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Title: The History of Thomas Ellwood Written by Himself

Author: Thomas Ellwood

Release Date: November, 2004  [EBook #6925]
[This file was first posted on February 12, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE HISTORY OF THOMAS ELLWOOD ***




Transcribed from the 1885 George Routledge and Sons edition by David
Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk




THE HISTORY OF THOMAS ELLWOOD WRITTEN BY HIMSELF




INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY



The life of the simple Quaker, Thomas Ellwood, to whom the pomps and
shows of earth were nowhere so vain as in association with the
spiritual life of man, may serve as companion to another volume in
this Library, the "Life of Wolsey" by George Cavendish, who, as a
gentleman of the great prelate's household, made part of his pomp,
but had heart to love him in his pride and in his fall.  "The
History of Thomas Ellwood, written by Himself," is interesting for
the frankness with which it makes Thomas Ellwood himself known to
us; and again, for the same frank simplicity that brings us nearer
than books usually bring us to a living knowledge of some features
of a bygone time; and yet again, because it helps us a little to
come near to Milton in his daily life.  He would be a good novelist
who could invent as pleasant a book as this unaffected record of a
quiet life touched by great influences in eventful times.

Thomas Ellwood, who was born in 1639, in the reign of Charles the
First, carried the story of his life in this book to the year 1683,
when he was forty-four years old.  He outlived the days of trouble
here recorded, enjoyed many years of peace, and died, near the end
of Queen Anne's reign, aged 74, on the first of March 1713, in his
house at Hunger Hill, by Amersham.  He was eleven years younger than
John Bunyan, and years younger than George Fox, the founder of that
faithful band of worshippers known as the Society of Friends.  They
turned from all forms and ceremonies that involved untruth or
insincerity, now the temple of God in man's body, and, as Saint Paul
said the Corinthians, "Know ye not that ye are the temple of God,
and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you," they sought to bring
Christ into their hearts, and speak and act as if Christ was within
governing their words and actions.  They would have no formal
prayers, no formal preaching, but sought to speak with each other as
the Spirit prompted, soul to soul.  They would not, when our plural
pronoun "you" was still only plural, speak to one man as if he were
two or more.  They swore not at all; but their "Yea" and "Nay" were
known to be more binding than the oaths of many of their
persecutors.  And as they would not go through the required form of
swearing allegiance to the Government whenever called upon to do so,
they were continually liable to penalties of imprisonment when
imprisonment too often meant jail fever, misery, and death.  George
Fox began his teaching when Ellwood was eight years old.  Ellwood
was ten years old when Fox was first imprisoned at Nottingham, and
the offences of his followers against established forms led, as he
says, to "great rage, blows, punchings, beatings, and
imprisonments."  Of what this rage meant, and of the spirit in which
it was endured, we learn much from the History of Thomas Ellwood.

Isaac Penington, whose influence upon young Ellwood's mind is often
referred to in this book, was born in the year of Shakespeare's
death, and had joined the Society of Friends in 1658, when his own
age was forty-two and Ellwood's was nineteen.  He was the son of
Alderman Isaac Penington, a Puritan member for the City of London,
who announced, at a time in the year 1640 when the Parliament was in
sore need of money, that his constituents had subscribed 21,000
pounds to a loan, which the members of the House then raised to
90,000 pounds, by rising, one after another, to give their personal
bonds each for a thousand pounds.  Isaac Penington the son, whom
Ellwood loved as a friend and reverenced as a father, became a
foremost worker and writer in the Society of Friends.  In a note
upon him, written after his death, Thomas Ellwood said that "in his
family he was a true pattern of goodness and piety; to his wife he
was a most affectionate husband; to his children, a loving and
tender father; to his servants, a mild and gentle master; to his
friends, a firm and fast friend; to the poor, compassionate and
open-hearted; and to all, courteous and kind?'  In 1661 he was
committed to Aylesbury gaol for worshipping God in his own house
(holding a conventicle), "where," says Ellwood in that little
testimony which he wrote after his friend's death, "for seventeen
weeks, great part of it in winter, he was kept in a cold and very
incommodious room, without a chimney; from which hard usage his
tender body contracted so great and violent a distemper that, for
several weeks after, he was not able to turn himself in bed."  "His
second imprisonment," says Ellwood, "was in the year 1664, being
taken out of a meeting, when he with others were peaceably waiting
on the Lord, and sent to Aylesbury gaol, where he again remained a
prisoner between seventeen and eighteen weeks.

"His third imprisonment was in the year 1665, being taken up, with
many others, in the open street of Amersham, as they were carrying
and accompanying the body of a deceased Friend to the grave.  From
hence he was sent again to Aylesbury gaol; but this commitment being
in order to banishment, was but for a month, or thereabouts.

"His fourth imprisonment was in the same year 1665, about a month
after his releasement from the former.  Hitherto his commitment had
been by the civil magistrates; but now, that he might experience the
severity of each, he fell into the military hands.  A rude soldier,
without any other warrant than what he carried in his scabbard, came
to his house, and told him he came to fetch him before Sir Philip
Palmer, one of the deputy-lieutenants of the county.  He meekly
went, and was by him sent with a guard of soldiers to Aylesbury
gaol, with a kind of mittimus, importing 'That the gaoler should
receive and keep him in safe custody during the pleasure of the Earl
of Bridgewater,' who had, it seems, conceived so great, as well as
unjust, displeasure against this innocent man, that, although (it
being the sickness year) the plague was suspected to be in the gaol,
he would not be prevailed with only to permit Isaac Penington to be
removed to another house in the town, and there kept prisoner until
the gaol was clear.  Afterwards, a prisoner dying in the gaol of the
plague, the gaoler's wife, her husband being absent, gave leave to
Isaac Penington to remove to another house, where he was shut up for
six weeks; after which, by the procurement of the Earl of Ancram, a
release was sent from the said Philip Palmer, by which he was
discharged, after he had suffered imprisonment three-quarters of a
year, with apparent hazard of his life, and that for no offence."

This was not the end of the troubles of Ellwood's patron and friend.
He had been home only three weeks when "the said Philip Palmer"
seized him again, dragged him out of bed, sent him, without any
cause shown, to Aylesbury gaol, and kept him a year and a half
prisoner "in rooms so cold, damp, and unhealthy, that it went very
near to cost him his life, and procured him so great a distemper
that he lay weak of it several months.  At length a relation of his
wife, by an habeas corpus, removed him to the King's Bench bar,
where (with the wonder of the court that a man should he so long
imprisoned for nothing) he was at last released in the year 1668."
"Paradise Lost" had appeared in the year before.  Yet a sixth
imprisonment followed in 1670, when Penington, visiting some Friends
in Reading gaol, was seized and carried before Sir William Armorer,
a justice of the peace, who sent him back to share their sufferings.
Penington died in 1679.

Of Thomas Ellwood's experience as reader to Milton, and of Milton's
regard for the gentle Quaker, the book tells its own tale.  I will
only add one comment upon an often-quoted incident that it contains.
When Milton gave his young friend--then twenty-six years old--the
manuscript of "Paradise Lost" to read, his desire could only have
been to learn what comprehension of his purpose there would be in a
young man sincerely religious, as intelligent as most, and with a
taste for verse, though not much of a poet.  The observation Ellwood
made, of which he is proud because of its consequence, might well
cause Milton to be silent for a little while, and then change the
conversation.  It showed that the whole aim of the poem had been
missed.  Its crown is in the story of redemption, Paradise Found,
the better Eden, the "Paradise within thee, happier far."  Milton
had applied his test, and learnt--what every great poet has to
learn--that he must trust more to the vague impression of truth,
beauty, and high thought, that can be made upon thousands of right-
hearted men and women, than to the clear, full understanding of his
work.  The noblest aims of the true artist can make themselves felt
by all, though understood by few.  Few know the secrets of the
sunshine, although all draw new life from the sun.  When Milton--
who, with his habitual gentleness, never allowed Ellwood to suspect
that he had missed the whole purpose of "Paradise Lost"--showed him
"Paradise Regained," and made him happy by telling him that he
caused it to be written; he showed him a poem that expanded the
closing thought of "Paradise Lost" into an image of the Paradise
within, that is to be obtained only by an imitation of Christ under
all forms of our temptation.

