It was no easy matter to find employment. The brothers went on to New York, and there at last the Friends were kind: Friends in deed and not in name only. They found a situation for Joseph in New York itself, and arranged for Stephen to go to Philadelphia, where he was more likely to find work.

And at Philadelphia the Friends were, if possible, even kinder to him than the Friends at New York. They were spiritual fathers and mothers to him, he says, and seemed to know exactly what he was feeling. 'They had but little to say in words, but I often felt that my spirit was refreshed and strengthened in their company.' At Philadelphia, he had many offers of tempting employment, but he decided to continue as a teacher of languages in a school. He gave his whole mind to his school work while he was at it, and out of school hours wandered about entirely care free. But although he was a teacher of languages and although the English of his Journals is scrupulously careful, it has often a slight foreign stiffness and formality. He was often afraid in his early years of making mistakes and not speaking quite correctly. There is a story that long afterwards, when he was in England and was taking his leave of some schoolgirls, he wished to say to them that he hoped they might be preserved safely. But in the agitation of his departure he chose the wrong words. His parting injunction, therefore, never faded from the girls' memory: 'My dear young Friends, may the Lord pickle you, His dear little muttons.'

If, even as an old man, Stephen was liable to fall into such pitfalls as this, it is easy to understand that in his earlier years the fear of making mistakes must have been a real terror to him, especially when he thought of speaking in Meeting. Very soon after he became a Friend he felt, with great dread, that the beautiful, comforting messages that refreshed his own soul were meant to be shared with others. Months, if not years, of struggle followed, before he could rise in his place in Meeting and obey this inward prompting. But directly he did so, his fears of making a mistake, or being laughed at, vanished utterly away. After agony, came joy. 'The Lord shewed me how He is mouth, wisdom and utterance to His true and faithful ministers; that it is from Him alone that they are to communicate to the people, and also the when and the how.' At that first Meeting, after Stephen had given his message and sat down again, several Friends, whose blessing he specially valued, also spoke and said how thankful they were for his words. Among those present that day was that same William Savery, who, in the last story, had a bundle of valuable hides stolen from his tanyard, and punished the thief, when he came to return the hides, by loading him with kindness and giving him a good situation.

Certainly William Savery would not tell the story of 'the man who was not John Smith' to Stephen Grellet on that particular day; for Stephen was so filled with the thankful wonder that follows obedience, that he had no thought for outside things. 'For some days after this act of dedication,' he says, 'my peace flowed as a river.' In the autumn of this year (1796), Stephen Grellet, the French nobleman, became a Friend. About two years later, he was acknowledged as a Minister by the Society.

'In those days,' he writes, 'my mind dwelt much on the nature of the hope of redemption through Jesus Christ.... I felt that the best testimony I could bear was to evince by my life what He had actually done for me.'

Henceforth Stephen's life was spent in trying to make known to others the joy that had overflowed his own soul. He did indeed 'put the things that he had learned in practice,' as he journeyed over both Europe and America, time after time, visiting high and low. His life is one long record of adventures, of perils surmounted, of hairbreadth escapes, of constant toil and of much plodding, humdrum service too. His message brought him into the strangest situations, as he gave it fearlessly. He sought an interview with the Pope at Rome in order to remonstrate with him about the state of the prisons in the Papal States. Stephen gave his message with perfect candour, and afterwards entered into conversation with the Pope. Finally, he says, 'As I felt the love of Christ flowing in my heart towards him, I particularly addressed him.... The Pope ... kept his head inclined and appeared tender, while I thus addressed him; then rising from his seat, in a kind and respectful manner, he expressed his desire that "the Lord would bless and protect me wherever I went," on which I left him.'

Not satisfied with that, though it seems wonderful enough, Stephen another time induced the Czar of all the Russias, Alexander I., to attend Westminster Meeting. Both these stories are well worth telling. But there is one story about Stephen, better worth telling still, and that is how the Voice that guided him all over the world sent him one day 'preaching to nobody' in a lonely forest clearing in the far backwoods of America.

FOOTNOTES:

[41] 'From my earliest days,' he writes, 'there was that in me that would not allow me implicitly to believe the various doctrines I was taught.'



XXXII. PREACHING TO NOBODY



'All the artillery in the world, were they all discharged together at one clap, could not more deaf the ears of our bodies than the clamourings of desires in the soul deaf its ears, so you see a man must go into silence or else he cannot hear God speak.'—JOHN EVERARD. 1650.

'God forces none, for love cannot compel, and God's service is therefore a thing of complete freedom.... The thing which hinders and has always hindered is that our wills are different from God's will. God never seeks Himself, in His willing—we do. There is no other way to blessedness than to lose one's self will'—HANS DENCK. 1526.

'The inward command is never wanting in the due season to any duty.'—R. BARCLAY. 1678.

'I think I can reverently say that I very much doubt whether, since the Lord by His grace brought me into the faith of His dear Son, I have ever broken bread or drunk wine, even in the ordinary course of life, without the remembrance of, and some devout feeling regarding the broken body and the blood-shedding of my dear Lord and Saviour.'—STEPHEN GRELLET.

'One loving spirit sets another on fire.'—AUGUSTINE.



XXXII. PREACHING TO NOBODY

Stephen Grellet, after much waiting on the Lord to shew him His will, was directed by the Spirit to take a long journey into the backwoods of America, and preach the Gospel to some woodcutters who were felling forest timber.'[42]

At first Stephen did not know which was the wood he was meant to visit, having travelled through hundreds of miles of forests on his journey. So he waited very quietly, his heart as still as a clear lake, ready to reflect anything God might show him.

Suddenly a picture came. He remembered a lonely forest clearing, far away. Workmen's huts were dotted about here and there, and a big wooden building rose in the midst of the clearing. All around were woodcutters, some busy sawing timber, some marking the tall forest trees, others carting huge logs and piling them at a little distance. Stephen now remembered the place well. He remembered, too, the workmen's rough faces, and the wild shouts that filled the air as he had passed by on horseback. He had noticed a faint film of blue smoke curling up from the large building, and he had supposed that that must be the dining-shanty where the workmen's food was prepared and where they had their meals. He remembered having thought to himself, 'A lonely life and a wild one!' But the place had not made a deep impression on his mind, and he had forgotten it as he journeyed, in the joy of getting nearer home. Now, suddenly, that forest clearing, with the huts and the dining-shanty and the busy woodmen all round, came back to him as vividly as a picture in a magic-lantern view, while a Voice said, distinctly but very gently in his own heart, so that only he could hear, 'GO BACK THERE AND PREACH TO THOSE LONELY MEN.'

