A Book of Quaker Saints
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| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original |
| document have been preserved. |
| |
| Three obvious typographical errors were corrected in |
| this text. For a complete list, please see the end of |
| the book. |
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A BOOK OF QUAKER SAINTS
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| _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ |
| |
| PILGRIMS IN PALESTINE. |
| [_Out of print._] |
| |
| THE HAPPY WORLD. |
| |
| CONTRIBUTIONS TO 'THE |
| FELLOWSHIP OF SILENCE.' |
| |
| SILENT WORSHIP: THE WAY OF WONDER. |
| (_Swarthmore Lecture, 1919._) |
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[Illustration: LOIS AND HER NURSE]
A BOOK OF QUAKER SAINTS
by
L. V. HODGKIN
(Mrs. John Holdsworth)
Illustrated By F. Cayley-Robinson, A.R.A.
MacMillan and Co., Limited
St. Martin's Street, London
1922
Copyright
First Edition 1917 Reprinted 1918
Transferred to Macmillan & Co. and reprinted 1922
Printed in Great Britain
DEDICATED
TO THE
CHILDREN
OF THE
SOCIETY OF FRIENDS
AND TO THE
GRANDCHILDREN
OF
THOMAS HODGKIN
PREFACE
The following stories are intended for children of various ages. The
introductory chapter, 'A Talk about Saints,' and the stories marked
with an asterisk in the Table of Contents, were written first for an
eager listener of nine years old. But as the book has grown longer the
age of its readers has grown older for two reasons:
_First:_ because it was necessary to take for granted some knowledge
of the course of English History at the period of the Civil Wars. To
have re-told the story of the contest between King and Parliament,
leading up to the execution of Charles the First and the Protectorate
of Oliver Cromwell, would have taken up much of the fresh, undivided
attention that I was anxious to focus upon the lives and doings of
these 'Quaker Saints.' I have therefore presupposed a certain
familiarity with the chief actors and parties, and an understanding of
such names as Cavalier, Roundhead, Presbyterian, Independent, etc.;
but I have tried to explain any obsolete words, or those of which the
meaning has altered in the two and a half centuries that have elapsed
since the great struggle.
_Secondly_: because the stories of the persecutions of the Early
Friends are too harrowing for younger children. Even a very much
softened and milder version was met with the repeated request: 'Do,
please, skip this part and make it come happy quickly.' I have
preferred, therefore, to write for older boys and girls who will wish
for a true account of suffering bravely borne; though without undue
insistence on the physical side. For to tell the stories of these
lives without the terrible, glorious account of the cruel beatings,
imprisonments, and even martyrdom in which they often ended here, is
not truly to tell them at all. The tragic darkness in the picture is
necessary to enhance its high lights.
My youngest critic observes that 'it does not matter so much what
happens to grown-up people, because I can always skip that bit; but if
anything bad is going to happen to children, you had better leave it
out of your book altogether.' I have therefore obediently omitted the
actual sufferings of children as far as possible, except in one or two
stories where they are an essential part of the narrative.
It must be remembered that this is not a History of the Early Quaker
Movement, but a book of stories of some Early Quaker Saints. I have
based my account on contemporary authorities; but I have not scrupled
to supply unrecorded details or explanatory speeches in order to make
the scene more vivid to my listeners. In two stories of George Fox's
youth, as authentic records are scanty, I have even ventured to look
through the eyes of imaginary spectators at 'The Shepherd of Pendle
Hill' and 'The Angel of Beverley.' But the deeper I have dug down into
the past, the less need there has been to fill in outlines; and the
more possible it has been to keep closely to the actual words of
George Fox's Journal, and other contemporary documents. The historical
notes at the end of the book will indicate where the original
authorities for each story are to be found, and they will show what
liberties have been taken. The quotations that precede the different
chapters are intended mainly for older readers, and to illustrate
either the central thought or the history of the times.
Many stories of other Quaker Saints that should have been included in
this book have had to be omitted for want of room. The records of
William Penn and his companions and friends on both sides of the
Atlantic will, it is hoped, eventually find a place in a later volume.