Of Ellwood's life after the year in which he ends his own account of
it, let it suffice to say, that he wrote earnest, gentle books in
support of his opinions and against the persecution of them.  He
lived retired until the year 1688, and occupied himself with an
attempt at a Davideis, a Life of David in verse.  He had not then
seen Cowley's.  Ellwood carried on his verses to the end of David's
life, and published them in 1712.  When George Fox died, in 1690,
Thomas Ellwood transcribed his journal for the press, and printed it
next year in folio, prefixing an account of Fox.  He was engaged
afterwards in controversy with George Keith, a seceder from the
Friends.  His intellectual activity continued unabated to the end.
In 1709 he suffered distraint for tithes; goods to the value of 24
pounds 10s. being taken for a due of about 14 pounds, after which
the distrainers "brought him still in debt, and wanted more."

Ellwood's life was healthy, except that he was asthmatic towards the
end.  His wife died five years before him.  Of her, J. Wyeth,
citizen of London, who was the editor of "Ellwood's History of his
Life," and wrote its sequel, says that she was "a solid, weighty
woman."  But the context shows that he means those adjectives to be
read in a spiritual sense.  "The liberal soul shall be made fat,"
says Solomon.

H. M.
November 1885.



THE HISTORY OF THOMAS ELLWOOD--WRITTEN BY HIMSELF



Although my station, not being so eminent either in the church of
Christ or in the world as others who have moved in higher orbs, may
not afford such considerable remarks as theirs, yet inasmuch as in
the course of my travels through this vale of tears I have passed
through various and some uncommon exercises, which the Lord hath
been graciously pleased to support me under and conduct me through,
I hold it a matter excusable at least, if not commendable, to give
the world some little account of my life, that in recounting the
many deliverances and preservations which the Lord hath vouchsafed
to work for me, both I, by a grateful acknowledgment thereof and
return of thanksgivings unto him therefor, may in some measure set
forth His abundant goodness to me, and others, whose lot it may be
to tread the same path and fall into the same or like exercises, may
be encouraged to persevere in the way of holiness, and with full
assurance of mind to trust in the Lord, whatsoever trials may befall
them.

To begin therefore with mine own beginning, I was born in the year
of our Lord 1639, about the beginning of the eighth month, so far as
I have been able to inform myself, for the parish register, which
relates to the time not of birth but of baptism, as they call it, is
not to be relied on.

The place of my birth was a little country town called Crowell,
situate in the upper side of Oxfordshire, three miles eastward from
Thame, the nearest market town.

My father's name was Walter Ellwood, and my mother's maiden name was
Elizabeth Potman, both well descended, but of declining families.
So that what my father possessed (which was a pretty estate in
lands, and more as I have heard in moneys) he received, as he had
done his name Walter, from his grandfather Walter Gray, whose
daughter and only child was his mother.

In my very infancy, when I was but about two years old, I was
carried to London; for the civil war between King and Parliament
breaking then forth, my father, who favoured the Parliament side,
though he took not arms, not holding himself safe at his country
habitation, which lay too near some garrisons of the King's, betook
himself to London, that city then holding for the Parliament.

There was I bred up, though not without much difficulty, the city
air not agreeing with my tender constitution, and there continued
until Oxford was surrendered, and the war in appearance ended.

In this time my parents contracted an acquaintance and intimate
friendship with the Lady Springett, who being then the widow of Sir
William Springett, who died in the Parliament service, was
afterwards the wife of Isaac Penington, eldest son of Alderman
Penington, of London.  And this friendship devolving from the
parents to the children, I became an early and particular playfellow
to her daughter Gulielma; being admitted, as such, to ride with her
in her little coach, drawn by her footman about Lincoln's Inn
Fields.

I mention this in this place because the continuation of that
acquaintance and friendship, having been an occasional means of my
being afterwards brought to the knowledge of the blessed TRUTH, I
shall have frequent cause, in the course of the following discourse,
to make honourable mention of that family, to which I am under so
many and great obligations.

Soon after the surrender of Oxford my father returned to his estate
at Crowell, which by that time he might have need enough to look
after, having spent, I suppose, the greatest part of the moneys
which had been left him by his grandfather in maintaining himself
and his family at a high rate in London.

My elder brother (for I had one brother and two sisters, all elder
than myself) was, while we lived in London, boarded at a private
school, in the house of one Francis Atkinson, at a place called
Hadley, near Barnet, in Hertfordshire, where he had made some good
proficiency in the Latin and French tongues.  But after we had left
the city, and were re-settled in the country, he was taken from that
private school and sent to the free school at Thame, in Oxfordshire.

Thither also was I sent as soon as my tender age would permit; for I
was indeed but young when I went, and yet seemed younger than I was,
by reason of my low and little stature.  For it was held for some
years a doubtful point whether I should not have proved a dwarf.
But after I was arrived at the fifteenth year of my age, or
thereabouts, I began to shoot up, and gave not up growing till I had
attained the middle size and stature of men.

At this school, which at that time was in good reputation, I
profited apace, having then a natural propensity to learning; so
that at the first reading over of my lesson I commonly made myself
master of it; and yet, which is strange to think of, few boys in the
school wore out more birch than I.  For though I was never, that I
remember, whipped upon the score of not having my lesson ready, or
of not saying it well, yet being a little busy boy, full of spirit,
of a working head and active hand, I could not easily conform myself
to the grave and sober rules and, as I then thought, severe orders
of the school, but was often playing one waggish prank or other
among my fellow-scholars, which subjected me to correction, so that
I have come under the discipline of the rod twice in a forenoon;
which yet brake no bones.

Had I been continued at this school, and in due time preferred to a
higher, I might in likelihood have been a scholar, for I was
observed to have a genius apt to learn.  But my father having, so
soon as the republican government began to settle, accepted the
office of a justice of the peace (which was no way beneficial, but
merely honorary, and every way expensive), and put himself into a
port and course of living agreeably thereunto, and having also
removed my brother from Thame school to Merton College in Oxford,
and entered him there in the highest and most chargeable condition
of a Fellow Commoner, he found it needful to retrench his expenses
elsewhere, the hurt of which fell upon me.  For he thereupon took me
from school, to save the charge of maintaining me there; which was
somewhat like plucking green fruit from the tree, and laying it by
before it was come to its due ripeness, which will thenceforth
shrink and wither, and lose that little juice and relish which it
began to have.

Even so it fared with me.  For being taken home when I was but
young, and before I was well settled in my studies (though I had
made a good progress in the Latin tongue, and was entered in the
Greek) being left too much to myself, to ply or play with my books,
or without them, as I pleased, I soon shook hands with my books by
shaking my books out of my hands, and laying them by degrees quite
aside, and addicted myself to such youthful sports and pleasures as
the place afforded and my condition could reach unto.