Stephen knew quite well Whose Voice it was that was speaking to him, for he had loved and followed that Voice for many years. Obedience was easy now. He said at once, 'Yes, I will go;' and saying good-bye to his wife, he left his home, and set forth again into the forest. As he journeyed, a flood of happiness came over his soul. The long ride through the lonely woods, day after day, no longer seemed tedious. He was absolutely alone, but he never felt the least bit lonely. It was as if Someone were journeying with him all the way, the invisible Friend whose Voice he knew and loved and obeyed.

When at length he drew near the clearing in the forest, he both trembled and rejoiced, at the thought of soon being able to deliver his message to the woodmen. Coming yet nearer, however, he no longer saw any blue smoke curling up in a thin spiral between the straight stems of the forest trees. Neither did he hear any sound of saws sawing timber, or the men shouting to their horses. The whole place was silent and deserted. When he reached the clearing, nobody was there. Even the huts had gone. He would have thought he had mistaken the place if the dining-shanty had not been there, by the edge of a little trickling stream, just as he remembered it.

Nowhere was there a living soul to be seen. Evidently all the woodmen had gone away deeper into the forest to find fresh timber, for the clearing was much larger and many more trees had been cut down than on Stephen's first visit. The neglected look of the one big wooden hut that remained showed that the men had not used it for many days. Weeks might pass before any of the woodcutters returned.

What was Stephen to do? He had no idea in which direction the woodmen had departed. It was hopeless to think of tracking them further through the lonely forest glades. Had the Voice made a mistake? Could he have misunderstood the command? Was the whole expedition a failure? Must he return home with his message still undelivered? His heart burned within him at the thought, and he said, half aloud, 'No, no, no!'

There was only one way out of the difficulty, the same way that had helped him to learn his Latin lesson years ago when he was a little boy. But it was no tiny mossy track now, it was a broad, well-marked road travelled daily, hourly, through long years,—this Prayer way that led his soul to God. Tying up his horse to the nearest tree, Stephen knelt down on the carpet of red-brown pine-needles, and put up a wordless prayer for guidance and help. Then he began to listen.

Through the windless silence of the forest spaces the Voice came again more clearly than ever, saying: 'GIVE YOUR MESSAGE. IT IS NOT YOURS BUT MINE.' Stephen hesitated no longer. He went straight into the dining-shanty. He strode past the bare empty tables, under which the long grass and flowers were already growing thick and tall. He went straight up to the end of the room, and there, standing on a form, as if the place had been filled with one or two hundred eager listeners, although no single human being was to be seen, he PREACHED, as he had never yet preached in his life. The Love of God, the 'Love that will not let us go,' seemed to him the most real thing in the whole world. All his life he had longed to find an anchor for his soul. Now that he had found it, he must help others to find it too. Why doesn't everyone find it? Ah! there he began to speak of sin; how sin builds up a wall between our hearts and God; how, in Jesus Christ, that wall has been thrown down once for all, and now there is nothing to keep us apart except our own blindness and pride; and how if we will only turn round and open our hearts to Him, He is longing to come in and dwell with us.

As Stephen went on, he pleaded yet more earnestly. He thought of the absent woodcutters. He felt that he loved every single one of those wild, rough men; and if he loved them, he, a stranger, how much more dear must they be to their heavenly Father. 'Grant me to win each single soul for Thee, O Lord,' he pleaded, 'each single soul for Thee.'

Where were they all now, these men to whom he had come to speak? He could not find them. But God could. God was their shepherd. Even if His messenger failed, the Good Shepherd would seek on until He found each single wandering soul that He loved. 'And when the shepherd findeth the lost sheep, after leaving the ninety and nine in the wilderness, how does he bring it home? Does he whip it? Does he threaten it? No such thing! he carries it on his shoulder and deals most tenderly with the poor, weary, wandering one.'

While he was speaking he thought of the absent woodcutters with an evergrowing desire to help them. He thought of the hard lives they were forced to lead, of the temptations they must meet with daily, and of the lack of all outward help towards a better life. As he repeated the words again, 'Grant me, O Lord, to win these lost sheep of Thine back to Thee and to Thy service; help me to win each single soul for Thee,' he felt as if, somehow, his voice, his prayer, must reach the men he sought, even though hundreds of miles of desolate forest lay between. Towards the end of his sermon, the tears ran down his cheeks. At last, utterly exhausted by the strength of his desire he sat down once more, and, throwing his arms on the rough board before him, he hid his face in his hands.

A long time passed; the silence grew ever more intense. At last Stephen lifted his head. He felt as tired as if he had gone a long journey since he entered the wooden building. Yet it was all exactly the same as when he had come in an hour before,—the rows of empty forms and the bare tables, with grass and flowers growing up between them. Stephen's eyes wandered out through the open door. He noticed a thick mug of earthenware lying beside the path outside, evidently left behind by the woodcutters as not worth taking with them. A common earthenware mug it was, of coarse material and ugly shape; and cracked. As Stephen's eyes fell upon it, he felt as if he hated that mug more than he had ever before hated anything in his life. It seemed to have been left behind there, on purpose to mock him. Here he was with only an earthenware mug in sight, he who might have been surrounded by the exquisite and delicate porcelain that he remembered in his father's factory at Limoges. All that beauty and luxury belonged to him by right; they might still have been his, if only he had not listened for years to the Voice. And now the Voice had led him on this fool's errand. Here he was, preaching to nobody, and looking at a cracked mug. Was his whole life a mistake? a delusion? 'Am I a fool after all?' he asked himself bitterly.

He was in the sad, bitter mood that is called 'Reaction.' Strangely enough, it often seizes people just when they have done some particularly difficult piece of work for their Master. Perhaps it comes to keep them from thinking that they can finish anything in their own strength alone.