The stories in the present book have been selected to show how the
Truth of the Inward Light first dawned gradually on one soul, and then
spread rapidly, in ever-widening circles, through a neighbourhood, a
kingdom, and, finally, all over the world.
I have to thank many kind friends who have helped me in this
delightful task. _The Book of Quaker Saints_ owes its existence to my
friend Ernest E. Taylor, who first suggested the title and plan, and
then, gently but inexorably, persuaded me to write it. Several of the
stories and many of the descriptions are due to his intimate knowledge
of the lives and homes of the Early Friends; he has, moreover, been my
unfailing adviser and helper at every stage of the work.
No one can study this period of Quaker history without being
constantly indebted to William Charles Braithwaite, the author of
_Beginnings of Quakerism_, and to Norman Penney, the Librarian at
Devonshire House, and Editor of the Cambridge Edition of George Fox's
Journal with its invaluable notes. But beyond this I owe a personal
debt of gratitude to these two Friends, for much wise counsel as to
sources, for their kindness in reading my MS. and my proofs, and for
the many errors that their accurate scholarship has helped me to
avoid, or enabled me to detect.
To Ethel Crawshaw, Assistant at the same Library; to my sister, Ellen
S. Bosanquet; and to several other friends who have helped me in
various ways, my grateful thanks are also due.
The stories are intended in the first place for Quaker children, and
are written throughout from a Quaker standpoint, though with the wish
to be as fair as possible not only to our staunch forefathers, but
also to their doughty antagonists. Even when describing the fiercest
encounters between them, I have tried to write nothing that might
perplex or pain other than Quaker listeners; above all, to be ever
mindful of what George Fox himself calls 'the hidden unity in the
Eternal Being.'
L. V. HODGKIN.
_29th July 1917._
CONTENTS
PREFACE _page_ vii
* A TALK ABOUT SAINTS 1
* I. 'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL' 19
* II. 'PURE FOY, MA JOYE' 33
* III. THE ANGEL OF BEVERLEY 57
* IV. TAMING THE TIGER 79
* V. 'THE MAN IN LEATHER BREECHES' 97
VI. THE SHEPHERD OF PENDLE HILL 111
VII. THE PEOPLE IN WHITE RAIMENT 121
VIII. A WONDERFUL FORTNIGHT 131
IX. UNDER THE YEW-TREES 149
X. 'BEWITCHED!' 163
XI. THE JUDGE'S RETURN 175
* XII. 'STRIKE AGAIN!' 185
* XIII. MAGNANIMITY 197
* XIV. MILES HALHEAD AND THE HAUGHTY LADY 209
XV. SCATTERING THE SEED 223
XVI. WRESTLING FOR GOD 239
XVII. LITTLE JAMES AND HIS JOURNEYS 255
XVIII. THE FIRST QUAKER MARTYR 271
* XIX. THE CHILDREN OF READING MEETING 285
* XX. THE SADDEST STORY OF ALL 301
* XXI. PALE WINDFLOWERS 321
XXII. AN UNDISTURBED MEETING 343
XXIII. BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS 353
XXIV. THE VICTORY OF AMOR STODDART 367
* XXV. THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP 'WOODHOUSE' 379
* XXVI. RICHARD SELLAR AND THE 'MERCIFUL MAN' 403
* XXVII. TWO ROBBER STORIES--WEST AND EAST 427
XXVIII. SILVER SLIPPERS: OR A QUAKERESS AMONG THE TURKS 441
* XXIX. FIERCE FEATHERS 465
* XXX. THE THIEF IN THE TANYARD 479
XXXI. HOW A FRENCH NOBLE BECAME A FRIEND 489
XXXII. PREACHING TO NOBODY 509
COME-TO-GOOD 523
HISTORICAL NOTES 539
_Note._--An Asterisk denotes stories suitable for younger children.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_reproduced from water-colour drawings by_
F. CAYLEY-ROBINSON
I. LOIS AND HER NURSE _Frontispiece_
II. THE BOYHOOD OF GEORGE FOX _page_ 36
III. 'DREAMING OF THE COT IN THE VALE' 114
IV. 'THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE' 306
