relations, distressed at his imprisonment, had already offered\nL100 for his release, but Fox would not accept the pardon this sum\nmight have obtained for him as he said he had done nothing wrong. He\nwas occasionally allowed to leave the horrible, dirty gaol, with its\nloathsome insects and wicked companions, and walk for a short time in\nthe garden by himself, because his keepers knew that when he had given\nhis word he would not try to escape from their custody.\n\nAs time went on, many dismal people (looking on the gloomy side of\nthings, as dismal people always do) began to shake their heads and\nsay, 'Poor young man, he will spend all his life in gaol. You will see\nhe will never be set free or get his liberty again.' But Fox refused\nto be cast down. Narrow though his prison was, Hope shared it with\nhim. 'I had faith in God,' his Journal says, 'that I should be\ndelivered from that place in the Lord's time, but not yet, being set\nthere for a work He had for me to do!' Work there was for him in\nprison truly. A young woman prisoner who had robbed her master was\nsentenced to be hanged, according to the barbarous law then in force.\nThis shocked Fox so much that he wrote letters to her judges and to\nthe men who were to have been her executioners, expressing his horror\nat what was going to happen in such strong language that he actually\nsoftened their hearts. Although the girl had actually reached the foot\nof the gallows, and her grave had already been dug, she was reprieved.\nThen, when she was brought back into prison again after this wonderful\nescape Fox was able to pour light and life into her soul, which was an\neven greater thing than saving her body from death. Many other\nprisoners did Fox help and comfort in Derby Gaol;[2] but though he\ncould soften the sufferings of others he could not shorten his own.\nOnce again Justice Bennett sent his men to the prison, this time with\norders to take the Quaker by force and compel him to join the army,\nsince he would not fight of his own free will.\n\n'But I told him,' said Fox, '\"that I was brought off from outward\nwars.\" They came again to give me press money, but I would take none.\nAfterwards the Constables brought me a second time before the\nCommissioners, who said I should go for a soldier, but I said I was\ndead to it. They said I was alive. I told them where envy and hatred\nis, there is confusion. They offered me money twice, but I refused it.\nBeing disappointed, they were angry, and committed me a close\nprisoner, till at length they were made to turn me out of Gaol about\nthe beginning of winter 1651, after I had been a prisoner in Derby\nalmost a year; six months in the House of Correction, and six months\nin the common gaol.'\n\nThus at length Derby prison was left behind; but the seeds that the\nprisoner had planted in that dark place sprang up and flourished and\nbore fruit long after he had left.\n\nEleven years later, the very same Gaoler, who had been cruel to Fox at\nthe first, and had then had the vision and repented, wrote this letter\nto his former prisoner. It is a real Gaoler's love-letter, and quite\nfresh to-day, though it was written nearly 300 years ago.\n\n 'DEAR FRIEND,' the letter begins,\n\n 'Having such a convenient messenger I could do no less than give\n thee an account of my present condition; remembering that to the\n first awakening of me to a sense of life, God was pleased to\n make use of thee as an instrument. So that sometimes I am taken\n with admiration that it should come by such means as it did;\n that is to say that Providence should order thee to be my\n prisoner to give me my first sight of the truth. It makes me\n think of the gaoler's conversion by the apostles. Oh! happy\n George Fox! that first breathed the breath of life within the\n walls of my habitation! Notwithstanding that my outward losses\n are since that time such that I am become nothing in the world,\n yet I hope I shall find that these light afflictions, which are\n but for a moment, will work for me a far more exceeding and\n eternal weight of glory. They have taken all from me; and now\n instead of keeping a prison, I am waiting rather when I shall\n become a prisoner myself. Pray for me that my faith fail not,\n and that I may hold out to the death, that I may receive a crown\n of life. I earnestly desire to hear from thee and of thy\n condition, which would very much rejoice me. Not having else at\n present, but my kind love to thee and all friends, in haste, I\n rest thine in Christ Jesus.\n\n 'THOMAS SHARMAN.\n\n'Derby, the 22nd of the fourth month, 1662.'\n\n\nThis Gaoler was one of the first people whose Tiger spirits were tamed\nby George Fox. But he certainly was not the last. Fox himself had told\nthe soldiers in Derby market-place that he could not fight, because he\n'lived in the virtue of that life and power that took away the\noccasion of all wars.' As a friend of his wrote, after his death many\nyears later: 'George Fox was a discerner of other men's spirits, AND\nVERY MUCH A MASTER OF HIS OWN.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] Two men who were executed for small offences he could not save,\nbut 'a little time after they had suffered their spirits appeared to\nme as I was walking, and I saw the men was well.'\n\n\n\n\nV. 'THE MAN IN LEATHER BREECHES'\n\n\n\n\n _'As I was walking I heard old\n people and work people to say: \"he\n is such a man as never was, he\n knows people's thoughts\" for I\n turned them to the divine light of\n Christ and His spirit let them see\n ... that there was the first step\n to peace to stand still in the\n light that showed them their sin\n and transgression.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Do not look at but keep over all\n unnaturalness, if any such thing\n should appear, but keep in that\n which was and is and will be.'--G.\n FOX._\n\n\n _'Wait patiently upon the Lord;\n let every man that loves God,\n endeavour by the spirit of wisdom,\n meekness, and love to dry up\n Euphrates, even this spirit of\n bitterness that like a great river\n hath overflowed the earth of\n mankind.'--GERRARD WINSTANLEY.\n 1648._\n\n\n _'Blessed is he who loves Thee,\n and his friend in Thee, and his\n enemy for Thy sake.'--AUGUSTINE._\n\n\n _'Eternity is just the real world\n for which we were made, and which\n we enter through the door of\n love.'--RUFUS M. JONES._\n\n\n\n\nV. 'THE MAN IN LEATHER BREECHES'\n\n\n22nd Dec. 1651.\n\n'Rough Moll, the worst-tempered woman in all Yorkshire.' It was thus\nher neighbours were wont to speak behind her back of Mistress Moll,\nthe keeper of the 'George and Dragon' Inn at Hutton Cranswick near\nDriffield in the East Riding. Never a good word or a kind deed had she\nfor anyone, since her husband had been called away to serve in King\nCharles's army. In former days, when mine host was at home, the\nneighbours had been encouraged to come early and stay late at night\ngossipping over the home-brewed ale he fetched for them so cheerily;\nfor Moll's husband was an open-hearted, pleasant-mannered man, the\nvery opposite of his shrewish wife. But now, since his departure for\nthe wars, the neighbours got to the bottom of their mugs with as\nlittle delay as possible, vowing to themselves in whispers that they\nwould seek refuge elsewhere another night, since Moll's sour looks\nwent near to give a flavour of vinegar even to the ale she brewed.\nThus, as speedily as might be, they escaped from the reach of their\nhostess's sharp tongue.\n\nBut the lasses of the inn, who were kept to do the rough work of the\nhouse, found it harder to escape from the harsh rule of their\nmistress. And for little Jan, Moll's four-year-old son, there was\nstill less possibility of escape from the tyrant whom he called by the\nname of Mother.\n\nNothing of true mother-love had ever yet been kindled in Rough Moll's\nheart. From the very beginning she had fiercely resented being\nburdened with what she called 'the plague of a brat.' Still, so long\nas his father remained at home, the child's life had not been an\nunhappy one. As soon as ever he could stand alone he drew himself up\nby his father's trousers, with an outstretched hand to be grasped in\nthe big fist. As soon as he could toddle, he spent his days wandering\nround the Inn after his daddy, knowing that directly he grew tired\ndaddy would be ready to stop whatever he might be doing, in order to\nlift the small boy up in his arms or to give him a ride on his knee.\n\n'Wasting your time over the brat and leaving the Tavern to go to rack\nand ruin'--Moll would say, with a sneer, as she passed them. But she\nnever interfered; for the husband who had courted her when she was a\nyoung girl was the only person for whom she still kept a soft spot in\nthe heart that of late years seemed to have grown so hard.\n\nTruth to tell, tavern-keeping was no easy business in those unsettled\ntimes, and Moll had ever been a famous body for worrying over trifles.\n\n '\"The worry cow\n Would have lived till now,\n If she had not lost her breath,\n But she thought her hay\n Would not last the day,\n So she mooed herself to death.\"\n\n'And all the time she had three sacks full! Remember that, Moll, my\nlass!' Jan's father would say to his wife, when she began to pour out\nto him her dismal forebodings about the future.\n\nBut since this easy-going, jolly daddy had left the Inn and had gone\naway with the other men and lads of the village to fight with My Lord\nfor the King, little Jan's lot was a hard one, and seemed likely to\ngrow harder day by day.\n\nRough Moll's own life was not too easy either, at this time, though\nfew folks troubled themselves to speculate upon the reason for her\nadded gruffness. So she concealed her anxieties under an extra\nharshness of tongue and did her best to make life a burden to everyone\nshe came across. For, naturally, now that the Inn was no longer a\npleasant place in mine host's absence, it was no longer a profitable\nplace either. Custom was falling off and quarter day was fast\napproaching. Moll was at her wits' end to know where she should find\nmoney to pay her rent, when, one day, to her unspeakable relief, My\nLady in her coach stopped at the door of the Inn. Now Moll had been\ndairymaid up at the Hall years ago, before her marriage, and My Lady\nknew of old that Moll's butter was as sweet as her looks were sour.\nPerhaps she guessed, also, at some of the other woman's anxieties; for\nwas not her own husband, My Lord, away at the wars too? Anyway, when\nthe fine yellow coach stopped at the door of the Inn, it was My Lady's\nown head with the golden ringlets that leaned out of the window, and\nMy Lady's own soft voice that asked if her old dairymaid could\npossibly oblige her with no less than thirty pounds of butter for her\nYuletide feast to the villagers the following week.\n\nThe Moll who came out, smiling and flattered, to the Inn door and\nstood there curtseying very low to her Ladyship, was a different being\nfrom the Rough Moll of every day. She promised, with her very\nsmoothest tongue, she would not fail. She knew where to get the milk,\nand her Ladyship should have the butter, full weight and the very\nbest, by the following evening, which would leave two full days before\nChristmas.\n\n'That is settled then, for I have never known you to fail me,' said My\nLady, as the coach drove away, leaving Moll curtseying behind her, and\nvowing again that 'let come what would come,' she would not fail.\n\nIt was small wonder, therefore, after this unaccustomed graciousness,\nthat she was shorter-tempered than ever with her unfortunate guests\nthat evening. Was not their presence hindering her from getting on\nwith her task? At length she left the lasses to serve the ale, which,\ntruth to tell, they were nothing loath to do, while Moll herself, in\nher wooden shoes and with her skirts tucked up all round her,\nclattered in and out of the dairy where already a goodly row of large\nbasins stood full to the brim with rich yellow milk on which, even\nnow, the cream was fast rising.\n\nThirty pounds of butter could never all be made in one day; she must\nbegin her task overnight. True, little Jan was whining to go to bed as\nhe tried vainly to keep awake on his small hard stool by the fire. The\nbrat must wait; she could not attend to him now. He could sleep well\nenough leaning against the bricks of the chimney-corner. Or, no! the\nbutter-making would take a long time, and Moll was never a methodical\nwoman. Jan should lie down, just as he was, and have a nap in the\nkitchen until she was ready to attend to him. Roughly, but not\nunkindly, she pulled him off the stool and laid him down on a rug in a\ndark corner of the kitchen and told him to be off to sleep as fast as\nhe could, stooping to cover him with an old coat of her husband's\nthat was hanging on the door, as she spoke. Nothing loath, Jan shut\nhis sleepy eyes, and, burying his little nose in the folds of the old\ncoat, he went happily off into dreamland, soothed by the\nwell-remembered out-door smell that always clung around his father's\nbelongings.\n\nIt did not take Moll long to fill the churn and to set it in its\nplace. Just as she was busy shutting down the lid, there came a knock\nat the door. 'Plague take you, Stranger,' she grumbled, as she opened\nit, and a gust of snow and wind blew in upon her and the assembled\nguests in the tavern kitchen. 'You bring in more of the storm than you\nare likely to pay for your ale.'\n\n'My desire is not for ale,' said the Stranger, speaking slowly, and\nlooking at the woman keenly from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. 'I\ncame but to ask thee for shelter from the storm; and for a little\nmeat, if thou hast any to set before me.'\n\n'To ask _thee_ for shelter.' 'If _thou_ hast any meat.' The unusual\nform of address caught Moll's ear. She looked more closely at her\nvisitor. Yes, his lower limbs were not covered with homely Yorkshire\nfrieze; they were encased in odd garments that must surely be made of\nleather, since the snowflakes lay upon them in crisp wreaths and\nwrinkles before they melted. She had heard of the strange being who\nwas visiting those parts and she had no desire to make his\nacquaintance. 'Hey, lasses!' she called to her maids at the far end of\nthe tavern parlour, 'here is the man in leather breeches himself, come\nto pay us a visit this wild night!'\n\nA shout of laughter went up from the men at their tankards. 'The man\nin leather breeches!' 'Send him out again into the storm! We'll have\nnone of his company here, the spoil sport!'\n\nMoll nodded assent, and returning to her unwelcome guest, said\nshortly, 'Meat there is none for you here,' and moved towards the\ndoor, where the Stranger still stood, as if to close it upon him.\n\nBut the man was not to be so easily dismissed.\n\n'Hast thou then milk?' he asked.\n\nMoll laughed aloud. A man who did not want ale should not have milk;\nno money to be made out of that; especially this night of all nights,\nwhen every drop would be wanted for her Ladyship's butter.\n\nLies were part of Moll's regular stock-in-trade. She lied now, with\nthe ease of long habit.\n\n'You will get no shelter here,' she said roughly, 'and as for milk,\nthere is not a drop in the house.'\n\nThe Stranger looked at her. He spoke no words for a full minute, but\nas his eyes pierced her through and through, she knew that he knew\nthat she had lied. The knowledge made her angry. She repeated her\nwords with an oath. The Stranger made as if to turn away; then, almost\nreluctantly but very tenderly, as if he were being drawn back in spite\nof himself: 'Hast thou then cream?' he asked. Yet, though his tone was\npersuasive, his brows were knitted as he stood looking down upon the\nangry woman.\n\n'Not as if he cared about the cream, but as if he cared about me,'\nMoll said herself, long after. But at the time: 'No, nor cream either.\nOn my soul, there is not a drop in the house,' she repeated, more\nfiercely than before.\n\nBut, even as she spoke, she saw that the Stranger's eyes were\nfastened on the churn that stood behind her, the churn evidently full\nand drawn out for use, with drops of rich yellow cream still standing\nupon the lid and trickling down the sides.\n\nMoll turned her square shoulders upon the churn as if to shut out its\nwitness to her falsehood. Her lies came thick and fast; 'I tell you\nthere is not a single drop of cream in the house.'\n\nThe next moment, a loud crash made her look round. She had forgotten\nJan! The loud angry voice and the cold blast from the open door had\nawakened him before he had had time to get sound asleep. Hearing his\nmother vow that she had not a drop of cream in the house, he left his\nrug and began playing about again. Then, being ever a restless little\nmortal, he had crept round to the churn to see if it had really become\nempty in such a short time. He had tried to pull himself up by one of\nthe legs in order to stand on the rim and see if there was really no\ncream inside; and in attempting this feat, naturally, he had pulled\nthe whole churn over upon him. And not only the churn,--its contents\ntoo! Eighteen quarts of Moll's richest yellow cream were streaming all\nover the kitchen floor. Pools, lakes, rivers, seas of cream were\nrunning over the flagstones and dripping through the crevices into the\nground.\n\nWith a cry of rage Moll turned, and, seeing the damage, she sprang\nupon little Jan and beat him soundly; and a beating from Moll's heavy\nhand was no small matter: then with a curse she flung the child away\nfrom her towards the hearth.\n\n'Woman!' The Stranger's voice recalled her. 'Woman! Beware! Thou art\nfull of lies and fury and deceit, yet in the name of the Lord I warn\nthee. Ere three days have gone by, thou shalt know what is in thine\nheart; and thou shalt learn the power of that which was, and is, and\nwill be!'\n\nSo saying, the unwelcome guest opened the outer door and walked away\ninto the raging storm and darkness,--a less bitter storm it seemed to\nhim now than that created by the violent woman within doors. Some way\nfurther on he espied a haystack, under which he lay down, as he had\ndone on many another night before this, and there he slept in the wind\nand the snow until morning.\n\nMoll, meanwhile, enraged beyond words at the loss of her cream,\nstalked off for a pail and cloth, and set herself to wash the floor,\nmuttering curses as she did so. Never a glance did she cast at the\ncorner by the fire where little Jan still lay by the hearth-stone,\nmotionless and strangely quiet; he, the restless imp, who was usually\nso full of life. Never a glance, until, the centre of the floor being\nat last clean again, Moll, on her knees, came with her pail of\nsoap-suds to the white river that surrounded the corner of the kitchen\nwhere Jan lay. A white river? Nay, there was a crimson river that\nmingled with it; a stream of crimson drops that flowed from the stone\nunder the child's head.\n\nMoll leapt to her feet on the instant. What ailed the boy? She had\nbeaten him, it is true, but then she had beaten him often before this\nin his father's absence. A beating was nothing new to little Jan. Why\nhad he fallen? What made him lie so still? She turned him over. Ah! it\nwas easy to see the reason. As she flung him from her in her rage,\nthe child in his fall had struck his head against the sharp edge of\nthe hearth-stone, and there he lay now, with the life-blood steadily\nflowing from his temple.\n\nA feeling that Rough Moll had never been conscious of before gripped\nher heart at the sight. Was her boy dead? Had she killed him? What\nwould his father say? What would her husband call her? A murderer? Was\nshe that? Was that what the Stranger had meant when he had looked at\nher with those piercing eyes? He might have called her a liar, at the\nsight of the churn full of cream, but he had not done so; and little\nshe would have cared if he had. But a murderer! Was murder in her\nheart?\n\nLifting Jan as carefully as she could, she carried him upstairs to the\nsmall bedroom under the roof, where he usually lay on a tiny pallet by\nher side. But this night the child's small figure lay in the wide bed,\nand big Moll, with all her clothes on, hung over him; or if she lay\ndown for a moment or two, it was only on the hard little pallet by his\nside.\n\nAll that night Moll watched. But all that night Jan never moved. All\nthe next day he lay unconscious, while Moll did her clumsy utmost to\nstaunch the wound in his forehead. Long before it was light, she tried\nto send one of her maids for the doctor; but the storm was now so\nviolent that none could leave or enter the house.\n\nHer Ladyship's order went unheeded. The thirty pounds of butter were\nnever made. But My Lady, who was a mother herself, not only forgave\nMoll for spoiling her Yuletide festivities, but even told her, when\nshe heard of the disaster, that she need not trouble about the rent\nuntil her boy was better.\n\nUntil he was better! But would Jan ever be better? Moll had no thought\nnow for either the butter or the rent. The yellow cream might turn\nsour in every single one of her pans for all she cared, if only she\ncould get rid of this new unbearable pain.\n\nAt length, on the evening of the second day, faint with the want of\nsleep, she fell into an uneasy doze: and still Jan had neither moved\nnor stirred. Presently a faint sound woke her. Was he calling? No; it\nwas but the Christmas bells ringing across the snow. What were those\nbells saying? 'MUR-DER-ER' 'MUR-DERER'--was that it? Over and over\nagain. Did even the bells know what she had done and what she had in\nher heart? For a moment black despair seized her.\n\nThe next moment there followed the shuffling sound of many feet\npadding through the snow. The storm had ceased by this time, and all\nthe world was wrapped in a white silence, broken only by the sound of\nthe distant bells. And now the Christmas waits had followed the bells'\nmusic, and were singing carols outside the ale-house door. Fiercely,\nMoll stuck her fingers in her ears. She would not listen, lest even\nthe waits should sing of her sin, and shew her the blackness of her\nheart. But the song stole up into the room, and, in spite of herself,\nsomething forced Moll to attend to the words:\n\n 'Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap,\n The sun shone on his hair--\n And that was how she saw, mayhap,\n The crown already there.'\n\nThat was how good mothers sang to their children. They saw crowns\nupon their hair. What sort of a crown had Moll given to her child? She\nlooked across and saw the chaplet of white bandages lying on the white\npillow. No; she, Moll, had never been a good mother, would never be\none now, unless her boy came back to life again. She was a murderer,\nand her husband when he returned from the wars would tell her so, and\nlittle Jan would never know that his mother had a heart after all.\n\nAt that moment the carol died away, and the waits' feet, heavy with\nclinging snow, shuffled off into the darkness; but looking down again\nat the head with its crown of white bandages upon the white pillow,\nMoll saw that this time Jan's eyes were open and shining up at her.\n\n'Mother,' he said, in his little weak voice, as he opened his arms and\nsmiled. Moll had seen him smile like that at his father; she had never\nknown before that she wanted to share that smile. She knew it now.\n\nOnly three short days had passed since she turned the Stranger from\nher doors, but little Jan and his mother entered a new world of love\nand tenderness together that Christmas morning. As Rough Moll gathered\nher little son up into her arms and held him closely to her breast,\nshe knew for the first time the power of 'that which was, and is, and\nwill be.'\n\n\n\n\nVI. THE SHEPHERD OF PENDLE HILL\n\n\n\n\n _'On Pendle G.F. saw people as\n thick as motes in the sun, that\n should in time be brought home to\n the Lord, that there might be but\n one Shepherd and one Sheepfold in\n all the earth. There his eye was\n directed Northward beholding a\n great people that should receive\n him and his message in those\n parts.'--W. PENN'S Testimony to\n George Fox._\n\n\n _'In Adam, in the fall are all the\n inward foul weather, storms,\n tempests, winds, strifes, the\n whole family of it is in\n confusion, being all gone from the\n spirit and witness of God in\n themselves, and the power and the\n light, in which power and light\n and spirit, is the fellowship with\n God and with one another, through\n which they come ... into the\n quickener, who awakens (them) and\n brings (them) up unto Himself, the\n way, Christ; and out of and off\n from the teachers and priests, and\n shepherds that change and fall, to\n the PRIEST, SHEPHERD and PROPHET,\n that never fell or changed, nor\n ever will fail or change, nor\n leave the flock in the cold\n weather nor in the winter, nor in\n storms or tempests; nor doth the\n voice of the wolf frighten him\n from his flock. For the Light, the\n Power, the Truth, the\n Righteousness, did it ever leave\n you in any weather, or in any\n storms or tempests? And so his\n sheep know his voice and follow\n Him, who gives them life eternal\n abundantly.'--GEORGE FOX._\n\n\n\n\nVI. THE SHEPHERD OF PENDLE HILL\n\n\n'Ingleborough, Pendle and Pen-y-Ghent Are the highest hills 'twixt\nScotland and Trent.' So sing I, the Shepherd of Pendle, to myself, and\nso have I sung, on summer days, these many years, lying out atop of\nold Pendle Hill, keeping watch over my flock.\n\nIn good sooth, a shepherd's life is a hard one, on our Lancashire\nfells, for nine months out of the twelve. The nights begin to be sharp\nwith frost towards the back-end of the year, for all the days are\nsunny and warm at times. Bitter cold it is in winter and worse in\nspring, albeit the daylight is longer.\n\n'As the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens,' runs the rhyme, and\nwell do men know the truth of it in these parts. Many a time a man\nmust be ready to give his own life for his sheep, aye and do it too,\nto save them in a snow-drift or from the biting frost. It is an\nanxious season for the shepherd, until he sees the lambs safely at\nplay and able to stand upon their weak legs and run after their\nmothers. But it is not until the dams are clipped that a shepherd has\nan easy mind and can let his thoughts dwell on other things. Then, at\nlast, in the summer, his time runs gently for a while; and I, for one,\nwas always ready to enjoy myself, when once the bitter weather was\nover.\n\nSo there I was, one day many years ago, nigh upon Midsummer, lying out\non the grassy slopes atop of old Pendle Hill, and singing to myself--\n\n 'Ingleborough, Pendle and Pen-y-Ghent\n Are the highest hills 'twixt Scotland and Trent.'\n\nBut for all I sang of the hills, my thoughts were in the valleys. I\nlay there, watching till the sun should catch the steep roof of a\ncertain cot I know. It stands by the side of a stream, so hidden among\nthe bushes that even my eye cannot find it, unless the sunlight finds\nit first, and flashes back at me from roof and window-pane. That was\nthe cot I had never lived in then, but I hoped to live in it before\nthe summer was over, and to bring the bonniest lass in all yon broad\nYorkshire there with me as my bride. That was to be if things went\nwell with me and with the sheep; for my master had promised to give me\na full wage (seeing I had now reached man's estate), if so be I came\nthrough the spring and early summer without losing a single lamb.\nThinking of these things, and dreaming dreams as a lad will, the hours\ntrod swiftly over Pendle Hill that day; for all the sun was going down\nthe sky but slowly, seeing it was Midsummer-tide.\n\nSuddenly, as I lay there looking down over the slope, I saw a strange\nsight, for travellers are scarce on Pendle Hill even at Midsummer. But\nit was a traveller surely, or was it a shepherd? At first I could not\nbe sure; for he carried a lamb in his arms and trod warily with it, in\nthe way that shepherds do. Yet I never met a shepherd clad in clothes\nlike his; nor with a face like his either, as I saw it, when he came\nnearer. Weary he looked, and with a pale countenance, as if he had\nmuch ado to come up the hill, and in good sooth 'tis full steep just\nthere; or else, may be, he was fasting and faint for lack of food. But\nall this I only thought of later. At the time, I looked not much at\nhim, but only at the lamb he carried in his arms. How came such a\nman to be carrying a lamb, and carrying it full gently and carefully\ntoo, supporting one leg with both hands, although he was encumbered\nwith a staff? Then, when he had come yet nearer, I saw that it was not\nonly a lamb--it was one of my master's lambs, my own lambs that I was\nset to watch; for there on its wool was the brand carried by our\nflocks and by none others on all those fells. One of my lambs, lying\nin a stranger's arms! A careless shepherd I! I must have been asleep\nor dreaming ... dreaming foolish dreams about that cottage, on which\nthe sun might shine unheeded now, I cared not for it, being full of\nother thoughts. No sooner did I espy the brand on the lamb than I rose\nto my feet, and, even as I ran nimbly down the slope towards the\nstranger, my eyes roamed over the hillside to discover which of my\nlambs had strayed:--Rosamond, Cowslip, Eglantine and Gillyflower--I\ncould see them all safe with their dams, and many more besides. All\nthe lambs that springtime I had named after the flowers that I hoped\nto plant another year in the garden of that cot beside the stream. And\nall the flowers I could see and name were safe beside their dams, as I\nleapt down the hillside. Nay, Periwinkle was missing! Periwinkle was\never a strayer, and Periwinkle's dam was bleating at the edge of the\nsteep cliff up which the stranger toiled. It was Periwinkle and none\nother that he was carrying in his arms! Seeing it was Periwinkle, I\nhalloed to him to halt. Hearing my cry, he stopped, and waited till I\nreached him, all the time holding the lamb carefully, tending it and\nspeaking to it in the tone a shepherd is wont to use.\n\n[Illustration: 'DREAMING OF THE COT IN THE VALE']\n\n'Thanks to you, Good Stranger,' I said, as I came nearer, 'Periwinkle\nis ever a strayer. Did you see her fall?'\n\n'Nay,' said the Stranger, giving the lamb tenderly into my arms, and\nhalting upon his staff; speaking warily and weightily as I never heard\na man speak before or since. 'Nay; the lambkin must have fallen before\nI came by. But I heard the mother bleat, and I knew, by the sound,\nthat she was in distress. Therefore I turned towards the crag upon\nwhich she stood, and, looking down, I perceived the lamb fallen among\nthe brambles beneath a high ledge.'\n\n'And went down over for her yourself and brought her up again! 'Twas\nbravely done, Good Stranger,' I answered, and then, thinking to\nencourage him, I said, 'Better you could not have done it, had you\nbeen a shepherd yourself, for I see your hands are torn.'\n\n'It is nothing,' he answered. 'A shepherd expects that.'\n\n'Then are you a shepherd too, Master Stranger?' I asked, but he gave\nno answer; only fastened his eyes upon me as we climbed together up\nthe hill. Wonderful eyes he had, not like to other men's; with a depth\nand yet a light in them, as when the June sun shines back reflected\nfrom the blackness of a mountain tarn. I saw them then, and still I\nseem to see them, for when he looked at me, although he said no word,\nit was as if he knew me apart from everyone else in the world, even as\nI know every one of my master's sheep. I felt that he knew too how I\nhad been looking at that cot in the vale and dreaming idly, forgetful\nof my lambs. Therefore, though he said no word of rebuke to me, I\nfelt my cheeks grow hot, and I hung my head and spake not. Only, when\nwe reached the top of the hill, he turned and answered me at last.\n'Thou judgest right, friend,' he said, 'I was indeed a shepherd in my\nyoung years. I am a shepherd even now, though as yet with full few\nsheep. But, hereafter, it may be....'\n\nI did not wait for the end of his sentence. Now that we were come to\nlevel ground I was fain to show that I was not a careless, idle\nshepherd in truth. My mind was set on Periwinkle's leg; broken, I\nfeared, for it hung down limply. I took her,--laid her on the grass\nbeside her dam while I fashioned a rough splint, shepherd-fashion, to\nkeep the leg steady till we reached the fold. Then, seeing the sun was\nlow by this time and nigh to setting over beyond the sea towards\nMorecambe, I called my sheep and gathered them from all the fells,\nnear and far; and a fairer flock of sheep ye shall never see 'twixt\nScotland and Trent, as the song says, though I trow ye may, an ye look\ncarefully, find steeper hills than old Pendle.\n\nWhen my work was done, I took up Periwinkle in my arms once more,\nanxious to descend with her ere night fell. Already I was climbing\ncarefully down the slope, when, bless me, I remembered the Stranger,\nand that I had left him without a word, he having gone clean out of my\nmind, and I not having given him so much as a 'thank ye' at parting,\nfor all he had saved Periwinkle. But I think I must have gone clean\nout of his mind too.\n\nWhen I came back to him once more, there he was, still standing on the\nvery top of the hill, where I had left him. But now his head was\nraised, the breeze lifted his hair. A kind of glory was on him. It\nwas light from the sunset sky, I thought at first; but it was brighter\nfar than that; for the sunset sky looked dull and dim beside it. His\neyes were roaming far and wide over the valleys and hills, even as my\neyes had wandered, when I was gathering my sheep. But his eyes\nwandered further, and further far, till they reached the utmost line\nof the Irish Sea to westward and covered all the country that lay\nbetween. Then he turned himself around to the east again. A strong man\nhe was and a tall, and the glory was still on his face, though now he\nhad the sunset sky at his back. And he opened his mouth and spake.\nStrange were his words:\n\n'If but one man,' said he, 'but one man or woman, were raised by the\nLord's Power to stand and live in the same Spirit that the Apostles\nand Prophets were in, he or she should shake all this country for\nmiles round.' Shake all the country! He had uttered a fearsome thing.\n'Nay, Master Stranger, bethink ye,' I said, going up to him, 'how may\nthat be? What would happen to me and the sheep were these fells to\nshake? Even now, though they stand steady, you have seen that wayward\nlambs like Periwinkle will fall over and do themselves a mischief.' So\nI spake, being but a witless lad. But my words might have been the\nwind passing by him, so little he heeded them. I doubt if he even\nheard or knew that I was there although I stood close at his side. For\nagain his eyes were resting on the Irish Sea, and on the country that\nlay shining in the sun towards Furness, and on the wide, glistening\nsands round Morecambe Bay. And then he turned himself round to the\nnorth where lie the high mountains that can at times be seen, or\nguessed, in the glow of the setting sun. Thus, as he gazed on all that\nfair land, the Stranger spoke. Again he uttered strange words.\n\nAt first his voice was low and what he said reached me not, save only\nthe words: 'A great people, a great people to be gathered.'\n\nWhereat I, being, as I say, but a lad then, full of my own notions and\nmighty sure of myself as young lads are, plucked at his sleeve, having\nheard but the last words, and supposing that he had watched me\ngathering my flock for the fold.\n\n'Not people, Master Stranger,' I interrupted. ''Tis my business to\ngather sheep. Sheep and silly, heedless lambs like Periwinkle, 'tis\nthem I must gather for my master's fold.'\n\nHe saw and heard me then, full surely.\n\n'Aye,' he said, and his voice, though deep, had music in it, while his\neyes pierced me yet again, but more gently this time, so that I made\nsure he had seen me tending Periwinkle and knew that I had done the\nbest I could. 'Aye, verily thou dost well. Shepherd of Pendle, to\ngather lambs and silly sheep for their master's fold. I, too....' But\nthere again he broke off and fell once more into silence.\n\nThus I left him, still standing atop of the hill; but as I turned to\ngo I heard his voice yet again, and though I looked not round, the\nsound of it was as if a man were speaking to his friend, for all I\nknew that he stood there, atop of the hill, alone:\n\n'I thank thee, Lord, that Thou hast let me see this day in what places\nThou hast a great people, a great people to be gathered.'\n\nThereat I partly understood, yet turned not back again, nor sought to\nenquire further of his meaning; for the daylight was fast fading and I\nhad need of all my skill in getting home my sheep.\n\n\n\n\nVII. THE PEOPLE IN WHITE RAIMENT\n\n\n\n\n _'After a while he (G.F.)\n travelled up further towards the\n dales in Yorkshire, as Wensdale,\n and Sedburgh, and amongst the\n hills, dales, and mountains he\n came on and convinced many of the\n eternal Truth.'--M. FOX'S\n Testimony to G. FOX._\n\n\n _'In the mighty power of God, go\n on, preaching the Gospel to every\n creature, and discipling them in\n the name of the Father, Son, and\n Holy Spirit. In the name of Christ\n preach the mighty day of the Lord\n to all the consciences of them who\n have long lain in darkness.... In\n the name of the Lord Jesus Christ\n go on, that that of God in all\n consciences may witness that ye\n are sent of God and are of God and\n so according to that speak. Sound,\n sound the trumpet abroad, ye\n valiant soldiers of Christ's\n Kingdom, of which there is no\n end.... Be famous in his Light and\n bold in his strength.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Let us in our message offer that\n which is beyond all creeds,--the\n evidence in our lives of communion\n with the Spirit of God.'--J. W.\n ROWNTREE._\n\n\n\n\nVII. THE PEOPLE IN WHITE RAIMENT\n\n\nThe summer twilight was fading into night. The moon, hidden at her\nrising by a bank of clouds, had now climbed high above them, and shone\ndown, a golden lamp from the clear evening sky. It was already dusk\nwhen the Shepherd of Pendle disappeared with his flock into the dewy\nvalley. It was already light again, with the pallid light of the moon,\nwhen at length George Fox descended old Pendle Hill. Heavily he trod\nand slowly. Wrapped in thought was he, as a man who has seen things\ngreater and more mysterious than he can express or comprehend. Only as\nhe descended the slope of the hill did he remember that he was bodily\nweary, having eaten and drunk little for several days. A short\ndistance from the summit, his ear caught the tinkle of falling water;\nand guided by its gentle music he came to where a tiny spring gushed\nout of the hillside, and went leaping on its way, gleaming like a\nthread of silver. Fox knelt down upon the soft turf, and dipping his\nhand, cup-wise, into the water, he carried with difficulty a few\nshining drops to his parched lips. The cool freshness of even this\nscanty draught revived him. He looked round, his glance roaming over\nthe wide landscape that lay, mist-filled and moon-filled, beneath him,\nbut as yet scarce seeing what he saw. Then, rising and quickening his\nsteps, he hastened down the hill to the place where, hours before, his\ncompanion, Richard Farnsworth, had promised to await his return.\n\nEven faithful Richard had grown weary, as time passed and the night\ndrew on apace. He had been minded to chide his friend for his\nforgetfulness and long delay, but as the two men met, something\nstopped him, or ever he began to speak. Maybe it was the moonlight\nthat fell full upon George Fox's countenance, or maybe there was in\ntruth visible there some faint reflection of the radiance that\ntransfigured the face of Moses, when he too, coming down from a far\nmightier revelation on a far loftier mountain, 'wist not that the skin\nof his face shone.'\n\nAt any rate Richard, loyal soul, checked the impatient words of\nremonstrance that had risen to his lips. Silently putting his hand\nthrough his friend's arm, he led him a mile or two further along the\nroad, until they came to the small wayside inn where they intended to\nspend the night.\n\nNo sooner were they within doors than Richard was startled afresh by\nthe pallor of his companion's countenance. The glory had departed now.\nNothing but utter weariness remained. In all haste Richard called for\nfood and drink, and placing them before Fox he almost forced him to\npartake. Fox swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread, and drank a little\nclear red wine in a glass. Then as he set the glass down, he noticed\nthe inn-keeper who was standing by, watching his guest's every\nmovement with curious eyes.\n\nA rough, plain countryman, he seemed, mine host of the ale-house, to\nmost of those who had dealings with him. But Fox, in spite of his own\nbodily hunger and physical weariness, discerned that the spirit of the\nman before him knew the cravings of a yet keener need: was fainting\nunder the weight of a yet heavier load. Instantly he recognised the\nseeking soul within, even as the Shepherd of Pendle a few hours\npreviously, out on the hillside, had recognised his master's mark on\nthe straying sheep. Forgetting his own weariness, even for the time\nputting aside the remembrance of the visions he had seen, he set\nhimself to win and satisfy this humble soul at his side.\n\n'I declared Truth to the man of the house,' so runs his Journal, 'and\nwrote a paper to the priests and professors declaring \"the day of the\nLord and that Christ was come to teach His people Himself, by His\npower and spirit in their hearts, and to bring people off from all the\nworld's ways and teaching, to His own free teaching who had bought\nthem, and was the Saviour of all them that believed in Him.\" And the\nman of the house did spread the paper up and down and was mightily\naffected with Truth!'\n\nThe inn-keeper went out full of gladness to 'publish Truth' in his\nturn. Henceforth he was a new man in the power of the new message that\nhad been entrusted to him. A new life lay before him.\n\nBut when the two friends were once more alone together, and the\nimmediate task was done, Richard Farnsworth perceived the strange look\nthat had silenced him at the foot of the mountain returning to his\ncompanion's face. Only now the weariness was fading, it was the glory\nthat returned.\n\nPushing away the table, George Fox rose to his feet, and stretched\nboth his arms out wide. He and Farnsworth were alone in the narrow inn\nparlour, lighted only by one flickering rushlight. So small was the\nroom that the whitewashed walls pressed close on every side. So low\nwas the ceiling that when Fox arose and drew himself up to his full\nheight the black oak beams were scarce a hand's breadth above his\nhead.\n\nYet Richard, as he looked up, awed and silent, from his stool by the\ntable, felt as if his friend were still standing far above him on the\nsummit of a high hill, with nothing but the heights of sky beyond his\nhead and with the hills and valleys of the whole world stretching away\nbelow his feet.\n\n'I see,' said Fox, and, as he spoke, to Richard too the narrow walls\nseemed to open and melt away into infinite space on every side: 'I see\na people in white raiment, by a riverside--a great people--in white\nraiment, coming to the Lord.'\n\nThe flickering rushlight spluttered and went out. Through the low\ncasement window the white mists could be seen, still rising from every\nbend and fold of the widespread valleys that lay around them, rising\nup, up, like an innumerable company of spirit-filled souls, while the\nmoon shone down serenely over all.\n\n\nII\n\nIt was a few days later, and Whitsun Eve. The same traveller who had\nclimbed to the top of old Pendle Hill 'with much ado, it was so\nsteep,' was coming down now on the far side of the Yorkshire dales.\n\n'A lusty strong man of body' but 'of a grave look or countenance,' he\n'travelled much on foot through rough and untrodden paths.' 'As he\npassed through Wensleydale he advised the people as he met or passed\nthrough them' 'to fear God,' 'which ... did much alarm the people, it\nbeing a time that many people were filled with zeal.'[3]\n\nAt sunset he passed through a village of flax-weavers whose\nsettlements lay in the low flatts that bordered the rushing river\nRawthey a mile or two outside of Sedbergh Town.\n\n'I came through the Dales,' says George Fox in his Journal, 'and as I\nwas passing along the way, I asked a man which was Richard Robinson's,\nand he asked me from whence I came, and I told him \"From the Lord.\"'\n\nThis must have been a rather unexpected answer from a traveller on the\nhigh road. Can you not see the countryman's surprised face as he turns\nround and stares at the speaker, and wonders whatever he means?\n\n'So when I came to Richard Robinson's I declared the Everlasting Truth\nto him, and yet a dark jealousy rose up in him after I had gone to\nbed, that I might be somebody that was come to rob his house, and he\nlocked all his doors fast. And the next day I went to a separate\nmeeting at Justice Benson's where the people generally was convinced,\nand this was the place that I had seen a people coming forth in white\nraiment; and a mighty meeting there was and is to this day near\nSedbarr which I gathered in the name of Jesus.'\n\nThese flax-weavers of Brigflatts were a company of 'Seekers,'\nunsatisfied souls who had strayed away like lost sheep from all the\nsects and Churches, and were longing for a spiritual Shepherd to come\nand find them again and bring them home to the fold.\n\nGeorge Fox was a weaver's son himself. Directly he heard it, the whirr\nof the looms beside the rushing Rawthey must have been a homelike\nsound in his ears. But more than that, his spirit was immediately at\nhome among the little colony of weavers of snowy linen; for he\nrecognised at once that these were the riverside people 'in white\nraiment,' whom he had seen in his vision, and to whom he had been\nsent.\n\nNot only the flax-weavers, but also some of the 'considerable people'\nof the neighbourhood accepted the message of the wandering preacher,\nwho came to them over the dales that memorable Whitsuntide. The master\nof the house where the meeting was held, Colonel Gervase Benson\nhimself, and his good wife Dorothy also, were 'convinced of Truth,'\nand faithfully did they adhere thereafter to their new faith, through\nfair weather and foul. In later years, men noted that this same\nColonel Benson, following his teacher's love of simplicity, and hatred\nof high-sounding titles, generally styled himself merely a\n'husbandman,' notwithstanding 'the height and glory of the world that\nhe had a great share of,'[4] seeing that 'he had been a Colonel, a\nJustice of the Peace, Mayor of Kendal, and Commissary in the\nArchdeaconry of Richmond before the late domestic wars. Yet, as an\nhumble servant of Christ, he downed those things.'[5] His wife,\nMistress Dorothy, also, was to prove herself a faithful friend to her\nteacher in after years, when his turn, and her turn too, came to\nsuffer for 'Truth's sake.'\n\nBut in these opening summer days of 1652, no shadows fell on the\nsunrise of enthusiasm and of hope, as, in the good Justice's house\nbeside the rushing Rawthey, the gathering of the 'great people' began.\n\nThe day was Whitsunday, the anniversary of that other gathering in the\nupper room at Jerusalem, when the Apostles being all 'in one place,\nwith one accord, of one mind,' the rushing mighty Wind came and shook\nall the place where they were sitting, followed by the cloven tongues\n'like as of fire, that sat upon each of them.'\n\nThe gift given at Pentecost has never been recalled. Throughout the\nages the Spirit waits to take possession of human hearts, ready to\nfill even the humblest lives with Its Own Power of breath and flame.\n\nThis was the Truth that had grown dusty and neglected in England in\nthis seventeenth century. The 'still, small Voice' had been drowned in\nthe clash of arms and in the almost worse clamour of a thousand\ndifferent sects. Now that, after his own long search in loneliness and\ndarkness, George Fox had at length found the Voice speaking to him\nunmistakably in the depths of his own heart, the whole object of his\nlife was to persuade others to listen also to 'the true Teacher that\nis within,' and to convince them that He was always waiting to speak\nnot only in their hearts, but also through their lives. 'My message\nunto them from the Lord was,' he says, 'that they should all come\ntogether again and wait to feel the Lord's power and spirit in\nthemselves, to gather them together to Christ, that they might be\ntaught of Him who says \"Learn of Me.\"'\n\nThis was the Truth--an actual, living Truth--that not only the\nflax-weavers of Brigflatts, but many other companies of 'Seekers'\nscattered through the dales of Yorkshire and Westmorland, as well as\nin many other places, had been longing to hear proclaimed. 'Thirsty\nSouls that hunger' was one of the names by which they called\nthemselves. It was to these thirsty, hungering Souls that George Fox\nhad been led at the very moment when he was burning to share with\nothers the vision of the 'wide horizons of the future' that had been\nunfolded to him on the top of old Pendle Hill.\n\nNo wonder that the Seekers welcomed him and flocked round him,\ndrinking in his words as if their thirsty souls could never have\nenough. No wonder that he welcomed them with equal gladness, rejoicing\nnot only in their joy, but yet more in that he saw his vision's\nfulfilment beginning. Here in these secluded villages he had been led\nunmistakably to the 'Great People,' whom he had seen afar off, waiting\nto be gathered.\n\nWithin a fortnight from that assembly on Whit-Sunday at Justice\nBenson's house George Fox was no longer a solitary, wandering teacher,\ntrying to convince scattered people here and there of the Truths he\nhad discovered. Within a fortnight--a wonderful fortnight truly--he\nhad become the leader of a mighty movement that gathered adherents and\ngrew of itself, spreading with an irresistible impulse until, only a\nfew years later, one Englishman out of every ninety was a member of\nthe SOCIETY OF FRIENDS.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[3] First Publishers of Truth.\n\n[4] First Publishers of Truth.\n\n[5] First Publishers of Truth.\n\n\n\n\nVIII. A WONDERFUL FORTNIGHT\n\n\n\n\n _'I look upon Cumberland and\n Westmorland as the Galilee of\n Quakerism.'--T. HODGKIN._\n\n\n _'They may have failed in their\n intellectual formulation, but at\n least they succeeded in finding a\n living God, warm and tender and\n near at hand, the Life of their\n lives, the Day Star in their\n hearts; and their travail of Soul,\n their brave endurance, and their\n loyal obedience to vision have\n helped to make our modern\n world.'--RUFUS M. JONES._\n\n\n _'We ceased from the teachings of\n all men, and their words and their\n worships, and their temples and\n all their baptisms and churches,\n and we ceased from our own words\n and professions and practices in\n religion.... We met together\n often, and waited upon the Lord in\n pure silence from our own words,\n and hearkened to the voice of the\n Lord and felt His word in our\n hearts.'--E. BURROUGH._\n\n\n _'John Camm, he was my father\n according to the flesh, so was he\n also a spiritual father and\n instructor of me in the way of\n Truth and Righteousness ... for\n his tender care was great for the\n education of me and the rest of\n his children and family in the\n Nurture and Fear of the\n Lord.'--THOMAS CAMM._\n\n\n _'Death cannot separate us, for in\n the never-failing love of God\n there is union for evermore.'--J.\n CAMM._\n\n\n\n\nVIII. A WONDERFUL FORTNIGHT\n\nI\n\n\nThe annual Fair on Whitsun Wednesday is the gayest time of the whole\nyear at Sedbergh. For a few hours the solid grey town under the green\nfells gives itself up to gaiety and merriment.\n\nThe gentry of the neighbourhood as well as the country folk for miles\naround come flocking to the annual hiring of farm lads and lasses,\nwhich is the main business of the Fair. Thoughts of profit and the\nchance of making a good bargain fill the heads of the older\ngeneration. But the youths and maidens come, eager-eyed, looking for\nromance. At the Fair they seek to guess what Fate may hold in store\nfor them during the long months of labour that will follow hard on\ntheir few hours of jollification.\n\n'All manner of finery was to be had' at the Fair; 'there were morris\nand rapier dances, wrestling and love-making going on,' and plenty of\nhard drinking too. 'The Fair at Sedbergh' was the emphatic destination\nof many a prosperous farmer and labourer on a Whitsun Wednesday\nmorning; but it was 'Sebba Fair' he cursed thickly under his breath as\nhe reeled home at night.\n\nIn truth seventeenth-century Sedbergh was a busy place, not only in\nFair week, but at other times too, with its stately old church and its\ngrammar school; to say nothing of the fact that, in these days of\nOliver's Protectorate, it boasted no less than forty-eight different\nreligious sects among its few hundred inhabitants. Only the sad-eyed\nSeekers, coming down in little groups from their scattered hamlets,\nexchanged sorrowful greetings as they met one another amid all the\nriot and hubbub of the Fair; for they had tried the forty-eight sects\nin turn for the nourishment their souls needed, and had tried them all\nin vain.\n\nUntil this miraculous Whitsuntide of June 1652, when, suddenly, in a\nmoment, everything was changed.\n\nThe little groups of Seekers stood still and looked at one another in\nastonishment as they came out from the shadow of the narrow street of\ngrey stone houses into the open square in the centre of the town. For\nthere, opposite the market cross and under the spreading boughs of a\ngigantic yew-tree, they saw a young man standing on a bench, and\npreaching as they had never heard anyone preach before. Behind him\nrose the massive square tower, and the long row of clerestory windows\nthat were, then as now, the glory of Sedbergh Church. The tall green\ngrass of the churchyard was already trampled down by the feet of\nhundreds of spell-bound listeners.\n\nWho was this unexpected Stranger who dared to interrupt even the noisy\nbusiness of the Fair with the earnestness and insistence of his\nappeal? He was a young and handsome man, with regular features and\nhair that hung in short curls under his hat-brim, contrary to the\nPuritan fashion; big-boned in body, and of a commanding presence. The\nboys of the grammar school, determined to make the most of their\nholiday, thought it good sport at first to mock at the Stranger's\ngarb. As he stood there, lifted up above them on the rough bench, they\ncould see every detail of the queer leather breeches that he wore\nunderneath his long coat. His girdle with its alchemy buttons showed\noff grandly too, while the fine linen bands he wore at his neck\ngleamed out with dazzling whiteness against the dark branches of\nSedbergh's majestic old yew-tree.\n\nThe preacher's words and tones and his piercing eyes quickly overawed\nhis audience, and made them forget his outlandish appearance. Even the\nboys could understand what he was saying, for he seemed to be speaking\nto each one of them, as much as to any of the grown-up people. And\nwhat was this he was telling them? With outstretched hand he pointed\nupwards, insisting that that church, the beautiful building, the pride\nof Sedbergh, was not a church at all. It was only a steeple-house;\nthey themselves were the true church, their own souls and bodies were\nthe temples chosen by the Spirit of God for His habitation. No wonder\nthe schoolboys, and many older people too, became awed and silent at\nthe bare idea of such a Guest. None of the eight-and-forty sects of\nSedbergh town had ever heard doctrine like this before. Possibly there\nmight not have been eight-and-forty of them if they had.\n\nOnce during the discourse a Captain got up and interrupted the\nStranger: 'Why do you preach out here under the yew-tree? Why do you\nnot go inside the church and preach there?'\n\n'But,' says George Fox, 'I said unto him that I denied their church.\n\n'Then stood up Francis Howgill, a separate preacher, that had not seen\nme before, and so he began to dispute with the Captain, but he held\nhis peace. Then said Francis Howgill, \"This man speaks with\nauthority, and not as the Scribes.\"\n\n'And so,' continues George Fox, 'I opened to the people that that\nground and house was no holier than another place, and that house was\nnot the Church, but the people which Christ is head of. And so, after\na while that I had made a stand among the people, the priests came up\nto me and I warned them to repent. And one of them said I was mad, and\nso they turned away. But many people were glad at the hearing of the\nTruth declared unto them that day, which they received gladly.\n\n'And there came one Edward Ward, and he said my very eyes pierced\nthrough him, and he was convinced of God's everlasting truth and lived\nand died in it, and many more was convinced there at that time.'\n\nConvinced they were indeed, as they had never been convinced in all\ntheir former lives; and now that they had found the teacher they\nwanted, the hungry, thirsty Seekers were not going to let him go\nagain. Almost overturning the booths of the Fair, these solemn,\nsad-eyed men jostled each other like children in their endeavours to\nreach their new friend.\n\nThere at the back of the crowd solid John Camm, the prosperous\n'statesman' farmer of Cammsgill, near Preston Patrick, could be seen\nwaving his staff like a schoolboy to attract the preacher's attention\nas soon as the sermon stopped. 'Come home, young Sir! Come home with\nme,' John Camm called out lustily.\n\nBut ruddy-cheeked John Audland, the linen-draper of Crosslands, had\nbeen quicker than the elderly farmer. He was a happy bridegroom that\nsummer, and bringing his wife with him for the first time to Sedbergh\nFair. She--a Seeker like himself--had been known in her maiden days as\ngentle Anne Newby of Kendal town: yet the ways of the dalesmen and of\nthe country people were in a measure strange to her, seeing all her\ngirlhood had been spent at her aunt's house in London town, where she\nhad received her education. Possibly she had looked forward not\nwithout dread to the rough merry-making of the Fair; but she too had\nkindled at the Stranger's message. Her shyness fled from her as, with\nher hand locked fast in her husband's, the two pressed forward. The\ncrowd seemed to melt away at sight of their radiant faces, and almost\nbefore the sermon was ended the young couple found themselves face to\nface with the preacher. The same longing was in both their hearts: the\nsame words rose unbidden to their lips: 'Come back with us to\nCrosslands, Sir! Come back and be the first guest to bless our home.'\n\nGeorge Fox smiled as he met the eager gaze of the young folk, and\nstretched out a friendly hand. But an old slow man with a long white\nbeard had forestalled even the impetuous rush of the youthful bride\nand bridegroom.\n\n'Nay; now, good friends,' said Farmer Thomas Blaykling of Drawwell,\n'my home is nigh at hand. For the next three days the Stranger is\nmine. He must stay with me and I will bring him to Firbank Chapel on\nSunday. Come ye also thither and hear him again, and bring every\nseeking man and woman and child in all these dales to hear him too;\nand thereafter ye shall have him in your turn and entertain him where\nye will.'\n\n\nII\n\nThe first three peaceful days after the Fair were spent by the young\npreacher at Drawwell Farm, knitting up a friendship with its inmates\nthat neither time nor suffering was able thereafter to unravel.\n\n'The house inhabited by the Blayklings may still be seen. Its thick\nwalls, small windows and rooms, with the clear well behind, must be\nalmost in the same condition as in the week we are remembering.'[6]\n\nIn later days many a 'mighty Meeting' was to be held in the big barn\nthat adjoins the small whitewashed house with its grey flagged roof.\nDrawwell is situated about two miles away from Sedbergh, on the sunny\nslope of a hill overlooking the River Lune, that here forms the\nboundary between the two counties of Westmorland and Yorkshire.\n\nThere, under the shadow of the great fells, George Fox had time for\nmany a quiet talk with his hosts, in the days that followed the\nWhitsuntide Fair. John Blaykling, the farmer's son, was a man of\nstrong character. He was afterwards to become himself a powerful\npreacher of the Truth and to suffer for it when persecution came.\nMoreover, 'he was a great supporter of them that were in low\ncircumstances in the world, often assisting them in difficult cases to\nthe exposing of himself to great hazards of loss.'\n\nHe had also an especial care for the feelings of others. On the Sunday\nafter the Fair he was anxious to take his guest to Firbank Chapel,\nwhere the Seekers' service was to be held, high up on the hill\nopposite Drawwell. Yet he seems to have had some misgivings that his\nguest might be too full of his own powerful message to remember to\nbehave courteously to others, who, although in a humbler way, were\nstill trying to declare the Truth as far as they had a knowledge of\nit. Fox writes in his Journal:\n\n 'And the next First day I came to Firbank Chapel, where Francis\n Howgill and John Audland were preaching in the morning, and John\n Blaykling and others came to me and desired me not to reprove\n them publicly, for they was not parish teachers but pretty sober\n men, but I would not tell them whether I would or no, though I\n had little in me to declare publicly against them, but told them\n they must leave me to the Lord's movings. The chapel was full of\n people and many could not get in. Francis Howgill (who was\n preaching) said he thought I looked into the Chapel, but I did\n not. And he said that I might have killed him with a crab-apple,\n the Lord's power had so surprised him.\n\n 'So they had quickly done with their preaching to the people at\n that time, and they and the people went to their dinners, but\n abundance stayed till they came again. And I went to a brook and\n got me a little water, and so I came and sat me down atop of a\n rock, (for the word of the Lord came to me that I must go and\n sit upon the rock in the mountain, even as Christ had done\n before).\n\n 'And in the afternoon the people gathered about me with several\n separate teachers, where it was judged there was above a\n thousand people. And all those several separate teachers were\n convinced of God's everlasting truth that day, amongst whom I\n declared freely and largely God's everlasting truth and word of\n life about three hours. And there was many old people went into\n the chapel and looked out of the windows and thought it a\n strange thing to see a man to preach on a hill or mountain, and\n not in their church as they called it. So I was made to open to\n the people that the steeple-house and the ground whereon it\n stood was no more holier than that mountain ... but Christ was\n come who ended the temple and the priests and the tithes, and\n Christ said, \"Learn of me,\" and God said, \"This is my beloved\n Son, hear ye Him.\"\n\n 'For the Lord had sent me with His everlasting gospel to preach,\n and His word of life so that they all might come to know Christ\n their Teacher, their Counsellor, their Shepherd to feed them,\n and their Bishop to oversee them, and their Prophet to open to\n them, and to know their bodies to be temples of God and Christ\n for them to dwell in.... And so, turning the people to the\n Spirit of God, and from the darkness to the light, that they\n might believe in it and become children of light.'\n\n\nIII\n\n'Now, it is our turn,' insisted ruddy-faced John Audland, 'George Fox\nmust come home with me. My house at Crosslands will be the most\nconvenient resting-place for him, seeing it lies mid-way between here\nand Preston Patrick; and to Preston Patrick and the General Meeting of\nour Seeking People he must certainly come, since it is to be held in\nthree days' time. There are many folk, still seeking, on the other\nside of the dales, who have not yet heard the good news, but who will\nrejoice mightily when they find him there. Besides, he has promised my\nwife that he will be the first guest to come and bless our home.'\n\n'Yes in truth, he shall return with thee,' echoed Audland's friend,\nJohn Camm of Cammsgill, 'since Preston Patrick is too far a step for\nhim to-day. He shall lodge with thee and thy good wife Anne, and bless\nyour home. But on Wednesday, betimes, thou must bring him to me at\nCammsgill right early in the day--and I will take him as my guest to\nPreston Patrick and our Seekers' Meeting.'\n\nJohn Audland readily assented to this proposal. He and his wife would\nhave the wonderful Stranger all to themselves until Wednesday. As the\ntwo men wandered back over the hills in a satisfied silence, his mind\nwas full of all the questions he meant to ask. For had not he himself,\nthough only a youth of twenty-two, been one of the appointed preachers\nat Firbank Chapel? Truly he had done his best there, as at other\ntimes, to feed the people; yet in spite of his words they had seemed\never hungry, until the Stranger came among them, breaking the True\nBread of Life for all to share.\n\nJohn Audland was 'a young man of a comely countenance, and very lovely\nqualities.'[7] Never a thought of jealousy or envy crossed his mind;\nonly he was filled with a longing to know more, to learn, to be fed\nhimself, that he, in his turn, might feed others. Still, being but\nhuman, it was with slight irritation that he heard himself hailed with\na loud 'halloo!' from behind. Looking round, he beheld a long-legged\nfigure ambling after them along the dusty road, and recognised a\ncertain tactless youth, John Story by name, famous throughout the\ndistrict for his knack of thrusting himself in where he was least\nwanted. Without so much as a 'by your leave' John Story caught up the\nother two men and began a lively conversation as they walked along.\n\nSelf-invited, he followed them into John Audland's home; where the\nyoung bride, Anne, was too well bred to betray her disappointment at\nthis unexpected visitor. Elbowing his way rudely past the master of\nthe house and the invited guest, John Story stalked ahead into the\nbridal parlour and sat himself down deliberately in the best chair.\n'I'm your first guest now, Mistress Anne,' he said with a chuckle.\nThen lighting his pipe he threw his head back and made himself\ncomfortable--evidently intending to stay the evening. But his chief\ncare and intention was to patronise George Fox. He had been at Firbank\nalso, and he had remembered enough of the sermon there to repeat some\nof the preacher's words jestingly to his face. He handed his lighted\npipe to George Fox, saying, 'Come, will you take a pipe of\ntobacco?'--and added, mockingly, seeing his hesitation, 'Come, all is\nours!'\n\n'But,' says George Fox, 'I looked upon him to be a forward bold lad;\nand tobacco I did not take. But it came into my mind that the lad\nmight think I had not unity with the creation: for I saw he had a\nflashy, empty notion of religion. So I took his pipe and put it to my\nmouth, and gave it to him again to stop him lest his rude tongue\nshould say I had not unity with the creation.'\n\nAnd soon after this, let us hope, John Story, with his tobacco and his\nrude tongue, saw fit to take his leave, and remove his unwelcome\npresence.\n\n\nIV\n\nTwo more days of the 'wonderful fortnight' were passed in the\nlinen-draper's home at Crosslands before, on the Wednesday forenoon,\nJohn Audland and his guest descended the dales of Westmorland and\nclimbed the steep, wooded glen that leads to Cammsgill Farm. There, at\nthe door, with hands outstretched in welcome, stood good John Camm and\nhis loving wife Mabel. Peeping behind them curiously at the Stranger\nwas their twelve-year-old son, Tom. At the windows of the farm were to\nbe seen the faces of the men-servants and maid-servants, for great was\nthe curiosity to see the Stranger of whom such great tidings had been\ntold. Among the serving-maids were two sisters, Jane and Dorothy\nWaugh. Little did the eager girls imagine that the Stranger whom they\neyed so keenly was to alter the whole course of their lives by his\nwords that day; that, for both of them, the pleasant, easy, farm life\nat Cammsgill was over, and that they were hereafter to go forth to\npreach in their turn, to suffer beatings and cruel imprisonments, and\neven to cross the seas, in order to publish the same Truth that he had\ncome to proclaim.\n\nTom Camm also, boy as he was, was never to forget that eventful\nmorning. Long years afterwards he remembered every detail of it.\n\n'On the 4th day morning,' he writes, 'John Audland came with George\nFox to the house of John Camm at Cammsgill in Preston Patrick, who\nwith his wife and familie gladly received G.F.'\n\nAnd now, while they are 'gladly receiving' their guest and waiting\ntill it is time to go down the steep hill to Preston Patrick, let us\nlook back at the farm-house of Cammsgill where they are sitting, and\nlearn something of its history and that of its owners.\n\nIt was to Cammsgill that Farmer John Camm had brought home his bride\non a late day of summer, thirteen years before the eventful year 1652\nof which these stories tell. A wise, prosperous man was good John\nCamm, one of the most successful 'statesmen' in all the fertile dales\nround about. So busy had he been developing his farm, and attending to\nthe numerous flocks and herds, that were ever increasing under his\nskilful management, that time for love-making seemed to have been left\nout of his life. But at last, when he was well over forty, he found\nthe one woman he had been unconsciously needing through all his\nprosperous years to make his life round and complete. It was a mellow\nday of Indian summer when John and Mabel Camm walked up the winding\nroad to Cammsgill for the first time as man and wife. But the golden\nsunshine that lay on all the burnished riches of the well-filled\nfarm-yard was dim compared with the inward sunshine that gladdened the\nfarmer's heart.\n\nFarmer John had made a wise choice, and he knew it. In his eyes\nnothing was good enough for his wife, not even the home where he had\nbeen born, and where his ancestors for generations had lived and died;\nso Cammsgill had been entirely rebuilt before that golden September\nday when John and Mabel Camm came home to begin their new life\ntogether. The re-building had been done in such solid fashion that\npart of the farm-house still stands, well-proportioned and\nserviceable, after nearly three centuries have passed to test it,\nshowing that he who builds for love builds truly and well.\n\nMabel Camm was a proud woman as she stood at the door of her hillside\nhome and watched the autumn sunlight lighting up her husband's face as\nhe walked across his fields in the valley, or strode, almost with the\nenergetic step of a young man, up the crab-apple bordered track to the\nfarm.\n\nClose at his heels followed his collie, looking up into his master's\nface with adoring affection. Not only every animal on the farm loved\nthe master, the men-servants and maid-servants also would do anything\nto please him, for was he not ever mindful of their interests as if\nthey had been his own? In those days each labourer had three or four\nacres of land as of right. This fostered an independent spirit and\nmade their affection a tribute worth the winning.[8] Later on that\nsame year, when winter came, earlier than its wont, the fells were\nknee-deep in snow and all the beasts were brought for shelter round\nthe farm to protect them from the snow-drifts and bitter weather on\nthe upland pastures.\n\nThen it was that at nights in the snug farm-house kitchen, after the\nday's work was done, John Camm and his young wife together carved\ntheir initials on the 'brideswain,' a tall oak chest that held the\ngoodly stock of homespun linen and flax brought by Mabel Camm to her\nnew home. John Camm was something of an artist. His was the design of\nthe interlaced initials. All his life he had been a skilful carver\nwith his tools on the winter evenings, and now he took pleasure in\nshowing his bride the right way to use them and how to fashion her\nstrokes aright. Night after night the two heads bent over their task,\nbut to this day it may still be seen at Cammsgill that one of the two\nartists was less skilful than the other, for Mabel's curves are more\nangular and without the careless ease of her husband's. What, however,\ndid unskilful fingers matter when the firelight shone upon two happy\nfaces bending over the work close together, aglow with the inner\nradiance of two thankful hearts?\n\nThere were other uses for the brideswain the following summer. The\nfair white sheets and pillow-cases were moved to an under-shelf. The\nupper half of the chest was filled to overflowing with tiny garments\nfashioned by Mabel's own fingers, skilful indeed at this dainty work.\nNo more woodcarving now, but endless rows of stitchery, tiny tucks and\ndelicate dotting, all ready to welcome the little son who arrived\nbefore the summer's close, and completed his parents' joy.\n\nSince that day, a dozen years had slipped away. Now young Thomas Camm\nwas leaving childhood, as he had long left babyhood, behind him. He\nwas a big boy, quick, strong for his age, and bidding fair to be as\ngood a farmer as his father some day.\n\n'Cammsgill was a favourite house with both men and women servants, for\nMistress Camm took care that all had their fill of bread, butter,\nmilk, eggs or bacon, and each their three meals. Of the maid-servants,\nJane and Dorothy Waugh especially looked on their master as a father,\nhe was so kind and thoughtful of their needs. Indeed no one could walk\nup the winding gill without meeting with a warm welcome from the\nowners of the farm-house, and on winter evenings there was many a\nlarge \"sitting,\" by aid of the rushlights, in which the neighbours\njoined, all hands being busy the while with the knitting of caps and\njerseys for the Kendal trade.... He and his wife greatly loved to\nentertain visitors from a distance, especially those who were\nlike-minded with themselves, also looking for \"the coming of the day\nof the Lord,\"'[9] for all the household at Cammsgill were of the\ncompany of the \"Seekers\" who met every month at the Chapel of Preston\nPatrick in the valley below.\n\nNow at last it is time for the Meeting.\n\nThomas Camm's account continues: 'And it having been then a common\npractice among the said seeking and religiously inclined people to\nraise a General Meeting at Preston Patrick Chapel once a month, upon\nthe fourth day of the week, thither George Fox went, being accompanied\nwith John Audland and John Camm. John Audland would have had George\nFox go into the place or pew where usually he and the preacher did\nsit, but he refused and took a back seat near the door, and John Camm\nsat down by him, where he sat silent, waiting upon God for about half\nan hour, in which time of silence Francis Howgill seemed uneasy, and\npulled out his Bible and opened it, and stood up several times,\nsitting down again and closing his book, and dread and fear being on\nhim that he durst not begin to preach. After the said silence and\nwaiting George Fox stood up in the mighty power of God, and in the\ndemonstration thereof was his mouth opened to preach Christ Jesus, the\nLight of Life, and the way to God, and Saviour of all that believe\nand obey Him, which was delivered in that power and that authority\nthat most of the auditory, which were several hundreds, were\neffectually reached to the heart, and convinced of the truth that very\nday, for it was the day of God's power. A notable day indeed, never to\nbe forgotten by me Thomas Camm.... I, being then present at that\nMeeting, a school-boy but about twelve years of age, yet, I bless the\nLord for His mercy, then religiously inclined, do still remember that\nblessed and glorious day, in which my soul, by that living testimony\nthen borne in the demonstration of God's power, was effectually\nopened, reached and convinced, with many more who are seals of that\npowerful ministry that attended this faithful minister of the Lord\nJesus Christ, and by which we were convinced, and turned from darkness\nto light and from Satan's power to the power of God. After which\nMeeting at Preston Chapel, G.F. came to the house of John Camm at\nCammsgill. Next day travelled to Kendal where he had a meeting, where\nmany were convinced and received his testimony with joy.'\n\nThe 'wonderful fortnight' was drawing to a close. The vision on Pendle\nHill, when George Fox beheld a people 'as thick as motes in the sun\nthat should in time be brought home to the Lord,' had already begun to\nform around it a Society of Friends who were pledged to carry it out.\n\nRemember always, it was not the Society that beheld the vision; it was\nthe vision that created and creates the Society.\n\nThe vision is the important thing; for it is still unfulfilled.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[6] Ernest E. Taylor, _A Great People to be gathered._\n\n[7] Sewel's _History of the Quakers._\n\n[8] E.E. Taylor, _Faithful Servants of God._\n\n[9] E.E. Taylor, _Faithful Servants of God._\n\n\n\n\nIX. UNDER THE YEW-TREES\n\n\n\n\n _'George Fox was a born leader of\n souls. The flame of religious\n ardour which burned in him, and\n the intense conviction and\n spiritual power with which he\n spoke, would in any age have made\n him great. He was born in a\n generation of revolutions and\n upheavals, both political and\n spiritual. Confusion and unrest,\n war and reformations, give to\n great spirits a power which, when\n life is calmer, they might not\n attain. Fox drew to himself a\n multitude of noble souls,\n attracted to him by that which\n they shared with him, the sense of\n spiritual realities, and the\n consciousness of the guiding\n Spirit. The age of George Fox\n thirsted for spiritual reality. He\n had found it. Men on all sides\n were ready to find it as he had.\n The dales of Yorkshire, and the\n hills of lakeland, not less than\n the towns of the Midlands, had men\n in them ready to rejoice in the\n touch of the spiritual, ready to\n respond to the movement of the\n Spirit. See him then arriving at\n some farm-yard in the hills, or\n may be at a country squire's\n hall....'--CYRIL HEPHER,\n 'Fellowship of Silence.'_\n\n\n _'The house was no doubt full of\n music, as were indeed many others,\n in that most musical of English\n centuries.'--J. BAILEY, 'Milton.'_\n\n\n _Motto on Seal of a letter to M.\n Fell:_\n\n 1660\n '_GOD ABOVE\n KEEP US IN HIS LIGHT\n AND LOVE._'\n\n\n\n\nIX. UNDER THE YEW-TREES\n\n\nSix gay girls sat together, laughing and talking, under the shadow of\nthe ancient yew-trees that guard the eastern corner of Swarthmoor\nHall. The interlaced boughs of the gloomy old trees made a cool canopy\nof shadow above the merry maidens. It was a breathless day of late\nJune, 1652, at the very end of the 'wonderful fortnight.'\n\nThere they were, Judge Fell's six fair daughters: Margaret, Bridget,\nIsabel, Sarah, Mary and little Susanna, who was but three years old,\non that hot summer afternoon.\n\n''Tis a pity that there are only six of us,' Sarah was saying with\nmock melancholy. 'Now, suppose my brother George instead of being a\nboy had been a girl, then there would have been seven. The Seven\nSisters of Swarthmoor Hall! In truth it has a gallant sound like unto\na play. Seven Young Sisters and Seven Ancient Yew Trees! Each of us\nmight have a yew-tree then for her very own.' So saying, Sarah leant\nback against the huge gnarled trunk behind her, her golden curls\nrippling like sunshine over the wrinkled wood, while her blue eyes\npeered into the dark-green depths overhead.\n\n'Moreover, in that case,' continued Isabel, with a touch of sarcasm in\nher voice, 'and supposing the Seventh Sister, who doth not exist, were\nto have seven more daughters in her turn,--then it might be expected\nthat the Seventh Daughter of that Seventh Daughter would have keener\nthan mortal hearing, and sharper than mortal sight. She would be able\nto hear the grass growing, and know when the fairies were making\ntheir rings, and be able to catch the Brownies at their tasks, so the\ncountry people say. Heigh ho! I wish she were here! Or I would that I\nmyself were the Seventh Daughter of a Seventh Daughter, or still\nbetter the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, for they have real true\nsecond sight, and can look in magic crystals and foresee things to\ncome.'