I have said that one event had to be recorded before I completed the
story of that episode of which I was weary of hearing. My father--and it
was against all his habits in regard to most matters--reminded me almost
daily of my misdeeds. He hoped I did not drink any more, and he would
even look at the square flasks on the shelf to see, as I suspected, if
they had been used. To be prayed for was worst of all, and this he did
more than once. It was all of it unwise, and but for my mother I should
have been even more unhappy. I can see now that my father was this while
in distress, feeling that he must do something, and not knowing what to
do.
In his business life there had always been a way opened, as Friends say.
He did not see that what I needed was what it was not in his nature to
give, and thus it came about that we drew apart, and perhaps neither
then nor at any later time were, or could ever have been, in the
kindlier relation which makes the best of friendships that of the
grown-up son with the elderly father.
At last, after a month or more, when it was far on in June, he ceased to
trouble me, and to walk up and down, opening and shutting his hands, as
he recounted my sins. He had reached an unfortunate decision, of which I
was soon to feel the results.
In the mean time my cousin, Mr. Arthur Wynne, had come into very close
intimacy with all our family circle. As he had much to do with my later
life, it is well to return a little, and to detail here what followed
after the night of my mother’s visit to the coffee-house.
Next day, in the evening, came the colonel of the Scots Grays, and
desired to see me in the sitting, room, my father being still in
Lancaster.
“Mr. Wynne,” he said, “Captain Wynne has asked me to call in reference
to that unhappy business of last night. He begs to make his excuses to
Mrs. Wynne in this letter, which may I ask you to deliver? And after
this action on his part I trust you will see your way to regret the blow
you struck.”
I was quiet for a moment, feeling that I must be careful what answer I
made. “I cannot feel sorry,” I said; “I do not regret it.”
“That is a pity, Mr. Wynne. You should remember that Mr. Arthur Wynne
could not have known who the lady was. A blow is a thing no gentleman
can, as a rule, submit to; but this has been discussed by Sir William
Draper and myself, and we feel that Mr. Arthur Wynne cannot challenge a
boy of eighteen.”
“I am twenty,” I replied.
“Pardon me--of twenty, who is his cousin. That is the real point I would
make. You have the best of it. You were right, quite right; but, by St.
George, you are a hard hitter! Mr. Wynne would have come in person,
but he is hardly fit to be seen, and a sign-painter is just now busy
painting his eyelids and cheek, so as to enable him to appear out of
doors.”
The colonel treated me with the utmost respect, and, as a young fellow
naturally would be, I was embarrassed more than a little, but not at all
dissatisfied with the condition of my cousin. I said awkwardly that il
he was willing to forget it I supposed I ought to be.
“I think so,” said the colonel. “Suppose you leave it with me, and in
a day or two talk it over with him. Indeed, he is a most charming
gentleman, and a worthy member of a good old house.”
I said I would leave it with the colonel, and upon this he said,
“Good-by, and come and dine with the mess some day, but don’t hit any
more of us;” and so, laughing, he went away, leaving me flattered, but
with the feeling that somehow he had gotten the better of me.
My mother declared it was a beautiful letter, writ prettily, but
ill-spelled (neither George the king nor our own George could spell
well). She would not let me see it. I did years afterward. In it he
spoke of me as a boy, and she was cunning enough to know that I should
not like that.
It was a week before we saw Mr. Arthur Wynne. My father had meanwhile
vented his first wrath on me, and I was slowly getting over the strong
sense of disgust, shame, contrition, and anger, and had settled down
earnestly to my work. I hardly recognised the man who came in on us
after supper, as my mother and I sat in the orchard, with my father in
a better humour than of late, and smoking a churchwarden, which, you may
like to know, was a long clay pipe. The smoke sailed peacefully up, as
I sat looking at its blue smoke-rings. How often since have I seen them
float from the black lips of cannon, and thought of my father and his
pipe!
We discussed the state of trade, and now and then I read aloud bits
from the Boston “Packet” of two weeks back, or my mother spoke of their
September voyage, and of what would be needed for it, a voyage being
looked upon as a serious affair in those times.
“I found your doors hospitably open,” said the captain, appearing, “and
the servant said I should find you here; so I have taken my welcome for
granted, and am come to make my most humble excuses to Mrs. Wynne.”
