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desired an opportunity to forward to him some necessaries and comforts to render his situation more tolerable. This he soon found means to do; and also gave an order that William should be furnished with an ample allowance of bread at his expense.
Soon after this the earl was seized with an illness, from which his recovery was doubtful, and being apparently nigh unto death, Adam obtained from him a promise to set the prisoners at liberty. When the order for William's discharge arrived, instead of releasing him immediately, they detained him six weeks to assist the masons who were building them a new cloister, promising that if he was diligent they would tell him good news, on the return of the officer in whose custody he was. Accordingly, he took him aside and told him the earl would have him informed, that if he would turn Catholic he should have good service and preferment; but if he would not, he would detain him no longer, as he had prisoners enough without him—but it was concluded that if they were again found in Hungary or Austria, he and his companion should be burned.
On the 4th of seventh month, 1663, William was set at liberty. The kindness of his friend, Adam Bien, followed him to the last, for he had written to the prior to furnish him with money to pay the expenses of his journey; but he only gave him five small coins, the value of all which was less than twenty cents. His companion and he having been stripped of all their money, which was considerable, he now found himself a stranger, in a remote country, without money and without friends, and a long distance to travel before he could reach his native land, or any of the settlements of his brethren in religious profession. To add to his difficulties, the country was in a state of warfare, hostilities having commenced between the Austrian? and Turks, and all the towns, villages and principal passes were guarded by persons whose duty it was to seize and examine strangers, of whom they were very suspicious. Here was a fresh trial of his faith and fortitude; but resolving to trust in the protecting care of Divine Providence, he commenced his solitary walk, choosing the most private and unfrequented ways.
He had been advised to go to Gratz, where was a fair, at which it was probable there would be merchants from Nuremburg and other places in Germany of whom he might have some knowledge, and from whom he might obtain aid. On reaching the gates of Gratz, be was stopped and not permitted to enter. "When I saw," says he, " that I could not meet with the aforesaid merchants, I resolved to travel on my journey, and to trust the Lord to take care for my sustenance, who had often done it, when, as to the outward, there was little appearance of relief." When he came to the west end of Austria, he was stopped on
pretence that he had been sent by the Turks as a spy; but producing the certificates he had procured from Friends in Germany, they let him pass, but charged him not to tarry at their towns. "I have great cause," continues he, " to thank the Lord for his goodness, for I did not much want food, but got either bread or fruit, or something to eat, the people in these countries being accustomed to give travellers and tradesmen bread, and lodging in their barns. Sometimes I told them how 1 had been robbed and abused, and their hearts were moved with pity towards me. I proceeded on my journey, though not without diffiulty, and about the 2d of the eighth month, through mercy, I got to Paltz, in Germany, and came through Heidleburg and Manheim, and on the 7th of the same arrived at Christein, among Friends, and being kindly entertained and abundantly refreshed there, I tarried some weeks."
By a letter afterwards received from Adam Bien, it appeared that John Philly was released from his imprisonment on the 6th of seventh month, two days after William, and set out for Germany, but no particulars respecting his journey home have come down to us.
The foregoing narrative exhibits in a remarkable manner the protecting providence of God, which accompanies and supports those, who, in holy obedience to the commands of his Spirit, are devoted to answer his requirings. The many dangers, provocations and trials through which these Friends passed unhurt, the taunts, the jeers and tortures with which their persecutors were permitted to prove their fidelity and patience; the cruel deaths which threatened them, demonstrate in the clearest manner the steadfastness of their faith and allegiance, and the excellency of the religion of which they were in possession. Their eye and expectation being fixed upon Jesus, the author and finisher of their faith, who, for the joy set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and is for ever set down at the right hand of the throne of God; and considering him who endured such contradiction of sinners against himself; they were not weary of suffering, nor did they faint in their minds. In all their afflictions, the consciousness of their integrity and the evidence of Divine favor, were an unfailing source of support—the consolations of the Spirit of God raised their minds above the fear of man, and enabled them to persevere in an unwavering confession of their faith, even before many witnesses; and they were endued with a wisdom from above, whereby they were not only enabled to detect and expose the subtle devices and snares of those who sought their destruction, but were qualified to testify to the truth as it is in Jesus, before governors and rulers, and to honor and exalt his ever worthy name. It was the power of the Lord which thus helped and kept them, and the praise belongs to Him alone, who is the preserver of those who put their trust in Him, whom he still " delivered out of the hand of the wicked, and out of the hand of tho unrighteous and cruel man."