Stephen was in the grip of this mood now. Happily he had wrestled with the same sort of temptation many times before. He knew it of old; he knew, too, that the best way to meet it is to face this giant Reaction boldly, as Christian faced Apollyon, to wrestle with it and so to overcome. He went straight out of the door to where the mug was lying, and took up that mug, that cracked mug, in his hands, more reverently than if it had been a vase of the most precious and fragile porcelain. He took it up, and accepted it, this thing he hated worst of all. If life had led him only to a cracked mug, at least he would accept that mug and use it as best he could. Carrying it in his hands, he walked to the little stream whose gentle murmur came through the tall grasses close at hand. There he knelt down, cleansed the mug carefully, filled it with water, and putting it to his lips, he drank a long refreshing draught. In his pocket he found a crust of bread. He took it out, broke it in two pieces, and then drank again. Only a piece of dry bread! Only a drink of cold water in a cracked cup! No meal could be simpler. Yet Stephen ate and drank with a kind of awe, enfolded in a sustaining, life-giving Presence. He knew that he was not alone; he knew that Another was with him, feeding and refreshing his inmost soul, as he drank of the clear, cold water and ate the broken bread.

A wonderful peace and gladness fell upon his spirit as he knelt in the sunny air. The silence of the great forest was itself a song of praise. He rode homewards like a man in a dream. Day after day as he journeyed, the brooding peace grew and deepened. Even the forest pathways looked different as he travelled through them on his homeward way. They had been full of trustful obedience before. They were filled with thankfulness now. But the deepest thankfulness was in Stephen's own heart.

* * * * *

Is that the end of the story? For many years that was the end. Stephen never forgot his mysterious journey into the backwoods. He often wondered why the Voice had sent him there. Nevertheless he knew, for certain and past all doubting, that he had done right to go. Perhaps gradually the memory faded a little and became dim....

* * * * *

Anyway nothing was further from his thoughts than the lonely backwoods of America one afternoon, years after, when on one of his journeys in Europe his business led him across London Bridge. The Bridge was crowded with traffic. Everyone was bustling to and fro, intent on his own business or pleasure. Not many people had leisure to notice one slight figure distinguished by a foreign air of courtliness and grace, in spite of the stiff, severe lines of its Quaker hat and coat. Not many people, even if they had noticed the earnest face under the broad-brimmed hat, would have stopped to gaze a second time upon it that busy afternoon. Not many people. But one man did.

As Stephen was hastening across the crowded Bridge, suddenly he felt himself seized roughly by the shoulders, and he heard a gruff voice exclaiming: 'There you are! I have found you at last, have I?'

Deep down inside Stephen Grellet, the Quaker preacher, there still remained a few traces of the fastidious French noble, Etienne de Grellet. The traces had been buried deep down by this time, but there they still were. They leapt suddenly to light, that busy afternoon on London Bridge. Neither French nobleman nor Quaker preacher liked to be seized in such unceremonious fashion. 'Friend,' he remonstrated, drawing himself gently away, 'I think that thou art mistaken.'

'No, I am not,' rejoined the other, his grip tighter than ever. 'When you have sought a man over the face of the globe year after year, you don't make a mistake when you find him at last. Not you! Not me either! I'm not mistaken, and I don't let you go now I've found you after all these years, with your same little dapper, black, cut-away coat, that I thought so queer; and your broad-brimmed hat that I well remember. Never heard a man preach with his hat on before!'

'Hast thou heard me preach, Friend? Why then didst thou not speak to me afterwards if thou wished?'

'But I didn't wish!' answered the stranger, 'nothing I wished for less!'

'Where was it?' enquired Stephen.

'Why, I heard you preaching to nobody, years and years ago,' the man returned. 'At least you supposed you were preaching to nobody. Really, you were preaching to me. Cut me to the heart you did too, I can tell you.'

A dawning light of comprehension came into Stephen's face as the other went on: 'Didn't you preach in a deserted dining-shanty in the backwoods of America near——' (and he named the place), 'on such a day and in such a year?'

He asked these questions in a loud voice, regardless of the astonished looks of the passers-by, still holding tight to the edge of Stephen's coat with one hand, and shaking the forefinger of the other in Stephen's face as he spoke, to emphasize each word.

By this time all traces of Etienne, the fastidious French nobleman, had utterly disappeared. Stephen Grellet, the minister of Christ, was alive now to the tips of his fingers. His whole soul was in his eyes as he gazed at his questioner. Was that old, old riddle going to find its answer at last?

'Wast thou there?' he enquired breathlessly. 'Impossible! I must have seen thee!'

'I was there, right enough,' answered the man. 'But you did not see me, because I took very good care that you should not. At first I thought you were a lunatic, preaching to a lot of forms and tables like that, and better left alone. Then, afterwards, I wouldn't let you see me, for fear you should see also that your words had gone in deeper than I cared to show. I was the ganger of the woodmen,' he continued, taking Stephen's arm in his and compelling the little Quaker to walk beside him as he talked. 'It all happened in this way. We had moved forth into the forest, and were putting up more shanties to live in, when I discovered that I had left my lever at the old settlement. So, after setting my men to work, I came back alone for my instrument. As I approached the old place, I heard a voice. Trembling and agitated, I drew near, I saw you through the chinks of the timber walls of our dining-shanty, I listened to you; and as I listened, your words went through a chink in my heart too, though its walls were thicker than those of any dining-shanty. I was determined you should not see me. I crept away and went back to my men. The arrow stuck fast. I was miserable for many weeks. I had no Bible, no book of any kind, not a creature to ask about better things.'

'Poor sheep! Poor lost sheep!' Stephen murmured gently; 'I knew it; I knew it! The Good Shepherd knew it too!'

'We were a rough lot in those days,' continued the other, 'worse than rough, bad; worse than bad, wicked. There wasn't much about sin that we didn't know among us, didn't enjoy too, after a fashion. That was why your sermon made me so miserable. Seemed to know just all about the lot of us, you did. After it, for weeks I went on getting more and more wretched. There seemed nothing to do, me not being able to find you, but to try and get hold of the book that had put you up to it. None of us had such a thing, of course. It was a long time before I could lay hands on one. Me and a Bible! How the men laughed! But they stopped laughing before I had done with them. I read and read till I found what you had said about the Good Shepherd and the lost sheep—'and God so loved the world,' and at last—eternal life. And then I wasn't going to keep that to myself. It's share and share alike out in the backwoods, I can tell you. I told my men all about it, just like you. I never let 'em alone, I gave them no peace till they were one and all brought home to God—every single one! I heard you asking Him: "Every single soul for Thy service, every single soul for Thee, O Lord." That was what you asked Him for,—that, and more than that, He gave. It's always the way! When the Lord begins to answer, He does answer! Every single one of those men was brought home to Him. But it didn't stop there. Three of them became missionaries, to go and bring others back to the fold in their turn. I tell you the solemn truth. Already one thousand lost sheep, if not more, have been brought home to the Good Shepherd through that sermon of yours, that day in the backwoods, when you thought you were

PREACHING TO NOBODY!'