By this means, in a little time I began to lose that little learning
I had acquired at school, and by a continued disuse of my books
became at length so utterly a stranger to learning, that I could not
have read, far less have understood, a sentence in Latin:  which I
was so sensible of that I warily avoided reading to others, even in
an English book, lest, if I should meet with a Latin word, I should
shame myself by mispronouncing it.

Thus I went on, taking my swing in such vain courses as were
accounted harmless recreations, entertaining my companions and
familiar acquaintance with pleasant discourses in our conversations,
by the mere force of mother-wit and natural parts, without the help
of school cultivation; and was accounted good company too.

But I always sorted myself with persons of ingenuity, temperance,
and sobriety; for I loathed scurrilities in conversation, and had a
natural aversion to immoderate drinking.  So that in the time of my
greatest vanity I was preserved from profaneness and the grosser
evils of the world, which rendered me acceptable to persons of the
best note in that country then.  I often waited on the Lord Wenman
at his house, Thame Park, about two miles from Crowell, where I
lived; to whose favour I held myself entitled in a twofold respect,
both as my mother was nearly related to his lady, and as he had been
pleased to bestow his name upon me, when he made large promises for
me at the font.  He was a person of great honour and virtue, and
always gave me a kind reception at his table, how often soever I
came.  And I have cause to think I should have received from this
lord some advantageous preferment in this world, as soon as he had
found me capable of it (though betwixt him and my father there was
not then so good an understanding as might have been wished), had I
not been, in a little time after, called into the service of the
best and highest Lord, and thereby lost the favour of all my
friends, relations, and acquaintance of this world.  To the account
of which most happy exchange I hasten, and therefore willingly pass
over many particularities of my youthful life.  Yet one passage I am
willing to mention, for the effect it had upon me afterwards, which
was thus.

My father being then in the Commission of the Peace, and going to a
Petty Sessions at Watlington, I waited on him thither.  And when we
came near the town, the coachman, seeing a nearer and easier way
(than the common road) through a corn-field, and that it was wide
enough for the wheels to run without damaging the corn, turned down
there; which being observed by a husbandman who was at plough not
far off, he ran to us, and stopping the coach, poured forth a
mouthful of complaints, in none of the best language, for driving
over the corn.  My father mildly answered him, "That if there was an
offence committed, he must rather impute it to his servant than
himself, since he neither directed him to drive that way, nor knew
which way he drove."  Yet added, "That he was going to such an inn
at the town, whither if he came he would make him full satisfaction
for whatsoever damage he had sustained thereby."  And so on we went,
the man venting his discontent, as he went back, in angry accents.
At the town, upon inquiry, we understood that it was a way often
used, and without damage, being broad enough; but that it was not
the common road, which yet lay not far from it, and was also good
enough; wherefore my father bid his man drive home that way.

It was late in the evening when we returned, and very dark; and this
quarrelsome man, who had troubled himself and us in the morning,
having gotten another lusty fellow like himself to assist him,
waylaid us in the night, expecting we would return the same way we
came.  But when they found we did not, but took the common way,
they, angry that they were disappointed, and loth to lose their
purpose (which was to put an abuse upon us), coasted over to us in
the dark, and laying hold on the horses' bridles, stopped them from
going on.  My father, asking his man what the reason was that he
went not on, was answered, "That there were two men at the horses'
heads, who held them back, and would not suffer them to go forward."
Whereupon my father, opening the boot, stepped out, and I followed
close at his heels.  Going up to the place where the men stood, he
demanded of them the meaning of this assault.  They said, "We were
upon the corn."  We knew by the route we were not on the corn, but
in the common way, and told them so; but they told us, "They were
resolved they would not let us go on any farther, but would make us
go back again."  My father endeavoured by gentle reasoning to
persuade them to forbear, and not run themselves farther into the
danger of the law, which they were run too far into already; but
they rather derided him for it.  Seeing therefore fair means would
not work upon them, he spake more roughly to them, charging them to
deliver their clubs (for each of them had a great club in his hand,
somewhat like those which are called quarter-staves):  they
thereupon, laughing, told him, "They did not bring them thither for
that end."  Thereupon my father, turning his head to me, said, "Tom,
disarm them."

I stood ready at his elbow, waiting only for the word of command.
For being naturally of a bold spirit, full then of youthful heat,
and that, too, heightened by the sense I had, not only of the abuse,
but insolent behaviour of those rude fellows, my blood began to
boil, and my fingers itched, as the saying is, to be dealing with
them.  Wherefore, stepping boldly forward to lay hold on the staff
of him that was nearest to me, I said, "Sirrah, deliver your
weapon."  He thereupon raised his club, which was big enough to have
knocked down an ox, intending no doubt to have knocked me down with
it, as probably he would have done, had I not, in the twinkling of
an eye, whipped out my rapier, and made a pass upon him.  I could
not have failed running of him through up to the hilt had he stood
his ground, but the sudden and unexpected sight of my bright blade
glittering in the dark night, did so amaze and terrify the man,
that, slipping aside, he avoided my thrust, and letting his staff
sink, betook himself to his heels for safety; which his companion
seeing, fled also.  I followed the former as fast as I could, but
timor addidit alas (fear gave him wings), and made him swiftly fly;
so that, although I was accounted very nimble, yet the farther we
ran the more ground he gained on me; so that I could not overtake
him, which made me think he took shelter under some bush, which he
knew where to find, though I did not.  Meanwhile, the coachman, who
had sufficiently the outside of a man, excused himself from
intermeddling under pretence that he durst not leave his horses, and
so left me to shift for myself; and I was gone so far beyond my
knowledge, that I understood not which way I was to go, till by
halloing, and being halloed to again, I was directed where to find
my company.

We had easy means to have found out who these men were (the
principal of them having been in the daytime at the inn, and both
quarrelled with the coachman, and threatened to be even with him
when he went back); but since they came off no better in their
attempt, my father thought it better not to know them, than to
oblige himself to a prosecution of them.

At that time, and for a good while after, I had no regret upon my
mind for what I had done, and designed to have done, in this case,
but went on in a sort of bravery, resolving to kill, if I could, any
man that should make the like attempt or put any affront on us; and
for that reason seldom went afterwards upon those public services
without a loaded pistol in my pocket.  But when it pleased the Lord,
in his infinite goodness, to call me out of the spirit and ways of
the world, and give me the knowledge of his saving truth, whereby
the actions of my fore-past life were set in order before me, a sort
of horror seized on me, when I considered how near I had been to the
staining of my hands with human blood.  And whensoever afterwards I
went that way, and indeed as often since as the matter has come into
my remembrance, my soul has blessed the Lord for my deliverance, and
thanksgivings and praises have arisen in my heart (as now at the
relating of it, they do) to Him who preserved and withheld me from
shedding man's blood.  Which is the reason for which I have given
this account of that action, that others may be warned by it.

About this time my dear and honoured mother, who was indeed a woman
of singular worth and virtue, departed this life, having a little
before heard of the death of her eldest son, who (falling under the
displeasure of my father for refusing to resign his interest in an
estate which my father sold, and thereupon desiring that he might
have leave to travel, in hopes that time and absence might work a
reconciliation) went into Ireland with a person powerful there in
those times, by whose means he was quickly preferred to a place of
trust and profit, but lived not long to enjoy it.

I mentioned before, that during my father's abode in London, in the
time of the civil wars, he contracted a friendship with the Lady
Springett, then a widow, and afterwards married to Isaac Penington,
Esq., to continue which he sometimes visited them at their country
lodgings, as at Datchet, and at Causham Lodge, near Reading.  And
having heard that they were come to live upon their own estate at
Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire, about fifteen miles from Crowell, he
went one day to visit them there, and to return at night, taking me
with him.

