Part 4

"We have been," said the children, speaking In their gladness, as the birds chime, All together,--"we have been seeking For the Fairies of olden time; For we thought, they are only hidden,-- They would never surely go From this green earth all unbidden, And the children that love them so. Though they come not around us leaping, As they did when they and the world Were young, we shall find them sleeping Within some broad leaf curled; For the lily its white doors closes But only over the bee, And we looked through the summer roses, Leaf by leaf, so carefully.

But we thought, rolled up we shall find them Among mosses old and dry; From gossamer threads that bind them, They will start like the butterfly, All winged: so we went forth seeking, Yet still they have kept unseen; Though we think our feet have been keeping The track where they have been, For we saw where their dance went flying O'er the pastures,--snowy white."

Their seats and their tables lying, O'erthrown in their sudden flight. And they, too, have had their losses, For we found the goblets white And red in the old spiked mosses, That they drank from over-night; And in the pale horn of the woodbine Was some wine left, clear and bright; "But we found," said the children, speaking More quickly, "so many things, That we soon forgot we were seeking,-- Forgot all the Fairy rings, Forgot all the stories olden That we hear round the fire at night, Of their gifts and their favors golden,-- The sunshine was so bright; And the flowers,--we found so many That it almost made us grieve To think there were some, sweet as any, That we were forced to leave; As we left, by the brook-side lying, The balls of drifted foam, And brought (after all our trying) These Guelder-roses home."

"Then, oh!" I heard one speaking Beside me soft and low, "I have been, like the blessed children, seeking, Still seeking, to and fro; Yet not, like them, for the Fairies,-- They might pass unmourned away For me, that had looked on angels,-- On angels that would not stay; No! not though in haste before them I spread all my heart's best cheer, And made love my banner o'er them, If it might but keep them here; They stayed but a while to rest them; Long, long before its close, From my feast, though I mourned and prest them The radiant guests arose; And their flitting wings struck sadness And silence; never more Hath my soul won back the gladness, That was its own before. No; I mourned not for the Fairies When I had seen hopes decay, That were sweet unto my spirit So long; I said, 'If they, That through shade and sunny weather Have twined about my heart, Should fade, we must go together, For we can never part!' But my care was not availing; I found their sweetness gone; I saw their bright tints paling;-- They died; yet I lived on.

"Yet seeking, ever seeking, Like the children, I have won A guerdon all undreamt of

When first my quest begun, And my thoughts come back like wanderers, Out-wearied, to my breast; What they sought for long they found not, Yet was the Unsought best. For I sought not out for crosses, I did not seek for pain; Yet I find the heart's sore losses Were the spirit's surest gain."

In _A Meditation_, the writer ventures, not without awe and reverence, upon that dim, unsounded ocean of mystery, the life beyond:--

"But is there prayer Within your quiet homes, and is there care For those ye leave behind? I would address My spirit to this theme in humbleness No tongue nor pen hath uttered or made known This mystery, and thus I do but guess At clearer types through lowlier patterns shown; Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own? Ye may not quit your sweetness; in the Vine More firmly rooted than of old, your wine Hath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grown To fuller stature; though the shock was keen That severed you from us, how oft below Hath sorest parting smitten but to show True hearts their hidden wealth that quickly grow The closer for that anguish,--friend to friend Revealed more clear,--and what is Death to rend The ties of life and love, when He must fade In light of very Life, when He must bend To love, that, loving, loveth to the end?

"I do not deem ye look Upon us now, for be it that your eyes Are sealed or clear, a burden on them lies Too deep and blissful for their gaze to brook Our troubled strife; enough that once ye dwelt Where now we dwell, enough that once ye felt As now we feel, to bid you recognize Our claim of kindred cherished though unseen; And Love that is to you for eye and ear Hath ways unknown to us to bring you near,-- To keep you near for all that comes between; As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer, As distant friends, that see not, and yet share (I speak of what I know) each other's care, So may your spirits blend with ours! Above Ye know not haply of our state, yet Love Acquaints you with our need, and through a way More sure than that of knowledge--so ye pray!

"And even thus we meet, And even thus we commune! spirits freed And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need To seek a common atmosphere, the air Is meet for either in this olden, sweet, Primeval breathing of Man's spirit,--Prayer!"