FOOTNOTES:

[42] The American Friend, 28th November 1895.



COME-TO-GOOD



'Flowers are the little faces of God.'—(A saying of some little children.)

'To the soul that feeds on the bread of life the outward conventions of religion are no longer needful. Hid with Christ in God there is for him small place for outward rites, for all experience is a holy baptism, a perpetual supper with the Lord, and all life a sacrifice holy and acceptable unto God.

'This hidden life, this inward vision, this immediate and intimate union between the soul and God, this, as revealed in Jesus Christ, is the basis of the Quaker faith.'—J.W. ROWNTREE.

'Here the pure mind is known, and the pure God is waited upon for wisdom from above; and the peace, which hath no end, is enjoyed.... And the Light of God that calls your minds out of the creatures, turns them to God, to an endless being, joy and peace: here is a seeing God always present.... So fare you well! And God Almighty bless, guide and keep you all in His wisdom.'—GEORGE FOX.



COME-TO-GOOD

One more Meeting-house to visit; the last and the smallest of all. A Meeting-house with no story, except the story in its name. '"Come-to-Good!"' boys and girls from other counties will exclaim perhaps, 'whoever heard of such a place? Why did people not call it "Come-to-Harm," or "Ne'er-do-Weel," while they were about it?'

Cornish boys and girls know better. They will explain that in their far Western corner of England there has always been an idea, and a very good idea it is, that a name should really describe the place to which it belongs, and should tell the hearer something about its character. Thus it comes to pass that on one tidal river a certain creek, covered with salt sea-water at high tide, but showing only an expanse of muddy flats at low water, is called 'Cockles' Peep Out.' Another creek, near by, is known as 'Frenchman's Pill,' because some French prisoners were sent there for safety during the Napoleonic Wars. Then, too, a busy sea-port was once called 'Penny Come Quick,' with good reason; and another out-of-the-way place 'Hard to Come By,' which explains itself. Most romantic of all, the valley where King Charles's army lost a battle long ago is still known as 'Fine and Brave.' There, the country people say, headless ghosts of defeated Cavaliers may still be seen on moonlight nights riding up and down, carrying their own plumed-hatted heads under their arms. All over the county these story places are to be found. The more odd a Cornish name sounds at the first hearing, the more apt it will often prove, when the reason for it is understood.

Thus it is not strange that a lonely, shut-in valley, folded away between two steep hills, should be known as 'Come-to-Good,' since, for more than two centuries, men and women, and little children also, have 'Come to Good' in that remote and hidden place. There, surrounded by sheltering trees, stands the little old Meeting-house. Its high thatched roof projects, like a bushy eyebrow, over the low white walls and thick white buttresses, shading the three narrow casement windows of pale-green glass with their diamond lattice panes. The windows are almost hidden by the roof; the roof is almost hidden by the trees; and the trees are almost hidden by the hills that rise above them. Therefore the pilgrim always comes upon the Meeting-house with a certain sense of surprise, so carefully is it concealed;—like a most secret and precious thought.

The bare Cornish uplands and wide moors have a trick of hiding away these rich, fertile valleys, that have given rise to the proverb: 'Cornwall is a lady, whose beauty is seen in her wrinkles.' Yet, hidden away as it is, 'Come-to-Good' has drawn people to it for centuries. In all the country round, for generations past, one Sunday in August has been known as 'Come-to-Good Sunday,' because, on that day, the Friends assemble from three or four distant towns to hold their meeting there. And not the Friends only. No bell has ever broken the stillness of that peaceful valley, yet for miles round, on a 'Meeting Sunday,' the lanes are full of small groups of people: parents and children; farm lads and lasses; thoughtful-faced men, who admit that 'they never go anywhere else'; shy lovers lingering behind, or whole families walking together. All are to be seen on their way to refresh their souls with the hour of quiet worship in the snowy white Meeting-house under its thatched roof.

* * * * *

Many years ago, little Lois (whom you read about at the beginning of this book) was taken to Come-to-Good for the first time on such a Sunday, by her Grandmother. Even now, whenever she goes there, she still seems to see that dear Grandmother's tall, erect figure, in its flowing black silk mantle and Quaker bonnet, walking with stately steps up the path in front; or stooping for once—she who never stooped!—to enter the little low door. People who did not know her well, and even some who did, occasionally felt Lois' 'dear Grandmamma' rather a formidable old lady. They said she was 'severe' and 'alarmingly dignified,' and 'she says straight out just exactly what she thinks.' Certainly, she was not one of the spoiling, indulgent, eiderdown-silk-cushion kind of Grannies that some children have now; but Lois loved her with all her heart and was never really afraid of her. What stories she could tell! What wonderful stockings full of treasures Santa Claus brought down her chimneys on Christmas Eve to the happy grandchild staying with her! Lois loved to sit beside her 'dear Grandmamma,' and to watch her in her corner by the fire, upright as ever, knitting. Even on the long drive to Come-to-Good, the feeling of her smooth, calm hand had soothed the restless little fingers held in it so firmly and gently. The drive over, Lois wondered what would happen to her in the strange Meeting-house when she might not sit by that dear Grandmother's side any longer, since she, of course, would have to be up in the Ministers' gallery, with all the other 'Weighty Friends.' But, at Come-to-Good, things always turn out right. Lois found, to her delight, that she and the other boys and girls were to be allowed to creep, very quietly, up the twisty wooden stairs at the far end of the Meeting-house, and to make their way up into the 'loft' where four or five low forms had been specially placed for them. Lois loved to find herself sitting there. She felt like a little white pigeon, high up on a perch, able to see over the heads of all the people below, and able even to look down on the grave faces of the Ministers opposite. The row of broad-brimmed hats and coal-scuttle bonnets looked entirely different and much more attractive, seen from above, than when she looked up at them in Meeting at home. Then, when some one rose to speak, Lois liked to watch the ripple that passed over the heads beneath her, as all the faces turned towards the speaker. Or when everybody, moved by the same impulse, stood up during a prayer or sat down at its close, it was as fascinating to watch them gently rise and gently sit down again as it was to watch the wind sweep over the sea, curling it up into waves or wavelets, or the breeze rippling over a broad field of blue-green June barley. Lois never remembered the time when she was too small to enjoy those two sights. 'I do like watching something I can't see, moving something I can!' she used to think. To watch a Meeting, from the loft at Come-to-Good, was rather like that, she felt; though years had to pass before she found out the reason why.