\n\n'Now it is my turn,' chimed in Bridget, 'I am the eldest but one, and\nit is time I talked a little. Then when the Seventh Daughter of the\nSeventh Daughter walks hand in hand with the Seventh Son of a Seventh\nSon (neither of whom, allow me to remind you in passing, ever have\nexisted, or, it is to be hoped, ever will exist in a well-connected\nfamily like ours), when they walk hand in hand under the shade of the\nSeven Ancient Yew-trees which, we all know, have guarded Swarthmoor\nfor centuries ... the Seven Ancient Trees will be sure to overhear\nthem whispering honeyed nothings to each other. Then the oldest and\nwisest of all the Trees (by the bye, it is that one behind you,\nIsabel!) will say, \"Dearly beloved Children, although the words you\nsay are incredibly foolish, yet to me they sound almost wise compared\nwith the still more incredibly foolish conversation carried on beneath\nmy old boughs in the Year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and\nfifty-two by your ever venerable Great Aunt Isabel and your still more\nvenerable Great Aunt Sarah!\"'\n\n'O _Bridget_,' came in aggrieved tones from the two younger girls as\nthey flung themselves upon her and put laughing hands over her mouth,\n'that is too bad, that is unkind.'\n\nThe eldest sister, Margaret, looked up from the low bench where she\nwas sitting with Mary and Susanna, the two youngest children beside\nher. Seeing the struggling heap of muslin and ribbons on the grass she\nresolutely turned the talk into less personal channels. 'I do not at\nall agree with Sarah,' she said calmly, 'besides it is much too hot to\nargue. For my part, _I_ think Six Sisters are fully enough for any\nhousehold. If I had more than five younger ones to look after, I don't\nknow what I should do. Even for the yew-trees it is better. There is\none now for each of us to sit under, and one to spare for my mother\nwhen at last she comes home. I wonder what makes her so late? When\nwill she be here?'\n\nA ripple of expectation stirred the maidens. Moved by the same\nimpulse, they all looked out under the dark yew branches and over the\nsunlit orchard, beyond which lay the high road leading up the hill\nfrom Ulverston. Nothing as yet was to be seen and no faintest rumble\nof approaching wheels reached any of the listeners.\n\nEverywhere the hot air quivered in the sunshine. Even the stately\nElizabethan Hall with its high stone chimneys and mullioned bay\nwindows looked drowsy and half asleep. A pale wisp of smoke was\nascending listlessly in a straight line above the gabled roofs high up\ninto the far still air. Scarcely a sound came from the outbuildings\nthat lay beyond the Hall. Even the pigeons on the roof were too hot to\ncoo. In the herb garden beneath, the flowers drooped in the scorching\nlight. Glare everywhere. Only under the yew-trees was there to be\nfound a pool of grateful shadow. And even that pool had a sunshine of\nits own radiating from the group of merry maidens, with their bright\nfaces and gay voices raised in perpetual talk, or laughter, or song.\nFor a little while they seemed to be busy practising a madrigal. Then\nthe irrepressible chatter burst out afresh. Cool and fragrant all the\nmaidens looked, in their dresses of clear sprigged muslin, each tied\nat waist, wrists, and throat with ribbons of a different colour:\nlilac, lavender, primrose, cherry, emerald, and blue. The garden roses\nmight droop in the hot garden outside, but the roses on the girls'\ncheeks, instead of fading, flushed and deepened with growing\nexcitement. They all seemed full of suppressed eagerness, evidently\nwaiting for something much desired to happen.\n\nAt length tall Bridget, exclaiming, 'It must be time now!' sprang to\nher feet, and, stooping under the clinging boughs of the yew-tree\ntemple, drew herself up to her full height outside its shade. Her gaze\nroamed over the long grass of the orchard and down the broad path, to\nthe high stone arch of the entrance gate through which she could just\ncatch sight of a glimpse of dusty road.\n\n'Nothing yet!' she reported, 'not even a sign of the black horses'\nears or heads above the hedge and not a sound upon the road.'\n\nMargaret raised her head to listen. She inherited her mother's placid,\nMadonna-like beauty, and was at this time the fairest of the whole\nsisterhood. Sarah, who was hereafter to be considered not only the wit\nbut also the beauty of the family, was at this time a child of ten,\nand not yet grown into her full inheritance of comeliness. In after\nyears it was said of Sarah that she was 'not only beautiful and lovely\nto a high degree, but was wonderfully happy in ingeny and memory.'\nBut even at her loveliest it was never said of her, as it was of\nMargaret, that she was 'glorious, comely, and beautiful in that which\nnever fades away,' 'lovely in the truth, an example of holiness and\nwisdom.'\n\nThis comely Margaret, seeing and hearing nothing of what she sought,\nbent her fair face down once more to the little sisters seated on each\nside of her. To beguile the waiting time she was making for them a\nchain of the daisies they had gathered as they flitted about, like gay\nwhite butterflies, over the grass. Mary was eight years old, and\ntherefore able to pick daisies with discretion; but the stalks of the\nflowers gathered by little Susanna were all sadly too short and the\nflowers themselves suffered in her tight hot hand. At this moment\nIsabel ran to join Bridget and, standing on tiptoe beside her, tried\nhard to see as much as her taller sister.\n\n'Nothing yet,' she reported, 'not a sign of the black horses nor even\nthe top of the coach.' Sarah, not to be outdone, swung herself up,\nwith a laugh, on to one of the lower boughs of the oldest yew-tree,\nand standing on it thrust her golden head through the thick canopy\noverhead. She peered out in her turn looking across the orchard and\nover the hedge to the road, then, bending down with a laughing face to\nMargaret and the little ones, 'I'm tallest now,' she exclaimed, 'and I\nshall be the first to spy the coach when it reaches the top of the\nhill!'\n\nBut agile Isabel, ever ready to follow a sister's lead, had already\nleft Bridget's side and swung herself up, past Sarah, on to a yet\nhigher bough.\n\n'Methinks not, Mistress Sarah,' she called over her head, slowly and\ndemurely, 'for now I can see yet farther, and there are the horses'\nears and heads; yea and the chariot also, and now, at last! our\nmother's face!'\n\nBut the group below had not waited for her tidings. They had heard the\nrumble of the wheels and the horses' feet on the road. With cries of\njoy, off they all sped down the path and across the orchard; to see\nwho should be first at the gate to welcome their mother. Only Margaret\nstayed behind on her bench among the scattered daisies, with a\nslightly pensive expression on her lovely face.\n\n'All of them flying to greet her!' Margaret thought to herself. 'See,\nBridget has caught up even Susanna in her arms, that she shall not be\nleft too far behind; while I, the eldest, whom my mother doth ever\ncall her right hand, am forced to stay here. But my mother knows that\nmy knee prevents me. She will not forget her Margaret. Already she\nsees me, and is beckoning the others to come this way.'\n\nIn truth Mistress Fell had already alighted and was now passing\nswiftly under the high stone arch of the gateway. Never did she come\nthrough that gate without a flash of remembrance of the first time she\nentered there, leaning on her husband's arm, a bride of seventeen\nsummers, younger than her own fair Margaret now. She entered, this\ntime, leaning on the arm of tall Bridget, walking as if she were a\ntrifle weary, yet stooping to pick up little Susanna and to cover her\nwith kisses as she moved up the path surrounded by her cloud of girls.\n\n'Not the house, maids,' she cried, 'the yew-trees first! I see my\nMargaret waiting there. Your news, how marvellous soever, must wait\nuntil I have greeted my right-hand daughter and learned how she\nfares.'\n\n'How art thou, dear Heart?' she enquired, as she stooped down and\nkissed her eldest daughter, and sat down beside her. 'Hath thy knee\npained thee a little less this afternoon?'\n\n'Much less,' answered Margaret gaily, 'in fact I had almost forgotten\nit, and was about to rise and welcome you with the rest, when a sudden\nache reminded me that I must not run yet awhile.'\n\nMistress Fell shook her head. 'I fear that I shall have to take thee\nto London and to Wapping for the waters some day. I cannot have my\nbird unable to fly like the rest of the brood, and obliged to wait\nbehind with a clipped wing.'\n\n'Young Margrett,' as she was called, to distinguish her from her\nmother, laughed aloud. 'Nay now, sweet mother, 'tis nothing,' she\nreplied. 'Let us think of more cheerful things. In truth we have much\nto tell you, for we have had an afternoon of visitors and many\nhappenings in thy absence.'\n\n'Visitors?' A slight furrow showed itself in the elder Margaret's\nsmooth forehead. 'Well, that is not strange, since the door of\nSwarthmoor stands ever open to welcome guests, as all the country\nknows. Still I would that I had been at home, or thy father. Who were\nthe visitors, daughter?'\n\nIt was Bridget who answered.\n\n'My father hath often said that there has been scarce a day without a\nvisitor at Swarthmoor since he first brought you here as its\nmistress,' she began primly, 'but in all these years, mother, I doubt\nyou have never set eyes on such an one as our guest of to-day. Priest\nLampitt said the same.'\n\n'Priest Lampitt? Hath he been here? And I not at home. Truly, it\ngrieves me, children, to have missed our good neighbour. Did he then\nbring a stranger with him?'\n\n'No, No, No,' a chorus of dissent broke from the girls, all now seated\nround their mother on the grass, each eager to be the first to tell\nthe tale, yet at a loss for words. Bridget, as usual, stepped into the\ngap. She explained that 'the Priest had been amazed to find the\nStranger here. They had had much discourse. Till at last, Priest\nLampitt, waxing hot and fiery ere he departed, strode down the flagged\npath slashing all the flowers with his cane and never seemed to know\nwhat he was doing, though you know, mother, that he loves our garden.'\n\nA shade of real annoyance crossed Mistress Fell's face. 'The good\nPriest angered in my house,' she said, with real concern in her voice,\n'and I not there, but only a pack of giddy maids, who had not wit\nenough between them to keep a discourteous stranger in his place and\nprevent his being rude to an old friend! Nay, now, maidens, speak not\nall together. Ye are too young and do but babble. Let Bridget\ncontinue, or my Margaret. Either of them I can trust.' But 'young\nMargrett' was bending her head still lower, seemingly over her daisy\nchain.\n\n'Truly, mother,' she said in a low voice close to her mother's ear,\n'there are no words for him. He is so--different; I knew not that\nearth held a man like him. And he will be coming back shortly to the\nhouse--maybe he is already awaiting you!'\n\nMistress Fell looked up now in undisguised alarm. Who was this\nnameless Stranger who had invaded her house during her absence, and\nhad apparently stolen the heart of her discreet and dignified\nMargaret, in one interview, by the mere sight of his charms? Young,\nhandsome, quarrelsome; who could he be? What had brought him to\nSwarthmoor to destroy its peace?\n\nShe turned to capable Bridget for information. Bridget, never at a\nloss, understood her mother's fears, or some of them, and immediately\nanswered reassuringly, 'Be not disquieted, sweet mother. Nothing\nreally untoward has happened. It is true the Stranger disputed hotly\nwith Lampitt, but it was the Priest's blame as much as the Stranger's\nat first, though afterwards, when Lampitt held out his hand and wished\nto be friendly, the Stranger turned from him and shook him off. Yet,\nthough his actions were harsh there was gentleness in his face and\nbearing. He is a man of goodly presence, this Stranger, but quite,\nquite old, thirty or thereabouts by my guessing.'\n\nThe elder Margaret smiled. Bridget continued hastily: 'Or may be more.\nAny way he seemed older from his gravity, and from his outlandish\ndress. Under his coat could be seen a leather doublet and breeches,\nand on his head he wore a large, soft, white hat.'\n\nAt these words the concern in Mistress Fell's face disappeared in a\nmoment. A quick look of welcome sprang into her eyes.\n\n'A man in a white hat!' she exclaimed. 'Perhaps, then, his coming\nforbodes good to us after all. It was only the other night that, as I\nlay a-dreaming, I saw a man in a large white hat coming towards me. I\nhad been seeking for guidance on my knees, for often I fear we are not\nwholly in the right way, with all our seeking and religious exercises.\nIn answer to my prayer there came towards me, in my dream, a man, and\nI knew that he was to be the messenger of God to me and to all my\nhousehold. Tell me more, maidens, of this Stranger, how he came and\nwhence, and why he left and when he will return.'\n\nThis time it was 'young Margrett' who answered. Seeing the sympathy in\nher Mother's eyes, she found her voice at last, and rejoined quickly:\n\n'He resembleth a Priest somewhat, yet not altogether. He speaketh with\nmore authority than anyone I ever heard. Grave he is too. Grave as my\nfather when he is executing justice. Yet, for all his gravity, as\nBridget says, he is wondrous gentle. None of us were affrighted at\nhim, and the little maids ran to him as they do to my father.\nMoreover, he showed them a curious seal he carried in his pocket with\nletters intertwined among roses, a \"G\" I saw, and an \"F.\" Afterwards\nhe took them on his knees and blessed them and they were wholly at\nease. Priest Lampitt, who had been watching through a window, his\ncountenance strangely altered by his rage, now took his departure.\nSeeing him go, the Stranger put down the children gently, setting\nSusanna with both her feet squarely on the polished floor, as I have\nseen a shepherd set down a lamb, as if afeared that it might slip.\nThen he turned in sorrow and spoke a few words to his companion. This\nwas the man who brought him hither, one of the Seekers from\nWensleydale or thereabouts, I should judge from his language; but\ntruly none of us paid much heed to him. The two of them left the Hall\ntogether, and passed down through the herb-garden, and over the\nstream. Once I noticed the Stranger turn and gaze back at the house,\nsearching each window, as if looking for something he found not\nthere. Also he smiled at sight of the yew-trees, with a greeting as if\nthey were old friends. Bridget declares that she heard the Stranger,\nour Stranger, say that he would return hither shortly, when he had set\nhis companion a short distance on his homeward way. But that is now\nmore than two hours agone, and as yet he hath not reappeared.'\n\n'Well then, maids,' replied Mistress Fell briskly, 'let us not linger\nhere. It is high time we went back to the house to welcome our guest,\non his return.' So saying, she rose to her feet, and aiding 'young\nMargrett' with one hand, she drew aside with the other the thick\nscreen of the branches. A ray of sunshine fell upon Margaret Fell,\nstanding there, in the velvety gloom of the old yew-trees, with her\nsix young daughters round her. Sunshine was in her heart too, as she\nlooked down fondly at them for a moment.\n\nThen, lifting up her eyes, she recognised the unknown man she had seen\nin her dream. In the full blaze of sunlight, coming straight up the\nflagged path towards her was a Stranger, wearing a white hat. And thus\ndid Mistress Margaret Fell behold for the first time GEORGE FOX.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nX. 'BEWITCHED!'\n\n\n\n\n _'When ye do judge of matters, or\n when ye do judge of words, or when\n ye do judge of persons, all these\n are distinct things. A wise man\n will not give both his ears to one\n party but reserve one for the\n other party, and will hear both,\n and then judge.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'And after I came to one Captain\n Sands, which he and his wife if\n they could have had the world and\n truth they would have received it.\n But they was hypocrites and he a\n very light chaffy man, and the way\n was too strait for him.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'James the First was crazed\n beyond his English subjects with\n the witch mania of Scotland and\n the Continent. No sooner had his\n first parliament enacted new death\n laws than the judges and the\n magistrates, the constable and the\n mob began to hunt up the oldest\n and ugliest spinster who lived\n with her geese on the common, or\n tottered about the village street.\n Many pleaded guilty, and described\n the covenants they had formed with\n black dogs and \"goblins called\n Tibb\"; others were beaten or\n terrified into fictitious\n confessions, or perished, denying\n their guilt to the last. The black\n business culminated during the\n Civil Wars when scores of women\n were put to death.'--G.M.\n TREVELYAN._\n\n\n\n\nX. 'BEWITCHED!'\n\n\nSaint Swithin's feast was passed. It was a sultry, thundery afternoon\nof mid July, when three horsemen were to be seen carefully picking\ntheir way across the wide wet estuary of the River Leven that goes by\nthe name of 'the Sands.' The foremost rider was evidently the most\nimportant person of the three. He was an oldish man with a careworn\nface, and deepset eyes occasionally lighted by a smile, as he urged\nhis weary horse across the sand. This was no less a person than Judge\nFell himself, the master of Swarthmoor Hall, attended by his clerk and\nhis groom, and returning to his home after a lengthy absence on\ncircuit. A man of wide learning, of sound knowledge of affairs, and\ngifted with an excellent judgment was Thomas Fell. He was as popular\nnow, in the autumn of his days among his country neighbours, as he had\nbeen in former times in Parliament, and among the Puritan leaders.\nThrice had he represented his native county in the House of Commons,\nand had been a trusted friend of Oliver Cromwell himself. It was only\nlatterly, men said, since Oliver showed a disposition to grasp more\nand ever more power for himself that the good Judge, unable to prevent\nthat of which he disapproved, had retired from the intricate problems\nand difficulties of the Capital. He now filled the office of Judge on\nthe Welsh Circuit and later on that of Vice-Chancellor of the Duchy of\nLancaster. But whether he dwelt in the country or in London town it\nwas all one. Wherever he came, men thought highly of him.[10] The\ngood thirsted for his approval. The bad trembled to meet his eye. Yet,\nit was noted, that even when he was obliged to sentence some poor\nwretch, he seemed to commiserate him, and he ever sought to throw the\nweight of his influence on the side of mercy, although no man could be\nsterner at times, especially when he dealt with a case of treachery or\ncold-blooded cruelty.\n\nThe lines of his countenance were rugged, yet underneath there was\nalways an expression of goodwill, and a kindly light in his eyes that\nseemed to come from some still quiet fount of happiness within. It was\nsaid of the Judge, and truly, that he had the happiest home, the\nfairest and wisest wife, and the goodliest young family, of any man in\nthe county. That had been a joyful day, indeed, for him, twenty years\nbefore, when he brought the golden-haired Margaret Askew, the heiress\nof Marsh Grange, as his bride to the old grey Hall of Swarthmoor.\nSixteen full years younger than her husband was she, yet a wondrous\nwise-hearted woman, and his companion in all things.\n\nNow that a son and six fair daughters filled the old Hall with music\nand gay laughter all day long, the Judge might well be no less proud\nof his 'great family' than even of having been Oliver Cromwell's\nfriend.\n\nHe was ever loath to leave that cherished home for his long absences\non the Chester and North Welsh Circuit, and ever joyful when the day\ncame that he might return thither. Even the heavy sand that clogged\nhis horse's feet could hardly make him check his pace. The sands of\nMorecambe Bay are perilous at times, especially to strangers, for the\ntide flows in with such swiftness that even a galloping horse may not\nescape it. But the Judge and his companions knew the dangers well\nenough to avoid them. Their trained eyes instinctively marked the\nslight depressions in the sand and the line of brogs, or half-hidden\ntrees, that guide travellers across by what is really the safest\nroute, although it may seem to take unnecessary loops and curves.[11]\nAt a little distance lay the lonely Chapel Island, surrounded by the\nsea even at low tide, where in olden days lived a community of monks,\nwho tolled a bell to guide pilgrims across the shifting sands, or said\nmasses for the souls of those who perished.\n\nAs his horse picked its way carefully, the Judge raised his eyes often\ntowards the high plateau on the horizon to which he was steadily\ndrawing nearer with every tedious step. Beloved Swarthmoor! The house\nitself was hidden, but he could plainly discern the belt of trees in\nwhich it stood. He thought of each of the inmates of that hidden home.\nGeorge, his only son, how straight and tall he was growing, how\ngallant a rider, and how skilful a sportsman even now, though hasty in\ntemper and over apt to take offence. His gay maidens, were they at\nthis moment singing over some new madrigal prepared to greet him on\nhis return? In an hour or two he should see them all running down the\ngarden path to welcome him, from stately 'young Margrett' to little\ntoddling Susanna. His wife, his own Margaret, well he knew where she\nwould be! watching for him from the lattice of their chamber, where\nshe was ever the first to catch sight of him on his return, as she\nhad been the last to bid him farewell on his departure.\n\nAt this point the good Judge's meditations were suddenly interrupted\nby his groom, who, spurring his horse on a level with his Master's,\npointed respectfully, with upraised whip, towards several moving\nspecks that were hastening across the estuary.\n\nThe softest bit of sand was over now, the travellers were reaching\nfirmer ground, where it was possible to go at a quicker pace. Setting\nspurs to his horse the Judge hastened forward, his face flushing with\nan anxiety he took no pains to conceal.\n\nIn those days, when posts were rare and letters difficult to get or to\nsend, an absence of many weeks always meant the possibility of finding\nbad news at home on the return from a journey.\n\n'Heaven send they bring me no ill tidings!' Judge Fell said to himself\nas he cantered anxiously forward. Before long, it was possible to make\nout that the moving specks were a little company of horsemen galloping\ntowards them over the sands. A few minutes later the Judge was\nsurrounded by a group of breathless riders and panting horses, with\nbits and bridles flecked with foam.\n\nThe Judge's fears increased as he recognised all his most important\nneighbours. Their excited faces also struck him with dread. 'You bring\nme bad news?' he had called out, as soon as the cavalcade came within\nearshot. At the answering shout, 'Aye, the worst,' his heart had sunk\nlike lead. And now here he was actually in their midst, and not one of\nthem could speak. 'Out with it, friends,' he commanded, 'let me know\nthe worst. To whom hath evil happened? To my wife? My son? My\ndaughters?'\n\nBut even he was hardly prepared for the answer, low-breathed and\nmuttering like a roll of thunder: 'To all.'\n\n'To all!' cried the agonised father. 'Impossible! They cannot all be\ndead!' Again came the ominous rejoinder, 'Worse, far worse,' and then,\nin a shout from half-a-dozen throats at once, 'Far, far worse. They\nare all bewitched!' Bewitched! that was indeed a word of ill-omen in\nthose days, a word at which no man, be his position ever so exalted,\ncould afford to smile. Ever since the days of the first Parliament of\nthe first Stuart king, the penalties for the sin of witchcraft had\nbeen made increasingly severe. Although the country was now settling\ndown into an uneasy peace, after the turmoil of the Civil Wars, still\nits witch hunts were even yet too recent a memory for a devoted\nhusband and father to hear the fatal accusation breathed against his\nfamily without dismay. Not all a woman's youth and beauty might always\nsave her, if the hunt were keen. The Judge's lips were tightly pressed\ntogether, but his unmoved countenance showed little of his inward\nalarm as he gazed on the faces round him. His courteous neighbours,\nwho had ridden in such haste with the 'ill news' that 'travels fast,'\nwhich of them all should enlighten him? His neighbour Captain Sands? a\njovial good-humoured man truly;--no, not he, he could not enter into a\nhusband and father's deep anxiety, seeing that he was ever of a\nmocking disposition inwardly for all that he looked sober and scared\nenough now. His brother Justice, John Sawrey? Instinctively Judge Fell\nrecoiled from the thought. Sawrey's countenance might be sober enough\nin good sooth, seeing he was a leader among professing Puritans, but\nsomehow Judge Fell had always mistrusted the pompous little man. Even\nbad news would be worsened if he had to hear it from those lips.\nTherefore it was with considerable relief that the good Judge caught\nsight of a well-known figure riding up more slowly than the others,\nand now hovering on the outskirts of the group. 'The very man! My\nhonoured neighbour Priest Lampitt! You, the Priest of Ulverston, will\nsurely tell me what has befallen the members of my household, who are\nlikewise members of your flock?'\n\nBut the Priest's face was even gloomier than that of the other\ngentlemen. In the fewest possible words, but with stinging emphasis,\nhe told the Judge that the news was indeed too true; his wife and\nyoung family, yea, and even the household servants had, one and all,\nbeen bewitched.\n\nAt this the Judge thought his wisest course was to laugh. 'Nay, nay,\ngood friends,' he said, 'that is too much! I know my wife. I trust her\ngood sense utterly. Still it is possible for even the wisest of women\nto lose her judgment at times. But as for my trusty steward Thomas\nSalthouse, the steadiest man I have ever had in my employ, if even old\nNick himself has managed to bewitch him, he must be a cleverer devil\nthan I thought.'\n\nThen drawing himself up proudly he added, 'So now, Gentlemen, I will\nthank you to submit to me your evidence for these incredible and\nbaseless allegations.' Priest Lampitt hastened to explain. He spoke\nwith due respect of Mistress Fell, his 'honoured neighbour,' as he\ncalled her. ''Tis her well-known kindness of heart that hath led her\nastray. She hath warmed a snake in her bosom, a wandering Quaker\nPreacher, who hath beguiled and corrupted both herself and her\nhousehold.'\n\n'A wandering, Ranting Quaker entertained in my house, during my\nabsence!' Judge Fell had an even temper, but the rising flush on his\nforehead betokened the effort with which he kept his anger under\ncontrol. 'I thank ye, gentles, for your news. My wife and I have ever\nright gladly given food and lodging to all true servants of the Lord,\nbut I will not have any Quakers or Ranters creeping into my house\nduring my absence and nesting there, to set abroad such tales as ye\nhave hastened to spread before me this day. Even the wisest woman is\nbut a woman still, and the sooner I reach home the better.' So saying\nhe raised his hat, and set spurs to his horse. But little Mr. Justice\nSawrey, edging out of the group officiously, set spurs to his own\nhorse and trotted after him. Laying a restraining hand on his fellow\nJustice's bridle, 'One moment more!' he entreated. ''Tis best you\nshould know all ere you return. Not only at Swarthmoor, at Ulverston\nchurch also, hath this pestilential fellow caused a disturbance. It\nwas on the Saturday that he arrived at Swarthmoor Hall, and violently\nbrawled with our good Friend Lampitt during Mistress Fell's absence\nfrom home.'\n\nA shade of relief crossed the Judge's face, 'My wife absent! I might\nhave sworn to it. The maidens are too young to have sober judgment.'\n'Nay, but listen,' continued Sawrey, 'the day after he came to the\nHall was not only the Sabbath but also a day of public humiliation.\nOur good Priest Lampitt, seeing Mistress Fell surrounded by her family\nin the pew at church, trusted, as did we all, that she had sent the\nfellow packing speedily about his business. Alack! no such thing, he\nwas but prowling outside. No sooner did the congregation sing a hymn\nthan in he came, and boldly standing on a form, asked leave to speak.\nOur worthy Priest, the soul of courtesy, consented. Then, oh! the\ntedious discourse that fell on our ears, how that the hymn we had sung\nwas entirely unsuited to our condition, with much talk of Moses and of\nJohn, and I know not what besides, ending up in no less a place than\nthe Paradise of God! Naturally, none of us, gentles, paid much\nattention. I crossed my legs and tried to sleep until the wearisome\nbusiness should be ended. When, to my dismay, I was aroused by our\nhonoured neighbour Mistress Fell standing upright on the seat of her\npew, shrieking with a loud voice: \"We are all thieves, we are all\nthieves!\" This was after the Ranter had finished. While he was yet\nspeaking, she continued to gaze on him, so says my wife, as if she\nwere drinking in every word. But afterwards, having loosed this\nexclamation about thieves (and she a Justice's wife, forsooth!) she\nsat down in her pew once more and began to weep bitterly.'\n\n'Yes,' interrupted Lampitt, who had also come alongside by this time,\n'and he continued to pour forth foul speeches, how that God was come\nto teach His people by His own spirit, and to bring them off from all\ntheir old ways and religions and churches and worships, for that they\nwere all out of the life and spirit, that they was in that gave them\nforth.... And so on, until our good friend here,' indicating Sawrey,\n'being a Justice of the Peace, called out to the churchwardens, \"Take\nhim away, take the fellow away.\" Whereat Mistress Fell must needs rise\nup again and say to the officers, \"Why may he not speak as well as\nany other? Let him alone!\" And I, willing to humour her----'\n\n'Yes, more fool you,' interrupted Sawrey rudely, 'you must needs echo\nher, and cry, \"Let him alone!\" else had I safely and securely clapped\nhim into the stocks.'\n\nJudge Fell, who had listened with obviously growing impatience, now\nbroke away from his vociferous companions. Crying once more, 'I thank\nyou, Sirs, for your well-meant courtesy, but now I pray you to excuse\nme and allow me to hasten to my home,' he broke away from the\nrestraining hands laid upon his bridle and galloped over the sands.\nHis attendants, who had been waiting at a little distance just out of\nearshot, eagerly joined him, and the three figures gradually grew\nsmaller and then disappeared into the distance.\n\nThe other group of riders departed on their different ways homewards,\nwell satisfied with their day's work. Not without a parting shot from\nfat Captain Sands as they separated. Raising his whip he said\nmockingly as he pointed at the Judge's figure riding away in urgent\nhaste: 'Let us hope he may not find the Fox too Foxy when he expels\nhim from his earth!'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[10] 'Being beloved,' the historian says, 'for his justice, wisdom,\nmoderation, and mercy.'\n\n[11] 'The sands are left uncovered at low water to a great extent; and\ntravellers between Lancaster and Furness had formerly to cross from\nHest Bank to Ulverston by the route _brogged_ out by the guides; the\nbrogs being branches of trees stuck in the sand to mark where the\ntreacherous way was safest; a dreary distance of about 14\nmiles.'--Richardson, _Furness_, i. 14.\n\n\n\n\nXI. THE JUDGE'S RETURN\n\n\n\n\n _'The Cross being minded it makes\n a separation from all other\n lovers, and brings to God.'--G.\n FOX._\n\n\n _'Give up to be crossed;_ that _is\n the way to please the Lord and to\n follow Him in His own will and\n way, whose way is the best.'--M.\n FELL._\n\n\n _'Now here was a time of waiting,\n here is a time of receiving, here\n is a time of speaking; the Holy\n Ghost fell upon them, that they\n spoke the wonderful things of\n God.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Mind and consider well the\n spirit of Christ in you, that's he\n that's lowly in you, that's just\n and lowly in you: mind this Spirit\n in you, and then whither will you\n run, and forsake the Lord of Life?\n Will you leave Christ the fountain\n which should spring in you and\n hunt for yourselves? Should you\n not abide within, and drink of\n that which springs freely, and\n feed on that which is pure, meek\n and lowly in spirit, that so you\n might grow spiritual men into the\n same Spirit, to be as He is, the\n sheep of His Pasture? For as is\n your pasture, so are you\n filled.... And you shall say no\n more, I am weak and can do\n nothing, but all things through\n him who gives you\n strength.'--JAMES NAYLER._\n\n\n\n\nXI. THE JUDGE'S RETURN\n\n\nNot one of the six maidens ever remembered a home-coming over-clouded\nas was Judge Fell's on that thundery afternoon of late July. Sadder,\ndarker days lay before them in the years to follow, but none more\nfilled with unacknowledged dread. Was this sad, stern-looking man, who\ndismounted wearily from his horse at the high arched gate, really\ntheir indulgent father? He scarcely noticed or spoke to them, as he\ntramped heavily towards the house. 'He did not even raise an eye\ntowards the window where my mother sits, as she hath ever sat, to\nwelcome him,' young Margrett noticed. The thunder rumbled ominously\noverhead. The first big drops fell from the gloomy clouds that had\nbeen gathering for hours; while upstairs, in her panelled chamber, a\nbig tear splashed on the delicate cambric needlework that lay between\nthe elder Margaret's fingers, before she laid it aside and descended\nthe shallow, oaken stairs to greet her husband.\n\nMargaret Fell looked older and sadder than on the afternoon under the\nyew-trees, only three weeks before. There was a new shade of care on\nher smooth forehead: yet there was a soft radiance about her that was\nalso new. Even her voice had gentler tones. She looked as if she had\nreached a haven, like a stately ship that, after long tossing in the\nwaves, now feels itself safely anchored and at rest.\n\nHappily she has left an account of the Judge's return in her own\nwords, words as fresh and vivid as if they had been written but\nyesterday, instead of more than two hundred and fifty years ago. We\nwill take up her narrative at the point in Ulverston church at which\nJudge Fell broke away from Mr. Justice Sawrey when he was telling him\nthe same tale from his point of view, on the glistening sands of the\nestuary of the Leven.\n\n'And there was one John Sawrey,' writes Mistress Fell, 'a Justice of\nPeace and professor, that bid the church warden take him [George Fox]\naway, and he laid hands on him several times, and took them off again,\nand let him alone; and then after awhile he gave over and he [G.F.]\ncame to our house again that night. He spoke in the family amongst the\nservants, and they were all generally convinced; as William Caton,\nThomas Salthouse, Mary Askew, Anne Clayton, and several other\nservants. And I was struck into such a sadness, I knew not what to do,\nmy husband being from home. I saw it was the truth, and I could not\ndeny it; and I did as the Apostle saith, \"I received truth in the love\nof it;\" and it was opened to me so clear, that I had never a tittle in\nmy heart against it; but I desired the Lord that I might be kept in\nit, and then I desired no greater portion.'\n\n'He went on to Dalton, Aldingham, Dendron and Ramside chapels and\nsteeple-houses, and several places up and down, and the people\nfollowed him mightily; and abundance were convinced and saw that that\nwhich he spoke was the truth, but the priests were in a rage. And\nabout two weeks after James Nayler and Richard Farnsworth followed him\nand enquired him out, till they came to Swarthmoor, and there stayed\nawhile with me at our house, and did me much good; for I was under\ngreat heaviness and judgment. But the power of the Lord entered upon\nme within about two weeks that he came, and about three weeks end my\nhusband came home; and many were in a mighty rage, and a deal of the\ncaptains and great ones of the country went to meet my then husband as\nhe was coming home, and informed him \"that a great disaster was\nbefallen amongst his family, and that they were witches; and that they\nhad taken us away out of our religion; and that he must either set\nthem away, or all the country would be undone.\"'\n\n'So my husband came home, greatly offended; and any may think what a\ncondition I was like to be in, that either I must displease my husband\nor offend God; for he was very much troubled with us all in the house\nand family, they had so prepossessed him against us. But James Nayler\nand Richard Farnsworth were both then at our house, and I desired them\nboth to come and speak to him, and so they did very moderately and\nwisely; but he was at first displeased with them until they told him\n\"they came in love and goodwill to his house.\" And after that he had\nheard them speak awhile, he was better satisfied, and they offered as\nif they would go away; but I desired them to stay and not go away yet,\nfor George Fox will come this evening. And I would have had my husband\nto have heard them all, and satisfied himself further about them,\nbecause they [_i.e._ the neighbours] had so prepossessed him against\nthem of such dangerous fearful things in his first coming home. And\nthen he was pretty moderate and quiet, and his dinner being ready he\nwent to it, and I went in, and sate me down by him. And whilst I was\nsitting, the power of the Lord seized upon me, and he was struck with\namazement, and knew not what to think; but was quiet and still. And\nthe children were all quiet and still, and grown sober, and could not\nplay on their musick that they were learning; and all these things\nmade him quiet and still.'\n\n'At night George Fox came: and after supper my husband was sitting in\nthe parlour, and I asked him, \"if George Fox might come in?\" And he\nsaid, \"Yes.\" So George came in without any compliment, and walked into\nthe room, and began to speak presently; and the family, and James\nNayler, and Richard Farnsworth came all in; and he spoke very\nexcellently as ever I heard him, and opened Christ's and the apostles'\npractices, which they were in, in their day. And he opened the night\nof apostacy since the apostles' days, and laid open the priests and\ntheir practices in the apostacy that if all England had been there, I\nthought they could not have denied the truth of these things. And so\nmy husband came to see clearly the truth of what he spoke, and was\nvery quiet that night, said no more and went to bed. The next morning\ncame Lampitt, priest of Ulverston, and got my husband in the garden,\nand spoke much to him there, but my husband had seen so much the night\nbefore, that the priest got little entrance upon him.... After awhile\nthe priest went away; this was on the sixth day of the week, about the\nfifth month (July) 1652. And at our house divers Friends were speaking\nto one another, how there were several convinced hereaways and we\ncould not tell where to get a meeting: my husband being also present,\nhe overheard and said of his own accord, \"You may meet here, if you\nwill:\" and that was the first meeting that we had that he offered of\nhis own accord. And then notice was given that day and the next to\nFriends, and there was a good large meeting the first day, which was\nthe first meeting that was at Swarthmoor, and so continued there a\nmeeting from 1652 till 1690 [when the present Meeting-house, given by\nGeorge Fox, was built]. And my husband went that day to the\nsteeple-house, and none with him but his clerk and his groom that rid\nwith him; and the priest and the people were all fearfully troubled;\nbut praised be the Lord, they never got their wills upon us to this\nday.'\n\nGeorge Fox in his Journal also records his first eventful interview\nwith Judge Fell as follows:\n\n 'I found that the priests and professors and Justice Sawrey had\n much incensed Judge Fell against the truth with their lies; but\n when I came to speak with him I answered all his objections, and\n so thoroughly satisfied him by the scriptures that he was\n convinced in his judgment. He asked me \"if I was that George Fox\n whom Justice Robinson spoke so much in commendation of among\n many of the parliament men?\" I told him I had been with Justice\n Robinson and Justice Hotham, in Yorkshire, who were very civil\n and loving to me. After we had discoursed a pretty while\n together, Judge Fell himself was satisfied also, and came to\n see, by the openings of the spirit of God in his heart, over all\n the priests and teachers of the world, and did not go to hear\n them for some years before he died. He sometimes wished I was\n awhile with Judge Bradshaw to discourse with him.'\n\nThis was Judge Bradshaw the regicide, and, coming as it did from such\na friend of Cromwell's as Judge Fell, the remark was probably a high\ncompliment.\n\nThe following year, 1653, George Fox came again to Swarthmoor, where\nhe says he had 'great openings from the Lord, not only of divine and\nspiritual matters, but also of outward things relating to the civil\ngovernment. Being one day in Swarthmoor Hall when Judge Fell and\nJustice Benson were talking of the news in the newsbook, and of the\nParliament then sitting, (called the long Parliament) I was moved to\ntell them, \"before that day two weeks the Parliament should be broken\nup, and the speaker plucked out of his chair\"; and that day two weeks\nJustice Benson told Judge Fell that now he saw that George was a true\nprophet, for Oliver had broken up the parliament.' Although Judge Fell\nnever actually joined Friends he was their constant protector and\nhelper, and, in the words of Fox, 'A wall to the believers.' If he did\nnot himself attend the meetings in the great Hall at Swarthmoor, he\nwas wont to leave the door open as he sat in his Justice's chair in\nhis little oak-panelled study close at hand, and thus hear all that\nwas said, himself unseen. How entirely his wife had regained his\nconfidence, and how entirely Lampitt and Sawrey had failed to poison\nhis mind against her or her new teacher, is shown by the following\nletter written about this time, when the Judge was away on one of his\nfrequent absences. It is the only letter to Judge Fell from his wife\nthat has been preserved, but it is ample assurance that no shadow had\ndimmed the unclouded love of this devoted husband and wife.\n\n 'Dear Husband,' Margaret writes, 'My dear love and tender\n desires to the Lord run forth for thee. I have received a letter\n this day from you, and am very glad that the Lord carried you on\n your journey so prosperously.... Dear Heart, mind the Lord\n above all, with whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning,\n and who will overturn all powers that stand before Him.... We\n sent to my dear brother James Nayler and he is kept very close\n and cannot be suffered to have any fire. He is not free to eat\n of the jailor's meat, so they eat very little but bread and\n water. He writ to us that they are plotting again to get more\n false witnesses to swear against him things that he never spoke.\n I sent him 2 lb., but he took but 5 [shillings?]. They are\n mighty violent in Westmorland and all parts everywhere towards\n us. They bid 5 lb. to any man that will take George anywhere\n that they can find him within Westmorland.... The children are\n all in health, praised be the Lord. George is not with us now,\n but he remembered his dear love to thee....\n\n 'Thy dutiful wife till death,\n MARGARET FELL.'\n\n 'Swarthmoor, Feb. 18, 1653.'\n\n\nBut whether Margaret Fell ever entirely forgave Justice Sawrey for the\npart he had played in trying to alienate her husband from her, is, to\nsay the least, doubtful. Anyhow, later on she wrote of him as 'a\ncatterpillar which shall be swept out of the way.' And 'swept out of\nthe way' he eventually was, some years later, when it is recorded that\n'he was drowned in a puddle upon the road coming from York.' But he\nwas to have time and opportunity to do much harm to Friends, and\nespecially to George Fox, before that happened, as the next two\nstories will show.\n\n\n\n\nXII. 'STRIKE AGAIN!'\n\n\n\n\n _'Ulverston consisted of thatched\n one storied houses, many old\n shops, gabled buildings standing\n out towards the street on pillars\n beneath which neighbours sheltered\n and gossipped. On market days\n these projections were filled with\n goods to tempt gentry and yeomanry\n to open their purse-strings.'--From\n 'Home Life in North Lonsdale.'_\n\n\n _'By the year 1654 \"the man with\n the leather breeches\" as he was\n called, had become a celebrity\n throughout England, with scattered\n converts and adherents everywhere,\n but voted a pest and a terror by\n the public authorities, the\n regular steeple-house clergy,\n whether Presbyterian or\n Independent, and the appointed\n preachers of all the old\n sects.'--D. MASSON._\n\n\n _'For in those days the high and\n proud professors and persecutors\n were generally bitterly set\n against the people called Quakers,\n when Presbytery and Independency\n swimmed and floated in possession,\n and with their long Lectures\n against us cried out, \"These are\n the Antichrists come in the last\n times\"'--G. WHITEHEAD._\n\n\n _'For in all things he acquitted\n himself like a man, yea, a strong\n man, a new and heavenly-minded\n man.'--W. PENN of George Fox._\n\n\n\n\nXII. 'STRIKE AGAIN!'\n\n 'Love, Wisdom, and Patience will overcome all that is not of\n God.'--G. FOX.\n\n\nBy the side of even a low mountain the tallest tower looks small. The\nfells that shelter the old market town of Ulverston from northerly\nwinds are not lofty compared with the range of giants that lies behind\nthem in the distance, Coniston Old Man, Sca Fell, Skiddaw, Helvellyn,\nand their brethren. But the fells are high enough to make the tall old\nChurch tower of Ulverston look small and toy-like as it rises under\ntheir shadow above the thatched roofs of the old town.\n\nSwarthmoor Hall stands on a level plateau on the other side of\nUlverston; and it was from Swarthmoor Hall, through a wooded glen by\nthe side of the stream, that George Fox came down to Ulverston Church,\none 'Lecture Day' at the end of September 1652.\n\nOn a 'Lecture Day' a sermon lasting for several hours was delivered by\nan appointed teacher; and when that was finished, anyone who had\nlistened to it was free to rise and deliver a message in his turn if\nhe wished to do so. In those days, as there were no clocks or watches\nin churches, the length of the sermon was measured by turning an\nhour-glass, until all the sand had run out, a certain number of times.\nChildren, and perhaps grown-up people too, must often have watched the\nsand with longing eyes when a sermon of several hours' length was in\nprocess. On this particular day, Priest Lampitt was the appointed\npreacher. Lampitt had never forgiven Fox for having persuaded so many\nof his hearers, and especially the important ladies of Swarthmoor, to\nforsake their Parish Church, and assemble for their own service at\nhome. His feelings may be imagined, therefore, when, his own sermon\nended, he saw George Fox get up and begin to preach in his turn.\n\nGeorge Fox says, 'On a Lecture Day I was moved to go to Ulverston\nsteeple-house, where there was an abundance of professors and\npriests,[12] and people. And I went up near to Lampitt who was\nblustering on in his preaching, and the Lord opened my mouth to\nspeak.'\n\nNow among the 'abundance of people' who were present in the Church was\nthat same Mr. Justice Sawrey, 'the Catterpillar,' of whom the last two\nstories tell. As soon as George Fox opened his mouth and began to\npreach, up bustled the Justice to him, with a patronising air, and\nsaid, 'Now, my good fellow, you may have my permission to speak in\nthis Church, so long as you speak according to the Scriptures.'\n\nLike lightning, George Fox turned round on the high step where he was\nstanding near to Priest Lampitt, and saw at his elbow the little\npompous Justice, his face flushed, full of fussiness about his own\ndignity and anxious to arrange everything according to his own ideas.\n\nGeorge Fox, who felt he had a message from God to deliver, had no\nintention of being interrupted by any man in this way.\n\n'I stranged at him,' says Fox, 'for speaking so to me!'\n\n'Stranged' is an unfamiliar word, no longer used in modern English. It\nsounds as if it meant something very fierce, and calls up a picture of\nGeorge Fox glaring at his antagonist or trying to shout him down. In\nreality it only means that Fox was astonished at his strange\nbehaviour.\n\n'I stranged at him and told him that I would speak according to the\nScriptures, and bring the Scriptures to prove what I had to say, for I\nhad something to say to Lampitt and to them.' 'You shall do nothing of\nthe kind,' said Mr. Justice Sawrey, contradicting his own words of the\nmoment before, that Fox might speak so long as he spoke according to\nthe Scriptures.\n\nFox paid no attention to this injunction, but went on calmly with his\nsermon. At first the congregation listened quietly. But Fox had made a\nnew enemy and a powerful one. The little Justice would not be ignored\nin this way. He whispered to one and another in the congregation,\n'Don't listen to this fellow. Why should he air his notions in our\nfine Church? Beat him! Stop his mouth! Duck him in the pond! Teach him\nthat the men of Ulverston are sensible fellows, and not to be led\nastray by a ranting Quaker!'\n\nThese suggestions had their effect. Possibly the congregation agreed\nwith the speaker. Possibly also, they knew that the little Justice,\nthough short of stature, was of long memory and an ill man to offend.\nMoreover, a magistrate's favour is a useful thing to have at all\ntimes. Perhaps if they hunted Mr. Justice Sawrey's quarry for him in\nthe daytime, he would be more likely to turn a blind eye the next\nmoonlight night that they were minded to go out snaring other game,\nwith fur and feathers, in the Justice's own park! Anyhow, faces began\nto grow threatening as the Quaker's discourse proceeded. Presently\nloud voices were raised. Still the calm tones flowed on unheeding. At\nlength, clenched fists were raised; and, at the sight, the smile on\nthe Justice's face visibly broadened. Nodding his head emphatically,\nhe seemed to be saying, 'On, men, on!' till at length, like sparks\nfanned by a bellows, the congregation's ill-humour suddenly burst into\na flame of rage. When at length rough hands fell upon the Quaker's\nshoulders and set all his alchemy buttons a-jingling, Mr. Justice\nSawrey leaned against the back of his high wooden pew, crossed his\nlegs complacently, and laughed long and loud at the joke. The crowd\ntook this as a sign that they might do as they chose. They fell upon\nFox, knocked him down, and finally trampled upon him, under the\nJustice's own eyes. The uproar became so great that the quieter\nmembers of the congregation were terrified, 'and the people fell over\ntheir seats for fear.'\n\nAt length the Justice bethought himself that such behaviour as this in\na church was quite illegal, since a man had been sentenced, before\nnow, to lose his hand as a punishment for even striking his neighbour\nwithin consecrated walls. He began to feel uneasily that even the\nexcellent sport of Quaker-baiting might be carried too far inside the\nChurch. He came forward, therefore, and without difficulty rescued\nGeorge Fox from the hands of his tormentors. But he had not finished\nwith the Quaker yet. Leading him outside the Church, he there\nformally handed him over to the constables, saying, 'Take the fellow.\nThrash him soundly and turn him out of the town,' adding, perhaps,\nunder his breath, 'and teach him to behave with greater respect\nhereafter to a Justice of the Peace!'\n\nGeorge Fox describes in his own words what happened next. 'They led\nme,' says the Journal, 'about a quarter of a mile, some taking hold of\nmy collar, and some by the arms and shoulders, and shook and dragged\nme, and some got hedge-stakes and holme bushes and other staffs. And\nmany friendly people that was come to the market, and had come into\nthe steeple-house to hear me, many of them they knocked down and broke\ntheir heads also, and the blood ran down several people so as I never\nsaw the like in my life, as I looked at them when they were dragging\nme along. And Judge Fell's son, running after me to see what they\nwould do to me, they threw him into a ditch of water and cried, \"Knock\nthe teeth out of his head!\"'\n\nOnce well away from the town, apparently, the constables were content\nto let their prisoner go, knowing that they might trust their\nfellow-townsmen to finish the job with right good will. The mob yelled\nwith joy to find their prey in their hands at last. With one accord\nthey fell upon Fox, and endeavoured to pull him down, much as, at the\nhuntsman's signal, a pack of hounds sets upon his four-footed namesake\nwith a bushy tail. The constables and officers, too, continued to\nassist. Giving him some final blows with willow-rods they thrust Fox\n'amid the rude multitude, and they then fell upon me as aforesaid with\ntheir stakes and clubs and beat me on the head and arms and\nshoulders, until at last,' their victim says, 'they mazed me, and I\nfell down upon the wet common.'\n\nThe crowd had won! George Fox was down at last! He lay, bruised and\nfainting, on the wet moss of the common on the far side of the town.\nYes, there he lay for a few moments, stunned, bruised, bleeding,\nbeaten nigh to death. Only for a few moments, no longer. Very soon his\nconsciousness returned. Finding himself helpless on the watery common\nwith the savage mob glowering over him, he says, 'I lay a little still\nwithout attempting to rise. Then suddenly the power of the Lord sprang\nthrough me, and the eternal refreshings revived me, so that I stood up\nagain in the eternal power of God, and stretched out my arms among\nthem all and said with a loud voice: \"Strike again! Here are my arms,\nmy head, my cheeks!\"'\n\nWhatever would he do next? What sort of a man was this? The rough\nfellows in the circle around him insensibly drew back a little, and\nlooked in each other's faces with surprise, as they tried to read the\nriddle of this disconcerting behaviour. The Quaker would not show\nfight! He was actually giving them leave to set upon him and beat him\nagain! All in a minute, what had hitherto seemed like rare sport began\nto be rather poor fun.\n\n'There's no sense in thrashing a man who doesn't strike back! Better\nleave the fellow alone!' some of the more decent-minded whispered to\neach other in undertones, and then slunk away ashamed. Only one man, a\nmason, well known as the bully of the town, knew no shame.\n\n'Strike again, sayest thou, Quaker?' he thundered. 'Hast had none but\nsoft blows hitherto? Faith then, I will strike in good earnest this\ntime.' So saying, the mason brought a thick wooden rule that he was\ncarrying down on the outstretched hand before him, with a savage blow\nthat might have felled an ox. After the first shock of agonising pain\nGeorge Fox lost all feeling from his finger-tips right up to his\nshoulder. When he tried to draw the wounded hand back to his side he\ncould not do it. The paralysed nerves refused to carry the message of\nthe brain.\n\n'The mason hath made a good job of it this time,' jeered a mocking\nvoice from the crowd. 'The Quaker hath lost the use of his right hand\nfor ever.' For ever! Terrible words. George Fox was but a young man\nstill. Was he indeed to go through life maimed, without the use of his\nright hand? The bravest man might have shrunk from such a prospect;\nbut George Fox did not shrink, because he did not happen to be\nthinking of himself at all. His hand was not his own. Not it alone but\nhis whole body also had been given, long ago, to the service of his\nMaster. They belonged to Him. Therefore if that Master should need the\nright hand of His servant to be used in His service, His Power could\nbe trusted to make it whole.\n\nThus Fox trusted, and not in vain; since all the while, no thoughts of\nvengeance or hatred to those who had injured him were able to find\neven a moment's lodging in his heart.\n\n'So as the people cried out, \"he hath spoiled his hand for ever having\nany use of it more,\" I LOOKED AT IT IN THE LOVE OF GOD AND I WAS\nIN THE LOVE OF GOD TO ALL THEM THAT HAD PERSECUTED ME. AND AFTER A\nWHILE THE LORD'S POWER SPRANG THROUGH MY HAND AND ARM AND THROUGH ME,\nTHAT IN A MINUTE I RECOVERED MY HAND AND ARM AND STRENGTH IN THE FACE\nAND SIGHT OF THEM ALL.'\n\nThis miracle, as it seemed to them, overawed the rough mob for a\nmoment. But some of the greedier spirits saw a chance of making a good\nthing out of the afternoon's work for themselves. They came to Fox and\nsaid if he would give them some money they would defend him from the\nothers, and he should go free. But Fox would not hear of such a thing.\nHe 'was moved of the Lord to declare unto them the word of life, and\nhow they were more like Jews and heathens and not like Christians.'\n\nThus, instead of thankfully slinking away and disappearing up the hill\nby a by-path to the friendly shelter of Swarthmoor, Fox strode boldly\nback into the centre of the town of Ulverston with his persecutors,\nlike a crowd of whipped dogs, following him at his heels. Yet still\nthey snarled and showed their teeth at times, as if to say, they would\nhave him yet if they dared. Right into Ulverston market-place he came,\nand a stranger sight the old grey town, with its thatched roofs and\ntimbered houses, had surely never seen. In the middle of the\nmarket-place the one other courageous man in the town came up to him.\nThis was a soldier, carrying a sword.\n\n'Sir,' said this gallant gentleman, as he met the bruised and bleeding\nQuaker, 'I am ashamed that you, a stranger, should have been thus\nill-treated and abused, FOR YOU ARE A MAN, SIR,' said he. Fox nodded,\nand a smile like wintry sunshine stole over his worn face. Silently he\nheld out his hand. The soldier grasped it. 'In truth, I am grieved,'\nhe repeated, 'grieved and ashamed that you should have been treated\nlike this at Ulverston. Gladly will I assist you myself as far as I\ncan against these cowards, who are not ashamed to set upon an unarmed\nman, forty to one, and drag him down.'\n\n'No matter for that, Friend,' said Fox, 'they have no power to harm\nme, for the Lord's power is over all.' With these words he turned and\ncrossed the crowded market-place again, on his way to leave the town,\nand not one of the people dared to touch him.\n\nBut, as everyone prefers both to be defended himself and to defend\nothers with those weapons in which he himself puts most trust, the\nsoldier very naturally followed Fox, in case 'the Lord's power' might\nalso need the assistance of his trusty sword.\n\nThe mob, seeing Fox well protected, turned, like the cowards they\nwere, and fell upon the other 'friendly people' who were standing\ndefenceless in the market-place and beat them instead. Their meanness\nenraged the soldier. Leaving Fox, he turned and ran upon the mob in\nhis turn, his naked rapier shining in his hand.\n\n'My trusty sword shall teach these cravens a lesson at last,' he\nthought. Quick as he was, Fox was quicker. He, too, had turned at the\nnoise, and seeing his defender running at the crowd, and the sunshine\ndancing down the steel blade as it gleamed in the air, he also ran,\nand dashed up the soldier's weapon before it had time to descend. Then\ntaking firm hold of the man's right hand, sword and all, 'Thou must\nput up thy sword, Friend,' he commanded, 'if thou wilt come along with\nme.' Half sulkily, and wholly disappointed, the soldier, in spite of\nhimself, obeyed. But he insisted on accompanying Fox to the outskirts\nof the town. 'You will be safe now, Sir,' he said, and sweeping his\nplumed hat respectfully on the ground, as he bowed low to his new\nfriend, the two parted.\n\nNevertheless, not many days thereafter this very gallant gentleman\npaid for his chivalrous conduct. No less than seven men fell upon him\nat once, and beat him cruelly 'for daring to take the Quaker's part.'\n'For it was the custom of this country to run twenty or forty people\nupon one man,' adds the Journal, with quiet scorn. 'And they fell so\nupon Friends in many places, that they could hardly pass the high\nways, stoning and beating and breaking their heads.'\n\nBut of the punishment in store for his defender, Fox was happily\nignorant that hot afternoon of the riot, as he followed the peaceful\nbrook through its sheltered glen, and so came up again at last, after\nhis rough handling, to friendly Swarthmoor, where young George Fell,\nescaped from his persecutors and the miry ditch, had arrived before\nhim. 'And there they were, dressing the heads and hands of Friends and\nfriendly people that were broken that day by the professors and\nhearers of Priest Lampitt,' writes Fox.\n\n'And my body and arms were yellow, black and blue with the blows and\nbruises I received among them that day.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[12] Remember always that by 'priest' George Fox only means a man of\nany form of religion who was paid for preaching. Lampitt was probably\nan Independent. 'Professors,' as we have already seen, are the people\nusually called 'Puritans, who 'professed' or made a great show of\nbeing very religious.'\n\n\n\n\nXIII. MAGNANIMITY\n\n\n\n\n _'Magnanimity ... includes all\n that belongs to a great soul. A\n high and mighty Courage, an\n invincible Patience, an immovable\n Grandeur; which is above the reach\n of Injuries; a high and lofty\n Spirit allayed with the sweetness\n of Courtesy and Respect: a deep\n and stable Resolution founded on\n Humilitie without any Baseness ...\n a generous confidence, and a great\n inclination to Heroical deeds; all\n these conspire to compleat it,\n with a severe and mighty\n expectation of Bliss\n incomprehensible...._\n\n _'A magnanimous soul is always\n awake. The whole globe of the Earth\n is but a nutshell in comparison\n with its enjoyments. The Sun is its\n Lamp, the Sea its Fishpond, the\n Stars its Jewels, Men, Angels, its\n attendance, and God alone its\n sovereign delight and supreme\n complacency.... Nothing is great if\n compared with a Magnanimous soul\n but the Sovereign Lord of all the\n Worlds.'--REV. THOMAS TRAHERNE (A\n Contemporary of G. Fox)._\n\n\n _'They threw stones upon me that\n were so great, that I did admire\n they did not kill us; but so\n mighty was the power of the Lord,\n that they were as a nut or a bean\n to my thinking.'--THOMAS BRIGGS, 1685._\n\n\n\n\nXIII. MAGNANIMITY\n\n\nBeloved Swarthmoor! Dear home, where kind hearts abode, where gentle\nfaces and tender hands were ever ready to welcome and bind up the\nwounds, both visible and invisible, of any persecuted guest in those\ntroubled times. Surely, after his terrible experiences on the day of\nthe riot at Ulverston, George Fox would yield to the entreaties of his\nentertainers, and allow himself to be persuaded to rest in peace under\nthe shadow of the Swarthmoor yew-trees, until the bloodthirsty fury\nagainst all who bore the name of Quaker, and against himself in\nparticular, should have somewhat lessened in the neighbourhood? Far\nfrom it. To 'Flee from Storms' was never this strong man's way.[13]\nGentle reeds and delicate grasses may bow as the storm-wind rushes\nover them. The sturdy oak-tree, with its tough roots grappling firmly\nunderground, stubbornly faces the blast. George Fox, 'ever Stiff as a\nTree,' by the admission even of his enemies, barely waited for his\n'yellow, black and blue' bruises to disappear before he came forth\nagain to encounter his foes. Certain priests had however taken\nadvantage of this short enforced absence to 'put about a prophecy'\nthat he had disappeared for good, and 'that within a year all these\nQuakers would be utterly put down.' Great, therefore, must have been\ntheir chagrin to hear, only a short fortnight after the Lecture Day at\nUlverston, that the hated 'Man in Leather Breeches' was off once more\non his dangerous career.\n\nFox's companion on this journey was that same James Nayler who had\nfollowed him on his first visit to Swarthmoor, a few weeks previously.\nNayler was one of the most brilliantly gifted of all those early\ncomrades of George Fox, who were hereafter to earn the name of 'the\nValiant Sixty.' Clouds and sorrows were to separate the two friends in\nyears to come, but at this time they were united in heart and soul,\nboth alike given up to the joyful service of 'Publishing Truth.' The\nobject of their journey was to visit another recent convert, James\nLancaster by name, in his home on the Island of Walney that lies off\nthe Furness coast.\n\nOn the way thither the travellers spent one night at a small town on\nthe mainland called Cockan. Here, as usual, they held a meeting with\nthe inhabitants of the place, in order to proclaim the message that\npossessed them. Their words had already convinced one of their\nhearers, and more converts to the Truth might have followed, when\nsuddenly, at a low window of the hall where they were assembled, a\nman's figure appeared, threatening the audience with a loaded pistol\nwhich he carried in his hand. As this pistol was pointed, first at one\nand then at another of George Fox's listeners, all the terrified\npeople sprang to their feet and rushed through the doors of the hall\nas fast as their legs could carry them. Their alarm was natural;\nprobably most, if not all of them, had seen fire-arms used in grim\nearnest before this, for the period of the Civil Wars was too recent\nto have faded from anyone's memory.\n\n'I am not after you, ye timid sheep,' shouted the man with the pistol\nas the scared people fled past him. 'It is that Deceiver who is\nleading you all astray that I have to do with. Come out and meet me,\nGeorge Fox,' he shouted, 'if you call yourself a Man.'\n\nThere was no need to ask twice. 'Here I am, Friend,' answered a quiet\nvoice, as the well-known figure, in its wide white hat, long coat,\nleather breeches and doublet, and girdle with alchemy buttons,\nappeared standing in the doorway. Then, passing calmly through it,\nGeorge Fox drew up scarce three paces from his assailant--his body\nmaking a large target at close range that it would be impossible to\nmiss. The frightened people paused in their flight to watch. Were they\ngoing to see the Quaker slain? The stranger raised his pistol; he\naimed carefully. Not a muscle of Fox's countenance quivered. Not an\neyelash moved. The trigger snapped....\n\nNothing happened! The pistol did not go off. As if by a miracle the\nQuaker was saved.\n\nSeeing this wonderful escape of their leader, some of the other men's\ncourage returned. They rushed back to assist him. They threw\nthemselves upon his assailant and wrenched the pistol from his hand,\nvowing he should do no further mischief. Fox, seeing in his adversary,\nnot an enemy who had just sought his life, but a fellow-man with a\n'Seed of God' hidden somewhere within him and therefore a possible\nsoul to be won, was 'moved in the Lord's power to speak to him; and he\nwas struck with the Lord's power' (small wonder!) 'so that he went and\nhid himself in a cellar and trembled for fear.\n\n'And so the Lord's power came over them all, though there was a great\nrage in the country.'\n\nThe Journal continues (but it was written many years later, remember,\nwhen the account of what had happened could not bring anyone into\ntrouble): 'And ye next morning I went over in a boat to James\nLancaster's, and as soon as I came to land there rushed out about\nforty men, with staffs, clubs, and fishing-poles, and fell upon me\nwith them, beating, punching, and thrust me backwards into the sea.\nAnd when they had thrust me almost into the sea, I stood up and went\ninto the middle of them again, but they all laid on me again and\nknocked me down and mazed me. And when I was down and came to myself,\nI looked up and saw James Lancaster's wife throwing stones at my face,\nand her husband lying over me, to keep the stones and blows off me.\nFor the people had persuaded James's wife that I had bewitched her\nhusband, and had promised her that if she would let them know when I\ncame hither they would be my death.\n\n'So at last I got up in the power of God over them all, and they beat\nme down into the boat. And so James Lancaster came into the boat to me\nand so he set me over the water.\n\n'And James Nayler we saw afterwards that they were beating of him. For\nwhile they were beating of me, he walked up into a field, and they\nnever minded him till I was gone, and then they fell upon him, and all\ntheir cry was \"Kill him!\" \"Kill him!\" When I was come over to the town\nagain, on the other side of the water, the townsmen rose up with\npitchforks, flails, and staves to keep me out of the town, crying,\n\"Kill him! knock him on the head! bring the cart and carry him to the\nchurchyard.\" And so they abused me and guarded me with all those\nweapons a pretty way out of the town, and there at last, the Lord's\npower being over them all, they left me. Then James Lancaster went\nback again to look for James Nayler. So I was alone and came to a\nditch of water and washed me, for they had all dirted me, and wet and\nmired my clothes, my hands and my face.\n\n'I walked a matter of three miles to Thomas Hutton's, where Thomas\nLawson the priest lodged, who was convinced. And I could hardly speak\nto them when I came in I was so bruised. And so I told them where I\nhad left James Nayler, and they went and took each of them a horse,\nand brought him thither that night. And I went to bed, but I was so\nweak with bruises that I was not able to turn me. And the next day,\nthey hearing of it at Swarthmoor, they sent a horse for me. And as I\nwas riding the horse knocked his foot against a stone and stumbled, so\nthat it shook me so and pained me, as it seemed worse to me than all\nthe blows, my body was so tortured. So I came to Swarthmoor, and my\nbody was exceedingly bruised.'\n\nEven within the sheltering walls of Swarthmoor, this time persecution\nfollowed. Justice Sawrey had not yet forgiven the Quaker for his\nbehaviour on the day of the riot. He must have further punishment. So\nright up to Swarthmoor itself came constables with a warrant signed by\ntwo Justices (Sawrey of course being one of them), that a certain man\nnamed George Fox was to be apprehended as a disturber of the peace.\nAnd clapped into gaol George Fox would have been, wounded and bruised\nas he was, in spite of all that his gentle hostesses could do to\nprevent it, had it not happened that, just as the constables arrived\nto execute this order, the master of the house, good Judge Fell\nhimself, must needs return once more, in the very nick of time, home\nto Swarthmoor. His mere presence was a defence.\n\nHe had been away again on circuit all this time that George Fox had\nbeen so cruelly treated in the neighbourhood, and had therefore known\nnothing of the rioting during his absence. Now that he was back at\nhome again, straightway everything went well. The roof seemed to grow\nall at once more sheltering, the walls of the old hall to become\nthicker and more able to protect its inmates, when once the master of\nthe house was safely at home once more.\n\nThe six girls ran up and down stairs more lightly, smiling with relief\nwhenever they met each other in the rooms and passages. Long\nafterwards, in the troubled years that were to follow, when there was\nno indulgent father to protect them and their mother and their friends\nfrom the bitter blast of persecution, many a time did the maidens of\nSwarthmoor recall that day. They remembered how, weeping, they had run\ndown to the high arched gate of the orchard to meet their father, and\nto tell him what was a-doing up at the Hall. Thus they drew near the\nhouse, the Judge's dark figure half hidden among his muslined maidens,\neven as the dark old yews are hidden in spring by the snowy-blossomed\napple-trees. When they saw the Judge himself coming towards them, the\nconstables drawn up in the courtyard began to look mighty foolish.\nThey approached with gestures of respect, giving a short account of\nwhat had happened at Walney, and holding out the warrant, signed by\ntwo justices, as an apology for their presence at Judge Fell's own\nHall during his absence.\n\nAll their excuses availed them little. Judge Fell could look stern\nenough when he chose, and now his eyes flashed at this invasion of\nhis home.\n\n'What brings you here, men? A warrant for the apprehension of George\nFox, _MY GUEST_? Are my brother Justices not aware then that I am a\nJustice too, and Vice-Chancellor of the county to boot? Under this\nroof a man is safe, were he fifty times a Quaker. But, since ye are\nhere' (this with a nod and a wink, as the constables followed the\nJudge up the flagged path and by a side door into his oak-panelled\nstudy), 'since ye are here, men, I will give you other warrants\na-plenty to execute instead. Those riotous folk at Walney Island are\nwell known to me of old. It is high time they were punished. Take\nthis, and see that the ringleaders who assaulted my guest are\nthemselves clapped into Lancaster Gaol forthwith.'\n\nWell pleased to get off with nothing but a reprimand, the constables\ndeparted, and carried out their new mission with right good will. The\nrioters were apprehended, and some of them were forced to flee from\nthe country. In time James Lancaster's wife came to understand better\nthe nature of the 'witchcraft' that George Fox had used upon her\nhusband. She too was 'convinced of Truth.' Later on, after she had\nherself become a Friend, she must often have looked back with remorse\nto the sad day when her husband had been forced to defend his loved\nand revered teacher with his own body from her blows and stones.\n\nMeanwhile at Swarthmoor there had been great rejoicing over the\ndiscomfiture of the constables. No sooner had they departed down the\nflagged path than back flitted the bevy of girls again into the study,\nuntil the small room was full to overflowing. It was like seeing a\ncompany of fat bumble-bees, their portly bodies resplendent in black\nand gold, buzz heavily out of a room, and a gay flight of pale-blue\nand lemon butterflies flit back in their places. All the daughters\nfell upon their father, Margaret, Bridget, Isabel, Sarah, Mary, and\nSusanna; there they all were! tugging off his heavy riding-boots and\ngaiters, putting away the whip on the whip-rack, while little Mary\nperched herself proudly on his knee and put up her face for a kiss;\nand, all the time, such a talk went on as never was about Friend\nGeorge Fox and the sufferings he had undergone, each girl telling the\nstory over and over again.\n\n'Now, now, maids!' said the kind father at last, 'I have heard enough\nof your chatter. It is time for you to depart and send Mr. Fox hither\nto me himself. 'Tis a stirring tale, even told by maidens' lips; I\nwould fain hear it at greater length from the man himself. He shall\ntell me, in his own words, all that he hath suffered, and the vile\nusage he hath met with at the hands of his enemies.'\n\nA few minutes later, a steady step was heard crossing the hall and\nascending the two shallow stairs that led to the Justice's private\nsanctum. As George Fox entered the room Judge Fell rose from his seat\nat the writing-table to receive his guest, and clasped his hand with a\nhearty greeting.\n\nThe study at Swarthmoor is only a small room; but when those two\nstrong men were both in it together, facing each other with level\nbrows and glances of unclouded trust, the small room seemed suddenly\nto grow larger and more spacious. It was swept through by the wide\nfree airs of heaven, where full-grown spirits can meet and recognise\none another unhindered. They disagreed often, these two determined,\npowerful men. They owned different loyalties and held different\nopinions; but from the day they first met to the day they parted they\nrespected and trusted one another wholly, and for this each man in his\nheart gave thanks to God.\n\nGeorge Fox began by asking his host how his affairs had prospered; but\nwhen, these enquiries answered, the Judge in his turn questioned his\nguest of the rough usage he had met with both at Ulverston and in the\nIsland of Walney, to his surprise no details were forthcoming. Had the\nJudge not had full particulars from his daughters as well as from the\nconstables, he would have thought that nothing of much moment had\noccurred. George Fox apparently took no interest in the subject; the\nmost he would say, in answer to his host's repeated enquiries, was\nthat 'the people could do no other, in the spirit in which they were.\nThey did but show the fruits of their priest's ministry and their\nprofession and religion to be wrong.'\n\n'I' faith, Margaret, thy friend is a right generous man,' the good\nJudge remarked to his wife, that same night, a few hours later, when\nthey were at length alone together in their chamber. The festoons of\ninterlaced roses and lilies, carved in high relief on the high black\noak fireplace, shone out clearly in the glow of two tall candles above\ntheir heads.\n\n'In truth, dear Heart,' he continued, taking his wife's hand in his,\nand drawing her fondly to him, 'in truth, though I said not so to him,\nthe Quaker doth manifest the fruits of his religion to be right, by\nhis behaviour to his foes. All stiff and bruised though he was, he\nmade nothing of his injuries. When I would have enquired after his\nhurts, he would only say the Power of the Lord had surely healed him.\nFOR THE REST, HE MADE NOTHING OF IT, AND SPOKE AS A MAN WHO HAD NOT\nBEEN CONCERNED.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[13] 'Flee from Storms' is a motto in the note-book of Leonardo da\nVinci.\n\n\n\n\nXIV. MILES HALHEAD AND THE HAUGHTY LADY\n\n\n\n\n _'Many a notable occurrence Miles\n Halhead had in his life.... But\n his going thus often from home was\n a great cross to his wife, who in\n the first year of his change, not\n being of his persuasion, was often\n much troubled in her mind, and\n would often say from discontent,\n \"Would to God I had married a\n drunkard, then I might have found\n him at the alehouse; but now I\n cannot tell where to find my\n husband.\"'--SEWEL._\n\n\n _To Friends--To take care of such\n as suffer for owning the Truth._\n\n _'And that if any friends be\n oppressed any manner of way, others\n may take care to help them: and\n that all may be as one family,\n building up one another and helping\n one another.'_\n\n\n _'And, friends, go not into the\n aggravating part to strive with\n it, lest you do hurt to your\n souls, and run into the same\n nature; for PATIENCE MUST GET THE\n VICTORY, and it answers to that of\n God in everyone and will bring\n everyone from the contrary. So let\n your temperance and moderation and\n patience be known to all.'--GEORGE\n FOX._\n\n\n _'Non tristabit justum quidquid si\n accederit.'_\n\n _'Whatever happens to the righteous\n man it shall not heavy\n him.'--RICHARD ROLLE. 1349._\n\n\n\n\nXIV. MILES HALHEAD AND THE HAUGHTY LADY\n\n\nA Plain, simple man was Miles Halhead, the husbandman of Mountjoy. Ten\nyears older than Fox was he, and wise withal, so that men wondered to\nsee him forsake his home and leave wife and child at the call of the\nQuaker's preaching, and go forth instead to become a preacher of the\nGospel.\n\nYet, truth to tell, the change was natural and easily explained. All\nhis life Miles had had to do with seeds buried in the ground.\nTherefore when he heard George Fox preach at his home near Underbarrow\nin Westmorland, telling all men to consider 'that as the fallow ground\nin their fields must be ploughed up before it would bear seed to them,\nso must the fallow ground of their hearts be ploughed up before they\ncould bear seed to God,' Miles' own past experience as a husbandman\nbore witness to the truth of this doctrine. His whole nature sprang\nforward to receive it; and thus, in a short while, he was mightily\nconvinced.\n\nNow at that time there were, as we know, many companies of Seekers\nscattered up and down the pleasant Westmorland dales. Miles himself\nhad been one of such a group, but now, having found that which he had\naforetime been a-seeking, nought was of any value to him, but that his\nold companions should likewise cease to be Seekers, and become also in\ntheir turn Finders. Yet Miles wondered often how such an one as he\nshould be able to convince them. For he was neither skilful nor ready\nof tongue, nor of a commanding presence like Friend George Fox, but\nonly a simple husbandman. Still he was wary in his discourse, from\nhis long watching of the faces of Earth and Sky--full also he was of a\nmost convincing silence; and, though as yet he had proved it not,\nstaunch to suffer for his faith. It was said of him that 'his\nTestimony was plaine and powerful, he being a plain simple man.'