The Friend's family, intended for the amusement and instruction of children

I

THE

FRIEND'S FAMILY.

4

m

INTENDED FOR THE

AMUSEMENT AND INSTRUCTION

OF

CHILDREN.

PHILADELPHIA :

PUBLISHED BY T. E. CHAPMAN

No. 74 North Fourth Street.

1844.

6^ \*

KING AND BAIRD, PRINTERS, 9 GEORGE STREET,

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

The room was a large old-fashioned look-
ing place, with many doors opening into it.
Some of these were closet doors : one led
to the entry which communicated with the
"best end" of the house; one let you into
the porch or piazza, and one opened upon
the stairs ; the place under them making a
very snug closet for the children, in which
to put all things belonging to them, which
were in daily use. If you opened this closet,
it would at once be seen that it belonged to
a large family; for here were slates, books,
and neat little work boxes, placed nicely
upon a low shelf, while " all in a row" stood
several pairs of shoes, with strings in every
one of them, and looking as if any size
might be found among them.

A large old settee occupied the west side
of the room; it was placed between two
windows, and here, when any little ailment
overtook the children, they were accustomed
to have a little bed, with its nice soft pil-
low, and its little coverlet made just to fit.
Here they were put where they might be
near the mother, and see what she was
doing all the day long : and no music ever

4 the friend's family.

sounded sweeter to their ears, than that
mother's sweet hymn —

" Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber,.
Holy angels guard thy bed," &c.

Is it not a sweet hymn ? Sweetly it
sounded to the sick child, when chanted
by the soft low voice of its affectionate
mother.

I must not forget the large closet, where
there were always some crackers or bread
for the children to eat, when they eame in
tired and hungry, and where sometimes,
(but not very often,) sister Mary had some
excellent gingerbread. Nor must I forget
to tell you who the people were that lived
in this house, and their names. The owner
of the house was named T. Ellwood Stew-
art. He was named Thomas Ellwood, after
a friend who lived very many years ago, at
the same time with William Penn. The
peopleof the neighbourhood generally called
him Mr. Stewart, but as I am a Friend, I
must call him Ellwood Stewart; not that I
mean to be disrespectful, but Friends think
we ought not to say Master to any one,
because we read in the Bible, that we
should not call any man our master; and
as Mr. is merely a corruption of master,
Friends do not feel free to use the term.

Ellwood Stewart's wife was named
Mary, and his eldest daughter too, was

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

•called by that sweet name, which almost
every body loves. It has a very pleasant
sound, and besides this, we read in the
Scriptures of Mary the mother of Jesus.
Mary the daughter was about twenty-two
years old; and then followed Robert and
William, Sarah, Henry, Rebecca, Jane,
Elizabeth, Martha, and Ellwood. A nice,
large family of brothers and sisters to live
together.

Robert and William were from home ;
the former studying medicine in Philadel-
phia, the latter was salesman in a store.
Sarah and Henry were both at school ; and
it was to the five younger children, that all
the slates, books, work boxes, and shoes in
the closet belonged. It was a delightful
Seventh-day afternoon, in the ninth month,
and the children had some of their cousins
with them, playing in the yard.

There was a number of fine old trees in
the yard, or lawn before the house, and
every girl placed her back against one of
these trees, excepting one only whom they
called " Pussy." This one went round beg-
ging " Poor Pussy wants a corner," and al-
ways received the same answer, " Go to the
next neighbour." In the mean time the
girls at the trees were exchanging places
with each other as rapidly as possible. If
"Pussy" could get to a vacant tree, before
the rightful owner, she was entitled to it ;

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

while the girl to whom it belonged, went
begging in the same way, until she was
dexterous enough to slip into some one
else's place. It is a very pleasant and
healthful exercise, when played with spirit
and good humour. They were in sight
from the piazza, and the air was ringing
with their merry tones and joyous laugh-
ter, when the mother and her oldest daugh-
ter brought their work, to sit an hour or
two in the open air.

Very precious to both of these was the
time they spent together, for they did not
expect to be long inhabitants of the same
house ; the daughter was about to take new
duties upon her, and it was in allusion to
this subject, that she said to her mother,
" Mother, I feel as if I had not been all that
an elder sister ought to be, to those dear
children: I have not always been patient
enough with them. I think I have not
been sufficiently instructive to them, either
by precept or example. The mother re-
plied, " Very precious hast thou been to me,
and very much shall I miss thee ; but thou
art about entering a sphere of more useful-
ness, and, I trust, of increased happiness."
She further remarked, "As thee will not
leave us until spring, dear Mary, perhaps
thee can execute a design I have had in my
mind for some time. Thee knows our
neighbourhood is not one of Friends; and

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

the children see and hear so much, which
tends to counteract home impressions, that
I wish much to find some pleasant employ-
ment for their winter evenings, which may
be combined with theii religious instruc-
tions.

We have a great many books ; but most
of the ancient journals are written in an old-
fashioned style, distasteful to children ; and
besides, there are so many cruel things men-
tioned in them, that I would rather not put
the history of such sufferings as the early
Friends endured, into their hands. At their
tender age, it may create hardness of heart
towards the other sects which persecuted
Friends with such unrelenting bigotry. Wilt
thou then be willing to sketch a character
occasionally from these works ? Thou hast
read, them so frequently, that thou wilt be
at no loss in finding all that relates to any
particular character. I think thou canst
make them interesting. At any rate we
will present the children with truths, illus-
trating the peculiar views of our society."

Mary's face brightened, and entering at
once upon the idea, she said, " Oh ! yes :
there are many, many characters which
they are fully capable of comprehending.
Even Martha can understand about poor
James Parnell, how sick he was, and how
he was shut up in prison. When I read
these books — when I see how Friends were

8 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

beaten, imprisoned, fined and punished in
many ways invented by the malice of man,
and think how ' we sit at ease in our pos-
sessions/ I feel that we do not rightly
know and value our own standing. Many
of us do that which is pleasing in the
eyes of the world, because we do not like
to bear the cross, and be singular. It is
honourable now to bear the name of a
Quaker.; yet we shun the cross more than
when every opprobrious epithet was cast
upon it."

The autumn was beautiful; and one
bright Seventh-day after another came and
passed, until Martha became persuaded in
her own mind that all Seventh-days must be
glad sunshiny ones. While the other children
were gone to school, she found in Elly, her
constant playmate, a never-ending scource
of amusement. He was almost two years
old, and just learning to lisp his words,
making his little sister feel very proud, when
she had taught him a new one ; and he
learned faster from her, than from any one
else. The grounds around the house were
entirely safe ; and out of doors, in the soft
balmy air of Indian summer, the children
felt, though they could not express it, that
existence was a very great delight.

Martha would put EUy's bonnet on, and.,
tying a string around her waist, give him
the ends of it, and run about the yard, pre-

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

tending to be his horse. Sometimes he
would try to drive through the house, which
Patty always resisted, telling him that
horses did not open doors, nor go into peo-
ple's houses.

One day, she attempted to put an old hat,
which had belonged to her brother Henry,
on his head; but it slipped down, burying
his face and head altogether. She pulled it
up, and placed it farther back, to no pur-
pose— for the least movement would let it
down again on his shoulders, where it rested.
Elly stood very patiently for a good while.
At last, finding all her efforts vain, he said,
"nail, nail." The little fellow could say
but one word at a time, but he had seen
nails driven in to keep a board in its place ;
and, remembering it, he thought that if his
sister would nail the hat on his head, it
would stay there.

But these bright days drew near their
close. The weather became cold, and nearly
all the birds flew away to a warmer coun-
try. There was one bird with a bright
xed back and wings, which was not will-
ing to leave his old home in a thick ever-
green, whose close leaves kept all the
snow away from him. In the evening,
about sunset, he would perch upon a post
in front of the house, and wait there until a
iew crumbs were thrown out to him. He
would then hop down, pick up the crumbs,

10 THE FRIEND?S FAMILY.

and fly off to his own snug little nest. The
children never saw him in the winter time,
except about sunset, and then they generally
watched for him.

At the close of the bright days, came a
long spell of rainy weather. The little ones
did not fret and worry the older ones, but
they could not go out, and sometimes would
grow very restless.

One day Martha, whose active, energetic
disposition made her feel it the most, came
and stood by her mother's side. " Oh ! mo-
ther, what shall I do next." " What has
thee been doing?" said the mother. "I
have been playing with Elly and Lizzy,
and as fast as ever I build up a house. Elly
knocks it down; and he rubs out every
thing I draw on the slate ; and then, when
I went to Lizzy, she would not let me touch
any of her things; and she is only just
dressing her doll ;" and as she concluded,
Martha looked up in her mother's face, with
the air of a much injured person. " Martha,"
said her mother, " I suppose thee disturbs
Lizzy's things, as Elly did thine ; but let
us see if we cannot find some pleasant em-
ployment. Does thee know that sister
Mary, last evening after thee went to bed,
got a very pretty patch ready for thee to
sew ? It is in thy little work-box, which
I do not think thee has opened to-day.
Bring it, and the little stool." Martha did

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 11

as her mother told her, but did not seem
much relieved of her trouble. Her mother
then said, "Go softly, and stand by thy
father. Directly he will look up from his
paper, and then ask him pleasantly, if he
will be so kind as to read for us." Martha's
face was covered with smiles at once, and
she said, "And then I may sit by thee and
sew my patchwork." The mother smiled
and nodded an assent, while the little one
went very joyfully to execute her commis-
sion.

In a few minutes all was arranged.
Ellwood Stewart was always ready to
gratify his family ; and, coming to the side
of the room where his wife was, he asked
her what she would like to have read ?
while Mary, in obedience to an intimation
from her mother, had already gone for her
little manuscript. This was handed to him
with a half blush and a whole smile. He
read the title of it— " Sketch of the life of Tho-
mas Ellwood." " Oh ! Father," saidMartha
eagerly, " that is about thee, isn't it ? — does
it tell about thee when thee was a little
boy ? — shall I tell Lizzy to come ? — may 1
tell them all?" "No, my little girl, it is
not about me, but about the man I was
named after. That is, I was called Thomas
Ellwood, because he was called Thomas
Ellwood. Does thee understand me ?"
" Yes, Father ; for I was called Martha,

12 THE FRIEND?S FAMILY.

because dear Grandmother Stewart's name
was Martha, and Jane- was called Jane,
after Grandmother Brace." " Yes, that is
right; and now thee may call the other
children in, and Nancy too. Give Elly a
nice clean slate and pencil to keep him
quiet. Poor fellow, he cannot understand
any reading, and we must amuse him some
other way."

So saying — he looked over the manu-
script, and when the children were alL
seated, and each was employed in some
way to keep the hands busy, as well as the
mind, the father began

THE STORY OF THOMAS ELLWOOD.

Thomas Ell wood was the younger son
of a man named Walter Ellwood. The
Ellwood family had once been rich ; but,
owing to many causes, had become poorer
and poorer, until the grandfather of Tho-
mas Ellwood and the father of Walter,
retrieved the fallen condition of the family
by marrying the only child of Walter Gray,
whose name and whose estate passed into
the possession of Walter Ellwood.

Perhaps you do not know that, in Eng-
land, it is the custom for the eldest son of a
family to have all the money and lands, left
by the father when he dies. The oldest
brother may spend his time in luxury and
idleness, while the others are obliged to

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 13

work very hard, sometimes, to procure
themselves the means of living, even with-
out much comfort. The sisters have small
legacies left, to them, or are left dependent
upon the generosity of their brothers. In
many families, it is not considered gentle-
manly to work, and so they put the younger
sons into the army, to kill or be killed ; or
into the navy, where too they are expected
to fight ; or perhaps they oblige them to
study law or physic ; or, worse than all, to
study how they may make money by
preaching. Does it not seem a dreadful
mockery to us, to have the words of life
bought and sold ? Did not Christ say,
"freely have you received, freely give ?"

Thus it was at the time Thomas Ellwood
lived, and thus it is even now in England.
Ought we not to rejoice that our own lot
was cast in a land so different ?c.

Thomas Ellwood was, as I jjja^e^aid, the
younger son of an Englishman. He was
born in the year sixtee'n hundred and thirty-
nine, rather more than two hundred years
ago. When he was about two years old/ne
was taken to London, where his father re-
sided for some years. It was at the time of
civil war. A civilwar means, a war car-
ried on in a country between its own peo-
ple, where neighbour fights against neigh-
bour, a man against the companion whose
hand he had clasped in friendship a month

14 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

before — brother against brother, and father
against son. All wars are dreadful; but
these are the most dreadful.

At such a period as this Thomas Ellwoo'd
lived. The king and the parliament were
opposed to each other — each with an army.
The parliamentary forces overcoming those
of the king, reduced him to submission. He
was seized and beheaded; his party was
enraged, and the whole country bathed in
blood. The priests and preachers, instead
of telling the people how wicked they were,
encouraged them on both sides. On both
sides they prayed for victory, and besought
the Lord to look down upon their efforts, to
bring ruin upon the enemy : forgetting that
he is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity :
forgetting that he said, " thou shalt not kill;"
forgetting all that the meek and lowly Jesus
ever taught Alas ! it pains me to tell you
of the wickedness which existed in Eng-
land, when the society of Friends first arose ;
but you cannot appreciate the beauty and
true nobleness of their characters and ac-
tions, unless you see the adverse circum-
stances by which they were surrounded.
Walter Ellwood was not a Friend : he be-
longed to the parliamentary side, and took
his family to London to be under their pro-
tection.