But very much surprised we were when, being come thither, we first
heard, then found, they were become Quakers; a people we had no
knowledge of, and a name we had till then scarce heard of.

So great a change, from a free, debonair, and courtly sort of
behaviour, which we formerly had found them in, to so strict a
gravity as they now received us with did not a little amuse us, and
disappoint our expectation of such a pleasant visit as we used to
have, and had now promised ourselves.  Nor could my father have any
opportunity, by a private conference with them, to understand the
ground or occasion of this change, there being some other strangers
with them (related to Isaac Penington), who came that morning from
London to visit them also.

For my part I sought and at length found means to cast myself into
the company of the daughter, whom I found gathering some flowers in
the garden, attended by her maid, who was also a Quaker.  But when I
addressed myself to her after my accustomed manner, with intention
to engage her in some discourse which might introduce conversation
on the footing of our former acquaintance, though she treated me
with a courteous mien, yet, as young as she was, the gravity of her
look and behaviour struck such an awe upon me, that I found myself
not so much master of myself as to pursue any further converse with
her.  Wherefore, asking pardon for my boldness in having intruded
myself into her private walks, I withdrew, not without some disorder
(as I thought at least) of mind.

We stayed dinner, which was very handsome, and lacked nothing to
recommend it to me but the want of mirth and pleasant discourse,
which we could neither have with them, nor by reason of them, with
one another amongst ourselves; the weightiness that was upon their
spirits and countenances keeping down the lightness that would have
been up in us.  We stayed, notwithstanding, till the rest of the
company took leave of them, and then we also, doing the same,
returned, not greatly satisfied with our journey, nor knowing what
in particular to find fault with.

Yet this good effect that visit had upon my father, who was then in
the Commission of the Peace, that it disposed him to a more
favourable opinion of and carriage towards those people when they
came in his way, as not long after one of them did.  For a young
man, who lived in Buckinghamshire, came on a first-day to the church
(so called) at a town called Chinner, a mile from Crowell, having,
it seems, a pressure on his mind to say something to the minister of
that parish.  He being an acquaintance of mine, drew me sometimes to
hear him, as it did then.  The young man stood in the aisle before
the pulpit all the time of the sermon, not speaking a word till the
sermon and prayer after it were ended, and then spoke a few words to
the priest, of which all that I could hear was, "That the prayer of
the wicked is abomination to the Lord, and that God heareth not
sinners."

Somewhat more, I think, he did say, which I could not distinctly
hear for the noise the people made; and more probably he would have
said, had he not been interrupted by the officers, who took him into
custody, and led him out in order to carry him before my father.

When I understood that, I hastened home, that I might give my father
a fair account of the matter before they came.  I told him the young
man behaved himself quietly and peaceably, spoke not a word till the
minister had quite done his service, and that what he then spoke was
but short, and was delivered without passion or ill language.  This
I knew would furnish my father with a fair ground whereon to
discharge the man if he would.

And accordingly when they came, and made a high complaint against
the man (who said little for himself), my father, having examined
the officers who brought him--what the words that he spoke were
(which they did not well agree in), and at what time he spoke them
(which they all agreed to be after the minister had done), and then,
whether he gave the minister any reviling language, or endeavoured
to raise a tumult among the people (which they could not charge him
with); not finding that he had broken the law, he counselled the
young man to be careful that he did not make or occasion any public
disturbance, and so dismissed him; which I was glad of.

Some time after this, my father, having gotten some further account
of the people called Quakers, and being desirous to be informed
concerning their principles, made another visit to Isaac Penington
and his wife, at their house called the Grange, in Peter's Chalfont,
and took both my sisters and me with him.

It was in the tenth month, in the year 1659, that we went thither,
where we found a very kind reception, and tarried some days; one day
at least the longer, for that while we were there a meeting was
appointed at a place about a mile from thence, to which we were
invited to go, and willingly went.

It was held in a farmhouse called the Grove, which having formerly
been a gentleman's seat, had a very large hall, and that well
filled.

To this meeting came Edward Burrough, besides other preachers, as
Thomas Curtis and James Naylor, but none spoke there at that time
but Edward Burrough, next to whom, as it were under him, it was my
lot to sit on a stool by the side of a long table on which he sat,
and I drank in his words with desire; for they not only answered my
understanding, but warmed my heart with a certain heat, which I had
not till then felt from the ministry of any man.

When the meeting was ended our friends took us home with them again;
and after supper, the evenings being long, the servants of the
family (who were Quakers) were called in, and we all sat down in
silence.  But long we had not so sat before Edward Burrough began to
speak among us.  And although he spoke not long, yet what he said
did touch, as I suppose, my father's (religious) copyhold, as the
phrase is.  And he having been from his youth a professor, though
not joined in that which is called close communion with any one
sort, and valuing himself upon the knowledge he esteemed himself to
have in the various notions of each profession, thought he had now a
fair opportunity to display his knowledge, and thereupon began to
make objections against what had been delivered.

The subject of the discourse was, "The universal free grace of God
to all mankind," to which he opposed the Calvinistic tenet of
particular and personal predestination; in defence of which
indefensible notion he found himself more at a loss than he
expected.  Edward Burrough said not much to him upon it, though what
he said was close and cogent; but James Naylor interposing, handled
the subject with so much perspicuity and clear demonstration, that
his reasoning seemed to be irresistible; and so I suppose my father
found it, which made him willing to drop the discourse.

As for Edward Burrough, he was a brisk young man, of a ready tongue,
and might have been, for aught I then knew, a scholar, which made me
the less to admire his way of reasoning.  But what dropt from James
Naylor had the greater force upon me, because he looked but like a
plain simple countryman, having the appearance of a husbandman or a
shepherd.

As my father was not able to maintain the argument on his side, so
neither did they seem willing to drive it to an extremity on their
side; but treating him in a soft and gentle manner, did after a
while let fall the discourse, and then we withdrew to our respective
chambers.

The next morning we prepared to return home (that is, my father, my
younger sister, and myself, for my elder sister was gone before by
the stage-coach to London), and when, having taken our leaves of our
friends, we went forth, they, with Edward Burrough, accompanying us
to the gate, he there directed his speech in a few words to each of
us severally, according to the sense he had of our several
conditions.  And when we were gone off, and they gone in again, they
asking him what he thought of us, he answered them, as they
afterwards told me, to this effect:  "As for the old man, he is
settled on his lees, and the young woman is light and airy; but the
young man is reached, and may do well if he does not lose it."  And
surely that which he said to me, or rather that spirit in which he
spoke it, took such fast hold on me, that I felt sadness and trouble
come over me, though I did not distinctly understand what I was
troubled for.  I knew not what I ailed, but I knew I ailed something
more than ordinary, and my heart was very heavy.

I found it was not so with my father and sister, for as I rode after
the coach I could hear them talk pleasantly one to the other; but
they could not discern how it was with me, because I, riding on
horseback, kept much out of sight.

By the time we got home it was night; and the next day, being the
first day of the week, I went in the afternoon to hear the minister
of Chinner, and this was the last time I ever went to hear any of
that function.  After the sermon I went with him to his house, and
in a freedom of discourse, which, from a certain intimacy that was
between us, I commonly used with him, told him where I had been,
what company I had met with there, and what observations I had made
to myself thereupon.  He seemed to understand as little of them as I
had done before, and civilly abstained from casting any unhandsome
reflections on them.

I had a desire to go to another meeting of the Quakers, and bade my
father's man inquire if there was any in the country thereabouts.
He thereupon told me he had heard at Isaac Penington's that there
was to be a meeting at High Wycombe on Thursday next.