I give, in conclusion, a portion of one of her most characteristic poems, _The Reconciler_:--

"Our dreams are reconciled, Since Thou didst come to turn them all to Truth; The World, the Heart, are dreamers in their youth Of visions beautiful, and strange and wild; And Thou, our Life's Interpreter, dost still At once make clear these visions and fulfil;

Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme, Each mythic tale sublime Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue, Each morning dream the few, Wisdom's first lovers told, if read in Thee comes true.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Thou, O Friend From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own, Dost pierce the broken language of its moan-- Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy! Each yearning deep and wide, Each claim, is justified; Our young illusions fail not, though they die Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed To happy death, like early clouds that lie About the gates of Dawn,--a golden mist Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.

"The World that puts Thee by, That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train, That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry, 'We will not have Thee over us to reign,' Itself Both testify through searchings vain Of Thee and of its need, and for the good It will not, of some base similitude Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood, Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tear Its own illusions grown too thin and bare To wrap it longer; for within the gate Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate, A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies, And he who answers not its questions dies,-- Still changing form and speech, but with the same Vexed riddles, Gordian-twisted, bringing shame Upon the nations that with eager cry Hail each new solver of the mystery; Yet he, of these the best, Bold guesser, hath but prest Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong; True Champion, that hast wrought Our help of old, and brought Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong.

"O Bearer of the key That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet Its turning in the wards is melody, All things we move among are incomplete And vain until we fashion them in Thee! We labor in the fire, Thick smoke is round about us; through the din Of words that darken counsel clamors dire Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where within Two Giants toil, that even from their birth With travail-pangs have torn their mother Earth, And wearied out her children with their keen Upbraidings of the other, till between Thou tamest, saying, 'Wherefore do ye wrong Each other?--ye are Brethren.' Then these twain Will own their kindred, and in Thee retain Their claims in peace, because Thy land is wide As it is goodly! here they pasture free, This lion and this leopard, side by side, A little child doth lead them with a song; Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no more Doth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore, For one did ask a Brother, one a King, So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring-- Thou, King forevermore, forever Priest, Thou, Brother of our own from bonds released A Law of Liberty, A Service making free, A Commonweal where each has all in Thee.

"And not alone these wide, Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cry Their meat from God, in Thee are satisfied; But all our instincts waking suddenly Within the soul, like infants from their sleep That stretch their arms into the dark and weep, Thy voice can still. The stricken heart bereft Of all its brood of singing hopes, and left 'Mid leafless boughs, a cold, forsaken nest With snow-flakes in it, folded in Thy breast Doth lose its deadly chill; and grief that creeps Unto Thy side for shelter, finding there The wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan, and weeps Calm, quiet tears, and on Thy forehead Care Hath looked until its thorns, no longer bare, Put forth pale roses. Pain on Thee doth press Its quivering cheek, and all the weariness, The want that keep their silence, till from Thee They hear the gracious summons, none beside Hath spoken to the world-worn, 'Come to me,' Tell forth their heavy secrets.

"Thou dost hide These in Thy bosom, and not these alone, But all our heart's fond treasure that had grown A burden else: O Saviour, tears were weighed To Thee in plenteous measure! none hath shown That Thou didst smile! yet hast Thou surely made All joy of ours Thine own.

"Thou madest us for Thine; We seek amiss, we wander to and fro; Yet are we ever on the track Divine; The soul confesseth Thee, but sense is slow To lean on aught but that which it may see; So hath it crowded up these Courts below With dark and broken images of Thee; Lead Thou us forth upon Thy Mount, and show Thy goodly patterns, whence these things of old By Thee were fashioned; One though manifold. Glass Thou Thy perfect likeness in the soul, Show us Thy countenance, and we are whole!"

No one, I am quite certain, will regret that I have made these liberal quotations. Apart from their literary merit, they have a special interest for the readers of The Patience of Hope, as more fully illustrating the writer's personal experience and aspirations.

It has been suggested by a friend that it is barely possible that an objection may be urged against the following treatise, as against all books of a like character, that its tendency is to isolate the individual from his race, and to nourish an exclusive and purely selfish personal solicitude; that its piety is self-absorbent, and that it does not take sufficiently into account active duties and charities, and the love of the neighbor so strikingly illustrated by the Divine Master in His life and teachings. This objection, if valid, would be a fatal one. For, of a truth, there can be no meaner type of human selfishness than that afforded by him who, unmindful of the world of sin and suffering about him, occupies himself in the pitiful business of saving his own soul, in the very spirit of the miser, watching over his private hoard while his neighbors starve for lack of bread. But surely the benevolent unrest, the far-reaching sympathies and keen sensitiveness to the suffering of others, which so nobly distinguish our present age, can have nothing to fear from a plea for personal holiness, patience, hope, and resignation to the Divine will. "The more piety, the more compassion," says Isaac Taylor; and this is true, if we understand by piety, not self-concentred asceticism, but the pure religion and undefiled which visits the widow and the fatherless, and yet keeps itself unspotted from the world,--which deals justly, loves mercy, and yet walks humbly before God. Self- scrutiny in the light of truth can do no harm to any one, least of all to the reformer and philanthropist. The spiritual warrior, like the young candidate for knighthood, may be none the worse for his preparatory ordeal of watching all night by his armor.