Here he became acquainted with Lady
Springett, the widow of Sir William Sprin-

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY*. 15

gett, who died in the service of the parlia-
ment. Lady Springett had a little daughter,
named Gulielma, with whom Thomas Ell-
wood spent a great deal of his time. They
used to play together, and ride together in
a little coach, which her footman would
draw about. This is particularly mention-
ed, because the renewal of his acquaintance
with her, was the means of his being led
towards Friends.

While living in London, the elder brother
was boarded at a private school, but after-
wards, when the family went to their own
home, both he and Thomas were sent to
a school about three miles off. Thomas
learned very fast indeed ; yet he was often
whipped, for he was a very mischievous
little boy ; and it took him such a little while
to get his lessons, that his hands would often
get him into trouble. He often played tricks
upon the others, so that he would be whip-
ped two or three times in a single day.
Thomas never complained of this. But
there are, I think, many other better ways
of teaching children to be good. Thomas
learned his lessons so fast and so well, that
he probably would have made a very good
scholar, if he had had the proper opportu-
nity. But Walter Ellwood's family being
a very expensive one, he thought he could
not afford Thomas the advantages of a
higher school ; particularly as the older bro-

16 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

ther was removed to college, where he was
entered as a fellow-commoner, and as such
expected to spend a great deal of money.
This was acting upon the principle already
mentioned, that the younger brother should
give place in every respect to the older.

After leaving school, Thomas paid but
little attention to his books ; until after a
while he was afraid to read aloud, lest he
should make some mistake in the pronunci-
ation of a word. He had a great deal of wit
and good sense, which enabled him to make
himself agreeable to those with whom he
associated, and which often drew him into
company.

In this way he lived until he was about
eighteen years of age, not doing any thing
worse than wasting his time, as other young
men did. One day he was out riding with
his father, and they intended going to a
neighbouring town ; but the coachman, see-
ing a nearer and better way than the one
generally used, turned into it. It ran through
a field of grain, but was quite wide enough
for the carriage to pass without injuring it.
There was a man ploughing not far off; he
ran to them ; and, stopping the coach, pour-
ed forth a shower of reproaches. Walters
Ellwood mildly answered, that if any one
was to blame, it was not him, but the dri-
ver, who turned in that way without asking
anything about it : but he told the man that

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 17

he might come into town, and he would pay
him, if there was any damage done. When
they arrived in town, they were told it was
very often used as a road, but the common
road was close by, and pretty good too: so
they concluded to return by the latter. It
was late in the evening when they started,
and very dark. The man who had troubled
them in the morning, got another man to
join him, to waylay them ; expecting they
would take the same road home. But when
they found this was not the case, they ran
across, and catching hold of the horses' bri-
dles, would not let them go forward. Wal-
ter called out to the coachman, asking him
why he did not go on. He answered there
were two men at the horses' heads. Wal-
ter instantly opened the coach door, and,
stepping out, expostulated with the men
who were armed with cudgels, and seemed
bent upon doing mischief. He told them
they were in danger from the law. But,
finding what he said of no effect, he turned
to his son who had followed him out of the
carriage, saying, " Tom, disarm them." In
those days it was the fashion for all those
called gentlemen to wear swords. Accord-
ingly Thomas drew his, and made a pass at
the one next him; but the bright blade
frightened the cudgel-bearer, who at once
slipped aside, and ran off for safety : while
his companion, too much terrified to stand

18 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

his ground, fled likewise. Thomas followed
them, being very much enraged at their in-
solence; but he could not come up with
them, and then concluded they must have
taken shelter under some bush. He ran so
far that in the darkness of the night he could
not find his way back, except by shouting
to his father, and his father shouting in re-
turn.

At the time, and for a good while after,
Thomas Ellwood's only regret was, that he
had not come up with these men. But after
he became acquainted with the gospel truth,
oh ! how thankful he felt that he had been
preserved from shedding human blood. For
though our sins may be forgiven, yet it is
one of the most awful recollections that can
attend a man through life, that he has rob-
bed a fellow creature of existence. Nothing
but the utmost dependence on the power
and mercy of God, can reconcile a truly feel-
ing man to himself, when he has hurried
into the presence of his Creator one who is
doubtless unprepared. All the battles that
were ever fought, all the victories ever
gained, are not worth the sacrifice of one
life. Yet it is a noble deed to venture freely
fortune, liberty, honour, and life, in the
service of our Divine Creator. He gave
them, shall they not be devoted to him ?
Did not Jesus Christ bear all things for us ?
He was " a man of sorrows and acquainted

THE FRIEND- & FAMILY. 19

with grief;" and when cruel men were about
to take his precious life, his words, " Father,
forgive them for they know not what they
do/' were the fruit of the gospel spirit of
peace, and are an example to all future ge-
nerations. Legions of angels were at his
prayer, yet he submitted to be " led as a
lamb to the slaughter." If we follow him,
must we not suffer patiently when evil
comes upon us ? When smitten upon one
cheek, must we not turn the other ? When
reviled, must we not, in obedience to Christ,
revile not again ?

When these things came before the mind
of Thomas Ellwood, his heart was- filled
with gratitude towards that great Almighty
Being who had watched over him, and kept
him from committing so great a crime.

It was about a year after this occurrence
that Thomas's brother died, and soon after
his mother also. He was very much at-
tached to his mother, and her death proba-
bly awakened his first serious impressions.
Shortly after he went with his father to visit
Lady Springett, who had married a second
time. Her present husband was Isaac Pen-
nington, and she with him and her daughter
Gulielma Springett, had joined the society
of Friends. This the Ellwoods heard on
their way to visit them. They were at first
amazed with their quiet manners, so differ-
ent from the noisy trifling gayety of the

20 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

upper classes at that day. They , ho wever,
felt disappointed of their pleasant visit, but
they had no opportunity of asking an expla-
nation, as there were other visitors present.
Thomas left the others, intending to renew
his acquaintance with Gulielma, his little
playfellow of former times ; and, finding her
in the garden with her maid, he addressed
her, as was usual in that day, with ex-
travagant compliments. But though she
treated him with politeness, there was so
much quiet dignity about her, that he felt
abashed at his own flippancy, and wanted
assurance enough to carry him through ; so,
asking pardon for his boldness in intruding
on her private walks, he withdrew. They
stayed to dinner, and then returned home,
not very much pleased with their visit, yet
uncertain where to find fault.

This visit had one good effect on Walter
Ell wood's mind. He was a magistrate, and
frequently had Friends brought before him,
and complained of, because they would not
take oaths as other people did. When he
found that his friends, persons for whom he
had a great respect, held the same opinions,
he felt disposed to deal with them as gently
as the law would admit.

A young man who lived in Buckingham-
shire, came one First-day to a town called
Chinner, not far from the residence of the
Ellwoods, having something to say to the

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 21

minister of that parish. Being somewhat
acquainted with the young man, Thomas
went to hear him. He stood in the aisle
before the pulpit all the time of the sermon,,
not speaking a word until it was ended ;
and then spoke a few words to the priest,
of which all that Thomas could hear
was, " That the prayer of the wicked is
abomination to the Lord :" and that " God
heareth not sinners." He said more than
this, however, though Thomas did not hear
what it was; but he was interrupted by the
officers, who took him before Walter Ell-
wood. When Thomas found they were
going to take him there, he hastened home
to tell his father about it ; and mentioned
that the man behaved quietly and peace-
ably, not speaking at all until the minister
had done preaching; and then what he said
was short, and delivered without any pas-
sion or ill language.

Accordingly, the officers soon made their
appearance, bringing the man with them,
and charging him with making a public
disturbance. Walter Ellwood asked them
when he spoke ; they answered, " when
the minister had concluded." He asked,
what words he used: this they could not
agree in. He then asked if he had used any
reviling language, and finding he had not,
he dismissed the case, counselling the young
man against making any trouble.

%2 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

In the tenth month, 1659, the Ellwood
family paid another visit to the Penning-
tons. Walter being desirous of acquaint-
ing himself with Friends' principles, they
stayed several days; and as a Friend's meet-
ing was appointed in the neighbourhood,
they were invited to attend, which they
did. This meeting was held in the large
hall of an old house, which once belonged
to a gentleman, but was now used as a
farm-house. It was named the Grove.
Here were several Friends, but none spoke
except Edward Burrough. Thomas Ell-
wood was sitting next him, and drank in
his words with avidity, for they not only
reached his understanding, but warmed his
heart. After the meeting concluded Ed-
ward Burrough went home with the Pen-
ningtons. The evenings were long ; and
the servants of the family, being Friends,
were called in, and after sitting a while in
silence, Edward Burrough spoke again.
But Walter Ellwood not agreeing with him,
raised some objections. James Nailor, who
was there, then took the subject up, and
spoke with such a clear understanding of it,
that Walter had nothing more to say. James
and Edward then gently dropped the argu-
ment, and they all withdrew to their re-
spective chambers.

In the morning, Thomas, his father and
younger sister prepared to return home :

the friend's family. 23

the older one (for he had two) had gone
on to London from the Penningtons. All
the way, Thomas, who rode behind the
coach on horseback, could hear his father
and sister conversing pleasantly together,
but he could not join with them, for his
heart felt sad and very heavy, though he
knew not what ailed him. They reached
home that night; and next day Thomas
went to hear the minister at Chinner preach;
the last time, as he says, he ever went to
hear one.

He now felt very desirous of attending a
Friends' meeting, and got his father's man
to inquire if there was any in the neighbour-
hood. He heard of one about seven miles
off, which Thomas concluded to attend : but
as he did not like to be seen going to a
Friends' meeting, he took his greyhound
with him, as if he went out coursing.

When he came to the place, and had put
his horse up at an inn, he was at a loss
where to go ; and not wishing to inquire
at the inn, he went into the street. Here
he had not been long before he saw a man
riding up, that he remembered having met
at Isaac Pennington's, and followed him,
concluding he was going to meeting, as
indeed he was. Thomas followed him
into the house, and sat down on the first
empty chair he came to ; some of them
looking at him, for he was fashionably drest,

24 THE FRIEND^ family.

and had his sword by his side. ......

Samuel Thornton, who was present, spoke,
and his words were very suitable to Tho-
mas's case, so that he felt as if they were
directed to him. When the meeting was
over, he got his horse and hurried home,
so that his father might not notice his
absence.

This last meeting confirmed the feelings
awakened at the first, and he became sen-
sible that he too had a place to fill, an
allotted part to perform. His general
trouble and confusion beginning to wear
off, he saw that though he had mercifully
been preserved from many evil things, yet
the spirit of the world had hitherto ruled in
him, and led him into pride, vanity, super-
fluity, and flattery. Now he found he
must not only abstain from indulgence in
these things, but he must bring his very
thoughts into subjection ; knowing no guid-
ing power save that new law, the spirit of
life in Christ Jesus. He felt he must first
" cease to do evil/' and then "learn to do
well."

In those days, such as were called gen-
tlemen dressed in lace, ribbons, buttons,
and rings. Their apparel was very gay
and very inconvenient ; their shoes were
made with long points turned up, and
fastened to the knee, by long ribbons ;
their clothes were* trimmed with lace, and

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 25

their hair worn in long ringlets. These
things, in which Thomas had taken much
delight, he was now forced to lay aside :
not that Friends adopted any singular cos-
tume ; they retained that of the times,
merely leaving off those parts which were
of no use. The great Creator has not
ordered us to wear a bonnet or hat of this
shape, or a coat of that colour. He says,
" give me thy heart," and if we think we
can give him our hearts, and yet give all
our attention to the adorning of our per-
sons, we shall find that this is impossible.
If our hearts are truly turned towards the
Lord, it matters but little how the body is
arrayed, so that it is neat, clean, and decent.
When the earlier Friends first associated
together, persecution after persecution rolled
upon them like the waves of the sea ; and
to minds so engaged as theirs must have
been, necessary clothing and necessary food
must have been all that was needed.

It is the mark of a mind unused to being
filled with more important matter, to be
much occupied with this comparatively
trivial subject. We sometimes find people
who value themselves upon dressing plainly
even when they wear costly stuffs. It ap-
pears tome that sometimes when a soul ca-
pable of noble things, becomes debased by
the love of finery, our Creator, willing to test
our obedience, requires us to adopt a par-

2

26 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

ticular mode in order to convince our own
minds which we love best, our own selfish
gratification, or obedience to the intimation
revealed to us above. If we feel so con-
vinced, let us at once endeavour to crush
all opposition to his will, being assured it
is for our own peace best that we should
do so.

But to return to Thomas Ellwood. When
he divested himself of his ornaments, which
his father took, telling him he would keep
them for him until he came to his reason
again, he found there was yet more for him
to give up— which was his character as a
polite gentleman.