Out of doors, when the quiet hour of worship was over, other delights were waiting. The small old white Meeting-house is surrounded by a yet older, small green burial-ground, where long grasses, and flowers innumerable, cover the gentle slopes. The soft mounds cluster closely around the walls; as if those who were laid there had wished that their bodies might rest as near as possible to the house of peace where their spirits had rested while on earth.

Further off the mounds are fewer; the grassy spaces between them grow wider; till it becomes difficult to tell which are graves and which are just grassy hillocks. Further still, the old burial-ground dips down, and loses itself entirely, and becomes first a wood, then frankly an orchard that fills up the bottom of the valley, through which a clear brown stream goes wandering.

Yet, midway on the hilly slope above, half hidden gravestones can still be discerned, among the grass and flowers; shining through them, like a smile that was once a sorrow. Small, grey, perfectly plain stones they are, all exactly alike, as is the custom in Friends' graveyards, where to be allowed a headstone at all, was, at one time, considered 'rather gay'! Each stone bears nothing but a name upon it and sometimes a date. 'Honor Magor' is the name carved on one of the oldest stooping stones, and under it a date nearly 100 years old. That is all. Lois used to wonder who Honor Magor was,—an old woman? a young one? or possibly even a little girl? Where did she live when she was alive? how did she come to be buried there? But there are no answers to any of these questions; and there is no need to know more than that the tired body of Honor Magor has been resting peacefully for nearly a century, hidden under the tangle of waving grasses and ever-changing flowers at Come-to-Good.

Ever-changing flowers? Yes; because the changing of the seasons is more marked there than at other places. For Come-to-Good lies so many miles from any town, the tide of life has ebbed away so far from this quiet pool, that, for a long time past, Meetings have only been held here four times in the year. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring,—each season brings its own Sunday. Then, and for a week or two beforehand, the topmost bar of every wooden gate in the neighbourhood bears a modest piece of white paper announcing that 'a Friends' Meeting will be held at Come-to-Good on the following First Day morning, at eleven o'clock, when the company of any who are inclined to attend will be acceptable.'

August Sunday brings deep, red roses tossing themselves up, like a crimson fountain, against the grey thatched roof. November Sunday has its own treasures: sweet, late blackberries, crimson and golden leaves, perhaps even a few late hazel nuts and acorns still hiding down in the wood. In February, the first gummy stars of the celandine are to be seen peeping out from under the hedge, while a demure little procession of white and green snowdrops walks primly up the narrow path to Meeting. The 'Fair Maids of February' seem to have an especial love for this quiet spot.

But in May—ah! May is the best Sunday of all. In May not only is the whole valley knee-deep in grass and ferns and flowers and bluebells. There is something still better! In May the burial-ground is all singing and tinkling silently with fairy spires of columbines. Garden flowers in most other places, they are quite wild here. Purple and deep-blue and pale-pink columbines are growing up everywhere; each flower with its own little pairs of twin turtle-doves hidden away inside. Even white columbine, rarest of all, has been found in that magic valley. I am afraid Lois thought longingly, all through the silence on a May Sunday, of the nosegay of columbines she meant to gather afterwards. Directly Meeting was over, the children pelted down very fast from the loft. Numbers of little feet flew across the sunlit grass, while the elder Friends were walking sedately down the path to the gate.

'O Columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell,'

chanted the children as they frolicked about, forgetting that they had been stiff with sitting so long in Meeting, as they gathered handfuls of their treasures.

All too soon they would hear the call: 'Come, children! it is time to be going.' And then they would scamper back, their hands full of their dear dove flowers. No wonder they felt that in leaving this sunny spot they were leaving one of the happiest places on earth. If only they could stay there! If only some one could be enjoying it always! What a pity that on the forty-eight other Sundays of the year it should all be deserted, shut up and forsaken! There might be numbers of other wonderful flowers that nobody ever saw. There the old Meeting-house stays all by itself the whole year round, except on those four Sundays, even as a lonely pool of clear water remains high up on the rocks, showing that the great sea itself did come there once, long ago, flowing in mightily, filling up all the bare chinks and crannies.

Will such a high tide ever come back again to Come-to-Good? Is that tide perhaps beginning to flow in, noiselessly and steadily, even now?

Some things look rather as if it might be; for new Friends' Meeting-houses are being built in crowded cities to-day where even the high tide of long ago never came. But then, in lonely country places like Come-to-Good, scattered up and down all over England, there are many of these deserted Meeting-houses, where hardly anybody comes now or only comes out of curiosity. Yet the high tide did fill them all once long ago, full to overflowing, when people met within their walls constantly, seeking and finding God.

* * * * *

The stories in this book about our 'Quaker Saints' show at what a cost these deserted places were won for us by our brave forefathers. They, with their health and their lives gladly given in those terrible prisons of long ago, gained for us our liberty to meet together 'in numbers five or more,' to practise a 'form of worship not authorised by law'; that is to say, without any prayer-book or set form of service being used.

Is our simple Quaker way of worship really worth the price they paid for it? Or is it merely a quaint and interesting relic of a by-gone age, something like the 'Friend's bonnet' that Lois' Grandmother wore as a matter of course, which now is never used, but lies in a drawer, carefully covered with tissue paper and fragrant with lavender?

Is our Quaker faith like that? Is it something antiquated and interesting, but of no real use to us or to anybody to-day? Or did these 'Quaker Saints' of whom we have heard, did they, and many other brave men and women, whose stories are not written here, really and truly make a big discovery? Did they, by their living and by their dying, remind the world of a truth that it had been in danger of forgetting? a truth that may still be in danger of being forgotten if quite ordinary, everyday people are not faithful now in their turn?



Is it really and truly true, that where two or three humble human souls are gathered together in His Name, in the simplest possible fashion, without any priest, or altar, or visible signs to help them, yet our Lord is there? Can He be indeed among them still to-day? and will He be forever, as He promised? feeding them Himself with the true Bread of Life, satisfying their thirst with Living Water, baptizing their souls with Power and with Peace?—

Children dear, you must answer these questions for yourselves, fearlessly and honestly. No one else can answer them for you. The answers may seem long in coming, but do not be in a hurry. They will come in time, if you seek steadfastly and humbly. Only remember one thing, as you think over these questions. Even if this is our way, the right way for us, this very simple Quaker way that our forefathers won for us at such a cost, still that does not necessarily make it the right way for all other people too. God's world and God's plans are much bigger than that. He brings His children home by numbers of different paths, but for each child of His, God's straight way for that child is the very best.