Thither therefore I went, though it was seven miles from me; and
that I might be rather thought to go out a-coursing than to a
meeting, I let my greyhound run by my horse's side.

When I came there, and had set up my horse at an inn, I was at a
loss how to find the house where the meeting was to be.  I knew it
not, and was ashamed to ask after it; wherefore, having ordered the
ostler to take care of my dog, I went into the street and stood at
the inn gate, musing with myself what course to take.  But I had not
stood long ere I saw a horseman riding along the street, whom I
remembered I had seen before at Isaac Penington's, and he put up his
horse at the same inn.  Him therefore I resolved to follow,
supposing he was going to the meeting, as indeed he was.

Being come to the house, which proved to be John Raunce's, I saw the
people sitting together in an outer room; wherefore I stepped in and
sat down on the first void seat, the end of a bench just within the
door, having my sword by my side and black clothes on, which drew
some eyes upon me.  It was not long ere one stood up and spoke, whom
I was afterwards well acquainted with; his name was Samuel Thornton,
and what he said was very suitable and of good service to me, for it
reached home as if it had been directed to me.

As soon as ever the meeting was ended and the people began to rise,
I, being next the door, stepped out quickly, and hastening to my
inn, took horse immediately homewards, and (so far as I remember) my
having been gone was not taken notice of by my father.

This latter meeting was like the clinching of a nail, confirming and
fastening in my mind those good principles which had sunk into me at
the former.  My understanding began to open, and I felt some
stirrings in my breast, tending to the work of a new creation in me.
The general trouble and confusion of mind, which had for some days
lain heavy upon me and pressed me down, without a distinct discovery
of the particular cause for which it came, began now to wear off,
and some glimmerings of light began to break forth in me, which let
me see my inward state and condition towards God.  The light, which
before had shone in my darkness, and the darkness could not
comprehend it, began now to shine out of darkness, and in some
measure discovered to me what it was that had before clouded me and
brought that sadness and trouble upon me.  And now I saw that
although I had been in a great degree preserved from the common
immoralities and gross pollutions of the world, yet the spirit of
the world had hitherto ruled in me, and led me into pride, flattery,
vanity, and superfluity, all which was naught.  I found there were
many plants growing in me which were not of the heavenly Father's
planting, and that all these, of whatever sort or kind they were, or
how specious soever they might appear, must be plucked up.

Now was all my former life ripped up, and my sins by degrees were
set in order before me.  And though they looked not with so black a
hue and so deep a dye as those of the lewdest sort of people did,
yet I found that all sin (even that which had the fairest or finest
show, as well as that which was more coarse and foul) brought guilt,
and with and for guilt, condemnation on the soul that sinned.  This
I felt, and was greatly bowed down under the sense thereof.

Now also did I receive a new law--an inward law superadded to the
outward--the law of the spirit of life in Christ Jesus, which
wrought in me against all evil, not only in deed and in word, but
even in thought also; so that everything was brought to judgment,
and judgment passed upon all.  So that I could not any longer go on
in my former ways and course of life, for when I did, judgment took
hold upon me for it.

Thus the Lord was graciously pleased to deal with me in somewhat
like manner as he had dealt with his people Israel of old when they
had transgressed his righteous law, whom by his prophet he called
back, required to put away the evil of their doings, bidding them
first cease to do evil, then learn to do well, before he would admit
them to reason with him, and before he would impart to them the
effects of his free mercy.  (Isaiah i. 16, 17.)

I was now required by this inward and spiritual law (the law of the
spirit of life in Christ Jesus) to put away the evil of my doings,
and to cease to do evil; and what in particular the evil was which I
was required to put away and to cease from, that measure of the
divine light which was now manifested in me discovered to me, and
what the light made manifest to be evil, judgment passed upon.

So that here began to be a way cast up before me for me to walk in--
a direct and plain way, so plain that a wayfaring man, how weak and
simple soever (though a fool to the wisdom and in the judgment of
the world) could not err while he continued to walk in it, the error
coming in by his going out of it.  And this way with respect to me I
saw was that measure of divine light which was manifested in me, by
which the evil of my doings which I was to put away and to cease
from was discovered to me.

By this divine light, then, I saw that though I had not the evil of
the common uncleanness, debauchery, profaneness, and pollutions of
the world to put away, because I had, through the great goodness of
God and a civil education, been preserved out of those grosser
evils, yet I had many other evils to put away and to cease from;
some of which were not by the world, which lies in wickedness (1
John v. 19), accounted evils; but by the light of Christ were made
manifest to me to be evils, and as such condemned in me.

As particularly those fruits and effects of pride that discover
themselves in the vanity and superfluity of apparel; which I, as far
as my ability would extend to, took, alas! too much delight in.
This evil of my doings I was required to put away and cease from;
and judgment lay upon me till I did so.  Wherefore, in obedience to
the inward law, which agreed with the outward (1 Tim. ii. 9; 1 Pet.
iii. 3; 1 Tim. vi. 8; James i. 21), I took off from my apparel those
unnecessary trimmings of lace, ribbons, and useless buttons, which
had no real service, but were set on only for that which was by
mistake called ornament; and I ceased to wear rings.

Again, the giving of flattering titles to men between whom and me
there was not any relation to which such titles could be pretended
to belong.  This was an evil I had been much addicted to, and was
accounted a ready artist in; therefore this evil also was I required
to put away and cease from.  So that thenceforward I durst not say,
Sir, Master, My Lord, Madam (or My Dame); or say Your Servant to any
one to whom I did not stand in the real relation of a servant, which
I had never done to any.

Again, respect of persons, in uncovering the head and bowing the
knee or body in salutation, was a practice I had been much in the
use of; and this, being one of the vain customs of the world,
introduced by the spirit of the world, instead of the true honour
which this is a false representation of, and used in deceit as a
token of respect by persons one to another, who bear no real respect
one to another; and besides, this being a type and proper emblem of
that divine honour which all ought to pay to Almighty God, and which
all of all sorts, who take upon them the Christian name, appear in
when they offer their prayers to Him, and therefore should not be
given to men;--I found this to be one of those evils which I had
been too long doing; therefore I was now required to put it away and
cease from it.

Again, the corrupt and unsound form of speaking in the plural number
to a single person, YOU to one, instead of THOU, contrary to the
pure, plain, and single language of truth, THOU to one, and YOU to
more than one, which had always been used by God to men, and men to
God, as well as one to another, from the oldest record of time till
corrupt men, for corrupt ends, in later and corrupt times, to
flatter, fawn, and work upon the corrupt nature in men, brought in
that false and senseless way of speaking YOU to one, which has since
corrupted the modern languages, and hath greatly debased the spirits
and depraved the manners of men;--this evil custom I had been as
forward in as others, and this I was now called out of and required
to cease from.

These and many more evil customs which had sprung up in the night of
darkness and general apostacy from the truth and true religion, were
now, by the inshining of this pure ray of divine light in my
conscience, gradually discovered to me to be what I ought to cease
from, shun, and stand a witness against.

But so subtly and withal so powerfully did the enemy work upon the
weak part in me, as to persuade me that in these things I ought to
make a difference between my father and all other men; and that
therefore, though I did disuse these tokens of respect to others,
yet I ought still to use them towards him, as he was my father.  And
so far did this wile of his prevail upon me, through a fear lest I
should do amiss in withdrawing any sort of respect or honour from my
father which was due unto him, that being thereby beguiled, I
continued for a while to demean myself in the same manner towards
him, with respect both to language and gesture, as I had always done
before.  And so long as I did so (standing bare before him, and
giving him the accustomed language) he did not express--whatever he
thought--any dislike of me.