For Friends' Intelligencer.
Iiockessin Valley, 12th mo. 31st, 1856.
Respected Friend,—Please to give the following account of my dear step-mother an insertion iu Friends' Intelligencer, and oblige thy friend, respectfully. David Wilson.
SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF ALICE CHANDLER, DECEASED.
This, our much esteemed and valuable friend, wag the youngest daughter of James and Mary Jackson, of New' Castle county, in the State of Delaware, members of IIockessin Preparative Meeting, in the vicinity of which she resided much the greater part of her time, and was trained in early life to piety and habits of industry; being endowed with a capacity for usefulness, not only in relation to the social circle of domestic affairs, but in the religious Society of which she was a member, she was often engaged in its services. She was, from a sense of duty, when of bodily ability, a diligent attender of meetings for Divine worship and those for discipline, herein acknowledging the obligation to devote a portion of the time allotted her, as a reasonable service, in socially assembling for the purpose of rendering thanks to the Author of her existence and Dispenser of all blessings, both spiritual and temporal. Thus yielding to the operations of Divine grace, she was led to espouse the various Christian testimonies as long held by the Society of Friends, and unitedly set forth in their discipline; for instance, against a hireling ministry, war, intemperance and slavery; in which sho was a firm and consistent advocate, her zeal therein being agreeably to the principles of her profession, tempered with love, patience and proper forbearance. Living a life of much humility and great simplicity of manners aud self-denial in the many gratifications of time and sense, that might tend to error, she was a bright example in uprightness, temperance and moderation. She was also concerned for the maintenance of the wholesome order of Society and the right administration of its discipline, in order for the convincement of offenders and their restoration in love to tho bosom of Friends. In the course of her religious exercises, she was often engaged to visit in gospel love many of the neighboring meetings of Friends, as well as those more remote, sometimes making appointments of this kind, and was frequently drawn, from a sense of duty, to religiously mingle in private families, wherein sho was often enabled to impart a word of encouragement, admonition or counsel, tending to promote their welfare and advancement in best things. She fully believed that by a co-opera
tion with the principle of Divine grace, implanted in the heart of every rational being, the salvation of the immortal part may be perfected. And for many years, in the latter part of her life, she was conscientiously drawn to abstain, as far as practicable, from the use of slave produce, and in so doing she had her reward of peace. Having, in much faithfulness and resignation to the Divine will, through a long period of years, even, to quite an advanced age, finished the work assigned her, we doubt not the immortal *o«?was received into the mansions of its heavenly Master's rest.
fFor Little Children.]
Sarah Elizabeth Harvey, daughter of Joshua and Elizabeth Harvey, of Dublin, was born the 5th of 6th mo., 1834.
She gave early indications of vigor, both of body and mind; and before she completed her first year, she could speak surprisingly plain, and was full of life aud animation. When about two years of age, her observation and remarks were such as in more than one instance to occasion a friend to say to her mother, "Don't set tby heart upon her, I don't think she'll live."
She was generally very good when retiring for the night, and would say a little verse, or a few words of prayer of her own suggesting, after getting into bed; sitting very seriously the while, and then quietly lying down for tho night. She often astonished us by the language she used in these little prayers. She was not at all afraid of being left alone in the dark, saying, "Our heavenly Father can see us in the dark as well as in the light."
Her father, one night at bedtime, said to her seriously, but gently, " My dear, recollect thoa was a little naughty to day." She immediately became very thoughtful, sighed ouco or twice, and made a solemn pause; then as if desirous of knowing whether others experienced the same struggle between good and evil, she looked at him, and said sweetly, but with evident anxiety, "Papa, does thou ever do wrong thyself?" he replied at once, "I do indeed, my child, and say wrong, and think wrong; but our heavenly Father would help us all to be good, old and young, if we desired it, and asked Ilim as ice ought to do."