We all rose as he drew near, my mother saying in my ear as he
approached, “It is Arthur Wynne. Now, Hugh, take care!”
This newly found cousin was, like all of us, tall, but not quite so
broad as we other Wynnes. He was of swarthy complexion from long service
in the East, and had black hair, not fine, but rather coarse. I noticed
a scar on his forehead. He shook hands, using his left hand, because, as
I learned, of awkwardness from an old wound. But with his left lie
was an expert swordsman, and, like left-handed swordsmen, the more
dangerous.
“We are glad to see thee, Cousin Wynne,” said my mother.
Seeing the marks of my handiwork still on his cheek, I took his greeting
with decent cordiality, and said, “Sit down; wilt thon smoke a pipe,
Cousin Arthur?”
He said he did not smoke, and set himself, with the address of a man
used to a greater world than ours, to charm those whom no doubt he
considered to be quite simple folk. In a few minutes the unpleasantness
of the situation was over. He and my father were at one about politics,
and I wisely held my peace. He let fall a discreet sentence or two about
the habits of soldiers, and his own regrets, and then said, laughing:
“Your son is not quite of your views as a Friend in regard to warfare.”
“My son is a hasty young man,” said my father, and I felt my mother’s
touch on my arm.
Our cousin was in no way upset by this. He said, “No, no, cousin; he is
young, but not hasty. I was fitly dealt with. We are hot-blooded people,
we Wynnes. The ways of Friends are not our ways of dealing with an
injury; and it was more--I wish to say so--it was an insult. He was
right.”
“There is no such thing as insult in the matter,” said my father. “We
may insult the great Master, but it is not for man to resent or punish.”
“I fear as to that we shall continue to differ.” He spoke with the
utmost deference. “Do you go to Wyncote? I hear you are for England in
the autumn.”
“No; I shall be too full of business. Wyncote has no great interest for
me.”
“Indeed? It might perhaps disappoint you--a tumble-down old house, an
embarrassed estate. My brother will get but a small income when it falls
to him. My father fights cocks and dogs, rides to hounds, and, I grieve
to say, drinks hard, like all our Welsh squires.”
I was surprised at Ms frank statement. My mother watched him curiously,
with those attentive blue eyes, as my father returned;
“Of a certainty, thou dost not add to my inducements to visit Wyncote. I
should, I fear, be sadly out of place.”
“I am afraid that is but too true, unless your head is better than mine.
We are a sad set, we Wynnes. All the prosperity, and I fear much of the
decency of the family, crossed the ocean long ago.”
“Yet I should like to see Wyneote,” said I. “I think thou didst tell me
it is not thy home.”
“No; a soldier can hardly be said to have a home; and a younger brother,
with a tough father alive, and an elder brother on an impoverished
estate, must needs be a wanderer.”
“But we shall make thee welcome here,” said my father, with grave
kindness. “We are plain people, and live simply; but a Wynne should
always find, as we used to say here, the latch-string outside.”
With a little more talk of the Wynnes, the captain, declining to remain
longer, rose, and, turning to me, said, “I hear, Cousin Hugh, that you
refused to say that you were sorry for the sharp lesson you gave me the
other night. I have made my peace with your mother.”
“I shall see that my son behaves himself in future. Thou hast heard thy
cousin, Hugh?”
I had, and I meant to make it up with him, but my father’s effort as
a peacemaker did not render my course the more easy. Still, with the
mother-eyes on me, I kept my temper.
“I was about to say thou hast done all a man can do,” said I.
“Then let us shake hands honestly,” he replied, “and let bygones be
bygones.”
I saw both my parents glance at me. “I should be a brute if I did not
say yes, and mean it, too; but I cannot declare that I am sorry, except
for the whole business.” And with this I took his left hand, a variety
of the commonplace ceremony which always, to my last knowledge of
Captain Wynne, affected me unpleasantly.
He laughed. “They call us hi Merionethshire the wilful Wynnes. You will
find me a good friend if you don’t want the things I want, I am like
most younger brothers, inclined to want things. I thank you all for a
pleasant hour. It is like home, or better.” With this he bowed low to
my mother’s curtsey, and went away, chatting as I conducted him to the
door, and promising to sail with me, or to fish.
