still.

The leaders of the Ranters had already capitulated unconditionally to Muggleton, when the defection of some weaker Friends warned Fox that the struggle could no longer be avoided. A great debate was held at a hall in Eastcheap and, whoever had the best of the argument, Fox had the worst of the vote. Muggleton left the meeting in triumph, having publicly pronounced sentence of damnation on Fox. Thenceforth he never showed for his opponents anything except the cool contempt of assured mastery. Fox, however, was not to be disposed of by mere vaporing. He was fashioned in a very different clay from the lunatics and tipplers whom Muggleton had so often frightened into their graves. He continued the contest through the medium of pamphlets with a bitterness suspiciously akin to weakness, and only retired from it when he found, in Penn and Farnsworth, men even better equal to cope with the multitudinous vituperation of his rival, men who certainly did not apply the doctrine of non-resistance to their polemical writings, but who gave back curse for curse with astonishing fecundity.

The incident is one on which, for obvious reasons, Fox's extreme admirers have preferred to keep silence. And indeed it is pleasant to turn from the sordid squabble, and to follow him out from the hum and roar of London streets upon his crusade against the flesh and the devil; to watch his exertions for getting the children of the street taught trades; to listen to his voice, two full centuries before its time, denouncing the ferocity of the penal code; and to hear him pleading with Parliament and with King for complete religious toleration. In London he had been under the protection of Cromwell; in the west country he had to deal with Desborough, a person with no poetry in his composition. Brought up before the Lord Chief Justice, he declined to remove his hat, on the grounds that to make obeisance to man was against the law of God and the constitution of the country. Come," cried the Judge, "where had they hats from Moses to Daniel ? Come, answer me; I have you fast now.' The three children,' returned Fox, were cast into the fiery NEW SERIES.-VOL. LIX., No. 1.

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furnace with their hats on." He was promptly committed to Launceston jail for contempt. His jailer was a thief branded in the hand; his cell a hole in the old keep, two inches deep in oozing slime, so noisome that he was forced to burn the straw thrown to him as bedding, to avoid being poisoned. At the end of nine weeks he was released, still contumacious. Little wonder that Hugh Peters told Cromwell that if the Government wished to convert England to Quakerism, they were going the way to do it.

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Fox's first act on his release was to preach defiantly in the streets of Launceston. Then he set out to visit the Friends throughout the country. rode by Exeter to Bristol, and crossing the Severn came to Cardiff. For weeks, attended by one faithful follower, John ap John, he wandered among the Welsh hills, enduring incredible privation and often barely escaping with his life. Pressing steadily north he reached Liverpool, whose miles of docks and forests of chimneys were then represented by a little sea port of four thousand souls. Passing through Passing through Manchester, whose warehouses were already filling with the cotton bales of Smyrna, he entered Cumberland, the scene of his earlier struggle with that potent sheriff Wilfred Lawson. From whence, taking with him one Robert Widders, a thundering man against hypocrisy and deceit," he climbed through the Cheviots into Scotland. Upon Scotland Fox seems to have made no impression whatever. He was not persecuted; he was simply ignored. The Council, it is true, at last ordered him to cross the border within seven days, but they appear to have permitted him to construe the seven pretty elastically. The people, still under the spell of the hideous eschatology of Knox and Calvin, were little in the humor to listen to the doctrine of perfection. At Stirling the townsfolk attended a horse-race in preference to his sermon. In the whole great city of Glasgow he could not muster an audience of one. Even in Edinburgh, where the Lord blinded the sentries to enable him to pass the gates, he was only indifferently successful. At Johnstone he was seized gently but firmly, and put across the river. It was in

5

vain that on market-days he took his stand beneath the village cross; the populace took no notice of him, not so much as to throw a carrot at him. Still there were times when his earnestness thawed the frost of his unwilling listeners, and the deep northern nature answered back in unexpected sympathy. These, however, were the exceptions. The Scotch, he declares, “being a dark and carnal people, gave little heed; but the husbandman is to wait in patience." Comforted with that he crossed the Tweed at Berwick, and rode south again.