The wise old Persians had a proverb, 'The ways unto God are as the number of the souls of the children of men.' Let us remember this, if we ever want to try to force other people to think about things exactly as we do. Let us remember, too, that rivalry and pride, that saying, or even thinking, 'My way is the only right way, and a much better way than your way,' is the only really antiquated kind of worship. The sooner we all learn to lay that aside, not in lavender and tissue paper, but to cast it away utterly and forget that it ever existed,—the better.

It is not a bit of an excuse for us when we are inclined to judge other people critically, to read in these stories that some of the early Friends did and said harsh and intolerant things. They lived in a much harsher, more intolerant age than ours. The seventeenth century, as we know, has been called 'a dreadfully ill-mannered century.' Let us do our very best not to give any one an excuse for saying the same of this twentieth century in which we live. Thus, in reading of these Quaker Saints, let us try to copy, not their harshness or their intolerance, but their unflinching courage, their firm steadfastness, their burning hope for every man; above all, their unconquerable love.

Remember the old lesson of the daisies. Each flower must open itself as wide as ever it can, in order to receive all that the Sun wants to give to it. But, while each daisy receives its own ray of sunshine thankfully and gladly, it must rejoice that other very different rays, at very different angles, can reach other flowers. Yet the Sun Heart from which they all come is One and the Same. All the different ways of worship are One too, when they meet in the Centre.

Therefore it is not strange that at little secluded Come-to-Good, where the blue doves of the columbines keep watch over the quiet graves, I should remember a message that came to me in another, very different, House of God—a magnificent Cathedral far away in South Italy. There, high up, above the lights and pictures and flowers and ornaments of the altar, half hidden at times by the clouds of ascending incense, I caught the shining of great golden letters. Gradually, as I watched, they formed themselves into these three words of old Latin:

DEUS ABSCONDITUS HEIC.

And the golden message meant:

'GOD IS HIDDEN HERE.'

That is the secret all these different ways of worship are meant to teach us, if we will only learn. Let us not judge one another, not ever dream of judging one another any more. Only, wherever our own way of worship leads us, let us seek to follow it diligently, dutifully, humbly, and to the end. Then, not only when we are worshipping with our brothers and sisters around us, in church, chapel, great cathedral, or quiet meeting-house, but also (perhaps nearest and closest of all) in the silence of our own hearts, we shall surely find in truth and with thankfulness that

GOD IS HIDDEN HERE.



HISTORICAL NOTES



HISTORICAL NOTES

NOTE.—The References throughout are to the Cambridge Edition of George Fox's Journal, except where otherwise stated. The spelling has been modernised and the extracts occasionally abridged.

'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL.'

Historical; described as closely as possible from George Fox's own words in his Journal, vol. ii. pp. 94, 100-104.

'PURE FOY, MA JOYE.'

Historical. See George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition), pp. 1-17. See also Sewel's 'History of the Quakers,' and 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' by W.C. Braithwaite. See 'George Fox,' by Thomas Hodgkin (Leaders of Religion Series), for description of Fenny Drayton village, manor house, church, and neighbourhood.

See also W. Penn's Preface to George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition), pp. xxiv and xxv, for details of parentage, childhood, and youth.

'THE ANGEL OF BEVERLEY.'

This is a purely imaginary story, written for a ten-year-old listener who begged for 'more of a story about him when he was young.' The connection of a member of the Purefoy family with the 'Great Lady of Beverley' has no foundation in fact. On visiting Fenny Drayton, since writing the story, I find, however, that there were a brother and sister Edward and Joyce Purefoy, who lived a few years earlier than the date of this tale. They may still be seen in marble on a tomb in the North Aisle with their father, the Colonel Purefoy of that day, who does wear a ruff as described in the story. It is not impossible that the Colonel Purefoy of George Fox's Journal may also have had a son and daughter of the same names as described in my account, but I have no warrant for supposing this and am anxious that this imaginary tale should not be supposed to possess the same kind of authenticity as most of the other stories. Priest Stephens' remark about George Fox, and the scenes in Beverley Minster and at Justice Hotham's house, are, however, historical.

'TAMING THE TIGER.'

Historical. See George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition), pp. 27, 28, 31-48, 335, for the different incidents.

'THE MAN IN LEATHER BREECHES.'

Expanded, with imaginary incidents and consequences, from a few paragraphs in George Fox's Journal, i. 20.

'THE SHEPHERD OF PENDLE HILL.'

Expanded from George Fox's Journal, i. 40.

N.B.—The Shepherd, who is the speaker, is a wholly imaginary person.

'THE PEOPLE IN WHITE RAIMENT' and 'A WONDERFUL FORTNIGHT.'

Historical. Taken from various sources, chiefly George Fox's Journal, vol. i. pp. 40-44, and two unpublished papers by Ernest E. Taylor, describing the lives and homes of the Westmorland Seekers: 'A Great People to be Gathered' and 'Faithful Servants of God.' See also his 'Cameos from the Life of George Fox,' Sewel's 'History of the Quakers,' and 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' by W.C. Braithwaite.

'UNDER THE YEW-TREES.'

Expanded from George Fox's Journal, i. 47, 48, 52. The conversation among the girls is of course imaginary, but many details are taken from 'Margaret Fox of Swarthmoor Hall,' by Helen G. Crosfield, a most helpful book that has been constantly used in all these stories about Swarthmoor.

'BEWITCHED!'

Historical. See Sewel's History, i. 106. George Fox's Journal, i. 51. 'Testimony of Margaret Fox' (Ellwood Edition of above, p. xliv). 'Margaret Fox of Swarthmoor Hall,' p. 15. Also 'England under the Stuarts,' by G.M. Trevelyan (for Witchcraft).

'THE JUDGE'S RETURN.'

Historical. See 'Testimony of Margaret Fox' (Ellwood Edition of G. Fox's Journal), p. xlv. Sewel's History, i. 106.

'STRIKE AGAIN!'

Historical. See George Fox's Journal, i. 57-59. Sewel's History, i. 111-112.

'MAGNANIMITY.'

Historical. See George Fox's Journal, i. 59-61. Sewel's History, i. 113-114.

'MILES HALHEAD AND THE HAUGHTY LADY.'

Historical. See Sewel's History, i. 129-131, and George Fox's Journal, i. 53, 56, for George Fox's sermon.

'SCATTERING THE SEED.'