Naturally enough, on my return I found my parents discussing our newly
found relative. My mother thought he talked much of himself; and had
been pleasanter if he had not spoken so frankly of his father. My father
said little, except that there seemed to be good in the young man.
“Why should we not forgive that in him which we must forgive in our own
son?”
My father had some dreadful power to hurt me, and to me only was he an
unjust man; this may have been because my wrong-doing troubled both
his paternal and his spiritual pride. I was about to say that there
was little likeness between my sin and that of my cousin; but I saw my
mother, as she stood a little back of my father’s great bulk, shake her
head, and I held my tongue. Not so she.
“If thou hadst been a woman in my place, John Wynne, thou wouldst be far
from saying the thing thou hast said.”
Never had I heard or seen in our house a thing like this. I saw, in the
fading light, my father working his hands as I have described, a signal
of restrained anger, and, like anything physically unusual in one we
love, not quite pleasant to see. But my mother, who knew not fear of him
nor of any, went on, despite his saying, “This is unseemly--unseemly,
wife.”
“Thou art unjust, John, to my son.”
“Thy son?”
“Yes; mine as well as thine. I have faith that thou, even thou, John,
wouldst have done as my boy did.”
“I? I?” he cried; and now I saw that he was disturbed, for he was moving
his feet like some proud, restrained horse pawing the grass. At last he
broke the stillness which followed his exclamations: “There is but one
answer, wife. Both have been brutes, but this boy has been kept near to
godly things all his life. Each First-day the tongues of righteous men
have taught him to live clean, to put away wrath, to love his enemies;
and in a day--a minute--it is gone, and, as it were, useless, and I the
shame of the town.”
I hoped this was all; but my mother cried, “John! John! It is thy pride
that is hurt. No, it is not seemly to dispute with thee, and before thy
son. And yet--and yet--even that is better than to let him go with the
thought that he is altogether like, or no better than, that man. If thou
hast a duty to bear testimony, so have I.” And thus the mother of the
prodigal son had her say. No doubt she found it hard, and I saw her dash
the tears away with a quick hand, as she added, “If I have hurt thee,
John, I am sorry.”
“There is but one answer, wife. Love thy enemy; do good to them that
despitefully use thee. Thou wilt ruin thy son with false kindness, and
who shall save him from the pit?”
I turned at last in a storm of indignation, crying, “Could I see my
mother treated like a street-wench or a gutter-drab, and lift no hand? I
wish I had killed him!”
“See, wife,” said my father. “Yes, even this was to be borne.”
“Not by me!” I cried, and strode into the house, wondering if ever I was
to be done with it.
The day after no one of us showed a sign of this outbreak. Never had
I seen the like of it among us; but the Quaker habit of absolute
self-repression, and of concealment of emotion again prevailed, so that
at breakfast we met as usual, and, whatever we may have felt, there
was no outward evidence of my mother’s just anger, of my father’s
bitterness, or of my own disgust.
X
I was not yet to see the end of my iniquity, and was to feel the
consequences in ways which, for many a day, influenced my life and
actions.
It was toward the end of June. The feeling of uneasiness and dread
was becoming more and more felt, not only in commerce, which is so
sensitive, but also in the social relations of men. The king’s officers
were more saucy, and, like all soldiers, eager for active service,
imagining an easy victory over a people untrained in war. Such Tory
pamphleteers as the foul-tongued Massachusetts writer, Daniel Leonard,
were answering “Vindex” (Mr. Adams) and the widely read letters of
“An American Farmer.” The plan of organised correspondence between the
colonies began to be felt in some approach to unity of action, for at
this time the out-spoken objection to the views of the king and his
facile minister was general, and even men like Galloway, Chew, the
Allens, and John Penn stood with varying degrees of good will among
those who were urging resistance to oppression. As yet the too mighty
phantom of independence had not appeared on the horizon of our stormy
politics, to scare the timid, and to consolidate our own resistance.
I worked hard with my father at our lessening and complicated business,
riding far into the country to collect debts, often with Jack, who had
like errands to do, and with whom I discussed the topics which were
so often, and not always too amiably, in question at my Aunt Gainor’s
table. I was just now too busy to be much with my old favourites, the
officers. Indeed, I was wise enough to keep away from them.