Fox arrived in London during the last days of the Protectorate. He was there when Thomas Aldam, despairing at Cromwell's indifference to the persecution of the Friends, took off his cap at Whitehall and, having rent it in pieces in the approved biblical manner, cast the pieces at the Protector's feet, with the words, "So shall thy Government be rent from thee and thy house." No doubt Fox honestly believed that the prophecy was fulfilled in the Restoration, just as Muggleton, after having admonished one of his disciples for taking upon himself to damn a dozen odd scoffers, remarked parenthetically, "Not but that I do believe they will all be damned." A habit of noting only the results which fit is an indiscretion common to all fanatics. Fox himself never omits to add to the tale of those who, like "Old Preston's wife," came to an untimely end after making light of him. At the same time, if the sum of those who jeered and were cut off could be deducted from the sum of those who jeered with impunity, the death-rate would probably be found to have remained stationary. The Quakers, however, gained little by Monk's action. If the oath of abjuration, in the hands of the Commonwealth judges, had proved a whip, the oath of supremacy, in the hands of those of the King, quickly developed into a scorpion. If he taunted them with their subserviency to the Protector, they tendered him the oath; if he claimed the protection of the Declaration of Breda, they tendered him the oath; even when he had walked straight through the flaws of the indictment, they fell back on the oath. "You shall have the

"You are ac

law," cried one of them furiously, when he had been beaten hopelessly in open court at his own trade. quitted on the charge. Now tender him the oath." It was in vain he protested unceasingly against being ordered to swear on a book that forbade swearing. The judges remained obdurate; and he continued to make the tour of the country jails with increasing velocity.

When the King had been some nine years upon the throne Fox determined to visit the Friends in Ireland. At the first blush there is something almost comical at the idea of an Irishman in Quaker habiliments. Those, however, to whom Fox turned were not so much the Celtic Catholics as the Presbyterian Planters of the Pale. Sailing from Liverpool he landed at Dublin, where "the earth and air smelt," he thought, "with the corruption of the nation." His first act was characteristic. He issued a challenge to all the priests to public disputation. The years following the storm of Drogheda were, however, not the time at which one would naturally have expected to find Rome active. No answers, save a few savage mutterings, came to his proposal; and he was able to take a bloodless triumph in a document in which he compared them disadvantageously with the priests of Baal, who indeed "tried their wooden god," while the Catholics dare venture nothing with theirs of bread and wine. The Presbyterians, however, proved of tougher fibre. The Mayor of Cork put the soldiers on his track; and it was with considerable difficulty that he was able to hold the meetings which he declares were abundantly blessed. After a short stay he returned to Dublin, whence he sailed amid the enthusiasm of the Friends, who followed him to sea in their little boats, "at least a league, though not without danger.'

The year of Fox's return to England is memorable as the date of the solitary action of his career in which he seems to have considered his personal feelings. Seventeen years previously he had made the acquaintance, in the Lake country of Judge Fell and his wife Margaret. They had been among his earliest converts and had stood nobly

by him in the storm of obloquy and persecution which had then threatened to overwhelm him. Upon the death of her husband, which occurred shortly after, Margaret had thrown herself actively into the work of propagation, and had bravely borne her load of imprisonment and revilement. She had stood upon more than one occasion between Fox and his tormentors, and it was to her personal intercession with the King that the Quakers owed such little freedom as they had. If something warmer than friendship had not grown up between the two it would have been strange. Their marriage, which took place now in Bristol, was the product of many years of comradeship in trial. It was one on both sides of purest affection; and Fox's letters to his "dear heart," though they are neither numerous nor lengthy, strike a new note of tenderness. But their happiness was nót long undisturbed; within a few weeks they were both prisoners in distant jails for conscience' sake.

By this time the Quakers were be ginning to push their peculiar tenets beyond their native shores. They had overrun Holland, that ancient home of religious freedom; they were settlers in the great trading cities of the north German seaboard; they lay in the dungeons of the Inquisition at Malta, and were seen in the bazaars of Alexandria; they were to be found on the planta tions of the West Indian Islands, and upon the clearances of the North American colonies; and they even talked of carrying the truth to the mandarins of Canton. Fox was no longer young; the terrible hardships he had endured had made him prematurely old; but with indomitable courage he determined to cross the seas to take his part in the crusade.