It was the fashion to bow, sometimes
sinking on one knee, and to use the terms
of " my master," "my lord," "my dame,"
" your servant," and many others ; and he
who omitted them was considered as rough
and ill-bred. Thomas being no man's ser-
vant, could no longer imply he was, without
violating the truth. And these principles
made the Friends different in dress and ad-
dress from any other persuasion whatever.
Thomas felt that he could do all that was
required of him, except change his manner
towards his father : yet he had learned there
was one nearer and dearer than even his
father, and for his sake he had put his hand
to the gospel plough, and should he now
turn back?

the friend's family. 27

While his mind was in this state, his
father sent him to Oxford to attend to some
business for him, and to bring him an ac-
count of what was going on there. Thomas
felt it almost impossible for him to go, as he
should meet with many of his young com-
rades there. But as he had never resisted
his fathers will, he could not do so now.
So he did not attempt to make any excuse;
but ordering his horse to be got ready very
early in the morning, he went to bed.
Here as he lay upon his pillow, there was
a great struggle in his breast. He began
to think how he should behave in court,
and how he should dispatch the business
upon which his father sent him. He had
been accustomed to meet with many gen-
tlemen there, and to be very merry with
them; now he could not pull off his hat, —
he could not bow, — nor could he address
them in the customary manner. He there-
fore prayed earnestly that he might be pre-
served through all the temptations of the
day, and his mind becoming more easy, he
fell asleep.

Next morning he felt calm and quiet, yet
afraid he should say something he ought
not; for he had been so accustomed to
complimentary phrases without any mean-
ing, that it was much more easy to say
them than to remain quiet. As he rode
along, he prayed again, " Oh my God, pre-

2S THE FRIEND'S FAMILT.

serve me faithful, whatever may befall me*
Suffer me not to be drawn into evil, how
much soever scorn and contempt may be
cast upon me."

When he arrived at Oxford, he put up
his horse, and went directly to the hall
where the sessions were held, and had
been there but a short time, before a little
group of his acquaintance seeing him, came
up to speak to him. One of these was a
scholar in his gown, another a surgeon of
the city, the third a country gentleman
whom Thomas had long known. When
these came up, they all saluted him in the
usual manner, pulling off their hats, bow-
ing and saying "your humble servants sir/'
expecting, no doubt, that he would do the
same. But when they saw him standing
still, moving neither cap nor knee, they
looked at each other, much surprised and
without speaking. At length the surgeon,
who stood near him, clapped his hand upon
his shoulder, and smiling, said, " What !
Tom a Quaker ?" To which he readily and
cheerfully answered, " yes, a Quaker;" and
as the words passed from his mouth, he felt
great joy spring up in his heart that he had
strength given him to confess himself one
of those despised people. They stayed not
long, but taking their leave in the same
ceremonious manner, departed.

After they were gone, he walked about

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 29

the hall, and went up nearer the court, to
observe what justices were on the bench,
and what business they had before them.
He went in fear, not of what they would
or could do to him, but lest he should be
surprised into saying something which he
ought not. It was not long before the
court adjourned for dinner, and that time
Thomas took to go to the clerk of the
peace. As soon as he came to the room
where he was, the clerk met and saluted
him, and though he appeared somewhat
startled at Thomas's carriage and beha-
viour, he made no remark, but behaved
Very respectfully to him.

After concluding his father's business, he
withdrew, intending to return home. But
on looking into the street from the inn where
he had left his horse, he saw three justices
standing in the way where he was to ride ;
and this brought a fresh concern upon him.
He was pretty sure they would stop him to
inquire about his father, and feared they
would not let him off. This doubting led
him to contriving how he should go out
without being seen, and as he knew the
city pretty well, he thought of a back way.
Yet this did not seem right, and he stood a
good while hoping the justices would walk
off, but they still continued there. At last,
he persuaded himself to go the back way,
which brought much trouble and grief on

30 the friend's family.

him, because he shunned tfre cross. He
then felt willing to yield in all things, ex-
cept his deportment towards his father, and
thought it might be right to make a differ-
ence between him and other men in this
respect. So when he came home, he went
to his father bareheaded, to give him an
account of his business, and, behaving as
usual, Walter found no fault with him.

Thomas was very desirous of going to
meetings, and of visiting friends ; but as he
had no horse of his own, and felt unwilling
to use his father's, when he knew the latter
would object, — he thought it would be
better to borrow one of an acquaintance,
who wished to sell it, or have it kept for
its work. Accordingly he dispatched his
father's man, to get the horse and bring
him over. The next day Thomas con-
cluded to go to Isaac Pennington's, and
rising very early, got ready. But think-
ing it better to pay all due respect to his
father, he sent a person up stairs to tell
him where he was going, and to ask if he
had any commands. — Walter sent down
for his son, wishing to see him before he
started. So Thomas went up to his father's
bed-side, who said, " I understand you have
a mind to go to Mr. Pennington's." "I
have so," said Thomas. " Why," said the
father, "1 wonder you should; you were
there, you know, only a few days ago.

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 31

Don't you think it will look oddly ?"
Thomas answered, that he did not think
it would. His father replied, "I doubt
you will tire them of your company, and
make them think they will be troubled
with you.* "Oh!" said Thomas, "if I
find any thing of that sort, I will make the
shorter stay/' " But can you propose any
sort of business there," said his father,
" beyond a mere visit ?" " Yes :" Thomas
replied; he not only proposed to see
them, but to have some conversation with
them. His father then said in a harsher
tone, " I hope you don't incline to be of
their way?" "Truly," said Thomas, "I
like them and their way very well, so
far as I understand it ; and am desirous
of going to them, that I may understand it
better." Thereupon Walter Ellwood be-
gan to reckon up as many faults as possible
against the Quakers ; telling his son they
were a rude, unmannerly people; — that
would not give civil respect or honour to
their superiors ; no, not even to magis-
trates; and that they held many dangerous
principles. To all these charges, Thomas
could only reply, they might be misrepre-
sented as the best of men had been. And
after a little more conversation, Walter told
his son, he wished he would not go so
soon, but take a little time to consider it,
and that he might visit Mr. Pennington's

32 the friend's family.

afterwards. " Nay, sir/' said his son, " pray
don't hinder my going now ; for I have so
strong a desire to go, that I do not well
know how to forbear." As he said these
words, he retreated quietly to the chamber-
door ; then hastening down stairs, he went
immediately to the stable, and finding his
horse ready, started at once, fearing his
father would send him word he must not go.

This discourse detained him a while. The
roads being bad, and his horse not very
good, it was afternoon before he reached
Isaac Pennington's. The servant who came
to the door, told Thomas there was a meet-
ing in the house. He hastened in; and,
knowing the rooms, went directly to the
little parlour, where the Friends were
seated in silence. When the meeting was
ended, and those who were strangers had
withdrawn, Isaac Pennington and his wife
received their guest very courteously; and
not knowing he had been under exercise,
evinced no unusual cordiality. But when
they came to see a change in dress, gesture,
speech, and manner, they were exceedingly
kind and tender towards him.

Thomas spent that evening with them,
conversing very little ; but, as he says,
feeling great satisfaction in b^ing still and
quiet, his spirit being drawn near to the
Lord. Before he went to bed, they told him
of another meeting to be held next day, not

THE friend's family. 33

far from there, which some of the family
expected to attend. Of this he was very
glad, particularly as it was on his road
home. Of this meeting Thomas said, " A
very good meeting was this in itself, and to
me. — Edward Burrough, a noted Friend,
and one who afterwards sealed his testi-
mony with his blood, was present and spoke
with life and power. Thomas was not
only confirmed in his religious views, but
some things were opened to his mind which
he had not seen clearly before. So true it
is, that as we continue faithful, more and
more light is given unto us, even until we
come to the perfect day.

Several Friends who were there noticed
him as one whom they had met before, and
invited him home with them 5 but Edward
Burrough going to Isaac Pennington's
drew him thither again. He felt as if it
would do him good to ride with Edward,
hoping that he would offer him some en-
couragement in his new path : but he see-
ing that the right spirit was at work in
Thomas's bosom, gave him no opportunity
of pouring forth doubts, fears, and question-
ings. For he was sensible that the guidance
of the Good Spirit in ourselves is what we
must attend to, and that no man, however
capable, can teach us as the Holy Spirit.
Edward was naturally of a free and open
temper, and afterwards was very familiar

34 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

and affectionate with Thomas ; yet now he
thought it right to show him only common
kindness.

The next day they parted, Edward for
London, and Thomas for his own home,
under a great weight and exercise of spirit.
He now saw that he had not been clear in
his reasonings respecting his father. He
saw that the honour due to parents did not
consist in bowing the body or uncovering
the head, but in a ready obedience to their
lawful commands, and in performing all
needful services unto them. So he plainly
saw that he could no longer continue his
former mode of manifesting respect, with-
out drawing on himself the guilt of wilful
disobedience.

On his way home, he was much troubled,
for he thought of his father's anger, and of
the severities which would be heaped upon
his head ; and then he prayed that he might
be preserved through temptation, and en-
abled to bear all that might be inflicted
on him. When he got home he expected a
rough reception; but his father was abroad.
He sat down in the kitchen, and keeping
silence, prayed that the Lord might pre-
serve him from falling.

After some time, he heard the coach drive
in, which put him in such a fear that a
shivering came over him. But by the time
Walter had alighted, and come in, he had

the friend's family. .35

somewhat recovered himself. As soon as
Thomas saw him, rising and advancing a
step or two towards him, and keeping his
hat on, he said, "Isaac Pennington and
his wife remember their loves to thee."
Walter Ellwood stopped abruptly, and ob-
serving that his son stood covered before
him, and that he used the word "thee"
with a stern countenance and a tone which
indicated great displeasure, said, " I shall
talk with you another time,," and then
hastily walked into the parlour, so that
Thomas did not see him again that night.
He foresaw there was a storm arising, but
the peace he felt in his own mind was more
than a recompense, though it grieved him
much to offend his hitherto kind parent.

There was to be a meeting next day at
Oxford, and Thomas feeling a great desire
to attend, ordered his borrowed horse to
be got ready early in the morning in order
to go to it. He was anxious to consult
his father's feelings as much as possible ;
and after he was ready, desired his sister to
go up to his father's chamber, and tell him.
that he was going to Oxford, and wished to
know if he had any commands. His father
sent a message to him not to go until he
came down ; and getting up immediately
he hastened down, partly dressed. When
he saw Thomas standing with his hat on,
he was so transported with rage that he

36 the friend's family.

struck him with both fists, and plucking
his hat off, threw it away. Then stepping
hastily out to the stable, and seeing the bor-
rowed horse standing saddled and bridled
he inquired whose it was. His man telling
him, he said, " Then ride him back and tell

Mr. I desire he will never lend my

son his horse again, unless he brings a note
from me." The poor fellow, who was
fond of his young master, did not like to
carry this message, and was disposed to
make excuses or delays ; but Walter was
positive in his commands, and would not
let the man eat his breakfast, nor go out of
his sight until he mounted the horse and
rode off. Then coming in he went up
stairs to finish dressing, thinking his so&
safe enough at home, — as he was not very
fond of walking.

Thomas, seeing the horse go off, under-
stood how matters went ; and, being very
desirous of going to the meeting, changed
his boots for shoes and got another hat.
He also told his sister, who loved him
dearly, and whom he could trust, where he
was going, and, slipping out privately,
walked seven long miles to meet some
Friends. After he had started, he could
not help thinking, that perhaps it was
wrong in him thus to steal away from his
father, and he stood still a while, not know-
ing whether to go back or forward. Fear

the friend's family. 37

of offending his father, would have turned
him back, while the desire to be with
Friends, impelled him forward. He thought
within himself how could that feeling be of
the Lord if it induced him to disobey his
father ? Yet he was conscious that it was
not in his own will, nor with intention to
give his father pain. Thus he went on
reasoning, until the passage of Scripture —
" Children obey your parents in the Lord"
occurred to him ; after which he went on
more cheerfully, and was received with
great kindness and tenderness by the
Friends there.

After Thomas left home, his father, sup^-
posing him to have gone up to his chamber,
made no inquiry about him till evening.
The weather was very cold, and he and his
daughter were sitting comfortably together
by the fire, when he said to her, " Go up to
your brother's chamber, and bring him
down ; it may be he will sit there else, in a
sullen fit, until he has caught cold." " Alas !
sir," said she, " he is not in his chamber,
nor in the house neither." " Why, where
is he then ?" said the father, starting up in
alarm. " I know not," said she, " where he
is, sir ; but I know that when he saw you
had sent away his horse, he put his shoes
on, and went out on foot ; and I have not
seen him since. And indeed, sir, I don't
wonder at his going away, considering how

38 the friend's family.

you used him." Walter had not foreseen
this firmness in one who was wont to obey
every intimation of his father's will, and
fearing he would never return, he poured
forth his lamentations so loudly that the
family could hear him. He went to bed
immediately, where he passed a restless
night, bemoaning himself, and grieving over
his son. Next morning, his daughter sent
a man to find her brother, and give him
this account, entreating him to return home
as soon as possible ; yet in case he should
not return, she sent fresh linen for his use.

Thomas was very sorry for his father's
uneasiness, and would have returned home
that evening after meeting ; but the Friends
persuaded him to stay, saying, the meeting
would probably end late, and that the days
were short, and the road long and muddy.
Besides which, one of the Friends there,
promised to go home with him and talk
with his father. This was doubtless in-
tended in kindness to Thomas, but it appears
to have been ill judged.