But as to myself and the work begun in me, I found it was not enough
for me to cease to do evil, though that was a good and a great step.
I had another lesson before me, which was to learn to do well; which
I could by no means do till I had given up with full purpose of mind
to cease from doing evil.

And when I had done that, the enemy took advantage of my weakness to
mislead me again.

For whereas I ought to have waited in the light for direction and
guidance into and in the way of well-doing, and not to have moved
till the divine Spirit (a manifestation of which the Lord has been
pleased to give unto me for me to profit with or by), the enemy,
transforming himself into the appearance of an angel of light,
offered himself in that appearance to be my guide and leader into
the performance of religious exercises.  And I not then knowing the
wiles of Satan, and being eager to be doing some acceptable service
to God, too readily yielded myself to the conduct of my enemy
instead of my friend.

He thereupon, humouring the warmth and zeal of my spirit, put me
upon religious performances in my own will, in my own time, and in
my own strength; which in themselves were good, and would have been
profitable unto me and acceptable unto the Lord, if they had been
performed in His will, in His time, and in the ability which He
gives.  But being wrought in the will of man and at the prompting of
the evil one, no wonder that it did me hurt instead of good.

I read abundantly in the Bible, and would set myself tasks in
reading, enjoining myself to read so many chapters, sometimes a
whole book or long epistle, at a time.  And I thought that time well
spent, though I was not much the wiser for what I had read, reading
it too cursorily, and without the true Guide, the Holy Spirit, which
alone could open the understanding and give the true sense of what
was read.

I prayed often, and drew out my prayers to a great length, and
appointed unto myself certain set times to pray at, and a certain
number of prayers to say in a day:  we knew not meanwhile what true
prayer was, which stands not in words, though the words which are
uttered in the movings of the Holy Spirit are very available, but in
the breathing of the soul to the heavenly Father through the
operation of the Holy Spirit, who maketh intercession sometimes in
words and sometimes with sighs and groans only, which the Lord
vouchsafes to hear and answer.

This will-worship, which all is that is performed in the will of man
and not in the movings of the Holy Spirit, was a great hurt to me,
and hindrance of my spiritual growth in the way of truth.  But my
heavenly Father, who knew the sincerity of my soul to Him and the
hearty desire I had to serve Him, had compassion on me, and in due
time was graciously pleased to illuminate my understanding further,
and to open in me an eye to discern the false spirit, and its way of
working from the true, and to reject the former and cleave to the
latter.

But though the enemy had by his subtlety gained such advantages over
me, yet I went on notwithstanding, and firmly persisted in my godly
resolution of ceasing from and denying those things which I was now
convinced in my conscience were evil.  And on this account a great
trial came quickly on me; for the general Quarter Sessions for the
Peace coming on, my father, willing to excuse himself from a dirty
journey, commanded me to get up betimes and go to Oxford, and
deliver in the recognisances he had taken, and bring him an account
what justices were on the bench, and what principal pleas were
before them; which he knew I knew how to do, having often attended
him on those services.

I, who knew how it stood with me better than he did, felt a weight
come over me as soon as he had spoken the word; for I presently saw
it would bring a very great exercise upon me.  But having never
resisted his will in anything that was lawful, as this was, I
attempted not to make any excuse, but ordering a horse to be ready
for me early in the morning, I went to bed, having great strugglings
in my breast.

For the enemy came in upon me like a flood, and set many
difficulties before me, swelling them up to the highest pitch, by
representing them as mountains which I should never be able to get
over; and alas! that faith which could remove such mountains, and
cast them into the sea, was but very small and weak in me.

He cast into my mind not only how I should behave myself in court
and dispatch the business I was sent about, but how I should demean
myself towards my acquaintance, of which I had many in that city,
with whom I was wont to be jolly; whereas now I could not put off my
hat, nor bow to any of them, nor give them their honorary titles (as
they are called), nor use the corrupt language of YOU to any one of
them, but must keep to the plain and true language of THOU and THEE.

Much of this nature revolved in my mind, thrown in by the enemy to
discourage and cast me down.  And I had none to have recourse to for
counsel or help, but to the Lord alone; to whom therefore I poured
forth my supplications, with earnest cries and breathings of soul,
that He, in whom all power was, would enable me to go through this
great exercise, and keep me faithful to Himself therein.  And after
some time He was pleased to compose my mind to stillness, and I went
to rest.

Early next morning I got up, and found my spirit pretty calm and
quiet, yet not without a fear upon me lest I should slip and let
fall the testimony which I had to bear.  And as I rode a frequent
cry ran through me to the Lord, in this wise:  "Oh, my God, preserve
me faithful, whatever befalls me:  suffer me not to be drawn into
evil, how much scorn and contempt soever may be cast upon me."

Thus was my spirit exercised on the way almost continually; and when
I was come within a mile or two of the city, whom should I meet upon
the way coming from thence but Edward Burrough.  I rode in a
montero-cap (a dress more used then than now), and so did he; and
because the weather was exceedingly sharp, we both had drawn our
caps down, to shelter our faces from the cold, and by that means
neither of us knew the other, but passed by without taking notice
one of the other; till a few days after, meeting again, and
observing each other's dress, we recollected where we had so lately
met.  Then thought I with myself, oh, how glad should I have been of
a word of encouragement and counsel from him when I was under that
weighty exercise of mind!  But the Lord saw it was not good for me,
that my reliance might be wholly upon Him, and not on man.

When I had set up my horse I went directly to the hall where the
sessions were held, where I had been but a very little while before
a knot of my old acquaintances, espying me, came to me.  One of
these was a scholar in his gown, another a surgeon of that city
(both my school-fellows and fellow-boarders at Thame school), and
the third a country gentleman with whom I had long been very
familiar.

When they were come up to me they all saluted me after the usual
manner, pulling off their hats and bowing, and saying, "Your humble
servant, sir," expecting no doubt the like from me.  But when they
saw me stand still, not moving my cap, nor bowing my knee in way of
congee to them, they were amazed, and looked first one upon another,
then upon me, and then one upon another again, for a while, without
speaking a word.

At length the surgeon, a brisk young man, who stood nearest to me,
clapping his hand in a familiar way upon my shoulder, and smiling on
me, said, "What, Tom! a Quaker?"  To which I readily and cheerfully
answered, "Yes, a Quaker."  And as the words passed out of my mouth
I felt joy spring in my heart; for I rejoiced that I had not been
drawn out by them into a compliance with them, and that I had
strength and boldness given me to confess myself to be one of that
despised people.

They stayed not long with me nor said any more, that I remember to
me; but looking somewhat confusedly one upon another, after a while
took their leave of me, going off in the same ceremonious manner as
they came on.

After they were gone I walked a while about the hall, and went up
nearer to the court, to observe both what justices were on the bench
and what business they had before them.  And I went in fear, not of
what they could or would have done to me if they should have taken
notice of me, but lest I should be surprised, and drawn unwarily
into that which I was to keep out of.

It was not long before the court adjourned to go to dinner, and that
time I took to go to the Clerk of the Peace at his house, whom I was
well acquainted with.  So soon as I came into the room where he was
he came and met me, and saluted me after his manner; for he had a
great respect for my father and a kind regard for me.  And though he
was at first somewhat startled at my carriage and language, yet he
treated me very civilly, without any reflection or show of
lightness.  I delivered him the recognisances which my father had
sent, and having done the business I came upon, withdrew, and went
to my inn to refresh myself, and then to return home.

