Part 3

The steadfastness of his whig principles led him to take a lively interest in anecdotes concerning revolutionary heroes. His mother had a brother in Philadelphia, who lived in a house formerly occupied by William Penn, at the corner of Second Street and Norris Alley. This uncle frequently cut and made garments for General Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and other distinguished men. Nothing pleased Isaac better than a visit to this city relative; and when there, his boyish mind was much occupied with watching for the famous men, of whom he had heard so much talk. Once, when General Washington came there to order some garments, he followed him a long distance from the shop. The General had observed his wonder and veneration, and was amused by it. Coming to a corner of the street, he turned round suddenly, touched his hat, and made a very low bow. This playful condescension so completely confused his juvenile admirer, that he stood blushing and bewildered for an instant, then walked hastily away, without remembering to return the salutation. The tenderness of spirit often manifested by him, was very remarkable in such a resolute and mischievous boy. There was an old unoccupied barn in the neighborhood, a favorite resort of swallows in the Spring-time. When he was about ten years old, he invited a number of boys to meet him the next Sunday morning, to go and pelt the swallows. They set off on this expedition with anticipations of a fine frolic; but before they had gone far, Isaac began to feel a strong conviction that he was doing wrong. He told his companions he thought it was very cruel sport to torment and kill poor little innocent birds; especially as they might destroy mothers, and then the little ones would be left to starve. There was a Quaker meeting-house about a mile and a half distant, and he proposed that they should all go there, and leave the swallows in peace. But the boys only laughed at him, and ran off shouting, "Come on! Come on!" He looked after them sorrowfully for some minutes, reproaching himself for the suffering he had caused the poor birds. He then walked off to meeting alone; and his faithfulness to the light within him was followed by a sweet peacefulness and serenity of soul. The impression made by this incident, and the state of mind he enjoyed while in meeting, was one of the earliest influences that drew him into the Society of Friends.--When he returned home, he heard that one of the boys had broken his arm while stoning the swallows, and had been writhing with pain, while he had been enjoying the consolations of an approving conscience.

At an early age, he was noted for being a sure shot, with bow and arrow, or with gun. A pair of king-birds built in his father's orchard, and it was desirable to get rid of them, because they destroy honey-bees. Isaac watched for an opportunity, and one day when the birds flew away in quest of food for their young, he transfixed them both at once with his arrow. At first, he was much delighted with this exploit; but his compassionate heart soon became troubled about the orphan little ones, whom he pictured to himself as anxiously expecting the parents that would never return to feed them again. This feeling gained such strength within him, that he early relinquished the practice of shooting, though he found keen excitement in the pursuit, and was not a little proud of his skill.

Once, when he had entrapped a pair of partridges, he put them in a box, intending to keep them there. But he soon began to query with himself whether creatures accustomed to fly must not necessarily be very miserable shut up in such a limited space. He accordingly opened the door. One of the partridges immediately walked out, but soon returned to prison to invite his less ventursome mate. The box was removed a few days after, but the birds remained about the garden for months, often coming to the door-step to pick up crumbs that were thrown to them. When the mating-season returned the next year, they retired to the woods.

From earliest childhood he evinced great fondness for animals, and watched with lively interest all the little creatures of the woods and fields. He was familiar with all their haunts, and they gave names to the localities of his neighborhood. There was Turkey Causeway, where wild turkies abounded; and Rabbit Swamp, where troops of timid little rabbits had their hiding places; and Squirrel Grove, where many squirrels laid in their harvest of acorns for the winter; and Panther Bridge, where his grandfather had killed a panther.