V. PALE WINDFLOWERS 324
VI. FIERCE FEATHERS 474
VII. A FRIENDS' MEETING 534
A TALK ABOUT SAINTS
_'What are these that glow from afar,_
_These that lean over the golden bar,_
_Strong as the lion, pure as the dove,_
_With open arms and hearts of love?_
_They the blessed ones gone before,_
_They the blessed for evermore._
_Out of great tribulation they went_
_Home to their home of Heaven-content;_
_Through flood or blood or furnace-fire,_
_To the rest that fulfils desire.'_
_CHRISTINA ROSSETTI._
_St. Patrick's three orders of
Saints: 'a glory on the mountain
tops: a gleam on the sides of the
hills: a few faint lights in the
valleys.'_
_'The Lord is King in His Saints,
He guards them, and guides them
with His mighty power, into His
kingdom of glory and eternal rest,
where they find joy, and peace,
and rest eternal.'--GEORGE FOX._
A TALK ABOUT SAINTS
_'What is a Saint? How I do wish I knew!'_
_A little girl asked herself this question a great many years ago, as
she sat looking up at a patch of sunset cloud that went sailing past
the bars of her nursery window late one Sunday afternoon; but the
window was small and high up, and the cloud sailed by quickly._
_As she watched it go, little Lois wished that she was back in her own
nursery at home, where the windows were large and low down, and so
near the floor that even a small girl could see out of them easily.
Moreover, her own windows had wide window-sills that she could sit on,
with toy-cupboards underneath._
_There were no toy-cupboards in this old-fashioned nursery, where Lois
was visiting, and not many toys either. There was a doll's house, that
her mother used to play with when she was a little girl; but the dolls
in it were all made of wood and looked stiff and stern, and one
hundred years older than the dolls of to-day, or than the children
either, for that matter. Besides, the doll's house might not be opened
on Sundays._
_So Lois turned again to the window, and looking up at it, she wished,
as she had wished many times before on this visit, that it was rather
lower down and much larger, and that the window ledge was a little
wider, so that she could lean upon it and see where that rosy cloud
had gone._
_She ran for a chair, and climbed up, hoping to be able to see out
better. Alas! the window was a long way from the ground outside. She
still could not look out and see what was happening in the garden
below. Even the sun had sunk too far down for her to say good-night to
it before it set. But that did not matter, for the rosy cloud had
apparently gone to fetch innumerable other rosy cloudlets, and they
were all holding hands and dancing across the sky in a wide band, with
pale, clear pools of green and blue behind them._
_'What lovely rainbow colours!' thought the little girl. And then the
rainbow colours reminded her of the question that had been puzzling
her when she began to watch the rosy cloud. So she repeated, out loud
this time and in rather a weary voice, 'Whatever is a Saint? How I do
wish I knew! And why are there no Saints on the windows in Meeting?'_
_No answer came to her questions. Lois and her nurse were paying a
visit all by themselves. They spent most of their days up in this old
nursery at the top of the big house. Nurse had gone downstairs a long
time ago, saying that she would bring up tea for them both on a
tea-tray, before it was time to light the lamps. For there was no gas
or electric light in children's nurseries in those days._
_If Lois had been at home she would herself have been having tea
downstairs in the dining-room at this time with her father and mother.