When about four years old, Sarah Elizabeth was sent to a select day school for a short time. "One day as we were walking home together," her mother writes, "a beggar woman with a child followed, importuning us for a half penny. Sarah Elizabeth was very anxious to give her one. I told her why I did not, rind added, I should have no objection to give her a piece of bread or food of some kind. She then said, 1 Well, if we wero at home, wouldst thou give her a piece of bread V Not replying instantly, she added with her usual promptness, 'Why then, Jesus Christ did not send away the people without giving them something to eat.'"
In the night of the tremendous storm which occurred on the 6th of 1st mo., 1839, she was awakened by its violence, but if alarmed, as she naturally must have been, she neither cried out, nor attempted to disturb her parents. Our house, comparatively low, was felt to shake. Her father, who had been some time awake, did not speak, hoping his dear little one would soon fall into her usual rest again. Ho heard her repeat in a very low gentle voice, " Great storm, greatstorm," several times, then some other words ina solemn manner, which hecould scarcely catch; she soon after fell asleep. In the morning the storm hud abated, and was followed by a blustering day. Nothing but general remarks were made about it, until another night drew on. Before she left the drawing-room to go to her little bed her father took her on his knee, and conversed quietly with her, leading her to the storm of the preceding night. At length he said to her, " I believe, my darling, I heard thee saying a little prayer in the night, when the storm was so very, very great." She answered, very gently, " 1 did say a little prayer, papa." "And what didst thou say, my child V She then put lier arms round his neck, and whispered in his ear, "I said, Great and good heavenly Father, be pleased to stop the winds, and have mercy on the poor sailors, and save U3 all. Amen."
She was remarkably ready to share anything she had, and uefer showed a desire to have presents given to her, but would frequently say, "My friends are too kind. I have too many things, more than L want." After asking me to buy hersone pretty thing in the shop windows, she would cheek herself and say, "O, but I believe papa has not much money," and would be content. Once she expressed a strong wish that we had a horse and carriage of our own, that we might go about and take nice drives like other persons; but almost immediately added, "My darling father though can't spare for what's not necessary."
I never knew Sarah tell a falsehood, or equivocate in the slightest degree. She seemed to have no idea of concealment.
The night of her birth-day, being then five years old, Gth of 5th mo., 1839, she spoke very sweetly, and among other things, she expressed herself thus in her little prayer before lying down. "Oh, great and good heavenly Father, be pleased to spare me, thy only little child in this house, a little longer to my father and mother, and spare us all a little longer together on this earth, if it be thy holy will." The whole was very touching to a mother's heart. Another night she remarked, " We did not know what to pray for as we ought, and that the disciples,
though they were big men, asked the Saviour, when he was on earth, to teach them to pray. Lord, teach us to pray !" and she then repeated the Lord's Prayer very solemnly.
On returning one time from a visit to Bloomsbury, her father presented her with two little hymns which he had composed for her use, and printed with a pen, that she might have the pleasure of reading them herself. She was delighted with them ; and from that period to her death, they nearly superseded all others.
And through the hours of night,
I've slept till morning light.
Th^n let me give Thee thanks and praise,
For Thou art very good;
Such prayer as children should.
Keep me this day from faults and sin,
And make me s-ood and mild;
Grant grace unto a child.
Make me obey my parents dear,
For they are very kind;
Another prayer I'll find.
Invites me to my peaceful bed j
To thank Thee, ere I rest my head.
For my good meals and pleasant hours,
Let me exert my infant powers
To praise Thee, nor forget to pray.
Thou art most good. I can't tell all
My Shepherd, now on Thee I call,
If I've been naughty on this day,
Oh make me sorry for my fault;
To follow Jesus as I ought.
Myself, my friends, all safely keep;
Both when we wake and when we sleep.
Little Sarah Elizabeth played with great spirit and heart. She directed the little pastimes of her play-fellows, though some of them were a good deal older than herself; and I can scarcely recollect any quarrel or serious difference that she had with any of them. They almost all seemed to have a great regard for her. The heartiness with which she played, may show those who read this account, that we are never better prepared for innocent enjoyment than when we feel that our best and highest duties have had the best and highest place, when our heavenly Father is in our hearts and affections, and consequently in our recollection "first and last, and midst, and without end." It was truly gratifying to see papa and his child at lively play ; sometimes talking together right merrily, at others seriously. When she begged her father to play with her, or do something for her, if he were not engaged, ho was wont to answer her promptly, "With the greatest pleasure," She seemed to catch this spirit, and when I called her to do something for me, she would reply, "With the greatest pleasure, mamma;" or if she happened to be much engaged with her childish concerns, the answer would be, "In one little minute, mamma." When I was putting her to bod one night, not being quite well, she said in a very feeliug manner, "Oh, great and good heavenly Father, be pleased to grant me patience; and be pleased to grant all the little children in the world that arc sick, patience, for they don't always have patience; and be pleased
to grant my little Cousin J P , patience;
and be pleased to take him to Thy holy kingdom, if it is not Thy holy will to leave him any longer on this earth."