Once, when his father and the workmen had been cutting down a quantity of timber, Isaac discovered a squirrel's nest in a hole of one of the trees that had fallen. It contained four new-born little ones, their eyes not yet opened. He was greatly tempted to carry them home, but they were so young that they needed their mother's milk. So after examining them, he put them back in the nest, and with his usual busy helpfulness went to assist in stripping bark from the trees. When he went home from his work, toward evening, he felt curious to see how the mother squirrel would behave when she returned and found her home was gone. He accordingly hid himself in a bush to watch her proceedings. About dusk, she came running along the stone wall with a nut in her mouth, and went with all speed to the old familiar tree. Finding nothing but a stump remaining there, she dropped the nut and looked around in evident dismay. She went smelling all about the ground, then mounted the stump to take a survey of the country. She raised herself on her hind legs and snuffed the air, with an appearance of great perplexity and distress. She ran round the stump several times, occasionally raising herself on her hind legs, and peering about in every direction, to discover what had become of her young family. At last, she jumped on the prostrate trunk of the tree, and ran along till she came to the hole where her babies were concealed. What the manner of their meeting was nobody can tell; but doubtless the mother's heart beat violently when she discovered her lost treasures all safe on the warm little bed of moss she had so carefully prepared for them. After staying a few minutes to give them their supper, she came out, and scampered off through the bushes. In about fifteen minutes, she returned and took one of the young ones in her mouth, and carried it quickly to a hole in another tree, three or four hundred yards off, and then came back and took the others, one by one, till she had conveyed them all to their new home. The intelligent instinct manifested by this little quadruped excited great interest in Isaac's observing mind. When he drove the cows to pasture, he always went by that tree, to see how the young family were getting along. In a short time, they were running all over the tree with their careful mother, eating acorns under the shady boughs, entirely unconscious of the perils through which they had passed in infancy.

Some time after, Isaac traded with another boy for a squirrel taken from the nest before its eyes were open. He made a bed of moss for it, and fed it very tenderly. At first, he was afraid it would not live; but it seemed healthy, though it never grew so large as other squirrels. He did not put it in a cage; for he said to himself that a creature made to frisk about in the green woods could not be happy shut up in a box. This pretty little animal became so much attached to her kind-hearted protector, that she would run about after him, and come like a kitten whenever he called her. While he was gone to school, she frequently ran off to the woods and played with wild squirrels on a tree that grew near his path homeward. Sometimes she took a nap in a large knot-hole, or, if the weather was very warm, made a cool bed of leaves across a crotch of the boughs, and slept there. When Isaac passed under the tree, on his way from school, he used to call "Bun! Bun! Bun!" If she was there, she would come to him immediately, run up on his shoulder, and so ride home to get her supper.

It seemed as if animals were in some way aware of his kindly feelings, and disposed to return his confidence; for on several occasions they formed singular intimacies with him. When he was six or seven years old, he spied a crow's nest in a high tree, and, according to his usual custom, he climbed up to make discoveries. He found that it contained two eggs, and he watched the crow's movements until her young ones were hatched and ready to fly. Then he took them home. One was accidentally killed a few days after, but he reared the other, and named it Cupid. The bird became so very tame, that it would feed from his hand, perch on his shoulder, or his hat, and go everywhere with him. It frequently followed him for miles, when he went to mill or market. He was never put into a cage, but flew in and out of the house, just as he pleased. If Isaac called "Cu! Cu!" he would hear him, even if he were up in the highest tree, would croak a friendly answer, and come down directly. If Isaac winked one eye, the crow would do the same. If he winked his other eye, the crow also winked with his other eye. Once when Cupid was on his shoulder, he pointed to a snake lying in the road, and said "Cu! Cu!"--The sagacious bird pounced on the head of the snake and killed him instantly; then flew back to his friend's shoulder, cawing with all his might, as if delighted with his exploit. If a stranger tried to take him, he would fly away, screaming with terror. Sometimes Isaac covered him with a handkerchief and placed him on a stranger's shoulder; but as soon as he discovered where he was, he seemed frightened almost to death. He usually chose to sleep on the roof of a shed, directly under Isaac's bed-room window. One night he heard him cawing very loud, and the next morning he said to his father, "I heard Cupid talking in his sleep last night." His father inquired whether he had seen him since; and when Isaac answered, "No," he said, "Then I am afraid the owls have taken him." The poor bird did not make his appearance again; and a few days after, his bones and feathers were found on a stump, not far from the house. This was a great sorrow for Isaac. It tried his young heart almost like the loss of a brother.