My cousin I saw often, both at my aunt’s, as I shall relate, and
elsewhere; for he came much to our house, and my father found it
agreeable to talk over with him the news of the day. My mother did not
like him as well, but she held her peace, and, like every other man,
he was attracted by her gaiety, and quaint way of looking at men and
things.
Mr. Wilson I saw at times, as he still had, I know not why, a fancy for
me, and loved well to sail with me of evenings over to Kaighn’s Point
to fish, or down to Gloucester to bob for crabs. I owed him much. A
profound knowledge of law, variety of reading, and a mind which left
broadly on our after-history the marks of his powerful intellect, were
at my service. He used to caution me how I spoke of his opinions to
others, and he would then discuss with freedom politics and the men
whose figures were fast rising into distinctness as leaders to be
listened to and trusted. Many of them he knew, and thus first I heard
clearly what manner of persons were Patrick Henry and the Adamses,
Dickinson, Peyton Randolph, and others less prominent. In this way I
came to be more and more confirmed in the opinions my Aunt Gainor so
resolutely held, and also more careful how I expressed them. Indeed,
although but twenty years of age, I was become quite suddenly an older
and graver man. Mr. Wilson surprised me one day by saying abruptly, as
he pulled up a reluctant crab, “Do you never think, Hugh, that we shall
have war!”
I was indeed amazed, and said so. Then he added, “It will come. My place
will not be in the field, but, whether you like it or not, you will see
battles. You were made for a soldier, Hugh, Quaker or no Quaker.”
I thought it odd that two people as different as my Aunt Gainor and he
should have the same belief that we were drifting into war. She had said
to me the night before that she had known Lord North as a boy, and that
the king was an obstinate Dutchman, and would make his minister go his
way, adding, “When it comes you will be in it; you can’t escape.”
No one else whom I knew had any such belief. Wilson’s views and
prediction sent me home thoughtful enough.
That evening my father said to me, “We go to Merion the day after
to-morrow.” It was there we spent our summers. “To-morrow will be
Fourth-day. It is our last day of Meeting in the town. There will,
perhaps, be some wise words said as to present confusions, and I wish
thee to hear them, my son.”
I said, “Yes; at seven, father?” I was, however, astonished; for these
occasional night Meetings in the middle of the week were but rarely
attended by the younger Friends, and, although opened with such
religious observances as the society affected, were chiefly reserved for
business and questions of discipline. I had not the least desire to go,
but there was no help for it.
Our supper took place at six on this Wednesday, a little earlier than
usual, and I observed that my father drank several cups of tea, which
was not his habit. Few people took tea since the futile tax had been
set upon it; but my father continued to drink it, and would have no
concealment, as was the custom with some Whigs, who in public professed
to be opposed to the views of the crown as to the right to collect
indirect taxes.
Seeing that I did not drink it, and knowing that I liked nothing better
than a good dish of tea, he asked me why I did not partake of it. Not
willing to create new trouble, I said I did not want any. He urged the
matter no further, but I saw he was not well pleased. We set off soon
after in silence, he walking with hands behind his back clasping his
gold-headed cane, his collarless coat and waistcoat below his beaver,
and the gray hair in a thick mass between. He wore shoes, fine drab
short-clothes, and black silk stockings, all without buckles; and
he moved rapidly, nodding to those he met on the way, to the Bank
Meeting-house, in Front Street, above Arch.
It was a simple, one-story, brick building, set a few feet above the
level of the roadway. The gables and shutters were painted white, as was
also the plain Doric doorway, which had a pillar on each side. I judged
by the number of both sexes entering that it was an unusual occasion.
There were many drab-coated men, and there were elderly women, in gowns
of drab or gray, with white silk shawls and black silk-covered cardboard
bonnets. Here and there a man or woman was in gayer colours or
wore buckles, and some had silver buttons; but these were rare. The
Meeting-room was, so to speak, a large oblong box with whitewashed
walls. A broad passage ran from the door to the farther end; on the
right of it sat the men, on the left the women; against the remoter
wall, facing the rude benches, were three rows of seats, one above the
other. On these sat at the back the elders, and in front of them the
overseers. The clerk of the Meeting had a little desk provided for him.
Over their heads was a long sounding-board.
To me the scene had been familiar for years; but to-day it excited my
attention because of an air of expectation, and even of excitement,
among the few more youthful Friends. I saw, as we entered, furtive
glances cast at my father and myself; but as to this I had grown to be
of late more or less indifferent, and had no anticipation of what was to
follow later.
