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by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Ah, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest

Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming,

Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight;

Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect!"

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid,

As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor,

By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape

White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision,

By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens.

Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows.

Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing

Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river.

Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid:

"Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely,

If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling.

But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it

Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough,

Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going;

Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches.

There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already;

All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow,

Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, too,

How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?"

But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving:

"Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow he sayeth,

Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; he is it

Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost."

So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket.

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters,

Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there

Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter

Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder,

Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle,

Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot,

Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures.

Then Elizabeth said, "Lo! Joseph is long on his errand.

I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing

For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph;

In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing."

Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid

Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent,

While her mistress went on: "The house is far from the village;

We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing

Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by their coming."

Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal:

"Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern;

Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons

In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft,

Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine."

But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered:

"All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or withhold it;

I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people

Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service.

His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them

Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given.

Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing;

Though he came not himself, I came; for the Lord was my guidance,

Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others

Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table."

Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid;

And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer:

"Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London,

When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly,

Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission?

No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh,
Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle,

Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind

Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle.

Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me,

Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within me

That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten."


E'en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells,

First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance,

Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard,

Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners.

Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together,

And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid,

"It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him?"

Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern

Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse,

And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway,

Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow

Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses,

And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic.

Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger.

Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air;

And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him,

As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence,

And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected,

Quietly gave him her hand, and said, "Thou art welcome, John Estaugh."

And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior,

"Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many

Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee.

Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold.

For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence

On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist,

Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside

Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace's eunuch,

How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza,

Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip,

Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him.

So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me,

And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead,

How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth,

Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country.

And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England,

And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon.

Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing."

And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely

Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered,

"Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee

Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside."

Then, with stamping of feet, the door was opened, and Joseph

Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out,

Rung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper;

For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons,

But one family only, one heart, one hearth and one household.

When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace,

Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood,

Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots,

Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty

All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter!

Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table,

Coming and going, and hustling about in closet and chamber.

Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh,

Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood;

How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments

Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings
Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded,

And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people

Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue.

Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely

Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed

Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid

Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order.

And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, "The maiden

Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward."

Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent.

Then came the hour of sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal

Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man

Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken!

Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended.

But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor,

Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavens,

Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway

Through the drifts of snow; the horses already were harnessed,

And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold,
Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic,

Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement,

As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window,

Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it.

Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast,

Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other

That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely

All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,

Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only

Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building.

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon

Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.

Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music,

Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly

Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims

Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting

In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh.

At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting

Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey

Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden;

Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,

And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.

But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning

Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh

"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,

Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;

Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."

And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;

It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning!

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,

As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:

"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;

I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."

And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken,

"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;

Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,

Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning.

But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.

When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor completed

He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness

Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance."

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,

"So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further.

It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow

Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not

When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,

Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me."

And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead.

Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things

Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others,

Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah the housemaid

Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring,

Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph,

And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior,

For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings,

Being pressed down somewhat like a cart with sheaves overladen,

As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures.

Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing

Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious,

Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness

Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor.

O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting!

O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy!

But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps,

And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain.

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered,

Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection.

And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly,

Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little,

Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things.

Such were the marriage-rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh.

And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant,

Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid;

For when he asked her the question, she answered, "Nay"; and then added

"But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph."

I'm pretty sure this poem is the locus classicus for the phrase "ships in the night" and all its attendant clichés.

Dear Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Meeting for Worship ≠ being asleep, not at all.

I like this poem quite a lot, actually, though you can't see the Delaware from Haddonfield (the Cooper River, yes) and I think that Longfellow underestimates, by equating it with the staid, establishment Quakerism of his own time, just how radical the early Quakers were. It's hard for us to grasp too, I think, because so many of Quakerism's radical convictions have become mainstream or at least acceptable alternatives in the intervening centuries, but the first Quakers were a bunch of firebrands; but for their non-violence they might have started a revolution. They were peaceful in a blood-soaked age, informal in an era obsessed with rank and hierarchy, people who valued the individual's conscience above all in the period that established absolute monarchy. And above all else they believed: John Estaugh was one of many public Friends filled with a concern to preach. Women and men, old and young, they went on peripatetic journeys around the Atlantic preaching the Light. Elizabeth Haddon too was an indomitable force; the documentary evidence makes that blazingly clear.

The other thing the sources I've read insist is that the Quaker settlers of the Jerseys paid the Indians living there "fairly" to leave their land (it's alleged that most of these tribes resettled in what is now upstate New York, whence they were doubtless later re-evicted), though of course many stayed through the colonial period. But even though the Quakers didn't make those bargains at gunpoint, they were a bunch of shrewd operators, and no price could have been "fair." (Fun fact: William Penn bought East Jersey at auction for £3400.)