He himself, he said, had planted the trees about the
church: they were then good-sized trees. He spoke very earnestly about
the worship of the Friends. All the associations of his youth and all
the canons of his education and development were grounded on the
Friends' faith and doctrine, and he was anxious that they should show
a growth commensurate with the age. He disliked many of the
innovations, but his affectionate spirit clung to his people, and he
longed to see them drawing to themselves a larger measure of spiritual
life, day by day. He loved the old custom of sitting in silence, and
hoped they would not stray away into habits of much speaking. The old
habits of the meeting-house were very dear to him.
One cold, clear morning in January I heard his early ring at the door.
He had been ill, but was so much better that he was absolutely gay. He
insisted upon blowing the fire, which, as sometimes happens, will
struggle to do its worst on the coldest days; and as the flames at
last began to roar, his spirits rose with them. He was rejoicing over
Garibaldi's victory. The sufferings of Italy had been so terrible that
even one small victory in their behalf seemed a great gain. He said
that he had been trying to arouse the interest of the Friends, but it
usually took about two years to awaken them thoroughly on any great
topic!
He remained several hours that morning talking over his hopes for the
country,--of politics, of Charles Sumner, of whom he said, "Sumner is
always fundamentally right;" and of John Bright, for whose great gifts
he had sincere admiration.
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