I had become, since my sad downfall, a more serious and thoughtful young
man, and far better fitted to feel the beauty and the spirituality of
these Meetings than I had been before. When the doors were closed I sat
silent in prayer; for some ten minutes increasing stillness came upon
one and all of the three or four hundred people here met together.
As I waited, with long-trained patience, for full twenty minutes, a yet
deeper quiet fell on the figures seated on each side of the aisle. For
a time none of the men uncovered, but soon a few took off their broad
hats, having remained with them on their heads long enough to satisfy
custom by this protest against the ways of other men. The larger number
kept their hats on their heads. Then a strange incident took place:
a woman of middle age, but gray, her hair fallen about her shoulders,
entered noisily, and, standing before the elders, cried out in a loud
voice, as though in affliction and sore distress, “See to your standing;
the Lord is about to search and examine your camp. Ho! ye of little
faith and less works, the hand of God is come upon you--the mighty hand
of punishment.” As she spake thus wildly she swayed to and fro, and
seemed to me disordered in mind. Finally she passed across the space
in front of the overseers, to the women’s side, and then back again,
repeating her mad language. My Aunt Gainor’s great bronze Buddha was
not more motionless than they who sat on the elders’ seats. At last the
woman faced the Meeting, and went down the aisle, waving her hands, and
crying out, “I shall have peace, peace, in thus having discharged my
Lord’s errand.” The many there met did justice to their discipline.
Scarce a face showed the surprise all must have felt. No one turned to
see her go out, or seemed to hear the door banged furiously after her.
The covered heads remained silent and undisturbed; the rows of deep
bonnets were almost as moveless. Fully ten minutes of perfect silence
followed this singular outburst. Then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of
Nicholas Wain rise slowly, a faint but pleasant smile on his severe
face, while he looked about him and began:
“Whether what ye have heard be of God I cannot say. The time hath
troubled many souls. The woman, Sarah Harris, who hath, as some
are aware, borne many sweet and pleasing testimonies to Friends in
Wilmington, I know not. Whether what ye have heard be of God or but a
rash way of speech, let us feel that it is a warning to Friends here
assembled that we be careful of what we say and do. It hath been borne
in upon me that Friends do not fully understand one another, and that
some are moved to wrath, and some inclined to think that Friends should
depart from their ways and question that which hath been done by the
rulers God hath set over us. Let us be careful that our General Epistles
lean not to the aiding of corrupt and wicked men, who are leading
weak-minded persons into paths of violence.” And here he sat down.
A moment later got up Thomas Scattergood, grim and dark of visage. None
of his features expressed the slightest emotion, although even from the
beginning he spoke with vehemence and his body rocked to and fro.
“The days are darkening; the times are evil. Our master, set over us by
God, has seen fit to tax certain commodities, that means may be raised
for the just government of these colonies, where we and our fathers have
prospered in our worldly goods, under a rule that has left us free to
worship God as seems best to us. And now we are bid by men, not of our
society, ungodly self-seekers, sons of darkness, to unite with them in
the way of resistance to the law. There have even been found here among
us those who have signed agreements to disobey such as are set over us,
unmindful of the order to render to Caesar that which is his. Let there
be among Friends neither fear nor any shortcoming. Let us bear testimony
against evil-doers, whether they be of us or not. Let us cut down and
utterly cast forth those who depart from righteousness. Are they not of
the scum which riseth on the boiling pot? There is a time for Friends to
remonstrate, and a time to act. I fear lest these too gentle counsels
of Friend Waln be out of time and out of place. Away with those who,
hearing, heed not. Let them be dealt with as they should be, with
love for the sinner, but with thought as to the evil which comes of
unscourged examples, so that when again we are met in the Quarterly
Meeting there shall be none among us to stir up discord, and we can say
to other Meetings, ‘As we have done, so do ye. Make clean the house of
the Lord.’”
The night was now upon us, and the ringing tones of the speaker were
heard through the darkness before he sat down. While all waited, two
Friends lit the candles set in tin sconces against the pillars of the
gallery, and, in the dim light they gave, the discussion went on.
