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CHILDREN, God bless them! Who can help
loving them! Children, God bless them! are the
only beings for whom we have no “imperfect sympathies.”
We love them through and through.
There is nothing conventional in the hearty laugh
of a child. The smile of a child is unsuspectable
of artifice. I once corrected one of my little ones,
and put him to bed, for having been stubborn at
his letters. Then I waited until he fell asleep, and
then I watched beside him until he slumbered out
his sorrows. When he opened his eyes, he stretched
out his little arms, smiled up in my face, and forgave
me. The Lord forgive me for the whaling I
gave him! I owe him an apology, which I intend

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to make so soon as he is old enough to understand
it. There is nothing so odious to the mind of a
child as injustice, and young married people are
prone to expect too much, and exact too much of
their eldest born. If then we are unjustly severe
from our want of experience, it seem to me there
is something due, some reparation on our part, due
to the individual whose feelings we have injured.
If we lose temper with a gentleman six feet high,
and call him hard names, we often find it convenient
to apologize. It seems to me that three feet
of wounded sensibility is, at least, entitled to
respectful consideration. What do you think of
that, Mrs. Sparrowgrass? Mrs. Sparrowgrass said
she thought it was true. “How much,” I continued,
reflectively, “children occupy the father's
mind.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “and the
mother's.” “Children,” said I, “are to the father
as weights are to the clock—they keep him steady
and they keep him busy.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass looked up from the plaid patch
of new gingham she was needling into the breast
of a faded gingham apron, and nodded significantly:
“True,” said she, “you are the hour hand, but I
am the minute hand.”

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As this was the most brilliant remark Mrs. S.
had made for months, I was silent for some time.

“My dear,” said I, after a pause, “speaking of
children, I wish you would not teach the young
ones so many of your Philadelphia phrases.” Mrs.
Sparrowgrass looked surprised. “You know, my
dear,” I continued, “how proud I am this year,
and justly proud, too, of our musk-melons?”
“Well?” “And when Uncle Sourgrass was here
the other day, what should Ivanhoe do but ask him
to go out to look at the cantelopes.” “Well, what
of that?” said Mrs. S. “Cantelope,” said I, “in
this part of the world, is the name of a very inferior
species of melon, and I would not have had
Uncle Sourgrass think we had nothing but cantelopes
in the garden, upon any account.” “You
wouldn't?” “No! You call all kinds of melons
`cantelopes' in Philadelphia, but permit me to say
that it is a local error, which should not be transplanted
and trained in juvenile minds on the banks
of the Hudson.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass was much
impressed by this horticultural figure. “Then,
when visitors come, you always will take them to
see that patch of `Queen Margarets,' and everybody
gets disappointed to find they are only

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Chinaasters.” “Well?” “And there is another thing
too Mrs. Sparrowgrass; next Christmas Santa
Claus, if you please—no Kriss Kringle. Santa
Claus is the patron saint, Mrs. Sparrowgrass, of the
New Netherlands, and the ancient Dorp of Yonkers;
he it is who fills the fireside stockings; he
only can come down Westchester chimneys, and I
would much prefer not to have the children's
minds, and the flue, occupied with his Pennsylvania
prototype. And, since I must speak of it, why
will you always call a quail a partridge? All you
Philadelphians will call a quail a partridge. Did
you ever read Audubon?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said she never had. “Wilson?” “Never.”
“Charles Bonaparte?” (A dead silence.) “Nor
any other work on ornithology?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said there was a little bundle of remnants and
patches in the upper part of the closet, which she
wished I would reach down. “A quail,” I continued,
as I reached down the bundle, “is not a
partridge, my dear.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said the
next time we had partridges she would call them
all quails, as she supposed I knew which was correct
better than she did. With that she unrolled

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the bundle and drew therefrom a long, triangular
piece of faded, mouse-colored silk.

There are moments when I feel as if I would like
to launch into a little sea of language, and spread a
nautilus sail in delicate air. The great, three-deckers
of thought, the noble orators and splendid
statesmen, require the broader and more turbulent
ocean for their ponderous movements. But for
me, who have seen something of the eloquent world,
from the magnates of the senate, in palmy days,
down to the present windy representatives of the
great metropolis in Common Council assembled,
there seems to be a more captivating charm in
those lighter crafts that float in safety over the shallows
of polite conversation, and venture securely
amid the rocks and whirlpools of social argument.
Who has not felt as if he would like to preach for
half an hour or so upon some favorite text or topic?
Who has not, in some auspicious instant, been so
fortified in argument as to absolutely suffer for the
stimulant of opposition, to enable him to unload his
mind and be comfortable? Mrs. Sparrowgrass, by
an ill-timed, brilliant remark, had broken the
thread of my discourse upon children, and she had

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put an end to my argument against local phrases,
by requesting me to reach down a piebald bundle
of patches. But from that roll of remnants she
had drawn forth a long, triangular piece of mouse-colored
silk. The tint was suggestive. It was a
text, a thesis, that would bear amplifying. So I at
once started off. “My dear, do you know I have
long felt as if I would like to be one of the society
called `Friends?' ” Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied,
she did not know I had contemplated so serious a
departure from the rules of propriety. “My dear,”
I said, “no person has a greater feeling of respect
and regard than I have for the sect that so unjustly
bears the name of

QUAKERS.