His intimacy with animals was of a very pleasant nature, except on one occasion, when he thrust his arm into a hollow tree, in search of squirrels, and pulled out a large black snake. He was so terrified, that he tumbled headlong from the tree, and it was difficult to tell which ran away fastest, he or the snake. This incident inspired the bold boy with fear, which he vainly tried to overcome during the remainder of his life. There was a thicket of underbrush between his father's farm and the village of Woodbury. Once, when he was sent of an errand to the village, he was seized with such a dread of snakes, that before entering among the bushes, he placed his basket on an old rail, knelt down and prayed earnestly that he might pass through without encountering a snake. When he rose up and attempted to take his basket, he perceived a large black snake lying close beside the rail. It may well be believed that he went through the thicket too fast to allow any grass to grow under his feet.

When he drove the cows to and from pasture, he often met an old colored man named Mingo. His sympathizing heart was attracted toward him, because he had heard the neighbors say he was stolen from Africa when he was a little boy. One day, he asked Mingo what part of the world he came from; and the poor old man told how he was playing with other children among the bushes, on the coast of Africa, when white men pounced upon them suddenly and dragged them off to a ship. He held fast hold of the thorny bushes, which tore his hands dreadfully in the struggle. The old man wept like a child, when he told how he was frightened and distressed at being thus hurried away from father, mother, brothers and sisters, and sold into slavery, in a distant land, where he could never see or hear from them again. This painful story made a very deep impression upon Isaac's mind; and, though he was then only nine years old, he made a solemn vow to himself that he would be the friend of oppressed Africans during his whole life.

He was as precocious in love, as in other matters. Not far from his home, lived a prosperous and highly respectable Quaker family, named Tatum. There were several sons, but only one daughter; a handsome child, with clear, fair complexion, blue eyes, and a profusion of brown curly hair. She was Isaac's cousin, twice removed; for their great-grandfathers were half-brothers. When he was only eight years old, and she was not yet five, he made up his mind that little Sarah Tatum was his wife. He used to walk a mile and a half every day, on purpose to escort her to school. When they rambled through the woods, in search of berries, it was his delight to sit beside her on some old stump, and twist her glossy brown ringlets over his fingers. A lovely picture they must have made in the green, leafy frame-work of the woods--that fair, blue-eyed girl, and the handsome, vigorous boy! When he was fourteen years old, he wrote to her his first love-letter. The village schoolmaster taught for very low wages, and was not remarkably well-qualified for his task; as was generally the case at that early period. Isaac's labor was needed on the farm all the summer; consequently, he was able to attend school only three months during the winter. He was, therefore, so little acquainted with the forms of letter-writing, that he put Sarah's name inside the letter, and his own on the outside. She, being an only daughter, and a great pet in her family, had better opportunities for education. She told her young lover that was not the correct way to write a letter, and instructed him how to proceed in future. From that time, they corresponded constantly.

Isaac likewise formed a very strong friendship with his cousin Joseph Whitall, who was his schoolmate, and about his own age. They shared together all their joys and troubles, and were companions in all boyish enterprises. Thus was a happy though laborious childhood passed in the seclusion of the woods, in the midst of home influences and rustic occupations. His parents had no leisure to bestow on intellectual culture; for they had a numerous family of children, and it required about all their time to feed and clothe them respectably. But they were worthy, kind-hearted people, whose moral precepts were sustained by their upright example. His father was a quiet man, but exceedingly firm and energetic. When he had made up his mind to do a thing, no earthly power could turn him from his purpose; especially if any question of conscience were involved therein. During the revolutionary war, he faithfully maintained his testimony against the shedding of blood, and suffered considerably for refusing to pay military taxes. Isaac's mother was noted for her fearless character, and blunt directness of speech. She was educated in the Presbyterian faith, and this was a source of some discordant feeling between her and her husband. The preaching of her favorite ministers seemed to him harsh and rigid, while she regarded Quaker exhortations as insipid and formal. But as time passed on, her religious views assimilated more and more with his; and about twenty-four years after their marriage, she joined the Society of Friends, and frequently spoke at their meetings. She was a spiritual minded woman, always ready to sympathise with the afflicted, and peculiarly kind to animals. They were both extremely hospitable and benevolent to the poor. On Sunday evenings, they convened all the family to listen to the Scriptures and other religious books.--In his journal Isaac alludes to this custom, and says: "My mind was often solemnized by these opportunities, and I resolved to live more consistently with the principles of christian sobriety."