Then she could have asked them what a Saint was, and have found out
all about it at once. Father and mother always seemed to know the
answers to her questions. At least, very nearly always. For Lois was
so fond of asking questions, that sometimes she asked some that had no
answer; but those were silly questions, not like this one. Lois felt
certain that either her father or her mother would have explained to
her quite clearly all about Saints, and would have wanted her to
understand about them. Away here there was nobody to ask. Nurse would
only say, 'If you ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.' Somehow
whenever she said that, Lois fancied it meant that nurse was not very
sure of the answer herself. She had already asked Aunt Isabel in
church that same morning, when the puzzle began; and Aunt Isabel's
answer about 'a halo' had left the little girl more perplexed than
ever._
_Lois had heard of people 'going to church' before, but she had never
understood what it meant until to-day. At home on Sundays she went to
Meeting with father and mother. She liked walking there, in between
them, holding a hand of each, skipping and jumping in order not to
step on the black lines of the pavement. She liked to see the shops
with their eyes all shut tight for Sunday, and to watch for the
naughty shops, here and there, who kept a corner of their blinds up,
just to show a few toys or goodies underneath. Lois always thought
that those shops looked as if they were winking up at her; and she
smiled back at them a rather reproving little smile. She enjoyed the
walk and was sorry when it came to an end. For, to tell the truth, she
did not enjoy the Meeting that followed it at all._
_Long before the hour was over she used to grow very tired of the
silence and of the quiet room, tired of kicking her blue footstool
(gently of course, but still kicking it) and of counting her boot
buttons up and down, or else watching the hands of the clock move
slowly round its big calm face. 'Church' was a more interesting place
than Meeting, certainly; but then 'Church' had disadvantages of its
own. Everything there was strange to Lois. It had almost frightened
her, this first time. She did not know when she ought to stand up, or
when she ought to kneel, and when she might sit down. Then, when the
organ played and everybody stood up and sang a hymn, Lois found to her
surprise that her throat was beginning to feel tight and choky. For
some reason she began to wonder if father and mother were sitting in
Meeting alone, and if they had quite forgotten their little girl. Two
small tears gathered. In another minute they might have slipped out of
the corners of her eyes, and have run down her cheeks. They might even
have fallen upon the page of the hymn-book she was carefully holding
upside down. And that would have been dreadful!_
_Happily, just in time, she looked up and saw something so beautiful
above her that the two tears ran back to wherever it was they came
from, in less time than it takes to tell._
_For there, above her head, was a tall, pointed, glass window, high up
on the wall. The glass in the window was of wonderful colours, like a
rainbow:--deep purple and blue, shining gold, rich, soft red, and
glowing crimson, with here and there a green that twinkled like young
beech-leaves in the woods in spring. Best of all, there was one bit of
purest white, with sunlight streaming through it, that shone like
dazzling snow. At first Lois only noticed the colours, and the ugly
black lines that separated them. She wondered why the beautiful glass
was divided up into such queer shapes. There are no black lines
between the colours in a real rainbow._
_Gradually, however, she discovered that all the different colours
meant something, that they were all part of a picture on the window,
that a tall figure was standing there, looking down upon her--upon
her, fidgety little Lois, kicking her scarlet hassock in the pew. But
Lois was not kicking her hassock any longer. She was looking up into
the grave, kind face above her on the window. 'Whoever was it? Who
could it be? Was it a man or a woman? A man,' Lois thought at first,
until she saw that he was wearing a robe that fell into glowing folds
at his feet. 'Men never wear robes, do they? unless they are
dressing-gowns. This certainly was not a dressing-gown. And what was
the flat thing like a plate behind his head?' Lois had never seen
either a man or a woman wear anything like that before. 'If it was a
plate, how could it be fastened on? It would be sure to fall off and
break....'_
_The busy little mind had so much to wonder about, that Lois found it
easy to sit still, until the sermon was over, as she watched the
sunlight pour through the different colours in turn, making each one
more beautiful and full of light as it passed._
_At length the organ stopped, and the last long 'AH-MEN' had been
sung. 'Church sings "AH-MEN" out loud, and Meeting says "Amen" quite
gently; p'raps that's what makes the difference between them,' Lois
thought to herself wisely. As soon as the last notes of music had died
away, she nestled close to Aunt Isabel's side and said in an eager
