an honourable tenacity, he insisted on maintaining their rights and liberties, he turned, in 1710, to make a final appeal to the people, whom he had so faithfully loved and served. He reminded them, in a touching letter, of their prospects and his reverses-of the wealth which they had won, and which he had lavished-of their growing resources, and his broken fortunes. He bade them remember, that it was for them that he had expended his wealth, and sacrificed a vigorous frame. He told them that, through their indifference, he had been left to poverty, and, through their refusal to help him, he had been consigned to prison. He assured them, that, still unaltered in feeling and unchanged in purpose, his only desire was for their good; that, if they indeed wished to sever their connection with him, he would yield. Let them choose a new Assembly, declare this, and decide for themselves.

This appeal reached their hearts. The selfish legislators were dismissed; and descended to the obscurity they deserved. A new Assembly was chosen, of a different temper; and, in the harmony which ensued, a ray of sunshine, after heavy clouds, came to cheer the sunset of a troubled day.

lt was time. For there was added, to domestic sorrows and to colonial ingratitude, the fraud of those to whom Penn had entrusted his property, and the baseness of those who professed his faith. His steward, a Quaker, had embezzled his estate, and, withholding

his revenues, had involved him in debt to himself. On the steward's death, his family advanced an enormous claim-presented mortgages, which Penn had in ignorance signed, and threatening to arrest his person, followed him to the Friends' meeting, and, in the midst of the religious services, endeavoured to seize him. Here Penn's firm spirit did not forsake him. He offered a reasonable compromise; but, rather than pay the exorbitant demand, he threw himself, in the spring of 1708, into the Old Bailey gaol, and there the Governor of Pennsylvania, not untried in suffering, in his old age, found a refuge. The country was scandalized; Treasurer Godolphin suggested an advance of public money; the Chancellor Cowper protected him, more effectually, by a legal judgment. The Quakers rallied in his defence; his friends interfered to effect a compromise; and, by the sale of his Sussex estate, the claims, reduced and abated, were discharged.

But this blow, though it did not break his spirit, proved too much for the strength of one, who had now reached his sixty-fifth year. Up to this time he had continued to support with a robust vigour his various labours. In the midst of his vast correspondence, the growing entanglement of his affairs, and the negociations with Government, he had contrived to write four works, and to itinerate as a Quaker preacher. Even in 1711 he edited, with an introductory preface, the works of two of his valued friends; dictating them in his

study, with his cane, as was his wont, in his hand, striking the floor, as he paced his room in the earnestness of composition. But his health now began to give way. We find him visiting Lord Oxford, and tendering, to the venerable Duke of Ormond at Whitehall, the thanks of the Friends for his kindness. But the break up of the strong man was at hand. The close air of the Old Bailey had affected his health; the pressure of so many cares had reached at last those sinewy nerves and active brain. The buoyant frame began to yield; and, though the spirit continued firm, the limbs failed. He tried the air of Brentwood, near London; he repaired to Ruscombe, in Berkshire, and tasted once more the peaceful quiet of the country scenes, in which he delighted, There, in the Spring of 1712, the first blow of paralysis struck him—a heavy shock, for he lay for weeks in a state of lethargy. Recovered from this, he resumed his colonial duties; but the pressure of them was too much for his weakened brain, and, in the Autumn, a second stroke laid him low. a third shock prostrated his reason. haps, as it spared him the knowledge (how bitter to a father!) of his eldest son's vices-vices, which at length brought him, with ruined character-though, in the end, with deep contrition—to a premature grave.

In three months It was well per

But though Penn's reason was overthrown, his temper, subdued by piety, and chastened by years of trial, was never clouded. Under a disease which tries

the strongest nerves, and often breaks the sweetest disposition, his spirit remained serene. He seemed to have passed from his troubled life and its stormy history, into the guilelessness and unconscious peace of childhood. In the sports of his grand-children he took a gentle interest. In fine weather, he led them into the fields, and watched them, as they chased the butterflies or gambolled in the meadows; he himself ever peaceful, with a radiant smile. In bad weather, he associated with them in the house, and joined with delight in their simple sports. Only when he saw his wife harassed by the pressure of many cares, from which he could no longer shelter her, or looked on that large correspondence which he could no longer conduct, did the fine countenance become overcast, and the eye droop in thought. At other times he was tranquil, and the smile of inward happiness lighted his countenance.

Thus gently did the Master, whom he had served, guide his sinking servant through five years of decayso gently, that the children who loved, and the friends who tended him, watched with chastened sorrow, not unmixed with pleasure, the moral radiance which, in life's sunset, lingered round the mental ruin. In 1718 came release. In a quiet hamlet of Buckinghamshire, by the side of his first and much-loved wife, and of the son whom he had lost, the great philanthropist was laid to rest; among a concourse, not of Quakers only and neighbours, but of men from all parts of England,

drawn together by the fame of so many virtues, and the wish to do them homage; a few words were spoken, by those who knew him, to the throng, who had heard of his merits; and they laid him in the grave, which closed over great services and an illustrious name. No stone was set to mark the spot; but the name and services of Penn are written in the durable monument of religious toleration, which he secured; in the unswerving integrity, which he practised; and in the institutions of one of those great States of the Western World, which now exercise so wide an influence over the destiny of mankind.

And here this sketch of the origin of English Quakerism should close; but we linger over the traces of a sect, which is as remarkable for its deeds of beneficence as for its eccentricities. Quakerism indeed has added a strange chapter to the varieties of English belief. The Friends live among us, and are to be found in our seats of business and wealth, and yet retain that quaint dress and speech and worship, which they derived from the odd shoe-maker of the reign of Charles I. But while we smile at the singularity, we must not forget the service; great service rendered to humanityconquests won over suffering and wrong. Their victories have been bloodless, though they cost them labour and sometimes life. The Quakers were the first to demand liberty of conscience; we owe to them that