Another night, after giving thanks, and naming j many of the good things she had got through the day, she added, in a very strious manner, "And be pleased, oh Lord, to make us love Thee, and bless Thee, and obey Thee; and if it be Thy holy will to take us to heaven, father, and mother, and little child—it will be very comfortable. We will not have pain or sickness; we will not want food, nor rest, nor sleep, or any of the things we have on this earth; and be pleased to take care of us tbis night, and of all our friends. Amen.
Once on a pathway she met with very rude usage : two well-dressed boys were doing something to a little cart they had. The child stop
mo., she never left it, except to be removed from one to another for change. She got very little sleep the latter part of her illness, and the nervous system became much unhinged, so that at times she was not like herself, and would speak rather impatiently to those about her. Of this, she was sometimes sensible, and would regret it, saying to her papa more than once, " Well, papa if I do speak cross now and then, it is because I'm a poor afflicted little child." She wished to have her mother always with her, asking her to repeat hymns very ofteu. Leaning over her one night when she was suffering much, she asked, "My darling, dost thou love thy mother?" "I do, and that's the reason I don't like to die." Her father had several times intimated, that he believed her heavenly Father would, before long, take her to Himself.
She desired one day to be left alone a few minutes; on returning, I asked her the cause. She replied, "I wanted to say a little prayer alone."
At length, after many weeks of pain and suffering, she was gently leleased. Au expression of heavenly joy passed over her couutenance, as her spirit took its flight to
"The bo6oiu of her Father and her God," and we believe she is now united to that countless number of little ones, of whom our holy Kedeemer declared, they should always behold the face of his Father who is in heaven.
She was interred, 23d of 6th mo., 1840, in Friends' burial-ground, Cook Street, Dublin, aged six years.
LETTER FROM HENRY WARE. Mi/ dear Mrs. T ,—I have this moment
ped to look at them, when one of them very
roughly pushed her off, and struck her. Her , received your letter of the day before yesterday, feelings were deeply hurt, being unable to form ! and hasten to reply. I was overcome with suran idea why this act was done; but astonish- [ prise at hearing of Mr. A.'s death; for I had ment and grief appeared to possess her mind, i hoped, from your report, that he was recovering, without any desire of revenge. She repeated, I I can fully sympathize with your feelings at his sorrowfully, several times, " 1 was doing nothing ! removal, valued friend that he was, and full of
at all to them." Her father endeavored to soothe her, telling her of our proneness to evil, until made better by divine grace; and how dependent children are upon the training of their parents. She seemed afterwards to have a kind of Christian pity for the boy, more than any other feeling.
Sarah Elizabeth had the measles in the early part of 1840, from which she appeared-to recover nicely. Many things were lead to her during this illness. On getting to the end of Pilgrim's Progress, she said, "I'd like to hear every word of that book over again." In the 3d month she appeared to have a heavy cold, which resulted in a spasmodic cough. The fits of coughing exhausted her much; her pulse became quick, and
promise as his character and talents were. Bat your first feeling, of course, must be, that the more fit he was to live, the more fit to die; the greater reason there may be for mourning, the greater reason for being comforted; and the thought of what he was, the pleasant recollections that are associated with his name, will give a sort of melancholy pleasure amid grief; while the thought of what he is, and the expectation of meeting him again in a higher state, will give at times even a joyfulness to your mind.