The next day Thomas went home, accom-
panied by this Friend ; and as they drew
near the place, they planned that Thomas
should go in the back way, and seat himself
in the kitchen ; while the Friend should
desire to see his father, and take that oppor-
tunity of expostulating with him. When
Walter Ellwood heard that some one de-

the friend's family. 39

sired to speak with him, he went into the
hall, and was much surprised at finding a
Quaker waiting for him there. Yet not
knowing on what account he came, he
stayed to hear his business ; and when he
found it concerned his own son, he fell on
him very sharply, probably considering it a
piece of great impertinence in a person who
had been instrumental in misleading his
son, to offer him any advice respecting his
treatment of that son. Turning away from
the Friend, he went into the kitchen, and
there found Thomas standing with his hat
on his head. Heated with his conversation,
he seemed to forget that this was the son
over whom he had so lately mourned, as
lost; and his grief turning to anger, he
could not contain it, but running pas-
sionately towards him, he snatched off his
hat and threw it away ; then striking him
on the head he ordered him to go up to his
own chamber. Thomas obeyed, and his
father followed him, giving a blow every
few steps ; as he went through the hall, the
Friend who came with him, could see how
little his untimely interference between
father and son, had mended matters.

Was it not strange that Walter Ellwood
should become so enraged at his son, merely
because he kept his hat on before him ?
But this shows that in those days men had
made an idol of that kind of respect, ren-

40 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

dering it incumbent upon Friends to bear a
faithful testimony against it, by suffering
fines, imprisonments, and cruel beatings*
rather than bow down to this idol. Any
one thing upon which we improperly set
our hearts, becomes an idol to us. If we
love and value it, more than we do our
Creator, we worship it. This we must not
do, or we become as blinded as the poor
heathen, who "bow down to wood or
stone." Any feeling of pride, or vanity, or
self-importance, which stands between us
and our Creator, has become an idol, and
we are bound to destroy that feeling, or
reduce it to subjection.

Many, very many children and grown
people, who call themselves Christians,
would find they had idols, if they would
strictly examine their own hearts.

It does not appear to me, to be of any
great consequence in itself, whether a man
pulled his hat off merely by way of saluta-
tion or fiot. But when the custom had
grown to be an idol, it was of great conse-
quence to break it. We ought to respect
and venerate those persons who suffered so
much upon this account.

Walter Ellwood was so determined that
his son should not wear his hat in his pre-
sence, that after snatching it off his head, he
would not give it to him again, but put it
aside where it would not be found. Thomas

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 41

then put on another hat, which his father
soon tore violently from him; so that
he found himself obliged to go bare-
headed, for the want of hat or cap. This
occurred in the eleventh month; and the
weather being very severe, he caught a
heavy cold, so that his head and face swelled
very much, and his gums became so sore
that he could put nothing in his mouth but
liquids. His kind sister waited on him,
and did every thing she could for his relief,
but his father did not seem to feel much
pity for him.

Thomas Ellwood was very much of a
prisoner that winter ; for he could not go
about the country without a hat, and his
father took care he should not have the
means of getting one. So he spent the time
in his chamber, reading the Bible, and
silently waiting on the Lord. Doubtless it
was excellently spent in learning to bear
the cross.

Whenever he had occasion to speak to
his father, he offended him by saying "thee"
or " thou" At one of these times, after
beating him, and commanding him to go to
his chamber, which he usually did when
affronted at him, Walter followed him to
the foot of the staircase, and giving him a
parting blow, said, " If ever I hear you say
'thee'' or 'thou' to me again, I will strike
the teeth down your throat." Thomas was

42 THE FKIEND'S FAMILY.

greatly grieved to hear his father utter these
passionate words ; and turning to him, he
calmly said, " Would it not be just for God
to serve thee so, when thou sayest thee or
thou to him?" His father's hand was up
to strike him again, yet it sunk, and his
countenance changed at these words, so
that he turned away. Then Thomas went
up into his chamber and prayed to the
Lord, earnestly beseeching him that he
would be pleased to open his father's eyes,
that he might see whom he fought against,
and for what ; and that he might be pleased
to turn his heart.

For some time after this, Walter said
nothing to Thomas, and gave him no occa-
sion to speak to him. But this calm was
not of long duration, for there was another
storm occurred soon after.

In his younger years, and more especially
while he lived in London, his father
had been in the habit of attending the
meetings of the Puritans, and had stored
up a stock of Scripture knowledge. He
sometimes, but not frequently, caused his
family to come together on First-day even-
ing to hear him expound a chapter and
pray. The family was now very small.
His wife and oldest son were now both
dead ; his eldest daughter was in London,
and he kept but two servants. It so hap-
pened that one First-day evening, he bid his

THE FRIENDrS FAMILY. 43

daughter who sat in the parlour with himy
to call the servants into prayer.

Perhaps this was intended as a trial to
Thomas ; at any rate, it proved one : for
the servants, loving their young master, did
not go in until they were sent for a second
time. This offended Walter: and when
they went in, instead of going on with the
evening exercises, he asked them why they
had not come in at first : — and the excuse
they gave only heightened his displeasure.
He said, " Call in that fellow," (meaning
his son,) " he is the cause of all this." The
servants hesitated to obey ; for they were
sure the blame would all fall upon him.
But Thomas hearing his father, went
in without waiting for them. His father
showered out reproaches against him, using
sharp and bitter expressions ; until Thomas
was induced to say, " They that can pray
with such a spirit, let them ; for my part I
cannot."

This so enraged Walter, that he not only
struck him with his fists, but, getting his
cane, he struck him with it so violently,
that Thomas raised his arms to protect his
head from the blows. The man-servant
then stept in between them ; and, catching
the cane in his hand held it fast ; which
made the father still more angry, if possible.
Thomas perceiving this, bade the man let
go his hold, and go away ; in doing which,

44 THE friend's family.

as he turned he received a blow on his
own shoulders. But now the sister inter-
fered ; and, begging her father to forbear,
she declared if he did not, she would throw
open the casement, and call for h^lp; for
indeed she was afraid he would murder her
brother. This stopt his arm ; and after
some threatening speeches, he told Thomas
to go to his chamber ; whither he always
sent him, when displeased. His sister fol-
lowed him, and dressed his arm, which was
much bruised and swollen, and the skin was
broken in several places. Yet he felt that
peace and quiet in his own mind which far
overbalanced all his sufferings. His father
too, seemed to have exhausted himself in
this last burst of passion, for he never treated
him so severely again,

His older sister returned from London
soon after this, and her love for Thomas
induced hereto pity rather than despise him,
though she had imbibed a great dislike for the
Quakers generally. The winter passed away
slowly as it seemed to Thomas, who was
taking his first lessons in the school of
affliction ; but spring had some consolation
in f store for him, in the shape of a visit
from his friends, Isaac and Mary Penning-
ton. His father had a great regard for the
latter, with whom he had been so well ac-
quainted when she bore the name of Lady
Springett. In conversation with her after

the friend's family. 45

her husband and she had joined Friends,
but before Thomas Ellwood had, she told
him how cruelly Isaac's father had used him
because he would not pull off his hat. This
Walter seemed surprised to hear, and con-
demned, as not only wicked but absurd.
He little thought how soon he would imi-
tate the conduct he professed so heartily to
despise. Mary reminded him of this, and
tried by every means in her power to
soften his displeasure towards his son. It
availed but little, however, and seeing how
very uncomfortable the son seemed, she
begged he might be permitted to return
home with her. This Walter resisted as
long as he could ; being unwilling probably
to have his son go with Quakers : but at
last consented to the proposal if Thomas
wished it. Thomas was very willing to go,
but he had no hat ; and being about to get
into the coach without one, his sister whis-
pered to her father, asking if she might not
get one for him. He told her she might ;
while she ran into the house to get it, he
conversed with Isaac and Mary who were
already seated : but when he saw the sister
coming with the hat, he took leave of them
abruptly, and went in, fearing the hat would
be put on before him.

Thomas was not allowed any money to
take with him, and his father had taken
from him all that would do to sell. But he

46 THE friend's family.

was going among kind friends, and needed
nothing they did not provide for him. He
stayed six or seven weeks very happily at
the Grange, which was the name of the
place upon which the Penningtons lived ;
and then feeling it would be right, Thomas
concluded to return to his own home again.
When he arrived there his father treated
him more kindly, although Thomas per-
sisted in wearing his hat even at the table.
Indeed Walter was wearied out with oppo-
sition, and after this avoided seeing Thomas
as much as possible, though he treated him
more respectfully when forced to notice
him. One reason of this may have been,
that if he should ever wish to sell his estate,
(which seemed likely,) his son's consent
would be necessary. He also intended
going up- to London ; and as Thomas would
be left at home, they would not meet for a
long time. So he was permitted to make
just such use of his time as pleased him
best : and he spent a great deal of it in
going to meetings. But he had no horse to
ride, and often waded ancle deep in the
mud. His father once or twice tried to lock
the doors, so that he should not go out, but
there was generally a back way unguarded,
so that he could slip off without any words
passing between them. His sisters were
very kind to him, and though they could
•not think as he did, they saw he was sin-

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 47

cere, and they endeavoured to mitigate their
father's anger as much as possible.

After his father and sisters went up to Lon-
don, which they did when Thomas wasabout
twenty-two years old, leaving him at the old
house with no one but the housekeeper, —
he was taken with the small-pox, which he
had very badly indeed. When the Friends
heard of it, they sent a nurse to take care
of him. Under her care he soon got better,
but was not able to go out for a long time.
Feeling very lonely, he commenced a course
of reading in order to occupy his mind
until he could go out of the house ; but his
sight being very weak from his late illness,
he soon impaired it so much, that he was
forced to give up his studies. No sooner
was he able than he hastened to Isaac Pen-
nington's, and here he became more sensible
of his want of general information than he
had ever been before.

The society Thomas met with at Isaac
Pennington's, soon occasioned him to feel
his own deficiency ; and, speaking earnestly
upon this subject to Isaac, he offered him all
the assistance in his power. He was ac-
quainted with an eminent physician in Lon-
don, named Paget; and Dr. Paget was a
friend of John Milton. Milton's sight was
entirely gone ; and he usually employed a
person, generally a gentleman's son, to read
to him. This was the situation that Isaac

48 THE FRIEND>S FAMILY.

Pennington wished for Thomas Ellwood :
knowing that Milton had access to the best
works which were published, and that his
comments and remarks would be very use-
ful in forming a young person's taste. This
was procured by the mediation of Dr. Paget,
and Thomas, going up to London, availed
himself of it, by reading aloud to Milton
certain hours every day. In order to sup-
port himself, he dismissed the servant, and
sold all the provision left in the house.

Milton perceiving Thomas's earnest de-
sire to learn, gave him much encouragement
and assistance, and taught him the proper
pronunciation of his Latin words. He had a
very quick ear, and could tell by the tone
whether his pupil understood what he was
reading ; and if he did not, would stop him
and explain the difficult passages. In this
way Thomas went on for some time, study-
ing in the forenoon, and reading to Milton
in the afternoon. But his health, probably
not yet fully established after his illness,
gave way, and he was obliged to leave town
just as he was becoming sensible of some
improvement. He went into the country,
where he remained some time and was very
ill ; but by nursing and care, he recovered
again. His father sent him enough money
to pay the expenses of his illness.

As soon as he was well enough, he re-
sumed his attendance on Milton, who was

the friend's family. 49

very glad to receive him again. Scarcely
was he at his learning again, before he, with
many other Friends, was taken up on a
pretended suspicion of being concerned in
a plot against the government. They were
kept in prison several months, but not under
a very rigid treatment ; for they were often
allowed to absent themselves for a day or
two, giving their words to be back at an
appointed time.

This shows that, with all their prejudices
against the Friends, the officers of govern-
ment placed dependence upon their words.
Indeed, it often happened, that a jailer,
finding it inconvenient to accompany his
prisoners from one jail to another, would
start them off by themselves ; merely re-
quiring their promise that they would be at
the place at the appointed time, if nothing
prevented : and to their honour be it said,
this confidence, we have reason to think,
was never abused.

After Thomas Ellwood was discharged
from prison, which he was without question
or trial, he waited upon Milton again, but
thought it better not to recommence his
reading until he saw Isaac Pennington.
# Isaac was in poor health, so that he was
confined to his chamber ; and being very
anxious about his children, he asked Thomas
if he would take charge of their education
until another teacher could be procured. To

3

50 the friend's family.

this plan Thomas consented, being unwil-
ling to refuse so small a favour to one who
had so often stood his friend ; and he soon
found he was improving himself as fast by-
teaching the children, as he could have
done, even under Milton's tuition. Isaac
Pennington appearing to be well satisfied,
Thomas continued with the family, as tutor
to his children, for seven years ; indeed,
until he married.

While at the Grange, his father came
down to see the Penningtons, and he be-
haved very civilly to Thomas, inviting him
to London, to see his sisters, who were both
married and had settled there. Thomas
accordingly went, and stayed a short time
with them ; but returned again to the Pen-
ningtons, who had their share of hardship.
The family was entirely broken up at one
time; — Isaac in one prison, — Thomas in
another, and the other members all scat-
tered. When this persecution passed over,
how happy did they feel to meet in their
own pleasant home again — father, mother,
children, and friends, all together once more.