\n\nThus Miles Halhead began to preach the Gospel, at first only in the\nhamlets and valleys round his home at Underbarrow near to Kendal. But\none day when the daffodils were all abloom, and blowing their golden\ntrumpets silently beside the sheltered streams, it came to him that he\nmust take a further journey, and must follow the golden paths of the\ndaffodils over hill and vale, until at the end of this street of gold\nhe should come to Swarthmoor Hall; that there he might assist his\nfriends at their Meeting, and with them be strengthened and have his\nsoul refreshed.\n\nA walk of seventeen miles or so lay before him, and an easy journey it\nshould prove in this gay springtime, though in winter, when the snow\nlay drifted on the uplands, it would have been another matter. He\ncould have travelled by the sheltered road that runs through the\nvalley. It being springtime, however, and a sunny day when Miles set\nout from his home, he chose for pure pleasure to go by the fells.\nFirst, he travelled across the Westmorland country till he came to the\nlower end of Lake Winandermere, where the hills lie gently round like\ngiants' children, being not yet full grown into giants themselves with\nbrows that touch the sky, as they are at the upper end of that same\nshining lake. Then, leaving Winandermere, across the Furness fells he\ncame, keeping ever on his right hand the Old Man of Coniston, who,\nwith his head for the most part wrapped in clouds, standeth yet, as he\nhath stood for ages, the Guardian of all that region.\n\nThus at length, as Miles journeyed, he came within sight of the\npromontory of Furness, that lies encircled by the sea, even as a\nbabe's head lies in the crook of a woman's elbow. Seeing this, Miles'\nheart rejoiced, for he knew that his journey's end was in sight, and\nhe tramped along blithely and without fear.\n\nSuddenly, on the path at some distance ahead of him, he saw a patch of\nbrilliant green and purple coming towards him--a gay figure more\nlikely to be met with in the streets of London than on those lonely\nfells. Miles thought to himself as it drew nearer, ''Tis a woman!'\nthen, 'Nay, it is surely a great Thistle coming towards me; no woman\nwould wear garments such as those in this lonely place.' As he shaded\nhis eyes the better to see what might be approaching, his mind ran\nback to the first sermon he had ever heard George Fox preach, on his\nfirst visit to Underbarrow, when he said, 'That all people in the Fall\nwere gone from the image of God, righteousness and holiness, and were\ndegenerated into the nature of beasts, of serpents, of tall cedars, of\noaks, of bulls and of heifers.' ... 'Some were in the nature of dogs\nand swine, biting and rending; some in the nature of briars, thistles\nand thorns; some like the owls and dragons in the night; some like the\nwild asses and horses snuffing up the wind; and some like the\nmountains and rocks, and crooked and rough ways.' 'I was not certain\nof his meaning when I first heard him utter these words,' simple Miles\nthought to himself, 'but now that I see this fine Thistle coming\ntowards me, I begin to understand him. Haply it is but a Thistle in\nouter seeming, and carries within the nature of a Lily or a Rose.'\n\nEven as he thought of this, the Thistle came yet nearer, and when he\ncould see it more plainly he feared that neither Lily nor Rose was\nthere, but a Thistle full of prickles in very truth. It was indeed a\nwoman, but clad in more gorgeous raiment than Miles had ever seen.\nGreen satin was her robe, slashed with pale yellow silk, marvellous to\nbehold. But it was the hat that drew Miles' gaze, for though newly\ncome to be a Quaker preacher, he had been a husbandman long enough to\nbe swift to notice the garb of all growing, living things, whether\nthey were flowers or dames. Truly the hat was marvellous, of a bright\npurple satin, and crowned with such a tuft of tall feathers that the\nwearer's face could scarcely be seen beneath its shade. Dressed all in\ngaudy style was this fine Madam; and, as she passed Miles, she tilted\nup her head and drew her skirts disdainfully together, lest they\nshould be soiled by his approach. Although the lady appeared to see\nhim not, but to be gazing at the sky, she was in truth well aware of\nhis presence, and awaited even hungrily a lowly obeisance from him,\nthat should assure her in her own sight of her own importance. For of\nno high-born lineage was this flaunting dame, no earl's or duke's\ndaughter, else perhaps she had been too well aware of her own dignity\nand worth to insist upon others acknowledging it. She was but the\nyoung wife of the old Justice, Thomas Preston, and a plain Mistress,\nlike Miles' own simple wife at home, in spite of her gay garments and\nflaunting airs. But the fact that she had newly come to live at Holker\nHall, the finest mansion in all that country-side, had uplifted her\nin her own sight, and puffed her out with pride, sending her forth at\nall hours into unseasonable places to show off her fine new London\nclothes.\n\nTherefore she paused a little as she passed Miles, waiting for him to\ndoff his hat and bend his knee, and declare himself in all lowliness\nher servant. But Miles had never a thought of doing this. Though he\nwas but newly turned Quaker, right well he remembered hearing George\nFox say--\n\n'Moreover, when the Lord sent me forth into the world, He forbade me\nto put off my hat to any--high or low--and I was required to \"thee\"\nand \"thou\" all men and women, without any respect to rich or poor,\ngreat or small. And as I travelled up and down, I was not to bid\npeople \"Good-morrow,\" or \"Good-evening,\" neither might I bow or scrape\nwith the leg to anyone, and this made the sects and the professors to\nrage.'\n\nMiles, too, having learnt this lesson and made it his own, passed by\nthe lady in all soberness and quietness, taking no more notice of her\nthan if she had been one of those dames painted on canvas by the late\nKing's painter, Sir Anthony Van Dyck, which, truth to tell, she\nmightily resembled. The haughty fair one seeing this, as soon as he\nhad fully passed and she could no longer delude herself with the hope\nthat the longed-for salute was coming, was vastly and mightily\nincensed. It was not her hat alone that was thistle colour then: her\nface, her forehead, her neck all blazed and burned in one purple flush\nof rage. Only her cheeks stayed a changeless crimson, and that for a\nvery excellent reason, easy to guess. Violently she turned herself to\na serving-man who was following in her train, following so humbly, and\nbeing so much hidden by Madam's fallals and furbelows, that until that\nmoment Miles had not even seen that he was there.\n\n'Back, sirrah!' she said in a loud, angry voice, speaking to the man\nas if he had been a dog or a horse, 'back with thy staff and beat that\nunmannerly knave till thou hast taught him 'twere well he should learn\nto salute his betters.'\n\nThe servant was tired of following his lady like a lap-dog, and\nattending to all her whims and whimsies. Scenting sport more nearly to\nhis liking, he obeyed, nothing loath. He fell upon Miles and beat him\nlustily and stoutly, expecting every moment that he would resist or\nbeg for mercy.\n\nMistress Preston meanwhile, having turned full round, watched the\nthwacking blows, and counted each one as it fell, with a smile of\npleasure. But her smile speedily became an angry frown, for Miles,\nwell knowing to whom his chastisement was due, paid no heed to the\nserving-man, let him lay on never so soundly, but turned himself round\nunder the blows, and cried out in a loud voice to her: 'Oh, thou\nJezebel, thou proud Jezebel, canst thou not permit and suffer the\nservant of the Lord to pass by thee quietly?'\n\nNow at that word 'Jezebel,' Mistress Preston's anger was yet more\nmightily inflamed against Miles, for she knew that he had discovered\nthe reason why her cheeks had remained pink, and flushed not thistle\npurple like the rest of her countenance. Even the serving-man smiled\nto himself, a mocking smile, and hummed in a low voice, as he\ncontinued to lay the blows thickly on Miles, a ditty having this\nrefrain--\n\n 'Jezebel, the proud Queen,\n Painted her face,'\n\nHe did not suppose that his mistress would recognise the tune; but\nrecognise it she did, and it increased her anger yet more, if that\nwere possible. She flung out both hands in a fury, as if she would\nherself have struck at Miles, then, thinking him not fit for her\ntouch, she changed her mind, and spat full in his face. Oh, what a\nsavage Thistle was that woman, and worse far than any Thistle in her\nbehaviour! Loudly, too, she exclaimed, 'I scorn to fall down at thy\nwords!' Her meaning in saying this is not fully clear, but it may be,\nas Miles had called her Jezebel, she meant that no one should ever\ncast her down from her high estate, as Jezebel was cast down from the\nwindow in the Palace, whence she mocked at Jehu. This made Miles\ntestify yet once more--'Thou proud Jezebel,' said he, 'thou that\nhardenest thine heart and brazenest thy face against the Lord and His\nservant, the Lord will plead with thee in His own time and set in\norder before thee the things thou hast this day done to His servant.'\n\nBy this time the lady's lackey had at length stopped his beating, not\nout of mercy to Miles, but simply because his arm was weary. Yet he\nstill kept humming under his breath another verse of the same ditty,\nending--\n\n 'Jezebel, the proud Queen,\n 'Tired her hair!'\n\nMiles, therefore, being loosed from his hands, parted from both\nmistress and man, and left them standing without more words and\nhimself passed on, bruised and buffeted, to continue his journey in\nsore discomfort of body until he came to Swarthmoor.\n\nArrived at that gracious home, his friends comforted him and bound up\nhis aching limbs, as indeed they were well accustomed to do in those\ndays, when the guests who arrived at Swarthmoor had too often been\nsorely mishandled. Even to this day, in all the lanes around, may be\nseen the walls composed of sharp, grey, jagged stones, over which is\ncreeping a covering of soft golden moss. So in those old days of which\nI write, men, aye and women too, often came to Swarthmoor torn and\nbleeding, perhaps sometimes with anger in their hearts (though Miles\nHalhead was not of these), and all alike found their inward and\noutward wounds staunched and assuaged by the never-failing sympathy of\nkindly hearts, and hands more soft than the softest golden moss.\n\nThus Miles Halhead was comforted of his friends at Swarthmoor, and\ninwardly refreshed. Yet the matter of his encounter with the haughty\nlady, and of her prickly thistle nature, rested on his mind, and he\ncould not be content without giving her yet one more chance to doff\nher prickles and become a sweet and fragrant flower in the garden of\nthe Lord. Therefore, three months later, being continually urged\nthereunto by 'the true Teacher which is within,' he determined to take\nyet another journey and come himself to Holker Hall, and ask to speak\nwith its mistress and endeavour to bring her to a better mind. Thither\nthen in due course he came. Now a mansion surpassing grand is Holker\nHall, the goodliest in all that country-side. And a plain man and a\nsimple, as has been said, was Miles Halhead the husbandman of\nMountjoy, even among the Quakers--who were none of them gay gallants.\nNevertheless, being full of a great courage though small in stature,\nall weary and travel-stained as he was, to Holker Hall Miles Halhead\ncame. He would not go to any back door or side door, seeing that his\nerrand was to the mistress of the stately building. He walked\ntherefore right up the broad avenue till he came to the front\nentrance, with its grand portico, where a king had been welcomed\nbefore now.\n\nAs luck would have it, the door stood open as the Quaker approached,\nand the mistress of Holker Hall herself happened to be passing through\nthe hall behind. She paused a moment to look through the open door,\nintending most likely to mock at the odd figure she saw approaching.\nBut on that instant she recognised Miles as the man who had called her\nJezebel. Now Miles at first sight did not recognise her, and was\ndoubtful if this could be the haughty Thistle lady he sought, or if it\nwere not a Lily in very truth. For Mistress Preston was clad this hot\nday in a lily-like frock of white clear muslin, all open at the neck\nand short enough to show her ankles and little feet, and tied with a\nblue ribbon round the waist, a garb most innocent to look upon, and\nmore suited to a girl in her teens than to the Justice's wife, the\nbuxom mistress of Holker Hall.\n\nTherefore Miles, not recognising her, did ask her if she were in truth\nthe woman of the house. To which she, seeing his uncertainty, answered\nlyingly: 'No, that I am not, but if you would speak with Mistress\nPreston, I will entreat her to come to you.'\n\nEven as the words left her lips, Miles was sensible that she was\nspeaking falsely, seeing how, even under the paint, her cheeks took on\na deeper hue. And she, ever mindful that it was that same man who had\ncalled her Jezebel, went into the house and returning presently with\nanother woman, declared that here was Mistress Preston, and demanded\nwhat was his will with her. No sooner had she spoken a second time\nthan it was manifested to Miles with perfect clearness that she\nherself and none other was the woman he sought. Wherefore, in spite of\nher different dress and girlish mien, he said to her, 'Woman, how\ndarest thou lie before the Lord and His servant?'\n\nAnd she, being silent, not speaking a word, he proceeded, 'Woman, hear\nthou what the Lord's servant hath to say unto thee,--O woman, harden\nnot thy heart against the Lord, for if thou dost, He will cut thee off\nin His sore displeasure; therefore take warning in time, and fear the\nLord God of Heaven and Earth, that thou mayest end thy days in peace.'\nHaving thus spoken he went his way; she, how proud soever, not seeking\nto stay him nor doing him any harm, but standing there silent and dumb\nunder the tall pillars of the door, being withheld and stilled by\nsomething, she knew not what.\n\nYet her thistle nature was not changed, though, for that time, her\nprickles were blunted. It chanced that several years later, when\nGeorge Fox was a prisoner at Lancaster, this same gay madam came to\nhim and 'belched out many railing words,' saying among the rest that\n'his tongue should be cut off, and he be hanged.' Instead of which, it\nwas she herself that was cut off and died not long after in a\nmiserable condition.\n\nThus did Mistress Preston of Holker Hall refuse to bow her haughty\nspirit, yet the matter betwixt her and Miles ended not altogether\nthere. For it happened that another April day, some three springs\nafter Miles Halhead had encountered her the first time, as he was\nagain riding from Swarthmoor towards his home near Underbarrow, and\nagain being come near to Holker Hall, he met a man unknown to him by\nsight. This person, as Miles was crossing a meadow full of daffodils\nthat grew beside a stream, would not let him pass, as he intended, but\nstopped and accosted him. 'Friend,' said he to Miles, 'I have\nsomething to say to you which hath lain upon me this long time. I am\nthe man that about three years ago, at the command of my mistress, did\nbeat you very sore; for which I have been very troubled, more than for\nanything which ever I did in all my life: for truly night and day it\nhath been in my heart that I did not well in beating an innocent man\nthat never did me any hurt or harm. I pray you forgive me and desire\nthe Lord to forgive me, that I may be at peace and rest in my mind.'\n\nTo whom Miles answered, 'Truly, friend, from that time to this day I\nhave never had anything in my heart towards either thee or thy\nmistress but love. May God forgive you both. As for me, I desire that\nit may not be laid to your charge, for you knew not what you did.'\nHere Miles stopped and gave the man his hand and forthwith went on his\nway; and the serving-man went on his way; both of them with a glow of\nbrotherhood and fellowship within their hearts. While the daffodils\nbeside the stream looked up with sunlit faces to the sun, as they blew\non their golden trumpets a blast of silent music, for joy that ancient\ninjury was ended, and that in its stead goodwill had come.\n\n\n\n\nXV. SCATTERING THE SEED\n\n\n\n\n _'As early as 1654 sixty-three\n ministers, with their headquarters\n at Swarthmoor, and undoubtedly\n under central control, were\n travelling the country upon\n \"Truth's ponies\"'--JOHN WILHELM\n ROWNTREE._\n\n\n _'It is interesting to note and\n profitable to remember, how large\n a part these sturdy shepherds and\n husbandmen, from under the shade\n of the great mountains, had in\n preaching the doctrines of the\n Inward Light and of God's\n revelation of Himself to every\n seeking soul, in the softer and\n more settled countries of the\n South.'--THOMAS HODGKIN._\n\n\n _'Some speak to the conscience;\n some plough and break the clods;\n some weed out, and some sow; some\n wait that fowls devour not the\n seed. But wait all for the\n gathering of the simple-hearted\n ones.'... 1651._\n\n _'Friends, spread yourselves\n abroad, that you may be serviceable\n for the Lord and His Truth.' 1654._\n\n _'Love the Truth more than all, and\n go on in the mighty power of God,\n as good soldiers of Christ,\n well-fixed in His glorious gospel,\n and in His word and power; that you\n may know Him, the life and\n salvation and bring up others into\n it.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Go! Set the whole world on fire\n and in flames!'--IGNATIUS LOYOLA.\n (To one whom he sent on a distant\n mission.)_\n\n\n\n\nXV. SCATTERING THE SEED\n\n\nIn Springtime the South of England is a Primrose Country. Gay carpets\nof primroses are spread in the woods; shy primroses peep out like\nstars in sheltered hedgerows; vain primroses are stooping down to look\nat their own faces in pools and streams, there are primroses,\nprimroses everywhere. But in the North of England their 'paly gold'\nused to be a much rarer treasure. True, there were always a few\nprimroses to be found in fortunate spots, if you knew exactly where to\nlook for them; but they were not scattered broadcast over the country\nas they are further South.\n\nTherefore, North Country children never took primroses as a matter of\ncourse, they did not tear them up roughly, just for the fun of\ngathering them, drop them heedlessly the next minute and leave them on\nthe road to die. North Country children used their precious holiday\ntime to seek out their favourite flowers in their rare hiding-places.\n\n'I've found one!' 'So have I!' 'There they are; two, three,\nfour,--lots!' 'I see them!' The air would be full of delighted\nexclamations as the children scampered off, short legs racing, rosy\ncheeks flushing, bright eyes glowing with eagerness, to see who could\ntake home the largest bunch.\n\nThe further north a traveller went, the rarer did primroses become,\ntill in Northumberland, the most northerly county of all, primroses\nused to be very scarce indeed. Until, only a few years ago, a\nwonderful thing happened. There were days and weeks and months of\nwarm sunny weather all through the spring and summer in that\nparticular year. Old people smiled and nodded to one another as they\nsaid: 'None of us ever remembers a spring like this before!'\n\nThe tender leaves and buds and flowers undid their wrappings in a\nhurry to be first to catch sight of the sun, whose warm fingers had\nawakened them, long before their usual time, from their winter sleep.\nAll over England the spring flowers had a splendid time of it that\nyear.\n\nEven the few scattered primroses living in what Southerners call 'the\ncold grey North' were obviously enjoying themselves. Their smooth,\npale-yellow faces opened wider, and grew larger and more golden, day\nby day: while new, soft, pointed buds came poking up through their\ndowny green blankets in unexpected places. Moreover, the warm weather\nlasted right through the summer. Not only did far more primroses\nflower than usual, but also, after they had faded, there was plenty of\nwarmth to ripen the precious seed packet that each one had carried at\nits heart. No wonder the children clapped their hands, that joyous\nspring, when their treasures were so plentiful; but they feared that\nthey would never have such good luck again, even if they lived to be\nas old as the old people who had 'never seen such a spring before.'\n\nIt was not until a year later that the delighted children discovered\nthat the long spell of sunshine and the Enchanter Wind had worked a\nlasting magic. The ripened seed had been scattered far and wide. The\nprimroses had come to the North to stay; and new Paradises were\nspringing up everywhere.\n\nNow this is a primrose parable of many things, and worth remembering.\nAmong other things it is an illustration of the change that was\nwrought all over England by the preaching of George Fox.\n\nThink once again of the long bleak years of his youth, when he was\nstruggling in a dark world into which it seemed as if no ray of light\ncould pierce; when he and everyone else seemed to be frozen up in a\nwintry religion, without life or warmth. Then think how at length he\nfelt the sap rising in his own soul, turning his whole being to the\nLight, as he found 'there is one, even Christ Jesus, that can speak to\nthy condition.' This discovery taught him that in all other men's\nhearts too, if they only knew, there was 'that of God.' Henceforward,\nto proclaim that Light to others and the seed within their own hearts\nthat responds to the beams of the Sun of Righteousness, was the\nservice to which George Fox devoted his whole life. As his own being\nblossomed in the spiritual sunshine of his great discovery, he was\nable to persuade hundreds and thousands of other frozen hearts to\nyield themselves and turn to the Light, and open and blossom also in\nthat same sunshine. A greater wonder followed. Those other lives, as\nthey yielded themselves, began to ripen too, in different ways, but\nsilently and surely, until they in their turn were ready to scatter\nthe new seed, or, in the language of their day, to 'Publish Truth' up\nand down all over the country, until the whole face of England was\nchanged.\n\nBy the time of George Fox's death, more than one out of every hundred\namong all the people of England was a Friend. But the Friends never\nregarded themselves as a Sect, although Sects were flourishing at\nthat time. In 1640 it is said that twenty new kinds of Sects blossomed\nout in the course of one week. George Fox and his followers believed\nthat the discovery they had made was meant for everybody, as much as\nsunshine is. Other people nicknamed them 'Quakers,' but they always\nspoke of themselves by names that the whole world was welcome to\nshare: 'Children of the Light,' 'Friends of the Truth,' or simply\n'Friends.' There was nothing exclusive about such names as these.\nThere was no such thing as membership in a society then or for more\nthan fifty years afterwards. Anyone who was convinced by what he had\nheard, and lived in the spirit of what he professed, became 'Truth's\nFriend' in his turn.\n\nNeither was there anything exclusive in George Fox's message. 'Keep\nyourselves in an universal spirit' was what he both preached and\npractised. It was in 'an universal spirit' that he and his followers\nscattered all over the country. No wonder they earned the name of 'the\nValiant Sixty,' that little band of comrades who in 1654 started out\nfrom the North Country on their mission of convincing all England of\n'the Truth.'\n\nThey were nearly all young men, their leader Fox himself still only\nthirty at this time. Francis Howgill and John Camm were two of the\nvery few elders in the company. They usually travelled in couples,\ndear friends naturally going together; for is not the best work always\ndone with the right companion? George Fox, who was leader, not by any\noutward signs of authority but by fervour of inward power and zeal,\noccasionally travelled alone. More often he took with him a comrade,\nsuch as Richard Farnsworth (of whom we have heard at Pendle), or James\nNayler, or Leonard Fell, or many another, of whom there are other\nstories yet to tell.\n\nNever was George Fox happier than when he was sowing the seed in a new\nplace. All over England there are memories of him, even as far away as\nthe Land's End.\n\nWhen, in 1656, he reached the rocky peninsula of granite at the\nextreme south-west of England, he wrote in his journal: 'At Land's End\nwe had a precious meeting. Here was a fisherman, Nicholas Jose,\nconvinced, that became a faithful minister. He spoke in meetings and\ndeclared truth to the people, so that I told Friends he was \"like\nPeter.\" I was glad the Lord raised up His standard in those dark parts\nof the nation, where since there is a fine meeting of honest-hearted\nFriends, and a great people the Lord will have in that country.'\n\nUnluckily, some of the other Cornish fisherfolk were not at all 'like\nPeter.' They were wreckers, and used to entice ships on to the rocks\nby means of false lights in order to enrich themselves with the spoils\nwashed up on their coasts. This is why George Fox spoke of them as a\n'dark people,' and was moved to put forth a paper 'warning them\nagainst such wicked practices.'\n\nThere are memories of him also in the town which was then called\nSmethwick, and is now called Falmouth, as well as at grim old\nPendennis Castle: one of the twin castles that had been built by King\nHenry the Eighth to guard the mouth of Falmouth harbour. Here George\nFox was confined. From hence he was carried to Launceston, where he\nlay for many weeks in prison in the awful den of Doomsdale, under\nconditions so dreadful that it is impossible to describe them here.\nWhen, at length, he was set at liberty he found a refuge at the\nhospitable farmhouse of Tregangeeves near St. Austell--the Swarthmoor\nof the West of England--with its warm-hearted mistress, Loveday\nHambley. At Exeter he stayed at an inn, at the foot of the bridge,\nnamed 'the Seven Stars.' In our own day some of his followers have\nfound another 'Inn of Shining Stars' at Exeter also, when their turn\nhas come to be lodged within the grim walls of the Gaol for conscience\nsake.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNow let us borrow the Giant's Seven-Leagued boots, and fancy ourselves\nin the far North of England, in 1657, just leaving Cumberland and\ncrossing the Scottish border. Again the same square-set figure in the\nplain, soft, wide hat is riding ahead. But on this journey George Fox\nhas several others with him: one is our old acquaintance, James\nLancaster: Alexander Parker is the name of another of his companions:\nthe third, Robert Widders, Fox himself described as 'a thundering\nman.' With them rides a certain Colonel William Osborne, 'one of the\nearliest Quaker preachers north of the Tweed, who came into Cumberland\nat this time on purpose to guide the party.'[14] Colonel Osborne, who\nhad been present with the other travellers at a meeting at Pardshaw\nCrag shortly before, 'said that he never saw such a glorious meeting\nin his life.'\n\n'Fox says that as soon as his horse set foot across the Border, the\ninfinite sparks of life sparkled about him, and as he rode along he\nsaw that the seed of the seedsman Christ was sown, but abundance of\nclods of foul and filthy earth was above it.'[15]\n\nA high-born Scottish lady, named Lady Margaret Hamilton, was convinced\non this journey. She afterwards went in her turn to warn Oliver\nCromwell of the Day of the Lord that was coming upon him. Various\nother distinguished people seem also to have been convinced at this\ntime. The names of Fox's new disciples sound unusually imposing:\n'Judge Swinton of Swinton; Sir Gideon Scott of Highchester; Walter\nScott of Raeburn, Sir Gideon's brother; Charles Ormiston, merchant,\nKelso; Anthony Haig of Bemersyde and William his brother'; but\nQuakerism never took firm root in the Northern Kingdom, as it did\namong the dalesmen and townsfolk farther South.\n\nFox journeyed on, right into the Highlands, but he got no welcome\nthere. 'We went among the clans,' he says, 'and they were devilish,\nand like to have spoiled us and our horses, and run with pitchforks at\nus, but through the Lord's power we escaped them.' At Perth, the\nBaptists were very bitter, and persuaded the Governor to drive the\nparty from the town, whereupon 'James Lancaster was moved to sound and\nsing in the power of God, and I was moved to sound the Day of the\nLord, the glorious everlasting Gospel; and all the streets were up and\nfilled with people: and the soldiers were so ashamed that they cried,\nand said they had rather have gone to Jamaica[16] than to guard us so,\nand then they set us in a boat and set us over the water.'\n\nAt Leith many officers of the army and their wives came to see Fox.\nAmong these latter was a certain Mrs. Billing, who lived alone, having\nquarrelled with her husband. She brought a handful of coral ornaments\nwith her, and threw them on the table ostentatiously, in order to see\nif Fox would preach a sermon against such gewgaws, since the Quakers\nwere well known to disapprove of jewellery and other vanities.\n\n'I took no notice of it,' says Fox, 'but declared Truth to her, and\nshe was reached.' What a picture it makes! The fine lady, with her\nchains and brooches and rings of smooth, rose-coloured coral heaped up\non the table before her, her eyes cast down as she pretended to let\nthe pretty trifles slip idly through her fingers, yet glancing up now\nand then, under her eyelashes, to see if she had managed to attract\nthe great preacher's attention; and Fox, noticing the baubles well\nenough, but paying no attention to them. Fixing his piercing eyes not\non the coral but on its owner, he spoke to Mrs. Billing with such\npower that her whole life was changed. Once more Fox had found 'that\nof God' within this seemingly frivolous woman.\n\nBefore he left Scotland he had the happiness of persuading Mrs.\nBilling to send for her husband, and of helping to make up the quarrel\nbetween them. They agreed eventually to live in unity together once\nmore as man and wife.\n\nFox journeyed on, in this way, year after year, always sowing the seed\nwherever he went, and sometimes having the joy of seeing it spring up\nabove the clods and bring forth fruit an hundredfold. Even during the\nlong weary intervals of captivity this service still continued.\n'Indeed, Fox and his fellow-sufferers never looked upon prison as an\ninterruption in their life service, but used the new surroundings in a\nfresh campaign.'[17] Thus, the historian tells us: 'Though George Fox\nfound good entertainment, yet he did not settle there but kept in a\ncontinual motion, going from one place to another, to beget souls unto\nGod.'[18]\n\nThe rest of the 'Valiant Sixty,' meanwhile, were likewise busy, going\nup and down the country, working in different places and with\ndifferent methods, but all intent on the one enterprise of 'Publishing\nTruth.' 'And so when the churches were settled in the North,' says the\nJournal, 'and the Lord had raised up many and sent forth many into His\nVineyard to preach His everlasting Gospel, as Francis Howgill and\nEdward Burrough to London, John Camm and John Audland to Bristol\nthrough the countries, Richard Hubberthorne and George Whitehead\ntowards Norwich, and Thomas Holme unto Wales, that a matter of sixty\nministers did the Lord raise up and send abroad out of the North\nCountries.'\n\nThere were far fewer big towns in England in those days than there are\nnow. Probably at least two-thirds of the people lived in the country,\nand only the remaining third were townsfolk: nowadays the proportions\nare more than reversed. There was then no thickly populated 'Black\nCountry'; there were then no humming mills in the woollen districts of\nYorkshire, no iron and steel works soiling the pure rivers of Tees and\nWear and Tyne. Most of the chief towns and industries at that time\nwere in the South.\n\n'London had a population of half a million. Bristol, the principal\nseaport, had about thirty thousand; Norwich, with a similar number of\ninhabitants, was still the largest manufacturing city. The publishers\nof Truth would now make these three places their chief fields of\nservice, showing something of the same concentration of effort at\nstrategic centres which marked the extension of Christianity through\nthe Roman Empire, under the leadership of Paul.'[19]\n\nA certain impetuous lad named James Parnell, already a noted Minister\nthough still in his teens, was hard at work in the counties of East\nAnglia. In the next story we shall hear how Howgill and Burrough fared\nin their mission 'to conquer London.'\n\nSplendid tidings came from the two Johns, John Audland and John Camm,\nof their progress in Bristol and the West: 'The mighty power of God is\nthat way; that is a precious city and a gallant people: their net is\nlike to break with fishes, they have caught so much there and all the\ncoast thereabout.' The memory of the enthusiasm of those early days\nlingered long in the West, in the memory of those who had shared in\nthem. 'Ah! those great meetings in the Orchard at Bristol I may not\nforget,' wrote John Audland many years later, 'I would so gladly have\nspread my net over all and have gathered all, that I forgot myself,\nnever considering the inability of my body,--but it's well, my reward\nis with me, and I am content to give up and be with the Lord, for that\nmy soul values above all things.'\n\nWomen also were among the first Publishers of Truth and helped to\nspread the message. Even before Burrough and Howgill reached London,\ntwo women had been there, gently scattering the new seed. It is\nrecorded that one of them, named Isabella Buttery, 'sometimes spoke a\nfew words in this small meeting.'\n\nTwo Quaker girls from Kendal, Elizabeth Leavens and 'little Elizabeth\nFletcher,' were the first to preach in Oxford, and a terrible time\nthey had of it. 'Little Elizabeth Fletcher' was then only seventeen,\n'a modest, grave, young woman.' Jane Waugh, one of the 'convinced'\nserving-maids at Cammsgill, was a friend of hers; but Jane Waugh's\nturn for suffering had not yet come. She was still in the North when\nthe two Elizabeths reached Oxford. This is the account of what befell\nthem there: 'The 20th day of the 4th month [June] 1654 came to this\ncity two maids, who went through the streets and into the Colleges,\nsteeple and tower houses, preaching repentance and declaring the word\nof the Lord to the people.... On the 25th day of the same month they\nwere moved to go to Martin's Mass House (_alias_) Carefox, where one\nof those maids, after the priest had done, spake something in answer\nto what the priest had before spoken in exhortation to the people, and\npresently were by two Justices sent to prison.' The Mayor of Oxford\nseems to have been pleased with the behaviour of the two girls and\ncaused them to be set at liberty again. But the Vice-Chancellor and\nthe Justices would not agree to this, and 'earnestly enquired from\nwhence they came, and their business to Oxford. They answered, \"they\nwere commanded of the Lord to come\"; and it being demanded \"what to\ndo,\" they answered, to \"declare against Sin and Ungodliness, which\nthey lived in.\" And at this answer the Vice-Chancellor and the\nJustices ordered their punishment, to be whipped out of town, and\ndemanding of the Mayor to agree to the same, and for refusing, said\nthey would do it of themselves, and signing a paper, the contents\nwhereof was this: To be severely whipped, and sent out of Town as\nVagrants. And forthwith, because of the tumult, they were put into the\nCage, a place common for the worst of people; and accordingly the next\nmorning, they were whipped, and sent away, and on the backside of the\nCity, meeting some scholars, they were moved to speak to them, who\nfell on them very violently, and drew them into John's College, where\nthey tied them back to back and pumped water on them, until they were\nalmost stifled; and they being met at another time as they passed\nthrough a Graveyard, where a corpse was to be buried, Elizabeth Holme\nspake something to the Priest and people, and one Ann Andrews thrust\nher over a grave stone, which hurt she felt near to her dying day.'\n\nTwo other women, Elizabeth Williams and a certain Mary Fisher (who was\nhereafter to go on a Mission to no less a person than the Grand Turk),\nwere also cruelly flogged at Cambridge for daring to 'publish Truth'\nthere. 'The Mayor ... issued his warrant to the Constable to whip them\nat the Market Cross till the blood ran down their bodies; and ordered\nthree of his sergeants to see that sentence, equally cruel and\nlawless, severely executed. The poor women kneeling down, in Christian\nmeekness besought the Lord to forgive him, for that he knew not what\nhe did: so they were led to the Market Cross, calling upon God to\nstrengthen their Faith. The Executioner commanded them to put off\ntheir clothes, which they refused. Then he stripped them naked to the\nwaist, put their arms into the whipping-post, and executed the Mayor's\nwarrant far more cruelly than is usually done to the worst of\nmalefactors, so that their flesh was miserably cut and torn. The\nconstancy and patience which they expressed under this barbarous usage\nwas astonishing to the beholders, for they endured the cruel torture\nwithout the least change of countenance or appearance of uneasiness,\nand in the midst of their punishment sang and rejoiced, saying, \"The\nLord be blessed, the Lord be praised, who hath thus honoured us and\nstrengthened us to suffer for his Name's sake.\" ... As they were led\nback into the town they exhorted the people to fear God, not man,\ntelling them \"this was but the beginning of the sufferings of the\npeople of God.\"'[20]\n\nThese two women were the first Friends to be publicly whipped in\nEngland. But their prophecy that 'this was but the beginning' was only\ntoo literally fulfilled.\n\nNot only had bodily sufferings to be undergone by these brave 'First\nPublishers.' Malicious reports were also spread against them, which\nmust have been almost harder to bear.\n\nWilliam Prynne, the same William Prynne who had had his own ears\ncropped in earlier days by order of the Star Chamber, but who had not,\napparently, learned charity to others through his own sufferings,\npublished a pamphlet that was spread abroad throughout England. It\nwas called 'The Quakers unmasked, and clearly detected to be but the\nSpawn of Romish Frogs, Jesuits and Franciscan Friars, sent from Rome\nto seduce the intoxicated giddy-headed English Nation.' George Fox\ncalled the pamphlet in which he answered this charge by an almost\nequally uncharitable title: 'The Unmasking and Discovery of\nAntichrist, with all the false Prophets, by the true Light which comes\nfrom Christ Jesus.'\n\nThe seventeenth century has truly been called 'a very ill-mannered\ncentury.' Certainly these were not pretty names for pamphlets that\nwere so widely read that, to quote the graphic expression of an\nearlier writer, 'they walked up and down England at deer rates.'\n\nYet, still, in spite of bodily ill-usage and imprisonment, through\ngood report and through evil report, through fair weather and foul,\nthe work of scattering the seed continued steadily, day after day,\nmonth after month, year after year. The messengers went on, undaunted;\nthe Message spread and took root throughout the land; the trials of\nthe work were swallowed up in the triumphant joy of service and of\n'Publishing Truth.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[14] W.C. Braithwaite, _Beginnings of Quakerism_.\n\n[15] W.C. Braithwaite, _Beginnings of Quakerism_.\n\n[16] Jamaica, with its deadly climate, had lately been taken by\nEngland from Spain, and was at this time proving the grave of hundreds\nof English soldiers.\n\n[17] _Cameos from the Life of George Fox_, by E.E. Taylor.\n\n[18] Sewel's _History of the Quakers_.\n\n[19] W.C. Braithwaite, _Beginnings of Quakerism_.\n\n[20] Besse, _Sufferings of the Quakers_.\n\n\n\n\nXVI. WRESTLING FOR GOD\n\n\n\n\n _'Being but a boy, Edward Burrough\n had the spirit of a man. Reviling,\n slandering, buffetting and caning\n were oft his lot. Nothing could\n make this hero shrink.'--SEWEL._\n\n\n _'His natural disposition was bold\n and manly, what he took in hand he\n did with his might; loving,\n courteous, merciful and easy to be\n entreated; he delighted in\n conference and reading of the holy\n scriptures.'--'Piety Promoted.'_\n\n\n _'Dear Brother, mind the Lord and\n stand in His will and counsel. And\n dwell in the pure measure of God\n in thee, and there thou wilt see\n the Lord God present with thee.\n For the bringing forth many out of\n prison art thou there set; behold\n the word of the Lord cannot be\n bound. The Lord God of Power give\n thee wisdom, courage, manhood, and\n boldness, to thresh down all\n deceit. Dear Heart, be valiant,\n and mind the pure Spirit of God in\n thee, to guide thee up into God,\n to thunder down all deceit within\n and without. So farewell, and God\n Almighty keep you.'--GEORGE FOX,\n to a friend in the ministry._\n\n\n _'So, all dear and tender hearts,\n abide in the counsel of God, and\n let not the world overcome your\n minds but wait for a daily victory\n over it.'--E. BURROUGH._\n\n\n _'Give me the strength to\n surrender my strength to Thee in\n Love.'--RABINDRANATH TAGORE._\n\n\n\n\nXVI. WRESTLING FOR GOD\n\n\n'A brisk young man with a ready tongue' was the verdict passed upon\nEdward Burrough, the hero of this story, by a certain Mr. Thomas\nEllwood when he met him first in the year 1659.\n\nEllwood himself, who thus described his new acquaintance, was a young\nman too at that time, of good education and scholarly tastes. He\nbecame later the friend of a certain Mr. John Milton, who thought\nsufficiently well of his judgment to allow him to read his poetry\nbefore it was published, and to ask him what he thought of it; even,\noccasionally, to act upon his suggestions. Ellwood, therefore, was\nclearly the possessor of a sober judgment, and not a likely person to\nbe carried away by the glib words of a wandering preacher. Yet that\n'brisk young man,' Edward Burrough, did not only 'reach him' with his\n'ready tongue,' he also completely 'convinced' him, and altered his\nwhole life: Ellwood returned to his family ready to suffer hardship if\nneed be on behalf of his newly-found faith.\n\nEllwood's own adventures, however, do not concern us here, but those\nof the young man who convinced him.\n\nEdward Burrough was one of the best loved and most valiant of all\nthose 'Valiant Sixty' ministers who went forth throughout the length\nand breadth of England, in 1654, on their new, wonderful enterprise of\n'Publishing Truth.' If Edward Burrough was still 'young and brisk'\nwhen Ellwood first came across him, he must have been yet younger and\nbrisker on that summer's day, five years earlier, when he left his\nhome in Westmorland in order to 'conquer London.' This was an\nambitious undertaking truly for any man, however brisk and ready of\ntongue.\n\nIt is true that the London of those long-ago days of the Commonwealth,\nbefore the Great Fire, was a much more compact city than the gigantic,\novergrown London of to-day. Instead of 'sprawling over five or six\ncounties,'[21] and containing six or seven million inhabitants, London\nwas then a comparatively small place, its population, though rapidly\nincreasing, did not yet number one million.\n\n'An old map of the year 1610 shows us that London and Westminster were\nthen two neighbouring cities surrounded by meadows. \"Totten Court\" was\nan outlying country village. Oxford Street is marked on this map as\n\"The way to Uxbridge,\" and runs between meadows and pastures. The\nTower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Church, ... and some other\nlandmarks are indeed there, but it is curious to read the accounts\ngiven by the chronicles of the day of its narrow and dirty streets, in\nwhich carts and coaches jostled one another, and foot passengers found\nit difficult to get along at all.... When the King went to Parliament,\nfaggots were thrown into the ruts in the streets through which he\npassed, to make it easier for his state coach to drive over the uneven\nroads!'[22]\n\nNevertheless this gay little countrified town of timbered houses,\nsurrounded by meadows and orchards, and overlooked by the green\nheights of 'Hamsted' and Primrose Hill, was then as now the Capital\nCity of England. And England under Oliver Cromwell was one of the most\npowerful of the States of Europe.\n\nTherefore if a young man barely out of his teens were to succeed in\n'conquering London,' and bending it to his will, he would certainly\nneed all his briskness and readiness of tongue.\n\nEdward Burrough probably entered London alone and on foot, after a\njourney extending over several weeks. He had left his native\nWestmorland in company with good John Camm, the 'statesman' farmer of\nCammsgill. The first stages of their journey were made on horseback.\nMany a quiet talk the two men must have had together as they rode\nthrough the green lanes of England,--that long-ago England of the\nCommonwealth, its clear skies unstained by any tall chimneys or\nfactory smoke. There were but few hedgerows then, 'a single hedge is a\nmarked feature in the contemporary maps.'[23] The cornfields stretched\naway in a broad, unbroken expanse as they do to-day on the Continent\nof Europe and in the lands of the New World.\n\nAs they rode, Camm would tell Burrough, doubtless, of his first sight\nof George Fox, preaching in Sedbergh Churchyard, under the ancient\nyew-tree opposite the market cross, on that never-to-be-forgotten day\nof the Whitsuntide Fair. The story of the 'Wonderful Fortnight' would\nbe sure to follow; of the 'Mighty Meeting' on the Fell outside Firbank\nChapel; of the gathering of the Seekers at Preston Patrick; and of yet\nanother open-air meeting, when hundreds of people assembled one\nmemorable First Day near his own hillside farm at Cammsgill.\n\nThen it would be the younger man's turn to tell his tale.\n\n'He was born in the barony of Kendal ... of parents who for their\nhonest and virtuous life were in good repute; he was well educated,\nand trained up in such learning as that country did afford.... By his\nparents he was trained up in the episcopal worship,'[24] but for a\nlong time, he says that the only religion that he practised was 'going\nto church one day in seven to hear a man preach, to read, and sing,\nand rabble over a prayer.' (It is easy to smile at the old-fashioned\nword; but let us try to remember it when we ourselves are tempted to\nget up too late in the morning and 'rabble over' our own prayers.)\n\nGradually the unseen world grew more real. A beautiful and comforting\nmessage was given to him in his heart, 'Whom God once loves, he loves\nfor ever.' Now he grew weary of hearing any of the priests, for he saw\nthey did not possess what they spoke of to others, and sometimes he\nbegan to question his own experiences.\n\nNevertheless he felt it a grievous trial to give up all his prospects\nof earthly advancement and become a Quaker. Yet from the day he\nlistened to George Fox preaching at Underbarrow there was no other\ncourse open to him; though his own parents were much incensed with him\nfor daring to join this despised people. They even refused to\nacknowledge him any longer as a member of their family. Being rejected\nas a son, therefore, he begged to be allowed to stay on in his home\nand work as a servant, but this, too, was refused. Thus being, as he\nsays, 'separated from all the glory of the world, and from all his\nacquaintance and kindred,' he betook himself to the company of 'a\npoor, despised people called Quakers.'\n\nIt must have been a comfort to him, after being cast off by his own\nfamily, to find himself adopted by a still larger family of friends,\nand to become one of the 'Valiant Sixty' entrusted with the great\nadventure of Publishing Truth.\n\nRiding along with good John Camm, with talk to beguile the way, was\npleasant travelling; but this happy companionship was not to last very\nlong. For as they journeyed and came near the 'Middle Kingdom,' or\nMidlands, they fell in with another of 'Truth's Publishers.'\n\nThis was none other than their Westmorland neighbour, John Audland,\n'the ruddy-faced linen-draper of Crosslands,' John Camm's own especial\ncomrade and pair among the 'Sixty.'\n\nIt may have been a prearranged plan that they should meet here; anyway\nCamm turned aside with Audland and went on with him to Bristol, where\nhe had already begun to scatter the seed in the west of England, while\nEdward Burrough pursued his journey in solitude towards London.[25]\nBut his days of loneliness were not to last for long. Either just\nbefore or just after his arrival in the great city, two other\nPublishers also reached the metropolis, one of whom, Francis Howgill,\nwas to be his own especial comrade and pair in the task of 'conquering\nLondon.' This was that same Francis Howgill, a considerably older man\nthan Burrough, and formerly a leader among the Seekers, who had been\npreaching that memorable day at Firbank when he thought George Fox\nlooked into the Chapel and was so much struck that 'you could have\nkilled him with a crab-apple.' Now that they had come together,\nhowever, it would have taken more than many crab-apples to deter him\nand Burrough from their Mission. Together the two friends laid their\nplans for the capture of London, and together they proceeded to carry\nthem out. The success they met with was astonishing. 'By the arm of\nthe Lord,' writes Howgill, 'all falls before us, according to the word\nof the Lord before I came to this City, that all should be as a\nplain.'\n\nAmidst their engrossing labours in the capital the two London\n'Publishers' did not forget to send news of their work to Friends in\nthe North. Many letters written at this time remain. Those to Margaret\nFell, especially, give a vivid picture of their progress. These\nletters are signed sometimes by Howgill, sometimes by Burrough,\nsometimes by both together. But, whatever the signature, the pronouns\n'I' and 'we' are used indiscriminately, as if to show that the writers\nwere not only united in the service of Truth but were also one in\nheart.\n\n'We two,' they say in one letter, 'are constrained to stay in this\ncity; but we are not alone, for the power of our Father is with us,\nand it is daily made manifest through weakness, even to the stopping\nof the mouths of lions and to the confounding of the serpent's\nwisdom; eternal praises to Him for evermore. In this city, iniquity is\ngrown to the height. We have three meetings or more every week, very\nlarge, more than any place will contain, and which we can conveniently\nmeet in. Many of all sorts come to us and many of all sorts are\nconvinced, yea, hundreds do believe....'\n\nAgain: 'We get Friends together on the First Days to meet together out\nof the rude multitude; and we two go to the great meeting place which\nwe have, which will hold a thousand people, which is always nearly\nfilled, there to thresh among the world; and we stay till twelve or\none o'clock and then pass away, the one to the one place and the other\nto another place where Friends are met in private; and stay till four\nor five o'clock.'\n\nOnly a month later yet another 'great place' had to be taken for a\n'threshing-floor,' or hall where public meetings could be held. To\nthese meetings anyone might come and listen to the preachers' message,\nwhich 'threshed them like grain, and sifted the wheat from the \"light\nchaffy minds\" among the hearers.'\n\nHow 'chaffy' and frivolous this gay world of London appeared to these\nfirst Publishers, consumed with the burning eagerness of their\nmission, the following description shows. It occurs in a letter from\nGeorge Fox himself when he, too, came to the metropolis, a few months\nlater.\n\n'What a world this is,' he writes ... 'altogether carried with\nfooleries and vanities both men and women ... putting on gold, gay\napparel, plaiting the hair, men and women they are powdering it,\nmaking their backs as if they were bags of meal, and they look so\nstrange that they cannot look at one another. Pride hath puffed up\nevery one, they are out of the fear of God, men and women, young and\nold, one puffs up another, they are not in the fashion of the world\nelse, they are not in esteem else, they shall not be respected else,\nif they have not gold and silver upon their backs, or his hair be not\npowdered. If he have a company of ribbons hung about his waist, red or\nwhite, or black or yellow, and about his knees, and gets a Company in\nhis hat, and powders his hair, then he is a brave man, then he is\naccepted, then he is no Quaker.... Likewise the women having their\ngold, their spots on their faces, noses, cheeks, foreheads, having\ntheir rings on their fingers, wearing gold, having their cuffs doubled\nunder and about like a butcher with white sleeves' (how pretty they\nmust have been!), 'having their ribbons tied about their hands, and\nthree or four gold laces about their clothes, \"this is no Quaker,\" say\nthey.... Now are not all these that have got these ribbons hung about\ntheir arms, backs, waists, knees, hats, hands, like unto fiddlers'\nboys, and shew that you are gotten into the basest contemptible life\nas be in the fashion of the fiddlers' boys and stage-players, and\nquite out of the paths and steeps of solid men.... And further to get\na pair of breeches like a coat and hang them about with points up\nalmost to the middle, and a pair of double cuffs upon his hands, and a\nfeather in his cap, and to say, \"Here's a gentleman, bow before him,\nput off your hats, bow, get a company of fiddlers, a set of music and\nwomen to dance, this is a brave fellow, up in the chamber without and\nup in the chamber within,\" are these your fine Christians? \"Yea,\" say\nthey. \"Yea but,\" say the serious people, \"they are not of Christ's\nlife.\" And to see such a company as are in the fashions of the world\n... get a couple of bowls in their hands or tables [dice] or\nshovel-board, or a horse with a Company of ribbons on his head as he\nhath on his own, and a ring in his ear; and so go to horse-racing to\nspoil the creature. Oh these are gentlemen, these are bred up\ngentlemen! these are brave fellows and they must have their\nrecreation, and pleasures are lawful. These are bad Christians and\nshew that they are gluttoned with the creature and then the flesh\nrejoiceth!'\n\nNo wonder that Edward Burrough wrote to Margaret Fell that 'in this\ncity iniquity is grown to the height,' and again, in a later letter:\n'There are hundreds convinced, but not many great or noble do receive\nour testimony ... we are much refreshed, we receive letters from all\nquarters, the work goes on fast everywhere.... Richard Hubberthorne is\nyet in prison and James Parnell at Cambridge.... Our dear brethren\nJohn Audland and John Camm we hear from, and we write to one another\ntwice in the week. They are near us, they are precious and the work of\nthe Lord is great in Bristol.'\n\nMargaret Fell writes back in answer, like a true mother in Israel,\n'You are all dear unto me, and all are present with me, and are all\nmet together in my heart.'\n\nAnd now, having heard what the 'Valiant Sixty' thought of London, what\ndid London think of the 'Valiant Sixty'? Many years later a certain\nWilliam Spurry wrote of these early days: 'I being in London at the\ntime of the first Publication of Truth, there was a report spread in\nthe City that there was a sort of people come there that went by the\nname of plain North Country plow men, who did differ in judgment to\nall other people in that City, who I was very desirous to see and\nconverse with. And upon strict enquiry I was informed that they did\nmeet at one Widow Matthews in White Cross Street, in her garden, where\nI repaired, where was our dear friends Edward Burrough and Francis\nHowgill, who declared the Lord's everlasting Truth in the\ndemonstration of the Spirit of Life, where myself and many more were\nconvinced. A little time after there was a silent meeting appointed\nand kept at Sarah Sawyer's in Rainbow Alley.'\n\nVery rural and unlike London these places sound: but meetings were not\nonly held in secluded spots, such as the garden in White Cross Street,\nand the house in Rainbow Alley, they were also held in the tumultuous\ncentres of Vanity Fair.\n\n'Edward Burrough,' says Sewel the historian, 'though he was a very\nyoung man when he first came forth, yet grew in wisdom and valour so\nthat he feared not the face of man.' 'At London there is a custom in\nsummer time, when the evening approaches and tradesmen leave off\nworking, that many lusty fellows meet in the fields, to try their\nskill and strength at wrestling, where generally a multitude of people\nstand gazing in a round. Now it so fell out, that Edward Burrough\npassed by the place where they were wrestling, and standing still\namong the spectators, saw how a strong and dexterous fellow had\nalready thrown three others, and was now waiting for a fourth\nchampion, if any durst venture to enter the lists. At length none\nbeing bold enough to try, E. Burrough stepped into the ring (commonly\nmade up of all sorts of people), and having looked upon the wrestler\nwith a serious countenance, the man was not a little surprised,\ninstead of an airy antagonist, to meet with a grave and awful young\nman; and all stood amazed at this sight, eagerly expecting what would\nbe the issue of this combat. But it was quite another fight Edward\nBurrough aimed at. For having already fought against spiritual\nwickedness, that had once prevailed in him and having overcome it in\nmeasure, by the grace of God, he now endeavoured also to fight against\nit in others, and to turn them from the evil of their ways. With this\nintention he began very seriously to speak to the standers by, and\nthat with such a heart-piercing power, that he was heard by this mixed\nmultitude with no less attention than admiration; for his speech\ntended to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of\nSatan to God.\n\n'Thus he preached zealously; and though many might look upon this as a\nnovelty, yet it was of such effect that many were convinced of the\ntruth.... And indeed he was one of those valiants, whose bow never\nturned back ... nay he was such an excellent instrument in the hand of\nGod that even some mighty and eminent men were touched to the heart by\nthe power of the word of life which he preached' ... 'using few words\nbut preaching after a new fashion so that he was called a \"son of\nthunder and also of consolation.\"'\n\n'Now I come also to the glorious exit of E. Burrough, that valiant\nhero. For several years he had been very much in London, and had there\npreached the gospel with piercing and powerful declarations. And that\ncity was so near to him, that oftentimes, when persecution grew hot,\nhe said to Francis Howgill, his bosom friend, \"I can go freely to the\ncity of London, and lay down my life for a testimony of that truth,\nwhich I have declared through the power and spirit of God.\" Being in\nthis year [1662] at Bristol, and thereabouts, and moved to return to\nLondon, he said to many of his friends, when he took leave of them,\nthat he did not know he should see their faces any more; and therefore\nhe exhorted them to faithfulness and steadfastness, in that wherein\nthey had found rest for their souls. And to some he said, \"I am now\ngoing up to the city of London again, to lay down my life for the\ngospel, and suffer among friends in that place.\"'[26]\n\nThus it befell that Edward Burrough was called to a more deadly\nwrestling match than any in the pleasant London fields. He was thrown\ninto prison, and there he had to face a mortal foe in the gaol-fever\nthat was then raging in that noisome den. This was to wrestle in grim\nearnest, with Death himself for an adversary; and in this wrestling\nmatch Death was the conqueror.\n\nCharles the Second was now on the throne. He knew and respected Edward\nBurrough, and did his best to rescue him. Knowing the pestilential and\novercrowded state of Newgate at that time, the Merry Monarch, to his\nlasting credit, sent a royal warrant for the release of Edward\nBurrough and some of the other prisoners, when he heard of the danger\nthey were in from the foul state of the prison. But this order a\ncertain cruel and persecuting Alderman, named Richard Brown, and some\nmagistrates of the City of London contrived to thwart. The prisoners\nremained in the gaol. Edward Burrough caught the fever, and grew\nrapidly worse. On his death-bed he said, 'Lord, forgive Richard Brown,\nwho imprisoned me, if he may be forgiven.' Later on he said, 'I have\nserved my God in my generation, and that Spirit, which has lived and\nruled in me shall yet break forth in thousands.' 'The morning before\nhe departed his life ... he said, \"Now my soul and spirit is centred\ninto its own being with God; and this form of person must return from\nwhence it was taken....\"' A few moments later, in crowded Newgate, he\npeacefully fell asleep. 'This was the exit of E. Burrough, who in his\nflourishing youth, about the age of eight and twenty, in an unmarried\nstate, changed this mortal life for an incorruptible, and whose\nyouthful summer flower was cut down in the winter season, after he had\nvery zealously preached the gospel about ten years.'[27]\n\nFrancis Howgill, now left desolate and alone, poured forth a touching\nlament for his vanished 'yoke-fellow.'\n\n'It was my lot,' he writes, 'to be his companion and fellow-labourer\nin the work of the gospel where-unto we were called, for many years\ntogether. And oh! when I consider, my heart is broken; how sweetly we\nwalked together for many months and years in which we had perfect\nknowledge of one another's hearts and perfect unity of spirit. Not so\nmuch as one cross word or one hard thought of discontent ever rose (I\nbelieve) in either of our hearts for ten years together.'\n\nGeorge Fox, no mean fighter himself, adds this comment: 'Edward\nBurrough never turned his back on the Truth, nor his back from any out\nof the Truth. A valiant warrior, more than a conqueror, who hath got\nthe crown through death and sufferings; who is dead, but yet liveth\namongst us, and amongst us is alive.'\n\nBut it is from Francis Howgill, who knew him best and loved him most\nof all, that we learn the inmost secret of the life of this mighty\nwrestler, when he says:\n\n'HIS VERY STRENGTH WAS BENDED AFTER GOD.'\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[21] _Story of Quakerism_, E.B. Emmott.\n\n[22] _Story of Quakerism_, E.B. Emmott.\n\n[23] _England under the Stuarts_, G.M. Trevelyan.\n\n[24] Sewel's _History of the Quakers_.\n\n[25] I have followed Thomas Camm's account of his father's journey\nwith Edward Burrough, and of their meeting with John Audland in the\nMidlands, as given in his book, _The Memory of the Righteous Revived_.\nW.C. Braithwaite, however, in his _Beginnings of Quakerism_, thinks it\nmore probable that Francis Howgill was E. Burrough's companion from\nthe North, and that the two friends reached London together.\n\n[26] Sewel's _History of the Quakers_.\n\n[27] Sewel's _History of the Quakers_.\n\n\n\n\nXVII. LITTLE JAMES AND HIS JOURNEYS\n\n\n\n\n _O, how beautiful is the spring in\n a barren field, where barrenness\n and deadness fly away. As the\n spring comes on, the winter casts\n her coat and the summer is nigh.\n O, wait to see and read these\n things within. You that have been\n as barren and dead and dry without\n sap; unto you the Sun of\n Righteousness is risen with\n healing in his wings and begins to\n shine in your coasts.... O, mind\n the secret sprigs and tender\n plants. Now you are called to\n dress the garden. Let not the\n weeds and wild plants remain.\n Peevishness is a weed; anger is a\n weed; self-love and self-will are\n weeds; pride is a wild plant;\n covetousness is a wild plant;\n lightness and vanity are wild\n plants, and lust is the root of\n all. And these things have had a\n room in your gardens, and have\n been tall and strong; and truth,\n innocence, and equity have been\n left out, and could not be found,\n until the Sun of Righteousness\n arose and searched out that which\n was lost. Therefore, stand not\n idle, but come into the vineyard\n and work. Your work shall be to\n watch and keep out the fowls,\n unclean beasts, wild bears and\n subtle foxes. And he that is the\n Husbandman will pluck up the wild\n plants and weeds, and make defence\n about the vines. He will tell you\n what to do. He who is Father of\n the vineyard will be nigh you. And\n what is not clear to you, wait for\n the fulfilling.--JAMES PARNELL.\n (Epistle to Friends from prison.)_\n\n\n\n\nXVII. LITTLE JAMES AND HIS JOURNEYS\n\n 'Be willing that Self shall suffer for the Truth, and not the\n Truth for Self.'\n\n JAMES PARNELL.\n\n\nTramping! Tramping! Tramping! An endless journey along the white,\ndusty highroad it seemed to little James. Indeed the one hundred and\nfifty miles that separate Retford in Nottinghamshire from Carlisle in\nfar-off Cumberland would have been a long distance even for a\nfull-grown man to travel on foot in those far-off, railroad-less days\nof 1652. Whereas little James, who had undertaken this journey right\nacross England, was but a boy of sixteen, delicate and small for his\nage.\n\n'Ye will never get there, James,' the neighbours cried when he\nunfolded his plans. 'To go afoot to Carlisle! Did any one ever hear\nthe like? It would be a wild-goose chase, even if a man hoped to come\nto speak with a King in his palace at the end of it; but for _thee_ to\ngo such a journey in order to speak but for a few moments with a man\nthou dost not know, and in prison, it is nothing but a daft notion!\nWhat ails thee, boy?'\n\nThe only answer James gave was to knit his brows more firmly together,\nand to mutter resolutely to himself, as he gathered his few belongings\ninto a bundle, 'I must and I will see George Fox!'\n\nGeorge Fox! The secret was out. That was the explanation of this\nfantastic journey. George Fox, after gathering a 'great people' up in\nthe North, was now himself kept a close prisoner in Carlisle Gaol: yet\nhe was the magnet attracting this lad, frail of body but determined of\nwill, to travel right across England for the hope of speaking with him\nin his prison cell.\n\n * * * * *\n\nLet us look back a little and see how this befell.\n\nIn the stately old church of Saint Swithin at East Retford a record\nshows that 'James, son of Thomas Parnell and Sarah his wife, was\nbaptized there on the sixth day of September 1636.' James' parents\nwere pious church people. It must have been a proud and thankful day\nfor them when they took their baby son to be christened in the\nbeautiful old font in that church, where their elder daughter, Sarah,\nhad received her name a few years before. On the font may still be\nseen the figure of Saint Swithin himself, the patron Saint of the\nchurch. This gentle saint, whose dying wish had been that he might be\nburied in no stately building of stone but 'where his grave might be\ntrod by human feet and watered with the raindrops of heaven,' was the\nguardian the parents chose for their little lad. All through his short\nlife the boy seems to have shared this love of Nature and of the open\nair.\n\nJames' parents were well-to-do people, and wisely determined to give\ntheir only son a good education. They sent him, therefore, as soon as\nhe was old enough, to the Retford Grammar School, to be 'trained up in\nthe Schools of Literature.' James tells us that he was 'as wild as\nothers during the time he was at school, and that he was perfect in\nsin and iniquity as any in the town where he lived, yea and exceeded\nmany in the wickedness of his life,' until something or other happened\nto sober the wild boy. He does not say what it was. Perhaps it may\nhave been the news that reached Retford during his school days, that\nthe King of England had been executed at Whitehall, one cold January\nmorning. Or it may have been something quite different. Anyhow, before\nhe left school, he was already anxious and troubled about his soul.\n\nSchool days finished, he sought for help in his difficulties from\n'priests and professors.' But, like George Fox, a few years earlier,\nJames Parnell got small help from them. Some of the priests told him\nthat he was deluded. Others, whose words sounded better, did not\npractise what they preached. He says, they 'preached down with their\ntongues what they upheld in their lives.' Therefore he decided, out of\nhis scanty experience, that they all were 'hollow Professors,' and\ncould be of no use to him. A very hasty judgment! But little James was\ntremendously sure of himself at this time, quite certain that he knew\nmore than most of the people he met, feeling entirely able to set his\nneighbours to rights, and yet with a real wish to learn, if only he\ncould find a true teacher.\n\nHe says, 'I was the first in all that town of Retford which the Lord\nwas pleased to make known His power in, and turn my heart towards Him\nand truly to seek Him, so that I became a wonder to the world and an\nastonishment to the heathen round about.'\n\nHe adds that, at this time or a little later, even 'his own relations\nbecame his enemies.' This is not surprising. A young man of fifteen\nwho described his neighbours and friends as 'the heathen round about'\nmust have been a distinctly trying companion to the aforesaid\n'heathen.'\n\nPossibly there was more than one sigh of relief heaved in East Retford\nwhen the first of little James's journeys began. It was to be only a\nshort one, to 'a people with whom I found union a few miles out of the\ntown where I lived. The Lord was a-gathering them out of the dark\nworld to sit down together and to wait upon His name.'\n\nThese people were either a little group of Friends already gathered at\nBalby, or they may have been 'Seekers' meeting together here in\nNottinghamshire, as they did in the North, at Sedbergh and Preston\nPatrick and many another place, 'not celebrating Baptism or the Holy\nCommunion,' but 'waiting together in silence to be instruments in the\nhand of the Lord.' Truly helpful 'instruments' they proved to little\nJames, for they sent him straight on to Nottingham, where a company of\n'Children of Light' was already gathered, to worship God. 'Children of\nLight' is the first, and the most beautiful, name given to the Society\nof Friends in England.\n\nWhen these Nottingham Friends saw the vehement, impulsive boy, his\nthin frame trembling, his eyes glowing, as he poured forth his\ndifficulties, naturally their thoughts went back to the other lad who\nhad also passed through severe soul struggles in this same\nneighbourhood, some ten or twelve years earlier.\n\nThey all said to him, one after the other, 'James Parnell, thou must\nsee George Fox.'\n\n'George Fox!' cried little James eagerly, 'I have never even heard his\nname. Who is he? Where is he? I will go and find him this very moment,\nif he can help me.'\n\nAt these words, all the Nottingham Friends shook their heads very\nsolemnly and sadly and said, 'That is impossible, James, for our\nFriend languisheth in Carlisle Gaol. But we can tell thee of him.'\n\nThen one after another they recounted the well-known story of George\nFox's boyhood, of his difficulties, of his seeking, of his finding,\nand lastly of his preaching, when the Power of God shone through him\nas he spoke, and melted men's hearts till they became as wax.\n\nJames, drinking in every word, exclaimed breathlessly as soon as the\nstory was finished, 'That is the man for me. I will set out for\nCarlisle this very minute to find him!'\n\nOf course all the Friends were aghast at the effect of their words.\nThey declared that he really couldn't and really shouldn't, that it\nwas out of the question, and that he must do nothing of the kind! They\ndid their very best to stop him. But little James (who, as we know,\nwas not in the habit of paying over-much attention to other people's\nopinions at any time) treated all these remonstrances as if they had\nbeen thistledown. He swung his small bundle at the end of a short\nstick over his shoulder, tightened his belt, tore himself from their\nrestraining hands, and exclaiming, 'Farewell, Friends, I go to find\nGeorge Fox,' off he set on the long, long journey to Carlisle.\n\nHis spirit was aflame with desire to meet his unknown friend. The\nmiles seemed few and short that separated him from his goal. But\ndoubtless some of the women among the 'Children of Light' wiped their\neyes as they watched the fiery little figure disappear along the\ndusty road, and said, 'Truly that lad hath a valiant heart!'\n\nThus, in a burning fury of desire, the journey began. After many weary\ndays of travel the flame still burned unquenchably, although the boy's\nfigure looked yet leaner and more under-sized than when he left his\nhome.\n\nTramp, tramp, tramp, on and ever on, till at last the long-desired day\ncame, when, over the crest of a low hill, he made out for the first\ntime the distant spire and towers of the fair Border city. The river\nEden in the meadows below lay gleaming in the sunshine like a silver\nbow.\n\nThreadbare and very dusty were his clothes, his feet swollen and sore,\nbut his chin was pressed well forward, and the light in his eyes was\nthat of a conqueror, when at last, tramp, tramp, tramp, his tired feet\ncame pattering up the stones of the steep old bridge that spans the\nEden and leads to Carlisle Town.\n\n'Which is the prison?' James asked himself, as his eyes scanned a\nbewildering maze of towers and roofs. The tall leaden spire of the\nCathedral was unmistakable, 'no prisoners there.' Next he made out the\nbig square fortress of sandstone, red as Red William the Norman who\nbuilt it long ago, on its central mound frowning over the town.\n\nHis unknown friend might very possibly be within those walls. James\nquickened his tired steps at the thought, and then stopped short, for\nthe gates of the bridge were shut. Droves of sheep and oxen on their\nway to market filled the entry, and all foot passengers must wait.\nJames threw himself down, full length, on one of the broad stone\nparapets of the bridge to rest his tired limbs until the way should\nbe clear again. Two men were seated in a stone recess below him, also\nwaiting to pass. At first James noticed only the dress they wore;\ntheir tall hats and sombre clothes marked them out as Baptists; the\nyounger man a deacon probably, and the elder a pastor.\n\nPresently James began to listen to their conversation.\n\n'It is well he is safe in the Castle,' said the younger man, 'most\npernicious Quaker doctrine did he deliver that Sabbath day in answer\nto our questions in the Abbey.'\n\n'Pernicious Quaker doctrine!' James pricked up his ears at the words.\nHe settled himself comfortably to listen, without any scruples, seeing\nthat the speakers were in a public place, and besides, the entrance to\nthe bridge was by this time so packed with people that he could hardly\nhave moved off the parapet had he wished.\n\nThe older man shook his head. 'I thought I had hewed him in pieces\nbefore the Lord,' he said in a low voice, 'for no sooner was he silent\nthan I asked him if he knew what he spake, and what it was should be\ndamned at the last day. Whereat he did but fix his eyes upon me and\nsaid that \"it was that which spoke in me which should be damned.\" Even\nas he spoke my old notions of religion glittered and fell off me, for\nI knew that through him whom I despised as a wandering Quaker I was\nlistening to the Voice of God. He went on to upbraid me as a flashy\nnotionist and yet, even so, I was constrained to listen to him in\nsilence.'\n\nThe pastor's voice had sunk very low: James could hardly catch the\nlast words.\n\n'Aye, no wonder,' rejoined the younger man, 'with those eyes he\nseemeth to pierce the fleshly veil and to read the secrets of a man's\ninmost heart. I, too, experienced this, the following market day, he\nbeing then come to the market cross \"a-publishing of truth\" as he and\nhis followers term it, in their quaking jargon. The magistrates, godly\nmen, had sent the sergeants commanding them to stop his mouth.\nMoreover, they had sent their wives as well, and even the sergeants\nwere less bitter against him than the women. For they declared that if\nthe Quaker dared to defile the noble market cross of Carlisle city by\npreaching there, they themselves would pluck off the hair from his\nhead, while the sergeants should clap him into gaol. Nevertheless the\nQuaker would not be stopped. Preach he did, standing forth boldly on\nthe high step of the cross.'\n\n'And what said he?' enquired the older man.\n\n'Right forcibly he declared judgment on all the market folk for their\ndeceitful ways. He spoke to the merchants as if he were a merchant\nhimself, beseeching them to lay aside their false weights and measures\nand deceitful merchandize, with all cozening and cheating, and to\nspeak truth only to one another. Ever as he spoke, the people flocked\ncloser around him, hanging on his words as if he were reading their\nsecret hearts, so that the sergeants could not come nigh him for the\npress to lead him away. Thus only when he had finished he stepped down\nfrom the cross and would have passed gently away, but I and some of\nthe brethren, thinking that now our turn had come, followed after\nhim. The contention between us was sharp. Yet his words struck into me\nlike knives, and scarce knowing what I did, I cried out aloud, for a\nstrange power was over me. Thereat he fixed his eyes upon me and spake\nsharply to me, as if he knew that I was resisting the Spirit of the\nLord. I know not why, but I was forced to cry out again, \"Do not\npierce me so with thine eyes. Keep thine eyes off me.\"'\n\n'Well,' questioned the elder man, 'and what followed? Did his eyes\nleave thee?'\n\n'They have never left me,' replied the other. 'Wherever I go those\neyes burn me yet, although the man himself lies fast in gaol among the\nthieves and murderers, in the worst and most loathsome of the\ndungeons. Thither I go every day to assure myself that he is fast\ncaged behind thick walls, and to rejoice my eyes with the sight of the\ngibbet nailed high over-head upon the castle wall. Men say he shall\nswing there soon, but of that I know not. Wilt thou come with me now,\nfor see, the bridge is free?'\n\n'Not I,' returned the pastor, moodily, as he shuffled away, like a man\nill at ease with himself.\n\nLittle James, from his perch on the parapet, had drunk in greedily\nevery word of this conversation. Directly the bridge was clear he\ncrept down and followed the deacon like a shadow. They passed over the\nsilver Eden and up the main street of the city, paved with rough,\nuneven stones, and with an open sewer flowing through the centre of\nit. Right across the busy market-place they passed, before the deacon\nhalted beneath the castle walls.\n\nFull of noise and hubbub was Carlisle city that day; yet, as the two\nentered the courtyard of the castle, James was aware of another\nsound, rising clear above the tumult of the town--strains of music,\nsurely, that came from a fiddle. As they stepped under the inner\ngateway and approached the Norman Keep, the fiddler himself came in\nsight playing with might and main, under a barred window about six\nfeet from the ground. By the fiddler's side, urging him on, was a\nhuge, burly man with a red face. Whenever the fiddler showed signs of\nweariness the man beside him raising a large tankard of ale to his\nlips would force him to drink of it, saying, 'Play up, man! Play up!'\n\nThe thin, clear strains of the fiddle rose up steadily towards the\nbarred window, but, above them, James caught another sound that\nfloated yet more steadily out through the bars: the firm, full tones\nof a deep bass voice within, singing loud and strong.\n\nThough he could not see the singer, something in the song thrilled\nJames through and through. Forgetting his weariness he knew that he\nwas near his journey's end at last. As he listened, he noticed a\nhandful of people, listening also, under the barred window.\n\nLoud jeers arose: 'Play up, Fiddler!' 'Sing on, Quaker!' or even, 'Ply\nhim with more ale, Gaoler: the prisoner is the better musician!'