On the 13th of June, 1671, he sailed from Gravesend aboard the Industry. The same evening they hove to off Deal to land the friends of the passengers, among them Fox's wife. The voyage proved anything but a pleasure-party. The vessel took eight inches of water an hour, and from the start the passengers were forced to join the crew at the pumps; three weeks out from London they were chased by a Sallee pirate, and only avoided capture owing to a

dark night and a fresh gale. At last, after a voyage of just under two months, they made Barbadoes, and dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay. Three months later they again took ship and after touching at Jamaica, landed in Maryland. Fox remained in America a lit. tle over two years. During that time, though in the weakest health, he managed to make his way through the miles of forest and prairie that hedged round the English colonies from Carolina to Rhode Island. The spasm of persecution which had driven Williams out of the Bay State, and built the gallows of the Salem witches, had spent itself. Fox was received everywhere with kindness and with affection; even the negroes and the Indians listened to him with attention and respect. One could wish that he had spoken out with all the might that was in him against the growing curse of slavery; had he done so he might have saved his cause in America from the stain of an indelible disgrace. As it was, he contented himself with pleading for a more humane and generous régime, with the result that when King Cotton raised his ugly head the Quakers marched hand in hand with their neighbors into the abyss. In March, 1673, he sailed from Patuxent and landed after a rough but favorable voyage at Bristol.

For thirteen years after his return from America Fox lived to labor in the vineyard. To tell the story of that time would be but to traverse the old ground again. To the last he never had a home: he spent his days wandering from city to hamlet and from shore to shore upon his Master's business; twice he visited Holland and the North German seaboard; at times he still found himself in the dock and in the jail, though the persecution in its more spiteful phase had died with Charles, for James, in his desperate effort to win. England for the Pope, made a useless bid for the support of the Quakers. In his sixty-sixth year, though very feeble, he threw himself heart and soul into the great battle for toleration; and crawled down day after day from his lodgings to Westminster Hall, to argue with the members in favor of making the act "comprehensive and effectual.'

The end was now in sight. The long

days in the saddle, the nights spent under the open sky in rain and snow, the months of weary lingering in fœtid prisons, had broken his once magnifi cent constitution. On the 11th of November, 1690, he preached for the last time with more than wonted fire and directness in the old meeting-house in Gracechurch Street. As he came out he complained that he felt the cold strike at his heart. He went home and lay down never to rise again. "All is well, though I am weak in body," he said to the Friends who gathered about his bedside; 'yet the power of the Lord is over all, and over death itself." Two days later he passed away in perfect peace and contentment. He was laid to rest in the Friends' burialground near Bunhill Fields.

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The exact position of his grave has long since been forgotten, though a modern stone marks its conjectured site. As a memorial that plain slab is

amply sufficient; anything more costly one feels would be incongruous. His true monument is the labors, for two centuries, of Quaker men and women; in the figure of Penn carrying through the American continent the fiery cross of complete toleration, in the story of the devoted labors of Elizabeth Fry, and in the echo of the stately eloquence of Bright. It may be said that Fox's successors were greater than himself; and no doubt they possessed gifts, as they possessed opportunities, which were denied to him; but they could not one of them have done his work. Carlyle could find for him, in all history, but one peer, the philosopher Diogenes. "Great, truly, was that Tub; a temple from which man's dignity and divinity were scornfully preached abroad but greater is the Leather Hull, for the same sermon was preached there, and not in Scorn but in Love."-Macmillan's Magazine.

OUR Contemporary, Woman, has been offering a prize for the best essay in answer to this question, "What is Unwomanly?" and one prize has been gained by a lady who sends in the reply that it is unwomanly for woman to consider herself undeveloped man and act accordingly to storm the Women's Rights citadel instead of advancing by mine and countermine: to rudely reject man's aid, and then state that chivalry is dead to touch pitch' unnecessarily and publicly, and then to abuse man for despising woman to compete jealously with man, unmindful of her delicate organism and the rights of posterity to fret because her home-work is little to wear too short skirts or to drag them in the mud to forget that woman is only womanly when she sets herself to man' like perfect music unto noble words."" The objection to that answer seems to us to be that it is written too much for the express purpose of pleasing men, with a little hint thrown in,-perhaps purposely obscure, of the best way of obtaining what women desire without offending men. Possibly the writer did not herself