Then I saw that Arthur Howell was about to speak. This able and
tender-minded man usually sat in Meeting with his head bent, his
felt hat before his eyes, wrapped in thought, and lifted above all
consideration of the things of this earth. As he began, his rich, full
voice filled the space, and something in its pleading sweetness appealed
to every heart. He spoke as one who, having no doubt, wondered that any
one else should doubt, and he brought the discussion to a decisive point
at once.
“It is well,” he said, “that all should be convinced by those who,
from age and influence among Friends, have the best right of speech.
Nevertheless, since this is a Meeting for discipline, let all be heard
with fairness and order. Men have gone astray. They have contended for
the asserting of civil rights in a manner contrary to our peaceable
profession and principles, and, although repeatedly admonished, do not
manifest any disposition to make the Meeting a proper acknowledgment of
their outgoings. Therefore it is that we bear our testimony against such
practices, and can have no unity with those who follow them until they
come to a sense of their errors. Therefore, if this be the sense of our
Meeting, let the clerk be moved to manifest the feelings of the Meeting
to these members, signing on our behalf, for the matter hath already
been before us twice, and hath been deeply and prayerfully considered by
ourselves; and I am charged to tell Friends that these members who have
thus gone astray are unwilling to be convinced by such as have sought to
bring them to a better mind. This hath been duly reported, and overseers
having thus failed, it doth only remain to abide by the sense of our
Meeting. But this I have already said: the matter hath been prayerfully
considered.”
After this, others spoke, but all elder Friends understood that the
business had been disposed of, and little attention was given to
those who rose after Friend Howell sat down. Indeed, that they were
ill-advised to speak at all was plainly to be read in the countenances
of many.
This was my first experience of an evening Meeting, and, even to one
acquainted with all the ways of Friends, the scene was not without its
interest. The night was now dark outside. The tallow dips ran down and
flared dismally. A man with snuffers went to and fro, and the pungent
odours of candles, burned out and to be replaced, filled the room.
In the quiet which followed Arthur Howell’s refined and distinct
accents, I looked at the row of placid faces where the women sat, some
rosy, some old, all in the monastic cell of the bonnet, which made it as
impossible to see, except in front, as it is for a horse with blinders.
I wondered how this queer headgear came to have been made, and recalled
my aunt’s amusement at the care exercised as to its form and material.
Few there, I think, let their thoughts wander, and in front of me
the row of drab coats and wide felt or beaver hats remained almost
motionless.
At last James Pemberton, the esteemed clerk of the Meeting, rose. “I am
moved,” he said, “by the Spirit to declare that the sense, and also
the weight, of the Meeting is that Cyrus Edson and William Jameson be
advised, in accordance with the instructed wish of Friends.”
He then sat down. There was no vote taken. Even had a majority of those
present been hostile to the proposed action, it is improbable that any
protest would have been made. The clerk’s statement that the weight of
the Meeting was affirmative, would have been held to settle the matter,
as it appeared best to a limited number of those recognised, through
their piety and strict living, to be competent to decide for the rest.
I was now assured that this was all, and looked to see two of the elders
shake hands, which is the well-recognised signal for the Meeting to
break up; but as the elders did not move, the rest sat still and waited.
By and by I saw Nicholas Wain extend his hand to my father, who, looking
steadily before him, made no sign of perceiving this intention to
dismiss Friends. A still longer pause followed. As I learned afterward,
no further speaking was anticipated. No one stirred. For my part, I was
quite ready to go, and impatiently awaited the signal of dismissal. A
minute or two passed; then I was aware of a short, neatly built man, who
rose from a bench near by. His face was strong, irregular of feature,
and for some reason impressed me. I could see even in the indistinct
light that he flushed deeply as he got up on his feet. He received
instant attention, for he went past me, and, standing in the passageway,
was quiet for a moment. He was, I think, not over thirty, and seemed
embarrassed at the instant attention he received. For a few minutes he
appeared to seek his words, and then, quite suddenly, to find them in
eloquent abundance.