\n\nAt these cries the fat man's countenance grew ever more enraged. He\nlooked savage and huge, 'like a bear-ward,' a man more accustomed to\ndeal with bears than with human beings. Finally, in his wrath, he\nturned the now empty tankard upon the crowd and bespattered them with\nthe last drops of the ale, and then called lustily for more, with\nwhich he plied the fiddler anew. So the contest continued, but at\nlast, the ale perhaps taking effect, the fiddler's head dropped, his\nbow swept the strings more wearily, while the strong notes inside the\ndungeon grew ever more firm and loud. The gaoler seeing, or rather\nhearing, himself worsted, caught the bow from the fiddler's hand and\ncracked it over his skull. The fiddler, seizing this chance to escape,\nleapt to his feet and dashed across the courtyard, followed by the\ngaoler and the populace in full chase. Even the sombre Baptist deacon\ngathered up the skirts of his long coat and bestirred his lean legs.\nThe singing ceased. A face appeared at the window: only for an\ninstant: but one glance was enough for James.\n\nTimidly he approached the window, but he had only taken two steps\ntowards it when he found himself firmly elbowed off the pavement and\npushed into the gutter. Someone else also had been watching for the\ncrowd to disperse, in order to have a chance of speaking with the\nprisoner. The new-comer was a portly lady in a satin gown, a much\ngrander person than James had expected to find in the near\nneighbourhood of a dungeon. She carried a large, covered basket, and,\nas soon as the way was clear, she set it down on the pavement and\nbegan to take out the contents carefully: bread and salt, beef and\nelecampane ale. Without looking up from her work she called to the\nunseen figure at the window above her head: 'So thou hast stopped\ntheir vain sounds at length with thy singing?'\n\n'Aye,' answered the deep voice from within. 'Thou mayest safely\napproach the window now, for the gaoler hath departed. After he had\nbeaten thee and the other Friends with his great cudgel, next he was\nmoved to beat me also, through the window, did I but come near to it\nto get my meat. And as he struck me I was moved to sing in the Lord's\npower, and that made him rage the more, whereat he fetched the\nfiddler, saying he would soon drown my noise if I would not cease.'\n\n'Eat now, Dear Heart,' the woman interrupted, 'whilst thou hast the\nchance.' So saying, she handed some of the dishes up to the prisoner,\nstanding herself on tiptoe beneath the prison window in order to reach\nhis hand stretched out through the bars.\n\nHere James saw his chance.\n\n'Madam,' he cried, 'let me hand the meat up to you.'\n\nThe lady looked down and saw the worn, thin face. Perhaps she thought\nthe boy looked hungry enough to need the food himself, but something\nin his eager glance touched her, and when he added, 'For I have come\none hundred and fifty miles to see GEORGE FOX,' her kind heart was\nwon.\n\n'Nay, then, thou hast a better right to help him even than I,' she\nsaid, 'though I am his very good friend and Colonel Benson's wife.\nThou shall hand up the dishes to me, and when our friend is satisfied,\nthou and I will finish what remains, for in the Lord's power I am\nmoved to eat no meat at my own house, but to share all my sustenance\nwith His faithful servant who lies within this noisome gaol.'\n\n'Madam,' said the boy, speaking with the concentrated intensity of\nweeks of suppressed longing, 'for the food, it is no matter, though I\nam much beholden to you. I hunger after but one thing. Bring me within\nthe gaol where I may speak with him face to face. There is that, that\nI have come afoot a hundred miles to ask him.\n\n'Bring me to him, speedily I pray you, for, though even unseen I love\nhim,\n\n 'I MUST SEE GEORGE FOX.'\n\n\n\n\nXVIII. THE FIRST QUAKER MARTYR\n\n\n\n\n (_From another point of view._)\n\n _Extracts from the Diary of the\n Rev. Ralph Josselin, Vicar of Earls\n Colne, Essex._\n\n _1655.--'Preacht at Gaines Coln,\n the Quakers' nest, but no\n disturbance. God hath raised up my\n heart not to fear but willing to\n bear and to make opposition to\n their ways, in defence of truth.'_\n\n _Ap. 11, 1656.--'Heard this morning\n that James Parnell, the father of\n the Quakers in these parts, having\n undertaken to fast forty days and\n forty nights was in the morning\n found dead. He was by jury found\n guilty of his own death and buried\n in the Castle yard.'_\n\n _'Heard and true that Turner's\n daughter was distract in the\n Quaking business.'_\n\n _'Sad are the fits at Coxall, like\n the pow-wowing among the Indians.'_\n\n _1660.--'The Quakers, after a stop\n and a silence, seem to be swarming\n and increased, and why, Lord thou\n only knowest!'_\n\n\n _'So there is no obtaining of Life\n but through Death, nor no\n obtaining the Crown but through\n the Cross.'--JAMES PARNELL._\n\n\n\n\nXVIII. THE FIRST QUAKER MARTYR\n\n\nHow Mrs. Benson managed it, there is no record. Perhaps she hardly\nknew herself! But she was not a woman to be easily turned aside from\nher purpose, and her husband, Colonel Gervase Benson, had been one of\nthe 'considerable people' in the County before he had turned Quaker\nand 'downed those things.' Even after the change, it may be that\nprison doors were more easily unlocked by certain little golden and\nsilver keys in those days, than they are in our own.\n\nAnyway, somehow or other, the interview was arranged. 'Little James'\nfound his desire fulfilled at last. When he passed into the stifling,\ncrowded prison den, where human beings were herded together like\nbeasts, he never heeded the horrible stench or the crawling vermin\nthat abounded everywhere. Rather, he felt as if he were entering the\npalace of a king. He paid no attention to the crowd of savage figures\nall around him. He saw nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing, until at\nlast he found that his hand was lying in the grasp of a stronger,\nfirmer hand, that held it, and would not let it go. Then, indeed, for\nthe first time he looked up, and knew that his long journey was ended,\nas he met the penetrating gaze of George Fox.\n\n'Keep thine eyes off me, they pierce me,' the Baptist Deacon had\ncried, a few weeks before, in that same city. As James looked up, he\ntoo felt for the first time the piercing power of those eyes, but to\nhim it brought no terror, only joy, as he yielded himself wholly to\nhis teacher's scrutiny. In silence the two stood, reading each the\nother's soul. James felt, instinctively, that his new friend knew and\nunderstood everything that had happened to him, all his life long;\nthat there was no need to tell him anything, or to explain anything.\n\nOf an older friendship between two men it was written, 'Thy love to me\nwas wonderful, passing the love of women.' Thus it proved once more in\nthat crowded dungeon. No details remain of the interview; no record of\nwhat James said, or what George said. No one else could have reported\nwhat passed between them, and, though each of them has left a mention\nof their first meeting, the silence remains unbroken.\n\nThe Journal says merely: 'While I was in ye dungeon at Carlisle, a\nlittle boy, one James Parnell, about fifteen years old, came to me,\nand he was convinced and came to be a very fine minister and turned\nmany to Christ.'\n\nThe boy's own account is shorter still. He does not even mention\nGeorge Fox by name. 'I was called for,' he says, 'to visit some\nfriends in the North part of England, with whom I had union before I\nsaw their faces, and afterwards I returned to my outward\ndwelling-place.'\n\nHis 'outward dwelling-place': the lad's frail body might tramp back\nalong the weary miles to Retford; his spirit remained in the North,\nfreely imprisoned with his friend.\n\n'George' and 'James' were brothers in heart, ever after that short\ninterview in Carlisle Gaol: united in one inseparable purpose. While\nGeorge was confined, James, the free brother, must carry forward\nGeorge's work. Triumphantly he did it. By the following year he had\nearned his place right well among the 'Valiant Sixty' who were then\nsent forth, 'East and West and South and North,' to 'Publish Truth.'\n\nThe Eastern Counties, hitherto almost unbroken ground, fell to James's\nshare. Assisted by two other 'Valiants,' Richard Hubberthorne and\nGeorge Whitehead, the seed was scattered throughout the length and\nbreadth of East Anglia. Within three short years 'gallant Meetings'\nwere already gathered and settled everywhere.\n\nJames Parnell was the first Quaker preacher to enter the city of\nColchester, which was soon to rank third among the strongholds of\nQuakerism. This boy of eighteen, still so small and delicate in\nappearance that his enemies taunted him with the name of 'little\nQuaking lad,' has left an account of one of his first crowded days of\nwork in that city. In the morning, he says, he received any of the\ntownspeople who were minded to come and ask him questions at his\nlodgings. He was a guest, at the time, of a weaver named Thomas\nShortland, who, with his wife Ann, had been convinced shortly before,\nby their guest's ministry. In adversity also they were soon to prove\nthemselves tried and faithful friends.\n\nLater, that same Sunday morning (4th July 1655), James went down the\nHigh Street to Saint Nicholas' Church, and, when the sermon was ended,\npreached to the people in his turn.\n\nIn the afternoon 'he addressed a very great meeting of about a\nthousand people, in John Furly's yard, he being mounted above the\ncrowd and speaking out of a hay-chamber window.' Still later, that\nsame day, he not only carried on a discussion with 'the town-lecturer\nand another priest,' he, the boy of eighteen, but also 'appeared in\nthe evening at a previously advertised meeting held in the schoolroom\nfor the children of the French and Flemish weaver refugees in\nColchester, who were being at this time hospitably entertained in John\nFurly's house.'[28]\n\nGeorge Fox says, 'many hundreds of people were convinced by the words\nand labours of this young minister.' But, far better than preaching to\nother people, he had by this time learned to rule his own spirit.\nOnce, as he was coming out of the 'Steeple-house of Colchester, called\nNicholas,' one person in particular struck him with a great staff and\nsaid to him, 'Take that for Jesus Christ's sake,' to whom James\nParnell meekly replied, 'Friend, I do receive it for Jesus Christ's\nsake.'\n\nThe journey his soul had travelled from the time, only three short\nyears before, when he had described his neighbours as 'the heathen\nround about,' until the day that he could give such an answer was\nperhaps a longer one really than all the weary miles he had traversed\nbetween Retford and far Carlisle.\n\nThe two friends, George and James, had one short happy time of service\ntogether, both of them free. After that they parted. Then, all too\nsoon it was George's turn to visit James, now himself in prison at\nColchester Castle, an even more terrible prison than Carlisle, where\nonly death could open the doors and set the weary prisoner free.\nGeorge's record of his visit to his friend is short and grim. 'As I\nwent through Colchester,' he says, 'I went to visit James Parnell in\nprison, but the cruel gaoler would hardly let us come in or stay with\nhim, and there the gaoler's wife threatened to have his blood, and\nthere they did destroy him.'\n\nAn account, written by his Colchester friends, expands the terrible,\nglorious tale of his sufferings.\n\n'The first Messenger of the Lord that appeared in this town to sound\nthe everlasting Gospel was that eminent Minister and Labourer, James\nParnell, whose first coming to ye town was in ye fourth month (June)\nin the year 1655.... Great were the sufferings which this faithful\nminister of the Lord underwent, being beat and abused by many.\n\n'As touching the cause of his sufferings in this his last imprisonment\nunto death, which was the fruits of a fast kept at Great Coggeshall\nagainst error (as they said), the 12th day of the fifth month 1655,\nwhere he spoke some words when the priests had done speaking; and when\nhe was gone out of the high place one followed him, called Justice\nWakering, and clapt him on the back and said he arrested him. And so,\nby the means of divers Independent priests and others, he was\ncommitted to this prison at Colchester. And in that prison he was kept\nclose up, and his friends and acquaintance denied to come at him. Then\nat the Assizes he was carried to Chelmsford, about eighteen miles\nthrough the country, as a sport or gazing-stock, locked on a chain\nwith five accused for felony and murder, and he with three others\nremained on the chain day and night. But when he appeared at the Bar,\nhe was taken off the chain, only had irons on his hands, where he\nappeared before Judge Hill ... the first time. But seeing some cried\nout against this cruelty, and what shame it would be to let the irons\nbe seen on him, the next day they took them off, and he appeared\nwithout, where the priests and justices were the accusers. And the\njudge gathered what he could out of what they said, to make what he\ncould against the prisoner to the jury, and urged them to find him\nguilty, lest it fall upon their own heads.... And when he would have\nspoken truth for himself to inform the jury, the judge would not\npermit him thereto. So the judge fined him about twice twenty marks,\nor forty pounds, and said the Lord Protector had charged him to see to\npunish such persons as should contemn either Magistracy or Ministry.\nSo he committed him close prisoner till payment, and gave the jailor\ncharge to let no giddy-headed people come at him; for his friends and\nthose that would have done him good were called \"giddy-headed people,\"\nand so kept out; and such as would abuse him by scorning or beating,\nthose they let in and set them on. And the jailor's wife would set her\nman to beat him, who threatened to knock him down and make him shake\nhis heels, yea, the jailor's wife did beat him divers times, and swore\nshe would have his blood, or he should have hers. To which he\nanswered, \"Woman, I would not have thine.\"'[29]\n\nOne of James' own letters remains written about this time: 'The day I\ncame in from the Assize,' he says, 'there was a friend or two with me\nin the jaylor's house, and the jaylor's wife sent her man to call me\nfrom them and to put me into a yard, and would not suffer my friends\nto come at me. And one friend brought me water, and they would not\nsuffer her to come to me, but made her carry it back again.'\n\nThe name of this woman Friend is not given in this letter, but I\ndaresay we shall not be far wrong if we fill it in for ourselves here,\nand think of her as the same Anne Langley, who would not be kept out\nof the prison later on. Other people mention her by name. It is only\nin little James' own account that her name does not appear. Perhaps\nthe tie that bound them was something more than friendship, and he did\nnot wish her to suffer for her love and faith.\n\nJames' letter continues: 'At night they locked me up into a hole with\na condemned man ... and the same day a friend desired the jaylor's\nwife that she would let her come and speak with me, and the jaylor's\nwife answered her and the other friends who were with her, calling\nthem \"Rogues, witches ... and the devil's dish washers\" ... and other\nnames, and saying \"that they had skipped out of hell when the devil\nwas asleep!\" and much more of the same unchristian-like speeches which\nis too tedious to relate.... And thus they make a prey upon the\ninnocent; and when they do let any come to me they would not let them\nstay but very little,' (Poor James! the visits were all too short, and\nthe lonely hours alone all too long for the prisoner) 'and the\njaylor's wife would threaten to pull them down the stairs.... And\nswore that she would have my blood several times, and told my friends\nso, and that she would mark my face, calling me witch and rogue, shake\nhell ... and the like; and because I did reprove her for her\nwickedness, the jaylor hath given order that none shall come to me at\nany occasion, but only one or two that brings my food.'\n\nEven this small mercy was not to be allowed much longer. The account\nof the Colchester Friend continues: 'And sometimes they would stop any\nfrom bringing him victuals, and set the prisoners to take his victuals\nfrom him; and when he would have had a trundle bed to have kept him\noff the stones, they would not suffer friends to bring him one, but\nforced him to lie on the stones, which sometimes would run down with\nwater in a wet season. And when he was in a room for which he paid 4d.\na night, he was threatened, if he did but walk to and fro in it, by\nthe jaylor's wife. Then they put him in a hole in the wall, very high,\nwhere the ladder was too short by about six foot, and when friends\nwould have given him a cord and basket to have taken up his victuals,\nhe was denied thereof and could not be suffered to have it, though it\nwas much desired, but he must either come up and down by that rope, or\nelse famish in the hole, which he did a long time, before God suffered\nthem to see their desires in which time much means was used about it,\nbut their wills were unalterably set in cruelty towards him. But after\nlong suffering in this hole, where there was nought but misery as to\nthe outward man, being no hole either for air or for smoke, being much\nbenumbed in the naturals, as he was climbing up the ladder with his\nvictuals in one hand, and coming to the top of the ladder, catching at\nthe rope with the other hand, missed the rope, and fell a very great\nheight upon stones, by which fall he was exceedingly wounded in the\nhead and arms, and his body much bruised, and taken up for dead, but\ndid recover again that time.\n\n'Then they put him in a low hole called the oven, and much like an\noven, and some have said who have been in it that they have seen a\nbaker's oven much bigger, except for the height of the roof, without\nthe least airhole or window for smoke and air, nor would they suffer\nhim to have a little charcoal brought in by friends to prevent the\nnoisome smoke. Nor would they suffer him, after he was a little\nrecovered, to take a little air upon the castle wall, which was but\nonce desired by the prisoner, feeling himself spent for want of\nbreath. All which he bore with much patience and still kept his\nsuffering much from friends there, seeing they was much sorrowful to\nsee it. Yea, others who were no friends were wounded at the sight of\nhis usage in many other particulars, which we forbear here to mention.\n\n'And divers came to see him, who heard of his usage from far, not\nbeing friends, had liberty to see him, who was astonished at his\nusage, and some of them would say \"IF THIS BE THE USAGE OF THE\nPROTECTOR'S PRISONERS IT WERE BETTER TO BE ANYBODY'S PRISONERS THAN\nHIS,\" as Justice Barrington's daughter said, who saw their cruelty to\nhim. And many who came to see him were moved with pity to the\ncreature, for his sufferings were great.'\n\n'And although some did offer of their bond of forty pounds [to pay the\nfine and so set him at liberty] and one to lie body for body, that he\nmight come to their house till he was a little recovered, yet they\nwould not permit it, and it being desired that he might but walk in\nthe yard, it was answered he should not walk so much as to the castle\ndoor. And the door being once opened, he did but take the freedom to\nwalk forth in a close, stinking yard before the door, and the gaoler\ncame in a rage and locked up the hole where he lay, and shut him out\nin the yard all night in the coldest time of the winter. So, finding\nthat nothing but his blood would satisfy them, great application was\nmade to them in a superior authority but to no purpose. Thus he having\nendured about ten months' imprisonment, and having passed through many\ntrials and exercises, which the Lord enabled him to bear with courage\nand faithfulness, he laid down his head in peace and died a prisoner\nand faithful Martyr for the sake of the Truth, under the hands of a\npersecuting generation in the year 1656.'[30]\n\nIt was his former host, Thomas Shortland the weaver, who had offered\nto lie 'body for body' in prison, if only James might be allowed to\nreturn to his house and be nursed back to health again there. After\nthe boy's death this kind man wrote as follows:\n\n'Dear Friend--In answer to thine, is this, James Parnell being dead,\nthe Coroner sent an officer for me, and one Anne Langley, a friend,\nwho both of us watched with him that night that he departed. And\ncoming to him [the Coroner] he said, \"that it was usual when any died\nin prison, to have a jury got on them,\" and James being dead, and he\nhearing we two watched with him, he sent for us to hear what we could\nsay concerning his death, whether he died on his fair death [_i.e._ a\nnatural death] or whether he were guilty of his own death.... He asked\nwhether he had his senses and how he behaved himself late-ward toward\nhis departure. I answered that he had his senses and that he spake\nsensibly, and to as good understanding as he used to do. He then\nenquired what words he spoke. To which Anne Langley answered that she\nheard him say, \"HERE I DIE INNOCENTLY,\" and she said that she had been\nat the departing of many, but never was where was such sweet\ndeparting; and at his departing his last words were, \"NOW I MUST GO,\"\nand turned his head to me and said, \"THOMAS, THIS DEATH I MUST DIE,\"\nand further said, \"O THOMAS, I HAVE SEEN GREAT THINGS,\" and bade me\nthat I should not hold him, but let him go, and said it over again,\n\"WILL YOU NOT HOLD ME?\" And then said Anne, \"Dear Heart, we will not\nhold thee.\" And he said, \"NOW I GO,\" and stretched out himself, and\nfell into a sweet sleep and slept about an hour (as he often said,\nthat one hour's sleep would cure him of all), and so drew breath no\nmore.'\n\n * * * * *\n\nLittle James was free at last. He had left his frail, weary body\nbehind and had departed on the longest, shortest journey of all. A\njourney this, ending in no noisome den in Carlisle Castle, as when he\nfirst saw the earthly teacher he had loved so long, but leading\nstraight and swift to the heavenly abiding-places: to the welcome of\nhis unseen yet Everlasting Friend.\n\n 'How know I that it looms lovely, that land I have never seen,\n With morning-glory and heartsease, and unexampled green?\n All souls singing, seeing, rejoicing everywhere,\n Yea, much more than this I know, for I know that Christ\n is there.'[31]\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[28] _James Parnell_, by C. Fell Smith.\n\n[29] 'Lamb's Defence against Lyes.'\n\n[30] _First Publishers of Truth_.\n\n[31] Christina Rossetti.\n\n\n\n\nXIX. THE CHILDREN OF READING MEETING\n\n\n\n\n _'And all must be meeke, sober and\n jentell and quiet and loving, and\n not give one another bad word noe\n time in the skouell, nor out of it\n ... all is to mind their lessons\n and be digelent in their\n rightings, and to lay up their\n boukes when they go from the\n skouell and ther pens and\n inkonerns and to keep them sow,\n else they must be louk'd upon as\n carles and slovenes; and soe you\n must keep all things clean, suet\n and neat and hanson.'--G. FOX.\n Advice to Schoolmasters._\n\n\n _'Dear and tender little Babes, as\n well as strong men, ... let not\n anything straiten you, when God\n moves: And thou, faithful Babe,\n though thou stutter and stammer\n forth a few words in the dread of\n the Lord, they are accepted, and\n all that are strong, serve the\n weak in strengthening them and\n wait in wisdom to give place to\n the motion of the Spirit in them,\n that it may have time to bring\n forth what God hath given ... that\n ... you maybe a well spring of\n Life to one another in the power\n of the endless love of God.'--W.\n DEWSBURY._\n\n\n _'When the Justices threatened\n Friend John Boult and told him\n that he and other Reading Friends\n should be sent to prison, he\n replied: \"That's the weakest thing\n thou canst do. If thou canst\n convince me of anything that is\n evil, I will hear thee and let the\n prisons alone.\"'--W.C. BRAITHWAITE._\n\n\n\n\nXIX. THE CHILDREN OF READING MEETING\n\n\nIt was a most uncomfortable First Day morning. The children looked at\neach other and wondered what would happen next, as they stood in the\nsmall bedroom under the thatched roof. Dorcas, the eldest, already\nhalf dressed, held Baby Stephen in her arms; but the twins, Tryphena\nand Tryphosa, were running about the floor with bare feet and only\ntheir petticoats on, strings and tapes all flying loose. Baby was\ncrying, whilst the Twins shouted with mischievous glee. Something must\nbe done. So Dorcas seated herself in a big chair and tried to dress\nBaby. But Baby was hungry. He wanted his breakfast and he did not at\nall want to be dressed! Oh, if only Mother was here! Where was Mother\nall this long time? Had she and Father really been taken to prison?\nDorcas felt heart-sick at the thought. Happily the Twins and Baby were\ntoo little to understand. She herself was nearly ten and therefore\nalmost grown up. She understood now all about it quite well. This was\nwhat Mother had meant when she bent down to kiss her little girl in\nbed last night, saying that she was going out to a Meeting at Friend\nCurtis' house, hoping to be back in an hour or two. 'But if not'--here\nDorcas remembered that Mother's eyes had filled with tears. She had\nleft the sentence unfinished, adding only: 'Anyway, I know I can trust\nthee, Dorcas, to be a little mother to the little ones while I am\naway.' 'But if not....' Dorcas had been too sleepy last night to\nthink what the words meant, or to keep awake until Mother's return. It\nseemed as if she had only just closed her eyes for a minute or two;\nand yet, when she opened them again, the bright morning sunlight was\nfilling the room.\n\n'But if not....' After all, there had been no need for Mother to\nfinish the sentence. Now that Dorcas was wide awake she could complete\nit for herself only too well. For Dorcas knew that at any moment a\nMeeting of five or more persons who met to practise a form of worship\nnot authorized by law might be rudely interrupted by the constables,\nand all the Friends who were sitting in silence together dragged off\nto prison for disobeying the Quaker Act. Since that Act had been\npassed in this same month of May 1662, Quaker children understood that\nthis might happen at any moment, but of course each child hoped that\nit would not happen just yet, or at least not to his own Father and\nMother. But now apparently it had happened here in peaceful Reading\nbeside the broad Thames.\n\nLast night's Meeting had been fixed at an unusually late hour. For, as\nthe late Spring evenings were lengthening, the Reading Quakers had\nwished to take advantage of the long May twilight to gather together\nand meet with a Friend, one of the Valiant Sixty, who had come in for\na few hours unexpectedly on his way to London. So the children had\nfallen asleep as usual, fully expecting to find their parents beside\nthem when they woke. But now the empty places and the unslept-in beds\ntold their own tale.\n\n'Be a mother to the little ones, Dorcas,' Mother had said. Well,\nDorcas was trying her very best, but it was not easy. Baby had many\nstrings to tie and many buttons to fasten, and just as she was getting\nthe very last button safely into its button-hole the Twins came\nrunning up to say that they had got into each other's clothes by\nmistake and could not get out of them again. This was serious; for\nthough Phenie's frock was only a little too big for Phosie, Phosie's\nfrock was much too small for Phenie.\n\nDorcas was obliged to put Baby down to attend to them; but this\nreminded Baby that he had still not been provided with his\nmuch-desired breakfast, whereupon he began to howl, till Dorcas took\nhim up in her arms again, and dandled him as Mother did. This made him\ncrow for happiness, just as he did when Mother took him, so for a few\nminutes Dorcas was happy too, till she saw that the Twins were now\nbeginning to squabble again, and to tear out each other's hair with\nthe comb. At that unlucky moment up came brother Peter's big voice\ncalling from below, 'Dorcas, Dorcas, what are you all doing up there?\nWhy is not breakfast ready? I have milked the cow for you. You must\ncome down this very minute; I am starving!'\n\nIt was an uncomfortable morning; and the worst of it was that it was\nFirst Day morning too. Dorcas had not known before that a First Day\nmorning could be uncomfortable. Usually First Day was the happiest day\nin the whole week. Mother's hands were so gentle that, though the\nchildren had been taught to help themselves as soon as they were old\nenough, still Mother always seemed to know just when there was an\nunruly button that needed a little coaxing to help it to find its\nhole, or a string that wanted to get into a knot that ought to be\npersuaded to tie itself into a bow.\n\nThen breakfast was always a pleasant meal, with the big blue bowls\nfull of milk, warm from the cow, set out on the wooden table, and\nFather sitting at one end raising his hand as he said a silent Grace.\nFather never said any words at these times. But he bent his head as if\nhe were thanking Someone he loved very much, Someone close beside him,\nfor giving him the milk and bread to give to the children and for\nmaking him very happy. So the children felt happy too. Dorcas thought\nthat the brown bread always tasted especially good on First Day\nmorning, because Father was at the head of the table to cut it and\nhand it to them himself. On other, week-day, mornings he had to go off\nmuch earlier, ploughing, or reaping, or gathering in the ripe corn\nfrom the harvest-fields behind the farm. Also, Peter never teased the\nlittle ones when Father was there. But to-day if there were no\nbreakfast, (and where was breakfast to come from?) Peter would be\ndreadfully cross. Yet how could Dorcas go and get breakfast for Peter\nwhen the three little ones were all wanting her help at once?\n\n'I'm coming, Peter, as fast as ever I can,' she called back, in answer\nto a second yet more peremptory summons. But, oh! how glad she was to\nhear a gentle knock at the door of the thatched cottage a minute or\ntwo later.\n\n'Come in! come in!' she heard Peter saying joyfully as he opened the\ndoor, and then came the sound of light footsteps on the wooden stairs.\nAnother minute, and the bedroom door opened gently, and a sunshiny\nface looked into the children's untidy room.\n\n'Why, it is thee, Hester!' Dorcas exclaimed, with a cry of joy. 'Oh, I\nam glad to see thee! And how glad Mother would be to know thou wert\nhere.'\n\nThe girl who entered was both taller and older than Dorcas. She was a\nwell-loved playfellow evidently, for Tryphena and Tryphosa toddled\ntowards her across the room at once, to be caught up in her arms and\nkissed.\n\n'Of course, it is I, Dorcas,' she answered promptly. 'Who else should\nit be? Prudence and I determined that we would come over and try to\nhelp thee as soon as we could. We brought a basket of provisions too,\nin case you were short. Prudence is helping Peter to set out breakfast\nin the kitchen now, so we must hasten.'\n\nLife often becomes easy when you are two, however difficult it may\nhave been when you were only one! With Hester to help, the dressing\nwas finished at lightning speed. Yet, when the children came down to\nthe kitchen, Prudence and Peter already had the fire blazing away\nmerrily; the warm milk was foaming in the bowls. The hungry children\nthought, as they drank it up, that never before had breakfast tasted\nso good.\n\n'Hester, what made thee think of coming?' Dorcas asked a little later,\nwhen, Baby's imperious needs being satisfied, she was able to begin\nher own breakfast, while he drummed an accompaniment on the back of\nher hand with a wooden spoon. 'How did the news reach thee? Or have\nthey taken thy Father and Mother away too? Have all the Friends gone\nto gaol this time?'\n\nHester nodded. Her bright face clouded for a moment or two. Then she\nresolutely brushed the cloud away.\n\n'Yea, in truth, Dorcas,' she answered. 'I fear much that only we\nchildren are left. Anyhow, thy parents and mine are taken, and the\nothers as well most like. My Father had warning from a trusty source\nthat he and other Friends had best not meet in Thomas Curtis' house\nlast night. But he is never one to be turned aside from his purpose,\nthou knows. So he took me between his knees and said, \"Hester, dear\nmaid, thy mother and I must go. 'Tis none of our choosing. If we are\ntaken, fear not for us, nor for thyself and Prue. Only seek to nourish\nand care for the tender babes in the other houses, whence Friends are\nlikely to be taken also.\" Therefore I hastened hither to help thee,\nDorcas, bringing Prudence with me, partly because I love thee, and\nthou art mine own dear friend, but also because it was my Father's\ncommand. If I can be of service to thee, perhaps he will pat my head\nwhen he returns out of gaol and say, as he doth sometimes, \"I knew I\ncould trust thee, my Hester.\"'\n\n'Will they be long in prison, dost thou think?' asked Dorcas, with a\ntremor in her voice. She was always an anxious-minded little girl, and\ninclined to look on the gloomy side of things, whereas Hester was\nsunshine itself.\n\n'Who can say?' answered Hester, and again even her bright face\nclouded. 'The Justices are sure to tender to them the oath, but since\nthey follow Him who commanded, \"Swear not at all,\" how can they take\nit?'\n\n'Then, if they refuse, they will be said to be out of the King's\nprotection, and the Justices and the gaolers may do with them as they\nwill,' added Peter doggedly.\n\nAt these words Hester, seeing that Dorcas looked very sorrowful and\nalmost ready to cry, checked Peter suddenly, and said, 'At any rate,\nwe can but hope for the best. And now we must hasten, or we shall be\nlate for Meeting.'\n\n'Meeting?' Dorcas looked up in surprise. 'I thought thou saidst that\nall the Friends had been taken.'\n\n'All the men and women, yes,' answered Hester; 'but we children are\nleft. We know what our Fathers and Mothers would have us do.'\n\nHere Peter broke in, 'Yes, of course, Dorcas, we must go to show them\nthat Friends are not cowards, and that we will keep up our Meetings\ncome what may. Dost thou not mind what friend Thomas Curtis' wife,\nMistress Nan, has often told us of her father, the Sheriff of Bristol?\nHow he was hung before his own door, because men said he was\nendeavouring to betray the city to Prince Rupert, and thus serve his\nking in banishment. Shall we be less loyal than he?'\n\n'Loyal to our King, Dorcas,' added Hester gently.\n\nDorcas hesitated no longer.\n\n'Thou art right, Hester,' she answered, 'and Peter, thou art right\ntoo. We will go all together. I had forgotten. Of course children as\nwell as grown-up people can wait upon God.'\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe children arrived at the Friends' usual meeting place, only to find\nit locked and strongly guarded. They went on, undismayed, to Friend\nLamboll's orchard, but, there also, two heavy padlocks, sealed with\nthe King's seal, were upon the green gate. An old goody from a cottage\nhard by waved them away. 'Be off, children! Here is no place for you,'\nshe said; adding not unkindly, 'your parents were taken near here\nyester eve, and the officers of the law are still prowling round. This\norchard is sure to be one of the first places they will visit.'\n\nThen seeing the tired look on Dorcas' face, as she turned to go, with\nheavy Stephen in her arms: 'Here, give the babe to me,' she said,\n'I'll care for him this forenoon. Thy mother managed to get a word\nwith me last night as the officers dragged her away, and I promised\nher I would do what I could to help you, though you be Quakers and I\nhold to the Church. See, he'll be safe in this cradle while you go and\nplay, though it is forty years and more since it held a babe of my\nown.'\n\nVery thankfully Dorcas laid Stephen, now sleeping peacefully, down in\nthe oaken cradle in the old woman's flagged kitchen. Then she ran off\nto join the others assembled at a little distance from the orchard\ngate. By this time a few more children had joined them: two or three\ngirls, and four or five older boys.\n\nWhere were they to meet? The sight of the closed house, and the sealed\ngate, even the mention of the officers of the law, far from\nfrightening the children, had only made them more than ever clear\nthat, somewhere or other, the Meeting must be held.\n\nAt length one of the elder boys suggested 'My father's granary?' The\nvery place!--they all agreed: so thither the little flock of children\ntrooped. The granary was a large building of grey stone lighted only\nby two mullioned windows high up in the walls. In Queen Elizabeth's\ndays these windows had lighted the small rooms of an upper storey, but\nnow the dividing floor had been removed to make more room for the\ngrain which lay piled up as high as the roof over more than half the\nbuilding. But, at one end, there was an empty space on the floor, and\nhere the children seated themselves on scattered bundles of hay.\n\nQuietly Meeting began. At first some of the children peeped up at one\nanother anxiously under their eyelids. It felt very strange somehow to\nbe gathering together in silence alone without any grown-up people.\nWere they really doing right? Dorcas' heart began to beat rather\nnervously, and a hot flush dyed her cheek, until she looked across at\nHester sitting opposite, and was calmed by the peaceful expression of\nthe elder girl's face. Hester's hood had fallen back upon her\nshoulders. Her fair hair, slightly ruffled, shone like a halo of pale\ngold against the grey stone wall of the granary. Her blue eyes were\nlooking up, up at the blue sky, far away beyond the high window.\n\n'Hester looks happy, almost as if she were listening to something,'\nDorcas said to herself, 'something that comforts her although we are\nall sad.' Then, settling herself cosily down into the hay, 'Now I will\ntry to listen for comfort too.'\n\nA few moments later the silence was broken by a half-whispered prayer\nfrom a dark corner of the granary, 'Our dear, dear parents! help them\nto be brave and faithful, and make us all brave and faithful too.'\n\nNone of the boys and girls looked round to see who had spoken, for\nthe words seemed to come from the deepest place in their own hearts.\n\nSwiftly and speedily the children's prayer was answered. Help was\ngiven to them, but they needed every scrap of their courage and faith\nduring the next half-hour. Almost before the last words of the prayer\ndied away, a loud noise was heard and the tramp of heavy feet coming\nround the granary wall. The officers of the law were upon them: 'What,\nyet another conventicle of these pestilential heretics to be broken\nup?' shouted a wrathful voice. The next moment the door was roughly\nburst open, and in the doorway appeared a much dreaded figure, no less\na person than Sir William Armorer himself, Justice of the Peace and\nEquerry to the King. None of the children had any very clear idea as\nto the meaning of that word 'equerry'; therefore it always filled them\nwith a vague terror of unknown possibilities. In after years, whenever\nthey heard it they saw again an angry man with a florid face, dressed\nin a suit of apple-green satin slashed with gold, standing in a\ndoorway and wrathfully shaking a loaded cane over their heads.\n\n'Yet more of ye itching to be laid by the ears in gaol!' shouted this\napparition as he entered and slammed the heavy wooden door behind him.\nBut an expression of amazement followed when he was once inside the\nroom.\n\n'Brats! By my life! Quaker brats! and none beside them!' he exclaimed\nastonished, as he looked round the band of children. 'Quaker brats\nholding a conventicle of their own, as if they were grown men and\nwomen! Having stopped the earth and gaoled the fox, must we now deal\nwith the litter? Look you here, do you want a closer acquaintance\nwith this?'\n\nWith these words, he pointed his loaded stick at each of the children\nin turn and drew out a sharp iron point concealed in one end of it,\nand began to slash the air. Then, changing his mind again, he went\nback to the door and called out to his followers in the passage\noutside, 'Here, men, we will let the maidens go, but you must teach\nthese lads what it is to disobey the law, or I'm no Justice of His\nMajesty's Peace.'\n\nEven in that moment of terror the children wondered not only at the\nloud angry voice but at the unfamiliar scent that filled the room. The\nair, which had been pure and fragrant with the smell of hay, was now\nheavy and loaded with essences and perfumes. Well it might be, for\nthough the children knew it not, the flowing lovelocks of the curly\nwig that descended to the Justice's shoulders had been scented that\nvery morning with odours of ambergris, musk, and violet, orris root,\norange flowers, and jessamine, as well as others besides. The stronger\nscents of kennel and stable, and even of ale and beer, that filled the\nroom as the constables trooped into it were almost a relief to the\nchildren, because they at least were familiar, and unlike the other\nstrange, sickly fragrance.\n\nThe constables seized the boys, turned them out into the road, and\nthere punched and beat them with their own staffs and the Justice's\nloaded stick until they were black in the face. The girls were driven\nin a frightened bunch down the lane. Only Hester sat on in her place,\nstill and unmoved, sheltering the Twins in her bosom and holding her\nhands over their eyes. Up to her came the angry Justice in a fine\nrage, until it seemed as if the perfumed wig must almost touch her\nsmooth plaits of hair. Then, at last, Hester moved, but not in time to\nprevent the Justice seizing her by the shoulder and flinging her down\nthe road after the others. Her frightened charges, torn from her arms,\nstill clung to her skirts, while the full-grown men strode along after\nthem, threatening to duck them all in the pond if they made the\nslightest resistance, and did not at once disperse to their homes.\n\nIt certainly was neither a comfortable thing nor a pleasant thing to\nbe a Quaker child in those stormy days.\n\nNevertheless, pleasant or unpleasant, comfortable or uncomfortable,\nmade no difference. It was thanks to the courage of this handful of\nboys and girls that, in spite of the worst that Mr. Justice Armorer\ncould do, in spite of the dread of him and his constables, in spite of\nhis angry face, of his scented wig and loaded cane, in spite of all\nthese things,--still, Sunday after Sunday, through many a long anxious\nmonth, God was worshipped in freedom and simplicity in the town by\nsilver Thames. Reading Meeting was held.\n\nMeantime, throughout these same long months, within the prison walls\nthe fathers and mothers prayed for their absent children. Although\napart from one another, the two companies were not really separated;\nfor both were listening to the same Shepherd's voice. Until, at last,\nthe happy day came when the gaol-doors were opened and the prisoners\nreleased. Then, oh the kissing and the hugging! the crying and the\nblessing! as the parents heard of all the children had undergone in\norder to keep faithful and true! That was indeed the most joyful\nmeeting of all!\n\nThankfulness and joy last freshly through the centuries, as an old\nletter, written at that time by one of the fathers to George Fox still\nproves to us to-day: 'Our little children kept the meetings up, when\nwe were all in prison, notwithstanding that wicked Justice when he\ncame and found them there, with a staff that had a spear in it would\npull them out of the Meeting, and punch them in the back till some of\nthem were black in the face ... his fellow is not, I believe, to be\nfound in all England a Justice of the Peace.'\n\n * * * * *\n\n'For they might as well think to hinder the Sun from shining, or the\ntide from flowing, as to think to hinder the Lord's people from\nmeeting to wait upon Him.'\n\n\n\n\nXX. THE SADDEST STORY OF ALL\n\n\n\n\n _'Take heed of forward minds, and\n of running out before your guide,\n for that leads out into looseness;\n and such plead for liberty, and\n run out in their wills and bring\n dishonour to the Lord.'..._\n\n _'And take heed if under a pretence\n of Liberty you do not ... set up\n that both in yourselves and on\n others that will be hard to get\n down again.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'The Truth in this city spreads\n and flourisheth; many large\n meetings we have, and great ones\n of the world come to them, and are\n much tendered. James is fitted for\n this great place, and a great love\n is begotten towards him'--A.\n PARKER to M. Fell, 1655 (from\n London, before Nayler's fall)._\n\n\n _'His forebearing in due time to\n testify against the folly of those\n his followers (who magnified him)\n was his great weakness and loss of\n judgment, and brought the greatest\n suffering upon him, Poor Man!\n Though when he was delivered out\n of the snare, he did condemn all\n their wild and mad actions towards\n him and judged himself also.\n Howbeit our adversaries and\n persecutors unjustly took occasion\n thereupon, to triumph and insult,\n and to reproach and roar against\n Quakers, though as a People (they\n were) wholly unconcerned and clear\n from those offences.'--G. WHITEHEAD._\n\n\n _'And so His will is my\n peace.'--JAMES NAYLER._\n\n\n\n\nXX. THE SADDEST STORY OF ALL\n\nBUT IT HAS A HAPPY END\n\n\nChildren--come close. Let us hold hands and gather round the fire.\nThis story must be told in the twilight, while the room is all dark\nexcept for the dim glow of the coals. Then, if a few tears do run down\nour cheeks--no one will see them. And presently the lamp will come in,\nthe darkness will vanish, and the story will end happily--as most\nstories do if we could only carry them on far enough. What makes the\nsadness to us, often, is that we only see such a little bit of the\nway.\n\nThis is the story of a man who made terrible mistakes, and suffered a\nterrible punishment. But, through his sufferings, and perhaps even\nthrough the great mistakes he made, he learned some lessons that he\nmight never have learned in any other way. His name was James Nayler.\nHe was born in 1616, and was the son of a well-to-do farmer in\nYorkshire. He was 'educated in good English,' and learned to write and\nspeak well. His early life seems to have been uneventful. At the age\nof 22 he married, and settled near Wakefield with his young wife,\nAnne. After a few years of happy married life, the long dispute\nbetween King Charles and his Parliament finally broke out into Civil\nWar. The old peaceful life of the countryside was at an end.\nEverywhere men were called upon to take sides and to arm. James Nayler\nwas one of the first to answer that call. He enlisted in the\nParliamentary Army under Lord Fairfax, and spent the next nine or ten\nyears as a soldier. Under General Lambert he rose to be quartermaster,\nand the prospect of attaining still higher military rank was before\nhim when his health broke down and he was obliged to return home.\n\nA little later he made a friend. One eventful Sunday in 1652 'the Man\nin Leather Breeches' visited Wakefield, and came to the\n'Steeple-house' where Nayler had been accustomed to worship with his\nfamily. Directly the sermon was finished, all the people in the church\npointed at the Stranger, and called him to come up to the priest. Fox\nrose, as his custom was, and began to 'declare the word of life.' He\nwent on to say that he thought the priest who had been preaching had\nbeen deceiving his hearers in some parts of his sermon. Naturally the\npriest who had spoken did not like this, and although some of the\ncongregation agreed with Fox, and felt that 'they could have listened\nto him for ever,' most of the people hated the Stranger for his words.\nThey rushed at Fox, punching and beating him; then, crying, 'Let us\nhave him in the stocks!' they thrust him out of the door of the\nchurch. Once in the cool fresh air, however, the crowd became less\nviolent. Their mood changed. Instead of hustling their unresisting\nvisitor through the town and clapping him into the stocks, they loosed\ntheir hold of him and suffered him to go quietly away.\n\nAs he departed, George Fox came upon another group of people assembled\nat a little distance. These were the men and women who had listened to\nhim gladly in church, who now wished to hear more of the new truths he\nhad been declaring. Among them was James Nayler, a man older than\nFox, who had been convinced by him a year earlier. This second visit,\nhowever, clinched Nayler's allegiance to his new friend. Possibly,\nhaving been a soldier himself, he began by admiring Fox's courage.\nHere was a man who refused to strike a single blow in self-defence. He\nwas apparently quite ready to let the angry mob do what they would,\nand yet in the end he managed to quell their rage by the force of his\nown spiritual power. The Journal simply says that a great many people\nwere convinced that day of the truth of the Quaker preaching, and that\n'they were directed to the Lord's teaching _in themselves_.'\n\nHereupon the priest of the church became very angry. He spread abroad\nmany untrue stories about Fox, saying that he 'carried bottles with\nhim, and made people drink of them and so made them follow him and\nbecome Quakers.'\n\nAt Wakefield, also, in those days, as well as farther North,\n'enchantment' was the first and simplest explanation of anything\nunusual. This same priest also said that Fox rode upon a great black\nhorse, and was seen riding upon it in one county at a certain time,\nand was also seen on the same horse and at the very same time in\nanother county sixty miles away.\n\n'With these lies,' says Fox, 'he fed his people, to make them think\nevil of the truth which I had declared amongst them. But by those lies\nhe preached many of his hearers away from him, for I was travelling on\nfoot and had no horse; which the people generally knew.'\n\nJames Nayler at any rate decided to become one of Fox's followers, and\nlet the priest do his worst. It may have been at his house that\nGeorge Fox lodged that night, thankful for its shelter, having slept\nunder a hedge the night before. When Fox left, Nayler did not go with\nhim, but remained quietly at home. Having been a farmer's son before\nhe became a soldier, he quietly returned to his farming when he left\nthe army. One day in early spring, a few months after Fox's visit, as\nJames Nayler was driving the plough and thinking of the things of God,\nhe heard a Voice calling to him through the silence, telling him to\nleave his home and his relations, for God would be with him. At first\nJames Nayler rejoiced exceedingly because he had heard the Voice of\nGod, but when he considered how much he would have to give up if he\nleft home, he tried to put the command aside. Nothing that he\nundertook prospered with him after this; he fell ill and nearly died,\ntill at last he was made willing to surrender his own will utterly and\ngo out, ready to do God's will, day by day and hour by hour, as it\nshould be revealed to him. 'And so he continued, not knowing one day\nwhat he was to do the next; and the promise of God that He would be\nwith him, he found made good to him every day.' These are his own\nwords. His inward guidance led him into the west of England, and there\nhe found George Fox.\n\nAfter this Nayler and Fox were often together. Sometimes Nayler would\ntake a long journey to see Fox when he was staying with his dear\nfriends at Swarthmoor. Sometimes they wrote beautiful letters to each\nother. Here is one from Nayler to Fox that might have been written to\nus to-day:\n\n'Dear hearts, you make your own troubles by being unwilling and\ndisobedient to that which would lead you safe. There is no way but to\ngo hand in hand with Him in all things, running after Him without fear\nor considering, leaving the whole work only to Him. If He seem to\nsmile, follow Him in fear and love, and if He seem to frown, follow\nHim and fall into His will, and you shall see He is yours still,--for\nHe will prove His own.'\n\n[Illustration: 'THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE']\n\nNayler's adventurous journey with Fox to Walney Island must have drawn\ntheir friendship closer than ever. In spite of hardships these were\nhappy days as they went about the country together on God's errands.\nBut these days came to an end.\n\nYou see, Nayler had not found his faith after a long struggle as\nGeorge Fox had done. Perhaps he had accepted it a little too easily,\nand too confidently, in his own strength. He was a splendid, brilliant\npreacher, and he loved arguing for his new belief in public. Once, in\nDerbyshire, in an argument with some ministers, he got so much the\nbest of it that the crowd was delighted and cried out, 'A Nailer, a\nNailer hath confuted them all.'\n\nAnother time, when he was attending a meeting at a Friend's house, he\nsays that 'hundreds of vain people continued all the while throwing\ngreat stones in at the window, but we were kept in great peace\nwithin.' It would be rather difficult to sit quite still and 'think\nmeeting thoughts' with large stones flying through the windows, would\nit not?\n\nOnce, when I was at a service on board ship, a few years ago, a\ntremendous wave broke through the port-hole and splashed the kneeling\nmen and women on that side of the saloon. They were so startled that\nnearly all of them jumped, and one called out quite loudly, 'Oh,\nwhat's that?' But the clergyman went on quietly reading the service,\nand very soon everything became still and quiet again.\n\nJames Nayler also continued to give his message of stillness and calm,\nand the gathered people, listening to him intently, forgot to think\nabout the stones. He must have had a great deal of that strange\nquality that we call magnetism. Just as a magnet attracts bits of iron\nto it, so some people have the power of attracting others to listen to\nthem and love them. Fox was the most powerful magnet of all the Quaker\npreachers. He attracted people in thousands all over the country. But\nNayler seems to have had a great deal of magnetism too, though it was\nof a different kind. For one thing he was handsomer to look at than\nFox. He is described as 'of ruddy complexion and medium height, with\nlong, low hanging brown hair, oval face, and nose that rose a little\nin the middle: he wore a small band close to his collar, but no band\nstrings, and a hat that hung over his brows.'\n\nBut it would have been happier for him if he had not been so\ngood-looking, as you will see presently. He must have had much charm\nof manner, too. A court lady, Abigail, Lady Darcy, invited him to her\nhouse to preach, and there, beside all the people who had assembled to\nhear him, many other much grander listeners were also present although\nunseen, 'lords, ladies, officers, and ministers.'\n\nThese great people, not wishing it to be known that they came to\nlisten to the Quaker preacher, were hidden away behind a ceiling.\nNayler himself must have known of their presence, since he mentions\nit in a letter, though he does not explain how a ceiling could be a\nhiding-place. He spoke to them afterwards of the Voice that had called\nhim as he was ploughing in the fields at home. These fine lords and\nladies could not understand what he meant. 'A Voice, a Voice?' they\nasked him, 'but did you really hear it?' 'Aye, verily, I did hear it,'\nhe replied in such solemn tones that they wondered more than ever what\nhe meant; and perhaps they began to listen too for the Inner Voice.\n\nThe discovery that he, a humble Quaker preacher, could attract all\nthis attention did James Nayler harm. Instead of remembering only the\nthankfulness and joy of being entrusted with his Master's message, he\nallowed small, lower feelings to creep into his heart: 'What a good\nmessenger I am! Don't I preach well? Far grander people throng to hear\nme than to any other Quaker minister's sermons!'\n\nAnother temptation came to him through his good looks. He was\nevidently getting to think altogether too much about himself. It was\nJames Nayler this and James Nayler that, far too much about James\nNayler. Also, some of his friends were foolish, and did not help him.\nThe interesting thing about James Nayler is that his chief temptations\nalways came to him through his good qualities. If he had been a little\nduller, or a little uglier, or a little stupider, if he had even made\nfewer friends, he might have walked safely all his life. As it was,\ninstead of listening only to the Voice of God, he allowed himself to\nlisten to one of the most dangerous suggestions of the Tempter. Nayler\nbegan to think that he might imitate Jesus Christ not only in inner\nways, not only by trying to be meek and loving and gentle and\nself-sacrificing, as He was to all the people around Him. That is the\nway we may all try to be like Him. Nayler also tried to imitate Him in\nouter ways. He found a portrait of the Saviour and noticed how He was\nsupposed to have worn His hair and beard; and then he arranged his own\nhair and beard in the same way. He even attempted to work miracles\nlike those in the Gospel story. He tried to fast as Christ had done,\n'He ate no bread but one little bit for a whole month, and there was\nabout a fortnight ... he took no manner of food, but some days a pint\nof white wine, and some days a gill mingled with water.' This was when\nhe was imprisoned in Exeter Gaol with many other Quakers. One woman\namong them fainted and became unconscious, and she believed she had\nbeen brought back to life by Nayler's laying his hand on her head and\nsaying, 'Dorcas, arise.'\n\nSome of his friends and the other women in the prison were foolish and\nsilly. Instead of helping Nayler to serve God in lowliness and\nhumility, they flattered his vanity, and encouraged him to become yet\nmore vain and presumptuous. They even knelt before him in the prison,\nbowing and singing, 'Holy, holy, holy.' Some one wrote him a wicked\nletter saying, 'Thy name shall be no more James Nayler, but Jesus'!\n\nNayler confessed afterwards that 'a fear struck him' when he received\nthat letter. He put it in his pocket, meaning that no one should see\nit. But though Nayler did not himself encourage his friends in their\nwicked folly, still he did not check them as he should have done. He\nthought that he was meant to be a 'sign of Christ' for the world. He\nwas weak in health at the time, and had suffered much from\nimprisonment and long fasting; so it can be said in excuse that his\nmind may have been clouded, and that perhaps he did not altogether\nunderstand what was being done.\n\nThe real sadness of this story is that we cannot excuse him\naltogether. Some of the blame for the silly and foolish and wicked\nthings that were done around him does, and must, belong to him too. He\nought to have known and to have forbidden it all from the beginning.\nGeorge Fox and the other steady Friends of course did not approve of\nthese wild doings of James Nayler and his friends. George Fox came to\nsee James Nayler in prison at Exeter, and reproved him for his errors.\nJames Nayler was proud and would not listen to rebukes, though he\noffered to kiss George Fox at parting. But Fox, who was 'stiff as a\ntree and pure as a bell,' would not kiss any man, however much he\nloved him, who persisted in such wrong notions. The two friends parted\nvery sorrowfully, and with a sad heart Fox returned to the inn on\nExeter Bridge. Not all the 'Seven Stars' on its signboard could shine\nthrough this cloud.\n\nAfter this, things grew worse. Nayler persisted in his idea that he\nwas meant, in his own life, and in his own body, to imitate Jesus\nChrist outwardly, and the women persisted in their wild acting round\nhim. When Nayler and his admirers came to Bristol, in October 1656,\nthey arranged a sort of play scene, to make it like the entry of Jesus\ninto Jerusalem. One man, bareheaded, led Nayler's horse, and the women\nspread scarves and handkerchiefs in the way before him, as they had no\npalms. They even shouted 'Hosanna!' and other songs and hymns that\nthey had no business to sing except in the worship of God.\n\nThey meant it to be all very brilliant and triumphant. But it was\nreally a miserable sort of affair, for the rain came down heavily, and\nthe roads were muddy and dirty, which made the whole company wet and\ndraggled. Still it was not the rain that mattered,--what mattered most\nwas that none of them can have had the sunshine of peace in their\nhearts, for they must have known that they were doing wrong.\n\nAnyhow the magistrates of the city of Bristol had no manner of doubt\nabout that. As soon as the foolish, dishevelled, excited company\nreached the city they were all clapped into gaol, which was perhaps\nthe best place to sober their excited spirits. The officers of the law\nwere thoroughly well pleased. They had said from the first that George\nFox was a most dangerous man, and that the Quakers were a misguided\npeople to follow him. Now the folly and wickedness of Nayler and his\ncompany gave them just the excuse they were wanting to prove that they\nhad been right all along.\n\nJames Nayler was taken to London, tried, found guilty, and sentenced\nto savage punishments. He was examined at length by a Committee of\nParliament. Just before his sentence was pronounced he said that he\n'did not know his offence,' which looks as if his mind really had been\nclouded over when some of the things he was accused of were done. But\nthis was not allowed to be any excuse. 'You shall know your offence by\nyour punishment' was the only answer he received. The members of\nOliver Cromwell's second Parliament who dealt with Nayler's case were\nnot likely to be lenient to any man, who, like Nayler, had done wrong\nand allowed himself to be led astray. His Commonwealth judges showed\nhim no mercy indeed. When Nayler heard his terrible sentence, he\nlistened calmly, and said, 'God has given me a body: God will, I hope,\ngive me a spirit to endure it. I pray God He may not lay it to your\ncharge.' This shows that he had learned really to share his Master's\nSpirit, which is the only true way of imitating Him.\n\nThe punishments were cruel and vindictive. They lasted through many\nweeks. Half way through, many 'persons of note' signed a petition to\nask that he might be allowed to miss the rest of the penalties, owing\nto his enfeebled condition. In spite of this, the whole barbarous\nsentence was carried out. James Nayler bore it unflinchingly. I am\nonly going to tell you one or two of the cruel things that were done\nto him--and those not the worst. He was sentenced to have the letter\n'B' burned on his forehead with a hot iron. 'B' stands for\n'Blasphemer,' and it was to show everybody who saw him, wherever he\ncame, that he had been found guilty of saying wicked things about God.\nThe worst part of this punishment must have been knowing in his heart\nthat the accusation was, more or less, true.\n\nThere he stood before the Old Exchange in London, on a bitter December\nday, in the presence of thousands of spectators. He bore not only the\nbranding with a red-hot iron on the forehead until smoke arose from\nthe burning flesh, but also other worse tortures with 'a wonderful\npatience.' The crowd, who always assembled on such occasions, were\ntouched by his demeanour. Instead of jeering and mocking, as they\nwere accustomed to do to criminals, all these thousands of people\nlifted their hats in token of respect, and remained standing\nbareheaded as they watched him in his agony. It is said that 'he\nshrinked a little when the iron came upon his forehead,' yet on being\nunbound he embraced his executioner. One faithful friend, Robert Rich,\nwho had done his utmost to save Nayler from this terrible punishment,\nstood with him on the pillory and held his hand all through the\nburning, and afterwards licked the wounds with his tongue to allay the\npain. 'I am the dog that licked Lazarus' sores,' Robert Rich used to\nsay, alluding to that terrible day. Long years after, when he was an\nold man with a long white beard, he used to walk up and down in\nMeeting in a long velvet gown, still repeating the story of his\nfriend's sufferings and of his patience.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAfter this punishment Nayler was sent down to Bristol to undergo the\nrest of his sentence there. He was made to enter the city again in\ndeepest humiliation, no longer with excited followers shouting\n'Hosanna!' before him, but seated on a horse _facing to the tail_,\nwith the big 'B' burned on his forehead for all men to see--and then\nhe was publicly whipped.\n\nYet in spite of all the pain and shame he must have been happier in\none way during that sorrowful return to Bristol than at his former\nentrance to the city, for he must have had more true peace in his\nheart.\n\nNow, at last, comes the happy end of this sad story. There is no need\nto sit over the fire in the darkness any longer. We can dry our eyes\nand light the lamps--for it is not sorrowful really. James Nayler's\nmistakes and sufferings had not been wasted. They had made him more\nreally like his Master, and his worst troubles were now over.\n\nHe still lay in prison for two years more, but he was allowed ink and\npaper, and he wrote many beautiful letters acknowledging that he had\ndone wrong, confessing his sin, and praising God even for the\nsufferings which had shown him his error. He says in one place, 'the\nprovocation of that time of temptation was exceeding great against the\npure love of God; yet He left me not; for after I had given myself\nunder that power, and darkness was above, my adversary so prevailed,\nthat all things were turned and so perverted against my right seeing,\nhearing, or understanding; only a secret hope and faith I had in my\nGod whom I had served, that He would bring me through it, and to the\nend of it, and that I should again see the day of my redemption from\nunder it all; and this quieted my soul in my greatest tribulation.'\n\nAnd again, 'Dear brethren--My heart is broken this day for the offence\nthat I have occasioned to God's truth and people....\n\n'And concerning you, the tender plants of my Father, who have suffered\nthrough me, or with me, in what the Lord hath suffered to be done with\nme, in this time of great trial and temptation; the Almighty God of\nlove, Who hath numbered every sigh, and put every tear in His bottle,\nreward it a thousandfold into your bosoms, in the day of your need,\nwhen you shall come to be tried and tempted; and in the meantime\nfulfil your joy with His love, which you seek after. The Lord knows,\nit was never in my heart to cause you to mourn, whose suffering is my\ngreatest sorrow that ever yet came upon me, for you are innocent\nherein.' After this, at last he was set free. The first thing he did\nwas to try to return home to his wife and children. It is said that\n'he was a man of great self-denial, and very jealous of himself ever\nafter his fall and recovery. At last, departing from the city of\nLondon, about the latter end of October 1660, towards the north,\nintending to go home to his wife and children at Wakefield in\nYorkshire, he was seen by a Friend of Hertford (sitting by the wayside\nin a very awful, weighty frame of mind), who invited him to his house,\nbut he refused, signifying his mind to pass forward, and so went on\nfoot as far as Huntingdon, and was observed by a Friend as he passed\nthrough the town, in such an awful frame, as if he had been redeemed\nfrom the earth, and a stranger on it, seeking a better country and\ninheritance. But going some miles beyond Huntingdon, he was taken ill\n(being as 'tis said) robbed by the way, and left bound: whether he\nreceived any personal injury is not certainly known, but being found\nin a field by a countryman toward evening, was had, or went to a\nFriend's house at Holm, not far from King's Ripton, where Thomas\nParnell, a doctor of physic, dwelt, who came to visit him; and being\nasked, if any Friends at London should be sent for to come and see\nhim; he said, \"Nay,\" expressing his care and love to them. Being\nshifted, he said, \"You have refreshed my body, the Lord refresh your\nsouls\"; and not long after departed this life in peace with the Lord,\nabout the ninth month, 1660, and the forty-fourth year of his age, and\nwas buried in Thomas Parnell's burying-ground at King's Ripton\naforesaid.'\n\n'I don't call that a happy ending. I call it a very sad ending indeed!\nWhat could be worse? To sit all alone by the roadside, and then\nperhaps to be robbed and bound, or if not that, at any rate to be\ntaken ill and carried to a stranger's house to die. That is only a\nsorrowful ending to a most sorrowful life.'\n\nIs this what anyone is thinking?\n\nAh, but listen! That is not the real end. It is said that 'about two\nhours before his death he spoke in the presence of several witnesses'\nthese words:\n\n'There is a spirit which I feel, that delights to do no evil, nor to\nrevenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy\nits own in the end: its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention,\nand to weary out all exaltation and cruelty, or whatever is of a\nnature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of all temptations: as\nit bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thoughts to any\nother: if it be betrayed it bears it, for its ground and spring is the\nmercies and forgiveness of God: its crown is meekness, its life is\neverlasting love unfeigned, and takes its kingdom with entreaty, and\nnot with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind: in God alone\nit can rejoice, though none else regard it, or can own its life: it is\nconceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor\ndoth it murmur at grief and oppression: it can never rejoice but\nthrough sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered: I found\nit alone, being forsaken; I have fellowship therein with them who\nlived in dens, and desolate places in the earth, who through death\nobtained this resurrection and eternal holy life.'\n\nThat is why this story has a happy ending. A made-up story might have\nleft James Nayler at home with his wife and children. But, after all\nhe had suffered, he may have been too tired to bear much joy on earth.\nBesides, how could he have borne for those dear ones to see the\ncondemning 'B' burned on his forehead? and the other scars and signs\nof his terrible punishments, how could they have borne to see them?\n\nWas it not better that the end came as it did by the roadside near\nHuntingdon?\n\nOnly remember always, that what we call the end is itself only the\nbeginning.\n\nThink how thankful James Nayler must have been to lay down the tired,\nscarred body in which he had sinned and suffered, while his spirit,\nstrengthened, purified, and cleansed by all he had endured, was set\nfree to serve in the larger, fuller life beyond. James Nayler's\ndifficult school-days were over at last on this little earth, where we\nare set to learn our lessons. Like the other prodigal son he had gone\nto receive his own welcome from the Father's heart in the Father's\nHome.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhy have I told you this story--'the saddest story of all'? A parable\nwill explain it best. Imagine that ever since the beginning of Time\nthere has been a great big looking-glass with the sun shining down\nupon it. Then imagine that that looking-glass has been broken up into\ninnumerable fragments, and that one bit is given to each human soul,\nwhen it is born on earth, to keep and to hold at the right angle, so\nthat it can still reflect the sun's beams. That is something like the\ntruth that George Fox discovered for himself and preached all over\nEngland. He called it the doctrine of 'The Inner Light.' To all the\nhungering, thirsting, sinful, ignorant men and women in England he\ngave the same message: 'There is that of God within you, that can\nreflect Him. You can hear His Voice speaking in your hearts'; or, to\ncontinue the parable, 'If you hold your own little bit of\nlooking-glass in the sunlight it will, it must, reflect the Sun.'\n\nJames Nayler listened to this message, accepted it, and rejoiced in\nit. He did truly turn to the Light. But he forgot one thing that must\nnever be forgotten. He looked too much at his own tiny bit of\nlooking-glass and too little at the Sun. In this way the mirror of his\nsoul grew soiled and stained and dim. It could no longer reflect the\nLight faithfully. Then, it had to be cleansed by suffering. But all\nthis time, and always, the Sun of God's unchanging love was steadily\nshining, waiting for him to turn to it again. Let us too look up\ntowards that Sun of Love. Let us open our hearts wide to receive its\nlight. Then we shall find that we have not only a mirror in our hearts\nbut also something alive and growing; what George Fox would call the\n'Seed.' Sometimes he calls it the 'Seed,' and sometimes the 'Light,'\nbecause it is too wonderful for any picture or parable to express it\nwholly. But we each have 'that of God within' that can reflect and\nrespond to Him, if we will only let it. Let us try then to open our\nhearts wide, wide, to receive, and not to think of ourselves. If we do\nthis, sooner or later we shall learn to live and grow in the sunshine\nof God's love, as easily and naturally as the daisies do, when they\nspread their white and golden hearts wide open in the earthly\nsunshine on a summer's day.\n\n * * * * *\n\nJames Nayler did learn that lesson at last, and therefore even this,\n'the saddest story of all,' really and truly has a happy end.\n\n\n\n\nXXI. PALE WIND FLOWERS: OR THE LITTLE PRISON MAID\n\n\n\n\n _'Let not anything straiten you\n when God moves.'--W. DEWSBURY,\n Epistle from York Tower, 1660._\n\n\n _'All friends and brethren\n everywhere, that are imprisoned\n for the Truth, give yourselves up\n in it, and it will make you free,\n and the power of the Lord will\n carry you over all the\n persecutors. Be faithful in the\n life and power of the Lord God and\n be valiant for the Truth on the\n earth; and look not at your\n sufferings, but at the power of\n God; and that will bring some good\n out of all your sufferings; and\n your imprisonments will reach to\n the prisoned that the persecutor\n prisons in himself.... So be\n faithful in that which overcomes\n and gives victory.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Bread and Wine were the Supper\n of the Lord in the dispensation of\n Time, ... a figure of His death,\n which were fulfilled when He had\n suffered and rose again, and now\n He is known to stand at the door\n and knock, \"If any man hear my\n Voice and open the door, I will\n come in and sup with him and he\n with me,\" saith Christ. And we\n being many are one Bread and one\n Body and know the Wine renewed in\n our Father's Kingdom. Christ the\n Substance we now witness; Shadows\n and Figures done away; he that can\n receive it, let him.'--W. DEWSBURY._\n\n\n\n\nXXI. PALE WIND FLOWERS: OR THE LITTLE PRISON MAID\n\n\nI\n\n'Dear grandfather will be wearying for me! We must not linger.' There\nwas a wistful ring in the child's voice as she spoke. Little Mary Samm\nlooked longingly towards a clump of wood anemones dancing in the\nsunshine, as she followed her aunt, Joan Dewsbury, through a coppice\nof beech-trees on the outskirts of the city of Warwick. It was a\nbright windy day of early spring in the year 1680. Mary was twelve\nyears old, but so small and slight that she looked and seemed much\nyounger. And now she wanted badly to gather some wood anemones. But\nwould Aunt Joan approve? Would it be selfish to leave 'dear\ngrandfather' longer alone?\n\nHappily the older woman, who preceded little Mary on the narrow\nwoodland pathway, possessed a kind heart underneath her severe, grey,\nQuaker bodice and stiff manner. She caught the wistful tone in the\nlittle girl's voice, and, turning round, noticed the wood anemones.\nIndeed, the wood anemones insisted on being noticed. Joan Dewsbury\nwalked on a few steps further in silence; then, setting the heavy\nbasket down on the trunk of a felled tree, 'No, Mary,' she said, 'in\ntruth we must not linger; but we may rest a few moments. Also thou\nknowest thy grandfather's love of a posy in his prison. If I see\naright, there are some pale windflowers blowing yonder, beside that\nold tree, though it is full early for them still. Here, give me thy\nbasket, and hie thee to gather them. I will sit down and wait for thy\nreturn; and, if we hasten our steps hereafter, we shall not be much\ndelayed.'\n\nLittle Mary Samm glanced up with a joyful smile. She had espied the\nfew, first, faint windflowers as soon as she entered the wood; but,\nwithout her aunt's permission, it would never have entered her head to\nsuggest that she might gather them. For Mary was a carefully trained\n(not to say primly brought up) little maiden of the seventeenth\ncentury, when children followed their elders' injunctions in all\nthings, without daring to dwell on their own wishes. If Joan Dewsbury\nhad been an artist she would have enjoyed watching the child's slim\nlittle upright figure stepping daintily over the rustling brown beech\nleaves, between the rounded trunks of the grey trees. The air was full\nof the promise of early spring. A cold blue sky showed through the\nlattice work of twigs and branches; but, as yet, no fluttering leaf\nhad crept out of its sheath to soften, with a hint of tender green,\nthe virginal stiffness and straightness of the stems. Grey among the\ngrey tree-trunks little Mary flitted about, gathering her precious\nwindflowers. She was clad in the demure Puritan dress worn by young\nand old alike in the early days of the Society of Friends. A frock of\ngrey duffel hung in straight lines around her slight figure; a cape of\nthe same material was drawn closely round her shoulders, while a grey\nbonnet framed the pensive face. A strange unchildlike face it was,\nsmall and pinched, with a high, narrow forehead and sharply pointed\nchin. There were no childish roses in the pale cheeks. A very faint\nflush of pink, caused by fresh air and unwonted exercise, could not\ndisguise the curious yellow tinge of the skin, like old parchment\nthat has been kept too long from the light of day. Only the tips of a\nfew locks of light brown hair, cut very short and straight round the\nears, were visible under the close, tightly-fitting bonnet.\n\n[Illustration: PALE WINDFLOWERS]\n\n'An ugly little girl, in perfectly hideous clothes,' modern children\nmight have said if they had seen Mary Samm for the first time, looking\ndown at her windflowers, though even then there was a hint of beauty\nin the long, curved, black eyelashes that lay quietly on the pale\ncheeks, and a very sweet expression hovered round the corners of the\nfirm, delicate, little mouth. But no one who could have seen little\nMary running back to her aunt with her precious flowers in her hand\nwould have called her 'ugly' or even 'plain' any longer. The radiant\nlight in her eyes transfigured the small, pinched face of the demure\nlittle being in its old-fashioned garments. Even critical modern\nchildren would have forgotten everything else, and would have\nexclaimed, 'She has the most beautiful eyes!'\n\nWhat colour were her eyes? They were not blue, or black, or grey, or\nbrown, or hazel, or green, or yellow. Perhaps they were in truth more\nyellow than anything else. They were full not only of sparkling lights\nbut also of deep velvety shadows that made it difficult to tell their\nexact colour. Who can say the colour of a mountain stream that runs\nover a pebbled bed? Every stone can be seen through the clear,\ntransparent water, but there are mysterious, shadowy darknesses in it\nalso, reflected from the overhanging banks. Little Mary Samm's eyes\nwere both clear and mysterious as such a mountain stream; while her\nvoice,--but hush! she is speaking again, her rather shrill, high tones\nbreaking the crisp silence of the March afternoon.\n\n'Here is the posy, Aunt; will not dear grandfather love his pale\nwindflowers, come like stars to visit him in his prison? Only these\nflower stars will not pass away quickly out of sight as do the real\nstars we watch together through the bars every evening.'