voice, 'What is that lovely window up there? Who is that beautiful
person? I do like his face. And is it a He or a She?'_
_'Hush, darling!' her aunt whispered. 'Speak lower. That is a Saint,
of course.'_
_'But what is a Saint and how do you know it is one?' the little girl
whispered earnestly, pointing upwards to the tall figure through which
the sunshine streamed. Aunt Isabel was busy collecting her books and
she only whispered back, 'Don't you see the halo?' 'I don't know what
a halo can be, but a Saint is a kind of glass window, I suppose,'
thought Lois, as she followed her aunt down the aisle. Afterwards on
her way home, and at dinner, and all the afternoon, there had been so
many other things to see and to think about, that it was not until the
rosy patch of cloud sailed past the nursery window-pane at sunset that
she was reminded of the beautiful colours in church, and of the puzzle
about Saints and haloes that till then she had forgotten._
_'At least, no, I didn't exactly forget', she said to herself, 'but I
think p'raps I sort of disremembered--till the sunset colours reminded
me. Only I haven't found out what a Saint is yet, or a halo. And why
don't we have them on our Sunday windows in Meeting?'_
_Just at that moment the door opened, and nurse, who had been enjoying
a long talk downstairs in the kitchen, came in with the tea-tray. 'How
dark you are up here!' nurse exclaimed in her cheerful voice. 'We
shall have to light the lamp after all, or you will never find the way
to your mouth.'_
_So the lamp was lighted. The curtains were drawn. The sunset sky,
fast fading now, was hidden. And Lois' questions remained unanswered._
* * * * *
_A few days later, the visit came to an end. The next Sunday, Lois was
at home again, 'chattering like a little magpie,' as her mother said,
about everything she had seen and done. She had so much to think
about, that even Meeting did not seem as long as usual, though she
thought the walls looked plainer than ever, and the glass windows very
empty, till the sight of them reminded her that she could find out
more about Saints now. At home in the afternoon she began. Drawing her
footstool close to the big arm-chair, she put her elbows on her
father's knee and looked up searchingly into his face. 'Father, please
tell me, if you possibly can,' pleaded an earnest little voice, 'for I
do very badly want to find out. Do you know what a Saint is?' Her
father laughed. 'Know what a Saint is? I should think I did! No man
better!' he answered. Lois wondered why he glanced across to the other
side of the fire where her mother was sitting; and why she glanced
back at him and shook her head, meeting his eyes with a happy smile.
Then her father jumped up, and from the lowest shelf of one of his
book-cases he fetched a fat, square volume, bound in brown leather and
gold. This he put carefully on a table, and drawing Lois on to his
knee and putting his arm round her, he showed her a number of
photographs. Lambs were there, and running fountains, and spangly
stars, and peacocks, and doves. But those pages he turned over
quickly, until he came to others: photographs of men and women dressed
in white, carrying palms and holding crowns in their hands._
_He told Lois that these people were 'Saints,' that they formed a long
procession on the walls of a big church at Ravenna, far away in Italy;
and that they were made of little pieces of a sort of shining glass
called 'mosaic.' 'Saints have something to do with glass then. But
these photographs are not a bit like my beautiful window,' Lois
thought to herself, rather sadly. 'There are no colours here.' She
turned over the photographs without much interest, until her father,
exclaiming, 'There, that is the one I want!' showed her one portrait
of a little girl standing among all the grown-up people, carrying just
as big a palm and crown as any of the others. He told Lois that these
crowns and palms were to show that the people who carried them had all
been put to death or 'martyred,' because they would not worship
heathen gods. He made Lois spell out the letters 'SCA. EULALIA'
written on the halo around the little girl's head, 'That is Saint
Eulalia,' her father explained. 'She was offered her freedom and her
life if she would sacrifice to idols just one tiny grain of corn, to
show that she renounced her allegiance to Jesus Christ; but when the
corn was put into her hands she threw it all back into the Judge's
face. After that, there was no escape for her. She was condemned to
die, and she did die, Lois, very bravely, though she was only a little
girl, not much older than you.' Here Lois hid her face against her
father's coat and shivered. 'But after that cruel death, when her
little body was lying unburied, a white dove hovered over it, until a
fall of snowflakes came and hid it from people's sight. So you see,
Lois, though Eulalia was only twelve years old when she was put to
death, she has been called Saint Eulalia ever since, though it all
happened hundreds of years ago. Children can be Saints as well as
grown-up people, if they are brave enough and faithful enough.'_