When he was sixteen years old, it became a question to what business he should devote himself.--There was a prospect of obtaining a situation for him in a store at Philadelphia; and for that purpose it was deemed expedient that he should take up his abode for a while with his maternal uncle, whose house he had been so fond of visiting in early boyhood. He did not succeed in obtaining the situation he expected, but remained in the city on the look-out for some suitable employment. Meanwhile, he was very helpful to his uncle, who, finding him diligent and skillful, tried to induce him to learn his trade.--It was an occupation ill-adapted to his vigorous body and active mind; but he was not of a temperament to fold his hands and wait till something "turned up;" and as his uncle was doing a prosperous business, he concluded to accept his proposition. About the same time, his beloved cousin, Joseph Whitall, was sent to Trenton to study law. This was rather a severe trial to Isaac's feelings. Not that he envied his superior advantages; but he had sad forebodings that separation would interrupt their friendship, and that such a different career would be very likely to prevent its renewal. They parted with mutual regret, and did not meet again for several years.

When Isaac bade adieu to the paternal roof, his mother looked after him thoughtfully, and remarked to one of his sisters, "Isaac is no common boy.--He will do something great, either for good or evil." She called him back and said, "My son, you are now going forth to make your own way in the world. Always remember that you are as good as any other person; but remember also that you are no better." With this farewell injunction, he departed for Philadelphia, where he soon acquired the character of a faithful and industrious apprentice.

But his boyish love of fun was still strong within him, and he was the torment of all his fellow apprentices. One of them, named William Roberts, proposed that they should go together into the cellar to steal a pitcher of cider. Isaac pulled the spile, and while William was drawing the liquor, he took an unobserved opportunity to hide it. When the pitcher was full, he pretended to look all around for it, without being able to find it. At last, he told his unsuspecting comrade that he must thrust his finger into the hole and keep it there, while he went to get another spile. William waited and waited for him to return, but when an hour or more had elapsed, his patience was exhausted, and he began to Halloo!--The noise, instead of bringing Isaac to his assistance, brought the mistress of the house, who caught the culprit at the cider-barrel, and gave him a severe scolding, to the infinite gratification of his mischievous companion.

Once, when the family were all going away, his uncle left the house in charge of him and another apprentice, telling them to defend themselves if any robbers came. Having a mind to try the courage of the lads, he returned soon after, and attempted to force a window in the back part of the house, which opened upon a narrow alley inclosed by a high fence. As soon as Isaac heard the noise, he seized an old harpoon that was about the premises, and told his companion to open the window the instant he gave the signal. His orders were obeyed, and he flung the harpoon with such force, that it passed through his uncle's vest and coat, and nailed him tight to the fence. When he told the story, he used to say he never afterward deemed it necessary to advise Isaac to defend himself.

Among the apprentices was one much older and stouter than the others. He was very proud of his physical strength, and delighted to play the tyrant over those who were younger and weaker than himself. When Isaac saw him knocking them about, he felt an almost irresistible temptation to fight; but his uncle was a severe man, likely to be much incensed by quarrels among his apprentices. He knew, moreover, that a battle between him and Samson would be very unequal; so he restrained his indignation as well as he could. But one day, when the big bully knocked him down, without the slightest provocation, he exclaimed, in great wrath, "If you ever do that again, I'll kill you. Mind what I say. I tell you I'll kill you."

Samson snapped his fingers and laughed, and the next day he knocked him down again. Isaac armed himself with a heavy window-bar, and when the apprentices were summoned to breakfast, he laid wait behind a door, and levelled a blow at the tyrant, as he passed through. He fell, without uttering a single cry. When the family sat down to breakfast, Mr. Tatem said, "Where is Samson?"

His nephew coolly replied, "I've killed him."

"Killed him!" exclaimed the uncle. "What do you mean?"

"I told him I would kill him if he ever knocked me down again," rejoined Isaac; "and I have killed him."

They rushed out in the utmost consternation, and found the young man entirely senseless. A physician was summoned, and for some time they feared he was really dead. The means employed to restore him were at last successful; but it was long before he recovered from the effects of the blow. When Isaac saw him so pale and helpless, a terrible remorse filled his soul. He shuddered to think how nearly he had committed murder, in one rash moment of unbridled rage. This awful incident made such a solemn and deep impression on him, that from that time he began to make strong and earnest efforts to control the natural impetuosity of his temper; and he finally attained to a remarkable degree of self-control. Weary hours of debility brought wiser thoughts to Samson also; and when he recovered his strength, he never again misused it by abusing his companions.