“It is not usual,” he said, “for disowned members of the society to
openly protest. Neither are these our brothers here to-day. Nor, were
they with us, are they so skilled with the tongue as to be able to
defend themselves against the strong language of Thomas Scattergood or
the gentle speech of Arthur Howell. I would say a word for them, and,
too, for myself, since nothing is more sure than that I think them
right, and know that ye will, before long, cast out me, to whom your
worship is sweet and lovely, and the ways of Friends for the most part
such as seem to me more acceptable than those of any other Christian
society. Whether it be that old memories of persecution, or too great
prosperity, have hardened you, I do not know. It does seem to me that ye
have put on a severity of dress and life that was not so once, and that
undue strictness hath destroyed for us some of the innocent joys of
this world. I also find unwholesome and burdensome that inner garment of
self-righteousness in which ye clothe yourselves to judge the motives of
your fellow-men.
“So far as the law went against such views as you entertained, none did
more resist them, in your own way, than did you; but now the English
across the seas tell us that the liberty our fathers sought on these
shores is to be that which pleases a corrupt and pliant ministry, and
not that which is common to men of English blood. Some brave men of our
society say, ‘Let us make a stand here, lest worse things come. Let us
refuse to eat, drink, or wear the articles they assume to tax, whether
we will or not.’ There is no violence. Believe me, there will be none if
we are one throughout the colonies. But if not--if not--if grave old men
like you, afraid of this mere shadow of passive resistance, dreading to
see trade decay and the fat flanks of prosperity grow lean--if you are
wholly with our oppressors, passively with them, or, as some believe,
actively, then--then, dear friends, it will be not the shadow, but the
substance, of resistance that will fall in blood and ruin on you and on
all men--on your easy lives and your accumulated gains.
“Aye, look to it! There is blood on the garments of many a man who sits
fearfully at home, and thinks that because he does nothing he will be
free of guilt when the great account is called.”
On this a rare exception to the tranquillity of Meeting occurred. Daniel
Offley, by trade a farrier, rose and broke in, speaking loudly, as one
used to lift his voice amid the din of hammers: “Wherefore should this
youth bring among us the godless things of worldly men?” His sonorous
tones rang out through the partial obscurity, and shook, as I noticed,
the scattered spires of the candle flames. “This is no time for foolish
men to be heard, where the elders are of a mind. The sense of the
Meeting is with us. The weight of the Meeting is with us. The king is a
good king, and who are we to resist? Out with those who are not of
our ways! Let the hammer fall on the unrighteous, lest the sheep be
scattered, and the Shepherd leave them.”
At this queer mixture of metaphors I saw the previous speaker smile, as
he stood in the aisle. Next I heard the gentle voice of James Pemberton
break in on the uncouth speech of the big farrier.
“It is the custom of Friends that all men who feel to be moved to tell
us aught shall be heard. Friend Wetherill, we will hear thee to an end.”
He spoke with the courteous ease of a well-bred gentleman, and the smith
sat down.
Friend Wetherill paused a moment, looking to left and right along the
lines of deeply interested and motionless faces. Then he continued: “On
what you and others do in these days depends what shall come upon us.
Let no man deceive you, not even the timid counsel of gray hairs or the
wariness of wealth. The guinea fears; the penny fights; and the poor
penny is to-day deeply concerned. You take shelter under the law of
Christ, to live, as far as possible, at peace with all men. As far as
possible? It should at times be felt that Paul’s limitation is also a
command. Do not resist him who would slay a child or wrong a woman--that
is how you read the law of God.
“It is extremes which bring ruin to the best Christian societies, and if
the mass of men were with you civil order would cease, and the carefully
builded structure of civilisation would perish. You are already
undergoing a process of dry decay, and as you dry and dry, you harden
and shrink, and see it not. A wild woman has told you to set your camp
in order. See to it, my friends; see to it!”
For not less than a minute the speaker remained silent, with bended
head, still keeping the wonderfully steady attention of this staid
assembly. Very slowly he lifted his face, and now, as he began again, it
was with a look of tender sweetness: “It was far back in Second-month,
1771, I began to be encompassed by doubts as to the course Friends were
taking. To-day I am assured in spirit that you are wrong in the support
you gave, and, let me say, are giving, to an unjust cause. I think
I take an innocent liberty to express myself on this occasion, also
according to the prospect I have of the matter. There is something
due to the king, and something to the cause of the public. When kings
deviate from the righteous law of justice in which kings ought to rule,
it is the right, aye, and the religious duty, of the people to be
plain and honest in letting them know where. I am not a person of such
consequence as to dictate; but there is in me and in you a court, to
which I confidently appeal. I _have_ appealed to it in prayer, as to
what my course shall be, I obey my conscience. Take heed that you do not
act rashly.”