“There is something, in the very aspect of a
`Friend,' suggestive of peace and good will.
Verily, if it were not for the broad-brimmed hat,
and the straight coat, which the world's people call
`shad,' I would be a Quaker. But for the life of
me I cannot resist the effect of the grotesque and
the odd. I must smile, oftenest at myself. I could
not keep within drab garments and the bounds of

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propriety. Incongruity would read me out of
meeting. To be reined in under a plain hat would
be impossible. Besides, I doubt whether any one
accustomed to the world's pleasures could be a
Quaker. Who, once familiar with Shakspeare and
the opera, could resist a favorite air on a hand
organ, or pass, undisturbed, `Hamlet!' in capital
letters on a play bill? To be a Quaker, one must
be a Quaker born. In spite of Sydney Smith, there
is such a thing as a Quaker baby. In fact, I have
seen it—a diminutive demurity, a stiff-plait in the
bud. It had round blue eyes, and a face that
expressed resignation in spite of the stomach-ache.
It had no lace on its baby-cap, no embroidered
nonsense on its petticoat. It had no beads, no ribbons,
no rattle, no bells, no coral. Its plain garments
were innocent of inserting and edging; its
socks were not of the color of the world's people's
baby. It was as punctiliously silent as a silent
meeting, and sat up rigidly in its mother's lap,
twirling its thumbs and cutting its teeth without a
gum-ring. It never cried, nor clapped its hands,
and would not have said `papa' if it had been tied
to the stake. When it went to sleep it was hushed
without a song, and they laid it in a drab-colored

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cradle without a rocker. Don't interrupt me, I
have seen it, Mrs. Sparrowgrass!

“Something I have observed too, remarkably,
strikingly Quakeristic. The young maidens and
the young men never seem inclined to be fat.
Such a thing as a maiden lady, nineteen years of
age, with a pound of superfluous flesh, is not known
among Friends. The young men sometimes grow
outside the limits of a straight coat, and when they
do, they quietly change into the habits of ordinary
men. Either they are read out of meeting, or else
they lose their hold when they get too round and
too ripe, and just drop off. Remarkably Quakeristic,
too, is an exemption the Friends appear to
enjoy from diseases and complaints peculiar to other
people. Who ever saw a Quaker marked with the
small-pox, or a Quaker with the face-ache? Who
ever saw a cross-eyed Quaker, or a decided case of
mumps under a broad-brimmed hat? Nobody.
Mrs. Sparrowgrass, don't interrupt me. Doubtless
much of this is owing to their cleanliness, duplex
cleanliness, purity of body and soul. I saw a face
in the cars, not long since—a face that had calmly
endured the storms of seventy yearly meetings. It
was a hot, dry day, the windows were all open;

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dust was pouring into the cars; eye-brows, eye-lashes,
ends of hair, mustachios, wigs, coat-collars,
sleeves, waistcoats, and trowsers of the world's people,
were touched with a fine tawny color. Their
faces had a general appearance of humidity in
streaks, now and then tatooed with a black cinder;
but there, within a satin bonnet (Turk's satin), a
bonnet made after the fashion of Professor Espy's
patent ventilator, was a face of seventy years, calm
as a summer morning, smooth as an infant's, without
one speck or stain of dust, without one touch
of perspiration, or exasperation, Mrs. S. No, nor
was there, on the cross-pinned 'kerchief, nor on the
elaborately plain dress, one atom of earthy contact;
the very air did seem to respect that aged Quakeress.

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass, don't interrupt me. Did
you ever, my dear, `get the writings of John Woolman
by heart, and love the early Quakers,' as beloved
Charles Lamb recommends? No? Then
let me advise you to read the book, and learn something
of one who had felt the efficacy of that power,
which, as he says, `prepares the creature to stand
like a trumpet, through which the Lord speaks to
his people.' Here is a little story of his early

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childhood, which I want you to read to the children
now and then.