But when I was ready to take horse, looking out into the street, I
saw two or three justices standing just in the way where I was to
ride.  This brought a fresh concern upon me.  I knew if they saw me
they would know me; and I concluded, if they knew me, they would
stop me and inquire after my father, and I doubted how I should come
off with them.

This doubting brought weakness on me, and that weakness led to
contrivance how I might avoid this trial.  I knew the city pretty
well, and remembered there was a back way, which though somewhat
about, would bring me out of town without passing by those justices;
yet loth I was to go that way.  Wherefore I stayed a pretty time, in
hopes they would have parted company, or removed to some other place
out of my way.  But when I had waited until I was uneasy for losing
so much time, having entered into reasonings with flesh and blood,
the weakness prevailed over me, and away I went the back way, which
brought trouble and grief upon my spirit for having shunned the
cross.

But the Lord looked on me with a tender eye, and seeing my heart was
right to Him, and that what I had done was merely through weakness
and fear of falling, and that I was sensible of my failing therein,
and sorry for it, He was graciously pleased to pass it by, and speak
peace to me again.  So that before I got home, as when I went in the
morning, my heart was full of breathing prayer to the Lord, that He
would vouchsafe to be with me, and uphold and carry me through that
day's exercise; so now at my return in the evening, my heart was
full of thankful acknowledgments and praises unto Him for His great
goodness and favour to me, in having thus far preserved and kept me
from falling into anything that might have brought dishonour to His
holy name, which I had now taken on me.

But notwithstanding that it was thus with me, and that I found peace
and acceptance with the Lord in some good degree, according to my
obedience to the convictions I had received by His holy Spirit in
me, yet was not the veil so done away, or fully rent, but that there
still remained a cloud upon my understanding with respect to my
carriage towards my father.  And that notion which the enemy had
brought into my mind, that I ought to put such a difference between
him and all others as that, on account of the paternal relation, I
should still deport myself towards him, both in gesture and
language, as I had always heretofore done, did yet prevail with me.
So that when I came home I went to my father bareheaded, as I used
to do, and gave him a particular account of the business he had
given me in command, in such manner that we, observing no alteration
in my carriage towards him, found no cause to take offence at me.

I had felt for some time before an earnest desire of mind to go
again to Isaac Penington's, and I began to question whether, when my
father should come (as I concluded ere long he would) to understand
I inclined to settle among the people called Quakers, he would
permit me the command of his horses, as before.  Wherefore, in the
morning when I went to Oxford I gave directions to a servant of his
to go that day to a gentleman of my acquaintance, who I knew had a
riding nag to put off either by sale or to be kept for his work, and
desired him, in my name, to send him to me; which he did, and I
found him in the stable when I came home.

On this nag I designed to ride next day to Isaac Penington's, and in
order thereunto arose betimes and got myself ready for the journey;
but because I would pay all due respect to my father, and not go
without his consent, or knowledge at the least, I sent one up to him
(for he was not yet stirring) to acquaint him that I had a purpose
to go to Isaac Penington's, and desired to know if he pleased to
command me any service to them.  He sent me word he would speak with
me before I went, and would have me come up to him, which I did, and
stood by his bedside.

Then, in a mild and gentle tone, he said:  "I understand you have a
mind to go to Mr. Penington's."  I answered, "I have so."--"Why,"
said he, "I wonder why you should.  You were there, you know, but a
few days ago, and unless you had business with them, don't you think
it will look oddly?"--I said, "I thought not."--"I doubt," said he,
"you'll tire them with your company, and make them think they shall
be troubled with you."--"If," replied I, "I find anything of that,
I'll make the shorter stay."--"But," said he, "can you propose any
sort of business with them, more than a mere visit?"--"Yes," said I,
"I propose to myself not only to see them, but to have some
discourse with them."--"Why," said he, in a tone a little harsher,
"I hope you don't incline to be of their way."--"Truly," answered I,
"I like them and their way very well, so far as I yet understand it;
and I am willing to go to them that I may understand it better."

Thereupon he began to reckon up a beadroll of faults against the
Quakers, telling me they were a rude, unmannerly people, that would
not give civil respect or honour to their superiors, no not to
magistrates; that they held many dangerous principles; that they
were an immodest shameless people; and that one of them stripped
himself stark naked, and went in that unseemly manner about the
streets, at fairs and on market days, in great towns.

To all the other charges I answered only, "That perhaps they might
be either misreported or misunderstood, as the best of people had
sometimes been."  But to the last charge of going naked, a
particular answer, by way of instance, was just then brought into my
mind and put into my mouth, which I had not thought of before, and
that was the example of Isaiah, who went naked among the people for
a long time (Isaiah xx. 4).  "Ay," said my father, "but you must
consider that he was a prophet of the Lord, and had an express
command from God to go so."

"Yes, sir," replied I, "I do consider that; but I consider also,
that the Jews, among whom he lived, did not own him for a prophet,
nor believe that he had such a command from God.  And," added I,
"how know we but that this Quaker may be a prophet too, and might be
commanded to do as he did, for some reason which we understand not?"

This put my father to a stand; so that, letting fall his charges
against the Quakers, he only said, "I would wish you not to go so
soon, but take a little time to consider of it; you may visit Mr.
Penington hereafter."--"Nay, sir," replied I, "pray don't hinder my
going now, for I have so strong a desire to go that I do not well
know how to forbear."  And as I spoke those words, I withdrew gently
to the chamber door, and then hastening down stairs, went
immediately to the stable, where finding my horse ready bridled, I
forthwith mounted, and went off, lest I should receive a
countermand.

This discourse with my father had cast me somewhat back in my
journey, and it being fifteen long miles thither, the ways bad, and
my nag but small, it was in the afternoon that I got thither.  And
understanding by the servant that took my horse that there was then
a meeting in the house (as there was weekly on that day, which was
the fourth day of the week, though till then I understood it not), I
hastened in, and knowing the rooms, went directly to the little
parlour, where I found a few friends sitting together in silence,
and I sat down among them well satisfied, though without words.

When the meeting was ended, and those of the company who were
strangers withdrawn, I addressed myself to Isaac Penington and his
wife, who received me courteously; but not knowing what exercise I
had been in, and yet was under, nor having heard anything of me
since I had been there before in another garb, were not forward at
first to lay sudden hands on me, which I observed, and did not
dislike.  But as they came to see a change in me, not in habit only,
but in gesture, speech, and carriage, and, which was more, in
countenance also (for the exercise I had passed through, and yet was
under, had imprinted a visible character of gravity upon my face),
they were exceedingly kind and tender towards me.

There was then in the family a friend, whose name was Anne Curtis,
the wife of Thomas Curtis, of Reading, who was come upon a visit to
them, and particularly to see Mary Penington's daughter Guli, who
had been ill of the small-pox since I had been there before.
Betwixt Mary Penington and this friend I observed some private
discourse and whisperings, and I had an apprehension that it was
upon something that concerned me.  Wherefore I took the freedom to
ask Mary Penington if my coming thither had occasioned any
inconvenience in the family.  She asked me if I had had the small-
pox; I told her no.  She then told me her daughter had newly had
them, and though she was well recovered of them, she had not as yet
been down amongst them, but intended to have come down and sat with
them in the parlour that evening, yet would rather forbear till
another time, than endanger me; and that that was the matter they
had been discoursing of.  I assured her that I had always been, and
then more especially was, free from any apprehension of danger in
that respect, and therefore entreated that her daughter might come
down.  And although they were somewhat unwilling to yield to it, in
regard to me, yet my importunity prevailed, and after supper she did
come down and sit with us; and though the marks of the distemper
were fresh upon her, yet they made no impression upon me, faith
keeping out fear.