Here again, after these calm words, he paused, and then said, with
emphatic sternness, “As my last words, let me leave with you the
admonition of the great founder of this colony. ‘I beseech you,’ he
says, ‘for the sake of Christ, who so sharply prohibited making others
suffer for their religion, that you have a care how you exercise power
over other men’s consciences. My friends, conscience is God’s throne
in man, and the power of it His prerogative!’ These are solemn words.
Whether you leave me to live among you, free to do what seems right to
me, or drive me forth, who have no wish to go, now and always I shall
love you. That love you cannot take away, nor weaken, nor disturb.”
I was sorry when the melody of this clear voice ceased. The speaker,
wiping the moisture from his brow, stood still, and, covering his face
with his hands, was lost in the prayer which I doubt not followed.
A long interval of absence of all sound came after he ceased to speak.
No one replied. The matter was closed, a decision reached, and the clerk
instructed. I knew enough to feel sure that those manly tones of appeal
and remonstrance had failed of their purpose.
At this moment I saw an elderly man on the seat before me rise, and with
deliberateness kneel in prayer; or, as Friends say, Israel Sharpless
appeared in supplication. At first, as he began to be heard, Friends
rose here and there, until all were afoot and all uncovered. The silence
and reverent bended heads, and the dim light, affected me as never
before. Many turned their backs on the praying man, an odd custom, but
common, As he prayed his voice rose until it filled the great room; and
of a sudden I started, and broke out in a cold sweat, for this was what
I heard:
“O Lord, arise, and let Thine enemies be scattered. Dip me deeper in
Jordan. Wash me in the laver of regeneration. Give me courage to wrestle
with ill-doers. Let my applications be heard.
“Father of mercy, remember of Thy pity those of the young among us who,
being fallen into evil ways, are gone astray. We pray that they who have
gambled and drunk and brought to shame and sorrow their elders may be
recovered into a better mind, and sin no more. We pray Thee, Almighty
Father, that they be led to consider and to repent of deeds of violence,
that those among us whom the confusion of the tunes has set against the
law and authority of rulers be better counselled; or, if not, strengthen
us so to deal with these young men as shall make pure again Thy
sheepfold, that they be no longer a means of leading others into
wickedness and debauchery.” I heard no more. This man was a close friend
of my father. I knew but too well that it was I who was thus reproved,
and thus put to shame. I looked this way and that, the hot blood in my
face, thinking to escape. Custom held me. I caught, as I stared, furtive
glances from some of the younger folk. Here and there some sweet, gentle
face considered me a moment with pity, or with a curiosity too strong
for even the grim discipline of Friends. I stood erect. The prayer went
on. Now and then I caught a phrase, but the most part of what he said
was lost to me. I looked about me at times with the anguish of a trapped
animal.
At last I saw that my gentle-voiced speaker, Wetherill, was, like
myself, rigid, with upheld head, and that, with a faint smile on his
face, he was looking toward me. Minute after minute passed. Would they
never be done with it? I began to wonder what was going on under those
bent gray hats and black bonnets. I was far away from penitence or
remorse, a bruised and tormented man, helpless, if ever a man was
helpless, under the monotonous and silent reproach of some hundreds of
people who had condemned me unheard. It did seem as if it never would
end.
At last the voice died out. The man rose, and put on his hat. All
resumed their seats and their head-coverings. I saw that Friend
Scattergood extended a hand to my father, who was, as I have not yet
stated, an elder. The grasp was accepted. Elders and overseers, both men
and women, rose, and we also. I pushed my way out, rudely, I fear. At
the door James Pemberton put out his hand. I looked him full in the
face, and turned away from the too inquisitive looks of the younger
Friends. I went by my father without a word. He could not have known
what pain his method of saving my soul would cost me. That he had been
in some way active in the matter I did not doubt, and I knew later that
my opinion was but too correct.
Hastening down Front street with an overwhelming desire to be alone, I
paused at our own door, and then, late as it was, now close to ten, I
unmoored my boat, and was about to push off when I felt a hand on my
shoulder. It was Samuel Wetherill.
“Let me go with thee, my boy,” he said. “We should talk a little, thou
and I.”