“ `Once going to a neighbor's house, I saw, on
the way, a Robin sitting on her nest, and, as I came
near, she went off; but, having young ones, flew
about, and, with many cries, expressed her concern
for them. I stood and threw stones at her, till, one
striking her, she fell down dead. At first, I was
pleased with the exploit; but, after a few minutes,
was seized with horror, as having, in a sportive
way, killed an innocent creature while she was
careful of her young. I beheld her lying dead,
and thought those young ones, for which she was
so careful, must now perish for the want of their
dam to nourish them; and, after some painful considerations
on the subject, I climbed up the tree,
took all the young birds, and killed them, supposing
that better than to leave them to pine away and
die miserably; and believed, in this case, that
Scripture proverb was fulfilled, “The tender mercies
of the wicked are cruel.” I then went on my
errand; but, for some hours, could think of nothing
else but the cruelties I had committed, and was
much troubled. Thus He, whose tender mercies
are above all his works, hath placed a principle in

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the human mind, which incites to exercise goodness
toward every living creature; and this being
singly attended to, people become tender-hearted
and sympathizing; but being frequently and
totally rejected, the mind becomes shut up in a
contrary disposition.'

“Don't interrupt me, my dear. And Thomas
Lurting, too; his adventures are well worth reading
to the children. A Quaker sailor, the mate of
a Quaker ship, manned with a Quaker crew, every
one of which had a straight collar to his pea-jacket,
and a tarpaulin, with at least three feet diameter of
brim. Thomas Lurting, whose ship was captured
by Algerine pirates after a hard chase, and who
welcomed them on board as if they had been brothers.
Then, when the Quaker vessel and the
Algerine were separated by a storm, how friendly
those salt-water non-resistants were to their captors
on board their own vessel; with what alacrity did
they go aloft to take in sail, or to shake out a reef,
until those heathen pirates left the handling of the
ship entirely to their broad-brimmed brethren, and
went to sleep in the cabin; and then, what did the
Quakers do but first shut the cabin doors, and fasten
them, so that the Turks could not get out again?

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And then, fearless of danger, they steered for the
Barbary coast, and made those fierce, mustached
pirates get into a small boat (they had been for ever
locked up else), and rowed them to the shore; and
when the Turks found themselves in a small boat
with but a small crew of broad-brims, and gave
signs of mutiny, what did the brave Thomas Lurting?
Lay violent hands on them? Draw a cutlass,
or cock a pistol? No, he merely struck the
leader `a pretty heavy blow with a boat-hook, telling
him to sit still and be quiet,' as he says himself,
`thinking it was better to stun a man than to kill
him.' And so he got the pirates on shore, and in
their own country. Brave Thomas Lurting! True?
Of course, it is true.

“The most singular spectacle I ever witnessed
was the burial-service over a Quaker, in a Catholic
cathedral. He had formerly been the rigidest of
his sect—a man who had believed the mitre and
crozier to be little better than the horns and tail of
the evil one—a man who had looked upon church
music and polygamy with equal abhorrence, and
who would rather have been burnt himself than
burn a Roman candle on the anniversary of the
national jubilee. Yet, by one of those inexplicable

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inconsistencies, peculiar to mere men, but rare
among Quakers, he had seceded from the faith of
his fathers, and become one of the most zealous of
papists.

“The grand altar was radiant with wax tapers;
the priests on either side, in glittering dresses, were
chanting responses; the censer boys, in red and
white garments, swung the smoke of myrrh and
frankincense into the air, and as the fragant mist
rolled up and hung in rosy clouds under the lofty,
stained-glass windows, the great organ panted forth
the requiem. Marvellously contrasted with this
pomp and display appeared the crowd of broad-brims
and stiff-plaits, the friends and relatives of
the deceased. Never, perhaps, had such an andience
been grathered in such a place in the world
before. The scene, to the priests themselves, must
have been novel and striking. Instead of the usual
display of reverence, instead of the customary show
of bare heads and bended knees, every Quaker
stood stoutly on his legs, with his broad-brimmed
hat clinging to his head as strongly as his faith to
his heart. Disciplined as they had been in many
a silent meeting, during the entire mass not one of
the broad-brims moved an inch until the service

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was over. Then the coffin was opened and
solemnly, silently, decorously, the brethren and
sisters moved towards it to look, for the last time,
upon the face of the seceder. Then silently,
solemnly, decorously, they moved from the Popish
temple. `I saw,' said one of the sisters, `that he
(meaning the departed ex-Quaker) had on worked
slippers with silver soles, what does thee think that
was for?' The person spoken to wore a hat with a
goodly brim. Without moving his head, he rolled
around, sideways, two Quakeristic eyes, large blue
eyes, with little inky dots of pupils, like small black
islands in oceans of buttermilk, and said, awfully—
`I suppose they was to walk through Purgatory
with.' ”

“I do not believe it,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
“Nevertheless, my dear, it is true,” I replied;
“true, every word of it. You have not seen all the
world yet, my dear; it is a very large place—a
very large place, indeed, Mrs. Sparrowgrass.”

p529-155

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