Gulielma Springett was a very lovely
young woman ; and a great many persons
who admired her, would have liked tof
marry her. But she refused one proposal
of the kind after another, until some of them
said, it must be because she intended to
marry Thomas Ellwood, who was always

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 51

there, and had every opportunity of plead-
ing his cause. Thomas admitted that he
did admire her very much indeed ; but he
thought such a marriage would not be
agreeable to her mother, and Ke'felt bound
in honour not to attempt to create any
other interest in her bosom, but that which
might be felt by a dear and gentle sister.

In sixteen hundred and sixty-five, a great
pestilence broke out in London. It was
called the Plague, and many thousands
died of it. All who had the means left the
city ; and among the rest, John Milton, who
wrote to Thomas Ellwood to procure him
a lodging in the country ; which he did.
After Milton was settled in his new home,
Thomas called on him ; and before he left,
Milton gave him a manuscript to look
over, desiring his opinion. On returning it,
Thomas told him he admired it very much
indeed. It was called "Paradise Lost;"
and the world has since confirmed Thomas's
judgment. In giving it back, he said
pleasantly to its author, " Thou hast said
a great deal about Paradise lost, canst
thou not tell us something of Paradise
found" Milton paused, and did not answer
him ; but turned the conversation on another
subject. Some months after Milton had
gone back to London, Thomas happening
to be in town, waited upon him ; and Mil-
ton, showing him the manuscript of "Para-

52 the friend's family.

dise Regained" said pleasantly, " This is
owing 'to you; for you put it into my head
by the question you asked, when at Chal-
font. I had not thought of it before."

Walter Ellwood, wishing to break the
entail on his estate, was obliged to request
his son's concurrence, as the place could not
be sold without his consent. Thomas, happy
to oblige his father, whenever he could do
so without compromising his religious prin-
ciples, cheerfully acceded to his proposal ;
though well aware that it would cut him off
from all share or right in his father's pro-
perty. But his own exertions would supply
him with all that was needful ; and he had
learned to forego superfluities.

Thomas Ellwood had always regarded
marriage as a divine institution, and he held
it wrong to look upon it in any exclusive
worldly point of view. When he first felt
his affections drawn towards Mary Ellis, a
young woman whom he had known for
several years, and whom he married, he
prayed for divine counsel and guidance in
this important concern. On mentioning the
matter to her, he desired no answer until
she, too, had waited upon the Lord for direc-
tion. On obtaining her consent, he informed
his father, who appeared to be much pleased
with the prospect, though Mary was a
Friend. He offered to settle a sum of money
on Thomas ; which however he never did.

the friend's family. 53

On the contrary, Thomas, who knew his
father well, thought it necessary to have
papers drawn up and signed the next day
after the marriage, securing to his wife all
the money and lands she had possessed, as
well as the little he had made, that he might
not leave her at the mercy of his father.

And now we are nearly done ; for his
after-history is but the common history of
the other early Friends. Fines and impri-
sonments,— imprisonments and fines were
lavishly dealt out to them all. In Thomas's
case, these dark moments were illuminated
by intervals of rare happiness at home,
where his wife fully justified his love and
esteem.

He wrote and published many works,
suitable for the times, but mostly now be-
come obsolete. Several of them were an-
swers to the attacks which Friends received
at all quarters from priests and others. He
spake in meetings for worship but seldom,
in meetings for discipline frequently. He
lived to be eighty-two years old, when he
was taken with palsy, which deprived him
of the use of his limbs, but left his mind
clear and unclouded. He bore the pains of
sickness with patient resignation, and a short
time before he departed, uttered the words,
" I am full of joy and peace. My soul is
filled with joy."

It is no real cause of mourning for an in-

54 the friend's family.

fant to be taken away from the earth before
its purity has been sullied ; but it is glorious
for the strong man, full of years, who has
been tried and tempted, and resisted tempta-
tion, who has "fought the good fight,"
who has (i kept the faith," to lay his head
upon his dying pillow, saying, " Hencefor-
ward there is laid up for me a crown of
righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous
Judge, shall give me at that day; and not
to me only, but unto all them also that love
his appearing."

Ellwood Stewart had a clear, pleasant
voice, and his children felt much delight in
listening to it. When he had finished read-
ing, they thanked both him and their sister
for the pleasure that had been afforded
them.

The family was a very happy one ; and
one reason of this was, the politeness and
courtesy with which they constantly treated
each other. They were not permitted, either
by example or precept, to treat each other
with coldness or rudeness, any more than
they would a stranger ; and the habit of
preferring others to themselves was easy
to them, having been inculcated so early.
There 'were no particular rules, no formali-
ties observed, but each child was taught to

the friend's family. 55

oblige others, and to acknowledge the plea-
sure of being obliged.

Many, many brothers and sisters, who
love each other dearly, do not have the
happy hours they might enjoy, by reason
of their indulging a petty selfishness of dis-
position. Any child old enough to read this,
is old enough to set about reform, should he
feel himself to blame in this respect.

After the children had thanked their
father and talked a little about the story he
had read to them, Lizzy said, "Now sister
Mary, may I help thee set the table ?"
" Thank thee," said Mary, " but Martha
shall help me, and thee may carry in the
bread and butter to help Nancy. I think
Patty is almost too little to do that, but she
can help me some." While Lizzy and
Patty are washing their plump little hands,
I may as well tell who Nancy was ; for the
Stewart family thought a great deal of her.
as they might well do.

About forty years ago, when Mary
Stewart was a little girl, and when her
name was Mary Brace, Jane Brace, Mary's
mother, went to see a poor sick woman in
the neighbourhood where they lived. This
poor sick woman had a little girl whose
name was Nancy ; and a nice, quiet little
thing she was, staying beside her mother's
bed and watching her pallid face nearly all
the time. She was too little to work much,

56 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

but she did every thing for her mother that
a little hand like hers could; and she went
on any errand which her mother had for
her to do, always doing just what she was
bid.

After Jane Brace found how the woman
was, she never let Nancy go away from
her, except to take a little walk, that she
might breathe the fresh air; for she was
such a comfort to the poor mother, that she
could hardly bear to have her away. This
woman was very sick indeed, the first time
Jane Brace ever saw her ; and though she
tried to do every thing for her that could
be done ; she grew worse and worse, until
Jane saw that she was going to die. Jane
hardly knew what to do for her, so she
asked the doctor if he would be so kind as
to stop there, and tell her what he thought.
The doctor was very kind, and went to
see her that afternoon. He told Jane that
the woman had a bad cough and pain in
her breast ; but he said that was not all
that ailed her ; he thought she must be in
a great deal of trouble, for she was pining
away from some other cause than sickness.
One day little Nancy came running,
almost out of breath, and with a very pale
face, to ask Jane Brace to come over to her
mother, for she was very bad indeed. Jane
was just fitting a dress on one of her little chil-
dren ; but she did not even wait to take it off,

the friend's family. 57

and put away the things. She only desired
the girl who lived with them, to take off the
pieces which she was fitting together, and
put them by, and take good care of the
children, for she did not know when she
would be back. She put her bonnet and
shawl on, and went over to her sick neigh-
bour as soon as possible, carrying a little
whey which she had got ready before.

When she got there, Jane did not see that
she was any worse than usual, but she
stayed with her awhile, and used many com-
forting words, and speaking in a soft, low,
gentle tone, tried to make her think of
pleasant things. She stood up close to the
side of the bed, and laying the head of the
poor sufferer upon her breast, pressed her
hand gently to her forehead. This little
action seemed to open the fountain of feel-
ing, and the poor woman burst into tears.
It seemed to her as if she had somebody to
love and be kind to her, and to whom she
might tell all her thoughts.

So she leaned her head against Jane, and
sobbing like a little child, said, " I beg your
pardon for sending for you, and giving you
so much trouble, but sure I feel the better
for it, if you only lay your hand upon me,
and my heart has been very sore to day."
Jane Brace said some kind words to her,
and the poor woman feeling encouraged,
went on to tell her, that about five years

3*

58 THE friend's family.

before, she and her husband came away
from Ireland on account of the troubles.
They landed at Quebec. But the man had
never learned any thing but farming, and
as he had no money nor credit to purchase
a farm, he went out as a day-labourer. In
the harvest-time they had very high wages,
for his wife helped him all she could; and
he being a very strong man, between them
they made the wages of two men. This
did very well in harvest time, but when
harvest was over, they were thrown out of
regular work. They lived here for two sum-
mers, during which time little Nancy was
born, and then thinking they could do better
in the United States, they came over here.

The woman's voice faltered, when she
told her how kind her husband was to her,
and how he blamed himself for ever bring-
ing her away from her own comfortable
home, to wander about in poverty with
him. "But sure," continued she, raising
her streaming eyes and fixing them with
earnestness on Jane's face, " I had rather
share his poverty, than to have dressed in
silks and satins without him. It was only
when he was taken away, that I grew heart
sick."

The husband commenced digging, as be-
ing the most profitable work for him ; but
the summer sun, so much warmer than he
had been accustomed to, brought on a bili-

the friend's family. 59

ous fever, which left him in such a state of
debility that it was nine weeks before he
could go out again. She said there were a
good many of their countrymen there while
he was sick, and they raised a sum of mo-
ney for him ; but he could not bear to ac-
cept it as a gift, and the very first money
he was able to earn, went to pay that debt,
and that too, before he had provided any
winter clothing for himself, wife, or children
(for they had two children besides Nancy).
They struggled along that winter, with just
enough food and warmth to live, but they
were happy in loving each other, and look-
ed forward to better days.

As the spring opened, the husband found
plenty of work; his wife took in washing,
and the children, ragged and noisy, but
healthy and good-humoured, sometimes
helped, or sometimes hindered their parents
with their work. Thus they went on, feel-
ing as if they were getting a little laid by
for the next winter, when that terrible fever
came on again; putting the husband com-
pletely out of heart. Having a good con-
stitution he struggled through it, and went
to work before he was able, but the fever
returning again, with no energies of either
mind or body, he soon fell a victim to it.
The little place where he lay was so damp
and unhealthy, and so close, that the rest of
the family took it, and all lay stretched upon

60 the friend's family.

the bed of sickness at once. The two older
children died, and when the poor widow
who was delirious, came to her senses, she
found none of her infants left to clasp to her
bursting heart, but her youngest, her little
Nancy. Strangers' hands had buried her
other little darlings.

It was long before she could realize that
they could be gone. Her intellect enfeebled
by illness, and unconscious of what passed
after she herself was taken sick, still clung
to the belief that they had only gone away,
and she would question her little girl, hop-
ing to find some clue to them from her half
formed words.

After a while she grew stronger, and when
she came to see that she was indeed strip-
ped of husband and children, save one dar-
ling, she came to the determination of leav-
ing that place, not much caring where she
went to, but thinking any spot must be bet-
ter than that. She had not the means of
returning to her own country, indeed they
had subsisted on the charity of their neigh-
bours for a long time. So, bidding farewell
to her kind friends, who had tried their ut-
most to dissuade her from casting herself
among strangers, she started off on foot,
with her little girl holding her hand, not
knowing where she should rest for the
night.

But thanks be to him who giveth us every

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 61

good gift ; in all her wanderings, the food
and the night's lodging were never denied
her.

It was in the pleasant Indian summer,
that she thus passed from one village to
another, and before the cold weather came
on, she was fixed in a very small but snug

house, in the little village of M , where

Jane Brace found her. She partook too
much of her husband's pride, to ask assist-
ance; and had hungered and been cold
many a time. She took in washing to sup-
port herself and child ; but her constitution,
already undermined by hardship and grief,
sank under it, and her own imprudence.
" Indeed," said she, " I hardly knew what
I was doing, and sometimes in the warm
weather when I would be washing, such a
burning heat would come over me, that,
saving your presence, I would dash the cold
water right into my bosom, and that is the
way I think I got my death."

Jane Brace could not say any thing, for
she too thought that was the way she got
her death ; but it was too late to blame her
now. So laying her down gently, she got
the whey, and giving her a little of it to
revive her, she turned to leave the room,
for she thought it would be better for the
woman to be quiet a while, as she was evi-
dently exhausted by speaking so long.
Nancy's mother was watching her move-

62 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

ments, and speaking quickly and with an
effort said, " Do not leave me yet. I have
not said all. Nancy go out of doors, dear,
I want to speak to Mrs. Brace." Nancy
instantly obeyed.

" Oh ! Mrs. Brace, what will become of
my Nancy ? It comes over me that I must
soon die ; and if the prayer of the widow,
or the blessing of the orphan may help you,
take care of my Nancy. She is a good girl,
take her to live with you. Do Avhat you
choose with her, only let her live with
you."