Tauler in mediaeval times and Woolman in the last century are among the most earnest teachers of the inward life and spiritual nature of Christianity, yet both were distinguished for practical benevolence. They did not separate the two great commandments. Tauler strove with equal intensity of zeal to promote the temporal and the spiritual welfare of men. In the dark and evil time in which he lived, amidst the untold horrors of the "Black Plague," he illustrated by deeds of charity and mercy his doctrine of disinterested benevolence. Woolman's whole life was a nobler Imitation of Christ than that fervid rhapsody of monastic piety which bears the name.

How faithful, yet, withal, how full of kindness, were his rebukes of those who refused labor its just reward, and ground the faces of the poor? How deep and entire was his sympathy with overtasked and ill-paid laborers; with wet and illprovided sailors; with poor wretches blaspheming in the mines, because oppression had made them mad; with the dyers plying their unhealthful trade to minister to luxury and pride; with the tenant wearing out his life in the service of a hard landlord; and with the slave sighing over his unrequited toil! What a significance there was in his vision of the "dull, gloomy mass" which appeared before him, darkening half the heavens, and which he was told was "human beings in as great misery as they could be and live; and he was mixed with them, and henceforth he might not consider himself a distinct and separate being"! His saintliness was wholly unconscious; he seems never to have thought himself any nearer to the tender heart of God than the most miserable sinner to whom his compassion extended. As he did not live, so neither did he die to himself. His prayer upon his death-bed was for others rather than himself; its beautiful humility and simple trust were marred by no sensual imagery of crowns and harps and golden streets, and personal beatific exaltations; but tender and touching concern for suffering humanity, relieved only by the thought of the paternity of God, and of His love and omnipotence, alone found utterance in ever-memorable words.

In view of the troubled state of the country and the intense preoccupation of the public mind, I have had some hesitation in offering this volume to its publishers. But, on further reflection, it has seemed to me that it might supply a want felt by many among us; that, in the chaos of civil strife and the shadow of mourning which rests over the land, the contemplation of "things unseen which are eternal" might not be unwelcome; that, when the foundations of human confidence are shaken, and the trust in man proves vain, there might be glad listeners to a voice calling from the outward and the temporal to the inward and the spiritual; from the troubles and perplexities of time, to the eternal quietness which God giveth. I cannot but believe that, in the heat and glare through which we are passing, this book will not invite in vain to the calm, sweet shadows of holy meditation, grateful as the green wings of the bird to Thalaba in the desert; and thus afford something of consolation to the bereaved, and of strength to the weary. For surely never was the Patience of Hope more needed; never was the inner sanctuary of prayer more desirable; never was a steadfast faith in the Divine goodness more indispensable, nor lessons of self-sacrifice and renunciation, and that cheerful acceptance of known duty which shifts not its proper responsibility upon others, nor asks for "peace in its day" at the expense of purity and justice, more timely than now, when the solemn words of ancient prophecy are as applicable to our own country as to that of the degenerate Jew,--"Thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backsliding reprove thee; know, therefore, it is an evil thing, and bitter, that thou bast forsaken the Lord, and that my fear is not in thee,"--when "His way is in the deep, in clouds, and in thick darkness," and the hand heavy upon us which shall "turn and overturn until he whose right it is shall reign,"--until, not without rending agony, the evil plant which our Heavenly Father hath not planted, whose roots have wound themselves about altar and hearth-stone, and whose branches, like the tree Al-Accoub in Moslem fable, bear the accursed fruit of oppression, rebellion, and all imaginable crime, shall be torn up and destroyed forever.

AMESBURY, 1st 6th mo., 1862.

THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS.

The following letters were addressed to the Editor of the Friends' Review in Philadelphia, in reference to certain changes of principle and practice in the Society then beginning to be observable, but which have since more than justified the writer's fears and solicitude.

I.

AMESBURY, 2d mo., 1870.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE REVIEW.

ESTEEMED FRIEND,--If I have been hitherto a silent, I have not been an indifferent, spectator of the movements now going on in our religious Society. Perhaps from lack of faith, I have been quite too solicitous concerning them, and too much afraid that in grasping after new things we may let go of old things too precious to be lost. Hence I have been pleased to see from time to time in thy paper very timely and fitting articles upon a _Hired Ministry_ and _Silent Worship_.