\n\nJoan Dewsbury took the bunch of anemones from her niece's cold\nfingers, laid it down carefully in Mary's rush basket and covered it\nwith a corner of the cloth. Had she been a 'nowadays aunt' she might\nhave thought that Mary was not unlike a windflower herself. The girl's\nsmall white face was flushed faintly, like the ethereal white sepals;\nthere was a delicate, fragile fragrance about her as if a breath might\nblow her away, yet there was an unconquerable air of determination\nalso in her every movement and gesture. But Joan Dewsbury was not a\n'nowadays aunt'; she was a 'thenadays aunt,' and that was an entirely\ndifferent kind. She never thought of comparing a little girl, who had\ncome to take care of her grandfather in his prison, with the white,\nstarry flowers that came out in the wood so early, holding on tight to\nthe roots of the old tree, and blooming gallantly through all the\ngales of spring. Joan Dewsbury's thoughts were full of different and,\nto her, far more important matters than her niece's appearance. She\nrose, and, after handing Mary her small rush basket and settling her\nown larger one comfortably on her arm, the two started off once more\nwith quickened steps through the wood. Neither the older woman nor the\ngirl was much of a talker, and the winding woodland pathways were too\nnarrow for two people to walk abreast. But when they came out on the\nbroad grassy way that wandered across the meadows by the side of the\nsmooth Avon towards the city walls, they did seem to have a few\nthings to say to one another. They spoke of the farm they had visited,\nof the milk, eggs, and cheese they carried in their baskets. But most\noften they mentioned 'the prison.' Little Mary still seemed to be in a\ngreat hurry to get back to be with 'dear grandfather,' while her\ncompanion was apparently anxious to detain her long enough to learn\nsomething more of her life in the gaol.\n\n'I could envy thee, Mary, were it not a sin,' she said once. 'Thou art\na real comfort to my dear father. Since my mother died, gladly would I\nhave been his companion, and have sought to ease his captivity, but\nthe Governor of the gaol would not allow it.'\n\n'Ay, I know,' replied Mary, in her clear, high-pitched voice. 'My\nmother told me that day at my home in Bedfordshire, that no one but a\nchild like me could be allowed to serve him, and to live in the prison\nas his little maid.'\n\n'Didst thou want to come, Mary?' her aunt enquired.\n\nMary's face clouded for a moment. Then she looked full at her aunt.\nThe candid eyes that had nothing to hide, reflected shadows as well as\nlight at that moment.\n\n'No, Aunt,' she said, firmly and clearly, 'at the first I did not want\nto come. There was my home, thou seest; I love Hutton Conquest, and my\nmother, and the maids, my sisters. Also I had many friends in our\nvillage with whom I was wont to have rare frolics and games. When\nfirst my mother told me of the Governor's permission, I did not want\nto leave the pleasant Bedfordshire meadows that lie around our dear\nfarm, and go to live cooped up behind bolts and bars. Besides, I had\nheard that Warwick Gaol was a fearsome place. I was affrighted at the\nthought of being shut up among the thieves and murderers. And--' She\nhesitated.\n\n'Poor maid,' said her aunt, 'still thou didst come in the end?'\n\n'In the end it was made clear to me that my place was with dear\ngrandfather,' said the child in her crisp, old-fashioned way. 'My\nmother said she could not force me; for she feared the gaol fever for\nme. I feared it too. And it is worse even than I feared. At nights I\nhear the prisoners screaming with it often. Nearly every day some of\nthem die. They say it is worse for the young, and I know my\ngrandfather dreads that I may take it. He looks at me often very\nsadly, or he did when I first came. Always then at nightfall he grew\nsad. But, latterly, we have been so comfortable together that I think\nhe hath forgot his fears. When the evenings darken, and he can no\nlonger read or write, we sit and watch the stars. Then if I can\npersuade him to tell me stories of what he hath undergone, that doth\nturn his thoughts, and afterwards he will fall asleep, and sleep well\nthe whole night through.'\n\n'Thou art a comfort to him, sure enough,' her aunt answered. 'It is\nwonderful how much brighter he hath been since he had thee, though he\nhath never smiled since my mother's death. But thou thyself must\nsurely grow tired of the prison and its bare stone walls? Thou must\nlong to be back at play with thy sisters in the Bedfordshire meadows?'\n\n'That do I no longer,' little Mary Samm made answer firmly. 'I love my\nsisters dearly, dearly,' she raised her voice unconsciously as she\nspoke, and a chaffinch on a branch overhead filled in the pause with\nan answering chirp, 'I love my mother too. Didst thou really say thou\nwert expecting her to visit thee right soon? My dear, dear mother! But\nI love my dear grandfather best of all, for he hath nobody but me to\ncare for him. At least, of course, he hath thee, Aunt Joan,' she added\nhastily, noticing a slight shade pass over her aunt's face. 'And what\nshould we do without thee to bake bread for us, and go to the farm to\nfetch him fresh eggs, and butter, and cheese, and sweet, new milk? He\nwould soon starve on the filthy prison fare. See, I have the milk\nbottle safe hidden under my flowers.'\n\n'Aye, thou wast ever a careful maid,' answered her aunt; 'but, tell\nme, hath the Governor indeed grown gentler of late, and hath he given\nmy father more liberty, and a better room?'\n\n'That he hath indeed. He patted my head this very morn, and said I\nmight have permission to come out and walk with thee for the first\ntime,' Mary answered. 'He saith, too, that the gaol is no place for a\nchild like me, and that thou shalt come and see us in a se'nnight from\nnow; then haply thou wilt bring my mother with thee! The room my\ngrandfather hath now is small in truth, but he can lie down at length,\nand I have a little cupboard within the wall where I can also lie and\nhear if he needs me. Doth he but stir or call \"Mary\" at nights, ever\nso gently, in a moment I am by his side.'\n\n'And canst thou ease him?' her aunt enquired.\n\n'That I can,' answered Mary proudly. 'Often I can ease him, or warm\nhis poor cold hands, or soothe him till he sleeps again, for he grows\nweaker after this long imprisonment.'\n\n'Small wonder,' replied her aunt. 'If thou hadst seen the dungeon\nwhere they set him first--foul, beneath the floor, with no window,\nonly a grating overhead to give him air. There were a dozen or more\nfelons and murderers packed in it too, along with him, so that he had\nnot enough room even to lie down. But there--it is not fit for a child\nlike thee to know the half of all he hath undergone in the cause of\nTruth.'\n\n'Dear, dear grandfather,' said Mary wistfully, 'yet he never\ncomplains. He says always that he \"doth esteem the locks and bolts as\njewels,\" since he doth endure them for his Master's sake.'\n\n'Ay, and what was his crime for which he suffered at first in that\nfoul place? Nothing but his giving of thanks one night after supper at\nan inn. His accusers must needs affirm this to be \"preaching at a\nconventicle.\" Hist! we had better be silent now we have reached the\ntown. I must leave thee at the gate of the gaol, and go on my way,\nwhile thou goest thine. Be sure and say to my dear father that I and\nthy mother will visit him as soon as ever the Governor shall permit.'\n\nA few minutes later they stopped; Joan Dewsbury took the basket from\nher arm and gave it to her niece. 'Farewell, dear child,' she said\ncheerily, as the porter opened the tall portal of the prison; but her\neyes grew dim as she watched the small figure disappear behind the\nheavy bolts and bars.\n\n'She is a good maid, and a brave one,' she said to herself as she\npassed down the street between the timbered houses to her home. 'Yet\nshe is not as other children are. For all the comfort she is to my\ndear father, I would fain think of her safe once more at home with her\nsisters. Right glad I am that her mother hath sent me word by a sure\nhand to say she cometh speedily to see of her condition for herself.\nThe Governor is right, the gaol is no place for a child, nor is it the\nlife for her either. She liveth too much in her own thoughts. This\nmorn on our walk to the farm when I asked her wherefore she seemed\nsorrowful, she replied that she was \"troubled in her conscience, that\nshe thought she would not live long and wanted satisfaction from the\nLord as to whither her soul would go if she were to die.\" Yet she\nsprang after those flowers as gaily as her sisters, and she saith\nalways that she is well. If only she may keep as she is until her\nmother shall come.'\n\nShaking her head, and full of anxious thoughts, the kind woman pursued\nher homeward way. Over the cobble-stones and between the timbered\nhouses with their steep gables and high-thatched roofs, she passed\nthrough the city until she came to her own small dwelling, William\nDewsbury's home, where his daughter lived alone, and awaited his\nreturn.\n\n\nII\n\nHave you ever seen a ray of golden sunshine steal in through the thick\nblinds, heavy shutters and close curtains that try to shut it out?\nPeople may pull down the blinds and shut the shutters and draw the\ncurtains, and do their very best to keep the sunshine away. Yet,\nsooner or later, a ray always manages to get in somehow. It dances\nthrough a chink here or a hole there, or steals along the floor, till\nat last it arrives, a radiant messenger, in the darkened room to say\nthat a whole world of light is waiting outside.\n\nIn spite of her sombre garments, Mary Samm was like such a ray of\nsunshine as she stole into Warwick prison. No doors, bolts or bars\ncould keep her out; and the gaoler seemed to know it, as he preceded\nher down the damp, dark, stone passages: the walls and floor oozing\nmoisture, and the ceiling blackened by the smoke of many candles. The\nprisons of England were all foul, ill-smelling, fever-haunted places\nat that time; and hardly any of them was worse than Warwick gaol.\n\nWilliam Dewsbury had earned the esteem of his keepers during his\nsuccessive imprisonments which lasted altogether for nearly nineteen\nyears. He was privileged now to lie away from the other criminals, who\nwere herded together in the main building. He had been given a small\napartment that looked towards the river on the far side of a\ncourtyard, called the sergeants' ward. There was even a pump in the\ncentre of this courtyard from whence his granddaughter might fetch him\nwater daily, and the old man and the child were now privileged to take\nexercise together in the fresh air;--a great solace in the weary\nmonotony of prison life. The gaoler unlocked the door of this\nsergeants' ward, and then, putting into Mary's hand the key of her\ngrandfather's apartment, he retraced his steps to the outer gate. Mary\nsped across the cobble-stones of the courtyard with joyful haste,\nunlocked the door, set down her baskets carefully, the big one first,\nthe little one after it, and then, 'Grandfather, dear Grandfather,'\nshe exclaimed, 'tell me, am I late? Hast thou missed thy little prison\nmaid?'\n\nThe white-haired man, who was writing at a rough oak table, lifted his\nhead as she entered. His face was worn and haggard; his eyes were\nsunken, but the smile that overspread his countenance, as he saw who\nhad entered, was as bright as little Mary's own. Laying down his pen\nand pushing the papers from him, he held out his arms, and in another\nminute his granddaughter was clasped in his embrace.\n\nIt would be hard to say which of the two was the happier as she placed\nthe precious windflowers in his thin, blue-veined hand and told him\nall she had seen and done. Joan's messages were given; and then, 'But\nwhat hast thou been doing, dear Grandfather?' Mary asked in her turn.\n'Hast thou been writing yet another Epistle to Friends to encourage\nthem to stand firm? I see thy name very clear and bold at the foot:\n\"William Dewsbury.\" I love thy name, Grandfather! It reminds me of our\nsummer flowers and berries at home in Bedfordshire and of the heavy\ndews that fall on them. Thy name is as good as a garden, Grandfather,\nin itself.'\n\n'It is thou who shouldst be in a garden thyself, my little Mary,'\nWilliam Dewsbury answered sorrowfully. 'It is sad to bring thee back\nwithin these gloomy walls, a maid like thee.'\n\n'Nay, Grandfather, it is not sad! Thou promised me that thou wouldst\nnever say that again! My work was shewn me plainly; that I was to come\nand care for thee, and fetch thee thy provisions. It is full early yet\nfor supper, although the light is fading; canst thou not tell me a\nlittle tale while I sit on thy knee? Afterwards we will eat our meal,\nand then thou wilt tell me more stories yet, more and more, to shorten\nthe dark hours till the stars are shining brightly and it is time to\ngo to rest.'\n\n'Thou hast heard most of my tales so often, dear Granddaughter, as we\nsit here these dark evenings, that thou dost almost know them better\nthan I myself,' the old man replied.\n\n'Yea, truly, I know them well,' answered Mary. 'Yet I am never weary\nof hearing of thy own life long ago. Tell me once more how thou wast\nbrought off from being a soldier, and established in the path of\npeace.'\n\n'Thou must have that tale well nigh by heart already, dear lamb,' the\nold man answered. 'Many a time I have told thee of my early days among\nthe flocks, how I was a shepherd lad until I came to thine own age of\ntwelve years. Thereafter, when I was thirteen years old, I was bound\nan apprentice to a clothmaker in a town called Holdbeck, near Leeds.\nHe was a godly man and strict, but sharp of tongue. I might have\ncontinued in that town to this day. But when I was fully come to man's\nestate the Civil War between King and Parliament broke out all over\nthe land. Loath was I to take up arms, having been ever of a peaceable\ndisposition, but when wise men, whom I revered, called upon me to\nfight for the civil and religious freedom of my native land, it seemed\nto me, in my dark ignorance of soul, that no other course remained\nhonourably open to me. I feared if I did not join the Army of the\nParliament that had sworn to curb the tyranny of Charles Stuart, then\nupon my head would rest the curse of Meroz, \"who went not to the help\nof the Lord against the mighty.\" Thus I became a soldier, thinking\nthat by so doing I was fighting for the Gospel--and forgetting that my\nMaster was One who was called the Prince of Peace.\n\n'Small peace, in truth, did I find in the ranks of the army of the\nParliament--or indeed in any other place, until in the fulness of time\nit was made clear to me that I was but seeking the living amongst the\ndead, and looking without for that which was only to be found within.\n\n'Then my mind was turned within, by the power of the Lord, to wait on\nHis counsel, the Light in my own conscience, to hear what the Lord\nwould say: and the word of the Lord came unto me, and said, \"Put up\nthy sword into thy scabbard.... Knowest thou not that if I need I\ncould have twelve legions of Angels from my Father\": which Word\nenlightened my heart, and discovered the mystery of iniquity, and that\nthe Kingdom of Christ was within, and was spiritual, and my weapons\nagainst them must be spiritual, the Power of God.\n\n'It was on this wise that I came to join the Army of the Lamb, and of\nHis peaceful servants who follow Him whithersoever He goeth.'\n\n'But, Grandfather, explain to me, how couldst thou leave the\nParliamentary army thou wert pledged to serve?'\n\n'A hard struggle I had truly to get free. Yet I did leave it, for I\nwas yet more deeply pledged to Him Who had said, \"My kingdom is not of\nthis world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants\nfight.\" At length my way was made more plain before me. I left the\narmy and resumed my weaving. Thus I passed through deep baptizings of\nthe Holy Ghost and of fire,--baptisms too deep for a child like thee\nto understand how they affected my soul.'\n\nMary nodded her head gently and said to herself, 'Perhaps I can\nunderstand already, better than my grandfather thinks. Have I not\ntwice already in my young years been brought nigh to death? Even now\ndeath seemeth to me often not far away.'\n\n'Wouldst thou then fear to die, Grandfather?' she added aloud.\n\n'No more than a bird would fear to leave its cage and fly, were once\nthe door but open,' the old man answered. 'But the door is still\nsecurely fastened for me, it seems; and since I had thee, my little\nbird, to share my captivity I am no longer anxious to leave my cage. I\nwas younger by four years than thou art now, my child, when I lost my\nfear of the grave. It was on this wise. I was but a little lad of\neight years old, mourning and weeping for the loss of my dear father,\nwho had been taken from us. As the tears streamed down my cheeks,\nmethought I heard a Voice saying: \"Weep for thyself; thy father is\nwell.\" Never since that day, Mary child, have I doubted for one moment\nthat for those who go hence in peace, it is well indeed.'\n\n'Dear Grandfather, there is a sad sound in thy voice,' said little\nMary. 'It is too dark by this time to see thy face, but I cannot let\nthee be sad. How shall I cheer thee? Ah! I know! how could I have\nforgotten? My aunt charged me to say she hath news by a sure hand that\nmy dear mother may be coming hither to visit thee and me before many\ndays are over.'\n\n'My daughter Mary is ever welcome,' said the old man dreamily, 'and in\nthe darkness thy voice is so like to hers, I could almost deem she\nherself was sitting by my side. Already the young moon has disappeared\nbehind the battlements of the castle. Yet I need not her silver light\nto tell me that thy hair is softer and straighter than thy mother's,\nand without the golden lights and twining curls that hers had when she\nwas thy age.'\n\n'The moon truly has left us, Grandfather,' Mary interrupted, springing\nfrom his knee. 'Yet what matters the darkness while we are close\ntogether? I can still see to get thy supper ready for thee. Thou must\neat first, and then we will talk further, until it is time to go to\nrest.'\n\nDeftly the little prison maid moved about the bare cell, drawing her\ngrandfather's chair to the rough oak table. On this she arranged the\nloaf of bread and bottle of milk from her basket, setting them and the\nearthenware mugs and platters out on the white cloth, to look as\nhome-like as possible. The anemones in the centre still glimmered\nfaintly as if shining by their own light. The simple meal was a very\nhappy one. When it was finished and the remains had been cleared away\nand carefully replaced in the basket for to-morrow's needs, the stars\nwere looking in through the prison bars.\n\n'Now, one more story, Grandfather,' said Mary firmly, 'just one,\nbefore we go to rest.'\n\n'I love to see thy small white face shining up at me through the\ngloom,' the old man answered. 'I will tell thee of my first meeting\nwith George Fox. Hast thou ever heard that story?'\n\nThe little prison maid was far too wary to reply directly.\n\n'Tell it to me now, Grandfather,' she replied evasively, and then, to\nturn the old man's thoughts in the right direction, 'thou hadst\nalready left the army by that time?' she hazarded.\n\n'Ay, that I had,' answered Dewsbury. 'I had left it for several years,\nand a measure of Truth I had found for myself. Greatly I longed to\nproclaim it and to share my new-found happiness with others. But the\ninward Voice spoke to me clearly and said: \"Keep thee silent for six\nfull years, until the year 1652 shall have come. Then shalt thou find\nmore hungering and thirsting among the people than at the present\ntime.\" So \"I kept silence even from good words, though it was pain and\ngrief to me.\" Thou knowest, Mary, even while I was yet in the army,\nmany and deep exercisings had I had in my spirit, and such were still\nmy portion at times. About this time, by the providence of God, I\nchanced to hear of a young woman living in the city of York, who was\ngoing through a like season of sorrow and anguish regarding her\nimmortal soul. After due deliberation, I found it in my heart to pay\nher a visit. I did this and went on foot to York. When I came into her\npresence, at once we were made aware of each other's conditions. No\nsooner did we begin to converse than we found ourselves joined\ntogether in deep unity of spirit. Her spiritual exercises answered\nunto mine own, as in water face answereth to face. Dost thou\nunderstand, child, of what I am speaking?'\n\n'I follow not thy language always with entire comprehension, dear\nGrandfather,' answered Mary with her usual precise honesty of speech,\n'but it appears to me thy meaning is clear. I think that this young\nwoman must likely have been my grandmother?'\n\nWilliam Dewsbury smiled. 'Thou art right,' he said, 'it was to be even\nso, in the fulness of time; that, however, was long after. Almost at\nonce we became man and wife. There seemed no need to settle that\nbetween us. It had been settled for us by Him who brought us together.\nWe knew it from the first moment that we saw each the other's face.\nThy grandmother had in a measure joined herself unto the Anabaptists,\ntherefore 'twas at one of their meetings that we were wed. The power\nof the Spirit was an astonishment unto them, and I have heard it said\nthat never hath the Divine Presence been more felt in any assembly\nthan it was that day. Thy grandmother resembled thee, my Mary, as thou\nwilt be when thou art a woman grown--when thou shalt be taller and\nrounder, and less slim and spare. Her eyes were darker than thine, and\nshe had the same soft brown hair as thine, but with thy mother's\ngolden threads in it, my Ann! Before she became my wife, she had been\nblessed with a plenty of this world's goods, but no sooner were we wed\nthan her brother unjustly deprived her of her property. For myself, I\ncared not. Now that she was safely mine own, he was welcome to the\nland that should have been hers by right. Yet for her sake I strove to\nget it back, but in vain. Then did the enemy of souls reproach me for\nhaving brought her, whom I tenderly loved, into a state of poverty. In\nhumiliation and lowliness of mind before the Lord, without yielding to\nthe tempter, I desired Him to make me content to be what He would have\nme to be; and, in a moment, I was so filled with the presence of the\nLord, that I was not able to bear the weight of the glory that was\nupon me. I desired the Lord, if He had any service for me to do, to\nwithdraw, for I could not live; then I heard as it were a Voice say to\nme, \"Thou art Mine, all in heaven and earth is Mine, and it is thine\nin Me; what I see good I will give unto thee, and unto thy wife and\nchildren.\"'\n\n'Poor Grandfather, that was a hard pass for thee,' murmured Mary,\nsmoothing the old man's coat sleeve. 'But did not a great joy follow\nclose upon thy trouble?' she prompted, 'a great joy on a moonshine\nnight, not a dark one like this?'\n\nWilliam Dewsbury's countenance kindled with fresh life and vigour.\n'Yea, my child,' he answered, 'light did indeed illuminate us on that\nsame moonshine night of which thou speakest, when we went, my Ann and\nI, to Lieutenant Roper's house to hear the Stranger preach. All our\nlives we had both been seeking, but now by the Power of the Lord, the\ntime was come for us to find. We went to hear a Stranger. But no\nstranger was George Fox. Rather did we recognise him, from the first\nmoment of that meeting, as the own brother of our souls. Up and down\nthe length and breadth of the land I had journeyed, seeking for\ndeliverance and for truth. Now, in my own county of Yorkshire, my\ndeliverer was found. It was not alone the words he spake, though they\nwere forcible and convincing, much more it was the irresistible Power\nof the Lord breathing through him that brought us to our knees. All\nmen could see as they looked upon his goodly form, not then marred by\ncruel imprisonments and sufferings, that he was a man among ten\nthousand. But to me he was also a chosen vessel of the Lord; for power\nspoke through him, yea, to my very heart. I have told thee, Mary, of\nmy long searchings after truth, and of those of my dear wife. There\nwas no need to mention one of them to George. With the first words he\nspake it was clear to me that he knew them all, he could read our\nnecessities like an open book. Well hath it been said of him that \"he\nwas a man of God endued with a clear and wonderful depth; a discerner\nof other men's spirits, and very much a master of his own.\" Our hearts\nclave unto him at once. We could scarcely restrain ourselves until the\nmeeting should be at an end, to disclose our inmost souls unto him.\nThen at last, when all the multitude had departed, we watched Friend\nGeorge set out on his homeward way. We followed him in all haste, my\nAnn and I, until we came up with him in a lonely field. The moon shone\nfull on his face and on our seeking faces, revealing us to each other.\nAt first he gazed on us as if we were strangers. For all we had longed\nardently to tell him, we found no words. Only a long time we stood\ntogether silently, we three, with the dumb kine slumbering around us\nin the dewy meadows; we three, revealed to one another in the full\nlight. Then at last we confessed to the Truth before him, and from him\nwe received Truth again. There is no Scripture to warrant the\nsprinkling of a few drops of water on the face of a child and calling\nthat Baptism; but there is a Scripture for being baptized with the\nHoly Ghost and with fire. That true essential Baptism did our spirits\nreceive in very deed that night from God's own minister of His\nEverlasting Gospel.\n\n'Thus, then and there, were we three knit together in soul; and the\nLord's Power was over all.'\n\nThe old man's voice died away into silence. His thoughts were far off\nin the past. The loneliness of the prison was forgotten, little Mary\nknew that her evening's task was done. Very gently she flitted from\nhis side, arranged his bed for the night, and then slipped,\nnoiselessly as a shadow, into her little inner cell, scarcely larger\nthan a cupboard. Here she undressed in the darkness and laid herself\ndown on her little straw pallet on the floor. But she had brought the\nprecious windflowers with her. 'They are so white, they will be like\ncompany through the dark night hours,' she said to herself, placing\nthe glass close to her bed. Presently, through a tiny slit of window\nhigh up in the prison wall, one sentinel star looked down into the\nnarrow cell. It peeped in upon a small white figure straight and slim\namid the surrounding blackness of the cell, with 'dear, long, lean,\nlittle arms lying out on the counterpane'; but Mary's eyes were wide\nopen, her ears were listening intently for her grandfather's softest\ncall.\n\nGradually the ray of starlight crept up the prison wall and\ndisappeared; soon other stars one by one looked in at the narrow\nwindow and passed upwards also on their high steep pathways; gradually\nthe eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes lay upon the white\ncheeks. Drowsily little Mary thought to herself, 'I am glad my mother\nwill soon be here, but it hath been a very happy evening. Truly I am\nglad I came to help dear grandfather, and to be his little prison\nmaid.'\n\nOnly one starry white windflower, clasped tight in her fingers through\nthe long night hours, gradually drooped and died.\n\n\n\n\nXXII. AN UNDISTURBED MEETING\n\n\n\n\n _'It was impossible to ignore the\n Quaker because he would not be\n ignored. If you close his\n meeting-house he holds it in the\n street; if you stone him out of\n the city in the evening, he is\n there in the morning with his\n bleeding wounds still upon him....\n You may break the earthen vessel,\n but the spirit is invincible and\n that you cannot kill.'--JOHN\n WILHELM ROWNTREE._\n\n\n _'Interior calmness means interior\n and exterior strength.'--J. RENDEL\n HARRIS._\n\n\n _'Be nothing terrified at their\n threats of banishment, for they\n cannot banish you from the coasts\n and sanctuary of the Living\n God.'--MARGARET FOX._\n\n\n _'Grant us grace to rest from all\n sinful deeds and thoughts, to\n surrender ourselves wholly unto\n Thee, to keep our souls still\n before Thee like a still lake;\n that so the beams of Thy love may\n be mirrored therein, and may\n kindle in our hearts the beams of\n faith, and love, and prayer. May\n we, through such stillness and\n hope, find strength and gladness\n in Thee O God, now, and for\n evermore.'--JOACHIM EMBDEN, 1595._\n\n\n _'For the soul that is close to GOD_\n _In the folded wings of prayer,_\n _Passion no more can vex,_\n _Infinite peace is there.'_\n _EDWIN HATCH._\n\n\n\n\nXXII. AN UNDISTURBED MEETING\n\n\nQuiet and lonely now stands the small old farmhouse of Drawwell, on\nthe sunny slope of a hill, under the shadow of the great fells. To\nthis day the old draw-well behind the house, which gives its name to\nthe homestead, continues to yield its refreshing draught of pure cold\nwater. 'It is generally full, even in times of drought, and never\noverflows.'[32] To this day, also, the 'living water,' drawn in many a\n'mighty Meeting' held around that well in the early years of\nQuakerism, continues to refresh thirsty souls.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt was to Drawwell Farm that George Fox came with his hosts Thomas and\nJohn Blaykling, on Whitsun Wednesday evening in June 1652, at the end\nof Sedbergh Fair. From Drawwell he accompanied them to Firbank Chapel,\nthe following Sunday forenoon. There, high up on the opposite fell, he\nwas moved, as he says in his Journal, to 'sit down upon the rock on\nthe mountain' and 'discourse to over a thousand people, amongst whom I\ndeclared God's everlasting Truth and word of life freely and largely,\nfor about the space of three hours, whereby many were convinced.'\n\nMore than once in after days, George Fox returned again thankfully to\nDrawwell, seeking and finding rest and refreshment for soul and body\nunder its hospitable, low, stone roof, as he went up and down on\nthose endless journeys of his, throughout the length and breadth of\nEngland, whereby he 'kept himself in a perpetual motion, begetting\nsouls unto God.'\n\nMany hallowed memories cling about Drawwell Farm,--as closely as the\nsilvery mist clings to every nook and cranny of its walls in damp\nweather,--but none more vivid than that of the Undisturbed Meeting of\n1665.\n\nGeorge Fox was not present that day. His open-air wanderings, and his\nvisits to the home under the great fells were alike at an end for a\ntime, while in the narrow prison cells of Lancaster and Scarborough he\nwas bearing witness, after a different fashion, to the freedom of the\nSpirit of the Lord. George Fox was not among the guests at Drawwell.\nNo 'mighty Meeting,' as often at other times, was gathered there that\nday. There was only a company of humble men and women seated on forms\nand chairs under the black oak rafters of the big barn that adjoins\nthe house, since the living-room was not spacious enough to hold them\nall with ease, although their numbers were not much above a score.\n\nThe Master and Mistress of Drawwell were present of course. Good\nFarmer Blaykling, with his ever ready courtesy and kindness, looked\nolder now than on the day, thirteen years before, when he and his\nfather had brought the young preacher back with them from the Fair. He\nhimself had known latterly what it was to suffer 'for Truth's sake,'\nas some extra furrows on his brow had testified plainly since the day\nwhen 'Priest John Burton of Sedbergh beat John Blaykling and pulled\nhim by the hair off his seat in his high place.' Happily that outbreak\nhad passed over, and all seemed quiet this Sunday morning, as he took\nhis place in the big barn. His wife sat by his side; around them were\ntheir children (none of them young), the farm lads and lasses, and\nseveral families of neighbouring Friends. But it chanced that the\nyoungest person present, one of the farm lasses, was well into her\nteens.\n\n'Surely it was the loving-kindness of the Lord' (motherly Mistress\nBlaykling was wont to testify in after years) 'that brought the ordeal\nonly upon us, grown men and women, and not upon any tender babes.' The\nMeeting began, much like any other Meeting in that peaceful country,\nwhere Friends ever loved to gather under the shadow of the hills and\nthe yet mightier overshadowing of the Spirit of God. The Dove of Peace\nbrooded over the company. Even as the unseen water bubbled in the dark\ndepths of the old draw-well close by, so, in the deep stillness,\nalready some hearts were becoming conscious of--\n\n 'The bubbling of the hidden springs,\n That feed the world.'\n\nSoon, out of the living Silence would have been born the fresh gift of\nliving speech....\n\nWhen suddenly, into all this peace, there came the clattering of\nhorses' hoofs along the stony road that leads to the farm, followed by\nloud voices and a pistol shot, as a body of troopers trotted right up\nto the homestead. Finding that deserted and receiving no answers to\ntheir shouts, they proceeded to the barn itself in search of the\nassembled Friends. The officer in charge was a young Ensign, Lawrence\nHodgson, a very gay gentleman indeed, a gentleman of the Restoration,\nwhen not only courtiers but soldiers too, knew well what it was to be\ncourtly.\n\nHe came from Dent, 'with other officers of the militia and soldiers.'\nNow Dent was a place of importance, in those days, and looked down on\neven Sedbergh as a mere village. Wherefore to be sent off to a small\nfarm in the outskirts of Sedbergh in search of a nest of Quakers was a\npaltry job at best for these fine gentlemen from Dent. Naturally, they\nset about it, cursing and swearing with a will, to shew what brave\nfellows they were. For here were all these Quakers whom they had been\nsent to harry, brazening out their crime in the full light of day. By\nAct of Parliament it had been declared, not so long ago either, that\nany Quakers who 'assembled to the number of five or more persons at\nany one time, and in any one place, under pretence of joining in a\nreligious worship not authorised by law, were, on conviction, to\nsuffer merely fines or imprisonment for their first and second\noffences, but for the third, they were to be liable to be transported\nto any of His Majesty's plantations beyond seas.' A serious penalty\nthis, in those days second only to death itself, and a terror to the\nmost hardened of the soldiery; but here was a handful of humble\nfarmfolk, deliberately daring such a punishment unafraid.\n\n'Stiff-necked Quakers--you shall answer for this,' shouted Ensign\nHodgson as he entered 'cursing and swearing' (so says the old account)\n'and threatening that if Friends would not depart and disperse he\nwould kill them and slay and what not.' 'You look like hardened\noffenders, all of you, and I doubt this is not a first offence.' So\nsaying, the Ensign set spurs to his horse and rode up and down the\nbarn, overturning forms and chairs, slashing at the women Friends\nwith the flat of his sword, while some of the roughest of his\nfollowers poked the sharp points of their blades through the coats of\nthe men, 'just to remind you, Quaker dogs, of what we could do, an' we\nchose.'\n\nAmid all this noise and hurly-burly, the men and women Friends sat on\nin stillness as long as possible. Only when their seats were actually\noverturned, they rose to their feet and stood upright in their places.\nThey were ready to be beaten or trampled upon, if necessary; but they\nwould not, of their own will, quit their ground. Strangely enough, the\nwives did not rush to their husbands or cling to them; the men did not\nseek to protect the women-folk. They all remained, even the lads and\nlasses, self-poised as it were, one company still; resting, as long as\nthey could, quietly, in the inward citadel of peace. In spite of all\nthe hubbub, the true spirit of worship was not disturbed.\n\nAt last the soldiers, determined not to be baffled, came to yet closer\nquarters and drove their unresisting victims, willy nilly, before them\nfrom under the sheltering rafters of the barn. The Friends were\nroughly hustled down the steep hillside and driven hither and thither,\nbut still the meeting was not interrupted, for their hearts could not\nbe driven out from the overshadowing presence of God.\n\nSo the great fells looked down upon a strange scene a few minutes\nlater,--a strange scene, yet one all too common in those days. A\ncavalcade of glittering horsemen with their flowing perukes, ruffles,\ngay coats, plumed hats, and all the extravagances of the costume of\neven the fighting man of 'good King Charles's golden days.' In the\ncentre of this gay throng, a little company of Friends in their plain\ngarments of homespun and duffel, moving along, with sober faces and\ndowncast eyes, speaking never a word as their captors prepared to\nforce them to their destination--the Justice's house at Ingmire Hall\nnear Sedbergh.\n\nNow from Drawwell Farm to Ingmire is some little distance. The way is\nhilly, and the roads are narrow and rough. Bad going it is on those\nroads even to-day, and far worse in the times of which I write.\nTherefore the troopers quickly grew weary of their task, weary of\ntrying to rein in their mettlesome horses to keep pace with the slow\nsteps of their prisoners, weary, too, of even the sport of pricking at\nthese last with their swords, to try to make them go faster.\n\nThey had barely reached the bottom of the slope when Ensign Hodgson,\never a restless youth, lost patience. As soon as he found his horse on\na bit of level road, he called to his men, 'Halloo! here's our chance\nfor a canter!--We'll leave the Lambs to follow us to the\nslaughter-house at their own sweet will.' Then, seeing mingled relief\nand consternation on the men's faces, he slapped his thighs with a\nloud laugh and said: 'Ye silly fellows, have no fear! No Quaker ever\nyet tried to escape from gaol, nor ever will. We can trust them to\nfollow us in our absence as well as if we were here to drive them.\nQuakers haven't the wit to seek after their own safety.'\n\nThe audacity of the plan tickled the troopers. Following Hodgson's\nexample, they, one and all, raised their plumed hats and, rising high\nin their stirrups, bowed with mock courtesy, as they took leave of\ntheir prisoners.\n\n'Farewell, sweet Lambkins,' called out the Ensign, 'hasten your Quaker\npace and meet us at the slaughter-house at Ingmire Hall as fast as you\ncan, OR' ... he cocked his pistol at them, and then, dashing it up,\nfired a shot into the air. With wild shouting and laughter the whole\ntroop disappeared round a turn of the road. 'To Sedbergh,' they cried,\n'to Sedbergh first! Plenty of time for a carouse, and yet to arrive at\nIngmire Hall as soon as the Lambs!'\n\nArriving in Sedbergh at a canter they slackened rein at a tavern and\nrefreshed themselves with a draught of ale and an hour's carouse,\nbefore setting off to meet their prisoners at the Justice's house.\n\nWhen they arrived at Ingmire Hall, to their dismay, not a Quaker was\nin sight. Sending his men off to scour the roads, Ensign Hodgson\nhimself dismounted with an oath on Justice Otway's doorstep, and went\nwithin to inquire if the Quakers from Drawwell had yet arrived.\n\n'The Quakers, WHOM YOU WERE SENT TO FETCH from Drawwell and for whose\nnon-appearance you are yourself wholly responsible, HAVE NOT ARRIVED,'\nanswered the Justice tartly, raising his eyebrows as if to emphasise\nhis words. All men knew that good Sir John Otway was no friend to\npersecution; and gay Lawrence Hodgson was no favourite of his.\n\nWith a louder oath than that with which he had entered the house, the\nEnsign flung out of it again, and rode off at the head of his men--all\nof them discomfited by their vain search, for not a Quaker was to be\nseen in the neighbourhood. The 'Lambs' were less docile than had been\nsupposed. After all, they had successfully managed to avoid the\n'slaughter-house'; they must have retreated to Drawwell, if they had\nnot even seized the opportunity to escape.\n\nBack again along the road to Drawwell, therefore, the whole sulky\ncompany of horsemen were obliged to return, much out of humour.\nCursing their leader's carelessness, as he doubtless cursed his own\nfolly, they trotted along, gloomily enough, till they came to the bend\nof the road where the homestead comes in sight, and where they had\ntaken leave of their prisoners. There, as they turned the corner,\nsuddenly they all stopped, thunderstruck, pulling their horses back on\nto their haunches in their amazement.\n\nThe Lambs had not escaped! Though they had not followed meekly to the\nslaughter-house, at least they had made no endeavours to flee, or even\nto return to the sheepfold on the hillside above them. All the time\nthat the soldiers had been carousing in the alehouse, or searching the\nlanes, the little company of Friends had remained in the very same\nspot where the soldiers had left them nearly two hours before.\n\nAnd there they were still, every one of them;--sitting on the green,\ngrassy bank by the wayside. There they were, quietly going on with\ntheir uninterrupted worship. Yes; out there, under the shadow of the\neverlasting hills, untroubled by the shadow of even a passing cloud of\nfear, the Friends calmly continued to wait upon God.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[32] This paragraph is taken from E.E. Taylor's description of\nDrawwell.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII. BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS\n\n\n\n\n _'My concern for God and His holy,\n eternal truth was then in the\n North, where God had placed and\n set me.'--MARGARET FOX._\n\n\n _'I should be glad if thou would\n incline to come home, that thou\n might get a little Rest, methinks\n its the most comfortable when one\n has a home to be there, but the\n Lord give us patience to bear all\n things'--M. FOX to G. Fox, 1681._\n\n\n _'I did not stir much abroad\n during the time I now stayed in\n the North; but when Friends were\n not with me spent pretty much time\n in writing books and papers for\n Truth's service.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'All dear Friends press forward\n in the straight way.'--JOHN AUDLAND._\n\n\n _'Is not liberty of conscience in\n religion a fundamental?... Liberty\n of conscience is a natural right,\n and he that would have it, ought to\n give it, having liberty to settle\n what he likes for the public....\n This I say is fundamental: it ought\n to be so. It is for us and the\n generations to come.'--OLIVER\n CROMWELL._\n\n\n\n\nXXIII. BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS\n\n\nAbove all other Saints in the Calendar, the good people of\nNewcastle-upon-Tyne do hold in highest honour Saint Nicholas, since to\nhim is dedicated the stately Church that is the pride and glory of\ntheir town. Everyone who dwells in the bonnie North Countrie knows\nwell that shrine of Saint Nicholas, set on high on the steep northern\nbank of the River Tyne. Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole\nNorth, is St. Nicholas. Therefore, in olden times, one Roger Thornton,\na wealthy merchant of the town, saw fit to embellish it yet further\nwith a window at the Eastern end, of glass stained with colours\nmarvellous to behold. Men said indeed that Merchant Roger clearly owed\nthat window to the Saint, seeing that when he first entered the town\nscarce a dozen years before, he came but as a poor pedlar, possessed\nof naught but 'a hap, a halfpenny, and a lambskin,' whereas these few\nyears spent under the shadow of the Saint's protection had made him\nalready a man of great estate.\n\nRoger Thornton it was who gave the Eastern window to the Church, but\nnone know now, for certain, who first embellished the shrine with its\ncrowning gift, the tall steeple that gathers to itself not only the\naffection of all those who dwell beneath its shadow, but also their\nglory and their pride. Some believe it was built by King David of\nScotland: others by one Robert de Rede, since his name may still be\nseen carven upon the stone by him who has skill to look. But in truth\nthe architect hath carried both his name and his secret with him, and\nthe craftsmen of many another larger and more famous city have sought\nin vain to build such another tower. By London Bridge and again at\nEdinburgh, in the capitals of two fair kingdoms, may indeed be seen a\nsteeple built in like fashion, but far less fair. One man alone, he\nwhose very name hath been forgotten, hath known how to swing with\nperfect grace a pinnacled Crown, formed of stone yet delicate as\nlacework, aloft in highest air. Therefore to this day doth the Lantern\nTower of St. Nicholas remain without a peer.\n\nA Lantern Tower the learned call it, and indeed the semblance of an\nopen lantern doth rise, supported by pinnacles, in the centre of the\nTower; but to most men it resembles less a lantern than an Imperial\ncrown swung high in air, under a canopy of dazzling blue. It is a\ngolden crown in the daytime, as it shines on high above the hum of the\ncity streets in the clear mid-day light. It becomes a fiery crown when\nthe sun sets, for then the golden fleurs-de-lys on each of the eight\ngolden vanes atop of the pinnacles gleam and glow like sparks of\nflame, climbing higher and ever higher into the steep and burnished\nair. But it is a jewelled crown that shines by night over the\nslumbering town beneath; for then the turrets and pinnacles are gemmed\nwith glittering stars.\n\nThat Tower, to those who have been born under it, is one of the\ndearest things upon this earth. Judge then of the dismay that was\ncaused to every man, woman, and child, when Newcastle was being\nbesieged by the Scottish army during the Civil Wars, at the message\nthat came from the general of the beleaguering army, that were the\ntown not surrendered to him without delay, he would train his guns on\nthe Tower of St. Nicholas itself, and lay that first in ruins. Happily\nSir John Marley, the English Commander, who was likewise Mayor of the\nTown, was more than a match for the canny Scot. And this was the\nanswer that the gallant Sir John sent back from the beleaguered town:\nthat General Leslie might train his guns on the Tower and welcome, if\nsuch were his pleasure, but if he did so, before he brought down one\nsingle stone of it, he would be obliged to take the lives of his own\nScottish prisoners, whom the guns would find as their first target\nthere.\n\nSir John was as good as his word. The Scottish prisoners were strung\nout in companies along the Tower ledges, and kept there day after day,\ntill the Scottish Army had retreated, baffled for that time, and St.\nNicholas was saved. Therefore, thanks to Sir John Marley and his\nnimble wit, the pinnacled Crown still soars up aloft into the sky,\nkeeping guard over the city of Newcastle to-day, as it hath done\nthroughout the centuries.\n\n * * * * *\n\nLittle did the Friends, who came to Newcastle a few years after the\nScotsmen had departed, regard the beauty of St. Nicholas or its Tower.\nThey came also desiring to besiege the town, though with only\nspiritual weapons. The Church to them was but a 'steeple-house,' and\nthe Tower akin to an idol. Thus slowly do men learn that 'the ways\nunto God are as the number of the souls of the children of men,' and\nthat wherever a man truly seeketh God in whatsoever fashion, so he do\nbut seek honestly and with his whole heart, God will consent to be\nfound of him.\n\nYet though the Friends who came to Newcastle came truly to besiege the\ntown for love's sake, not with love did the town receive them.\n'Ruddy-faced John Audland' was the first to come, he who had been one\nof the preachers that memorable Sunday at Firbank Chapel, and who,\nhaving yielded place to George Fox, had been in his turn mightily\nconvinced of Truth. 'A man beloved of God, and of all good men,' was\nJohn Audland, 'of an exceedingly sweet disposition, unspeakably loving\nand tenderly affectionate, always ready to lend a helping hand to the\nweak and needy, open-hearted, free and near to his friends, deep in\nthe understanding of the heavenly mysteries.' Yet little all this\navailed him. In Newcastle as elsewhere he preached the Truth, 'full of\ndread and shining brightness on his countenance.' Certain of the\ntownsfolk gathered themselves unto him and became Friends, but the\nauthorities would have none of the new doctrine, and straightway\nclapped him into gaol. There he lay for a time, till at last he was\nset free and went his way.\n\nAfter him came George Fox, when some thirteen years had gone by since\nSir John Marley saved the Tower, and General Leslie had returned\ndiscomfited to Edinburgh. From Edinburgh, too, George Fox had come on\nhis homeward way after that eventful journey to the Northern Kingdom,\nwhen 'the infinite sparks of life sparkled about him as soon as his\nhorse set foot across the Border.' Weary he was of riding when he\nreached the gates of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Yet 'gladded' in his heart\nwas he, for as he had passed by Berwick-upon-Tweed, the Governor there\nhad 'shewn himself loving towards Friends,' and, though only a little\nMeeting had been gathered, 'the Lord's power had been over all.' As\nFox and his companion rode through the woods and beside the yellow\nbrown streams and over the heathery moors of Northumberland, they\nfound and visited many scattered Friends whose welcome had made George\nFox's heart rejoice. But no sooner had he entered the town than all\nhis gladness left him, at the grievous tale the faithful Friends of\nNewcastle had to tell. Ever since John Audland's preaching had stirred\nthe souls of the townsfolk, the priests and professors had done their\nbest to prevent 'this pernicious poison from spreading.' Five\nNewcastle priests had written a book, entitled 'the Perfect Pharisee\nunder Monkish Holiness,' in which they blamed Friends for many things,\nbut above all for their custom of preaching in the streets and open\nplaces. 'It is a pestilent heresy at best,' they said (though they\nused not these very words), 'yet did they keep it to themselves 'twere\nno great harm, but we find no place hears so much of Friends' religion\nas streets and market-places.'\n\nYet even so their witness agreed not together. For while the priests\naccused Friends of too much preaching in public, a certain Alderman of\nthe city, Thomas Ledger by name, put forth three other books against\nthem. And his main charge was this--'THAT THE QUAKERS WOULD NOT COME\nINTO ANY GREAT TOWNS, BUT LIVED IN THE FELLS LIKE BUTTERFLIES.'\n\nGeorge Fox, hearing these things from the Friends assembled to greet\nhim at the entrance to the town, was tried in his spirit, and\ndetermined that the matter should be dealt with, without more ado. The\nJournal saith: 'The Newcastle priests wrote many books against us,\nand one Ledger, an Alderman of the town, was very envious of truth and\nfriends. He and the priests had said, \"the Quakers would not come into\ngreat towns, but lived in the fells like butterflies.\" I took Anthony\nPearson with me and went to this Ledger, and several others of the\nAldermen, desiring to have a meeting among them, seeing they had\nwritten so many things against us: for we were now come, I told them,\ninto their great town. But they would not yield we should have a\nmeeting, neither would they be spoke with, save only this Ledger and\none other. I queried: \"Had they not called Friends Butterflies, and\nsaid we would not come into any great towns? And now they would not\ncome at us, though they had printed books against us; WHO ARE THE\nBUTTERFLIES NOW?\"\n\n'As we could not have a public meeting amongst them we got a little\nmeeting amongst friends and friendly people at the Gate-side. As I was\npassing by the market-side, the power of the Lord rose in me, to warn\nthem of the day of the Lord that was coming upon them. And not long\nafter all the priests were turned out of their profession, when the\nKing came in.'\n\nThus did those same envious priests, who had accused Friends of living\nlike butterflies in the fells, become themselves as butterflies, being\nchased out of the great town, and forced to flit to and fro in the\nopen country. The Friends, meanwhile, increased on both sides of the\nriver Tyne. In 1657 George Whitehead visited Newcastle, and was kindly\nreceived in the house of one John Dove, who had been a Lieutenant in\nthe army before he became a Friend.\n\nWhitehead, himself one of the 'Valiant Sixty,' writes:--'The Mayor of\nthe town (influenced by the priests), would not suffer us to keep any\nmeeting within the Liberty of the Town, though in Gate-side (being out\nof the Mayor's Liberty), our Friends had settled a meeting at our\nbeloved Friend Richard Ubank's house.... The first meeting we then\nendeavoured to have within the town of Newcastle was in a large room\ntaken on purpose by some Friends.... The meeting was not fully\ngathered when the Mayor of the Town and his Officers came, and by\nforce turned us out of the meeting; and not only so, but out of the\nTown also; for the Mayor and his Company commanded us and went along\nwith us as far as the Bridge over the river Tine that parts Newcastle\nand Gates-head, upon which Bridge there is a Blew Stone to which the\nMayor's Liberty extends; when we came to the stone, the Mayor gave his\ncharge to each of us in these words: \"I charge and command you in the\nname of His Highness the Lord Protector. That you come no more into\nNewcastle to have any more meetings there at your peril.'\"\n\nThe Friends, therefore, continued to meet at the place that is called\nGateside (though some say that Goat's head was the name of it at\nfirst), and there they remained till, after divers persecutions, they\nwere at length suffered to assemble within the walls of Newcastle\nitself, upon the north side of the 'Blew Stone' above the River Tyne.\nHere, in 1698, they bought a plot of ground, within a stone's-throw of\nSt. Nicholas, facing towards the street that the townsmen call Pilgrim\nStreet, since thither in olden days did many weary pilgrims wend their\nway, seeking to come unto the Mound of Jesu on the outskirts of the\ntown. And that same Mound of Jesu is now called by men, Jesu Mond, or\nshorter, Jesmond, and no longer is it the resort of pilgrims, but\nrather of merchants and pleasure seekers. Yet still beside the Pilgrim\nStreet stands the Meeting-House built by those other pilgrim souls,\nthose Quakers, whom the men of the town in scorn called 'butterflies.'\nAnd there, so far from flitting over the fells, they have continued to\nhold their Meetings and worship God after their own fashion within\nthose walls for more than two hundred years.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBefore ever this had come to pass, and while the Quakers of Newcastle\nwere still without an assembling place on their own side of the river,\nit happened that a certain man among them, named Robert Jeckel, being\nnigh unto death (though as yet he knew it not), was seized with a\nvehement desire to behold George Fox yet once more in the flesh, since\nfull sixteen years had gone by since his visit to the town.\n\nWherefore this same Robert Jeckel, hearing that his beloved friend was\nnow again to be found at Swarthmoor, dwelling there in much seclusion,\nseeking to regain the strength that had been sorely wasted in long and\nterrible imprisonments,--this man, Robert Jeckel, would no longer be\npersuaded or gainsaid, but set out at once with several others, who\nwere like-minded and desirous to come as speedily as might be to\nSwarthmoor.\n\nIn good heart they set forth, but that same day, and before they had\ncome even as far as unto Hexham, Robert Jeckel was seized with a sore\nsickness, whereat his friends entreated him to return the way he came\nto his own home and tender wife. But he refused to be dissuaded and\nwould still press forward. At many other places by the way he was ill\nand suffering, yet he would not be satisfied to turn back or to stop\nuntil he should arrive at Swarthmoor. And thither after many days of\nsore travel he came.\n\nThe Mistress of Swarthmoor was now no longer Margaret Fell but\nMargaret Fox. Eight full years after the death of her honoured\nhusband, Judge Fell, and after long waiting to be sure that the thing\nwas from the Lord, she had been united in marriage with her beloved\nfriend, George Fox, unto whom she was ever a most loving and dutiful\nwife. Therefore, when Robert Jeckel arrived with his friends before\nthe high arched stone gateway that led into the avenue that\napproacheth Swarthmoor Hall, it was Mistress Fox, who, with her\nhusband, came to meet their guests. Close behind followed her youngest\ndaughter, Rachel Fell, the Seventh Sister of Swarthmoor Hall. She, the\nJudge's pet and plaything in her childhood, was now a woman grown.\nSeeing by Robert Jeckel's countenance that he was sorely stricken,\nMistress Fox led him straight to the fair guest chamber of Swarthmoor,\nwhere she and her daughter nursed him with their wonted tenderness and\nskill, hoping thus, if it might be, to restore him to his home in\npeace. But it had been otherwise ordained, for Robert Jeckel, arriving\nat Swarthmoor on the second day of the fifth month that men call July,\nlay sick there but for nine days and then he died.\n\nDuring his illness many and good words did he say, among others these:\n'Though I was persuaded to stay by the way (being indisposed), before\nI came to this place, yet this was the place where I would have been,\nand the place where I should be, whether I live or die.'\n\nGeorge Fox, being himself, as I say, weakened by his long suffering in\nWorcester Gaol, was yet able to visit Robert Jeckel as he lay a-dying,\nand exhorted him to offer up his soul and spirit to the Lord, who\ngives life and breath to all and takes it again. Whereupon Robert\nJeckel lifted up his hands and said, 'The Lord is worthy of it, and I\nhave done it.' George Fox then asked him if he could say, 'Thy will,\noh God, be done on earth as it is in heaven,' and he, lifting up his\nhands again, and looking upwards with his eyes, answered cheerfully,\n'he did it.'\n\nThen, he in his turn, exhorting those about him, said: 'Dear Friends,\ndwell in love and unity together, and keep out of jars, strife, and\ncontentions, and be sure to continue faithful to the end.' And\nspeaking of his wife, he said, 'As to my wife, I give her up freely to\nthe Lord; for she loveth the Lord and He will love her. I have often\ntold my dear wife, as to what we have of outward things, it was the\nLord's first before it was ours; and in that I desire she may serve\nthe truth to the end of her days.'\n\n'In much patience the Lord did keep him, and he was in perfect sense\nand memory all the time of his weakness, often saying, \"Dear Friends,\ngive me up and weep not for me, for I am content with the Lord's\ndoings.\" And often said that he had no pain, but gradually declined,\noften lifting up his hands while he had strength, praising the Lord,\nand made a comfortable end on the 11th day of the fifth month, 1676.'\n\nThus did the joyful spirit of this dear friend at last take flight\nfor the Heavenly Country, when, as he said himself in his sickness,\n'Soul separated from body, the Spirit returning to God that gave it,\nand the body to the earth from whence it came.'\n\nYea, verily; his soul took flight for the Heavenly Country, happier in\nits escape from the worn chrysalis of his weak and weary body than any\nglad-winged butterfly that flitteth over the fells of his own beloved\nNorthumberland.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV. THE VICTORY OF AMOR STODDART\n\n\n\n\n _'From the heart of the Puritan\n sects sprang the religion of the\n Quakers, in which many a war-worn\n soldier of the Commonwealth closed\n his visionary eyes.'--G.M.\n TREVELYAN._\n\n\n _'To be a man of war means to live\n no longer than the life of the\n world, which is perishing; but to\n be a man of the Holy Spirit, a man\n born of God, a man that wars not\n after the flesh, a man of the\n Kingdom of God, as well as of\n England--that means to live beyond\n time and age and men and the\n world, to be gathered into that\n life which is Eternal.'--JOHN\n SALTMARSH, 1647._\n\n\n _'Keep out of all jangling, for\n all that are in the transgression\n are out from the law of love; but\n all that are in the law of love\n come to the Lamb's power.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'He changed his weapons, warfare,\n and Captain ... when he 'listed\n himself under the banner of\n Christ.'--W. PENN, about J.\n Whitehead._\n\n\n _A prayer for the soldier spirit.\n 'Teach us, good Lord, to serve Thee\n as Thou deservest: to give and not\n to count the cost; to fight and not\n to heed the wounds; to toil and not\n to seek for rest; to labour and not\n to ask for any reward, save that of\n knowing that we do Thy will:\n through Jesus Christ our\n Lord.'--IGNATIUS LOYOLA._\n\n\n\n\nXXIV. THE VICTORY OF AMOR STODDART\n\n 'Christ disarmed Peter, and in so doing He unbuckled the sword\n of every soldier.'\n TERTULLIAN.\n\n\nA dauntless fighter in his day was Captain Amor Stoddart, seeing he\nhad served in the Parliamentary Army throughout the Civil Wars. In\ntruth, it was no child's play to command a body of men as tough as\nOliver's famous Ironsides. Therefore Captain Stoddart had doubtless\ncome through many a bloody struggle, and fought in many a hardly\nfought contest during those long wars, before the final victory was\nwon.\n\nBut now, not a single memory remains of his small individual share in\nthose\n\n 'Old unhappy, far-off things,\n And battles long ago.'\n\nHis story has come down to us as a staunch comrade and a valiant\nfighter, in a different kind of warfare. His victory was won in a\nstruggle in which all the visible weapons were on the other side;\nwhen, through long years, he had only the armour of meekness and of\nlove wherewith to oppose hardship and violence and wrong.\n\nWherefore, of this fight and of this victory, his own name remains as\na symbol and a sign. Not in vain was he called at his birth 'Amor,'\nwhich, in the Latin tongue signifies 'Love,' as all men know.\n\nThe first meeting between Captain Amor Stoddart and him who was to be\nthereafter his spirit's earthly captain in the new strange warfare\nthat lay before him, happened on this wise.\n\nIn the year 1648, when the long Civil Wars were at last nearing their\nclose, George Fox visited Mansfield in Nottinghamshire and held a\nmeeting with the professors (that is to say the Puritans) there. It\nwas in that same year of 1648, when every day the shadow was drawing\nnearer of the fatal scaffold that should be erected within the Palace\nat Whitehall the following January. But although that shadow crept\ndaily nearer, men, for the most part, as yet perceived it not. Fox\nhimself was at this time still young, as years are counted, being only\ntwenty-four years of age. Four other summers were yet to pass before\nthat memorable day when he should climb to the summit of old Pendle\nHill, and, after seeing there the vision of a 'great people to be\ngathered,' should begin himself to gather them at Firbank and\nSwarthmoor and many another place.\n\nGeorge, though still young in years, was already possessed not only of\na strange and wonderful presence, but also of a gift to perceive and\nto draw the souls of other men, and to knit them to his own.\n\n'I went again to Mansfield,' he says in his Journal, 'where was a\nGreat Meeting of professors and people, where I was moved to pray; and\nthe Lord's power was so great that the house seemed to be shaken. When\nI had done, one of the professors said, \"It was now as in the days of\nthe Apostles, when the house was shaken where they were.\"'\n\nAfter Fox had finished praying, with this vehemence that seemed to\nshake the house, one of the professors began to pray in his turn, but\nin such a dead and formal way that even the other professors were\ngrieved thereat and rebuked him. Whereupon this praying professor came\nin all humility to Fox, beseeching him that he would pray again.\n'But,' says Fox, 'I could not pray in any man's will.' Still, though\nhe could not make a prayer to order, he agreed to meet with these same\nprofessors another day.\n\nThis second meeting was another 'Great Meeting.' From far and wide the\nprofessors and people gathered to see the man who had learnt to pray.\nBut the professors did not truly seem to care to learn the secret.\nThey went on talking and arguing together. They were 'jangling,' as\nFox calls it (that is to say, using endless strings of words to talk\nabout sacred things, without really feeling the truth of them in their\nhearts), jangling all together, when suddenly the door opened and a\ngrave young officer walked in. ''Tis Captain Amor Stoddart, of Noll's\nArmy,' the professors said one to another, as, hardly stopping for a\nmoment at the stranger's entrance, they continued to 'jangle' among\nthemselves. They went on, speaking of the most holy things, talking\neven about the blood of Christ, without any feeling of solemnity, till\nFox could bear it no longer.\n\n'As they were discoursing of it,' he says, 'I saw through the\nimmediate opening of the invisible Spirit, the blood of Christ; and\ncried out among them saying, \"Do you not see the blood of Christ? See\nit in your hearts, to sprinkle your hearts and consciences from dead\nworks to serve the living God?\" For I saw the blood of the New\nCovenant how it came into the heart. This startled the professors who\nwould have the blood only without them, and not in them. But Captain\nStoddart was reached, and said, \"Let the youth speak, hear the youth\nspeak,\" when he saw that they endeavoured to bear me down with many\nwords.'\n\n'Captain Stoddart was reached.' He, the soldier, accustomed to the\nterrible realities of a battlefield, knew the sight of blood for\nhimself only too well. George Fox's words may seem perhaps mysterious\nto us now, but they came home to Amor and made him able to see\nsomething of the same vision that Fox saw. We may not be able to see\nthat vision ourselves, but at least we can feel the difference between\nhaving the Blood of Christ, that is the Life of Christ, within our\nhearts, and only talking and 'jangling' about it, as the professors\nwere doing. 'Captain Stoddart was reached.' Having been 'reached,'\nhaving seen, if only for one moment, something of what the Cross had\nmeant to Christ, and having felt His Life within, Amor became a\ndifferent man. To take the lives of his fellowmen, to shed their blood\nfor whom that Blood had been shed, was henceforth for him impossible.\nHe unbuckled his sword, and resigning his captaincy in Oliver's\nconquering army, just when victory was at hand after the stern\nstruggle, he followed his despised Quaker teacher into obscurity.\n\nFor seven long years we hear nothing more of him. Then he appears\nagain at George Fox's side, no longer Captain Stoddart the Officer,\nbut plain Amor Stoddart, a comrade and helper of the first Publishers\nof Truth.\n\nIn the year 1655, Fox's Journal records: 'On the sixth day I had a\nlarge meeting near Colchester[33] to which many professors and the\nIndependent teachers came. After I had done speaking and was stepped\ndown from the place on which I stood, one of the Independent teachers\nbegan to make a \"jangling\" [it seems they still went on jangling, even\nafter seven long years!], which Amor Stoddart perceiving said, \"Stand\nup again, George!\" for I was going away and did not at the first hear\nthem.'\n\nIf Amor Stoddart had unbuckled his sword, evidently he had not lost\nthe power of grappling with difficulties, of swiftly seeing the right\nthing to do, and of giving his orders with soldier-like precision.\n\n'Stand up again, George!'--a quick, military command, in the fewest\npossible words. George Fox was more in the habit of commanding other\npeople than of being commanded himself; but he knew his comrade and\nobeyed without a word.\n\n'I stood up again,' he says, 'when I heard the Independent [the man\nwho had been jangling], and after a while the Lord's power came over\nhim and all his company, who were confounded, and the Lord's truth was\nover all. A great flock of sheep hath the Lord in that country that\nfeed in His pastures of life.'\n\nNevertheless, without Amor Stoddart the sheep would have gone away\nhungry, and would not have been fed at that meeting.\n\nAgain we hear of Amor a little later in the same year, still at George\nFox's side, but this time not as a passive spectator, nor even merely\nas a resourceful comrade. He was now himself to be a sufferer for the\nTruth. He still lives for us through his share in a strange but\nwonderful scene of George Fox's life. A few months after the meeting\nat Colchester, the two friends visited Cambridge, and 'there,' says\nFox in his Journal, 'the scholars, hearing of me, were up and were\nexceeding rude. I kept on my horse's back and rode through them in the\nLord's power. \"Oh,\" said they, \"HE SHINES, HE GLISTERS,\" but they\nunhorsed Amor Stoddart before we could get to the inn. When we were in\nthe inn they were so rude in the courts and the streets, so that the\nminers, colliers, and carters could never be ruder. And the people of\nthe inn asked us 'what we would have for supper' as is the way of\ninns. \"Supper,\" said I, \"were it not that the Lord's power is over\nthem, these rude scholars look as if they would pluck us in pieces and\nmake a supper of us!\"'\n\nAfter this treatment, the two friends might have been expected to keep\naway from Cambridge in the future; but that was not their way. Where\nthe fight was hottest, there these two faithful soldiers of the Cross\nwere sure to be found. The very next year saw Fox back in\nCambridgeshire once more; and again Amor Stoddart was with him,\nstanding by his side and sharing all dangers like a valiant and\nfaithful friend.\n\n'I passed into Cambridgeshire,' the Journal continues, 'and into the\nfen country, where I had many meetings, and the Lord's truth spread.\nRobert Craven, who had been Sheriff of Lincoln, was with me [it would\nbe interesting to know more about Robert Craven, and where and how he\nwas \"reached\"], and Amor Stoddart and Alexander Parker. We went to\nCrowland, a very rude place; for the townspeople were got together at\nthe inn we went to, and were half drunk, both priest and people. I\nreproved them for their drunkenness and warned them of the day of the\nLord that was coming upon all the wicked; exhorting them to leave\ntheir wickedness and to turn to the Lord in time. While I was thus\nspeaking to them the priest and the clerk broke out into a rage, and\ngot up the tongs and fire-shovel at us, so that had not the Lord's\npower preserved us we might have been murdered amongst them. Yet, for\nall their rudeness and violence, some received the truth then, and\nhave stood in it ever since.'\n\nGeorge Fox was not the only man to find a faithful and staunch\nsupporter in Amor Stoddart. There is another glimpse of him, again\nstanding at a comrade's side in time of danger, but the comrade in\nthis case is not Fox but 'dear William Dewsbury,' one of the best\nloved of all the early Friends.\n\nAmor Stoddart was Dewsbury's companion that sore day at Bristol when\nthe tidings came from New England overseas, that the first two Quaker\nMartyrs, William Robinson and Marmaduke Stevenson, had been hanged for\ntheir faith on Boston Common. Heavy at heart were the Bristol Friends\nat the news, and not they only, for assembled with them were some New\nEngland Friends who had been banished from their families and from\ntheir homes, under pain of the same death that the martyrs had\nsuffered.\n\n'We were bowed down unto our God,' Dewsbury writes, 'and prayer was\nmade unto Him when there came a knocking at the door. It came upon my\nspirit that it was the rude people, and the life of God did mightily\narise, and they had no power to come in until we were clear before\nour God. Then they came in, setting the house about with muskets and\nlighted matches. So after a season of this they came into the room,\nwhere I was and Amor Stoddart with me. I looked upon them when they\ncame into the room, and they cried as fast as they could well speak,\n\"We will be civil! We will be civil!\"\n\n'I spoke these words, \"See that you be so.\" They ran forth out of the\nroom and came no more into it, but ran up and down in the house with\ntheir weapons in their hands, and the Lord God caused their hearts to\nfail and they passed away, and not any harm done to any of us.'\n\nEleven years after this pass in almost complete silence, as far as\nAmor is concerned. Occasionally we hear the bare mention of his name\namong the London Friends. One short entry in Fox's Journal speaks of\nhim as having 'buried his wife.' Then the veil lifts again and shows\none more glimpse of him. It is the last.\n\nIn 1670, twenty-two years after that first meeting at Mansfield, when\nCaptain Stoddart came into the room, and said, 'Let the youth speak,'\nGeorge Fox, now a man worn with his sufferings and service, came into\nanother room to bid farewell to his old comrade as he lay a-dying. Fox\nhimself had been brought near to death not long before, but he knew\nthat his work was not yet wholly finished, he was not yet 'fully\nclear' in his Master's sight.\n\n'Under great sufferings, sorrows, and oppressions I lay several\nweeks,' he writes in his Journal, 'whereby I was brought so low that\nfew thought I could live. When those about me had given me up to die,\nI spoke to them to get me a coach to carry me to Gerard Roberts,\nabout twelve miles off, for I found it was my place to go thither. So\nI went down a pair of stairs to the coach, and when I came to the\ncoach I was like to have fallen down, I was so weak and feeble, but I\ngot up into the coach, and some friends with me. When I came to\nGerard's, after I had stayed about three weeks there, it was with me\nto go to Enfield. Friends were afraid of my removing, but I told them\nthat I might safely go. When I had taken my leave of Gerard and had\ncome to Enfield, I went first to visit Amor Stoddart, who lay very\nweak and almost speechless. I was moved to tell him \"that he had been\nfaithful as a man and faithful to God, and the immortal Seed of Life\nwas his crown.\" Many more words I was moved to speak to him, though I\nwas then so weak, I could scarcely stand, and within a few days after,\nAmor died.'\n\nThat is all. Very simply he passes out of sight, having heard his\ncomrade's 'well done':--this valiant soldier who renounced his sword.\n\nHis name, AMOR, still holds the secret of his power, his silent\npatience, and of his victory, for\n\n 'OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[33] It was on this visit to Colchester that George Fox had his\nfarewell interview with James Parnell, imprisoned in the Castle.\n\n\n\n\nXXV. THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP 'WOODHOUSE'\n\n\n\n\n _'In the 17th Century England was\n peculiarly rich, if not in great\n mystics, at any rate in mystically\n minded men. Mysticism, it seems,\n was in the air; broke out under\n many disguises and affected many\n forms of life.'--E. UNDERHILL,\n 'Mysticism.'_\n\n\n _'He who says \"Yes,\" responds,\n obeys, co-operates, and allows\n this resident seed of God, or\n Christ Light, to have full sway in\n him, becomes transformed thereby\n and recreated into likeness to\n Christ by whom the inner seed was\n planted, and of whose nature it\n is.'--RUFUS M. JONES._\n\n\n _'Through winds and tides, one\n compass guides.'--A.H. CLOUGH._\n\n\n _'Have mercy upon me, O God, for\n Thine ocean is so great, and my\n little bark is so small.'--Breton\n Fisherman's Prayer._\n\n\n _'Be faithful and still, till the\n winds cease and the storm be over.'\n ... 'Friends' fellowship must be in\n the Spirit, and all Friends must\n know one another in the Spirit and\n power of God.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Christopher Holder and I are\n going ... in obedience to the will\n of our God, whose will is our\n joy.'--JOHN COPELAND. 1657._\n\n\n _'The log of the little\n \"Woodhouse\" has become a sacred\n classic.'--WILLIAM LITTLEBOY,\n Swarthmoor Lecture, 1917._\n\n\n\n\nXXV. THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP 'WOODHOUSE'\n\n\nMaster Robert Fowler of Burlington was a well-known figure in all the\nfishing towns and villages along the Yorkshire coast in the year of\ngrace 1657. A man of substance was he, a master mariner, well skilled\nin his craft; building his own ships and sailing them withal, and\nnever to be turned back from an adventurous voyage. Many fine vessels\nhe had, sailing over the broad waters, taking the Yorkshire cargoes of\nwool and hides to distant lands, and bringing back foreign goods in\nexchange, to be sold again at a profit on his return to old England's\nshores. Thus up and down the Yorkshire coast men spoke and thought\nhighly of Master Robert Fowler's judgment in all matters pertaining to\nthe sea. On land, too, he seemed prudent and skilful, though some\nfolks looked at him askance of late years, since he had joined himself\nto that strange and perverse people known as the Quakers.\n\nYet, in spite of what his neighbours considered his new-fangled\nreligion, Master Robert Fowler was prospering in all his worldly\naffairs. Even now on the sunny day when our story opens, he was hard\nat work putting the last touches to a new boat of graceful proportions\nand gallant curves, that bade fair to be a yet more notable seafarer\nthan any of her distant sisters.\n\nWhy then did Master Robert Fowler pause more than once in his work to\nheave a deep sigh, and throw down his tools almost pettishly? Why did\nhe suddenly put his fingers in his ears as if to shut out an unwelcome\nsound, resuming his work thereafter with double speed? No one was\nspeaking to him. The mid-day air was very still. The haze that often\nbroods over the north-east coast veiled the horizon. Sea and sky\nmelted into one another till it was impossible to say where earth\nended and heaven began. An unwonted silence reigned even on Burlington\nQuay. No sound was to be heard save for the tap, tap, tap of Master\nRobert Fowler's hammer.\n\nAgain he dropped his tools. Again he looked up to the sky, as if he\nwere listening to an unseen voice.\n\nSomeone was truly speaking to him, though no faintest sound vibrated\non the air. His inward ear heard clearly these words--\n\n'THOU HAST HER NOT FOR NOTHING.'\n\nHis eyes travelled proudly over the nearly completed vessel. Every one\nof her swelling curves he knew by heart; had learned to know and love\nthrough long months of toil. How still she lay, the beauty, still as a\nbird, poising on the sea. Ah! but the day was coming when she would\nspread her wings and skim over the ocean, buoyant and dainty as one of\nthe terns, those sea-swallows that with their sharp white wings even\nnow were hovering round her. Built for use she was too, not merely to\ntake the eye. Although small of size more bales of goods could be\nstowed away under her shapely decks than in many another larger\nclumsier vessel. Who should know this better than Robert, her maker,\nwho had planned it all?\n\nFor what had he planned her?\n\nWas it for the voyage to the Eastern Mediterranean that had been the\ndesire of his heart for many years? How well he knew it, that voyage\nhe had never made! Down the Channel he would go, past Ushant and\nsafely across the Bay. Then, when Finisterre had dropped to leeward,\nit would be but a few days' sail along the pleasant coasts of Portugal\ntill Gibraltar was reached. And then, heigh ho! for a fair voyage in\nthe summer season, week after week over a calm blue sea to the\nland-locked harbour where flat-roofed, white-walled houses, stately\npalm-trees, rosy domes and minarets, mirrored in the still water,\ngazed down at their own reflections.\n\nWas the _Woodhouse_ for this?\n\nHe had planned her for this dream voyage.\n\nWhy then came that other Voice in his heart directly he began to\nbuild: 'FASHION THEE A SHIP FOR THE SERVICE OF TRUTH!' And now that\nshe was nearly completed, why did the Voice grow daily more insistent,\ngiving ever clearer directions?\n\nWhat a bird she was! His own bird of the sea, his beautiful\n_Woodhouse_! So thought Master Robert Fowler. But then again came the\ninsistent Voice within, speaking yet more clearly and distinctly than\never before: 'THOU HAST HER NOT FOR NOTHING.'\n\nThe vision of his sea-swallow, her white wings gleaming in the sun as\nshe dropped anchor in that still harbour; the vision of the white and\nrose-coloured city stretched like an encircling arm around the\nturquoise waters, these dreams faded relentlessly from his sight.\nInstead he saw the _Woodhouse_ beating up wearily against a bleak and\nrugged shore on which grey waves were breaking. Angry, white teeth\nthose giant breakers showed; teeth that would grind a dainty boat to\npieces with no more compunction than a dog who snaps at a fly. Must he\ntake her there? A vision of that inhospitable shore was constantly\nwith him as he worked. 'New England was presented before him.' Day\nafter day he drove the thought from him. Night after night it\nreturned.