Jane Brace had thought of this matter
before, and had even mentioned it to her
husband, who knowing the strong interest
she took in Nancy, told her to do just as she
thought proper, only not to increase her own
burdens too much. The increase of her
own care was the last thing that Jane Brace
thought about. She was almost afraid to
introduce a stranger into the midst of her
own little flock. Yet all that she had seen
of the quiet, patient little girl, who attended
her mother with such unwearied watch,
disposed her to think favourably of her.
Therefore if she hesitated a moment when
Nancy's mother addressed her, it was not
long : for in an instant the precepts came
before Jane's mind," Do unto others, as ye
would that others should do unto you."
And " what thy hand findeth to do, that do

the friend's family. 63

with all thy might." So looking at the
woman with a pleasant face, and answering
in a kind tone, she told her she would take
care of Nancy and have her to live with
her own little children. Many blessings
were breathed on Jane Brace's head by the
poor afflicted creature, who seemed to for-
get her own sorrows in the happy prospect
before her child ; and Jane went home that
evening with a heart and step as light as the
consciousness of a good action performed
could make them.

Every day while Nancy's mother's lived
she visited her. And when at length she
died, and Nancy had to leave her, she did
not feel as if alone in the world, but laid
her little face on the kind bosom of her
friend, while that friend's soft voice spake
the words of comfort to her ear.

Never did Nancy give her aunt (for by that
kind and affectionate title was she taught to
call her mistress) any reason to regret taking
her. It is true she was not more perfect
than other little girls, but she was docile and
affectionate, and Jane loved her very much.
When she had done wrong, Jane told her
of the necessity of being good, if she would
wish to please her heavenly Father, just as
she talked to her own little ones.

She did not send Nancy to school as she
did her own children, for she knew that
probably Nancy would have to work hard

64 the friend's family.

for her living, and her hands and limbs
must be inured in time ; but she made her
labour light by sharing it, and by teaching
her the best method of doing any thing, and
telling her the reason why. Lessons taught
in this way are seldom forgotten, and Nancy
soon became of some use.

Mary was but a baby when Nancy first
came among them; and the desolate heart
of the stranger clung to her even more than
to her aunt. Yet, perhaps, I am wrong —
perhaps she only thought she loved the baby
best, because she could caress it as much as
she pleased, without the fear of being trou-
blesome. She would plead to be allowed
to nurse it, which however its mother would
not permit, because its little frame was so
tender that it might be injured ; but she
would lay a sheepskin on the floor, and
put the baby on it, and then let Nancy play
with it for an hour or two at a time. The
little one soon distinguished her from the
other children, and would commence crow-
ing and jumping, if it but caught a glimpse
of Nancy's merry little face.

This attachment continued ; and when in
after years Mary married Ellwood Stewart,
Nancy's heart went with her. Jane Brace
was not long in discovering this ; and much
as she valued Nancy, she was glad that it
was so : for every mother considers her
child's interest before her own. When it

the friend's family. 65

was first mentioned to Nancy, she would
not hear of leaving her old home, and her
kind aunt. But as Jane insisted on it, telling
her that she would confer a favour upon
both herself and her daughter, Nancy con-
sented, though somewhat reluctantly, for
she could not help fearing she was guilty
of ingratitude.

And now was Jane Brace fully repaid for
all she had ever done for Nancy. Nancy
was not only a help, in a domestic point
of view, but a faithful person in the great
business of life, in training the family for
heaven.

As the children grew older, they under-
stood Nancy's true position in the family,
and treated her accordingly. While anxious
to have her appreciated by the younger
ones, they made it a far greater favour to
be allowed to assist Nancy, than they did
to assist each other. When none but them-
selves were present, or some intimate friend,
Nancy sat with them, unless her duties
called her elsewhere. Her manners were
pleasant and agreeable ; why should they
not be ? She had associated with those
whom education and truth had refined
from the time she turned from her mother's
grave.

What if she had not devoted her earlier
years to school? Her education was con-
stantly, though silently progressing; and

66 the friend's family.

many a (so called) lady might have taken
a lesson from Nancy's quiet, self-possessed,
and dignified manners. Her sense of pro-
priety kept her from intruding. The chil-
dren, who were taught to value her so
highly, could not imagine why she should
not sit at table with them, or any where
else, let who would be present. But Mary
Stewart, though willing at all times and at
all seasons to show the respect for Nancy
which she really felt, respected also the
delicacy of feeling which prompted her to
sit by herself, when any one with whom she
was not well acquainted chanced to be their
guest.

Lizzy felt it quite a compliment to be
asked to assist Nancy ; and after she had
put by the doll she was dressing, and Martha
had put away her patchwork, they went to
a little room, or a large closet, (whichever
persons would choose to call it,) and there
were towels, wash-basins, and soaps, with
two or three great pitchers, all of which had
water in them. There was a low wash-
stand in one corner, and close by it stood a
large bucket, to pour the water into, after
they had bathed in it. To this low wash-
stand Lizzy and Patty went, and sister
Mary, who had put her sewing by, came
in and poured some water from the great
pitcher into the little wash-basin, and put it
on the low wash-stand, where the children

the friend's family. 67

could reach it nicely. Here they washed
their hands, and wiped them on a towel
which hung on a little frame.

Lizzy then went to the kitchen, where
she found Nancy standing by the dough-
trough, cutting the bread into thin slices,
and laying theui evenly one upon the other.
" Sister Mary said I might help thee," said
she in a very pleasant tone. " What may I
do first ?" " Thee may bring the bread
plates," said Nancy. So Lizzy went to the
kitchen closet, and getting the plates down
very carefully, she carried them to Nancy,
who laid the sliced bread upon them, cut-
ting the slices right down through the mid-
dle. Elizabeth then carried the plates in,
one at a time, and put them on the table,
which sister Mary had already spread the
cloth upon.

There was a large pile of little plates on
one corner, and Martha was taking one of
these at a time, and putting it in its proper
place, saying softly to herself as she went
around " this is for father — this is for mother
— this is for Elly," and so on, as she placed
each plate. The knives and forks were in
a box, and Mary was busy with them.
When Martha's plates were all placed, she
ran to the cupboard to get the salt-cellars,
which were nicely printed when taken off
the dinner table. They were upon the
second shelf, where she could not reach

68 THE friend's family.

them ; but in her zeal to help her sister, she
clambered upon a stool, which tipped over
just as she had grasped the salt-cellar ; and
down she came, oversetting the molasses
cup, and breaking both it and the salt-cellar.
Mary was just turning round to see what
she was doing ; and catching her as she fell,
prevented her hurting herself much.

Martha's face reddened very much, and
she began to cry a little ; but Mary soothed
her ; and finding she was more frightened
than any thing else, told her not to mind.
" Oh ! but," said Patty, " I was going to
help thee ; and only see how much trouble
I have made." " Why yes," said Mary,
laughing a little to show Martha she did
not mind the trouble, " if little girls could
only be kept in molasses, I should have thee
preserved, should I not ?" Martha now
began to laugh too ; and Mary, telling her
to be right still a little while, went into the
closet and brought from there the little ba-
sin, with water in it, and a nice soft towel ;
with which she wiped away the molasses
from her hands. She took off Martha's
apron, which was very much soiled, and
turning it in carefully so as not to smear
any thing with it, carried it into the little
closet.

She then went up stairs, and getting a
clean apron for Martha, brought it down
and put it on her. Mary then went to the

the friend's family. 69

kitchen, and tied on a very large apron
which almost covered the skirt of her dress,
it was so wide and long ; and brought a lit-
tle tub of hot water, a dish cloth, and a dish
towel, to wipe the shelf and dishes with.
She tucked up the ends of her sleeves, and
pinned them to keep them from slipping
down ; and then moved all the plates and
dishes on which there was no molasses, up
to the second shelf. She washed and wiped
the few that were smeared, and putting the
dish cloth down, gathered up all the broken
pieces of the cup and salt-cellar. She put
these in a safe place, where no one would
be likely to cut their hands with them, and
washA the shelf, wiped it as dry as pos-
sibleJP

She then carried the little tub, the cloth
and the towel back to the kitchen, and put
each in its proper place; and then returned
to the closet to rinse the molasses off of
Patty's apron. She spread it on the frame
to dry, intending to put it to wash on the
next Seconded ay morning. After she had
done all these things, which took her but a
few minutes, she took off the great apron,
folded it up, and put it in the kitchen, till
she should want it again.

When Mary went in, she saw her little
sister looking a good deal mortified, and
standing near the closet door. Mary smiled,
and in a pleasant tone asked Patty to

70 THE FRIEND^ FAMILY.

put the cup plates around ; at the same time
giving her the pile in her hands. Martha's
face brightened at the thought that she might
be of some use after all, and the table set-
ting went on again.

Mary arranged it very neatly; and al-
though there was nothing which could be
called a dainty, yet every thing looked in-
viting; the cloth, the knives and forks, and
every article on the table, being so perfectly
clean and bright. There was a small piece
of oiled cloth spread for Elly's plate to set
on ; but Martha could eat without smearing
any thing, and was therefore permitted to
set her plate on the cloth. The mother
thought it better that all the childre Aiould
sit with them at table, when there^fcis no
company ; as a little child learns so much
more readily from example than precept.

Very soon supper was ready, and Martha
was told she might ring a little bell, which
was the signal for the family to come to-
gether. Mary sat at the waiter, that she
might pour out the tea and coffee : the father
and mother sat at the other end of the table,
with Lizzy on one side, and Martha on the
other. Elly, with his little plate and oiled
cloth, sat next to Lizzy, and up next the
waiter sat Nancy, whose little pet Elly was,
and who undertook to supply his wants.
Rebecca and Jane were at the side of the
table opposite Elly and Nancy.

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 71

They sat silent for a minute or two, when
Elly, feeling as if he could not keep still any
longer, began saying, " sugar, sugar, sugar."
Nancy looked at him very seriously, and
shook her head. He was quiet ; and then
Mary began to put the sugar and cream into
the cups.

After she had helped the older ones she put
some milk into a cup, and pouring a little hot
water into it, to warm it, sweetened it, and
gave it to Nancy for Elly, who by this time
was getting a little uneasy. As soon as he
swallowed it, he commenced saying "meat,
meat, meat." And kicking his heels against
the rounds of his high chair, seemed dis-
posed to make himself as conspicuous as
possible. Nancy took his little hands in
hers, and looking him right in the face to
fasten his attention, said very slowly and
distinctly, " Elly must not talk now ;" and
" I will give Elly what he is to have for his
supper, and he must not talk any more
now." Elly looked at her, and evidently
understood her, for he was silent for a little
while until he forgot ; and then was quiet
again when she looked at him.

Ellwood Stewart considered his table as
a domestic school, and encouraged his chil-
dren to converse freely. He liked to hear
their views and opinions ; and besides this,
he knew children would be likely to eat
hastily, and acquire slovenly habits, unless

12 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

they found their meals made pleasant. As
he did not wish his children to become epi-
cures, he did not teach them that it was of
consequence what they eat. But he did
teach them to find pleasure in meeting to-
gether at the table, and conversing together.
Unless the family was assembled in the
common room where they dined, the little
bell was generally rung twice ; the first time
to give notice to any one who might wish
to put away her work, or to do anything
likely to detain her a few minutes.

Very seldom was there any excuse made
for tardiness, for they all felt it pleasant to
draw together. Besides, they were acquir-
ing, at small trouble and expense, the virtue
of punctuality. No allusion was made at
meal times to any fault which might have
been observed ; nothing mentioned which
could mortify one child before another.

While they were sitting at table this
evening, Rebecca said, "But, father, what
queer-looking dresses they must have worn
in Thomas Ellwood's time ! Did the men
wear rings, and ribbons, and laces ? I won-
der they could ever see each other without
laughing." "Our eyes," said Ellwood,
" become so soon accustomed to any style
of dress, that it not only ceases to be ridicu-
lous, but we think it positively becoming.
Does thee not think rings and laces are
pretty for women?" "Why, yes;" said

the friend's family. 73

llebecca, hesitating, " I think lace and rib-
bons very pretty, but not rings. I never
liked rings, ear rings especially, since I read
of the South Sea islanders wearing nose
jewels. It seems to me a barbarous custom
to have either nostrils or ears bored. But
I don't know whether I would like to have
a finger ring or not. Thee knows I was
never tried/' said she archly. "Fairly an-
swered," said her father, smiling. " But
suppose I give thee five dollars, will thee
buy a ring with the money, or purchase a
warm shawl for Sally Davis, who has so
many poor children to support that she can-
not clothe them and herself too, as warmly
as she ought ?" Rebecca looked very seri-
ous, and said, "Why, father, thee knows I
would buy the shawl for her. I would not
dare to spend the money for anything so
foolish." "Well, my child," said thefaFher,
" I had intended to give that sum to Sally ;
but thee may spend it for her. Thee had
better consult thy mother or sister how thee
can do it most judiciously; remembering
that a single dime misapplied is of conse-
quence to her."

Ellwood Stewart was not poor, neither
was he very rich, but he tried to accustom
his children to look on money with a refer-
ence to its true value. He discouraged
every unnecessary expense upon their own
clothing, or their own pleasures ; but placed

4

74 the friend's family.

the means of assisting others at their dispo-
sal. A child generally prefers giving to
others. We acquire the habit of selfish-
ness, as we are taught to indulge artificial
wants.

When Ellwood told Rebecca, she might
spend five dollars for Sally, she looked very
much gratified indeed, and sat silent for
some minutes, thinking of what dresses she
might buy, what shoes with thick soles the
children should have ; and then it suddenly
occurred to her that Sally slept very cold,
and may be she had better get some calico
for a comfortable, which sister would help
her quilt.