I say the thought of what he is. You have seen his body resting in its dark house, and have come away, you say, impressed with that unpleasant image. Dutis that he? Is that body the friend that you loved? Certainly not ? he
her breathing short. She took to her bed 1st of is farther from that tomb than you are, and does 4th mo., and although she lived till 20th of 6th j not waste a thought upon it. Why then should
you '/ When I think of what he is, I am thinking of the spirit—I forget the body; I almost forget that he ever had a body ; I fancy him to myself living, rejoicingamong the spirits of heaven; and, while I think of him thus, I feel quite as much delight as sadness. This is what I think you should make an effort to do. Why should you be turning your thoughts at all to the poor clay he has left behind, when you have it in your power to turn them to those pure and happy scenes where he is now enjoying, as we may reasonably trust, such felicity as earth cannot give?
Let me tell you a word of my own experience. I have lost many very near and dear friends; but I declare to you, that, by following this rule which I advise you to follow, I have always found more than consolation, even a high and singular pleasure, in the midst of grief. I have forced my mind away from the bouy, the tomb, the decay, and have allowed it to think only of the immortal soul, freed from earth and happy in heaven. I have buried my dead, that is, their bodies, not only out of sight, but out of mind. I have not suffered myself to feel that my friends are dead, but only that they have gone home, are living in another place, a better place, still thinking, active, loving, and happy ; thus, in fact, they arc not dead to me ; as our Saviour teaches, they all are alive unto God. So unto my heart they are alive; and I scarcely am conscious they ever had bodies that could decay. They, themselves, are imperishable.
I lately removed to Mount Auburn the remains of two, dearly beloved, and long since gone. I opened the coffins, and saw that nothing remained but dust. There was nothing in this at all unpleasant to my feelings ; quite otherwise; for it made me feel a sort of triumph in the faith, that death had done his worst, and yet that he had not touched my friends. They were not here. I had been thinking of them, and almost speaking to them, for years, as the happy and glorified creatures of heaven. I could not fancy them as having any thing to do with that poor dust before me; and the sight of it only served to awaken gratitude to my Saviour, and strengthen my feeling of nearness to heaven.
Excuse me from dwelling thus on my own case. I have done it because I felt I could thus more easily explain what I mean, when I beg you to think no more of the perishing body. Why should you not come from the tomb of your friend, as I came from that of mine, lifted to heaven, rather than troubled by earth's darkness and decay? Why should you not come away repeating to yourself the words of the angel,1 He is not there ; he is risen.'
You will gathet, from what I have expressed, my views on the two points about which you particularly ask me. The truth is, my dear
friend, that I have the fullest and most undoubting conviction, that the soul, immediately upon the death of the body, passes to its final state; that consciousness is not for a moment interrupted; and that death is, in fact, to the spirit, nothing more than going from one mansion of the Great Father's house to another. I do not feel, therefore, as if my friends were dead; my feeling is, that they do not die; " He that believeth in me shall never die." Do you remember Newton's beautiful hymn?
'In vain the fancy strives to paint
The moment after death,
On yielding up their breath.
We scarce can say they're gone,
Her mansion neat the throne,'
This seems to me the true expression ; and then, when we too quit the flesh and follow them, I think wo shall as certainly know them there as we knew them here. I cannot conceive it should be otherwise. It cannot be, that they and we shall be worshipping together through eternity in heaven, perhaps, side by side, and not know each other. I am as confident I shall know them, as that I shall know my Saviour; it would bo absurd to suppose that the twelve Apostles will not know each other, or that Paul and his converts will not, when he has called them his crown of joy in the day of the Lord. Yet if they are to recognize each other and renew the friendship and intercourse of earth, so must it be with all the faithful; and it is a most beautiful and comforting thought. If [ have at all met your wishes, I shall be grateful; and, if I can clear up any thing further, say so, and let mo write again. I feel that it is not always easy to enter into another's feelings, and I may have failed to do so now. Indeed, I always feel the insufficiency of human aid, aud the appropriateness of the Psalmist's prayer, ' Give Thou help from trouble, for vain is the help of man.' May He bless you and yours.
Very sincerely, your friend,
H. Ware, Jr.
The neglected portion of the great American family is old age, we are sorry to say—not that we as a nation, are disrespectful to the old, or that they are denied or grudged anything. We perform the negative duty to them by avoiding all which shall occasion to them offence or deprivation, but we do not perform the duty of of assiduously seeing that they occupy, always and only, the places of honor and prominence; nor more particularly, do we study to contrive, untiringly and affectionately, how to comfort, cheer, strengthen and recuperate them. The old man in one house may have his chair in the