Historical. Details taken from George Fox's Journal, i. 141, 209, 347; 292, 297; 11, 337. See also Chapter viii. 'The Mission to the South,' in 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' by W.C. Braithwaite. Also 'First Publishers of Truth,' for accounts of the work in the different counties mentioned.

'WRESTLING FOR GOD.'

Historical. See 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' Chapter viii. Also 'Letters from the Early Friends,' by A.R. Barclay. 'Piety Promoted,' i. 35-38. 'Story of Quakerism,' by E.B. Emmott, for description of old London. See also 'Memorials of the Righteous Revived,' by C. Marshall and Thomas Camm, and note that I have followed T. Camm's account in this book of his father's journey south with E. Burrough. W.C. Braithwaite in 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' following 'First Publishers of Truth,' thinks it, however, more probable that F. Howgill was E. Burrough's companion throughout the journey, and that the two Friends reached London together.

'LITTLE JAMES AND HIS JOURNEYS' and 'THE FIRST QUAKER MARTYR.'

Mainly historical. Details taken largely from 'Life of James Parnell,' by C. Fell Smith. See also 'James Parnell,' by Thomas Hodgkin, in 'The Trial of our Faith.' Also 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' Chapter ix. and Sewel's History. The discourse of the two Baptists on Carlisle Bridge and James's association with them is imaginary, but they are themselves historical characters, and the incidents they describe are narrated in George Fox's Journal, i. 114, 115, 124-126; 153, 186. For 'The First Quaker Martyr,' see 'The Lamb's Defence against Lyes, a true Testimony concerning the sufferings and death of James Parnell. 1656.'

'THE CHILDREN OF READING MEETING.'

See Emmott's 'Story of Quakerism,' p. 83. Also 'Letters of the Early Friends.' A very graphic but fictitious account of this incident is given in 'The Children's Meeting,' by M.E. England, now out of print. See also 'Lessons from Early Quakerism in Reading,' by W.C. Braithwaite. My account is founded on history, but I have described imaginary children. The list of scents used on Sir William Armorer's wig is borrowed from a genuine one of a slightly later period.

'THE SADDEST STORY OF ALL.'

Historical. See Sewel's History, i. 80, 255-293, 382-397, 408, 438. Also 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' Chapter xi. 'Nayler's Fall.' Also James Nayler's collected Books and Papers, published in 1716.

'PALE WINDFLOWERS.'

See account of Dewsbury in 'Beginnings of Quakerism.' Also 'The faithful Testimony of that Antient Servant of the Lord, and Minister of the Everlasting Gospel, William Dewsbury.' Also 'Testimony to Mary Samm,' p. 348, same volume. The details given are as far as possible historical, but the setting, the walk, and the windflowers are imaginary. The prison scene is as far as possible historical. The Testimony to little Mary tells the sequel to her 'happy evening,' and a few paragraphs from it are given here.

TESTIMONY TO MARY SAMM, 1680.

The first day of the second month, 1680, it pleased the Lord to afflict her with a violent fever, that brought her very low in a little time, and great was her exercise of spirit, as to her condition and state with God, many times weeping when she was alone.... She said, 'If this distemper do not abate, I must die, but my soul shall go to Eternal Joy, Eternal, Eternal and Everlasting Life and Peace with my God for ever: Oh! praises, praises to Thy Majesty, Oh, my God! who helpeth me to go through with patience, what I am to endure.' Then after some time she said. 'Friends, we must all go hence one after another, and they that live the longest know and endure the greatest sorrow: therefore, O Lord, if it be Thy will, take me to Thyself, that my soul may rest in peace with Thee, and not any one to see me here any more. Oh! praises, praises be unto Thy holy Name for ever in Thy will being done with me, to take me to Thyself, where I shall be in heavenly joy, yea, in heavenly joy for ever and for evermore.'...

And many times would she be praying to the Lord day and night, 'O Lord, lay no more upon me, than Thou givest me strength to bear, and go through with patience, that Thy will may be done, that Thy will may be done' (many times together). 'Oh! help me, help me, O my God! that I may praise Thy holy Name for ever.'

And so continued, very often praising the Name of the Lord with joyful sounds, and singing high praises to His holy Name for ever and for evermore; she being much spent with lifting up her voice in high praises to God, through fervency of spirit, and her body being weak, her Grandfather went into the room, and desired her to be as still as possibly she could, and keep her mind inward, and stayed upon the Lord, and see if she could have a little rest and sleep: she answered, 'Dear Grandfather, I shall die, and I cannot but praise the Name of the Lord whilst I have a being; I do not know what to do to praise His Name enough whilst I live; but whilst there is life there is hope; but I do believe it is better for me to die than live.'

And so continued speaking of the goodness of the Lord from day to day; which caused many tears to fall from the eyes of them that heard her. Her Grandfather coming to her, asked her how she did? She said to him and to her Mother, 'I have had no rest this night nor to-day; I did not know but I should have died this night, but very hardly I tugged through it; but I shall die to-day, and a grave shall be made, and my body put into a hole, and my soul shall go to heavenly joy, yea, heavenly joy and everlasting peace for evermore.'

Then she said, 'Dear Grandfather, I do believe thou wilt not stay long behind me, when I am gone.'

He answered, 'Dear Granddaughter, I shall come as fast as the Lord orders my way.'

Then she praised the Name of the Lord with high praises and joyful sounds for a season, and then desired her Mother to let her be taken up a little time; saying, 'It may be it will give me some ease.' Then they sent for her Grandfather, who said to her, 'If this be thy last day, and thereon thou art to die, it is not safe for thee to be taken forth of thy bed: dear Mary, thou shalt have all attendance that is convenient, as to set thee up in thy bed, and to lay thee down again; but "to take thee up" we are not willing to do it.'

She answered, 'Well, Grandfather, what thou seest best for me, I am willing to have it so.'

Then her Mother and Aunt set her up in her bed; she said it did refresh her and give her some ease: and as they were ordering what was to be done about her bed, she said, 'Oh! what a great deal of do is here in ordering the bed for one that is upon their death-bed.'

Her Aunt, Joan Dewsbury, said, 'Mary, dost thou think thou art upon thy death-bed?'

She answered, 'Yea, yea, I am upon my death-bed, I shall die to-day, and I am very willing to die, because I know it is better for me to die than live.'

Her Aunt replied, 'I do believe it is better for thee to die than live.'

She said, 'Yea, it is well for me to die.'...