The present age is one of sensation and excitement, of extreme measures and opinions, of impatience of all slow results. The world about us moves with accelerated impulse, and we move with it: the rest we have enjoyed, whether true or false, is broken; the title-deeds of our opinions, the reason of our practices, are demanded. Our very right to exist as a distinct society is questioned. Our old literature--the precious journals and biographies of early and later Friends--is comparatively neglected for sensational and dogmatic publications. We bear complaints of a want of educated ministers; the utility of silent meetings is denied, and praying and preaching regarded as matters of will and option. There is a growing desire for experimenting upon the dogmas and expedients and practices of other sects. I speak only of admitted facts, and not for the purpose of censure or complaint. No one has less right than myself to indulge in heresy-hunting or impatience of minor differences of opinion. If my dear friends can bear with me, I shall not find it a hard task to bear with them.

But for myself I prefer the old ways. With the broadest possible tolerance for all honest seekers after truth! I love the Society of Friends. My life has been nearly spent in laboring with those of other sects in behalf of the suffering and enslaved; and I have never felt like quarrelling with Orthodox or Unitarians, who were willing to pull with me, side by side, at the rope of Reform. A very large proportion of my dearest personal friends are outside of our communion; and I have learned with John Woolman to find "no narrowness respecting sects and opinions." But after a kindly and candid survey of them all, I turn to my own Society, thankful to the Divine Providence which placed me where I am; and with an unshaken faith in the one distinctive doctrine of Quakerism-- the Light within--the immanence of the Divine Spirit in Christianity. I cheerfully recognize and bear testimony to the good works and lives of those who widely differ in faith and practice; but I have seen no truer types of Christianity, no better men and women, than I have known and still know among those who not blindly, but intelligently, hold the doctrines and maintain the testimonies of our early Friends. I am not blind to the shortcomings of Friends. I know how much we have lost by narrowness and coldness and inactivity, the overestimate of external observances, the neglect of our own proper work while acting as conscience-keepers for others. We have not, as a society, been active enough in those simple duties which we owe to our suffering fellow- creatures, in that abundant labor of love and self-denial which is never out of place. Perhaps our divisions and dissensions might have been spared us if we had been less "at ease in Zion." It is in the decline of practical righteousness that men are most likely to contend with each other for dogma and ritual, for shadow and letter, instead of substance and spirit. Hence I rejoice in every sign of increased activity in doing good among us, in the precious opportunities afforded of working with the Divine Providence for the Freedmen and Indians; since the more we do, in the true spirit of the gospel, for others, the more we shall really do for ourselves. There is no danger of lack of work for those who, with an eye single to the guidance of Truth, look for a place in God's vineyard; the great work which the founders of our Society began is not yet done; the mission of Friends is not accomplished, and will not be until this world of ours, now full of sin and suffering, shall take up, in jubilant thanksgiving, the song of the Advent: "Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth and good-will to men!"

It is charged that our Society lacks freedom and adaptation to the age in which we live, that there is a repression of individuality and manliness among us. I am not prepared to deny it in certain respects. But, if we look at the matter closely, we shall see that the cause is not in the central truth of Quakerism, but in a failure to rightly comprehend it; in an attempt to fetter with forms and hedge about with dogmas that great law of Christian liberty, which I believe affords ample scope for the highest spiritual aspirations and the broadest philanthropy. If we did but realize it, we are "set in a large place."

"We may do all we will save wickedness."

"Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."

Quakerism, in the light of its great original truth, is "exceeding broad." As interpreted by Penn and Barclay it is the most liberal and catholic of faiths. If we are not free, generous, tolerant, if we are not up to or above the level of the age in good works, in culture and love of beauty, order and fitness, if we are not the ready recipients of the truths of science and philosophy,--in a word, if we are not full- grown men and Christians, the fault is not in Quakerism, but in ourselves. We shall gain nothing by aping the customs and trying to adjust ourselves to the creeds of other sects. By so doing we make at the best a very awkward combination, and just as far as it is successful, it is at the expense of much that is vital in our old faith. If, for instance, I could bring myself to believe a hired ministry and a written creed essential to my moral and spiritual well-being, I think I should prefer to sit down at once under such teachers as Bushnell and Beecher, the like of whom in Biblical knowledge, ecclesiastical learning, and intellectual power, we are not likely to manufacture by half a century of theological manipulation in a Quaker "school of the prophets." If I must go into the market and buy my preaching, I should naturally seek the best article on sale, without regard to the label attached to it.