In those days, Isaac did not profess to be a Quaker. He used the customary language of the world, and liked to display his well-proportioned figure in neat and fashionable clothing. The young women of his acquaintance, it is said, looked upon him with rather favorable eyes; but his thoughts never wandered from Sarah Tatum for a single day. Once, when he had a new suit of clothes, and stylish boots, the tops turned down with red, a young man of his acquaintance invited him to go home with him on Saturday evening and spend Sunday. He accepted the invitation, and set out well pleased with the expedition. The young man had a sister, who took it into her head that the visit was intended as an especial compliment to herself. The brother was called out somewhere in the neighborhood, and as soon as she found herself alone with their guest, she began to specify, in rather significant terms, what she should require of a man who wished to marry her.--Her remarks made Isaac rather fidgetty; but he replied, in general terms, that he thought her ideas on the subject were very correct. "I suppose you think my father will give me considerable money," said she; "but that is a mistake. Whoever takes me must take me for myself alone."

The young man tried to stammer out that he did not come on any such errand; but his wits were bewildered by this unexpected siege, and he could not frame a suitable reply. She mistook his confusion for the natural timidity of love, and went on to express the high opinion she entertained of him. Isaac looked wistfully at the door, in hopes her brother would come to his rescue. But no relief came from that quarter, and fearing he should find himself engaged to be married without his own consent, he caught up his hat and rushed out. It was raining fast, but he splashed through mud and water, without stopping to choose his steps. Crossing the yard in this desperate haste, he encountered the brother, who called out, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going home," he replied.

"Going home!" exclaimed his astonished friend, "Why it is raining hard; and you came to stay all night. What does possess you, Isaac? Come back! Come back, I say!"

"I won't come back!" shouted Isaac, from the distance. "I'm going home." And home he went.--His new clothes were well spattered, and his red-top boots loaded with mud; but though he prided himself on keeping his apparel in neat condition, he thought he had got off cheaply on this occasion.

Soon after he went to reside in Philadelphia, a sea captain by the name of Cox came to his uncle's on a visit. As the captain was one day passing through Norris Alley, he met a young colored man, named Joe, whose master he had known in Bermuda. He at once accused him of being a runaway slave, and ordered him to go to the house with him. Joe called him his old friend, and seemed much pleased at the meeting. He said he had been sent from Bermuda to New-York in a vessel, which he named; he had obtained permission to go a few miles into the country, to see his sister, and while he was gone, the vessel unfortunately sailed; he called upon the consignee and asked what he had better do under the circumstances, and he told him that his captain had left directions for him to go to Philadelphia and take passage home by the first vessel. Captain Cox was entirely satisfied with this account. He said there was a vessel then in port, which would sail for Bermuda in a few days, and told Joe he had better go and stay with him at Mr. Tatem's house, while he made inquiries about it.

When Isaac entered the kitchen that evening, he found Joe sitting there, in a very disconsolate attitude; and watching him closely he observed tears now and then trickling down his dark cheeks. He thought of poor old Mingo, whose pitiful story had so much interested him in boyhood, and caused him to form a resolution to be the friend of Africans.--The more he pondered on the subject, the more he doubted whether Joe was so much pleased to meet his "old friend," as he had pretended to be. He took him aside and said, "Tell me truly how the case stands with you. I will be your friend; and come what will, you may feel certain that I will never betray you." Joe gave him an earnest look of distress and scrutiny, which his young benefactor never forgot. Again he assured him, most solemnly, that he might trust him. Then Joe ventured to acknowledge that he was a fugitive slave, and had great dread of being returned into bondage. He said his master let him out to work on board a ship going to New-York. He had a great desire for freedom, and when the vessel arrived at its destined port, he made his escape, and travelled to Philadelphia, in hopes of finding some one willing to protect him. Unluckily, the very day he entered the City of Brotherly Love he met his old acquaintance Captain Cox; and on the spur of the moment he had invented the best story he could.