'And, dear Mother, I would have thee remember my love to my dear sisters, relations, and friends; and now I have nothing to do, I have nothing to do.'

A friend answered, 'Nothing, Mary, but to die.'

Then she said to her Mother, 'I desire thee to give me a little clear posset drink, then I will see if I can have a little rest and sleep before I die.'

When the posset drink came to her, she took a little.... Then she said to her Mother, 'I have a swelling behind my ear, but I would not have anything done to it, nor to my sore throat nor mouth, for all will be well enough when I am in my grave.'

Then she asked what time of day it was? it being the latter part of the day, her Grandfather said, 'The chimes are going four;' she said, 'I thought it had been more; I will see if I can have a little rest and sleep before I die.'

And so she lay still, and had a sweet rest and sleep; and then she awaked without any complaint, and in a quiet peaceable frame of spirit laid down her head in peace, when the clock struck the fifth hour of the 9th day of the 2nd month, 1680.

We whose names are under-written were eye and ear witnesses of what is before expressed, as near as could be taken, and does not much vary from what she declared, as the substance (though much more sweet and comfortable expressions passed from her, but for brevity sake are willing this only to publish) who stood by her when she drew her last breath.

William Dewsbury, her Grandfather. Mary Samm, her Mother. Joan Dewsbury, her Aunt. Hannah Whitthead, a Friend.

'AN UNDISTURBED MEETING.'

I first heard this story graphically told by Ernest E. Taylor. His intimate knowledge of the neighbourhood, and minute historical researches into the lives of the Early Friends in this district, made the whole scene vivid to his listener. In writing down my own account from memory, some months later, I find I have unintentionally altered some of the details, and have in particular allowed too long a time for the soldiers' carouse, and have substituted a troop of horse for militia. For these lapses from strict historical accuracy I alone am responsible; but it has seemed better to leave the story as it was written and to append the following note from the ancient MS. account of the sufferings at Sedbergh, to show exactly what did occur:

'1665. Friends being met at John Blaykling's at Draw-well, Lawrence Hodgson of Dent, an Ensign to the Militia, came into the meeting with other Militia men, cursing and swearing that if Friends would not depart and disperse, he would kill them and slay and what not. Then as Friends did not disperse they pulled them out of doors and so broke up the meeting. The Ensign thereupon went off, expecting Friends to have followed him, but they sat down and stood together at the house end [? and] on the hill-side. So the Ensign came back and with his drawn sword struck at several Friends and cut some in the hat and some in the clothes, and so forced and drove them to Sedbergh town, where after some chief men of the parish had been spoken with, Friends were let go home in peace.'—Sedbergh MSS. Sufferings.

It was of course the gathering together 'in numbers more than five' and 'refusing to disperse' that was at this time illegal and made the Friends liable to severe punishment. There is still a tradition in the neighbourhood that the Quakers were to be taken not to Ingmire Hall, but to the house of another Justice at Thorns.

'BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS.'

See 'Bygone Northumberland,' by W. Andrews. 'Piety Promoted,' i. 88-90. W.C. Braithwaite's 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' p. 373. 'The Society of Friends in Newcastle,' by J.W. Steel.

'THE VICTORY OF AMOR STODDART.'

See George Fox's Journal, i. 185, 190, 261, 431; ii. 167. Sewel's History, i. 29. 'Beginnings of Quakerism,' p. 365.

'THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP "WOODHOUSE."'

Taken from Robert Fowler's own account: 'A true Relation of the Voyage undertaken by me Robert Fowler with my small vessel called the "Woodhouse" but performed by the Lord like as he did Noah's ark, wherein he shut up a few righteous persons and landed them safe, even at the Hill Ararat,' published in the 'History of the Society of Friends in America.'

The scenes on Bridlington Quay and in London are not strictly historical, but may be inferred from the above account.

'RICHARD SELLAR AND THE "MERCIFUL MAN."'

Taken from Richard Sellar's own narrative: 'An account of the sufferings of Richard Seller of Keinsey, a Fisherman who was prest in Scarborough Piers, in the time of the two last engagements between the Dutch and English, in the year 1665,' published in Besse's 'Sufferings of the Quakers,' vol. ii. pp. 112-120.

'TWO ROBBER STORIES—WEST AND EAST.'

(1) Leonard Fell and the Highwayman, taken from 'The Fells of Swarthmoor Hall,' by M. Webb, p. 353.

(2) On the Road to Jerusalem. Taken from George Robinson's own account, published in 'A Brief History of the Voyage of Katharine Evans and Sarah Cheevers.' pp. 207 ad fin.

'SILVER SLIPPERS.'

Mainly historical. See Sewel's History, i. 294, 473; ii. 343. See also 'History of the Quakers,' by G. Croese, for some additional particulars. The best account of Mary Fisher and her adventurous journey is given in 'Quaker Women,' by Mabel R. Brailsford, Chapters v. and vi., entitled 'Mary Fisher' and 'An Ambassador to the Grand Turk.' I am indebted to Miss Brailsford for permission to draw freely from her most interesting narrative, and also to quote from her extracts from Paul Rycaut's History.

The only historical foundation for the 'Silver Slippers' is the statement by one historian that before Mary Fisher's interview with the Sultan she was allowed twenty-four hours to rest and to 'arrange her dress.' H.M. Wallis has kindly supplied me with some local colouring and information about Adrianople.

'FIERCE FEATHERS.'

A historical incident, with some imaginary actors. The outlines of this story are given in 'Historical Anecdotes' by Pike. Several additional particulars and the copy of a painting of the Indians at Meeting are to be found in the Friends' Reference Library at Devonshire House. For some helpful notes about the locality I am indebted to H.P. Morris of Philadelphia, U.S.A.

'THE THIEF IN THE TANYARD.'

Historical. The facts and the words of the speakers are taken almost verbatim from Pike's 'Historical Anecdotes.' I have only supplied the setting for the story.

'HOW A FRENCH NOBLE BECAME A FRIEND.'

Entirely historical. All the facts are taken from the Autobiography of Stephen Grellet.

'PREACHING TO NOBODY.'

This story is not to be found in Stephen Grellet's Autobiography. It appeared in 'The American Friend,' November 1895, and is now included in the penny 'Life of Stephen Grellet' in the Friends Ancient and Modern Series. The actual words of Stephen Grellet's sermon have not been recorded. Those in the text are expanded from a sentence in another discourse of his, given here in quotation marks. The incident of the cracked mug is not historical.

THE END

Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh.



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