\n\n'Thou hast her not for nothing. She is needed for the service of\nTruth.' Master Robert Fowler grew lean and wan with inward struggle,\nbut yield his will he could not, yet disobey the Voice he did not\ndare. When his wife and children asked what ailed him he answered not,\nor gave a surly reply. Truth to tell, he avoided their company all he\ncould,--and yet a look was in his eyes when they did not notice as if\nhe had never before felt them half so dear. At length the\nlong-expected day arrived when the completed vessel sailed graciously\nout to sea. But there was no gaiety on board, as there had been when\nher sister ships had departed. No cargo had she. No farewells were\nsaid. Master Robert Fowler stole aboard when all beside were sleeping.\nThe _Woodhouse_ slipped from the grey harbour into the grey sea,\nnoiselessly as a bird. None of the crew knew what ailed the master,\nnor why his door was locked for long hours thereafter, until the\nYorkshire coast first drew dim, and then faded from the horizon. He\nwould not even tell them whither the vessel was bound. 'Keep a\nstraight course; come back at four bells, and then I will direct you,'\nwas all his answer, when the mate knocked at his door for orders.\n\nBut within the cabin a man was wrestling with himself upon his knees;\ntill at last in agony he cried: 'E'en take the boat, Lord, an so Thou\nwilt, for I have no power to give her Thee. Yet truly she is Thine.'\n\n * * * * *\n\nAt that same hour in London an anxious little company was gathered in\na house at the back side of Thomas Apostles Church, over the door of\nwhich swung the well-known sign of the Fleur-de-luce.\n\nThe master of the house, Friend Gerard Roberts, a merchant of Watling\nStreet, sat at the top of the table in a small upper room. The anxiety\non his countenance was reflected in the faces round his board. Seven\nmen and four women were there, all soberly clad as befitted\nministering Friends. They were not eating or drinking, but solemnly\nseeking for guidance.\n\n'Can no ship then be found to carry us to the other side? For truly\nthe Lord's word is as a fire and hammer in me, though in the outward\nappearance there is no likelihood of getting passage,' one Friend was\nsaying.\n\n'Ships in plenty there are bound for New England, but ne'er a one that\nis willing to carry even one Quaker, let alone eleven,' Friend Roberts\nanswered. 'The colonists' new laws are strict, and their punishments\nare savage. I know, Friends, ye are all ready, aye and willing, to\nsuffer in the service of Truth. It is not merely the threatened\ncropping of the ears of every Quaker who sets foot ashore that is the\ndifficulty. It is the one hundred pounds fine for every Quaker landed,\nnot levied on the Friends themselves, mind you--that were simple--but\non the owner of the boat in which they shall have voyaged. This it is\nthat hinders your departure. It were not fair to ask a man to run such\nrisk. It is not fair. Yet already I have asked many in vain. Way doth\nnot open. We must needs leave it, and see if the concern abides.'\n\nClear as a bell rose the silvery tones of a young woman Friend, one who\nhad been formerly a serving-maid at Cammsgill Farm: 'Commit thy way\nunto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass. Shall\nnot He who setteth a bound to the sea that it shall not pass over, and\ntaketh up the isles as a very little thing--shall not He be trusted to\nfind a ship for His servants who trust in Him, to enable them to\nperform His will?' As the clear bell-like tones died away the little\ncompany, impelled by a united instinct, sank into a silence in which\ntime passed unnoticed. Suddenly, at the same moment, a weight seemed to\nbe removed from the hearts of all. They clasped hands and separated.\nAnd at that very moment, although they knew it not, far away on the\nbroad seas, a man, wrestling on his knees in the cabin of his vessel,\nwas saying with bitter tears, 'E'en take, Lord, an so Thou wilt, though\nI have no power to give her to Thee. Yet truly she is Thine.' When four\nbells were sounded on the good ship _Woodhouse_, and a knock came to\nthe door of the cabin as the mate asked for directions, it was in a\nsteady voice that Master Robert Fowler replied from within, 'Mark a\nstraight course for London; and after--whithersoever the Lord may\ndirect.'\n\nBlithely and gaily henceforward the _Woodhouse_ skimmed her way to the\nmouth of the Thames and dropped anchor at the port of London. But as\nyet Master Robert Fowler knew nothing of the anxious group of Friends\nwaiting to be taken to New England on the service of Truth (five of\nthem having already been deported thence for the offence of being\nQuakers, yet anxious to return and take six others with them). Neither\ndid these Friends know anything of Master Robert Fowler, nor of his\ngood ship _Woodhouse_.\n\nYet, though unknown to each other, he and they alike were well known\nto One Heart, were guided by One Hand, were listening to the\ndirections of One Voice. Therefore, though it may seem a strange\nchance, it was not wonderful really that within a few hours of the\narrival of the _Woodhouse_ in the Thames Master Robert Fowler and\nFriend Gerard Roberts met each other face to face in London City. Nor\nwas it strange that the ship's captain should be moved to tell the\nmerchant of the exercise of his spirit about his ship. In truth all\nFriends who visited London in those days were wont to unburden\nthemselves of their perplexities to the master of that hospitable\nhouse over whose doorway swung the sign of the Fleur-de-luce. Lightly\nhe told it--almost as a jest--the folly of the notion that a vessel of\nsuch small tonnage could be needed to face the terrors of the terrible\nAtlantic. Surely a prudent merchant like Friend Roberts would tell him\nto pay no heed to visions and inner voices, and such like idle\nnotions? But Gerard Roberts did not scoff. He listened silently. A\nlook almost of awe stole over his face. The first words he uttered\nwere, 'It is the Lord's doing and it is marvellous in our eyes.' And\nat these words Master Robert Fowler's heart sank down, down like\nlead.\n\nLong afterwards, describing the scene, he says: 'Also when (the\nvessel) was finished and freighted, and made to sea, contrary to my\nwill, was brought to London, where, speaking touching this matter to\nGerard Roberts and others, they confirmed the matter in behalf of the\nLord, that it must be so.'\n\n'It must be so.' This is the secret of Guidance from that day to this.\nThe Inner Voice alone is not always enough for action; the outer need\nor claim of service alone is not necessarily a call. But when the\nInner Voice and the outer need come together, then truly the will of\nthe Lord is plain, and 'It must be so.'\n\nMaster Robert Fowler was not yet willing or ready to sacrifice his own\nwishes. A decisive victory is not to be won in one battle, however\nsevere, but only throughout the stress of a long campaign. The\nstruggle in his cabin, when he allowed the ship's head to be turned\ntowards London, must needs be fought out again. The unreasonableness\nof such a voyage in such a vessel, the risk, the thought of the\ndangers and misery it would bring, took possession of his mind once\nmore, as he himself confesses: 'Yet entering into reasoning and\nletting in temptation and hardships, and the loss of my life, wife,\nand children, with the enjoyment of all earthly things, it brought me\nas low as the grave, and laid me as one dead to the things of God.'\n\n'Let the sacrifice be made, if it must be made,' he said to himself,\n'but it is too much to expect any man to make it willingly.' For days\nhe went about, in his own words, 'as one dead.'\n\nThe eagerness of the Friends to depart, their plans for the voyage,\ntheir happy cares, only loaded his spirit the more. It was a dark,\nsad, miserable time; and a dark, sad, miserable man was the owner of\nthe _Woodhouse_.\n\nTill on a certain day, the Friends coming as usual to visit his ship\nbrought another with them, a Stranger; taller, stronger, sturdier than\nthem all; a man with a long drooping nose and piercing eyes--yes, and\nleather breeches! It was, it could be no other than George Fox!\n\nWhat did he say to Robert Fowler? What words did he use? Did he argue\nor command? That was unnecessary. The mere presence of the strong\nfaithful servant of the Lord drew out a like faithfulness in the other\nmore timid soul.\n\nRobert Fowler's narrative continues:\n\n'But by His instrument, George Fox, was I refreshed and raised up\nagain, which before was much contrary to myself that I could have as\nwillingly have died as gone; but by the strength of God I was now made\nwilling to do His will; yea even the customs and fashions of the\ncustoms house could not stop me.'\n\n'Made willing to do His will.' There is the secret of this 'wonderful\nvoyage.' For it was absurdly dangerous to think of sailing across the\nAtlantic in such a vessel as the _Woodhouse_: or it would have been,\nhad it been a mere human plan. But if the all-powerful, almighty Will\nof God really commanded them to go, then it was no longer dangerous\nbut the only safe thing they could do.\n\n'Our trembling hands held in Thy strong and loving grasp, what shall\neven the weakest of us fear?'\n\nPerhaps Master Robert expected when once he was ready to obey\ncheerfully, that all his difficulties would vanish. Instead, fresh\ndifficulties arose; and the next difficulty was truly a great one. The\npress-gang came by, and took Robert Fowler's servants off by force to\nhelp to man the British fleet that was being fitted out to fight in\nthe Baltic; took them, whether they would or no, as Richard Sellar was\nto be captured in the same way, seven years later.\n\nSo now the long voyage to America must be undertaken not only in too\nsmall a boat, but with too few sailors to work her. Besides Robert\nFowler, only two men and three boys were left on board to sail the\nship on this long, difficult voyage.\n\nPresently the Friends began to come on board; and if the captain's\nheart sank anew as he saw the long string of passengers making for his\ntiny boat--who shall wonder or blame him? It was a very solemn\nprocession of weighty Friends.\n\nIn front came the five, who had been in America before, and who were\ngoing back to face persecution, knowing what it meant. Their names\nwere: first that 'ancient and venerable man' William Brend; then young\nChristopher Holder of Winterbourne in Gloucestershire, a well-educated\nman of good estate; John Copeland of Holderness in Yorkshire; Mary\nWeatherhead of Bristol; and Dorothy[34] Waugh, the serving-maid of\nPreston Patrick, who had been 'convinced and called to the ministry'\nas she went about her daily work in the family of Friend John Camm, at\nCammsgill.\n\nAfter them followed the other five who had not crossed the Atlantic\nbefore, but who were no less eager to face unknown difficulties and\ndangers. Their names were: William Robinson the London merchant;\nRobert Hodgson; Humphrey Norton (remember Humphrey Norton, he will be\nheard of again); Richard Doudney, 'an innocent man who served the Lord\nin sincerity'; and Mary Clark, the wife of John Clark, a London\nFriend, who, like most of the others, had already undergone much\nsuffering for her faith. On board the _Woodhouse_ they all came,\nstepping on deck one after the other solemnly and sedately, while the\nanxious captain watched them and wondered how many more were to come,\nand where they were all to be lodged. Once they were on board,\nhowever, things changed and felt quite different. It was as if an\nUnseen Passenger had come with them.\n\nThis is Robert Fowler's own account: 'Upon the 1st day of Fourth Month\ncalled June received I the Lord's servants aboard, Who came with a\nmighty hand and an outstretched arm with them; so that with courage we\nset sail and came to the Downs the second day, where our dearly\nbeloved William Dewsbury with Michael Thompson came aboard, and in\nthem we were much refreshed; and, recommending us to the grace of God,\nwe launched forth.'\n\nAfter this his narrative has a different ring: Master Fowler was no\nlonger going about his ship with eyes cast down and hanging head and a\nheart full of fear. He had straightened his back and was a stalwart\nmariner again. Perhaps this was partly owing to the great pleasure\nthat came to him before they actually set sail, when, as he tells,\nWilliam Dewsbury came on board to visit the travellers. 'Dear William\nDewsbury' was the one Friend of all others Robert Fowler must have\nwished to see once more before leaving England, for it was William\nDewsbury's preaching that had 'convinced' Robert Fowler and made him\nbecome a Friend a few years before. It was William Dewsbury's teaching\nabout the blessedness of following the inner Voice, the inner\nguidance, that had led him to offer himself and the _Woodhouse_ for\nthe service of Truth.\n\nPerhaps he said, half in joke, half in earnest, 'O William Dewsbury! O\nWilliam Dewsbury! thou hast much to answer for! If I had never met\nthee I should never have undertaken this voyage in my little boat!' If\nhe said this, I think a very tender, thankful light came into William\nDewsbury's face, as he answered, 'Let us give thanks then together,\nbrother, that the message did reach thee through me; since without\nthis voyage thou could'st not fully have known the power and the\nwonder of the Lord.'\n\nQuakers do not have priests to baptize them, or bishops to confirm or\nordain them, as Church people do. Yet God's actual presence in the\nheart is often revealed first through the message of one of His\nmessengers. Therefore there is a special bond of tender fellowship and\nfriendship between those who are truly fathers and children in God,\neven in a Society where all are friends. In this relation William\nDewsbury stood to Robert Fowler.\n\nReason and fear raised their heads once again, even after William\nDewsbury's visit. Robert Fowler thought of going to the Admiral in the\nDowns to complain of the loss of his servants, and to ask that a\nconvoy might be sent with them. But he did not go, because, as he\nsays, 'From which thing I was withholden by that Hand which was my\nHelper.'\n\nThe south wind began to blow, and they were obliged to put in at\nPortsmouth, and there there were plenty of men waiting to be engaged,\nbut when they heard that this tiny vessel was actually venturing to\ncross the Atlantic, not one would sail in her, and this happened again\nat South Yarmouth, where they put in a few days later.\n\nAt Portsmouth, however, the Friends were not idle. They went ashore\nand held a meeting, or, as Robert Fowler puts it, 'They went forth and\ngathered sticks and kindled a fire, and left it burning.' Not real\nsticks for a real fire, of course, but a fire of love and service in\npeople's hearts, that would help to keep the cold world warm in after\ndays.\n\nThis was their last task in England. A few hours later they had\nquitted her shores. The coast-line that followed them faithfully at\nfirst, dropped behind gradually, growing fainter and paler, then\nresting like a thought upon the sea, till it finally disappeared. Only\na vast expanse of heaving waters surrounded the travellers.\n\nAt first it seemed as if their courage was not to be too severely\ntested. 'Three pretty large ships which were for the Newfoundland'\nappeared, and bore the _Woodhouse_ company for some fifty leagues. In\ntheir vicinity the smaller vessel might have made the voyage, perilous\nat best, with a certain amount of confidence. But the Dutch warships\nwere known to be not far distant, and in order to escape them the\nthree 'pretty large ships made off to the northward, and left us\nwithout hope or help as to the outward.'\n\nThe manner of the departure of the ships was on this wise. Early in\nthe morning it was shown to Humphrey Norton--who seems to have been\nespecially sensitive to messages from the invisible world--'that those\nwere nigh unto us who sought our lives.' He called Robert Fowler, and\ngave him this warning, and added, 'Thus saith the Lord, ye shall be\ncarried away as in a mist.' 'Presently,' says Robert Fowler, 'we\nespied a great ship making up to us, and the three great ships were\nmuch afraid, and tacked about with what speed they could; in the very\ninterim the Lord fulfilled His promise, and struck our enemies in the\nface with a contrary wind, wonderfully to our refreshment. Then upon\nour parting from these three ships we were brought to ask counsel of\nthe Lord, and the word was from Him, \"Cut through and steer your\nstraight course and mind nothing but Me.\"'\n\n'Cut through and steer your straight course, and mind nothing but Me!'\nAlone upon the broad Atlantic in this cockle-shell of a boat! Only a\ncockle-shell truly, yet it held a bit of heaven within it--the heaven\nof obedience. Every day the little company of Friends met in that\nship's hold together, and 'He Himself met with us and manifested\nhimself largely unto us,' words that have been proved true by many\nanother company of the Master's servants afloat upon the broad waters\nfrom that day to this. There they sat on the wooden benches, with\nspray breaking over them, the faithful men and women who were daring\nall for the Truth. Only three times in the whole voyage was the\nweather so bad that storms prevented their assembling together. Much\nof the actual navigation of the vessel seems to have been left to the\nstrange passengers to determine. The Captain's narrative continues:\n'Thus it was all the voyage with the faithful, who were carried far\nabove storms and tempests, that when the ship went either to the right\nhand or to the left, their hands joined all as one, and did direct her\nway; so that we have seen and said, \"We see the Lord leading our\nvessel even as it were a man leading a horse by the head; we regarding\nneither latitude nor longitude, but kept to our line, which was and is\nour Leader, Guide, and Rule.\"'\n\nBesides the guidance vouchsafed to the Friends as a group, some of\nthem had special intimations given to them.\n\n'The sea was my figure,' says Robert Fowler, 'for if anything got up\nwithin, the sea without rose up against me, and then the floods\nclapped their hands, of which in time I took notice and told Humphrey\nNorton.'[35]\n\nIn this account Humphrey Norton always seems to hear voices directing\ntheir course, while Robert Fowler generally 'sees figures'--sights\nthat teach him what to do. Guidance may come in different ways to\ndifferent people, but it does come surely to those who seek for it.\n\nThe inward Voice spoke to Robert Fowler also when they were in mid\nAtlantic after they had been at sea some two weeks:\n\n'We saw another great ship making up to us which did appear far off\nto be a frigate, and made her sign for us to come to them, which was\nto me a great cross, we being to windward of them; and it was said \"GO\nSPEAK TO HIM, THE CROSS IS SURE; DID I EVER FAIL THEE THEREIN?\" And\nunto others there appeared no danger in it, so that we did, and it\nproved a tradesman of London, by whom we writ back.'\n\nThe hardest test of their faith came some three weeks later, when\nafter five weeks at sea they had still accomplished only 300 leagues,\nscarcely a third part of their voyage, and their destination still\nseemed hopelessly distant. The strong faith of Humphrey Norton carried\nthem all over this trial. 'He (Humphrey Norton) falling into communion\nwith God, told me that he had received a comfortable answer, and also\nthat about such a day we should land in America, which was even so\nfulfilled. Upon the last day of the fifth month (July) 1657, we made\nland.'\n\nThis land turned out to be the very part to which the Friends had most\ndesired to come. The pilot[36] had expected to reach quite a different\npoint, but the invisible guidance of his strange passengers was clear\nand unwavering. 'Our drawing had been all the passage to keep to the\nsouthward, until the evening before we made land, and then the word\nwas, \"There is a lion in the way\"; unto which we gave obedience, and\nsaid, \"Let them steer northwards until the day following.\"'[37]\n\nThat must have been an anxious day on board the _Woodhouse_. Think of\nthe two different clues that were being followed within that one small\nboat: the Friends with their clasped hands, seeking and finding\nguidance; up on deck the pilot, with his nautical knowledge, scoffing\nvery likely at any other method of progress than the reckoning to\nwhich he was accustomed. As the slow hours passed, and no land\nappeared to break the changeless circle of the sea, the Friends felt a\n'drawing' to meet together long before their usual time. 'And it was\nsaid that we may look abroad in the evening; and as we sat waiting\nupon the Lord, we discovered the land, and our mouths were opened in\nprayer and thanksgiving.'\n\nThe words are simple as any words could be. But in spite of the 260\nyears that separate that day from this, its gladness is still fresh.\nAll voyagers know the thrill caused by the first sight of land, even\nin these days of steamships, when all arrangements can be made and\ncarried out with almost clock-like precision. But in the old time of\nsailing ships, when a contrary wind or a sudden calm might upset the\nreckoning for days together, and when there was the added danger that\nfood or water might give out, to see the longed-for land in sight at\nlast must have been even more of an event.\n\nTo all the Friends on board the _Woodhouse_ this first sight of\nAmerica meant a yet deeper blessedness. It was the outer assurance\nthat the invisible guidance they were following was reliable. The\nFriends rejoiced and were wholly at rest and thankful. But the pilot,\ninstead of being, as might have been expected, convinced at last that\nthere was a wisdom wiser than his own, still resisted. Where some\npeople see life with a thread of guidance running through it\nunmistakably, others are always to be found who will say these things\nare nothing but chance and what is called 'coincidence.'\n\nSuch an one was the pilot of the _Woodhouse_. As the land drew nearer,\na creek was seen to open out in it. The Friends were sure that their\nvessel was meant to enter there, but again the pilot resisted. By this\ntime the Friends had learned to expect objections from him, and had\nlearned, too, that it was best not to argue with him, but to leave him\nto find out for himself that their guidance was right. So they told\nhim to do as he chose, that 'both sides were safe, but going that way\nwould be more trouble to him.' When morning dawned 'he saw, after he\nhad laid by all the night, the thing fulfilled.'\n\nInto the creek, therefore, in the bright morning sunlight the\n_Woodhouse_ came gaily sailing; not knowing where she was, nor whither\nthe creek would lead. 'Now to lay before you the largeness of the\nwisdom, will, and power of God, this creek led us in between the Dutch\nPlantation and Long Island:'--the very place that some of the Friends\nhad felt that they ought to visit, but which it would have been most\ndifficult to reach had they landed in any other spot. Thus 'the Lord\nGod that moved them brought them to the place appointed, and led us\ninto our way according to the word which came unto Christopher Holder:\n\"You are in the road to Rhode Island.\" In that creek came a shallop to\nguide us, taking us to be strangers, we making our way with our boat,\nand they spoke English, and informed us, and guided us along. The\npower of the Lord fell much upon us, and an irresistible word came\nunto us, that the seed in America shall be as the sand of the sea; it\nwas published in the ears of the brethren, which caused tears to break\nforth with fulness of joy; so that presently for these places some\nprepared themselves, who were Robert Hodgson, Richard Doudney, Sarah\nGibbons, Mary Weatherhead, and Dorothy Waugh, who the next day were\nput safely ashore into the Dutch plantation, called New Amsterdam.'\n\n'New Amsterdam, on an unnamed creek in the Dutch Plantation,' sounds\nan unfamiliar place to modern ears. Yet when that same Dutch\nPlantation changed hands and became English territory its new masters\naltered the name of its chief town. New Amsterdam was re-christened in\nhonour of the king's brother, James, Duke of York, and became known as\nNew York, the largest city of the future United States of America.\n\nAs to the unnamed 'creek' into which the _Woodhouse_ was led, that was\nprobably the estuary of the mighty river Hudson. 'Here,' continues\nRobert Fowler, 'we came, and it being the First Day of the week\nseveral came aboard to us and we began our work. I was caused to go to\nthe Governor, and Robert Hodgson with me--he (the Governor) was\nmoderate both in words and actions.'\n\nThis moderation on the Governor's part must have been no small comfort\nto the new arrivals. Also the laws of the New Netherland Colonies,\nwhere they had unexpectedly landed, were much more tolerant than those\nof New England, whither they were bound. Even yet the perils of the\ngallant _Woodhouse_ were not over. The remaining Friends had now to\nbe taken on to hospitable Rhode Island, the home of religious liberty,\nfrom whence they could pursue their mission to the persecuting\nColonists on the mainland.\n\nA few days before their arrival at New Amsterdam, the two Roberts\n(Robert Hodgson and Robert Fowler) had both had a vision in which they\nhad seen the _Woodhouse_ in great danger. The day following their\ninterview with the Governor, when they were once more on the sea, 'it\nwas fulfilled, there being a passage between the two lands which is\ncalled by the name of Hell-Gate; we lay very conveniently for a pilot,\nand into that place we came, and into it were forced, and over it were\ncarried, which I never heard of any before that were; there were rocks\nmany on both sides of us, so that I believe one yard's length would\nhave endangered both vessel and goods.'\n\nHere for the last time the little group of Friends gathered to give\nthanks for their safe arrival after their most wonderful voyage. If\nany of them were tempted to think they owed any of their protection\nand guidance to their own merits and faithfulness, a last vision that\ncame to Robert Fowler must have chased this thought out of their minds\nonce for all.\n\n'There was a shoal of fish,' he says, 'which pursued our vessel and\nfollowed her strangely, and along close by our rudder.' The master\nmariner's eye had evidently been following the movements of the fish\nthroughout the day, as he asked himself: 'What are those fish? I never\nsaw fish act in that way before. Why do they follow the vessel so\nsteadily?' Then, in the time of silent waiting upon God, light\nstreamed upon this puzzle in his mind.\n\n'In our meeting it was shewn to me, these fish are to thee a figure.\n\"Thus doth the prayers of the churches proceed to the Lord for thee\nand the rest.\"' That was the explanation of the wonderful voyage. The\n_Woodhouse_ and her little company had not been solitary and\nunprotected, even when the three 'pretty great ships' drew off for\nfear of the Dutch men of war and left them alone.\n\nThe prayers of their friends in England were following them across the\nvast Atlantic, though unseen by human eyes, even as those hosts of\nshining fish, which surrounded the vessel as she drove her prow\nthrough the clear water, would be unseen to a spectator above its\nsurface. George Fox was praying for the travellers. William Dewsbury\nwas sure to be praying for them. Friend Gerard Roberts would be also\nmuch in prayer, since the responsibility of the voyage was largely on\nhis shoulders. Besides these, there were the husbands, wives, and\nlittle children of some of the Friends, the brothers and sisters of\nothers, all longing for them to arrive safely and do their Master's\nwork. Now here came the fish to assure Robert Fowler that the faith he\nbelieved was true. Real as the things we can see or touch or feel seem\nto us to be, the unseen things are more real still. Ever after, to\nthose who had crossed the Atlantic in the good ship _Woodhouse_, the\nassurance of God's clear guidance and the answered prayers of His\npeople must have been the most real of all.\n\nRobert Fowler's story of the marvellous voyage ends with these words:\n'Surely in our meeting did the thing run through me as oil and bid me\nmuch rejoice.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[34] She sometimes spelled her name Dorithy, which is not the way to\nspell Dorothy now, but spelling was much less fixed in those days.\n\n[35] The meaning seems to be that whenever fear or misgiving came to\nFowler's heart, the sea also became stormy; while his spirit remained\ntrustful, the sea was likewise calm.\n\n[36] As the navigating officer of the ship was then called.\n\n[37] It is not quite easy at this distance of time to understand why\n'a lion in the way' should mean 'go north,' unless it was because the\n'drawing' had been strongly south hitherto, and now that path was\nblocked.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI. RICHARD SELLAR AND THE 'MERCIFUL MAN'\n\n\n\n\n _'To resort to force is to lose\n faith in the inner light. War only\n results from men taking counsel\n with their passions instead of\n waiting upon God. If one believes,\n as Fox did, that the most powerful\n element in human nature is that\n something of God which speaks in\n the conscience, then to coerce men\n is clearly wrong. The only true\n line of approach is by patience to\n reach down to that divine seed, to\n appeal to what is best, because it\n is what is strongest in man. The\n Quaker testimony against war is no\n isolated outwork of their\n position: it forms part of their\n citadel.'--H.G. WOOD._\n\n\n _'The following narrative we have\n thought proper to insert in the\n very words of the sufferer, as\n taken from his own mouth. The\n candid Reader will easily excuse\n the simplicity of its style, and\n the Plainness of its Expressions.\n It is the more like the man, and\n carries the greater evidence of\n the Honesty and Integrity of the\n Relator, viz. \"An Account of the\n Sufferings of Richard Seller of\n Keinsey, a Fisherman, who was\n prest in Scarborough-Piers, in the\n time of the two last engagements\n between the Dutch and English, in\n the year 1665.\" These are (says\n the writer) the very words that\n proceeded from him, who sat before\n me weeping.'--BESSE, 'Sufferings\n of the Quakers.'_\n\n\n\n\nXXVI. RICHARD SELLAR AND THE 'MERCIFUL MAN'\n\n\nAway to the Yorkshire coast we must go, and once more find ourselves\nlooking up at the bold headland of Scarborough Cliff, as it juts out\ninto the North Sea. Away again in time, too, to the year 1665, when\nGeorge Fox still lay in prison up at the Castle, with his room full of\nsmoke on stormy days when the wind 'drove in the rain forcibly,' while\n'the water came all over his bed and ran about the room till he was\nforced to skim it up with a platter.'\n\nHappily there is no storm raging this time. Our story begins on a\nstill, warm afternoon late in the summer, when even the prisoner up at\nthe Castle can hardly help taking some pleasure in the cloudless blue\nsky and shining sea spread out above and around him.\n\nBut it is not to the Castle we are bound to-day. We need not climb\nagain the steep, worn steps that lead to the top of the hill. Instead,\nwe must descend an equally narrow flight that leads down, down, down\nwith queer twists and turns, till we find ourselves close to the\nwater's edge. Even in the fiercest gales there is shelter here for the\nred-roofed fishing village that surrounds the harbour, while on a warm\nafternoon the air is almost oppressively hot. The brown sails of the\nfishing smacks and the red roofs of the houses are faithfully\nreflected in the clear water beneath them as in a looking-glass.\n\nOutside the door of one of the houses a rough fisherman is seated on a\nbench, his back against the house wall, mending his nets. At first\nsight he looks almost like an old man, for his hair is grey, though\nhis body is still strong and active. His hands are twisted and bear\nthe marks of cruel scars upon them, but his face is peaceful, though\nworn and rugged. He handles the nets lovingly, as if he were glad to\nfeel them slipping through his fingers again. Evidently the nets have\nnot been used for some time, for there are many holes in them, and the\nmending is a slow business. As he works the fisherman sings in a low\nvoice, not loud enough for the neighbours to hear but just humming to\nhimself.\n\nEvery now and then the door of the house half opens, and a little girl\nlooks out and asks, 'Thou art really there, Father? truly safe back\nagain?' The man looks up, smiling, as he calls back, 'Ay, ay, my maid.\nGet on with thy work, Margery, and I'll get on with mine.'\n\n'Art thou sure thou art safe, Father?'\n\nHe does not answer this question in words, but he raises his voice and\nsings the next verse of his song a little more loudly and clearly--\n\n 'Because on Me his love is set,\n Deliver him I will,\n And safely bring him higher yet\n Upon My holy hil.'\n\nLater on, when the nets are mended and the sun is sinking above the\nCastle Cliff in a fiery glow, Margery comes out and sits on her\nfather's knee; the lads, home from school, gather round and say, 'Now\nthen, Master Sellar, tell us once more the story of thy absence from\nus, and about how thou wast pressed and taken on board the _Royal\nPrince_. Tell us about the capstan and the lashings; about how they\nbeat thee; what the carpenter and the boatswain's mate did, and how\nthe gunner went down three times on his bare knees on the deck to beg\nthy life. Let us hear it all again.' 'Yes, please do, Father dear,'\nchimes in Margery, 'only leave out some of the beatings and the\ndreadful part, and hurry on very quickly to the end of the story about\nall the sailors throwing up their caps and huzzaing for Sir Edward,\nthe merciful man.'\n\nThe fisherman smiles and nods. He puts his arm more tenderly than ever\nround his small daughter as he says, 'Ay, ay, dear heart, never thou\nfear.' Then, drawing Margery closer to him, he begins his tale. It is\na long story. The sun has set; the crescent moon has disappeared; and\nthe stars are stealing out, one by one, before he has finished. I wish\nyou and I could listen to that story, don't you? Well, we can! Someone\nwho heard it from the fisherman's own lips has written it all down for\nus. He is telling it to us in his own words to-day, as he told it to\nthose children in Scarborough village long ago.\n\nNow and then we must interrupt him to explain some of the words he\nuses, or even alter the form of the sentences slightly, in order fully\nto understand what it is he is talking about.\n\nBut he is telling his own story.\n\n'My name,' begins the fisherman, 'is Richard Sellar. It was during the\nwar between the Dutch and English that I was pressed at Scarborough in\n1665.'\n\n'Pressed' means that he was forced to go and fight against his will.\nWhen the country is in danger men are obliged to leave their peaceful\nemployments and learn to be soldiers and sailors, in order, as they\nthink, to defend their own nation by trying to kill their enemies. It\nis something like what people now call 'conscription' that Richard\nSellar is talking of when he speaks of 'being pressed.' He means that\na number of men, called a 'press-crew,' forced him to go with them to\nfight in the king's navy, for, as the proverb said, 'A king's ship and\nthe gallows refuse nobody.'\n\n'I was pressed,' Richard continues, 'within Scarborough Piers, and\nrefusing to go on board the ketch [or boat] they beat me very sore,\nand I still refusing, they hoisted me in with a tackle on board, and\nthey bunched me with their feet, that I fell backward into a tub, and\nwas so maimed that they were forced to swaddle me up with clothes.'\n\nRichard Sellar could not help himself. Bound, bruised, and beaten he\nwas carried off in the boat to be taken to a big fighting ship called\nthe _Royal Prince_, that was waiting for them off the mouth of the\nThames and needing more sailors to man her for the war.\n\nThe press-crew however had not captured enough men at Scarborough, so\nthey put in at another Yorkshire port, spelled Burlington then but\nBridlington now. It was that same Burlington or Bridlington from which\nMaster Robert Fowler had sailed years before. Was he at home again\nnow, I wonder, working in his shipyard and remembering the wonderful\nexperiences of the good ship _Woodhouse_? Surely he must have been\naway on a voyage at this time or he would if possible have visited\nRichard Sellar in his confinement on the ketch. Happily at Bridlington\nthere also lived two kind women, who, hearing that the ketch had a\n'pressed Quaker' on board, sent Richard Sellar a present of\nfood--green stuff and eatables that would keep well on a voyage: these\nprovisions saved his life later on. After this stay in port the ketch\nsailed on again to the Nore, a big sand-bank lying near the mouth of\nthe Thames.\n\n'And there,' Richard goes on to say, 'they haled me in at a gunport,\non board of the ship called the _Royal Prince_. The first day of the\nthird month, they commanded me to go to work at the capstan. I\nrefused; then they commanded me to call of the steward for my\nvictuals; which I refused, and told them that as I was not free to do\nthe king's work, I would not live at his charge for victuals. Then the\nboatswain's mate beat me sore, and thrust me about with the capstan\nuntil he was weary; then the Captain sent for me on the quarter-deck,\nand asked me why I refused to fight for the king, and why I refused to\neat of his victuals? I told him I was afraid to offend God, for my\nwarfare was spiritual, and therefore I durst not fight with carnal\nweapons. Then the Captain fell upon me, and beat me first with his\nsmall cane, then called for his great cane, and beat me sore, and\nfelled me down to the deck three or four times, and beat me as long as\nhis strength continued. Then came one, Thomas Horner (which was\nbrought up at Easington), and said, \"I pray you, noble Captain, be\nmerciful, for I know him to be an honest and a good man.\" Then said\nthe captain, \"He is a Quaker; I will beat his brains out.\" Then\nfalling on me again, he beat me until he was weary, and then called\nsome to help him; \"for\" said he, \"I am not able to beat him enough to\nmake him willing to do the king's service.\"'\n\nThere Richard lay, bruised and beaten, on the deck. Neither the\nsailors nor the Captain knew what to do with him. Presently up came\nthe Commander's jester or clown, a man whose business it was to make\nthe officers laugh. 'What,' said he, 'can't you make that Quaker work?\nDo you want him to draw ropes for you and he won't? Why you are going\nthe wrong way to work, you fool!'\n\nNo one else in the whole ship would have dared to call the Captain\n'You fool!' No one else could have done so without being put in\nchains. But the jester might do as he liked. His business was to make\nthe Captain laugh; and at these words he did laugh. 'Show me the right\nway to make him work, then,' said he. 'That I will gladly,' answered\nthe jester, 'we will have a bet. I will give you one golden guinea if\nI cannot make him draw ropes, if you will give me another if I do\ncompel him to do so.'\n\n'Marry that I will,' answered the Captain, and forthwith the two\nguineas were thrown down on the deck, rattling gaily, while all the\nship's company stood around to watch what should befall.\n\n'Then the jester called for two seamen and made them make two ropes\nfast to the wrists of my arms, and reeved the ropes through two blocks\nin the mizen shrouds on the starboard side, and hoisted me up aloft,\nand made the ropes fast to the gunwale of the ship, and I hung some\ntime. Then the jester called the ship's company to behold, and bear\nhim witness, that he made the Quaker hale the king's ropes; so\nveering the ropes they lowered me half-way down, then made me fast\nagain. \"Now,\" said the jester, \"noble Captain, you and the company see\nthat the Quaker haleth the king's ropes\"; and with that he commanded\nthem to let fly the ropes loose, when I fell on the deck. \"Now,\" said\nthe jester, \"noble Captain, the wager is won. He haled the ropes to\nthe deck, and you can hale them no further, nor any man else.\"'\n\nNot a very good joke, was it? It seems to have pleased the rough\nsailors since it set them a-laughing. But it was no laughing matter\nfor Richard Sellar to be set swinging in the air strung up by the\nwrists, and then to be bumped down upon deck again, fast bound and\nunable to move. The Captain did not laugh either. The thought of his\nlost money made him feel savage. In a loud, angry voice he called to\nthe boatswain's mate and bade him, 'Take the quakerly dog away, and\nput him to the capstan and make him work.'\n\nOnly the jester laughed, and chuckled to himself, as he gathered up\nthe golden guineas from the deck, and slapped his thighs for pleasure\nas he slipped them into his pockets.\n\nMeantime the boatswain's mate was having fine sport with the 'Quaker\ndog,' as he carried out the Captain's orders. Calling the roughest\nmembers of the crew to help him, they beat poor Richard cruelly, and\nabused him as they dragged him down into the darkness below deck.\n\n'Then he went,' says Richard, 'and sat him down upon a chest lid, and\nI went and sat down upon another beside him; then he fell upon me and\nbeat me again; then called his boy to bring him two lashings and he\nlashed my arms to the capstan's bars and caused the men to heave the\ncapstan about; and in three or four times passing about the lashings\nwere loosed, no man knew how, nor when, nor could they ever be found,\nalthough they sought them with lighted candles.'\n\nThe sailors had tied their prisoner with ropes to the heavy iron wheel\nin the stern of the boat called a capstan; so that as he moved he\nwould be obliged to drag it round and thus help to work the ship. They\nhad made their prisoner as fast as ever they could. Yet, somehow, here\nhe was free again, and his bonds had disappeared! The boatswain's mate\ncouldn't understand it, but he was determined to solve the mystery. He\nsent for a Bible and made the sailors swear upon it in turn, in that\ndark, ill-smelling den, that not one of them had loosed Richard. They\nall swore willingly, but even that did not content the mate. He\nthought they were lying, and would not let them go till he had turned\nout all their pockets, and found that not one of them contained the\nmissing lashings that had mysteriously disappeared. Then, at last,\neven the rough mate felt afraid. Richard seemed to be in his power and\ndefenceless: was he really protected by Something or Someone stronger\nthan any cruel men, the mate wondered?\n\nSo he called the sailors round him again, and spoke to them as\nfollows: 'Hear what I shall say unto you; you see this is a wonderful\nthing, which is done by an invisible hand, which loosed him, for none\nof you could see his hands loosed, that were so near him. I suppose\nthis man' (said he) 'is called a Quaker, and for conscience' sake\nrefuseth to act, therefore I am afflicted, and do promise before God\nand man that I will never beat, nor cause to be beaten, either Quaker\nor any other man that doth refuse, for conscience' sake, to fight for\nthe king. And if I do, I wish I may lose my right hand.' That was the\npromise of the boatswain's mate.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThree days later the Admiral of the whole fleet, Sir Edward Spragg,\ncame on board the _Royal Prince_. He was a very fine gentleman indeed.\nAt once every one began to tell him the same story: how they had\npressed a Quaker up at Scarborough in the North; how the Quaker had\nrefused to work, and had been given over to the boatswain's mate to be\nflogged; how the boatswain's mate had fallen upon him and had beaten\nhim furiously, but now refused to lay a finger upon him, saying that\nhe would no longer beat a Quaker or any other man for conscience'\nsake.\n\n'Send that boatswain's mate to me that he may answer for himself,'\nsaid the Admiral. 'Why would you not beat the Quaker?' he demanded in\na terrible voice, when the boatswain's mate was brought before him. 'I\nhave beat him very sore,' the mate answered, 'I seized his arms to the\ncapstan bars, and forced them to heave him about, and beat him, and\nthen sat down; and in three or four times of the capstan's going\nabout, the lashings were loosed, and he came and sat down by me; then\nI called the men from the capstan, and took them sworn, but they all\ndenied that they had loosed him, or knew how he was loosed; neither\ncould the lashings ever be found; therefore I did and do believe that\nit was an invisible power which set him at liberty, and I did promise\nbefore God and the company, that I would never beat a Quaker again,\nnor any man else for conscience' sake.' The Admiral told the mate that\nhe must lose both his cane of office and his place. He willingly\nyielded them both. He was also threatened with the loss of his right\nhand. He held it out and said, 'Take it from me if you please.' His\ncane was taken from him and he was displaced; but mercifully his right\nhand was not cut off: that was only a threat.\n\nThe Commander had now to find some one else to beat Richard Sellar. So\nhe gave orders to seven strong sailors (called yeomen) to beat Richard\nwhenever they met him, and to make him work. Beat him they did, till\nthey were tired; but they could not make him work or go against his\nconscience, which forbade him in any way to help in fighting. Then an\neighth yeoman was called, the strongest of all. The same order was\ngiven to him: 'Beat that Quaker as much as you like whenever you meet\nhim, only see that you make him work.' The eighth yeoman promised\ngladly in his turn, and said, 'I'll make him!' He too beat Richard for\na whole day and a night, till he too grew weary and asked to be\nexcused. Then another wonderful thing happened, stranger even than the\ndisappearance of the lashings. After all these cruel beatings the\nCommander ordered Richard's clothes to be taken off that he might see\nthe marks of the blows on his body. 'He caused my clothes to be stript\noff,' Richard says, 'shirt and all, from my head to my waist downward;\nthen he took a view of my body to see what wounds and bruises I had,\nbut he could find none,--no, not so much as a blue spot on my skin.\nThen the Commander was angry with them, for not beating me enough.\nThen the Captain answered him and said, \"I have beat him myself as\nmuch as would kill an ox.\" The jester said he had hung me a great\nwhile by the arms aloft in the shrouds. The men said they also had\nbeaten me very sore, but they might as well have beaten the main mast.\nThen said the Commander, \"I will cause irons to be laid upon him\nduring the king's pleasure and mine.\"'\n\nA marvellous story! After all these beatings, not a bruise or a mark\nto be seen! Probably it is not possible now to explain how it\nhappened. Of course we might believe that Richard was telling lies all\nthe time, and that either the sailors did not beat him or that the\nbruises did show. But why invent anything so unlikely? It is easier to\nbelieve that he was trying to tell the truth as far as he could, even\nthough we cannot understand it. Perhaps his heart was so happy at\nbeing allowed to suffer for what he thought right, that his body\nreally did not feel the cruel beatings, as it would have done if he\nhad been doing wrong and had deserved them. Or perhaps there are\nwonderful ways, unknown to us until we experience them for ourselves,\nin which God will, and can, and does protect His own true servants who\nare trying to obey Him. That is the most comforting explanation. If\never some one much bigger and stronger than we are tries to bully us\ninto doing wrong, let us remember that God does not save us _from_\npain and suffering always; but He can save us _through_ the very worst\npain, if only we are true to Him.\n\nAnyhow, though Richard's beatings were over for the time, other\ntroubles began. He was 'put in irons,' heavily loaded with chains, a\npunishment usually kept for the worst criminals, such as thieves and\nmurderers. All the crew were forbidden to bring him food and drink\neven though he was beginning to be ill with a fever--the result of all\nthe sufferings he had undergone. Happily there was one kind, brave man\namong the crew, the carpenter's mate. Although Sir Edward Spragg had\nsaid that any one giving food to Richard would have to share his\npunishment, this good man was not afraid, and did give the prisoner\nboth food and drink. All this time, Richard had been living on the\nprovisions that the two kind Friends, Thomasin Smales and Mary\nStringer, had sent him at Bridlington, having refused to eat the\nking's food, as he could not do the king's work.\n\nThankful indeed he must have felt when this kind carpenter's mate came\nand squeezed up against him among a crowd of sailors, and managed to\npass some meat and drink out of his own pocket and into Richard's. His\nnew friend did this so cleverly that nobody noticed. Pleased with his\nsuccess, he whispered to Richard, 'I'll bring you some more every day\nwhile you need food. You needn't mind taking things from me, for they\nare all bought out of my own money, not the king's.'\n\n'What makes thee so good to me?' whispered back Richard. He was\nweakened by fever and all unused to kindness on board the _Royal\nPrince_. Very likely the tears came into his eyes and his voice\ntrembled as he spoke, though he had borne all his beatings unmoved.\n\nThe carpenter's mate told him in reply that before he came on board,\nboth his wife and his mother had made him promise that if any Quakers\nshould be on the ship he would be kind to them. Also, that quite\nlately he had had a letter from them asking him 'to remember his\npromise, and be kind to Quakers, if any were on board.' How much we\nshould like to know what put it into the two women's hearts to think\nof such a thing! Were they Quakers themselves, or had they Quaker\nfriends? Once more there is no answer but: 'God will, and can, and\ndoes protect His own.'\n\nUnfortunately this kind man was sent away from the ship to do work\nelsewhere, and for three days and nights Richard lay in his heavy\nirons, with nothing either to eat or drink. Some sailors who had been\nquarrelling in a drunken brawl on deck were thrown into prison and\nchained up beside Richard. They were sorry for him and did their best\nto help him. They even gave him something to drink when they were\nalone, though for his sake they had to pretend that they were trying\nto hurt and kill him when any of the officers were present. These\nrough sailors pretended so well that one lieutenant, who had been\nspecially cruel to Richard before, now grew alarmed, and thought the\nother prisoners really would kill the Quaker.\n\nHe went up to Sir Edward's cabin and knocked at the door. 'Who is\nthere?' asked the cabin-boy.\n\n'I,' said the lieutenant, 'I want to speak to Sir Edward.' When he was\nadmitted he said, 'If it please your highness to remember that there\nis a poor Quaker in irons yet, that was laid in two weeks since, and\nthe other prisoners will kill him for us.'\n\n'We will have a Court Martial,' thought Sir Edward, 'and settle this\nQuaker's job once for all.'\n\nHe told the lieutenant to go for the keys and let Richard out, and to\nput a flag at the mizen-mast's head, and call a council of war, and\nmake all the captains come from all the other ships to try the Quaker.\n\nIt was not yet eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. At the signal, all\nthe captains of all the other ships came hurrying on board the _Royal\nPrince_, the Admiral's flag-ship. Richard was fetched up from his\nprison and brought before this council of war--or Court Martial as it\nwould be called now. The Admiral sat in the middle, very grand indeed;\nbeside him sat the judge of the Court Martial, 'who,' says Richard,\n'was a papist, being Governor of Dover Castle, who went to sea on\npleasure.' He probably looked grander still. Around these two sat the\nother naval captains from the other ships. Opposite all these great\npeople was Quaker Richard, so weakened by fever and lame from his\nheavy fetters that he could not stand, and had to be allowed to sit.\nThe Commander, to give Richard one more chance, asked him if he would\ngo aboard another ship, a tender with six guns. Richard's conscience\nwas still clear that he could have nothing to do with guns or\nfighting. He said he would rather stay where he was and abide his\npunishment.\n\nWhat punishment do you think the judge thought would be suitable for a\nman who had committed only the crime of refusing to fight, or to work\nto help those who were fighting?\n\n'The judge said I should be put into a barrel or cask _driven full of\nnails with their points inward and so rolled to death_; but the\ncouncil of war taking it into consideration, thought it too terrible a\ndeath and too much unchristianlike; so they agreed to hang me.'\n\n'Too much unchristianlike' indeed! The mere thought of such a\npunishment makes us shiver. The Governor of Dover Castle, who\nsuggested it, was himself a Roman Catholic. History tells how fiercely\nthe Roman Catholics persecuted the Protestants in Queen Mary's reign,\nwhen Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer, Hooper, and many others were burnt at\nthe stake for their religion. Since then times had changed, and when\nthe Protestants were in power they too had often persecuted the Roman\nCatholics in their turn. Perhaps someone whom this 'papist' judge had\nloved very much had been cruelly put to death, and perhaps that was\nthe reason he suggested this savage punishment for Quaker Richard. We\ndo not know how that may be. But we do know that cruelty makes\ncruelty, on and on without end. The only real way to stop it, is to\nturn right round and follow the other law, the blessed law, whereby\nlove makes love.\n\nRichard Sellar was only a rough, ignorant fisherman, but he had begun\nto learn this lesson out of Christ's lesson book: and how difficult a\nlesson it is, nobody knows who has not tried to carry it out.\n\nRichard heard his sentence pronounced, that he was to be hanged. When\nhe heard that he was being wrongfully accused of various crimes that\nhe had not committed, he longed to rise and justify himself, but he\ncould only sit or kneel because he was too weak to stand. In vain he\ntried to rise, and tried to speak. He could neither move nor say a\nword. He could not even say: 'I am innocent.' He could not even pray\nto God to help him in his difficulty. Again he tried to rise, and then\nsuddenly in his utter weakness he felt God's power holding him, and a\nVoice said quite distinctly, three times over, in his heart: 'BE\nSTILL--BE STILL--BE STILL.'\n\n'Which Voice,' says Richard, 'I obeyed and was comforted. Then I\nbelieved God would arise. And when they had done speaking, then God\ndid arise, and I was filled with the power of God; and my spirit\nlifted up above all earthly things; and wonderful strength was given\nme to my limbs, and my heart was full of the power and wisdom of God;\nand with glad tidings my mouth was opened, to declare to the people\nthe things God had made manifest to me. With sweat running down, and\ntears trickling from my eyes, I told them, \"The hearts of kings were\nin the hand of the Lord; and so are both yours and mine; and I do not\nvalue what you can do to this body, for I am at peace with God and all\nmen, and with you my adversaries. For if I might live an hundred and\nthirty years longer, I can never die in a better condition: for the\nLord hath satisfied me, that He hath forgiven me all things in this\nworld; and I am glad through His mercy, that He hath made me willing\nto suffer for His name's sake, and not only so, but I am heartily\nglad, and do really rejoice, and with a seal in my heart to the same.\"\nThen there came a man and laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said,\n\"Where are all thy accusers?\" Then my eyes were opened, and I looked\nabout me, and they were all gone.'\n\nThe Court Martial was over. Every one of the captains had disappeared.\nHis accusers were gone; but Richard's sentence remained, and was still\nto be carried out on the following morning. One officer, the same\nlieutenant who had been cruel to him before, was still unkind to him\nand called him 'a hypocrite Quaker,' but many others on board ship did\ntheir best to save him.\n\nFirst of all there came up an ancient soldier to the Admiral on the\nquarter-deck. He 'loosed down his knee-strings, and put down his\nstockings, and put his cap under his knees, and begged Sir Edward's\npardon three times' (this seems to have been the correct behaviour\nwhen addressing the Admiral), and the ancient soldier said, 'Noble Sir\nEdward, you know that I have served His Majesty under you many years,\nboth in this nation and other nations, by the sea, and you were always\na merciful man; therefore I do entreat you, in all kindness, to be\nmerciful to this poor man, who is condemned to die to-morrow; and only\nfor denying your order for fear of offending God, and for conscience'\nsake; and we have but one man on board, out of nine hundred and\nfifty--only one which doth refuse for conscience' sake; and shall we\ntake his life away? Nay, God forbid! For he hath already declared\nthat, if we take his life away there shall a judgment appear upon some\non board, within eight and forty hours; and to me it hath appeared;\ntherefore I am forced to come upon quarter-deck before you; and my\nspirit is one with his; therefore I desire you, in all kindness, to\ngive me the liberty, when you take his life away, to go off on board,\nfor I shall not be willing to serve His Majesty any longer on board of\nship; so I do entreat you once more to be merciful to this poor\nman--so God bless you, Sir Edward. I have no more to say to you.'\n\nNext came up the chief gunner--a more important man, for he had been\nhimself a captain--but he too 'loosed down his knee-strings, and did\nbeg the Admiral's pardon three times, being on his bare knees before\nSir Edward.'\n\nThen Sir Edward said, 'Arise up, gunner, and speak.'\n\nWhereupon the chief gunner answered, 'If it please your worship, Sir\nEdward, we know you are a merciful man, and therefore I entreat you,\nin all kindness, to be merciful to this poor man, in whom there\nremains something more than flesh and blood; therefore I entreat you,\nlet us not destroy that which is alive; neither endeavour to do it;\nand so God bless you, Sir Edward. I have no more to say to you.' Then\nhe too went away.\n\nIt was all of no use. Richard had been sentenced by the Court Martial\nto be hanged next morning, and hanged he must be.\n\nOnly Sir Edward--pleased perhaps at being told so often that he was a\nmerciful man, and willing to show that he had some small idea of what\nmercy meant--'gave orders that any that had a mind to give me victuals\nmight; and that I might eat and drink with whom I pleased; and that\nnone should molest me that day. Then came the lieutenant and sat down\nby me, whilst they were at their worship; and he would have given me\nbrandy, but I refused. Then the dinner came up to be served, and\nseveral gave me victuals to eat, and I did eat freely, and was kindly\nentertained that day. Night being come, a man kindly proffered me his\nhammock to lie in that night, because I had lain long in irons; and I\naccepted of his kindness, and laid me down, and I slept well that\nnight.'\n\n'The next morning being come, it being the second day of the week, on\nwhich I was to be executed, about eight o'clock in the morning, the\nrope being reeved on the mizen-yard's arm; and the boy ready to turn\nme off; and boats being come on board with captains from other ships,\nthat were of the council of war, who came on purpose to see me\nexecuted; I was therefore called to come to be executed. Then, I\ncoming to the execution place, the Commander asked the council how\ntheir judgment did stand now? So most of them did consent; and some\nwere silent. Then he desired me freely to speak my mind, if I had\nanything to say, before I was executed. I told him I had little at\npresent to speak. So there came a man, and bid me to go forward to be\nexecuted. So I stepped upon the gunwale, to go towards the rope. The\nCommander bid me stop there, if I had anything to say. Then spake the\njudge and said, \"Sir Edward is a merciful man, that puts that heretic\nto no worse death than hanging.\"'\n\nThe judge, the Governor of Dover Castle, was, as we have heard, a\nRoman Catholic. To him Sir Edward and Richard Sellar were both alike\nheretics, one not much worse than the other, since both were outside\nwhat he believed to be the only true Church.[38] Sir Edward knew this.\nTherefore on hearing the word 'heretic' he turned sharp round to the\njudge, 'What sayest thou?' Apparently the judge felt that he had been\nunwise to speak his candid thoughts, for he repeated the sentence,\nleaving out the irritating word 'heretic': 'I say you are a merciful\nman that puts him to no worse death than hanging.' Sir Edward knew\nthat he had not been mistaken in the word his sharp ears had caught.\n'But,' said he, 'what is the other word that thou saidst?' 'That\nheretic,' repeated the judge. 'I say,' said the Commander, 'he is more\nlike a Christian than thyself; for I do believe thou wouldst hang me\nif it were in thy power.'\n\n'Then said the Commander to me,' continues Richard, '\"Come down again,\nfor I will not hurt an hair of thy head; for I cannot make one hair\ngrow.\" Then he cried, \"Silence all men,\" and proclaimed it three times\nover, that if any man or men on board of the ship would come and give\nevidence that I had done anything that I deserved death for, I should\nhave it, provided they were credible persons. But no man came, neither\na mouth opened against me then. So he cried again, \"Silence all men,\nand hear me speak.\" Then he proclaimed that the Quaker was as free a\nman as any on board of the ship was. So the men heaved up their hats,\nand with a loud voice cried, \"God bless Sir Edward, he is a merciful\nman!\" The shrouds and tops and decks being full of men, several of\ntheir hats flew overboard and were lost.'\n\nWe will say good-bye to Richard there, with all the sailors huzzaing\nround him, throwing up their caps, and Sir Edward standing by with a\npleased smile, more pleased than ever now, since it was impossible for\nany one to deny that he was a merciful, a most merciful man. The\nchange for Richard himself, from being a condemned criminal loaded\nwith chains to being a universal favourite, must have been startling\nindeed, though his troubles were not over yet. Difficulties surrounded\nhim again when the actual battles with the Dutch began. But, though he\ncould not fight, and was therefore in perpetual danger, he could and\ndid help and heal.\n\nHis story tells us how he was able to save the whole ship's company\nfrom destruction more than once, and had more marvellous adventures\nthan there is time here to relate. He tells also how the persecuting\nlieutenant became his fast friend, and eventually helped him to get\nhis freedom.\n\nFor he did regain his liberty in the end, and was given a written\npermission to go home and earn his living as a fisherman. With this\nwriting in his hand no press-crew would dare to kidnap him again. So\nback he came to Scarborough, to the red-roofed cottage by the water's\nedge, to his unmended nets, and to the little daughter with whom we\nsaw him first. Most likely at this time George Fox was still a\nprisoner in the Castle. If so, one of the very first things Richard\ndid, we may be sure, was to climb the many stone steps up to the\nCastle and seek his friend in his cheerless prison. The fire smoke and\nthe rain would be forgotten by both men as they talked together, and\nGeorge Fox's face would light up as he heard the story of the lashings\nthat disappeared and the beatings that left no bruise. He was not a\nman who laughed easily, but doubtless he laughed once, at any rate, as\nhe listened to Richard's story, when he heard of the huzzaing sailors\nwhose hats fell off into the water because they were so energetically\nsure that 'Sir Edward was a very merciful man.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[38] The Roman Catholic gentry used sometimes to alarm their\nProtestant neighbours with blood-curdling announcements that the good\ntimes of Queen Mary were coming back, and 'faggotts should be deere\nyet' (G.M. Trevelyan, _England under the Stuarts_, p. 87).\n\n\n\n\nXXVII. TWO ROBBER STORIES. WEST AND EAST\n\n\n\n\n _'They were changed men\n themselves, before they went out\n to change others'--W. PENN,\n Testimony to George Fox._\n\n\n _'But when He comes to reign,\n whose right it is, then peace and\n goodwill is unto all men, and no\n hurt in all the holy mountain of\n the Lord is seen.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Wouldst thou love one who never died for thee,_\n _Or ever die for one who had not died for thee?_\n _And if God dieth not for Man and giveth not Himself_\n _Eternally for Man, Man could not exist, for Man is Love_\n _As God is Love. Every kindness to another is a little death_\n _In the Divine Image, nor can man exist but by brotherhood.'_\n _W. BLAKE, 'Jerusalem.'_\n\n\n _'England is as a family of\n prophets which must spread over\n all nations, as a garden of\n plants, and the place where the\n pearl is found which must enrich\n all nations with the heavenly\n treasure, out of which shall the\n waters of life flow, and water all\n the thirsty ground, and out of\n which nation and dominion must go\n the spiritually weaponed and armed\n men, to fight and conquer all\n nations and bring them to the\n nation of God.'--Epistle of\n Skipton General Meeting, 1660._\n\n\n\n\nXXVII. TWO ROBBER STORIES. WEST AND EAST\n\nI\n\nLEONARD FELL AND THE HIGHWAYMAN\n\n\nIn that same memorable summer of 1652 when George Fox first visited\nSwarthmoor Hall and 'bewitched' the household there, he also met and\n'bewitched' another member of the Fell family. This was one Leonard\nFell, a connection of the Judge, whose home was at Baycliff in the\nsame county of Lancashire. Thither George Fox came on his travels\nshortly after his first visit to Swarthmoor, when only Margaret Fell\nand her children were at home, and before his later visit after Judge\nFell's return.\n\n'I went to Becliff,' says the Journal, 'where Leonard Fell was\nconvinced, and became a minister of the everlasting Gospel. Several\nothers were convinced there and came into obedience to truth. Here the\npeople said they could not dispute, and would fain have put some\nothers to hold talk with me, but I bid them, \"Fear the Lord and not in\na light way hold a talk of the Lord's words, but put the things in\npractice.\"'\n\nLeonard Fell did indeed put his new faith 'in practice.' He left his\nhome and followed his teacher, sharing with him many of the perils and\ndangers of his journeys in the Service of Truth. Up and down and\nacross the length and breadth of England the two men travelled side by\nside along the hedgeless English roads. At first as they went along,\nLeonard Fell watched George Fox with sharp eyes, in his dealings with\nthe different people they met on their journeys, in order to discover\nhow his teacher would 'put into practice' the central truth he\nproclaimed: that in every man, however degraded, there remains some\nhidden spark of the Divine. But put it in practice George Fox did,\ntill at length Leonard Fell, too, learned to look for 'that of God\nwithin' every one he met, learned to depend upon finding it, and to be\nable to draw it out in his turn.\n\nOne day, Leonard was travelling in the 'Service of Truth,' not in\nGeorge Fox's company but alone, when, as he crossed a desolate moor on\nhorseback, he heard the thunderous sound of horses' hoofs coming after\nhim down the road. Looking round, he beheld a masked and bearded\nhighwayman, his figure enveloped in a long flowing cloak, rapidly\napproaching on a far swifter horse than his own 'Truth's pony.' A\nmoment later, a pistol was drawn from the newcomer's belt and pointed\nfull at Leonard's head.\n\n'Another step and you are a dead man! Your money or your life, and be\nquick about it!' said the highwayman, as he suddenly pulled the curb\nand checked his foam-covered horse. At this challenge, Leonard\nobediently pulled up his own steed with his left hand, while, with his\nright, he drew out his purse and handed it over to the robber without\na word.\n\nThe pistol still remained at full cock, pointed straight at his head.\n'Your horse next,' demanded the stranger. 'It is a good beast. Though\nnot as swift as mine I can find a use for it in my profession.\nDismount; or I fire.'\n\nIn perfect silence Leonard dismounted, making no objection, and gave\nhis horse's bridle into the highwayman's outstretched hand. Then at\nlast, the threatened pistol was lowered, and replaced in the robber's\nbelt. Throwing the folds of his long cloak over one shoulder, and\ncarefully adjusting his mask, that not a glimpse of either face or\nfigure should betray his identity, he prepared to depart, leaving his\nvictim penniless and afoot on the wide, desolate moor. But, though the\nhighwayman had now finished with the Quaker, the Quaker had by no\nmeans finished with the highwayman.\n\nIt was now Leonard's turn to be aggressive. Standing there on the\nbleak road, alone and unarmed, Leonard Fell raised a warning hand, and\nsolemnly rebuked his assailant for his evil deeds. At the same time he\nadmonished him that it was not yet too late for him to repent and lead\na righteous life, before his hour for repentance should be forever\npassed.\n\nThis was a most surprising turn of events for the highwayman. At first\nhe listened silently, too much astonished to speak. Leonard however\ndid not mince matters, and before he had finished his exhortation the\nother man was in a furious rage. Never before had any of his victims\ntreated him in this fashion. Curses, tears, despair, those were all to\nbe expected in his 'profession'; but this extraordinary man was\nneither beseeching him for money nor swearing at him in anger. His\nvictim was merely giving a solemn, yet almost friendly warning to the\nrobber of his horse and of his gold.\n\n'You, you cowardly dog!' blustered Leonard's assailant. 'You let me\nrob you of your purse and of your steed like a craven! You could not\neven pluck up courage to defend yourself. Yet now, you actually dare\nto stand and preach at ME, in the middle of the King's highway?'\n\nThe pistol was out again with a flourish. This time Leonard faced it\ncalmly, making no movement to defend himself.\n\n'I would not risk my life to defend either my money or my horse,' he\nanswered, looking up straight at the muzzle with a steady eye, 'but I\nwill lay it down gladly, if by so doing I can save thy soul.'\n\nThis unexpected answer was altogether too much for the highwayman.\nThough his finger was already on the trigger of the pistol, that\ntrigger was never pulled. He sat motionless on his horse, staring\nthrough the holes in his mask, down into the eyes of his intended\nvictim, as if he would read his inmost soul.\n\nThis astonishing man, whom he had taken for a coward, was calmly ready\nand was apparently quite willing to give his life--his life!--in order\nto save his enemy's soul. The robber had almost forgotten that he had\na soul. His manhood was black and stained now by numberless deeds of\nviolence, by crimes, too many remembered and far more forgotten. Yet\nhe had once known what it was to feel tender and white and innocent.\nHe had certainly possessed a soul long ago. Did it still exist?\nApparently the stranger was convinced that it must, since he was\nactually prepared to stake his own life upon its eternal welfare.\nSurprising man! He really cared what became of a robber's soul. It was\nimpossible to wish to murder or even to steal from such an one. There\ncould not be another like him, the wide world over. He had best be\nallowed to continue on his unique adventure of discovering souls, a\nmuch more dangerous career it seemed to be than any mere everyday\nhighwayman's 'profession.'\n\nAs these thoughts passed through the robber's mind, his hand sought\nthe folds of his cloak, and then drawing Leonard's purse forth from a\ndeep convenient pocket, he returned it to its owner, stooping over\nhim, as he did so, with a low and courtly bow. Next, putting the\nhorse's bridle also back into Leonard's hand, 'If you are such a man\nas that,' the highwayman said, 'I will take neither your money nor\nyour horse!'\n\nA moment later, as if already ashamed of his impulsive generosity, he\nset spurs to his horse and disappeared as swiftly as he had come.\n\nLeonard, meanwhile, remounting, pursued his way in safety, with both\nhis horse and his money once more restored to him. But more precious,\nby far, than either, was the knowledge that his friend's teaching had\nagain been proved to be true. In his own experience he had discovered\nthat there really and truly is an Inward Light that does shine still,\neven in the hearts of wicked men. Thus was Leonard Fell in his turn\nenabled to 'put these things in practice.'\n\n\nII\n\nON THE ROAD TO JERUSALEM\n\nA few years later, on another desolate road, crossing another lonely\nplain, another traveller met with a very similar adventure thousands\nof miles away from England. Only this traveller's experiences were\nmuch worse than Leonard Fell's. He was not only attacked by three\nrobbers instead of one alone, but this happened amid many other far\nworse dangers and narrower escapes. Possibly he even looked back, in\nafter days, to his encounter with the robbers as one of the pleasanter\nparts of his journey!\n\nThis traveller's name was George Robinson, and he was an English\nQuaker and a London youth. He has left the record of his experiences\nin a few closely printed pages at the end of a very small book.\n\n'In the year 1657,' he writes, 'about the beginning of the seventh\nmonth [September], as I was waiting upon the Lord in singleness of\nheart, His blessed presence filled me and by the power of His Spirit\ndid command me to go unto Jerusalem, and further said to me, \"Thy\nsufferings shall be great, but I will bear thee over them all.\"'\n\nThis was no easy journey for anyone in those days, least of all for a\npoor man such as George Robinson. However, he set out obediently, and\nwent by ship to Leghorn in Italy. There he waited a fortnight until he\ncould get a passage in another ship bound for St. Jean d'Acre, on the\ncoast of Palestine, where centuries before Richard Coeur de Lion had\ndisembarked with his Crusaders. Innumerable other pilgrims had landed\nthere, since Richard's time, on their way to see the Holy Places at\nJerusalem. George Robinson refused to call himself a pilgrim, but he\nhad a true pilgrim's heart that no difficulties could turn back or\ndismay.\n\nAfter staying for eight days in the house of a French merchant at\nAcre, he set sail in yet a third ship that was bound for Joppa (or\nJaffa, as it is called now). 'But the wind rising against us,'\nRobinson says in his narrative, 'we came to an anchor and the next\nmorning divers Turks came aboard, and demanded tribute of those called\nChristians in the vessel, which they paid for fear of sufferings but\nvery unwillingly, their demands being very unreasonable, and in like\nmanner demanded of me, but I refusing to pay as according to their\ndemands, they threatened to beat the soles of my feet with a stick,\nand one of them would have put his hand into my pocket, but the\nchiefest of them rebuked him. Soon after they began to take me out of\nthe vessel to effect their work, but one of the Turks belonging to the\nvessel speaking to them as they were taking me ashore, they let me\nalone, wherein I saw the good Hand of God preserving me.... After\nthis, about three or four days we came to Joppa.'\n\nAnd there at Joppa (or Jaffa), where Jonah long ago had embarked for\nTarshish, and where Peter on the house-top had had his vision of the\ngreat white sheet, our traveller landed. He proceeded straightway on\nwhat he hoped would have been the last stage of his long journey to\nJerusalem.\n\nAlas! he was mistaken. A few pleasant hours of travel he had, as he\npassed through the palm-groves that encircle the city of Jaffa, and\nover the first few miles of dusty road that cross the famous Plain of\nSharon. Ever as he journeyed he could see the tall tower of Ramleh,\nbuilt by the Crusaders hundreds of years before, growing taller as he\napproached, rising in the sunset like a rosy finger to beckon him\nacross the Plains. When he reached it, in the shadow of the tall Tower\nenemies were lurking. Certain friars up at Jerusalem, in the hilly\ncountry that borders the plain, had heard from their brethren at Acre\nthat a heretic stranger from England was coming on foot to visit the\nHoly City. Now these friars, although they called themselves\nFranciscans, were no true followers of St. Francis, the 'little poor\nman of God,' that gentlest saint and truest lover of holy poverty and\nholy peace. These Jerusalem friars had forgotten his teaching, and\nlived on the gains they made off pilgrims; therefore, hearing that the\nheretic stranger from heretic England was travelling independently and\nnot on a pilgrimage, they feared that he might spoil their business at\nthe Holy Shrines. Accordingly they sent word to their brethren, the\nfriars of Ramleh in the plain, to waylay him and turn him back as soon\nas he had reached the first stage of his journey from Jaffa on the\ncoast.\n\n'The friars of Jerusalem,' says Robinson, 'hearing of my coming, gave\norders unto some there [at Ramleh] to stay me, which accordingly was\ndone; for I was taken and locked up in a room for one night and part\nof the day following, and then had liberty to go into the yard, but as\na prisoner; in which time the Turks showed friendship unto me, one\nancient man especially, of great repute, who desired that I might come\nto his house, which thing being granted, he courteously entertained\nme.'\n\nFour or five days later there came down an Irish friar from Jerusalem\nto see the prisoner. At first he spoke kindly to him, and greeted him\nas a fellow-countryman, seeing that they both came from the distant\nIsles of Britain, set in their silver seas. Presently it appeared,\nhowever, that he had not come out of friendship, but as a messenger\nfrom the friars at Jerusalem, to insist that the Englishman must make\nfive solemn promises before he could be allowed to proceed on his\njourney. He must promise:\n\n'1. That he would visit the Holy Places [so the friar called them] as\nother pilgrims did.\n\n2. And give such sums of money as is the usual manner of pilgrims.\n\n3. Wear such a sort of habit as is the manner of pilgrims.\n\n4. Speak nothing against the Turks' laws.\n\n5. And when he came to Jerusalem not to speak anything about\nreligion.'\n\nGeorge Robinson had no intention of promising any one of these\nthings--much less all five. 'I stand in the will of God, and shall do\nas He bids me,' was the only answer he would make, which did not\nsatisfy the Irish friar. Determined that his journey should not have\nbeen in vain, and persuasion having proved useless, he sought to\naccomplish his object by force. Taking his prisoner, therefore, he set\nhim on horseback, and surrounding him with a number of armed guards,\nboth horsemen and footmen, whom he had brought down from Jerusalem for\nthe purpose, he himself escorted George Robinson back for the second\ntime to Jaffa. There, that very day, he put him aboard a vessel on the\npoint of sailing for Acre. Then, clattering back with his guards\nacross the plain of Sharon, the Irish friar probably assured the\nRamleh friars that they had nothing more to fear from that heretic.\n\nNothing could turn George Robinson from his purpose. He was still\nquite sure that his Master had work for His servant to do in His Own\nCity of Jerusalem; and, therefore, to Jerusalem that servant must go.\nHe was obliged to stay for three weeks at Acre before he could find a\nship to carry him southwards again. He lodged at this time at the\nhouse of a kind French merchant called by the curious name of Surrubi.\n\n'A man,' Robinson says, 'that I had never seen before (that I knew\nof), who friendly took me into his house as I was passing along, where\nI remained about twenty days.'\n\nSurrubi was a most courteous host to his Quaker visitor. He used to\nsay that he was sure God had sent him to his house as an honoured\nguest. 'For,' he continued, 'when my own countrymen come to me, they\nare little to me, but thee I can willingly receive.' 'The old man\nwould admire the Lord's doing in this thing, and he did love me\nexceedingly much,' his visitor records gratefully. 'But the friars had\nso far prevailed with the Consul that in twenty days I could not be\nreceived into a vessel for to go to Jerusalem, so that I knew not but\nto have gone by land; yet it was several days' journey, and I knew not\nthe way, not so much as out of the city, besides the great difficulty\nthere is in going through the country beyond my expression; yet I, not\nlooking at the hardships but at the heavenly will of our Lord, I was\nmade to cry in my heart, \"Lord, Thy will be done and not mine.