clearly understand very well what she meant by "advancing by mine and countermine" to the taking of the Women's Rights citadel. It looks as if she meant that a great deal of concession could be gained by stealth which should not be wrested even if it could; but if so, the drift of that suggestion is not at all consistent with the general idea of the answer, that woman is very far from being "undeveloped man, and would only spoil herself for being man's companion, if she endeavored to extract from man's willingness to spoil her, what she could not extract from him by reason and appeals to his justice. For our own part, we should regard "advancing by mine and countermine," if it means what it appears to mean, as even more unwomanly than "storming the Women's Rights citadel." The lady who replied that it is the essence of unwomanliness "to try to live up to the adage Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,' with man as a model," was perhaps herself attempting to advance "by mine and countermine," for, in point of fact, there is nothing which men dislike

more, and more justly, than a mannish woman, and they all concede to a woman who professes loudly her disgust for a mannish woman a great deal which they would never concede to a woman who openly found fault with the rules men lay down for circumscribing women's rights. Yet we should be disposed to say that the most unwomanly of all the womanlike attitudes toward men, is the habit of indirectness, the preference of "mine and countermine" to frank statements of differences. There are, in truth, two very different kinds of unwomanliness; one kind is to be mannish, the other kind is to be womanish as distinguished from womanly. It is very unwomanly to be mannish, but it is just as unwomanly to be womanish. The womanish woman is a woman who has not a nature large enough to enable her to put natural feminine etiquettes and preferences by, when there is need to show that she is made like man in the image of God. A woman who cannot on occasion be perfectly, though unostentatiously, frank, who has not a large as well as a tender heart in her, is not in the high est sense womanly. It is perhaps easier for most women to be too fastidious for true womanliness, than it is for them to be too uncompromising and blunt. The defects of their qualities" are perhaps more often seen in women, than the defects which arise from attempting to ignore these qualities. We should say that women who are unwomanly through their womanishness are commoner in most parts and ages of the world, though not perhaps here and now, than women who are unwomanly from their sexlessness or mannishness. It is, for instance, certainly not womanly, but womanish, to try to steal a march on men by wheedling them out of that which they could not gain by open expostulation. And that is, we suppose, the kind of advantage which is suggested by that obscure phrase as to mining and countermining; and womanishness is certainly suggested when we are told of the mischief of forgetting that "woman is only womanly when she sets herself to man like perfect music unto noble words,"" for surely it is womanly also for woman not to adapt herself like music to words

that are not noble but ignoble, and that is what a good many men's words are; and yet it is often much easier, and certainly more womanish, to chime in with lively music even to men's ignoble words, than to let the note be heard, however modestly, which will jar on the speakers of those ignoble words. A genuinely womanly woman never forgets that she is not a mere accompaniment to man, but has the larger gift of humanity in her as well as the special gift of tenderness, and that if she is not true to that larger gift, she cannot be all she might be in her more specially feminine relations. A womanish woman is less womanly than even some mannish women. Sir Walter Scott's Die Vernon, who certainly has a mannish flavor about her, is a far truer woman, far more womanly, than Thackeray's Amelia Osborne, who is much more womanish than womanly.

It is a great mistake, of course, for women to try to make themselves bad imitations of men, but it is a much greater mistake to forget that they are even more bound as women to cultivate all the essentially human qualities, than they are to cultivate their special gifts. A man who cannot enter heartily into the higher feelings of a woman is hardly manly, but a woman who cannot enter heartily into the higher feelings of a man is still less womanly. A certain deficiency in sympathy in a man, though a serious flaw in his nature, is not so great a flaw as the same deficiency in a woman; yet no woman can do justice to these larger sympathies who is so womanish that she cannot express them loyally when they happen to be at odds with the prevailing tone of the men with whom she finds herself compelled to associate. It is, perhaps, excusable in the present day to throw out into relief the bad taste and unwomanliness of mannishness in a woman, but it is a great question whether the offensiveness of these mannish affectations would not be much more completely and radically cured by cultivating all the larger human qualities, than by any attempt to win the favor of men by exaggerating the special airs and graces of the softer sex. A womanish woman may easily be tempted into mannish affectations; but a womanly woman, though, like