As she was revolving these things in her
mind, Jane took up the conversation where
she had dropped it, saying, " well, I do not
know much about the rings, but those long
pointed shoes with the toes turned up and
fastened to the knees, must have looked
very funny; and how could they ever walk
about? I should think they would strike
against each other, or against any thing in
the room." " But these fashions grew like
every thing else," said the mother. " If we
were to put such shoes on now, as our
grandmothers wore, we should totter a great
deal, and I think fall down. Don't thee re-
member those high-heeled shoes up in the
great chest in the garret?" "Yes," said
Jane, " Sarah put them on the last time she

THE friend's family. 75

was at home, and they made her look so
tall, only she could not walk very well in
them, and we were afraid she would fall
down." " Well, those shoes, though so in-
convenient to us, our grandmothers thought
beautiful. They made the foot look smaller,
and probably were first worn by some short
person who wished to look taller ; but I do
not think she had such a thick heel put on
at first. They must have been just a little
raised, then a little more, and so on until
they attained an inch and a half, if not two
inches in height. And as to looks, we so
soon become accustomed to any kind of
dress, that it seems graceful and elegant, no
matter how repugnant to true taste. It
seems to me that the dress which corre-
sponds with the outline of the human form,
and which is best adapted to its easy unen-
cumbered movements, is most suitable to it,
if our tastes in this respect had not become
perverted."

" But there was one thing which seems
very hard," said Jane, her eyes filling with
tears. " That was for Thomas to disobey
his father, who seems to have been very
kind to him before he came to be a Friend.
It must have been very hard for Thomas to
do any thing which his Father did not want
him to do." "My dear child," said her
father, kindly, " it was very hard I do not
doubt ; but even in this, Thomas was re-

76 the friend's family.

warded by the feelings of peace and quiet-
ness that Almighty Goodness favoured him
to experience. And it may be that he was
chosen as an instrument to break down the
stubborn will of his father. Oh ! what joy
for him, if by any means, even the sacrifice
of himself, he might become conducive to
his father's salvation. Of one thing we
may be sure, our heavenly Father is over
all and sees all, and requires nothing of us
without a reason. What that reason is, we
may never know in this life; but we do
know that a ready obedience to his will,
gives us that peace which the world can
neither give nor take away."

Some neighbours coming in to spend an
hour or two, interrupted the conversation,
which now turned on general subjects ; and
the younger children going to bed pretty
soon, it was not resumed at that time.

It was perhaps two weeks after, before
the ordinary occupations of the family ad-
mitted of another story, though sister Mary
was often seen with a large old-looking
book lying on her desk, from which she was
taking notes ; and when at length they had
an hour's leisure, in which the family might
all be collected together, she produced a
short manuscript, entitled

JAMES PARNELL.

One time, almost two hundred years ago,

the friend's family. 77

a very good man, named George Fox, was
confined in a prison, because he felt it his
duty to tell people when they were doing
wrong.

The people in those days probably did
not like to be told they were doing wrong
any better than we do in these ; and as they
had the power (which we have not), they
put any one in prison who displeased them.

To this prison went many persons to see
George Fox ; and among others a boy, or
lad, about sixteen years of age, named
James Parnell. This boy, though so young,
and brought up in a way entirely different,
after conversing with George Fox, felt that
what he said was true ; that is, that every
person has that in his own breast which
told him when he did right. For in those
days many said, and some actually believed,
that certain men must be hired to devote
their lives to studying the Scriptures, in or-
der to be able to explain their meaning.
Just as if the Holy Spirit which dictated the
Scriptures, was not all-sufficient to give us
grace to understand them for ourselves ; or
just as if we were not all the children of
the same great Father, who willeth not that
any of us should perish. Why should we
hire men to tell us what to do, when the
Holy Spirit himself condescends to dwell in
our hearts, if we only prepare the temple
for him, teaching us all things ?

78 the friend's family.

Very probably James Parnell had never
before heard this doctrine advanced, yet he
embraced it at once. He is said to have had
an excellent literary education, which he
must have been very diligent to acquire at
so early an age. After making up his mind
to do what he believed to be right, — instead
of being encouraged, loved, and honoured,
as we would suppose, he was rejected and
cast off by his relations ; nor do Is know that
he had a place whereon to lay his head^
This, however, did not deter him from what
he thought to be his duty.

He saw those around him apparently hur-
rying onward to destruction, and he feared
not to entreat them, even at the peril of his
own life, to return to the true path. He
went to Cambridge, and for preaching to
the people was driven from the town. Still
he loved them — still he felt as if he must da
something for them — and he returned. He
attempted to reason with the scholars, but
they too who ought to have known so much
better, — they too treated him very rudely
and badly. No usage was too rough for
him ; but he still continued to preach, though
often buffeted and driven from town to town.

When he was about eighteen years of
age, he went one summer day and preached
to the people in a church ; for at this time
Friends had few or no meeting-houses to go
to. He afterwards preached in a great meet-

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 79

ing, which had been appointed by some of
the Friends, and which was probably held
in an orchard or field. At this meeting,
which was in Colchester, many persons
were convinced of the truth. He spent a
week going about and preaching here ;
and when some wicked person gave him a
blow with a great staff, saying, " Take that
for Christ's sake," he meekly answered,
" Friend, I do receive it for Christ's sake."

It is difficult to believe that the time ever
was, still less, that within two hundred
years men were beaten, imprisoned, fined
and put to death, because they dared not do
that which they believed it would offend
the great Creator for them to do. But so
it was. The Quakers, as they were called
in derision, because one of them had said,
" he trembled in the fear of the Lord," were
preached against, and prayed against. A
meeting was held for the especial purpose
of preaching and praying for their over-
throw.

To this meeting James Parnell went ; and
when the priest who was hired for that oc-
casion, said they were liars and deceivers,
James wanted him to prove it. He could
not prove it; nor could those who were
with him. So, instead of trying to do so,
they ordered James to take off his hat. He
answered he would rather leave the house,
than comply with their orders ; so he walk-

80 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

ed out : but a magistrate followed him and
committed him to prison.

Here began those terrible sufferings
which I mean to pass over as quickly as
possible ; for I do not think we can derive
much other good from dwelling upon them,
than to learn how graciously our heavenly
Father enables us to support any pains of
the body, if we can only feel conscious in-
nocence and peace, and fix our minds upon
him.

James Parnell was not allowed to see any
of his friends ; and when his trial was to come
on, he was fastened to a chain, with some
other men, and led about eighteen miles ;
being chained day and night.

After being brought before the court, he
was charged with having created a riot;
which charge he so clearly refuted that the
jury could not find him guilty. But the
judge, failing in his efforts to make the jury
convict him, fined him forty pounds ; which
of course, the poor homeless lad could not
pay. The judge ordered him to be kept in
the dungeon of a ruinous old castle, until
he did pay. He likewise ordered that none
of his friends should come near him.

The jailer's wife was a very wicked wo-
man, and had a violent temper. She said
many very bad things to him, too bad for
me to repeat. His friends, though they
could not see him, brought him victuals,

THE FRIEND^ FAMILY. 81

and a trundle bed to lie on. The first she
persuaded the other prisoners to take from
him, and the last she would not let him have
at all ; so that he was forced to lie upon the
damp cold stones. The walls of this castle
were immensely thick, and into a hole in the
wall like an oven, they thrust this good
young man.

This hole was about twelve feet from the
ground, and there was a little ladder which
reached about half-way up, set at the foot.
The rest of the way he had to climb by
means of the* broken wall and a rope which
hung down in front. This he was obliged
to do whenever he needed food or drink ;
for though his friends wanted him to have
a basket and a cord to draw them up, the
jailer and his wife would not permit him
even this small indulgence. This hole was
very damp, and his limbs became so be-
numbed, that as he was climbing up the
ladder one day, with his victuals in one
hand, he missed catching the rope with the
other, and losing his balance, he fell on the
stones, wounding his head, and bruising his
body so much, that the people who took
him up thought he was killed.

They then put him into a hole, not so

high up from the ground, but smaller j and

so close that when the door was shut but

little air could get into it. Here it seemed

as if he would be suffocated ; but he was

4*

82 the friend's family.

not allowed either to have the door open or
to go out. His friends and sufferers in the
same cause, loved the innocent boy very
much, and offered for any one of them to
lie in this place in his stead, while the rest
might take him away for a while so that he
might recover. When he recovered, they
said he might come back again. But these
cruel and misguided people would not suffer
it. They would not allow him even to walk
a little while in the yard. The door of his
cell being left open once, he g^ot out into a
narrow walk between two high walls,
which so incensed the jailer, that he shut
him out there, though it was in the coldest
winter weather.

He lived about eleven months in this hard
manner; but his constitution gave way un-
der such repeated sufferings, and he closed
his pure and virtuous life within the prison
walls.

Before his death his friends obtained per-
mission to visit him. To one of these he
said, " Here I die innocently." And after-
wards turning his head to his friend Thomas
Shortland, he said, " Thomas, I have seen
great things, don't hold me, but let me go."
Then after a while, he said again, "Will
you hold me ?" and one replied, " no, dear,
we will not hold thee." He had often
said, that one hour's sleep would cure him
of all ; and the last words breathed from his

the friend's family. 83

dying lips were, "now I go." He then
stretched himself out, slept about an hour,
and quietly yielded his spirit to him who
gave it, and in whose service he died.

There was a silence for some time after
the father had concluded reading this mourn-
ful account. The eyes of the little girls were
moist, and the tender-hearted Jane was
weeping with her head laid on her sister's
lap.

The mother broke silence by saying,
"This is indeed a sorrowful story, but there
is one bright spot on which we may look.
How very much his friends must have loved
him, being willing to place their bodies in
his body's stead. And how faithfully they
attended him, never forgetting him, and
never being discouraged by the rebuffs they
met from the jailer and his wife, nor from
the governor. They must have persevered
through great difficulties to be able to see
him at all. Oh ! with what a healing power
the thought of the dear love of his friends
must have come over the sick and wearied
heart of James. They attended him con-
stantly and received his last breath."

"Yes," said Ell wood Stewart, "at that
time so persecuted were the Friends, that
three or four persons were regularly ap-
pointed by the meeting to attend to those
who were sick and in prison. These per-

84 the friend's family.

sons made it their business to go round to
the different prisons where Friends were
confined, and see that they had something to
eat, and if need be, something to sleep upon.

This was so well known to be the case,
that a very lazy man contrived to be put
in prison with some Friends, that he might
be maintained by them ; always taking care
to have the best, and the most of any one
present. However the Friends soon detect-
ed him ; and telling the governor he was
not one of their number, the governor put
him by himself; though he tried by the
most abject entreaties, such as no Friend
would ever use, to get clear. But Friends
did not depend helplessly upon the exertions
of others. They exerted themselves to ob-
tain a living. Men who had been brought
up as gentlemen, employing themselves in
the most menial offices, rather than live in
idleness. They refused to do prison-work,
however ; for they felt it was not right they
should be in prison, and to do prison-work
voluntarily, seemed like admitting the jus-
tice of their imprisonment. " But what is
this other manuscript ?" continued he, look-
ing at Mary.

u I thought James ParnelPs life was so
sad and sorrowful, that I must have some-
thing more cheerful with it, and as it is so
short, I thought thee would be willing to
read the second one too." "Certainly,"

the friend's family. 85

said her father. " But I must begin now,
for I have an engagement this afternoon,
and you can converse about them when I
am gone." So saying he commenced.

It was in the fifth month of the year
1656, that two young women, named Mary
Fisher and Anne Austin, arrived at Boston,
before there had ever been a law made
against the Quakers. But before they came
on shore, the deputy governor, who had pro-
bably heard that Quakers were dangerous
persons, sent officers on board the ship, who,
searching their trunks and chests, took away
about one hundred books which they found,
and placed them at the disposal of the coun-
cil, which ordered them to be burnt in the
market-place, and by the common hangman.
The young women were brought ashore and
committed to prison upon one proof only of
their being Quakers. One of them, speak-
ing to the deputy-governor, used the word
" thee," instead of you. Whereupon this
sagacious and wise deputy-governor said,
he needed no more, for he now saw they
were Quakers.

They were shut up as prisoners, and sup-
posed to be so dangerous in their doctrines,
that a fine of five pounds was laid upon
any one who should speak to them, even
through the window. And lest this should
not be sufficiently effectual, a board was
nailed upon the window of the jail. That

86 the friend's family.

religion could not have had a very strong
foundation which the breath of two young
women was likely to overset.

No one was even allowed to send them
victuals ; but a man named Nicholas Up-
shall, who had lived many years in Boston,
and was a member of the church there,
hearing with what severity they were treat-
ed, and fearing they would starve, sent
some money to the jailer, sufficient to pur-
chase provision.

Their pens, ink, and paper were taken
from them, and they were not suffered to
have any candle during the night. After
they had been kept in this way about five
weeks, the master of a vessel about to sail
for England, was bound under the penalty
of an hundred pounds to carry them back,
and to let no one speak to them while on
board his ship. The jailer kept their Bible
and tljeir beds which they had brought with
them for his fees.