\" And so\nbeing prepared to go, and taking leave of the tender old man, he\ncried, \"I should be destroyed if I went by land,\" and would not let me\ngo.'\n\nThe friars had told the Consul that Robinson had refused to accept\ntheir conditions, 'He will turn Turk,' they said, 'and be a devil.'\nBut, thanks to Surrubi's kindness and help, after much trouble\nRobinson was at length set aboard another ship bound for the south.\nAnd thus after bidding a grateful farewell to his host, he made a\nquick passage and came for the second time to Jaffa. Again he set\nforth on his last perilous journey. Only a few miles of fertile plain\nto cross, only a few hours of climbing up the dim blue hills that were\nalready in view on the horizon, and then at last he should reach his\ngoal, the Holy City.\n\nEven yet it was not to be! This time his troubles began before ever he\ncame within sight of the tall Tower of Ramleh, under whose shadow his\nenemies, the friars, were still lying in wait for him. He says that\nhaving 'left the ship and paid his passage, and having met with many\npeople on the way, they peacefully passed him by until he had gone\nabout six miles out of Jaffa.' But on the long straight road that runs\nlike a dusty white ribbon across the wide parched Plain of Sharon, he\nbeheld three other figures coming towards him. Two of them rode on the\nstately white asses used by travellers of the East. The third, a\nperson of less consequence, followed on foot. As they came nearer, our\ntraveller noticed that they all carried guns as well as fierce-looking\ndaggers stuck in their swathed girdles. However, arms are no unusual\naccompaniments for a journey in that country, so Robinson still hoped\nto be allowed to pass with a peaceable salutation. Instead of bowing\nthemselves in return, according to the beautiful Oriental custom, with\nthe threefold gesture that signifies 'My head, my lips, and my heart\nare all at your service,' and the spoken wish that his day might be\nblessed, the three men rushed at the English wayfarer and threw\nthemselves upon him, demanding money. One man held a gun with its\nmuzzle touching Robinson's breast, another searched his pockets and\ntook out everything that he could find, while the third held the\nasses. 'I, not resisting them,' is their victim's simple account,\n'stood in the fear of the Lord, who preserved me, for they passed\naway, and he that took my things forth of my pockets put them up\nagain, taking nothing from me, nor did me the least harm. But one of\nthem took me by the hand and led me on my way in a friendly manner,\nand so left me.... So I, passing through like dangers through the\ngreat love of God, which caused me to magnify His holy name, came,\nthough in much weakness of body, to Ramleh.'\n\nAt Ramleh worse dangers even than he had met with on his former visit\nwere awaiting him. Many more perils and hairbreadth escapes had yet to\nbe surmounted before he could say that his feet--his tired feet--had\nstood 'within thy gates, O Jerusalem.' Throughout these later\nhardships his faith must have been strengthened by the memory of his\nencounter with the robbers, and the victory won by the everlasting\npower of meekness.\n\nEast or West, the Master's command can always be followed: the command\nnot to fight evil with evil, but to overcome evil with good.\n\nLeonard Fell was given his opportunity of 'putting in practice the\nthings he had learned' as he travelled in England. Our later pilgrim\nhad the honour of being tested in the Holy Land itself:\n\n 'In those holy fields,\n Over whose acres walked those blessed feet,\n Which [nineteen] hundred years ago were nailed\n For our advantage on the bitter cross.'\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII. SILVER SLIPPERS: OR A QUAKERESS AMONG THE TURKS\n\n\n\n\n _'If romance, like laughter, is\n the child of sudden glory, the\n figure of Mary Fisher is the most\n romantic in the early Quaker\n annals.'--MABEL BRAILSFORD._\n\n\n _'Truly Mary Fisher is a precious\n heart, and hath been very\n serviceable here.'--HENRY FELL to\n Margt. Fell. (Barbadoes, 1656.)_\n\n\n _'My dear Father ... Let me not be\n forgotten of thee, but let thy\n prayers be for me that I may\n continue faithful to the end. If\n any of your Friends be free to\n come over, they may be\n serviceable; here are many\n convinced, and many desire to know\n the way, so I rest.'--MARY FISHER\n to George Fox. (Barbadoes, 1655.)_\n\n\n _'This English maiden would not be\n at rest before she went in purpose\n to the great Emperor of the Turks,\n and informed him concerning the\n errors of his religion and the\n truth of hers.'--GERARD CROESE._\n\n\n _'Henceforth, my daughter, do\n manfully and without hesitation\n those things which by the ordering\n of providence will be put into thy\n hands; for being now armed with the\n fortitude of the faith, thou wilt\n happily overcome all thy\n adversaries.'--CATHERINE OF SIENA._\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII. SILVER SLIPPERS: OR A QUAKERESS AMONG THE TURKS\n\nI\n\n\nThe Grand Turk had removed his Court from Constantinople. His\nbeautiful capital city by the Golden Horn was in disgrace, on account\nof the growing disaffection of its populace and the frequent mutinies\nof its garrison. For the wars of Sultan Mahomet against the Republic\nof Venice were increasingly unpopular in his capital, whose treasuries\nwere being drained to furnish constant relays of fresh troops for\nfurther campaigns. Therefore, before its citizens became even more\nbankrupt in their allegiance than they already were in their purses,\nthe ancient Grand Vizier advised his young master to withdraw, for a\nwhile, the radiance of his imperial countenance from the now sullen\ncity beside the Golden Horn. Thus it came about that in the late\nautumn of 1657, Sultan Mahomet, accompanied by his aged minister,\nsuddenly departed with his whole Court, and took up his residence\nclose outside the still loyal city of Adrianople. His state entry into\nthat town was of surpassing splendour, since both the Sultan and his\nMinister were desirous to impress the citizens, in order to persuade\nthem to open their purse-strings and reveal their hidden hoards.\nMoreover, they were ever more wishful to dazzle and overawe the\nVenetian Ambassador, Ballerino, who was still kept by them,\nunrighteously, a prisoner in the said town.\n\nA full hour or more was the long cavalcade in passing over the narrow\nstone bridge that spans the turbid Maritza outside the walls of\nAdrianople. In at the great gate, and down the one, long, meandering\nstreet of the city, the imperial procession wound, moving steadily and\neasily along, since, an hour or two previously, hundreds of slaves had\nfilled up the cavernous holes in the roadway with innumerable barrel\nloads of sawdust, in honour of the Sultan's arrival. Surrounded by\nmultitudes of welcoming citizens, the procession wound its way at\nlength out on the far side of the city. There, amid a semicircle of\nlow hills, clothed with chestnut woods, the imperial encampment of\nhundreds and thousands of silken tents shone glistening in the\nsun.[39]\n\nIn one of the most splendid apartments of the Sultan's own most\nmagnificent pavilion, the two chief personages who presided over this\nmarvellous silken city might have been seen, deep in conversation, one\nsultry evening in June 1658, a few months after the Court had taken\nup its residence outside the walls of Adrianople. They formed a\nstrange contrast: the boy Sultan and his aged Grand Vizier, Kuprueli\nthe Albanian. Sultan Mahomet, the 'Grand Seignior' of the whole\nTurkish Empire, was no strong, powerful man, but a mere stripling who\nhad been scarred and branded for life, some say even deformed, by an\nattack made upon him in earliest infancy by his own unnatural father,\nthe Sultan Ibrahim. This cruel maniac (whose only excuse was that he\nwas not in possession of more than half his wits at the time) had been\nseized with a fit of ungovernable rage against the ladies of his\nharem, and in his fury had done his best to slay his own son and heir.\nHappily he had not succeeded in doing more than maim the child, and,\nbefore long, imprisonment and the bow-string put an end to his\ndangerous career. But though the boy Sultan had escaped with his life,\nand had now reached the age of sixteen years, he never attained to an\nimposing presence. He has been described as 'a monster of a man,\ndeformed in body and mind, stupid, logger-headed, cruel, fierce as to\nhis visage,' though this would seem to be an exaggeration, since\nanother account speaks of him as 'young and active, addicted wholly to\nthe delight of hunting and to follow the chase of fearful and flying\nbeasts.' In order to have more leisure for these sports he was wont to\ndepute all the business of government to his Grand Vizier, the aged\nAlbanian chieftain Kuprueli, who now, bending low before his young\nmaster, so that the hairs of his white beard almost swept the ground,\nwas having one of his farewell audiences before departing for the\nbattlefield. Kuprueli, though over eighty years of age, was about to\nface danger for the sake of the boy ruler, who lounged luxuriously on\nhis cushions, glittering with jewels, scented and effeminate, with\nsidelong, cunning glances and cruel lips. Yet even Sultan Mahomet,\ntouched by his aged Minister's devotion, had been fired with unwonted\ngenerosity: 'Ask what you will and you shall have it, even unto the\nhalf of my kingdom,' he was exclaiming with true Oriental fervour.\n\nThe Grand Vizier again swept the ground with his long white beard,\nprotesting that he was but a humble dead dog in his master's sight,\nand that one beam from the imperial eyes was a far more precious\nreward than the gold and jewels of the whole universe. Nevertheless,\nthe Sultan detected a shade of hesitation in spite of the\nmagniloquence of this refusal. There was something the Grand Vizier\nwished to ask. He must be yet further encouraged.\n\n'Thou hast a boon at heart; I read it in thy countenance,' the Sultan\ncontinued, 'ask and fear not. Be it my fairest province for thy\nrevenues, my fleetest Arab for thy stable, my whitest Circassian\nbeauty for thine own, thou canst demand it at this moment without\nfear.' So saying, as if to prove his words, he waved away with one\nhand the Court Executioner who stood ever at his side when he gave\naudience, ready to avenge the smallest slip in etiquette.\n\nThe Grand Vizier looked on the ground, still hesitating and troubled,\n'The Joy of the flourishing tree and the Lord of all Magnificence is\nmy Lord,' he answered slowly, 'the gift I crave is unworthy of his\nbountiful goodness. How shall one small speck of dust be noticed in\nthe full blaze of the noonday sun? Yet, in truth, I have promised this\nmere speck of dust, this white stranger woman, by the mouth of my\ninterpreter, that I would mention to my lord's sublimity her desire to\nbask in the sunshine of his rays and----'\n\n'A white, stranger woman,' interrupted the Sultan eagerly, 'desiring\nto see me? Nay, then, the boon is of thy giving, not of mine. Tell me\nmore! Yet it matters not. Were she beauteous as the crescent at even,\nor ill-favoured as a bird of prey, she shall yet be welcome for thy\nsake, O faithful Servant, be she a slave or a queen. Tell me only her\nname and whence she comes.'\n\nAgain the Grand Vizier made obeisance. 'Neither foul nor fair, neither\nyoung nor old, neither slave nor queen,' he replied. 'She is in truth\na marvel, like to none other these eyes have seen in all their\nfourscore years and more. Tender as the dewdrop is her glance; yet\ncold as snow is her behaviour. Weak as water in her outward seeming;\nyet firm and strong as ice is she in strength of inward purpose.'\n\n'Of what nation is this Wonder?' enquired the Sultan. 'She can\nscarcely be a follower of the Prophet, on whom be peace, since thou\nappearest to have gazed upon her unveiled countenance?'\n\n'Nay, herein is the greatest marvel,' returned the Minister, 'it is an\nEnglishwoman, come hither in unheard fashion over untrodden ways, with\na tale to tickle the ears. She tells my interpreter (who alone, as\nyet, hath spoken with her) that her home is in the cold grey isle of\nBritain. That there she dwelt many years in lowly estate, being indeed\nbut a serving-maid in a town called Yorkshire; or so my interpreter\nunderstands. She saith that there she heard the voice of Allah\nHimself, calling her to be His Minister and Messenger, heard and\nstraightway obeyed. Sayeth, moreover, that she hath already travelled\nin His service beyond the utmost western sea, even to the new land\ndiscovered by that same Cristofero of Genoa, whose fellow citizens are\nat this hour dwelling in our city yonder. Sayeth that in that far\nwestern land she hath been beaten and imprisoned. Yet, nevertheless,\nshe was forbidden to rest at home until she had carried her message\n\"as far to the East as to the West,\" or some such words. That having\nthus already visited the land where sleeps the setting sun of western\nskies, she craveth now an audience with the splendid morning Sun, the\nlight of the whole East; even the Grand Seignior, who is as the Shade\nof God Himself.'\n\n'For what purpose doth she desire an audience?' enquired the Sultan\nmoodily.\n\n'Being a mere woman and therefore without skill, she can use only\nsimple words,' answered the Grand Vizier. '\"Tell the Sultan I have\nsomething to declare unto him from the Most High God,\" such is her\nmessage; but who heedeth what a woman saith? \"Never give ear to the\ncounsels and advices of woman\" is the chiefest word inscribed upon the\nheart of a wise king, as I have counselled ever. Yet, this once,\nseeing that this maiden is wholly unlike all other women, it might be\nwell to let her bask in the rays of glory rather than turn her\nunsatisfied away----.' The Vizier paused expectantly. The Sultan\nremained looking down, toying with the pearl and turquoise sheath of\nthe dagger stuck in his girdle. 'A strange tale,' he said at last, 'it\ninterests me not, although I feel an unknown Power that forces me to\nlisten to thy words. Her name?' he suddenly demanded, lifting his eyes\nonce more to his Minister's face.\n\n'She gives it not,' returned the other, 'speaketh of herself as but a\nMessenger, repeating ever, \"Not I, but His Word.\" Yet my interpreter,\nhaving caused enquiries to be made, findeth that those with whom she\nlodgeth in the city do speak of her as Maree. Also, some peasants who\nfound her wandering on the mountains when the moon was full, and\nbrought her hither, speak of her by the name of Miriam. Marvelling at\nthe whiteness of her skin, they deem she is a witch or Moon Maiden\ncome hither by enchantment. Yet must she on no account be hurt or\ndisregarded, they say, since she is wholly guileless of evil spells,\nand under the special protection of Issa Ben Miriam, seeing that she\nbeareth his mother's name.'\n\nThe Sultan was growing impatient. 'A fit tale for ignorant peasants,'\nhe declared. 'Me it doth not deceive. This is but another English\nvagabond sent hither by that old jackal Sir Thomas Bendish, their\nAmbassador at Constantinople, to dog my footsteps even here, and\nreport my doings to him. I will not see her, were she ten times a\nwitch, since she is of his nation and surely comes at his behest.'\n\n'Let my lord slay his servant with his own hands rather than with his\ndistrust,' returned the Grand Vizier. 'Had she come from Sir Thomas\nBendish, or by his orders, straightway to him she should have\nreturned. She hath never even seen him, nor so much as set eyes on our\nsacred city beside the Golden Horn. Had she gazed even from a distance\nupon the most holy Mosque of the Sacred Wisdom at Constantinople, she\nhad surely been less utterly astonished at the sight of even our noble\nSultan Selim in this city.' So saying, the Grand Vizier turned to the\nentrance of the pavilion, and gazed towards the town of Adrianople\nlying in the plain beneath, beyond the poplar-bordered stream of the\nMaritza. High above all other buildings rose the great Mosque of\nSultan Selim, with its majestic dome surrounded by slender\nsky-piercing minarets. Its 999 windows shone glorious in the rays of\nthe setting sun:--Sultan Selim, the glory of Adrianople, the ruin of\nthe architect who schemed its wondrous beauty; since he, poor wretch,\nwas executed on the completion of the marvel, for this crime only,\nthat he had placed 999 windows within its walls, and had missed,\nthough but by one, the miracle of a full thousand.\n\nThe Vizier continued: 'The woman declares she hath come hither on\nfoot, alone and unattended. Her tale is that she came by the sea from\nthe Isles of Britain with several companions (filled all of them with\nthe same desire to behold the face of the Sublime Magnificence) so far\nas Smyrna; where, declaring their wish unto the English Consul there,\nhe, like a wise-hearted man, advised her and her companions \"by all\nmeans to forbear.\"\n\n'They not heeding and still urgently beseeching him to bring them\nfurther on their journey, the Consul dissembled and used guile.\nTherefore, the while he pretended all friendliness and promised to\nhelp forward their enterprise, he in truth set them instead on board a\nship bound for Venice and no wise for Constantinople, hoping thereby\nto thwart their purpose, and to force them to return to their native\nland. Some of the company, discovering this after the ship had set\nsail, though lamenting, did resign themselves to their fate. Only this\nmaid, strong in soul, would not be turned from her purpose, but\ndeclared constantly that Allah, who had commanded her to come, would\nsurely bring her there where He would have her, even to the presence\nof the Grand Seignior himself. And lo! even as she spoke, a violent\nstorm arose, the ship was driven out of her course and cast upon the\nIsland of Zante with its rugged peaks; and there, speaking to the\nship-master, she persuaded him to put her ashore on the opposite coast\nof the mainland, even at the place known as the Black Mountain; and\nthence she hath made her way hither on foot, alone, and hath met with\nnothing but lovingkindness from young and old, so she saith, as the\nMessenger of the Great King.'\n\nThe Sultan's interest was aroused at last: 'Afoot--from the Black\nMountain!--incredible! A woman, and alone! It is a journey of many\nhundreds of miles, and through wild, mountainous country. What proof\nhast thou that she speaketh truly?'\n\n'My interpreter hath questioned her closely as to her travels. His\nhome is in that region, and he is convinced that she has indeed seen\nthe places she describes. Also, she carries ever in her breast a small\nsprig of fadeless sea-lavender that groweth only on the Black Mountain\nslopes, and sayeth that the sea captain plucked it as he set her\nashore, telling her that it was even as her courage, seeing that it\nwould never fade.'\n\nBut the Sultan's patience was exhausted: 'I must see this woman and\njudge for myself, not merely hear of her from aged lips,' he\nexclaimed. 'Witch or woman--moonbeam or maiden--she shall declare\nherself in my presence. Only, since she doth dare to call herself the\nmessenger of the Most High God, let her be accorded the honours of an\nAmbassador, that all men may know that the Sultan duly regardeth the\nmessage of Allah.'\n\n\nII\n\nOn a divan of silken cushions in the guest chamber of a house in the\ncity of Adrianople, a woman lay, still and straight. Midnight was long\npast. Outside, the hot wind could be heard every now and then,\nlistlessly flapping the carved wooden lattice-work shutters of an\noverhanging balcony built out on timber props over the river Maritza,\nwhose turbid waters surged beneath with steady plash. Inside, the\nstriped silken curtains were closely drawn. The atmosphere was stuffy\nand airless, filled with languorous aromatic spices.\n\nMary Fisher could not sleep: she lay motionless as the slow hours\npassed; gazing into the darkness with wide, unseeing eyes, while she\nthought of all that the coming day would bring. The end of her\nincredible journey was at hand. The Grand Vizier's word was pledged.\nThe Grand Turk himself would grant her an audience before the hour of\nnoon, to receive her Message from the Great King.\n\nHer Message. Through all the difficulties and dangers of her journey,\nthat Message had sustained her. As she had tramped over steep mountain\nranges, or won a perilous footing in the water-courses of dry hillside\ntorrents, more like staircases than roads, thoughts and words had\noften rushed unbidden to her mind and even to her lips. No\ndifficulties could daunt her with that Message still undelivered. Many\nan evening as she lay down beneath the gnarled trees of an olive\ngrove, or cooled her aching feet in the waters of some clear stream,\nfar beyond any bodily refreshment the intense peace of the Message she\nwas sent to deliver had quieted the heart of the weary messenger. Only\nnow that her goal was almost reached, all power of speech or thought\nseemed to be taken from her. But, though a candle may burn low, may\neven for a time be extinguished, it still carries securely within it\nthe possibility of flame. Even so the Messenger of the Great King lay,\nhour after hour, in the hot night silence; not sleeping, yet smiling:\nphysically exhausted, yet spiritually unafraid.\n\nThe heat within the chamber became at length unbearably oppressive to\none accustomed, as Mary Fisher had been for weeks past, to sleeping\nunder the open sky. Stretching up a thin white arm through the scented\ndarkness, she managed to unfasten the silken cords and buttons of the\ncurtain above her, and to let in a rush of warm night air. It was\nstill too early for the reviving breeze to spring up that would herald\nthe approach of dawn: too early for even the earliest of the orange\nhawks, that haunted the city in the daytime, to be awake. Cuddled\nclose in cosy nests under the wide eaves, their slumbers were\ndisturbed for a moment as Mary, half sitting up, shook the pierced\nlattice-work of the shutters that formed the sides of her apartment.\nPeering through the interstices of fragrant wood, she caught sight of\na wan crescent moon, just appearing behind a group of chestnut-trees\non the opposite hill above the river.\n\nThe crescent moon! Her guide over sea and land! Had she not come half\nround the world to proclaim to the followers of that same Crescent, a\npeople truly sitting in gross darkness, the message of the One true\nLight?\n\nHowever long the midnight hours, dawn surely must be nigh at hand.\nBefore long, that waning Crescent must set and disappear, and the Sun\nof Righteousness arise with healing in His wings.\n\nThere lay the slumbering flame of her wondrous Message. The right\nwords wherewith to kindle that flame in the hearts of others would\nsurely be given when the right hour came, however unworthy the\nMessenger.\n\n'As far as the East is from the West,' the weary woman thought to\nherself, while the scenes of her wondrous journey across two\nhemispheres rushed back unbidden to her mind--'even so far hath He\nremoved our transgressions from us.'\n\nAt that moment, the eagerly awaited breeze of dawn passed over her hot\ntemples, soothing her like a friend. Refreshed and strengthened, she\nlay down once more, still and straight; her smooth hair braided round\nher head; her hands crossed calmly on her breast; in a repose as quiet\nand austere, even upon those yielding Oriental cushions, as when she\nlay upon her hard, narrow pallet bed at home.\n\nBefore the first apricot flush of dawn crept up the eastern sky, Mary\nFisher had sunk into a tranquil sleep.\n\n\nIII\n\nIt was broad daylight, though still early, when she awoke. Outside,\nthe garden behind the house was now a rippling sea of rose and scarlet\npoppies, above which the orange hawks swooped or dived like copper\nanchors, in the crisp morning air. Within doors, a slave girl stood\nbeside the divan in the guest chamber, clapping her hands gently\ntogether to cause the white stranger to awake. But the chamber seemed\nfull of moonlight, although it was broad day. Had the waning crescent\nretraced her footsteps, or left behind some of her chill beams? Mary\nFisher rubbed her eyes. She must surely be dreaming still! Then,\nwaking fully, she saw that the moon-like radiance came from a heap of\nsilvery gauze draperies, reflected in the emerald green tiles of the\nfloor and in the tall narrow mirrors that separated the lattice-work\nshutters.\n\nA flowing robe of silver tissue was spread out over an ottoman in the\ncentre of the floor. The slave girl at her side was holding up a long\nveil of shimmering silver, drawing it through her henna-stained\nfinger-tips, with low, gurgling cries of delight; then, stretching out\nher arms wide, she spread the veil easily to their fullest extent. A\nmoment later, drawing a tiny ring from her finger, she had pressed the\nveil as easily through the small golden circlet, so fine were the\nsilken folds. Then with significant gestures she explained that all\nthese treasures were for the stranger to wear instead of her own\napparel. With scornful glances from her dark almond-shaped eyes she\npointed disdainfully to Mary Fisher's own simple garments, which, at\nher entrance, she had tossed contemptuously into a heap on the floor.\n\nThe plain, grey, Quakeress's dress did indeed look simpler than ever\namid all the shining Oriental splendour. Worn too it was, and\ntravel-stained in places, though newly washed, carefully mended and\nall ready for use.\n\nMary Fisher had been a woman for many years before she became a\nQuakeress. Nay more, she was a woman still. It is possible that, for\nabout the space of half a minute, she may have looked almost\nregretfully at the silver tissue draperies and the gauze veil.\n\nHalf a minute. Not longer! For her, a Messenger of the Great King, to\nclothe herself in garments worn by Turkish women, unbelievers,\nfollowers of the False Prophet, was impossible, not to be contemplated\nfor an instant. With the gentleness of complete decision she dismissed\nthe slave girl, who departed reluctantly towards the women's\napartments. In spite of the froth of shining, billowy folds with which\nher arms were full, she turned round as she parted the striped, silken\nhangings of the doorway and drew her dusky orange finger-tips in a\nsignificant gesture across her slender brown throat. It was obvious\nthat the slave girl considered this refusal a very serious breach of\netiquette indeed!\n\nLeft alone, Mary Fisher clothed herself, proudly and yet humbly, in\nher own simple garments. Her body bore even yet the marks where cruel\nscourgings in her youth had furrowed deep scars from head to waist.\nYears ago thus had English Christians received her, when she and her\ncompanion had been whipped until the blood ran down their backs\nbeneath the market cross at Cambridge. The two young girls were the\nfirst of any of the Friends to be thus publicly scourged. 'This is but\nthe beginning of the sufferings of the people of God,' Mary had\nexclaimed prophetically, as the first stroke of the lash fell on her\nshoulders, while the assembled multitudes listened in amazement as the\ntwo suffering women went on to pray for mercy on their persecutors.\n\nWhile here, in Adrianople, under the Crescent, the Infidel Turk, to\nwhom she had come in the power of the very same Message for which she\nhad suffered in Christian countries, was receiving her with kindness\nand respect, offering to clothe her body in sumptuous apparel, instead\nof with bloody scars....\n\nMary Fisher sighed with irrepressible pain at the thought. Looking\ndown, the marks left by the stocks were also plainly visible under the\nsunburn round her ankles, as she stood, bare-footed, on the crimson\nrug. She gladly covered up those tell-tale tokens under her white\nstockings. But where were her shoes? They seemed to have disappeared.\nAlthough the few strips of worn leather that she had put off the night\nbefore had been scarcely worthy of the name of shoes, their\ndisappearance might be a grave difficulty. Had they been taken away in\norder to force her to appear bare-footed before the Sultan?\n\nAh!--here the slave girl was reappearing. Kneeling down, with a\ntriumphant smile she forced the Englishwoman's small, delicate\nfeet--hardened, it is true, by many hundreds of miles of rough\ntravelling, but shapely still--into a little pair of embroidered\nsilver slippers. Turkish slippers! glistening with silver thread and\ncrystal beads, turned up at the pointed toes, and finished by two\nsilver tufted tassels, that peeped out incongruously from under the\nstraight folds of the simple grey frock.\n\nThis time Mary Fisher yielded submissively and made not the slightest\nresistance. It did not matter to her in the least how her feet were\nshod, so long as they were shod in some way, and she was saved from\nhaving to pay a mark of homage to the Infidel. As she sat with folded\nhands on the divan, awaiting the summons of the Grand Vizier, her deep\neyes showed that her thoughts were far, far away from any Silver\nSlippers.\n\n\nIV\n\n'Mahomet, sone of the Emperour, sone of God, thrice heavenly and\nthrice known as the renowned Emperour of the Turks, King of Greece,\nMacedonia and Moldavia, King of Samaria and Hungary, King of Greater\nand Lesser Egypt, King of all the inhabitants of the Earth and the\nEarthly Paradise, Guardian of the Sepulchre of thy God, Lord of the\nTree of Life, Lord of all the Emperours of the World from the East\neven to the West, Grand Persecutor of the Christians and of all the\nwicked, the Joy of the flourishing Tree' ... and so forth and so on.\n\nThe owner of all these high-sounding titles was hunched up on his\ncushions in the State Pavilion. 'On State occasions, among which it is\nevident that he included this Quaker audience, he delighted to deck\nhis unpleasing person in a vest of cloth of gold, lined with sable of\nthe richest contrasting blackness. Around him were ranged the servants\nof the Seraglio--the highest rank of lacqueys standing nearest the\nroyal person, the \"Paicks\" in their embroidered coats and caps of\nbeaten gold, and the \"Solacks,\" adorned with feathers, and armed with\nbows and arrows. Behind them were grouped great numbers of eunuchs and\nthe Court pages, carrying lances. These wore the peculiar coiffure\npermitted only to those of the royal chamber, and above their tresses\nhung long caps embroidered with gold.\n\n'Mary Fisher was ushered into this brilliant scene with all the\nhonours usually accorded to an Ambassador: the Sultan's dragomans\naccompanied her and stood waiting to interpret at the interview. She\nwas at this time about thirty-five years of age, \"a maid ... whose\nintellectual faculties were greatly adorned by the gravity of her\ndeportment.\" ... She must have stood in her simple grey frock, amidst\nthat riot of gold and scarlet, like a lily in a garden of tulips, her\nquiet face shining in that cruel and lustful place with the joy of a\ntask accomplished, and the sense of the presence of God.'[40]\n\nThus she stood, at the goal of her journey at last, in the presence of\nthe Grand Turk, she the Messenger of the Great King. There was the\nGrand Turk, resplendent in his sable and cloth of gold. Opposite to\nhim stood the gentle Quakeress, in her plain garment of grey Yorkshire\nfrieze with its spotless deep collar and close-fitting cap of snowy\nlawn. Only the Message was wanting now.\n\nAt first no Message came.\n\nThe Sultan, thinking that the woman before him was naturally alarmed\nby such unwonted magnificence, spoke to her graciously. 'He asked by\nhis interpreters (whereof there were three with him) whether it was\ntrue what had been told him that she had something to say to him from\nthe Lord God. She answered, \"Yea.\" Then he bade her speak on: and she\nnot being forward, weightily pondering what she might say. \"Should he\ndismiss his attendants and let her speak with him in the presence of\nfewer listeners?\" the Grand Turk asked her kindly.' Again came an\nuncourtly monosyllabic 'No,' followed by another baffling silence.\n\nThe executioner, a hook-nosed Kurd with eyes like a bird of prey,\nstationed, as always, at the Sultan's right hand, began to look at the\nslight woman in grey with a professional interest. He felt the edge of\nhis blade with a skilful thumb and fore-finger, and turned keen eyes\nfrom the slender throat of the Quakeress, rising above the folds of\nsnowy lawn, to the aged neck of the Grand Vizier half hidden by his\nlong white beard. There might be a double failure in etiquette to\navenge, should the Sultan's pleasure change and this unprecedented\ninterview prove a failure! The executioner smacked his cruel lips with\npleasure at the thought, looking, in his azalea-coloured garment, like\nan orange hawk himself, all ready to pounce on his victims.\n\nStill Silence reigned:--a keen silence more piercing than the sharpest\nDamascene blade. It was piercing its way into one heart already. Not\ninto the heart of the aged Grand Vizier. The Grand Vizier was frankly\nbored, and was, moreover, beginning to be strangely uneasy at his\n_protegee's_ unaccountable behaviour. He turned to his interpreter\nwith an enquiring frown. The interpreter looked yet more\nuncomfortable--even terrified. Approaching his master, he began to\nwhisper profound apologies into his ear, how that he ought to have\nwarned him that this might happen; the woman had in truth confessed\nthat she could not tell when the Message would be sent, nor could she\ngive it a moment before it came: 'Sayeth indeed that her Teacher in\nthis strange faith hath been known to keep an assembly of over 1000\npeople waiting for a matter of three hours, in order to \"famish them\nfrom words,\" not daring to open his lips without command.'\n\n'Thou shouldest indeed have mentioned this before! Allah grant that\nthis maiden keepeth us not here so long,' retorted the Grand Vizier,\nwith a scowl of natural impatience, seeing that he was to set forth on\nhis journey to the battle-field that very day, and that moments were\ngrowing precious, even in the timeless East. Then, turning to the\nSultan, he in his turn began to pour out profuse explanations and\napologies. The uncouth, misshapen figure on the central divan,\nhowever, paid scant heed to his Minister. Right into the fierce,\ncruel, passionate heart of Sultan Mahomet that strange silence was\npiercing: piercing as no words could have done, through the crust\nformed by years of self-seeking and sin, piercing, until it found,\nuntil it quickened, 'That of God within.'\n\nWhat happened next must be told in the historian Sewel's own words,\nsince he doubtless heard the tale from the only person who could tell\nit, Mary Fisher herself.\n\n'The Grand Turk then bade her speak the word of the Lord to them and\nnot to fear, for they had good hearts and could hear it. He also\ncharged her to speak the word she had to say from the Lord, neither\nmore nor less, for they were willing to hear it, be it what it would.\n_Then she spoke what was upon her mind._'\n\nShe never says what it was. The Message, once delivered, could never\nbe repeated.\n\n'The Turks hearkened to her with much attention and gravity until she\nhad done; and then, the Sultan asking her whether she had anything\nmore to say? she asked him whether he understood what she had said?\nHe answered, \"Yes, every word,\" and further said that what she had\nspoken was truth. Then he desired her to stay in that country, saying\nthat they could not but respect such an one, as should take so much\npains to come to them so far as from England with a message from the\nLord God. He also proffered her a guard to bring her into\nConstantinople, whither she intended. But she, not accepting this\noffer, he told her it was dangerous travelling, especially for such an\none as she: and wondered that she had passed safe so far as she had,\nsaying also that it was in respect for her, and kindness, that he\nproffered it, and that he would not for anything she should come to\nthe least hurt in his dominions. She having no more to say, the Turks\nasked her what she thought of their prophet Mahomet? She answered\nwarily that she knew him not, but Christ the true prophet, the Son of\nGod, who was the Light of the World, and enlightened every man coming\ninto the world, Him she knew. And concerning Mahomet, she said that\nthey might judge of him to be true or false according to the words and\nprophecies he spoke; saying further, \"If the word of a prophet shall\ncome to pass, then shall ye know that the Lord hath sent that prophet:\nbut if it come not to pass, then shall ye know that the Lord never\nsent him.\" The Turks confessed this to be true, and Mary, having\nperformed her message, departed from the camp to Constantinople\nwithout a guard, whither she came without the least hurt or scoff....'\n\n\nV\n\nThus Mary returned safe to England, where, if not romance, at any rate\nsolid happiness awaited her in the shape of a certain William Bayly.\nHe, a Quaker preacher and master mariner, having been himself a great\ntraveller and having endured repeated imprisonments in distant\ncountries, could appreciate the courage and success of her\nunprecedented journey. At any rate, as the historian quaintly tells\nus, he 'thought her worthy to make him a second wife.'\n\nA few months after her return to England, but while she was still\nunmarried, Mary Fisher wrote the following account of her travels to\nsome of the friends in whose company she had suffered imprisonment in\nformer days before her great journey.\n\n 'My dear love salutes you all in one, you have been often in my\n remembrance since I departed from you, and being now returned\n into England and many trials, such as I was never tried with\n before, yet have borne my testimony for the Lord before the King\n unto whom I was sent, and he was very noble unto me, and so were\n all they that were about him: he and all that were about him\n received the word of truth without contradiction. They do dread\n the name of God, many of them, and eyes His messengers. There is\n a royal seed amongst them which in time God will raise. They are\n more near truth than many Nations, there is a love begot in me\n towards them which is endless, but this is my hope concerning\n them, that He who hath raised me to love them more than many\n others will also raise His seed in them unto which my love is.\n Nevertheless, though they be called Turks, the seed of them is\n near unto God, and their kindness hath in some measure been\n shewn towards His servants. After the word of the Lord was\n declared unto them, they would willingly have me to stay in the\n country, and when they could not prevail with me, they\n proffered me a man and a horse to go five days' journey that was\n to Constantinople, but I refused and came safe from them. The\n English are more bad, most of them, yet hath a good word gone\n through them, and some have received it, but they are few: so I\n rest with my dear love to you all--Your dear sister, MARY\n FISHER.'\n\n\nVI\n\nForty years later, in 1697, an aged woman was yet alive at Charlestown\nin America, who was still remembered as the heroine of the famous\njourney so many years before. Although twice widowed since then, and\nnow with children and grandchildren around her, she was spoken of to\nthe end by her maiden name. A shipwrecked visitor from the other side\nof the Atlantic describes her in his letters home as 'one whose name\nyou have heard of, Mary Fisher, she that spoke to the Grand Turk.'\n\nIn the dwelling of that ancient widow, however old she grew, however\nmany other relics she kept--remembrances of her two husbands, of\nchildren and grandchildren--between the pages of her well-worn Bible\nwas there not always one pressed sprig of the fadeless sea-lavender\nthat grows on the rocky shores of the Black Mountain? And, somewhere\nor other, in the drawer of an inlaid cabinet or work-table there must\nhave been also one precious packet, carefully tied up with ribbon and\nsilver paper, in which some favourite grandchild, allowed for a treat\nto open it, would find, to her indescribable delight, a little\ntasselled pair of Turkish\n\n SILVER SLIPPERS.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[39] A certain Englishman, Paul Rycaut by name, has left a description\nof this encampment as he saw it on his visit a short time afterwards.\n'The tents were raised on a small hill, and about 2000 in number,\nranged at that time without order, only the Grand Signior's seemed to\nbe in the midst to overtop all the rest, well worthy observation,\ncosting (as was reported) 180,000 dollars, richly embroidered in the\ninside with gold. Within the walls of this tent (as I may so call\nthem) were all sorts of offices belonging to the Seraglio, apartments\nfor the pages, chiosks or summer-houses for pleasure, and though I\ncould not get admittance to view the innermost rooms and chambers, yet\nby the outward and more common places of resort I could make a guess\nat the richness of the rest, being sumptuous beyond comparison of any\nin use among Christian princes. On the right hereof was pitched the\nGrand Vizier's tent, exceeding rich and lofty, and had I not seen that\nof the Sultan before it, I should have judged it the best that mine\neyes had seen. The ostentation and richness of this empire being\nevidenced in nothing more than the richness of their pavilions,\nsumptuous beyond the fixed palaces of princes, erected with marble and\nmortar.'\n\n[40] _Quaker Women_, by Mabel R. Brailsford.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX. FIERCE FEATHERS\n\n\n\n\n _'We who were once slayers of one\n another do not now fight against our\n enemies.'--JUSTIN MARTYR. A.D. 140._\n\n\n _'Victory that is gotten by the\n sword is a victory slaves get one\n over the other; but victory\n contained by love is a victory for\n a king.'--GERRARD WINSTANLEY. 1649._\n\n\n _'Here you will come to love God\n above all, and your neighbours as\n yourselves. Nothing hurts, nothing\n harms, nothing makes afraid on\n this holy mountain.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'My friends that are gone or are\n going over to plant and make\n outward plantations in America,\n keep your own plantations in your\n hearts with the spirit and power\n of God, that your own vines and\n lilies be not hurt.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'Take heed of many words, what\n reaches to the life settles in the\n life. That which cometh from the\n life and is received from God,\n reaches to the life and settles\n others in the life.'--G. FOX._\n\n\n _'An old Indian named Papunehang\n appreciated the spirit and\n atmosphere of a Friends' meeting,\n even if he did not comprehend the\n words, telling the interpreter\n afterwards, \"I love to feel where\n words come from.\"'--A.M. GUMMERE\n (from John Woolman's Journal)._\n\n\n\n\nXXIX. FIERCE FEATHERS\n\n\nThe sunlight lay in patches on the steep roof of the Meeting-house of\nEaston Township, in the County of Saratoga, in the State of New York.\nIt was a bright summer morning in the year 1775. The children of\nEaston Township liked their wooden house, although it was made only of\nrough-hewn logs, nailed hastily together in order to provide some sort\nof shelter for the worshipping Friends. They would not, if they could,\nhave exchanged it for one of the more stately Meeting-houses at home\nin England, on the other side of the Atlantic. There, the windows were\ngenerally high up in the walls. English children could see nothing\nthrough the panes but a peep of sky, or the topmost branches of a tall\ntree. When they grew tired of looking in the branches of the tree for\nan invisible nest that was not there, there was nothing more to be\nhoped for, out of those windows. The children's eyes came back inside\nthe room again, as they watched the slow shadows creep along the\nwhite-washed walls, or tried to count the flies upon the ceiling. But\nout here in America there was no need for that. The new Meeting-house\nof Easton had nearly as many possibilities as the new world outside.\nTo begin with, its logs did not fit quite close together. If a boy or\ngirl happened to be sitting in the corner seat, he or she could often\nsee, through a chink, right out into the woods. For the untamed\nwilderness still stretched away on all sides round the newly-cleared\nsettlement of Easton.\n\nMoreover, there were no glass windows in the log house as yet, only\nopen spaces provided with wooden shutters that could be closed, if\nnecessary, during a summer storm. Another larger, open space at one\nend of the building would be closed by a door when the next cold\nweather came. At present the summer air met no hindrance as it blew in\nsoftly, laden with the fragrant scents of the flowers and pine-trees,\nstirring the children's hair as it lightly passed. Every now and then\na drowsy bee would come blundering in by mistake, and after buzzing\nabout for some time among the assembled Friends, he would make his\nperilous way out again through one of the chinks between the logs. The\nchildren, as they sat in Meeting, always hoped that a butterfly might\nalso find its way in, some fine day--before the winter came, and\nbefore the window spaces of the new Meeting-house had to be filled\nwith glass, and a door fastened at the end of the room to keep out the\ncold. Especially on a mid-week Meeting like to-day, they often found\nit difficult to 'think Meeting thoughts' in the silence, or even to\nattend to what was being said, so busy were they, watching for the\nentrance of that long desired butterfly.\n\nFor children thought about very much the same kind of things, and had\nvery much the same kind of difficulties in Meeting, then as now; even\nthough the place was far away, and it is more than a hundred years\nsince that sunny morning in Easton Township, when the sunlight lay in\npatches on the roof.\n\nIt was not only the children who found silent worship difficult that\nstill summer morning. There were traces of anxiety on the faces of\nmany Friends and even on the placid countenances of the Elders in\ntheir raised seats in the gallery. There, at the head of the Meeting,\nsat Friend Zebulon Hoxie, the grandfather of most of the children who\nwere present. Below him sat his two sons. Opposite them, their wives\nand families, and a sprinkling of other Friends. The children had\nnever seen before one of the stranger Friends who sat in the gallery\nthat day, by their grandfather's side. They had heard that his name\nwas Robert Nisbet, and that he had just arrived, after having walked\nfor two days, thirty miles through the wilderness country to sit with\nFriends at New Easton at their mid-week Meeting. The children had no\nidea why he had come, so they fixed their eyes intently on the\nstranger and stirred gently in their seats with relief when at last he\nrose to speak. They had liked his kind, open face as soon as they saw\nit. They liked still better the sound of the rich, clear voice that\nmade it easy for even children to listen. But they liked the words of\nhis text best of all: 'The Beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety\nby Him. He shall cover them all the day long.'\n\nRobert Nisbet lingered over the first words of his message as if they\nwere dear to him. His voice was full and mellow, and the words seemed\nas if they were part of the rich tide of summer life that flowed\naround. He paused a moment, and then went on, 'And now, how shall the\nBeloved of the Lord be thus in safety covered? Even as saith the\nPsalmist, \"He shall cover thee with His feathers and under His wings\nshalt thou trust.\"' Then, changing his tones a little and speaking\nmore lightly, though gravely still, he continued: 'You have done well,\ndear Friends, to stay on valiantly in your homes, when all your\nneighbours have fled; and therefore are these messages sent to you by\nme. These promises of covering and of shelter are truly meant for\nyou. Make them your own and you shall not be afraid for the terror by\nnight, nor for the arrow that flieth by day.'\n\nHere the boys and girls on the low benches under the gallery looked at\none another. Now they knew what had brought the stranger! He had come\nbecause he had heard of the danger that threatened the little clearing\nof settlers in the woods. For though New Easton and East Hoosack lay\nthirty miles apart they were both links in the long chain of Quaker\nSettlements that had been formed to separate the territory belonging\nto the Dutch Traders (who dwelt near the Hudson River) from the\nEnglish Settlements along the valley of the Connecticut. In former\ndays disputes between the Dutch and English Colonists had been both\nfrequent and fierce, until at length the Government had conceived the\nbrilliant idea of establishing a belt of neutral ground between the\ndisputants, and peopling it with unwarlike Quakers. The plan worked\nwell. The Friends, in their settlements strung out over a long, narrow\nstrip of territory, were on friendly terms with their Dutch and\nEnglish neighbours on either side. Raids went out of fashion. Peace\nreigned, and for a time the authorities were well content.\n\nA fiercer contest was now brewing, no longer between two handfuls of\nColonists but between the inhabitants of two great Continents. For it\nwas just before the outbreak of the Revolutionary War of 1775. The\npart of the country in which Easton Township was situated was already\ndistressed by visits of scouting parties from both British and\nAmerican armies, and the American Government, unable to protect the\ninhabitants, had issued a proclamation directing them to leave the\ncountry. This was the reason that all the scattered houses in the\nneighbourhood were deserted, save only the few tenanted by the handful\nof Friends.\n\n'You did well, Friends,' the speaker continued, 'well to ask to be\npermitted to exercise your own judgment without blame to the\nauthorities, well to say to them in all courtesy and charity, \"You are\nclear of us in that you have warned us\"--and to stay on in your\ndwellings and to carry out your accustomed work. The report of this\nyour courage and faith hath reached us in our abiding place at East\nHoosack, and the Lord hath charged me to come on foot through the\nwilderness country these thirty miles, to meet with you to-day, and to\nbear to you these two messages from Him, \"The Beloved of the Lord\nshall dwell in safety by Him,\" and \"He shall cover thee with His\nfeathers all the day long.\"'\n\nThe visitor sat down again in his seat. The furrowed line of anxiety\nin old Zebulon Hoxie's high forehead smoothed itself away; the eyes of\none or two of the younger women Friends filled with tears. As the\nspeaker's voice ceased, little Susannah Hoxie's head, which had been\ndrooping lower and lower, finally found a resting-place, and was\nencircled by her mother's arm. Young Mrs. Hoxie drew off her small\ndaughter's shady hat, and put it on the seat beside her, while she\nvery gently stroked back the golden curls from the child's high\nforehead. In doing this she caught a rebuking glance from her elder\ndaughter, Dinah.\n\n'Naughty, naughty Susie, to go to sleep in Meeting,' Dinah was\nthinking; 'it is very hot, and _I_ am sleepy too, but _I_ don't go to\nsleep. I do wish a butterfly would come in at the window just for\nonce--or a bird, a little bird with blue, and red, and pink, and\nyellow feathers. I liked what that stranger Friend said about being\n'covered with feathers all the day long.' I wish I was all covered\nwith feathers like a little bird. I wish there were feathers in\nMeeting, or anywhere close outside.' She turned in her corner seat and\nlooked through the slit in the wall--why there were feathers close\noutside the wall of the house, red, and yellow, and blue, and pink!\nWhat could they be? Very gently Dinah moved her head, so that her eye\ncame closer to the slit. But, when she looked again, the feathers had\nmysteriously disappeared--nothing was to be seen now but a slight\ntrembling of the tree branches in the wilderness woods at a little\ndistance.\n\nIn the mean while her brother, Benjamin Hoxie, on the other low seat\nopposite the window, was also thinking of the stranger's sermon. 'He\nsaid it was a valiant thing to do, to stop on here when all the\nneighbours have left. I didn't know Friends could do valiant things. I\nthought only soldiers were valiant. But if a scouting party really did\ncome--if those English scouts suddenly appeared, then even a Quaker\nboy might have a chance to show that he is not necessarily a coward\nbecause he does not fight.' Benjamin's eyes strayed also out of the\nopen window. It was very hot and still in the Meeting-house. Yet the\nbushes certainly were trembling. How strange that there should be a\nbreeze there and not here! 'Thou shall not be afraid for the arrow\nthat flieth by day,' he thought to himself. 'Well, there are no arrows\nin this part of the country any longer, now that they say all the\nIndians have left. I wonder, if I saw an English gun pointing at me\nout of those bushes, should I be afraid?'\n\nBut it was gentle Mrs. Hoxie, with her arm still round her baby\ndaughter, who kept the stranger's words longest in her heart. 'Shall\ndwell in safety by Him,--the Beloved of the Lord,' she repeated to\nherself over and over again, 'yet my husband hath feared for me, and\nwe have both been very fearful for the children. Truly, we have known\nthe terror by night these last weeks in these unsettled times, even\nthough our duty was plainly to stay here. Why were we so fearful? we\nof little faith. \"The Beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by\nHim. He shall cover him with His feathers all the day long.\"'\n\nAnd then, in her turn, Mrs. Hoxie looked up, as her little daughter\nhad done, and saw the same three tall feathers creeping above the sill\nof the open Meeting-house window frame. For just one moment her heart,\nthat usually beat so calmly under her grey Quaker robe, seemed to\nstand absolutely still. She went white to the lips. Then 'shall dwell\nin safety by Him,' the words flashed back to her mind. She looked\nacross to where her husband sat--an urgent look. He met her eyes, read\nthem, and followed the direction in which she gazed. Then he, too, saw\nthe feathers--three, five, seven, nine, sticking up in a row. Another\ninstant, and a dark-skinned face, an evil face, appeared beneath them,\nlooking over the sill. The moment most to be dreaded in the lives of\nall American settlers--more terrible than any visit from civilised\nsoldiers--had come suddenly upon the little company of Friends alone\nhere in the wilderness. An Indian Chief was staring in at their\nMeeting-house window, showing his teeth in a cruel grin. In his hand\nhe held a sheaf of arrows, poisoned arrows, only too ready to fly, and\nkill, by day.\n\nAll the assembled Friends were aware of his presence by this time, and\nwere watching the window now, though not one of them moved. Mrs. Hoxie\nglanced towards her other little daughter, and saw to her great relief\nthat Dinah too had fallen asleep, her head against the wooden wall.\nDinah and Susie were the two youngest children in Meeting that\nmorning. The others were mostly older even than Benjamin, who was\ntwelve. They were, therefore, far too well-trained in Quaker stillness\nto move, for any Indians, until the Friends at the head of the Meeting\nshould have shaken hands and given the signal to disperse.\nNevertheless, the hearts of even the elder girls were beating very\nfast. Benjamin's lips were tightly shut, and with eyes that were\nunusually bright he followed every movement of the Indian Chief, who,\nas it seemed in one bound and without making the slightest noise, had\nmoved round to the open doorway.\n\nThere he stood, the naked brown figure, in full war-paint and\nfeathers, looking with piercing eyes at each man Friend in turn, as if\none of them must have the weapons that he sought. But the Friends were\nentirely unarmed. There was not a gun, or a rifle, or a sword to be\nfound in any of their dwelling-houses, so there could not be any in\ntheir peaceful Meeting.\n\nA minute later, a dozen other Redskins, equally terrible, stood beside\nthe Chief, and the bushes in the distance were quite still. The bushes\ntrembled no longer. It was Benjamin who found it hard not to\ntremble now, as he saw thirteen sharp arrows taken from their quivers\nby thirteen skinny brown hands, and their notches held taut to\nthirteen bow-strings, all ready to shoot. Yet still the Friends sat\non, without stirring, in complete silence.\n\n[Illustration: FIERCE FEATHERS]\n\nOnly Benjamin, turning his head to look at his grandfather, saw\nZebulon Hoxie, the patriarch of the Meeting, gazing full at the Chief,\nwho had first approached. The Indian's flashing eyes, under the matted\nblack eyebrows, gazed back fiercely beneath his narrow red forehead\ninto the Quaker's calm blue eyes beneath the high white brow and snowy\nhair. No word was spoken, but in silence two powers were measured\nagainst one another--the power of hate, and the power of love. For\nsteady friendliness to his strange visitors was written in every line\nof Zebulon Hoxie's face.\n\nThe children never knew how long that steadfast gaze lasted. But at\nlength, to Benjamin's utter astonishment, for some unknown reason the\nIndian's eyes fell. His head, that he had carried high and haughtily,\nsank towards his breast. He glanced round the Meeting-house three\ntimes with a scrutiny that nothing could escape. Then, signing to his\nfollowers, the thirteen arrows were noiselessly replaced in thirteen\nquivers, the thirteen bows were laid down and rested against the wall;\nmany footsteps, lighter than falling snow, crossed the floor; the\nIndian Chief, unarmed, sat himself down in the nearest seat, with his\nfollowers in all their war-paint, but also unarmed, close round him.\n\nThe Meeting did not stop. The Meeting continued--one of the strangest\nFriends' Meetings, surely, that ever was held. The Meeting not only\ncontinued, it increased in solemnity and in power.\n\nNever, while they lived, did any of those present that day forget that\nsilent Meeting, or the brooding Presence, that, closer, clearer than\nthe sunlight, filled the bright room.\n\n'Cover thee with His feathers all the day long.'\n\nThe Friends sat in their accustomed stillness. But the Indians sat\nmore still than any of them. They seemed strangely at home in the\nsilence, these wild men of the woods. Motionless they sat, as a group\nof trees on a windless day, or as a tranquil pool unstirred by the\nsmallest breeze; silent, as if they were themselves a part of Nature's\nown silence rather than of the family of her unquiet, human children.\n\nThe slow minutes slipped past. The peace brooded, and grew, and\ndeepened. 'Am I dreaming?' Mrs. Hoxie thought to herself more than\nonce, and then, raising her eyes, she saw the Indians still in the\nsame place, and knew it was no dream. She saw, too, that Benjamin's\neyes were riveted to some objects hanging from the strangers' waists,\nthat none of the other Friends appeared to see.\n\nAt last, when the accustomed hour of worship was ended, the two\nFriends at the head of the Meeting shook hands solemnly. Then, and not\ntill then, did old Zebulon Hoxie advance to the Indian Chief, and with\nsigns he invited him and his followers to come to his house close at\nhand. With signs they accepted. The strange procession crossed the\nsunlit path. Susie and Dinah, wide awake now, but kept silent in\nobedience to their mother's whispers, were watching the feathers with\nclear, untroubled eyes that knew no fear. Only Benjamin shivered as if\nhe were cold.\n\nWhen the company had arrived at the house, Zebulon put bread and\ncheese on the table, and invited his unwonted guests to help\nthemselves. They did so, thanking him with signs, as they knew little\nor no English. Robert Nisbet, the visiting Friend, who could speak and\nunderstand French, had a conversation with one of the Indians in that\nlanguage, and this was what he said: 'We surrounded your house,\nmeaning to destroy every living person within it. But when we saw you\nsitting with your door open, and _without weapons of defence_, we had\nno wish any longer to hurt you. Now, we would fight for you, and\ndefend you ourselves from all who wish you ill.' Meanwhile the Chief\nwho had entered first was speaking in broken English to old Zebulon\nHoxie, gesticulating to make his meaning clear.\n\n'Indian come White Man House,' he said, pointing with his finger\ntowards the Settlement, 'Indian want kill white man, one, two, three,\nsix, all!' and he clutched the tomahawk at his belt with a gruesome\ngesture. 'Indian come, see White Man sit in house; no gun, no arrow,\nno knife; all quiet, all still, worshipping Great Spirit. Great Spirit\ninside Indian too;' he pointed to his breast; 'then Great Spirit say:\n\"Indian! No kill them!\"' With these words, the Chief took a white\nfeather from one of his arrows, and stuck it firmly over the centre of\nthe roof in a peculiar way. 'With that white feather above your\nhouse,' the French-speaking Indian said to Robert Nisbet, 'your\nsettlement is safe. We Indians are your friends henceforward, and you\nare ours.'\n\nA moment later and the strange guests had all disappeared as\nnoiselessly as they had come. But, when the bushes had ceased to\ntremble, Benjamin stole to his mother's side. 'Mother, did you _see_,\ndid you _see_?' he whispered. 'They were _not_ friendly Indians. They\nwere the very most savage kind. Did you,' he shuddered, 'did you, and\nfather, and grandfather, and the others not notice what those things\nwere, hanging from their waists? They were _scalps_--scalps of men and\nwomen that those Indians had killed,' and again he shuddered.\n\nHis mother stooped and kissed him. 'Yea, my son,' she answered, 'I did\nsee. In truth we all saw, too well, save only the tender maids, thy\nsisters, who know naught of terror or wrong. But thou, my son, when\nthou dost remember those human scalps, pray for the slayers and for\nthe slain. Only for thyself and for us, have no fear. Remember,\nrather, the blessing of that other Benjamin, for whom I named thee.\n\"The Beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by Him. He shall cover\nhim all the day long.\"'\n\n\n\n\nXXX. THE THIEF IN THE TANYARD\n\n\n\n\n _'In the House of Love men do not\n curse nor swear; they do not destroy\n nor kill any. They use no outward\n swords or spears. They seek to to\n destroy no flesh of man; but it is a\n fight of the cross and patience to\n the subduing of sin.'--HENRY\n NICHOLAS (circa 1540)_.\n\n\n _'We have to keep in mind the\n thought of Christ. To us it seems\n most important to stop the evil\n act, hold it down by force, or\n push off its consequences on to\n someone else: anything, so long as\n we get rid of them from ourselves.\n Christ's thought was to change the\n evil mind, whatever physical\n consequences action, directed to\n this end, might involve.... This\n is the essence of \"turning the\n other cheek,\" it is the attitude\n most likely to convert the sinner\n who injures us, whether it\n actually does so or not,--we\n cannot force him to be converted.'\n ... 'Those who try this method of\n love for the sake of the evildoer\n must be prepared to go down, if\n necessary, as the front ranks\n storming a strong position go\n down, paying the price of victory\n for those who come after them.\n This method is not certain to\n conquer the evil mind: it is the\n most likely way to do it, and it\n is that that matters most.'--A.\n NEAVE BRAYSHAW._\n\n\n\n\nXXX. THE THIEF IN THE TANYARD\n\n\nKnock! knock! knock!\n\nThe tremulous sound, three times repeated, disturbed the stillness of\nan empty street of small wooden houses. The night was very dark, but\nthe square mass of the tanner's house could just be discerned, black\nand solid against the sky. The rays of a solitary oil lamp straggled\nfaintly across the roadway, and showed a man with a large bundle on\nhis back standing on the doorstep of that house, knocking as if he\nwere afraid of the noise he made.\n\nKnock! knock! knock! He tried once more, but with growing timidity and\nhesitation. Evidently the inmates of the house were busy, or too far\noff to hear the feeble summons. No one answered. The man's small stock\nof courage seemed exhausted. Giving his heavy bundle a hitch back on\nto his shoulder, he slunk off down the road, to where at a little\ndistance the small oil lamp high up on the wall beckoned faintly in\nthe darkness. The all-pervading smell of a tannery close by filled the\nair.\n\nWhen he came directly under the lamp, the man stopped. The light,\nfalling directly upon the package he carried, showed it to be a bundle\nof hides all ready for tanning. Here he stopped, and drew out a piece\nof crumpled newspaper from his pocket. Smoothing out the creases as\ncarefully as he could, he held it up towards the lamp, and read once\nmore the strange words that he already knew almost by heart.\n\nThis notice was printed in large letters in the advertisement column:\n'WHOEVER stole a lot of hides on the fifth day of the present month\nis HEREBY informed that their owner has a sincere wish to be his\nfriend. If poverty tempted him to this false step the owner will keep\nthe whole transaction secret, and will gladly put him in the way of\nobtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind.'\n\n'If poverty tempted him to this false step,' the man repeated to\nhimself half aloud. 'Tanner Savery wraps up his meaning in fine words,\nbut their sense is plain enough. If it was being poor that drove a man\nto become a thief and to steal these hides from the shadow of that\ndark archway down by the river last Sunday night,--suppose it was\npoverty, well what then? Friend Savery \"will gladly put him in the way\nof obtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind.\"\nWill he indeed? Can I trust him? Is it a hoax? I would rather do\nwithout the money now, if only I could get rid of these hides, and of\ntheir smell, that sticks to a man's nostrils even as sin does to his\nmemory. But the tanner promises to give me back peace of mind, does\nhe? Well, that's a fair offer and worth some risk. I'll knock once\nmore at his door and see what happens.'\n\nStuffing the newspaper into his pocket he walked quickly up the road\nagain, back to the square house, and up the sanded steps. Again he\nlifted the brass knocker, and again 'knock! knock! knock!' rang out on\nthe night air. But this time the knocking was less tremulous, and as\nit happened the inmates of the house were crossing the hall on their\nway to bed and heard the sound at once. In less than a minute the door\nopened, and a square brass candlestick, held high up, threw its light\nout into the street. The candlestick was held by a tall man with\ngreyish white hair, whom all the town knew as Tanner Savery. Peeping\nbehind his shoulder appeared his wife's gentle face, surmounted by the\nclear muslin of a Quakeress's cap. The man on the doorstep never\nlifted up his eyes to the couple. 'I've brought them back, Mr.\nSavery,' he mumbled, too much ashamed even to explain what he meant by\n'them.' But William Savery needed no explanation. Ever since the hides\nhad mysteriously disappeared from his tanyard a few days before, he\nhad felt sure that this quarrelsome neighbour of his must have taken\nthem.\n\nWhat was that neighbour's real name? That, nobody knows, or ever will\nknow now. We only know that whatever it may have been it certainly was\nnot John Smith, because when, in after years, Tanner Savery\noccasionally told this story he always called the stealer of his hides\n'John Smith' in order to disguise his identity; so we will speak of\nJohn Smith too. 'A ne'er-do-well' was the character people gave him.\nThey spoke of him as a man who was his own worst enemy, sadly too fond\nof his glass, and always quarrelling with his neighbours. Only William\nSavery refused to believe that any man could be altogether evil, and\nhe kept a ray of hope in his heart for John Smith, even when his\nvaluable bundle of hides mysteriously disappeared. It was that ray of\nhope that had made him put the advertisement in the paper, though he\nknew it would set the town laughing over 'those Quakers and their\nqueer soft ways.' This evening the ray of hope was shining more\nbrightly than ever. More brightly even than the candlelight shone in\nthe darkness of the night, the hope in his heart shone through the\nbrightness of the Tanner's eyes and smile. Yet he only answered\ncheerily, 'All right, friend, wait till I can light a lantern and go\nto the barn to take them back with thee.'\n\nThere was no trace of surprise in his voice. Those matter-of-fact\ntones sounded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go\nout to the tanyard at 10 o'clock at night instead of going upstairs to\nbed.\n\n'After we have done that,' he continued, 'perhaps thou wilt come in\nand tell me how this happened; we will see what can be done for thee.'\n\nA lantern, hanging on its hook in the hall, was soon lighted. The two\nmen picked their way down the sanded steps again, then passing under a\nhigh creeper-covered gateway they followed a narrow, flagged path to\nthe tanyard.\n\nAll this time William Savery had not said one word to his wife--but\nthe ring of happiness in his voice had made her happy too, and had\ntold her what he would like her to do during his absence from the\nhouse. Lifting up the bedroom candlestick from the oak chest on which\nher husband had set it down, she hastened to the larder, then to the\nkitchen, where she poked up the fire into a bright glow, put a kettle\non, and then went back again through the hall to the parlour, to and\nfro several times. When the two men returned to the house a quarter of\nan hour later, the fragrance of hot coffee greeted them. Solid pies\nand meat were spread out on the dark oak table. Mrs. Savery's pies\nwere famous throughout the town. But besides pies there were cakes,\nbuns, bread, and fruit,--a meal, indeed, to tempt any hungry man.\n\n'I thought some hot supper would be good for thee, neighbour Smith,'\nsaid Mrs. Savery in her gentle voice, as she handed him some coffee in\none of her favourite blue willow-pattern cups. But John Smith did not\ntake the cup from her. Instead, he turned his back abruptly, went over\nto the high carved fireplace, and leaning down looking into the\nglowing coals, said in a choked voice, 'It is the first time I ever\nstole anything, and I can tell you I have felt very bad about it ever\nsince. I don't know how it is. I am sure I didn't think once that I\nshould ever come to be a thief. First I took to drinking and then to\nquarrelling. Since I began to go downhill everybody gives me a kick;\nyou are the first people who have offered me a helping hand. My wife\nis sickly and my children are starving. You have sent them many a\nmeal, God bless you! Yet I stole the hides from you, meaning to sell\nthem the first chance I could get. But I tell you the truth when I\nsay, drunkard as I am, it is the first time I was ever a thief.'\n\n'Let it be the last time, my friend,' replied William Savery, 'and the\nsecret shall remain between ourselves. Thou art still young, and it is\nwithin thy power to make up for lost time. Promise me that thou wilt\nnot take any strong drink for a year, and I will employ thee myself in\nthe tanyard at good wages. Perhaps we may find some employment for thy\nfamily also. The little boy can, at least, pick up stones. But eat a\nbit now, and drink some hot coffee; perhaps it will keep thee from\ncraving anything stronger tonight.'\n\nSo saying, William Savery advanced, and taking his guest by the arm,\ngently forced him into a chair. Mrs. Savery pushed the cup towards\nhim, and heaped his plate with her excellent meat-pies. The stranger\ntook up the cup to drink, but his hand trembled so much that he could\nnot put it to his lips. He tried to swallow a small mouthful of bread,\nbut the effort nearly choked him. William Savery, seeing his guest's\nexcited state, went on talking in his grave kind voice, to give him\ntime, and help him to grow calm.\n\n'Doubtless thou wilt find it hard to abstain from drink at first,' he\ncontinued, 'but keep up a brave heart for the sake of thy wife and\nchildren, and it will soon become easy. Whenever thou hast need of\ncoffee tell my wife, Mary, and she will give it thee.'\n\nMary Savery's blue eyes shone as she nodded her head; she did not say\na word, for she saw that her guest was nearly at an end of his\ncomposure. Gently she laid her hand on his rough sleeve as if to try\nto calm and reassure him. But even her light touch was more than he\ncould bear at that moment. Pushing the food and drink away from him\nuntasted, he laid both his arms on the table, and burying his head, he\nwept like a child.\n\nThe husband and wife looked at each other. 'Can I do anything to help\nhim?' Mary's eyes asked her husband in silence. 'Leave him alone for a\nlittle; he will be better when this fit of tears is over,' his wise\nglance answered back.\n\nWilliam Savery was right. The burst of weeping relieved John Smith's\nover-wrought feelings. Besides, he really was almost faint with\nhunger. In a few moments, when the coffee was actually held to his\nlips, he found he could drink it--right down to the bottom of the cup.\nAs if by magic, the cup was filled up again, and then, very quickly,\nthe meatpies too began to disappear.\n\nAt each mouthful the man grew calmer. It was an entirely different\nJohn Smith who took leave of his kind friends an hour later. Again\nthey followed him to the door. 'Try to do well, John, and thou wilt\nalways find a friend in me,' William Savery said, as they parted. Mary\nSavery added no words--she was never a woman given to much talk. Only\nshe slipped her fingers into her guest's hand with a touch that said\nsilently, 'Fare thee well, _friend_.'\n\nThe next day John Smith entered the tanyard, not this time slinking in\nas a thief in the darkness, but introduced by the master himself as an\nengaged workman. For many years he remained with his employer, a\nsober, honest, and faithful servant, respected by others and\nrespecting himself. The secret of the first visit was kept. William\nand Mary Savery never alluded to it, and John Smith certainly did not,\nthough the memory of it never left him and altered all the rest of his\nlife.\n\nLong years after John Smith was dead, William Savery, in telling the\nstory, always omitted the man's name. That is why he has to be called\nJohn Smith, because no one knows now, no one ever will know, what his\nreal name may have been. 'But,' as William Savery used to say when he\nwas prevailed on to tell the story, 'the thing to know and remember is\nthat it is possible to overcome Evil with Good.'\n\n\n\n\nXXXI. HOW A FRENCH NOBLE BECAME A FRIEND\n\n\n\n\n _Sentences from 'No Cross, No Crown,'\n by WILLIAM PENN._\n\n _'Come, Reader, hearken to me\n awhile; I seek thy salvation; that\n is my plot; thou wilt forgive me.'_\n\n _'Thou, like the inn of old, hast\n been full of guests; thy affections\n have entertained other lovers;\n there has been no room for thy\n Saviour in thy soul ... but his\n love is after thee still, & his\n holy invitation continues to save\n thee.'_\n\n _'Receive his leaven, & it will\n change thee; his medicine and it\n will cure thee; he is as infallible\n as free; without money and with\n certainty.... Yield up the body,\n soul & spirit to Him that maketh\n all things new: new heavens & new\n earth, new love, new joy, new\n peace, new works, a new life &\n conversation....'_\n\n _'The inward, steady righteousness\n of Jesus is another thing than all\n the contrived devotion of poor\n superstitious man.... True worship\n is an inward work; the soul must be\n touched and raised in its heavenly\n desires by the heavenly Spirit....\n So that souls of true worshippers\n see God: and this they wait, they\n pant, they thirst for.'_\n\n _'Worship is the supreme act of\n man's life.'_\n\n\n\n\nXXXI. HOW A FRENCH NOBLE BECAME A FRIEND\n\n\nNow we come to a Saint who had a life so full of adventures that a\nbook twice as big as this one would be needed to contain the stories\nthat might be told about him alone.\n\nUnlike any of the other 'Quaker Saints' in this book, he was by birth\na Frenchman and came of noble family. His name was Etienne de Grellet.\nHe was born nearly a century after the death of George Fox; but he\nprobably did not know that such a person had ever existed, never even\nheard Fox's name, until long after he was grown up. If Etienne de\nGrellet, the gay young nobleman of the French court, had been told\nthat his story would ever be written in a book of 'Quaker Saints' he\nwould, most likely, have raised his dark eyebrows and have looked\nextremely surprised.\n\n'_Quakere? Qu'est-ce que c'est alors, Quakere? Quel drole de mot! Je\nne suis pas Quakere, moi!_' he might have answered, with a disdainful\nshrug of his high, narrow, aristocratic French shoulders. Yet here he\nis after all!\n\n * * * * *\n\nEtienne de Grellet was born at Limoges in France, in the year 1773.\nHis childhood was passed in the stormy years when the cloud was\ngathering that was to burst a little later in the full fury of the\nFrench Revolution. His father, Gabriel de Grellet, a wealthy merchant\nof Limoges, was a great friend and counsellor of Louis XVI. and Marie\nAntoinette. As a reward for having introduced into the country the\nmanufacture of finer porcelain than had ever before been made in\nFrance he was ennobled by the king, whom he often used to attend in\nhis private chapel. Limoges china is still celebrated all over the\nworld; and at that time the most celebrated of its china-makers was M.\nde Grellet, the king's friend.\n\nNaturally the sons of this successful merchant and nobleman were\nbrought up in great luxury. Etienne and his brothers were not sent to\na school, but had expensive tutors to teach them at home. Their\nparents wanted their children to be well educated, honourable,\nstraightforward, generous, and kind; to possess not only\naccomplishments but good qualities. Yet Etienne felt, when he looked\nback in later days, that something had been left out in their\neducation that was, perhaps, the most important thing of all.\n\nWhen he was quite a little boy he was taken to visit one of his aunts\nwho was a nun in a convent near Limoges. The rules of this convent\nwere so strict that the nuns might not even see their relations who\ncame to visit them. They might only speak to them from the other side\nof two iron gratings, between the bars of which a thick curtain was\nhung. The little boy thought it very strange to be taken from his\nbeautiful home, full of costly furniture, pictures, and hangings, and\nto be brought into the bare convent cell. Then he looked up and saw an\niron grating, and heard a voice coming through the folds of a thick\ncurtain that hung behind it. He could hear the voice, but he might\nnever see the face of the aunt who spoke to him. At night at home, as\nhe lay in his comfortable bed, he used to think of his aunt and the\nother nuns 'rising three times in the night for prayer in the church,\nfrom the hard boards which formed their couch, even the luxury of a\nstraw pallet being denied them.' 'Which is the real life,' he used to\nask himself, 'the easy comfortable life that goes on round me every\nday, or that other, difficult life hidden behind the folds of the\nthick curtain?'\n\nChild though he was, Etienne felt that his aunt loved him, although he\nhad never seen her. This helped him to feel that, although unseen, God\nwas loving him too. As he grew older he wondered: 'Perhaps everything\nwe see here is like the bars of a grating, or a thick curtain. Perhaps\nthere is some one on the other side who is speaking to us too.'\n\nEtienne was only about five or six years old when he made the great\ndiscovery that GOD IS THERE, hidden behind the screen of visible\nthings all round us. After this, he longed to be able to speak to God\nand to listen to God's voice, as he was able to listen to his unseen\naunt's voice speaking to him from behind the curtain in the convent.\n\nNo one ever taught him to pray; but presently he discovered that too\nfor himself. One day, when he was only six years old, his tutor gave\nhim a Latin lesson to learn that was much too difficult for him.\nEtienne took the book up to his bedroom, and there, all alone, he read\nit over and over and did his very best to learn it. But the unfamiliar\nLatin words would not stay in his memory. At last he closed the book\nin despair and went to his bedroom window and looked out. He gazed\nover the high roofs of the city, away over the wide plain in which\nLimoges lay, to the distant mountain, blue against the sky.