Such was the treatment the Quakers first
met with in Boston, and this from the hands
of educated and professedly religious men,
who had left the fair fields of their own
native England, for the uncultivated wilds
of America, rather than not have liberty of
conscience, that very liberty which they
now denied to the Quakers who sought a
home among them. Nay ! so far did their
animosity extend, that Nicholas Upshall, the

the friend's family. S7

person who furnished them with money, an
old man of good character and belonging to
their own church, was fined twenty-three
pounds and banished out of their jurisdic-
tion. The fine was rigidly exacted, and
but a month allowed for his removal, al-
though in the depth of winter.

On leaving Boston, he went to Rhode
Island, where an Indian prince offered him
a new home, saying he "would make him
a warm house.''

This prince once asked him, " what kind
of a God have the English who deal so
with one another about their God ?" Well
might the unsophisticated son of the forest
ask this question, seeing the professed fol-
lowers of him whom they called the " meek
and lowly Jesus," inflicting wrong and out-
rage upon each other, as well as striving
their utmost to exterminate his own noble
race.

Of Anne Austin we hear nothing more.
But Mary Fisher, about four years after she
had been at Boston, and while she was still
unmarried, felt it to be her duty to deliver a
message which the Lord had sent by her to
Sultan Mahomet the fourth ; who at this
time was encamped with his army near
Adrianople.

She proceeded to Smyrna, intending to
go on from there : but the English consul at
that place would not permit her, but sent

88 the friend's family.

her to Venice. Still being impressed with
the belief that she must see the sultan, she
found another way open ; and, going alone,
made her way to the camp. Here she per-
suaded a person to go to the grand vizier,
and tell him that an " English woman had
come, bearing a message from the great
God to the sultan." The vizier sent an
answer that she should have the opportu-
nity of delivering it next morning. That
evening she went into Adrianople, and next
day early repaired to the camp again.

Here she was received, and conducted to
the sultan, who sat in state, surrounded by
his chiefs and great men, as he was used
to receive ambassadors. The sultan ask-
ed her, by his interpreters, if that was true
which had been told him, that she had some-
thing to say to him from the Lord God ?
She answered, " Yea." Then he bade her
speak on. But she, continuing in silence
for a little while, it occurred to the sultan
that she might be fearful of speaking be-
fore so many men ; and he asked her if she
desired that any might go away before she
spoke. She answered, " No." He then de-
sired her to speak the word of the Lord to
them and not to fear ; for they had good
hearts, and could bear it. He charged her
to speak his word, neither more nor less
than he had commissioned her with ; for
they could bear it.

The simple English maiden, unawed and

the friend's family. 89

undazzled with the magnificence of an east-
ern court, proceeded to declare in a few
guileless words, the testimony which she
bore from the Almighty. The turbaned and
bearded Turks listened with attentive seri-
ousness to the word of Mary Fisher, who
had periled her life a hundred times on her
way thither with the words of life. And
when she had finished, the sultan asked her
if she had anything more to say. She ask-
ed him if he understood what she did say.
To which he answered, yes ; and that what
she had spoken was truth.

He then invited her to stay in his coun-
try, saying, they could not but respect one
who would take so much pains as to come
from distant England, with a message from
the Lord. Finding her unwilling to stay,
he offered her a guard as far as Constanti-
nople, whither she intended to go. But she
being firm in faith that an all-powerful
Hand would protect her, this too was re-
fused ; although the sultan urged it upon
her, telling her the way was dangerous, and
full of perils to such a one as she; and that
he would not upon any account any harm
should befall her in his dominions. But
she, fully believing she would be preserved
by the Divine Master whom she loved and
served, would not consent to any other pro-
tection than he vouchsafed.

The Turks asked her what she thought

90 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY.

of their prophet Mahomet ? To which she
answered, she knew him not, but Christ the
true Prophet, the Son of God, the light of
the world, him she knew. And concerning
Mahomet, they might judge him to be true
or false, according to the words or prophe-
cies he spoke, adding, " If the word that a
prophet speaketh cometh to pass, then shall
you know that the Lord hath sent that pro-
phet ; but if it come not to pass, then shall
you know that the Lord never sent him."
The Turks confessed this to be true, and
Mary, having delivered her message, de-
parted from the camp. She then traveled
to Constantinople, and thence home to Eng-
land, without receiving " hurt or scoff."

To make her relation still more wonder-
ful, it appears she understood not a word
of any other language than her own. And
besides this, we must consider that women
are not allowed to uncover their faces be-
fore the men in Turkey — a custom almost
impossible for her to comply with. IUseems,
indeed, as if nothing less than divine assist-
ance could have enabled her to perform her
mission.

After returning to England, she married
a man named William Bayly, of whom it
was said, " As he was bold and zealous in
his preaching, being willing to improve his
time as if he knew it was not to be long, so
was he valiant in suffering for his testimony

THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 91

when called thereunto." Of Mary Fisher,
or rather Mary Bayly, we hear nothing
more ; so that she probably was permitted
to spend the remainder of her life in quiet.

As soon as Ell wood Steward had finished
reading this, he took out his watch, and see-
ing it was time to go, said he must leave
them. The weather was very cold, and
there was a slight sprinkle of snow upon
the ground. Two or three of his daughters
started up at once to wait upon and assist
him ; and even little Elly dragged his great
warm socks out of the closet, holding on to
the strings and pulling them after him.

Eliwood patted his little son's head, and
said, " Now, Elly, I thank thee. Father is
not going very far, and it is not worth while
to put them on." " Then we will put the
buffalo robe in the carriage, any how," said
Rebecca, starting off after it.

Where there were so many eager hands
to assist, every thing was soon done ; and
the father, muffled to the ears, or rather to
the nose and eyes, they being the only fea-
tures visiblej by the affectionate care of his
daughters, — was permitted to escape from
them. But after he was in the carriage,
Rebecca came running out to persuade him
to have a warm brick to keep his feet from

92 the friend's family.

getting cold. This he refused, with a plea-
sant smile at her eagerness ; and driving off,
left her wishing she could have done some-
thing more.

And now I must bid farewell to my little
readers, intending, if I find them interested
in the "Friend's Family/5 to give them
some more of the true stories that sister
Mary wrote for the children, and to tell them
how Rebecca spent the five dollars which
her father gave her for Sally Davis. And
possibly I may tell them about sister Mary's
wedding, and about a little journey she took
afterwards. Her little sisters were always
pleased to receive letters from her, and per-
haps other children would like them too.

THE END.

FRIENDS' BOOKS

FOR SALE BY

T. E. CHAPMAN,

No. 74 2V. Fourth street, below Race, Philadtlphia*

Friexds' Miscellany, 12 vols. ]2mo. -

Do Do single vols*

Job Scott's Works, 2 vols. 8vo.
Sewell's History, 1 vol. 8vo. -

Do Do 2 vols. 8vo.
Memoirs of S. Fothergill, 8vo.
The Quaker, vols. I, 2 and 4, 8vo.

Do single vols. 8vo.
Elias Hicks's Journal, 8vo. -
Do Do Discourses, 8vo.
Hugh Judge's Journal, 12mo.
George Fox's Do 8vo.

Barclay's Apology, 8vo. -

Wm. Bay ley's Works, 8 vo. -

Woolman's Works, 12mo. -

Hall and Martin's Journal, -

Sarah Grubb's Do ...

Jones' Analysis, 8vo. -

Joshua Evans' Journal, 12mo.

Rufus Hall's Do -

Life of T. Eliwood, Svo.

Wm. Shewen's Works, 8vo.

Cockburn's Review, 8vo. -

Penn's Rise and Progress, 12mo.

Janney's Poems, 12mo.

Dymond's Essays, -

Isaac Martin's Journal, 12mo.

Martha Smith's Letters, -

Friends' Discipline, 12mo. -
Do Pocket Map, -

Janney on Religious subjects, 18mo.

Emblem of Nature, 18mo. -

Hampton's Narrative, 12mo.

Narrative of Ann Byrd, 18mo. - 31

§10 00

87J

3 00

2 00

2 50

2 00

2 00

75

1 25

1 25

1 00

1 50

1 00

1 00

87i

87i

75

75

62^

50

50

50

50

50

50

50

40

37i

37*

37^

37A

37J

31

Jacob Ritter's Journal, 18mo. full bound.

Do Do half Do

Visit to the West Indies, 12mo.
A Teacher's Gift, 18 mo.
Kersey's Treatise, 18mo.
Early Impressions, 18mo.
The Friend's Family, 18mo.
The Remembrancer, calf gilt, - .

Do Do calf plain,

Do Do roan,

A Guide to True Peace, arabesque,

Do Do roan

Do Do half roan,

Sandy Foundation Shaken,
Holy Scripture the Test of Truth,
Observations, by T. M'Clintock,
Advices, Philad. Y. M., 18mo.
The True Way, by Wm. Law,
Deli on Baptism,
Brief Remarks, by J. J. Gurney,
Baltimore Defence, Do
Sermon and Prayer, Do
Early Friends and Dr. E. Ash,
Two Discourses, by E. Hicks, 1824,
J. Wilkinson's Letter, -
Memorials, N. Y. 1832,

Do Do 1836,
Isaac Childs' Vision, -
Friends' Pocket Almanac,
Dr. Parrish's Letter, -

31

25

30

25

25

25

25

00

75

50

37£

25"

20

25

25

25

20

12*

m

12J
12J
12J
IS}

12J

in

6i

WOOLLEY'S PENMANSHIP,

ON THE CARSTAIRIAN SYSTEM.

Copy Books, in five parts, per set, - - 50 cts.
System, Part I, containing exercises and in-
ductions, .... 25 "
System, Parts II.; III. and IV., each, - - 12^ '<
System complete, (four parts in one,) - 37§ <l
Copy slips, No. 1, 2, 3, per set, - - 12 J "

Believing that this System possesses merit above any
other now before the public, the subscriber respectfully

invites the attention of Controllers and Directors of Pub-
lic Schools thereto. Private teachers, who have personal
experience respecting previous works of the kind, will
doubtless perceive the advantages of these publications,
The simplicity and philosophical correctness of the Car-
stairian System enables the student to acquire a clear and
elegant hand, and to execute the same with surprising
ease and celerity.

.Parents would, by placing these books in the hands of
their children, find that they might improve themselves
very much. The exercises and copies being printed, and
directions for using them, would enable the child to learn
the System by a moderate degree of practice.

RECOMMENDATIONS.

T. E. Chapman,

I have examined " Woolley's Copy Books," designed
to facilitate the teaching of Penmanship by the Car-
stairian system,*and I think them decidedly superior to any
other published copy books with which I am acquainted.

Should they be approved by the Controllers and Direc-
tors, I shall immediately commence using them in the
school under my care. Very respectfully,

JAMES RHOADS,
Principal N. W. Public School.

April 7th, 1841.

To T. Ellwood Chapman, Philadelphia.

I have examined Woolley's Carstairian System o:
Penmanship, and believe it is calculated to facilitate the
acquisition of an easy and correct hand, in a superior man-
ner to any that has been adopted.

MARY H. MIDDLETON,
Principal of the Female department of Third Street

Public School.
Philadelphia, 4mo. 22, 1841.

Gentlemen, May, 5, 1841.

I have examined your books, and presume that in the
hands of a teacher acquainted with the system, they may
be very valuable aids in acquiring an easy legible hand-
writing. Very respectfully,

E. A. JONES,
Prin. Zane St. Intermediate Public School.

Mr. T. E. Chapman,

Dear Sir — I have cursorily examined the Copy Books
you submitted to me on the "Carstairian System of Pen-
manship, by G. W. Woolley," and am of opinion that
they are peculiarly calculated to give freedom to the hand
and to make good writers if they are closely adhered to.
With much respect, I am yours, &c.

W. G. E.AGNEW,
Principal Zane St. School, Boys' Department
I concur with the above, L. C. SMITH,

Principal Female Department.
I have examined the series of " Copy Books on the
Carstairian system," published by T. E. Chapman, and
consider them preferable to any thing of the kind that I
have seen. I shall make use of them in my school, be-
cause I am persuaded that, with reasonable care on the
part of the teacher, the pupil can scarcely fail to acquire
a good business hand, by practising the exercises which
these books contain. ELL WOOD WALTERS.

No. 187 Bowerye
I concur with the sentiments of approbation as above
expressed by Ellwood Walters, and purpose to introduce
the said Copy Books into the school under my care im-
mediately. D. J. GRISCOM,

Prin. N. Y. Mo. Meeting School,

Philadelphia, April 27, 1841.
~ Dear Sir — I have examined your series of Copy Books,
and from having partially pursued the same system for
several months, have no hesitation in saying that it pos-
sesses decided advantages over the usual methods, of writing
as taught in our schools, and that if your Copy Books are
introduced by the Board of Controllers, it will soon be the
only system made use of. Fours, &c,

WILSON H. PYLE,
Principal N.E. Public School.
I take pleasure in stating that I have examined Wool-
ley's new system of Writing Books, and consider them
an improvement upon the common books in use, and cal-
culated to abridge the arduous duties of teachers.

S. B. RITTENHOUSE,
Principal Havre de Grace Academy.
August 18, 1842.

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