\nEverything looked fair and peaceful. As he gazed, the thought came to\nhim, 'God made the plain and the river and the mountains. God made\nthis whole beautiful world in which I live. If God can create all\nthese things, surely He can give me memory also.' He knelt down at the\nfoot of his bed and prayed, for the first time in his life, that his\nUnseen Friend would help him to master the difficult lesson. Taking up\nthe book again, he read the hard Latin words once more, very\nattentively. This time the words stayed in his memory and did not fade\naway. Often afterwards, he found that if he prayed all his lessons\nbecame easier. He could not, of course, learn them without effort, but\nafter he had really prayed earnestly, he found he could remember\nthings better. Then one day he learned the Lord's prayer. Long years\nafter, when he was an old man, he could still recall the exact spot in\nhis beautiful home where, as a little boy, he had first learned to\nsay, 'Our Father.' Etienne and his family belonged to the Roman\nCatholic Church. On Sundays they went to the great cathedral of\nLimoges; but the service there always seemed strange and far away to\nEtienne.[41] The music, the chanting, the Latin words that were said\nand sung by bishops and priests in their gorgeous robes, did not seem\nto him to have anything to do with the quiet Voice that spoke to the\nboy in the silence of his own heart.\n\nWhen Etienne and his brothers were old enough they were sent to\nseveral different colleges and schools. Their last place of\ninstruction was the celebrated College of the Oratorians at Lyons.\nAmong other things, the students of this College were taught to move\nso quietly that fifty or a hundred boys went up or down the stone\nsteps of the College all together, without their feet making the least\nnoise.\n\nEtienne tells us in his diary: 'as we were educated by Roman Catholics\nand in their principles we were required to confess once a month,'\nthat is, to tell a priest whatever they had done that was wrong, and\nreceive the assurance of God's forgiveness from him.\n\nThe priest to whom Etienne regularly made his confession was 'a pious,\nconscientious man,' who treated him with fatherly care. When the boy\ntold him of his puzzles, and asked how it could be necessary to\nconfess to any man, since God alone could forgive sins, he received a\nkind, helpful answer. 'Yet,' he says, 'my reasoning faculties brought\nme to the root of the matter; from created objects to the\nCreator--from time to eternity.' After he was confirmed at College he\nhoped that his heart would be changed and made different; but he found\nthat he was still much the same as before. Before leaving the College\nhe and the other students who were also departing received the\nSacrament of the Lord's Supper at Mass. This was to Etienne a very\nsolemn time. But, he says, as soon as he was out in the world again,\nthe remembrance of it faded away. He settled that he had no use for\nreligion in his life, and determined to live for pleasure and\nhappiness alone. 'I sought after happiness,' his diary says, 'in the\nworld's delights. I went in pursuit of it from one party of pleasure\nto another; but I did _not_ find it, and I wondered that the name of\npleasure could be given to anything of that kind.'\n\nIn his dissipated life after leaving College, he gave up saying his\nprayers, and gradually he lost his belief that GOD WAS THERE. He read\nunbelieving books, which said that God did not exist, and that the\nUnseen world was only a delusion and a dream. For a time Etienne gave\nhimself up to doubt and denial as well as to dissipation. He was in\nthis restless state when the French Revolution broke out and caught\nhim, like a butterfly in a thunderstorm. New questions surged over\nhim. 'If there is a God after all, why should He allow these horrors\nto happen?' But no answer came. Or perhaps he had forgotten how to\nlisten.\n\n'Towards the close of 1791,' he writes, 'I left my dear Father's\nhouse, and bade him, as it proved, a lasting farewell, having never\nseen him since.' At this time, Etienne accompanied his brothers and\nmany other nobles into Germany, to join the French Princes who were\nendeavouring to bring about a counter-revolution and restore the king,\nLouis XVI.\n\nOn this dangerous journey the young men met with many narrow escapes.\nCourage came naturally to Etienne. 'I was not the least moved,' he\nwrites in his diary, 'when surrounded by people and soldiers, who\nlavished their abuses upon us, and threatened to hang me to the\nlamp-post. I coolly stood by, my hands in my pockets, being provided\nwith three pairs of pistols, two of which were double-barrelled. I\nconcluded to wait to see what they would do, and resolved, after\ndestroying as many of them as I could, to take my own life with the\nlast.'\n\nHappily the necessity for extreme courses did not arise. He was, he\nsays, 'mercifully preserved,' and no violent hands were laid upon him,\nthough he and his companions suffered a short detention, after which\nthey succeeded in safely joining the French Princes and their\nadherents at the city of Coblentz on the Rhine. Here Etienne spent the\nfollowing winter and spring surrounded, he tells us, by many\ntemptations.\n\n'I was fond of solitude,' continues the diary, 'and had many retired\nwalks through the woods and over the hills. I delighted to visit the\ndeserted hermitages, which formerly abounded on the Rhine. I envied\nthe situation of such hermits, retired from the world, and sheltered\nfrom its many temptations; for I thought it impossible for me to live\na life of purity while continuing among my associates. I looked\nforward wishfully to the time when I could thus retire; but I saw also\nthat, unless I could leave behind me my earthly-mindedness, my pride,\nvanity, and every carnal propensity, an outward solitude could afford\nme no shelter.\n\n'Our army entered into France the forepart of the summer of 1792,\naccompanied by the Austrians and Prussians. I was in the King's Horse\nGuards, which consisted mostly of the nobility. We endured great\nhardships, for many weeks sleeping on the bare ground, in the open\nair, and were sometimes in want of provisions. But that word _honour_\nso inflamed us, that I marvel how contentedly we bore our privations.'\n\nTowards the approach of winter, owing to various political changes,\nthe Princes' army was obliged to retire from France, and soon after\nwas disbanded. 'Etienne had been present at several engagements; he\nhad seen many falling about him, stricken by the shafts of death; he\nhad stood in battle array, facing the enemy ready for the conflict;\nbut, being in a reserve corps, he was preserved from actually shedding\nblood, having never fought with the sword, or fired a gun.'\n\nIn after years, he was thankful to remember that although he had been\nperfectly willing to take life, he had never actually done so in his\nsoldier days. After the retreat of the French army, he and his\nbrothers set out for Amsterdam. On the way, however, they were made\nprisoners of war, and condemned to be shot. 'The execution of the\nsentence was each moment expected, when some sudden commotion in the\nhostile army gave them an opportunity to make their escape.' Their\nlives thus having been spared a second time they reached Holland in\nsafety.\n\nThe young men were puzzled what to do next. They could not bear to\nleave their beloved parents at distant Limoges, and yet it was\nimpossible to reach them or to help them in any way. France was a\ndangerous place for people with a 'de' in their names in those days,\nand for young men of military age most dangerous of all. Finally,\nEtienne and his brother Joseph settled to go to South America.\n'Through the kind assistance of a republican General, a friend of the\nfamily, they obtained a passage on board a ship bound for Demerara,\nwhere they arrived in the First month of 1793, after a voyage of about\nforty days.'\n\nUnfortunately this long voyage had not taken them away from scenes of\nviolence. The Revolution in France was terrible, but the horrors of\nslavery in South America were, if possible, even worse. The New World\nseemed no less full of tragedy than the Old. Etienne saw there\nhusbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters torn\napart, most cruelly beaten, often sold like cattle to tyrannical\nmasters, never to see each other's faces again.\n\nAmid such scenes Etienne grew more than ever full of despairing\nthoughts, more than ever inclined to believe that there could not be a\nGod ruling a world where these evils were allowed to go unpunished.\n\n'Such was the impression made upon Etienne by the scenes of cruelty\nand anguish he witnessed, that, many years after, the sound of a whip\nin the street would chill his blood, in the remembrance of the agony\nof the poor slaves; and he felt convinced that there was no excess of\nwickedness and malice which a slave-holder, or driver, might not be\nguilty of.'\n\nEtienne and Joseph stayed in Demerara for more than two years. In the\nspring of 1795 they left South America and settled in Long Island near\nNew York. There, they made friends with a certain Colonel Corsa, a man\nwho had served in the British army, and who had a daughter who spoke\nFrench. As the two brothers at this time knew no English it was a\ngreat cheer to them in their loneliness to be able to visit at this\nhospitable house. One day Colonel Corsa happened to speak of William\nPenn. Etienne had already heard of the Quaker statesman, George Fox's\nfriend, and when the young girl said she possessed Penn's writings\nEtienne asked to borrow them. He took back to his lodgings with him a\nlarge folio book, intending, with the help of a dictionary, to\ntranslate it in order to improve his English. Great was his\ndisappointment when he found that the book contained nothing about\npolitics or statesmanship. It was about religion; and at this time\nEtienne thought that religion was all a humbug and delusion.\nTherefore he shut up the book and put it away, though he did not\nreturn it to its owner. One evening, about this time, as he was\nwalking in the fields alone, suddenly the Voice he had heard in his\nchildhood spoke to him once more, close by and terribly clear:\n'ETERNITY, ETERNITY, ETERNITY.' These three words, he says, 'reached\nmy very soul,--my whole man shook,--it brought me, like Saul, to the\nground.' The sinfulness and carelessness of his last few years passed\nbefore him. He cried out, 'If there is no God, doubtless there is a\nhell.'\n\nHis soul was almost in hell already, for hell is despair, and Etienne\nwas very nearly despairing at that moment. Only one way out remained,\nthe way of prayer, the little mossy pathway that he used to tread when\nhe was a child, but that he had not trodden, now, for many years.\nTangled, mossy, and overgrown that path was now, but it still led out\nfrom the dark wood of life where Etienne had almost lost his way and\nhis hope.\n\nEtienne took that way. With his whole heart he prayed for mercy and\nfor deliverance from the sin and horror that oppressed him. When no\nanswer came at once he did not stop praying, but continued day and\nnight, praying, praying for mercy. Perhaps he scarcely knew to whom\nhis prayer was addressed; but it was none the less a real prayer.\n\nHe expected that the answer to it would come in some startling form\nthat he could recognise the first minute and say: 'There! Now God is\nanswering my prayer!'\n\nInstead, the answer came far more simply than he had expected. God\noften seems to choose to answer prayers in such a gentle, natural\nfashion, that His children need to watch very carefully lest they take\nHis most radiant messengers, His most wonderful messages, almost as a\nmatter of course. Only if they recognise God's Love in all that comes,\nplanning how things shall happen, they can see His hand arranging even\nthe tiniest details of their lives, fitting them all in, and making\nthings work out right. Then they understand how truly wonderful His\nanswers are.\n\nThe answer to Etienne's prayer came through nothing more extraordinary\nthan that same old folio book which he had borrowed from his friend\nMiss Corsa, and had put away, thinking it too dull to translate. He\ntook it out again, and opened upon a part called 'No Cross, No Crown.'\n'I proceeded,' he says, 'to read it with the help of my dictionary,\nhaving to look for the meaning of nearly every word.'\n\nWhen he had finished, he read it straight through again. 'I had never\nmet with anything of the kind before,' and all the time he was reading\nthe Voice inside his heart kept on saying, 'Yes, Yes, Yes, that is\ntrue!'\n\n'I now withdrew from company, and spent most of my time in retirement,\nand in silent waiting upon God. I began to read the Bible, with the\naid of my dictionary, for I had none then in French. I was much of a\nstranger to the inspired records. I had not even seen them before that\nI remember; what I had heard of any part of their contents, was only\ndetached portions in Prayer Books.\n\n'Whilst the fallow ground of my heart was thus preparing, my brother\nand myself, being one day at Colonel Corsa's, heard that a Meeting was\nappointed to be held next day in the Friends' Meeting-house, by two\nEnglishwomen, to which we were invited. The Friends were Deborah Darby\nand Rebecca Young. The sight of them brought solemn feelings over me;\nbut I soon forgot all things around me; for, in an inward silent frame\nof mind, seeking for the Divine presence, I was favoured to find _in_\nme, what I had so long, and with so many tears, sought for _without_\nme. My brother, who sat beside me, and to whom the silence, in which\nthe forepart of the meeting was held, was irksome, repeatedly\nwhispered to me, \"Let us go away.\" But I felt the Lord's power in such\na manner, that a secret joy filled me, in that I had found Him after\nwhom my soul had longed. I was as one nailed to my seat. Shortly\nafter, one or two men Friends in the ministry spoke, but I could\nunderstand very little of what they said. After them Deborah Darby and\nRebecca Young spoke also; but I was so gathered in the temple of my\nheart before God, that I was wholly absorbed with what was passing\nthere. Thus had the Lord opened my heart to seek Him where He is to be\nfound.\n\n'My brother and myself were invited to dine in the company of these\nFriends, at Colonel Corsa's. There was a religious opportunity after\ndinner, in which several communications were made. I could hardly\nunderstand a word of what was said, but, as Deborah Darby began to\naddress my brother and myself, it seemed as if the Lord opened my\noutward ear, and my heart. She seemed like one reading the pages of my\nheart, with clearness describing how it had been, and how it was with\nme. O what sweetness did I then feel! It was indeed a memorable day. I\nwas like one introduced into a new world; the creation, and all\nthings around me, bore a different aspect, my heart glowed with love\nto all.... O how can the extent of the Lord's love, mercy, pity, and\ntender compassion be fathomed!'\n\nAfter the visit of the two Friends had made this change in his life\nEtienne decided to give up his French name and title, and to be no\nlonger Etienne de Grellet, the French nobleman, but plain Stephen\nGrellet, the teacher of languages. Later on, he was to become Stephen\nGrellet the Quaker preacher; but the time for that had not yet come.\nAfter Deborah Darby's visit he went regularly to the Friends' Meetings\nin Long Island, but they were held for the most part in complete\nsilence, and sad to say not one of the Friends ever spoke to him\nafterwards. He missed their friendliness all the more because the\npeople he was lodging with could not bear his attending Quaker\nMeetings, and tried to make him give up going to such unfashionable\nassemblies. His brother, Joseph, also could not understand what had\ncome to him, and both Joseph and the lodging-house people teased poor\nStephen about his Quaker leanings, till he, who had been brave enough\nwhen his life was in danger, was a coward before their mockery. He did\nnot want to give up going to his dear Meeting, but he hated to be\nridiculed. At first he tried to give up Meeting, but this disobedience\ngave him, he says, 'a feeling of misery.' When the next Sunday came he\ntried another plan. He went to the Meeting-house by roundabout ways\n'through fields and over fences, ashamed to be seen by any one on the\nroad.' When he reached the Meeting-house by these by-lanes, the door\nwas closed. No Meeting was to be held there that day. The Friends\nhappened to have gone to another place. Stephen, therefore, sat down,\n'in a retired place and in a very tried state,' to think the whole\nquestion over again, with much humility. He decided that henceforth,\ncome what might, he would not be a coward; and he kept his resolution.\nThe next Sunday he went to Meeting 'though it rained hard and I had\nabout three miles to walk.' Henceforward he attended Meeting\nregularly, and at last his brother ceased reproaching him for his\nQuakerism, and one Sunday he actually came to Meeting too. This time\nJoseph also enjoyed the silence and followed the worship. 'From that\ntime he attended meetings diligently, and was a great comfort to me.\nBut, during all that period,' Stephen continues, 'we had no\nintercourse with any of the members of the religious Society of\nFriends.' These Friends still took no notice of the two strangers.\nThey seem to have been Friends only in name.\n\nAbout this time bad news came from France. 'My dear mother wrote to me\nthat the granaries we had at our country seat had been secured by the\nrevolutionary party, as well as every article of food in our town\nhouse. My mother and my younger brother were only allowed the scanty\npittance of a peck of mouldy horse-beans per week. My dear father was\nshut up in prison, with an equally scanty allowance. But it was before\nI was acquainted with the sufferings of my beloved parents, that the\nconsideration of the general scarcity prevailing in the country led me\nto think how wrong it was for me to wear powder on my head, the ground\nof which I knew to be pride.' He gave up powder from this time. It\nwould not be much of a sacrifice nowadays, but it was a very real one\nthen, when powder was supposed to be the distinguishing mark of a\ngentleman. The two brothers were now obliged to learn to support\nthemselves. All their estates in France had been seized. 'Our means\nbegan to be low, and yet our feelings for the sufferings in which our\nbeloved parents might be involved, caused us to forget ourselves,\nstrangers in a strange country, and to forward them a few hundred\ndollars we had yet left.'\n\nIt was no easy matter to find employment. The brothers went on to New\nYork, and there at last the Friends were kind: Friends in deed and not\nin name only. They found a situation for Joseph in New York itself,\nand arranged for Stephen to go to Philadelphia, where he was more\nlikely to find work.\n\nAnd at Philadelphia the Friends were, if possible, even kinder to him\nthan the Friends at New York. They were spiritual fathers and mothers\nto him, he says, and seemed to know exactly what he was feeling. 'They\nhad but little to say in words, but I often felt that my spirit was\nrefreshed and strengthened in their company.' At Philadelphia, he had\nmany offers of tempting employment, but he decided to continue as a\nteacher of languages in a school. He gave his whole mind to his school\nwork while he was at it, and out of school hours wandered about\nentirely care free. But although he was a teacher of languages and\nalthough the English of his Journals is scrupulously careful, it has\noften a slight foreign stiffness and formality. He was often afraid in\nhis early years of making mistakes and not speaking quite correctly.\nThere is a story that long afterwards, when he was in England and was\ntaking his leave of some schoolgirls, he wished to say to them that\nhe hoped they might be preserved safely. But in the agitation of his\ndeparture he chose the wrong words. His parting injunction, therefore,\nnever faded from the girls' memory: 'My dear young Friends, may the\nLord _pickle_ you, His dear little _muttons_.'\n\nIf, even as an old man, Stephen was liable to fall into such pitfalls\nas this, it is easy to understand that in his earlier years the fear\nof making mistakes must have been a real terror to him, especially\nwhen he thought of speaking in Meeting. Very soon after he became a\nFriend he felt, with great dread, that the beautiful, comforting\nmessages that refreshed his own soul were meant to be shared with\nothers. Months, if not years, of struggle followed, before he could\nrise in his place in Meeting and obey this inward prompting. But\ndirectly he did so, his fears of making a mistake, or being laughed\nat, vanished utterly away. After agony, came joy. 'The Lord shewed me\nhow He is mouth, wisdom and utterance to His true and faithful\nministers; that it is from Him alone that they are to communicate to\nthe people, and also the _when_ and the _how_.' At that first Meeting,\nafter Stephen had given his message and sat down again, several\nFriends, whose blessing he specially valued, also spoke and said how\nthankful they were for his words. Among those present that day was\nthat same William Savery, who, in the last story, had a bundle of\nvaluable hides stolen from his tanyard, and punished the thief, when\nhe came to return the hides, by loading him with kindness and giving\nhim a good situation.\n\nCertainly William Savery would not tell the story of 'the man who was\nnot John Smith' to Stephen Grellet on that particular day; for\nStephen was so filled with the thankful wonder that follows obedience,\nthat he had no thought for outside things. 'For some days after this\nact of dedication,' he says, 'my peace flowed as a river.' In the\nautumn of this year (1796), Stephen Grellet, the French nobleman,\nbecame a Friend. About two years later, he was acknowledged as a\nMinister by the Society.\n\n'In those days,' he writes, 'my mind dwelt much on the nature of the\nhope of redemption through Jesus Christ.... I felt that the best\ntestimony I could bear was to evince by my life what He had actually\ndone for me.'\n\nHenceforth Stephen's life was spent in trying to make known to others\nthe joy that had overflowed his own soul. He did indeed 'put the\nthings that he had learned in practice,' as he journeyed over both\nEurope and America, time after time, visiting high and low. His life\nis one long record of adventures, of perils surmounted, of hairbreadth\nescapes, of constant toil and of much plodding, humdrum service too.\nHis message brought him into the strangest situations, as he gave it\nfearlessly. He sought an interview with the Pope at Rome in order to\nremonstrate with him about the state of the prisons in the Papal\nStates. Stephen gave his message with perfect candour, and afterwards\nentered into conversation with the Pope. Finally, he says, 'As I felt\nthe love of Christ flowing in my heart towards him, I particularly\naddressed him.... The Pope ... kept his head inclined and appeared\ntender, while I thus addressed him; then rising from his seat, in a\nkind and respectful manner, he expressed his desire that \"the Lord\nwould bless and protect me wherever I went,\" on which I left him.'\n\nNot satisfied with that, though it seems wonderful enough, Stephen\nanother time induced the Czar of all the Russias, Alexander I., to\nattend Westminster Meeting. Both these stories are well worth telling.\nBut there is one story about Stephen, better worth telling still, and\nthat is how the Voice that guided him all over the world sent him one\nday 'preaching to nobody' in a lonely forest clearing in the far\nbackwoods of America.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[41] 'From my earliest days,' he writes, 'there was that in me that\nwould not allow me implicitly to believe the various doctrines I was\ntaught.'\n\n\n\n\nXXXII. PREACHING TO NOBODY\n\n\n\n\n _'All the artillery in the world,\n were they all discharged together\n at one clap, could not more deaf\n the ears of our bodies than the\n clamourings of desires in the soul\n deaf its ears, so you see a man\n must go into silence or else he\n cannot hear God speak.'_--JOHN\n EVERARD. 1650.\n\n\n _'God forces none, for love cannot\n compel, and God's service is\n therefore a thing of complete\n freedom.... The thing which\n hinders and has always hindered is\n that our wills are different from\n God's will. God never seeks\n Himself, in His willing--we do.\n There is no other way to\n blessedness than to lose one's\n self will'_--HANS DENCK. 1526.\n\n\n _'The inward command is never\n wanting in the due season to any\n duty.'_--R. BARCLAY. 1678.\n\n\n _'I think I can reverently say\n that I very much doubt whether,\n since the Lord by His grace\n brought me into the faith of His\n dear Son, I have ever broken bread\n or drunk wine, even in the\n ordinary course of life, without\n the remembrance of, and some\n devout feeling regarding the\n broken body and the blood-shedding\n of my dear Lord and\n Saviour.'_--STEPHEN GRELLET.\n\n\n _'One loving spirit sets another\n on fire.'_--AUGUSTINE.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII. PREACHING TO NOBODY\n\n\nStephen Grellet, after much waiting on the Lord to shew him His will,\nwas directed by the Spirit to take a long journey into the backwoods\nof America, and preach the Gospel to some woodcutters who were felling\nforest timber.'[42]\n\nAt first Stephen did not know which was the wood he was meant to\nvisit, having travelled through hundreds of miles of forests on his\njourney. So he waited very quietly, his heart as still as a clear\nlake, ready to reflect anything God might show him.\n\nSuddenly a picture came. He remembered a lonely forest clearing, far\naway. Workmen's huts were dotted about here and there, and a big\nwooden building rose in the midst of the clearing. All around were\nwoodcutters, some busy sawing timber, some marking the tall forest\ntrees, others carting huge logs and piling them at a little distance.\nStephen now remembered the place well. He remembered, too, the\nworkmen's rough faces, and the wild shouts that filled the air as he\nhad passed by on horseback. He had noticed a faint film of blue smoke\ncurling up from the large building, and he had supposed that that must\nbe the dining-shanty where the workmen's food was prepared and where\nthey had their meals. He remembered having thought to himself, 'A\nlonely life and a wild one!' But the place had not made a deep\nimpression on his mind, and he had forgotten it as he journeyed, in\nthe joy of getting nearer home. Now, suddenly, that forest clearing,\nwith the huts and the dining-shanty and the busy woodmen all round,\ncame back to him as vividly as a picture in a magic-lantern view,\nwhile a Voice said, distinctly but very gently in his own heart, so\nthat only he could hear, 'GO BACK THERE AND PREACH TO THOSE LONELY\nMEN.'\n\nStephen knew quite well Whose Voice it was that was speaking to him,\nfor he had loved and followed that Voice for many years. Obedience was\neasy now. He said at once, 'Yes, I will go;' and saying good-bye to\nhis wife, he left his home, and set forth again into the forest. As he\njourneyed, a flood of happiness came over his soul. The long ride\nthrough the lonely woods, day after day, no longer seemed tedious. He\nwas absolutely alone, but he never felt the least bit lonely. It was\nas if Someone were journeying with him all the way, the invisible\nFriend whose Voice he knew and loved and obeyed.\n\nWhen at length he drew near the clearing in the forest, he both\ntrembled and rejoiced, at the thought of soon being able to deliver\nhis message to the woodmen. Coming yet nearer, however, he no longer\nsaw any blue smoke curling up in a thin spiral between the straight\nstems of the forest trees. Neither did he hear any sound of saws\nsawing timber, or the men shouting to their horses. The whole place\nwas silent and deserted. When he reached the clearing, nobody was\nthere. Even the huts had gone. He would have thought he had mistaken\nthe place if the dining-shanty had not been there, by the edge of a\nlittle trickling stream, just as he remembered it.\n\nNowhere was there a living soul to be seen. Evidently all the woodmen\nhad gone away deeper into the forest to find fresh timber, for the\nclearing was much larger and many more trees had been cut down than\non Stephen's first visit. The neglected look of the one big wooden hut\nthat remained showed that the men had not used it for many days. Weeks\nmight pass before any of the woodcutters returned.\n\nWhat was Stephen to do? He had no idea in which direction the woodmen\nhad departed. It was hopeless to think of tracking them further\nthrough the lonely forest glades. Had the Voice made a mistake? Could\nhe have misunderstood the command? Was the whole expedition a failure?\nMust he return home with his message still undelivered? His heart\nburned within him at the thought, and he said, half aloud, 'No, no,\nno!'\n\nThere was only one way out of the difficulty, the same way that had\nhelped him to learn his Latin lesson years ago when he was a little\nboy. But it was no tiny mossy track now, it was a broad, well-marked\nroad travelled daily, hourly, through long years,--this Prayer way\nthat led his soul to God. Tying up his horse to the nearest tree,\nStephen knelt down on the carpet of red-brown pine-needles, and put up\na wordless prayer for guidance and help. Then he began to listen.\n\nThrough the windless silence of the forest spaces the Voice came again\nmore clearly than ever, saying: 'GIVE YOUR MESSAGE. IT IS NOT YOURS\nBUT MINE.' Stephen hesitated no longer. He went straight into the\ndining-shanty. He strode past the bare empty tables, under which the\nlong grass and flowers were already growing thick and tall. He went\nstraight up to the end of the room, and there, standing on a form, as\nif the place had been filled with one or two hundred eager listeners,\nalthough no single human being was to be seen, he PREACHED, as he had\nnever yet preached in his life. The Love of God, the 'Love that will\nnot let us go,' seemed to him the most real thing in the whole world.\nAll his life he had longed to find an anchor for his soul. Now that he\nhad found it, he must help others to find it too. Why doesn't everyone\nfind it? Ah! there he began to speak of sin; how sin builds up a wall\nbetween our hearts and God; how, in Jesus Christ, that wall has been\nthrown down once for all, and now there is nothing to keep us apart\nexcept our own blindness and pride; and how if we will only turn round\nand open our hearts to Him, He is longing to come in and dwell with\nus.\n\nAs Stephen went on, he pleaded yet more earnestly. He thought of the\nabsent woodcutters. He felt that he loved every single one of those\nwild, rough men; and if he loved them, he, a stranger, how much more\ndear must they be to their heavenly Father. 'Grant me to win each\nsingle soul for Thee, O Lord,' he pleaded, 'each single soul for\nThee.'\n\nWhere were they all now, these men to whom he had come to speak? He\ncould not find them. But God could. God was their shepherd. Even if\nHis messenger failed, the Good Shepherd would seek on until He found\neach single wandering soul that He loved. 'And when the shepherd\nfindeth the lost sheep, after leaving the ninety and nine in the\nwilderness, how does he bring it home? Does he whip it? Does he\nthreaten it? No such thing! he carries it on his shoulder and deals\nmost tenderly with the poor, weary, wandering one.'\n\nWhile he was speaking he thought of the absent woodcutters with an\nevergrowing desire to help them. He thought of the hard lives they\nwere forced to lead, of the temptations they must meet with daily, and\nof the lack of all outward help towards a better life. As he repeated\nthe words again, 'Grant me, O Lord, to win these lost sheep of Thine\nback to Thee and to Thy service; help me to win each single soul for\nThee,' he felt as if, somehow, his voice, his prayer, must reach the\nmen he sought, even though hundreds of miles of desolate forest lay\nbetween. Towards the end of his sermon, the tears ran down his cheeks.\nAt last, utterly exhausted by the strength of his desire he sat down\nonce more, and, throwing his arms on the rough board before him, he\nhid his face in his hands.\n\nA long time passed; the silence grew ever more intense. At last\nStephen lifted his head. He felt as tired as if he had gone a long\njourney since he entered the wooden building. Yet it was all exactly\nthe same as when he had come in an hour before,--the rows of empty\nforms and the bare tables, with grass and flowers growing up between\nthem. Stephen's eyes wandered out through the open door. He noticed a\nthick mug of earthenware lying beside the path outside, evidently left\nbehind by the woodcutters as not worth taking with them. A common\nearthenware mug it was, of coarse material and ugly shape; and\ncracked. As Stephen's eyes fell upon it, he felt as if he hated that\nmug more than he had ever before hated anything in his life. It seemed\nto have been left behind there, on purpose to mock him. Here he was\nwith only an earthenware mug in sight, he who might have been\nsurrounded by the exquisite and delicate porcelain that he remembered\nin his father's factory at Limoges. All that beauty and luxury\nbelonged to him by right; they might still have been his, if only he\nhad not listened for years to the Voice. And now the Voice had led him\non this fool's errand. Here he was, preaching to nobody, and looking\nat a cracked mug. Was his whole life a mistake? a delusion? 'Am I a\nfool after all?' he asked himself bitterly.\n\nHe was in the sad, bitter mood that is called 'Reaction.' Strangely\nenough, it often seizes people just when they have done some\nparticularly difficult piece of work for their Master. Perhaps it\ncomes to keep them from thinking that they can finish anything in\ntheir own strength alone.\n\nStephen was in the grip of this mood now. Happily he had wrestled with\nthe same sort of temptation many times before. He knew it of old; he\nknew, too, that the best way to meet it is to face this giant Reaction\nboldly, as Christian faced Apollyon, to wrestle with it and so to\novercome. He went straight out of the door to where the mug was lying,\nand took up that mug, that cracked mug, in his hands, more reverently\nthan if it had been a vase of the most precious and fragile porcelain.\nHe took it up, and accepted it, this thing he hated worst of all. If\nlife had led him only to a cracked mug, at least he would accept that\nmug and use it as best he could. Carrying it in his hands, he walked\nto the little stream whose gentle murmur came through the tall grasses\nclose at hand. There he knelt down, cleansed the mug carefully, filled\nit with water, and putting it to his lips, he drank a long refreshing\ndraught. In his pocket he found a crust of bread. He took it out,\nbroke it in two pieces, and then drank again. Only a piece of dry\nbread! Only a drink of cold water in a cracked cup! No meal could be\nsimpler. Yet Stephen ate and drank with a kind of awe, enfolded in a\nsustaining, life-giving Presence. He knew that he was not alone; he\nknew that Another was with him, feeding and refreshing his inmost\nsoul, as he drank of the clear, cold water and ate the broken bread.\n\nA wonderful peace and gladness fell upon his spirit as he knelt in the\nsunny air. The silence of the great forest was itself a song of\npraise. He rode homewards like a man in a dream. Day after day as he\njourneyed, the brooding peace grew and deepened. Even the forest\npathways looked different as he travelled through them on his homeward\nway. They had been full of trustful obedience before. They were filled\nwith thankfulness now. But the deepest thankfulness was in Stephen's\nown heart.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIs that the end of the story? For many years that was the end. Stephen\nnever forgot his mysterious journey into the backwoods. He often\nwondered why the Voice had sent him there. Nevertheless he knew, for\ncertain and past all doubting, that he had done right to go. Perhaps\ngradually the memory faded a little and became dim....\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnyway nothing was further from his thoughts than the lonely backwoods\nof America one afternoon, years after, when on one of his journeys in\nEurope his business led him across London Bridge. The Bridge was\ncrowded with traffic. Everyone was bustling to and fro, intent on his\nown business or pleasure. Not many people had leisure to notice one\nslight figure distinguished by a foreign air of courtliness and grace,\nin spite of the stiff, severe lines of its Quaker hat and coat. Not\nmany people, even if they had noticed the earnest face under the\nbroad-brimmed hat, would have stopped to gaze a second time upon it\nthat busy afternoon. Not many people. But one man did.\n\nAs Stephen was hastening across the crowded Bridge, suddenly he felt\nhimself seized roughly by the shoulders, and he heard a gruff voice\nexclaiming: 'There you are! I have found you at last, have I?'\n\nDeep down inside Stephen Grellet, the Quaker preacher, there still\nremained a few traces of the fastidious French noble, Etienne de\nGrellet. The traces had been buried deep down by this time, but there\nthey still were. They leapt suddenly to light, that busy afternoon on\nLondon Bridge. Neither French nobleman nor Quaker preacher liked to be\nseized in such unceremonious fashion. 'Friend,' he remonstrated,\ndrawing himself gently away, 'I think that thou art mistaken.'\n\n'No, I am not,' rejoined the other, his grip tighter than ever. 'When\nyou have sought a man over the face of the globe year after year, you\ndon't make a mistake when you find him at last. Not you! Not me\neither! I'm not mistaken, and I don't let you go now I've found you\nafter all these years, with your same little dapper, black, cut-away\ncoat, that I thought so queer; and your broad-brimmed hat that I well\nremember. Never heard a man preach with his hat on before!'\n\n'Hast thou heard me preach, Friend? Why then didst thou not speak to\nme afterwards if thou wished?'\n\n'But I didn't wish!' answered the stranger, 'nothing I wished for\nless!'\n\n'Where was it?' enquired Stephen.\n\n'Why, I heard you preaching to nobody, years and years ago,' the man\nreturned. 'At least you supposed you were preaching to nobody. Really,\nyou were preaching to me. Cut me to the heart you did too, I can tell\nyou.'\n\nA dawning light of comprehension came into Stephen's face as the other\nwent on: 'Didn't you preach in a deserted dining-shanty in the\nbackwoods of America near----' (and he named the place), 'on such a\nday and in such a year?'\n\nHe asked these questions in a loud voice, regardless of the astonished\nlooks of the passers-by, still holding tight to the edge of Stephen's\ncoat with one hand, and shaking the forefinger of the other in\nStephen's face as he spoke, to emphasize each word.\n\nBy this time all traces of Etienne, the fastidious French nobleman,\nhad utterly disappeared. Stephen Grellet, the minister of Christ, was\nalive now to the tips of his fingers. His whole soul was in his eyes\nas he gazed at his questioner. Was that old, old riddle going to find\nits answer at last?\n\n'Wast thou there?' he enquired breathlessly. 'Impossible! I must have\nseen thee!'\n\n'I was there, right enough,' answered the man. 'But you did not see\nme, because I took very good care that you should not. At first I\nthought you were a lunatic, preaching to a lot of forms and tables\nlike that, and better left alone. Then, afterwards, I wouldn't let\nyou see me, for fear you should see also that your words had gone in\ndeeper than I cared to show. I was the ganger of the woodmen,' he\ncontinued, taking Stephen's arm in his and compelling the little\nQuaker to walk beside him as he talked. 'It all happened in this way.\nWe had moved forth into the forest, and were putting up more shanties\nto live in, when I discovered that I had left my lever at the old\nsettlement. So, after setting my men to work, I came back alone for my\ninstrument. As I approached the old place, I heard a voice. Trembling\nand agitated, I drew near, I saw you through the chinks of the timber\nwalls of our dining-shanty, I listened to you; and as I listened, your\nwords went through a chink in my heart too, though its walls were\nthicker than those of any dining-shanty. I was determined you should\nnot see me. I crept away and went back to my men. The arrow stuck\nfast. I was miserable for many weeks. I had no Bible, no book of any\nkind, not a creature to ask about better things.'\n\n'Poor sheep! Poor lost sheep!' Stephen murmured gently; 'I knew it; I\nknew it! The Good Shepherd knew it too!'\n\n'We were a rough lot in those days,' continued the other, 'worse than\nrough, bad; worse than bad, wicked. There wasn't much about sin that\nwe didn't know among us, didn't enjoy too, after a fashion. That was\nwhy your sermon made me so miserable. Seemed to know just all about\nthe lot of us, you did. After it, for weeks I went on getting more and\nmore wretched. There seemed nothing to do, me not being able to find\nyou, but to try and get hold of the book that had put you up to it.\nNone of us had such a thing, of course. It was a long time before I\ncould lay hands on one. Me and a Bible! How the men laughed! But they\nstopped laughing before I had done with them. I read and read till I\nfound what you had said about the Good Shepherd and the lost\nsheep--'and God so loved the world,' and at last--eternal life. And\nthen I wasn't going to keep that to myself. It's share and share alike\nout in the backwoods, I can tell you. I told my men all about it, just\nlike you. I never let 'em alone, I gave them no peace till they were\none and all brought home to God--every single one! I heard you asking\nHim: \"Every single soul for Thy service, every single soul for Thee, O\nLord.\" That was what you asked Him for,--that, and more than that, He\ngave. It's always the way! When the Lord begins to answer, He does\nanswer! Every single one of those men was brought home to Him. But it\ndidn't stop there. Three of them became missionaries, to go and bring\nothers back to the fold in their turn. I tell you the solemn truth.\nAlready one thousand lost sheep, if not more, have been brought home\nto the Good Shepherd through that sermon of yours, that day in the\nbackwoods, when you thought you were\n\n PREACHING TO NOBODY!'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[42] _The American Friend_, 28th November 1895.\n\n\n\n\nCOME-TO-GOOD\n\n\n\n\n _'Flowers are the little faces of\n God.'--(A saying of some little\n children.)_\n\n\n _'To the soul that feeds on the\n bread of life the outward\n conventions of religion are no\n longer needful. Hid with Christ in\n God there is for him small place\n for outward rites, for all\n experience is a holy baptism, a\n perpetual supper with the Lord,\n and all life a sacrifice holy and\n acceptable unto God._\n\n _'This hidden life, this inward\n vision, this immediate and intimate\n union between the soul and God,\n this, as revealed in Jesus Christ,\n is the basis of the Quaker\n faith.'_--J.W. ROWNTREE.\n\n\n _'Here the pure mind is known, and\n the pure God is waited upon for\n wisdom from above; and the peace,\n which hath no end, is enjoyed....\n And the Light of God that calls\n your minds out of the creatures,\n turns them to God, to an endless\n being, joy and peace: here is a\n seeing God always present.... So\n fare you well! And God Almighty\n bless, guide and keep you all in\n His wisdom.'_--GEORGE FOX.\n\n\n\n\nCOME-TO-GOOD\n\n\n_One more Meeting-house to visit; the last and the smallest of all. A\nMeeting-house with no story, except the story in its name.\n'\"Come-to-Good!\"' boys and girls from other counties will exclaim\nperhaps, 'whoever heard of such a place? Why did people not call it\n\"Come-to-Harm,\" or \"Ne'er-do-Weel,\" while they were about it?'_\n\n_Cornish boys and girls know better. They will explain that in their\nfar Western corner of England there has always been an idea, and a\nvery good idea it is, that a name should really describe the place to\nwhich it belongs, and should tell the hearer something about its\ncharacter. Thus it comes to pass that on one tidal river a certain\ncreek, covered with salt sea-water at high tide, but showing only an\nexpanse of muddy flats at low water, is called 'Cockles' Peep Out.'\nAnother creek, near by, is known as 'Frenchman's Pill,' because some\nFrench prisoners were sent there for safety during the Napoleonic\nWars. Then, too, a busy sea-port was once called 'Penny Come Quick,'\nwith good reason; and another out-of-the-way place 'Hard to Come By,'\nwhich explains itself. Most romantic of all, the valley where King\nCharles's army lost a battle long ago is still known as 'Fine and\nBrave.' There, the country people say, headless ghosts of defeated\nCavaliers may still be seen on moonlight nights riding up and down,\ncarrying their own plumed-hatted heads under their arms. All over the\ncounty these story places are to be found. The more odd a Cornish name\nsounds at the first hearing, the more apt it will often prove, when\nthe reason for it is understood._\n\n_Thus it is not strange that a lonely, shut-in valley, folded away\nbetween two steep hills, should be known as 'Come-to-Good,' since, for\nmore than two centuries, men and women, and little children also, have\n'Come to Good' in that remote and hidden place. There, surrounded by\nsheltering trees, stands the little old Meeting-house. Its high\nthatched roof projects, like a bushy eyebrow, over the low white walls\nand thick white buttresses, shading the three narrow casement windows\nof pale-green glass with their diamond lattice panes. The windows are\nalmost hidden by the roof; the roof is almost hidden by the trees; and\nthe trees are almost hidden by the hills that rise above them.\nTherefore the pilgrim always comes upon the Meeting-house with a\ncertain sense of surprise, so carefully is it concealed;--like a most\nsecret and precious thought._\n\n_The bare Cornish uplands and wide moors have a trick of hiding away\nthese rich, fertile valleys, that have given rise to the proverb:\n'Cornwall is a lady, whose beauty is seen in her wrinkles.' Yet,\nhidden away as it is, 'Come-to-Good' has drawn people to it for\ncenturies. In all the country round, for generations past, one Sunday\nin August has been known as 'Come-to-Good Sunday,' because, on that\nday, the Friends assemble from three or four distant towns to hold\ntheir meeting there. And not the Friends only. No bell has ever broken\nthe stillness of that peaceful valley, yet for miles round, on a\n'Meeting Sunday,' the lanes are full of small groups of people:\nparents and children; farm lads and lasses; thoughtful-faced men, who\nadmit that 'they never go anywhere else'; shy lovers lingering behind,\nor whole families walking together. All are to be seen on their way to\nrefresh their souls with the hour of quiet worship in the snowy white\nMeeting-house under its thatched roof._\n\n * * * * *\n\n_Many years ago, little Lois (whom you read about at the beginning of\nthis book) was taken to Come-to-Good for the first time on such a\nSunday, by her Grandmother. Even now, whenever she goes there, she\nstill seems to see that dear Grandmother's tall, erect figure, in its\nflowing black silk mantle and Quaker bonnet, walking with stately\nsteps up the path in front; or stooping for once--she who never\nstooped!--to enter the little low door. People who did not know her\nwell, and even some who did, occasionally felt Lois' 'dear\nGrandmamma' rather a formidable old lady. They said she was 'severe'\nand 'alarmingly dignified,' and 'she says straight out just exactly\nwhat she thinks.' Certainly, she was not one of the spoiling,\nindulgent, eiderdown-silk-cushion kind of Grannies that some children\nhave now; but Lois loved her with all her heart and was never really\nafraid of her. What stories she could tell! What wonderful stockings\nfull of treasures Santa Claus brought down her chimneys on Christmas\nEve to the happy grandchild staying with her! Lois loved to sit beside\nher 'dear Grandmamma,' and to watch her in her corner by the fire,\nupright as ever, knitting. Even on the long drive to Come-to-Good, the\nfeeling of her smooth, calm hand had soothed the restless little\nfingers held in it so firmly and gently. The drive over, Lois wondered\nwhat would happen to her in the strange Meeting-house when she might\nnot sit by that dear Grandmother's side any longer, since she, of\ncourse, would have to be up in the Ministers' gallery, with all the\nother 'Weighty Friends.' But, at Come-to-Good, things always turn out\nright. Lois found, to her delight, that she and the other boys and\ngirls were to be allowed to creep, very quietly, up the twisty wooden\nstairs at the far end of the Meeting-house, and to make their way up\ninto the 'loft' where four or five low forms had been specially placed\nfor them. Lois loved to find herself sitting there. She felt like a\nlittle white pigeon, high up on a perch, able to see over the heads of\nall the people below, and able even to look down on the grave faces of\nthe Ministers opposite. The row of broad-brimmed hats and coal-scuttle\nbonnets looked entirely different and much more attractive, seen from\nabove, than when she looked up at them in Meeting at home. Then, when\nsome one rose to speak, Lois liked to watch the ripple that passed\nover the heads beneath her, as all the faces turned towards the\nspeaker. Or when everybody, moved by the same impulse, stood up during\na prayer or sat down at its close, it was as fascinating to watch them\ngently rise and gently sit down again as it was to watch the wind\nsweep over the sea, curling it up into waves or wavelets, or the\nbreeze rippling over a broad field of blue-green June barley. Lois\nnever remembered the time when she was too small to enjoy those two\nsights. 'I do like watching something I can't see, moving something I\ncan!' she used to think. To watch a Meeting, from the loft at\nCome-to-Good, was rather like that, she felt; though years had to pass\nbefore she found out the reason why._\n\n_Out of doors, when the quiet hour of worship was over, other delights\nwere waiting. The small old white Meeting-house is surrounded by a yet\nolder, small green burial-ground, where long grasses, and flowers\ninnumerable, cover the gentle slopes. The soft mounds cluster closely\naround the walls; as if those who were laid there had wished that\ntheir bodies might rest as near as possible to the house of peace\nwhere their spirits had rested while on earth._\n\n_Further off the mounds are fewer; the grassy spaces between them grow\nwider; till it becomes difficult to tell which are graves and which\nare just grassy hillocks. Further still, the old burial-ground dips\ndown, and loses itself entirely, and becomes first a wood, then\nfrankly an orchard that fills up the bottom of the valley, through\nwhich a clear brown stream goes wandering._\n\n_Yet, midway on the hilly slope above, half hidden gravestones can\nstill be discerned, among the grass and flowers; shining through them,\nlike a smile that was once a sorrow. Small, grey, perfectly plain\nstones they are, all exactly alike, as is the custom in Friends'\ngraveyards, where to be allowed a headstone at all, was, at one time,\nconsidered 'rather gay'! Each stone bears nothing but a name upon it\nand sometimes a date. 'Honor Magor' is the name carved on one of the\noldest stooping stones, and under it a date nearly 100 years old. That\nis all. Lois used to wonder who Honor Magor was,--an old woman? a\nyoung one? or possibly even a little girl? Where did she live when she\nwas alive? how did she come to be buried there? But there are no\nanswers to any of these questions; and there is no need to know more\nthan that the tired body of Honor Magor has been resting peacefully\nfor nearly a century, hidden under the tangle of waving grasses and\never-changing flowers at Come-to-Good._\n\n_Ever-changing flowers? Yes; because the changing of the seasons is\nmore marked there than at other places. For Come-to-Good lies so many\nmiles from any town, the tide of life has ebbed away so far from this\nquiet pool, that, for a long time past, Meetings have only been held\nhere four times in the year. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring,--each\nseason brings its own Sunday. Then, and for a week or two beforehand,\nthe topmost bar of every wooden gate in the neighbourhood bears a\nmodest piece of white paper announcing that 'a Friends' Meeting will\nbe held at Come-to-Good on the following First Day morning, at eleven\no'clock, when the company of any who are inclined to attend will be\nacceptable.'_\n\n_August Sunday brings deep, red roses tossing themselves up, like a\ncrimson fountain, against the grey thatched roof. November Sunday has\nits own treasures: sweet, late blackberries, crimson and golden\nleaves, perhaps even a few late hazel nuts and acorns still hiding\ndown in the wood. In February, the first gummy stars of the celandine\nare to be seen peeping out from under the hedge, while a demure little\nprocession of white and green snowdrops walks primly up the narrow\npath to Meeting. The 'Fair Maids of February' seem to have an especial\nlove for this quiet spot._\n\n_But in May--ah! May is the best Sunday of all. In May not only is the\nwhole valley knee-deep in grass and ferns and flowers and bluebells.\nThere is something still better! In May the burial-ground is all\nsinging and tinkling silently with fairy spires of columbines. Garden\nflowers in most other places, they are quite wild here. Purple and\ndeep-blue and pale-pink columbines are growing up everywhere; each\nflower with its own little pairs of twin turtle-doves hidden away\ninside. Even white columbine, rarest of all, has been found in that\nmagic valley. I am afraid Lois thought longingly, all through the\nsilence on a May Sunday, of the nosegay of columbines she meant to\ngather afterwards. Directly Meeting was over, the children pelted down\nvery fast from the loft. Numbers of little feet flew across the sunlit\ngrass, while the elder Friends were walking sedately down the path to\nthe gate._\n\n _'O Columbine, open your folded wrapper,\n Where two twin turtle-doves dwell,'_\n\n_chanted the children as they frolicked about, forgetting that they\nhad been stiff with sitting so long in Meeting, as they gathered\nhandfuls of their treasures._\n\n_All too soon they would hear the call: 'Come, children! it is time to\nbe going.' And then they would scamper back, their hands full of their\ndear dove flowers. No wonder they felt that in leaving this sunny spot\nthey were leaving one of the happiest places on earth. If only they\ncould stay there! If only some one could be enjoying it always! What a\npity that on the forty-eight other Sundays of the year it should all\nbe deserted, shut up and forsaken! There might be numbers of other\nwonderful flowers that nobody ever saw. There the old Meeting-house\nstays all by itself the whole year round, except on those four\nSundays, even as a lonely pool of clear water remains high up on the\nrocks, showing that the great sea itself did come there once, long\nago, flowing in mightily, filling up all the bare chinks and\ncrannies._\n\n_Will such a high tide ever come back again to Come-to-Good? Is that\ntide perhaps beginning to flow in, noiselessly and steadily, even\nnow?_\n\n_Some things look rather as if it might be; for new Friends'\nMeeting-houses are being built in crowded cities to-day where even the\nhigh tide of long ago never came. But then, in lonely country places\nlike Come-to-Good, scattered up and down all over England, there are\nmany of these deserted Meeting-houses, where hardly anybody comes now\nor only comes out of curiosity. Yet the high tide did fill them all\nonce long ago, full to overflowing, when people met within their\nwalls constantly, seeking and finding God._\n\n * * * * *\n\n_The stories in this book about our 'Quaker Saints' show at what a\ncost these deserted places were won for us by our brave forefathers.\nThey, with their health and their lives gladly given in those terrible\nprisons of long ago, gained for us our liberty to meet together 'in\nnumbers five or more,' to practise a 'form of worship not authorised\nby law'; that is to say, without any prayer-book or set form of\nservice being used._\n\n_Is our simple Quaker way of worship really worth the price they paid\nfor it? Or is it merely a quaint and interesting relic of a by-gone\nage, something like the 'Friend's bonnet' that Lois' Grandmother wore\nas a matter of course, which now is never used, but lies in a drawer,\ncarefully covered with tissue paper and fragrant with lavender?_\n\n_Is our Quaker faith like that? Is it something antiquated and\ninteresting, but of no real use to us or to anybody to-day? Or did\nthese 'Quaker Saints' of whom we have heard, did they, and many other\nbrave men and women, whose stories are not written here, really and\ntruly make a big discovery? Did they, by their living and by their\ndying, remind the world of a truth that it had been in danger of\nforgetting? a truth that may still be in danger of being forgotten\nif quite ordinary, everyday people are not faithful now in their\nturn?_\n\n[Illustration: A FRIENDS' MEETING]\n\n_Is it really and truly true, that where two or three humble human\nsouls are gathered together in His Name, in the simplest possible\nfashion, without any priest, or altar, or visible signs to help them,\nyet our Lord is there? Can He be indeed among them still to-day? and\nwill He be forever, as He promised? feeding them Himself with the true\nBread of Life, satisfying their thirst with Living Water, baptizing\ntheir souls with Power and with Peace?--_\n\n_Children dear, you must answer these questions for yourselves,\nfearlessly and honestly. No one else can answer them for you. The\nanswers may seem long in coming, but do not be in a hurry. They will\ncome in time, if you seek steadfastly and humbly. Only remember one\nthing, as you think over these questions. Even if this is our way, the\nright way for us, this very simple Quaker way that our forefathers won\nfor us at such a cost, still that does not necessarily make it the\nright way for all other people too. God's world and God's plans are\nmuch bigger than that. He brings His children home by numbers of\ndifferent paths, but for each child of His, God's straight way for\nthat child is the very best._\n\n_The wise old Persians had a proverb, 'The ways unto God are as the\nnumber of the souls of the children of men.' Let us remember this, if\nwe ever want to try to force other people to think about things\nexactly as we do. Let us remember, too, that rivalry and pride, that\nsaying, or even thinking, 'My way is the only right way, and a much\nbetter way than your way,' is the only really antiquated kind of\nworship. The sooner we all learn to lay that aside, not in lavender\nand tissue paper, but to cast it away utterly and forget that it ever\nexisted,--the better._\n\n_It is not a bit of an excuse for us when we are inclined to judge\nother people critically, to read in these stories that some of the\nearly Friends did and said harsh and intolerant things. They lived in\na much harsher, more intolerant age than ours. The seventeenth\ncentury, as we know, has been called 'a dreadfully ill-mannered\ncentury.' Let us do our very best not to give any one an excuse for\nsaying the same of this twentieth century in which we live. Thus, in\nreading of these Quaker Saints, let us try to copy, not their\nharshness or their intolerance, but their unflinching courage, their\nfirm steadfastness, their burning hope for every man; above all, their\nunconquerable love._\n\n_Remember the old lesson of the daisies. Each flower must open itself\nas wide as ever it can, in order to receive all that the Sun wants to\ngive to it. But, while each daisy receives its own ray of sunshine\nthankfully and gladly, it must rejoice that other very different rays,\nat very different angles, can reach other flowers. Yet the Sun Heart\nfrom which they all come is One and the Same. All the different ways\nof worship are One too, when they meet in the Centre._\n\n_Therefore it is not strange that at little secluded Come-to-Good,\nwhere the blue doves of the columbines keep watch over the quiet\ngraves, I should remember a message that came to me in another, very\ndifferent, House of God--a magnificent Cathedral far away in South\nItaly. There, high up, above the lights and pictures and flowers and\nornaments of the altar, half hidden at times by the clouds of\nascending incense, I caught the shining of great golden letters.\nGradually, as I watched, they formed themselves into these three words\nof old Latin:_\n\n DEUS ABSCONDITUS HEIC.\n\n_And the golden message meant:_\n\n '_GOD IS HIDDEN HERE._'\n\n_That is the secret all these different ways of worship are meant to\nteach us, if we will only learn. Let us not judge one another, not\never dream of judging one another any more. Only, wherever our own way\nof worship leads us, let us seek to follow it diligently, dutifully,\nhumbly, and to the end. Then, not only when we are worshipping with\nour brothers and sisters around us, in church, chapel, great\ncathedral, or quiet meeting-house, but also (perhaps nearest and\nclosest of all) in the silence of our own hearts, we shall surely find\nin truth and with thankfulness that_\n\n GOD IS HIDDEN HERE.\n\n\n\n\nHISTORICAL NOTES\n\n\n\n\nHISTORICAL NOTES\n\nNOTE.--The References throughout are to the Cambridge Edition of\nGeorge Fox's Journal, except where otherwise stated. The spelling has\nbeen modernised and the extracts occasionally abridged.\n\n\n'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL.'\n\nHistorical; described as closely as possible from George Fox's own\nwords in his Journal, vol. ii. pp. 94, 100-104.\n\n\n'PURE FOY, MA JOYE.'\n\nHistorical. See George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition), pp. 1-17. See\nalso Sewel's 'History of the Quakers,' and 'Beginnings of Quakerism,'\nby W.C. Braithwaite. See 'George Fox,' by Thomas Hodgkin (Leaders of\nReligion Series), for description of Fenny Drayton village, manor\nhouse, church, and neighbourhood.\n\nSee also W. Penn's Preface to George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition),\npp. xxiv and xxv, for details of parentage, childhood, and youth.\n\n\n'THE ANGEL OF BEVERLEY.'\n\nThis is a purely imaginary story, written for a ten-year-old listener\nwho begged for 'more of a story about him when he was young.' The\nconnection of a member of the Purefoy family with the 'Great Lady of\nBeverley' has no foundation in fact. On visiting Fenny Drayton, since\nwriting the story, I find, however, that there were a brother and\nsister Edward and Joyce Purefoy, who lived a few years earlier than\nthe date of this tale. They may still be seen in marble on a tomb in\nthe North Aisle with their father, the Colonel Purefoy of that day,\nwho does wear a ruff as described in the story. It is not impossible\nthat the Colonel Purefoy of George Fox's Journal may also have had a\nson and daughter of the same names as described in my account, but I\nhave no warrant for supposing this and am anxious that this imaginary\ntale should not be supposed to possess the same kind of authenticity\nas most of the other stories. Priest Stephens' remark about George\nFox, and the scenes in Beverley Minster and at Justice Hotham's house,\nare, however, historical.\n\n\n'TAMING THE TIGER.'\n\nHistorical. See George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition), pp. 27, 28,\n31-48, 335, for the different incidents.\n\n\n'THE MAN IN LEATHER BREECHES.'\n\nExpanded, with imaginary incidents and consequences, from a few\nparagraphs in George Fox's Journal, i. 20.\n\n\n'THE SHEPHERD OF PENDLE HILL.'\n\nExpanded from George Fox's Journal, i. 40.\n\nN.B.--The Shepherd, who is the speaker, is a wholly imaginary person.\n\n\n'THE PEOPLE IN WHITE RAIMENT' and 'A WONDERFUL FORTNIGHT.'\n\nHistorical. Taken from various sources, chiefly George Fox's Journal,\nvol. i. pp. 40-44, and two unpublished papers by Ernest E. Taylor,\ndescribing the lives and homes of the Westmorland Seekers: 'A Great\nPeople to be Gathered' and 'Faithful Servants of God.' See also his\n'Cameos from the Life of George Fox,' Sewel's 'History of the\nQuakers,' and 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' by W.C. Braithwaite.\n\n\n'UNDER THE YEW-TREES.'\n\nExpanded from George Fox's Journal, i. 47, 48, 52. The conversation\namong the girls is of course imaginary, but many details are taken\nfrom 'Margaret Fox of Swarthmoor Hall,' by Helen G. Crosfield, a most\nhelpful book that has been constantly used in all these stories about\nSwarthmoor.\n\n\n'BEWITCHED!'\n\nHistorical. See Sewel's History, i. 106. George Fox's Journal, i. 51.\n'Testimony of Margaret Fox' (Ellwood Edition of above, p. xliv).\n'Margaret Fox of Swarthmoor Hall,' p. 15. Also 'England under the\nStuarts,' by G.M. Trevelyan (for Witchcraft).\n\n\n'THE JUDGE'S RETURN.'\n\nHistorical. See 'Testimony of Margaret Fox' (Ellwood Edition of G.\nFox's Journal), p. xlv. Sewel's History, i. 106.\n\n\n'STRIKE AGAIN!'\n\nHistorical. See George Fox's Journal, i. 57-59. Sewel's History, i.\n111-112.\n\n\n'MAGNANIMITY.'\n\nHistorical. See George Fox's Journal, i. 59-61. Sewel's History, i.\n113-114.\n\n\n'MILES HALHEAD AND THE HAUGHTY LADY.'\n\nHistorical. See Sewel's History, i. 129-131, and George Fox's Journal,\ni. 53, 56, for George Fox's sermon.\n\n\n'SCATTERING THE SEED.'\n\nHistorical. Details taken from George Fox's Journal, i. 141, 209, 347;\n292, 297; 11, 337. See also Chapter viii. 'The Mission to the South,'\nin 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' by W.C. Braithwaite. Also 'First\nPublishers of Truth,' for accounts of the work in the different\ncounties mentioned.\n\n\n'WRESTLING FOR GOD.'\n\nHistorical. See 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' Chapter viii. Also 'Letters\nfrom the Early Friends,' by A.R. Barclay. 'Piety Promoted,' i. 35-38.\n'Story of Quakerism,' by E.B. Emmott, for description of old London.\nSee also 'Memorials of the Righteous Revived,' by C. Marshall and\nThomas Camm, and note that I have followed T. Camm's account in this\nbook of his father's journey south with E. Burrough. W.C. Braithwaite\nin 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' following 'First Publishers of Truth,'\nthinks it, however, more probable that F. Howgill was E. Burrough's\ncompanion throughout the journey, and that the two Friends reached\nLondon together.\n\n\n'LITTLE JAMES AND HIS JOURNEYS' and 'THE FIRST QUAKER MARTYR.'\n\nMainly historical. Details taken largely from 'Life of James Parnell,'\nby C. Fell Smith. See also 'James Parnell,' by Thomas Hodgkin, in 'The\nTrial of our Faith.' Also 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' Chapter ix. and\nSewel's History. The discourse of the two Baptists on Carlisle Bridge\nand James's association with them is imaginary, but they are\nthemselves historical characters, and the incidents they describe are\nnarrated in George Fox's Journal, i. 114, 115, 124-126; 153, 186. For\n'The First Quaker Martyr,' see 'The Lamb's Defence against Lyes, a\ntrue Testimony concerning the sufferings and death of James Parnell.\n1656.'\n\n\n'THE CHILDREN OF READING MEETING.'\n\nSee Emmott's 'Story of Quakerism,' p. 83. Also 'Letters of the Early\nFriends.' A very graphic but fictitious account of this incident is\ngiven in 'The Children's Meeting,' by M.E. England, now out of print.\nSee also 'Lessons from Early Quakerism in Reading,' by W.C.\nBraithwaite. My account is founded on history, but I have described\nimaginary children. The list of scents used on Sir William Armorer's\nwig is borrowed from a genuine one of a slightly later period.\n\n\n'THE SADDEST STORY OF ALL.'\n\nHistorical. See Sewel's History, i. 80, 255-293, 382-397, 408, 438.\nAlso 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' Chapter xi. 'Nayler's Fall.' Also\nJames Nayler's collected Books and Papers, published in 1716.\n\n\n'PALE WINDFLOWERS.'\n\nSee account of Dewsbury in 'Beginnings of Quakerism.' Also 'The\nfaithful Testimony of that Antient Servant of the Lord, and Minister\nof the Everlasting Gospel, William Dewsbury.' Also 'Testimony to Mary\nSamm,' p. 348, same volume. The details given are as far as possible\nhistorical, but the setting, the walk, and the windflowers are\nimaginary. The prison scene is as far as possible historical. The\nTestimony to little Mary tells the sequel to her 'happy evening,' and\na few paragraphs from it are given here.\n\n\nTESTIMONY TO MARY SAMM, 1680.\n\n The first day of the second month, 1680, it pleased the Lord to\n afflict her with a violent fever, that brought her very low in a\n little time, and great was her exercise of spirit, as to her\n condition and state with God, many times weeping when she was\n alone.... She said, 'If this distemper do not abate, I must die,\n but my soul shall go to Eternal Joy, Eternal, Eternal and\n Everlasting Life and Peace with my God for ever: Oh! praises,\n praises to Thy Majesty, Oh, my God! who helpeth me to go through\n with patience, what I am to endure.' Then after some time she\n said. 'Friends, we must all go hence one after another, and they\n that live the longest know and endure the greatest sorrow:\n therefore, O Lord, if it be Thy will, take me to Thyself, that\n my soul may rest in peace with Thee, and not any one to see me\n here any more. Oh! praises, praises be unto Thy holy Name for\n ever in Thy will being done with me, to take me to Thyself,\n where I shall be in heavenly joy, yea, in heavenly joy for ever\n and for evermore.'...\n\n And many times would she be praying to the Lord day and night,\n 'O Lord, lay no more upon me, than Thou givest me strength to\n bear, and go through with patience, that Thy will may be done,\n that Thy will may be done' (many times together). 'Oh! help me,\n help me, O my God! that I may praise Thy holy Name for ever.'\n\n And so continued, very often praising the Name of the Lord with\n joyful sounds, and singing high praises to His holy Name for\n ever and for evermore; she being much spent with lifting up her\n voice in high praises to God, through fervency of spirit, and\n her body being weak, her Grandfather went into the room, and\n desired her to be as still as possibly she could, and keep her\n mind inward, and stayed upon the Lord, and see if she could have\n a little rest and sleep: she answered, 'Dear Grandfather, I\n shall die, and I cannot but praise the Name of the Lord whilst I\n have a being; I do not know what to do to praise His Name enough\n whilst I live; but whilst there is life there is hope; but I do\n believe it is better for me to die than live.'\n\n And so continued speaking of the goodness of the Lord from day\n to day; which caused many tears to fall from the eyes of them\n that heard her. Her Grandfather coming to her, asked her how she\n did? She said to him and to her Mother, 'I have had no rest this\n night nor to-day; I did not know but I should have died this\n night, but very hardly I tugged through it; but I shall die\n to-day, and a grave shall be made, and my body put into a hole,\n and my soul shall go to heavenly joy, yea, heavenly joy and\n everlasting peace for evermore.'\n\n Then she said, 'Dear Grandfather, I do believe thou wilt not\n stay long behind me, when I am gone.'\n\n He answered, 'Dear Granddaughter, I shall come as fast as the\n Lord orders my way.'\n\n Then she praised the Name of the Lord with high praises and\n joyful sounds for a season, and then desired her Mother to let\n her be taken up a little time; saying, 'It may be it will give\n me some ease.' Then they sent for her Grandfather, who said to\n her, 'If this be thy last day, and thereon thou art to die, it\n is not safe for thee to be taken forth of thy bed: dear Mary,\n thou shalt have all attendance that is convenient, as to set\n thee up in thy bed, and to lay thee down again; but \"to take\n thee up\" we are not willing to do it.'\n\n She answered, 'Well, Grandfather, what thou seest best for me, I\n am willing to have it so.'\n\n Then her Mother and Aunt set her up in her bed; she said it did\n refresh her and give her some ease: and as they were ordering\n what was to be done about her bed, she said, 'Oh! what a great\n deal of do is here in ordering the bed for one that is upon\n their death-bed.'\n\n Her Aunt, Joan Dewsbury, said, 'Mary, dost thou think thou art\n upon thy death-bed?'\n\n She answered, 'Yea, yea, I am upon my death-bed, I shall die\n to-day, and I am very willing to die, because I know it is\n better for me to die than live.'\n\n Her Aunt replied, 'I do believe it is better for thee to die\n than live.'\n\n She said, 'Yea, it is well for me to die.'...\n\n 'And, dear Mother, I would have thee remember my love to my dear\n sisters, relations, and friends; and now I have nothing to do, I\n have nothing to do.'\n\n A friend answered, 'Nothing, Mary, but to die.'\n\n Then she said to her Mother, 'I desire thee to give me a little\n clear posset drink, then I will see if I can have a little rest\n and sleep before I die.'\n\n When the posset drink came to her, she took a little.... Then\n she said to her Mother, 'I have a swelling behind my ear, but I\n would not have anything done to it, nor to my sore throat nor\n mouth, for all will be well enough when I am in my grave.'\n\n Then she asked what time of day it was? it being the latter part\n of the day, her Grandfather said, 'The chimes are going four;'\n she said, 'I thought it had been more; I will see if I can have\n a little rest and sleep before I die.'\n\n And so she lay still, and had a sweet rest and sleep; and then\n she awaked without any complaint, and in a quiet peaceable frame\n of spirit laid down her head in peace, when the clock struck the\n fifth hour of the 9th day of the 2nd month, 1680.\n\n We whose names are under-written were eye and ear witnesses of\n what is before expressed, as near as could be taken, and does\n not much vary from what she declared, as the substance (though\n much more sweet and comfortable expressions passed from her, but\n for brevity sake are willing this only to publish) who stood by\n her when she drew her last breath.\n\n William Dewsbury, her Grandfather.\n Mary Samm, her Mother.\n Joan Dewsbury, her Aunt.\n Hannah Whitthead, a Friend.\n\n\n'AN UNDISTURBED MEETING.'\n\nI first heard this story graphically told by Ernest E. Taylor. His\nintimate knowledge of the neighbourhood, and minute historical\nresearches into the lives of the Early Friends in this district, made\nthe whole scene vivid to his listener. In writing down my own account\nfrom memory, some months later, I find I have unintentionally altered\nsome of the details, and have in particular allowed too long a time\nfor the soldiers' carouse, and have substituted a troop of horse for\nmilitia. For these lapses from strict historical accuracy I alone am\nresponsible; but it has seemed better to leave the story as it was\nwritten and to append the following note from the ancient MS. account\nof the sufferings at Sedbergh, to show exactly what did occur:\n\n'1665. Friends being met at John Blaykling's at Draw-well, Lawrence\nHodgson of Dent, an Ensign to the Militia, came into the meeting with\nother Militia men, cursing and swearing that if Friends would not\ndepart and disperse, he would kill them and slay and what not. Then as\nFriends did not disperse they pulled them out of doors and so broke up\nthe meeting. The Ensign thereupon went off, expecting Friends to have\nfollowed him, but they sat down and stood together at the house end [?\nand] on the hill-side. So the Ensign came back and with his drawn\nsword struck at several Friends and cut some in the hat and some in\nthe clothes, and so forced and drove them to Sedbergh town, where\nafter some chief men of the parish had been spoken with, Friends were\nlet go home in peace.'--_Sedbergh MSS. Sufferings._\n\nIt was of course the gathering together 'in numbers more than five'\nand 'refusing to disperse' that was at this time illegal and made the\nFriends liable to severe punishment. There is still a tradition in the\nneighbourhood that the Quakers were to be taken not to Ingmire Hall,\nbut to the house of another Justice at Thorns.\n\n\n'BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS.'\n\nSee 'Bygone Northumberland,' by W. Andrews. 'Piety Promoted,' i.\n88-90. W.C. Braithwaite's 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' p. 373. 'The\nSociety of Friends in Newcastle,' by J.W. Steel.\n\n\n'THE VICTORY OF AMOR STODDART.'\n\nSee George Fox's Journal, i. 185, 190, 261, 431; ii. 167. Sewel's\nHistory, i. 29. 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' p. 365.\n\n\n'THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP \"WOODHOUSE.\"'\n\nTaken from Robert Fowler's own account: 'A true Relation of the Voyage\nundertaken by me Robert Fowler with my small vessel called the\n\"Woodhouse\" but performed by the Lord like as he did Noah's ark,\nwherein he shut up a few righteous persons and landed them safe, even\nat the Hill Ararat,' published in the 'History of the Society of\nFriends in America.'\n\nThe scenes on Bridlington Quay and in London are not strictly\nhistorical, but may be inferred from the above account.\n\n\n'RICHARD SELLAR AND THE \"MERCIFUL MAN.\"'\n\nTaken from Richard Sellar's own narrative: 'An account of the\nsufferings of Richard Seller of Keinsey, a Fisherman who was prest in\nScarborough Piers, in the time of the two last engagements between the\nDutch and English, in the year 1665,' published in Besse's 'Sufferings\nof the Quakers,' vol. ii. pp. 112-120.\n\n\n'TWO ROBBER STORIES--WEST AND EAST.'\n\n(1) Leonard Fell and the Highwayman, taken from 'The Fells of\nSwarthmoor Hall,' by M. Webb, p. 353.\n\n(2) On the Road to Jerusalem. Taken from George Robinson's own\naccount, published in 'A Brief History of the Voyage of Katharine\nEvans and Sarah Cheevers.' pp. 207 ad fin.\n\n\n'SILVER SLIPPERS.'\n\nMainly historical. See Sewel's History, i. 294, 473; ii. 343. See also\n'History of the Quakers,' by G. Croese, for some additional\nparticulars. The best account of Mary Fisher and her adventurous\njourney is given in 'Quaker Women,' by Mabel R. Brailsford, Chapters\nv. and vi., entitled 'Mary Fisher' and 'An Ambassador to the Grand\nTurk.' I am indebted to Miss Brailsford for permission to draw freely\nfrom her most interesting narrative, and also to quote from her\nextracts from Paul Rycaut's History.\n\nThe only historical foundation for the 'Silver Slippers' is the\nstatement by one historian that before Mary Fisher's interview with\nthe Sultan she was allowed twenty-four hours to rest and to 'arrange\nher dress.' H.M. Wallis has kindly supplied me with some local\ncolouring and information about Adrianople.\n\n\n'FIERCE FEATHERS.'\n\nA historical incident, with some imaginary actors. The outlines of\nthis story are given in 'Historical Anecdotes' by Pike. Several\nadditional particulars and the copy of a painting of the Indians at\nMeeting are to be found in the Friends' Reference Library at\nDevonshire House. For some helpful notes about the locality I am\nindebted to H.P. Morris of Philadelphia, U.S.A.\n\n\n'THE THIEF IN THE TANYARD.'\n\nHistorical. The facts and the words of the speakers are taken almost\nverbatim from Pike's 'Historical Anecdotes.' I have only supplied the\nsetting for the story.\n\n\n'HOW A FRENCH NOBLE BECAME A FRIEND.'\n\nEntirely historical. All the facts are taken from the Autobiography of\nStephen Grellet.\n\n\n'PREACHING TO NOBODY.'\n\nThis story is not to be found in Stephen Grellet's Autobiography. It\nappeared in 'The American Friend,' November 1895, and is now included\nin the penny 'Life of Stephen Grellet' in the Friends Ancient and\nModern Series. The actual words of Stephen Grellet's sermon have not\nbeen recorded. Those in the text are expanded from a sentence in\nanother discourse of his, given here in quotation marks. The incident\nof the cracked mug is not historical.\n\n\nTHE END\n\nPrinted in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh.\n\n\n\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n +--------------------------------------------------------------+\n | Typographical errors corrected in text: |\n | |\n | Page 22: thinkng replaced with thinking |\n | Page 148: twelye replaced with twelve |\n | Page 275: thoughout replaced with throughout |\n | |\n +--------------------------------------------------------------+","title":"A Book of Quaker Saints","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":140803}