We spent much of the evening in retiredness of mind, our spirits
being weightily gathered inward, so that not much discourse passed
among us; neither they to me, nor I to them offered any occasion.
Yet I had good satisfaction in that stillness, feeling my spirit
drawn near to the Lord, and to them therein.

Before I went to bed they let me know that there was to be a meeting
at Wycombe next day, and that some of the family would go to it.  I
was very glad of it, for I greatly desired to go to meetings, and
this fell very aptly, it being in my way home.  Next morning Isaac
Penington himself went, having Anne Curtis with him, and I
accompanied them.

At Wycombe we met with Edward Burrough, who came from Oxford thither
that day that I, going thither, met him on the way; and having both
our monter-caps on, we recollected that we had met, and passed by
each other on the road unknown.

This was a monthly meeting, consisting of friends chiefly, who
gathered to it from several parts of the country thereabouts, so
that it was pretty large, and was held in a fair room in Jeremiah
Stevens' house; the room where I had been at a meeting before, in
John Raunce's house, being too little to receive us.

A very good meeting was this in itself and to me.  Edward Burrough's
ministry came forth among us in life and power, and the assembly was
covered therewith.  I also, according to my small capacity, had a
share therein; for I felt some of that divine power working my
spirit into a great tenderness, and not only confirming me in the
course I had already entered, and strengthening me to go on therein,
but rending also the veil somewhat further, and clearing my
understanding in some other things which I had not seen before.  For
the Lord was pleased to make His discoveries to me by degrees, that
the sight of too great a work, and too many enemies to encounter
with at once, might not discourage me and make me faint.

When the meeting was ended, the friends of the town taking notice
that I was the man that had been at their meeting the week before,
whom they then did not know, some of them came and spoke lovingly to
me, and would have had me stay with them; but Edward Burrough going
home with Isaac Penington, he invited me to go back with him, which
I willingly consented to, for the love I had more particularly to
Edward Burrough, through whose ministry I had received the first
awakening stroke, drew me to desire his company; and so away we rode
together.

But I was somewhat disappointed of my expectation, for I hoped he
would have given me both opportunity and encouragement to have
opened myself to him, and to have poured forth my complaints, fears,
doubts, and questionings into his bosom.  But he, being sensible
that I was truly reached, and that the witness of God was raised and
the work of God rightly begun in me, chose to leave me to the
guidance of the good Spirit in myself (the Counsellor that could
resolve all doubts), that I might not have any dependence on man.
Wherefore, although he was naturally of an open and free temper and
carriage, and was afterwards always very familiar and affectionately
kind to me, yet at this time he kept himself somewhat reserved, and
showed only common kindness to me.

Next day we parted, he for London, I for home, under a very great
weight and exercise upon my spirit.  For I now saw, in and by the
farther openings of the Divine light in me, that the enemy, by his
false reasonings, had beguiled and misled me with respect to my
carriage towards my father.  For I now clearly saw that the honour
due to parents did not consist in uncovering the head and bowing the
body to them, but in a ready obedience to their lawful commands, and
in performing all needful services unto them.  Wherefore, as I was
greatly troubled for what I already had done in that case, though it
was through ignorance, so I plainly felt I could no longer continue
therein without drawing upon myself the guilt of wilful
disobedience, which I well knew would draw after it divine
displeasure and judgment.

Hereupon the enemy assaulted me afresh, setting before me the danger
I should run myself into of provoking my father to use severity
towards me; and perhaps to be casting me utterly off.  But over this
temptation the Lord, who I cried unto, supported me, and gave me
faith to believe that He would bear me through whatever might befall
me on that account.  Wherefore I resolved, in the strength which He
should give me to be faithful to his requirings, whatever might come
of it.

Thus labouring under various exercises on the way, I at length got
home, expecting I should have but a rough reception from my father.
But when I came home, I understood my father was from home;
wherefore I sat down by the fire in the kitchen, keeping my mind
retired to the Lord, with breathings of spirit to Him, that I might
be preserved from falling.

After some time I heard the coach drive in, which put me into a
little fear, and a sort of shivering came over me.  But by that time
he was alighted and come in I had pretty well recovered myself; and
as soon as I saw him I rose up and advanced a step or two towards
him, with my head covered, and said, "Isaac Penington and his wife
remember their loves to thee."

He made a stop to hear what I said, and observing that I did not
stand bare, and that I used the word THEE to him, he, with a stern
countenance, and tone that spake high displeasure, only said, "I
shall talk with you, sir, another time;" and so hastening from me,
went into the parlour, and I saw him no more that night.

Though I foresaw there was a storm arising, the apprehension of
which was uneasy to me, yet the peace which I felt in my own breast
raised in me a return of thanksgiving to the Lord for His gracious
supporting hand, which had thus far carried me through this
exercise; with humble cries in spirit to Him that He would vouchsafe
to stand by me in it to the end, and uphold me, that I might not
fall.

My spirit longed to be among friends, and to be at some meeting with
them on the first day, which now drew on, this being the sixth-day
night.  Wherefore I purposed to go to Oxford on the morrow (which
was the seventh day of the week), having heard there was a meeting
there.  Accordingly, having ordered my horse to be made ready
betimes, I got up in the morning and made myself ready also.  Yet
before I would go (that I might be as observant to my father as
possibly I could) I desired my sister to go up to him in his
chamber, and acquaint him that I had a mind to go to Oxford, and
desired to know if he pleased to command me any service there.  He
bid her tell me he would not have me go till he had spoken with me;
and getting up immediately, he hastened down to me before he was
quite dressed.

As soon as he saw me standing with my hat on, his passion
transporting him, he fell upon me with both his fists, and having by
that means somewhat vented his anger, he plucked off my hat and
threw it away.  Then stepping hastily out to the stable, and seeing
my borrowed nag stand ready saddled and bridled, he asked his man
whence that horse came; who telling him he fetched it from Mr. Such-
an-one's; "Then ride him presently back," said my father, "and tell
Mr. --- I desire he will never lend my son a horse again unless he
brings a note from me."

The poor fellow, who loved me well, would fain have made excuses and
delays; but my father was positive in his command, and so urgent,
that he would not let him stay so much as to take his breakfast
(though he had five miles to ride), nor would he himself stir from
the stable till he had seen the man mounted and gone.

Then coming in, he went up into his chamber to make himself more
fully ready, thinking he had me safe enough now my horse was gone;
for I took so much delight in riding that I seldom went on foot.

But while he was dressing himself in his chamber I (who understood
what had been done), changing my boots for shoes, took another hat,
and acquainting my sister, who loved me very well, and whom I could
confide in, whither I meant to go, went out privately, and walked
away to Wycombe, having seven long miles thither, which yet seemed
little and easy to me, from the desire I had to be among friends.

As thus I travelled all alone, under a load of grief, from the sense
I had of the opposition and hardship I was to expect from my father,
the enemy took advantage to assault me again, casting a doubt into
my mind whether I had done well in thus coming away from my father
without his leave or knowledge.

I was quiet and peaceable in my spirit before this question was
darted into me; but after that, disturbance and trouble seized upon
me, so that I was at a stand what to do--whether to go forward or
backward.

Fear of offending inclined me to go back, but desire of the meeting,
and to be with friends, pressed me to go forward.

I stood still awhile to consider and weigh as well as I could the
matter.  I was sensibly satisfied that I had not left my father with
any intention of undutifulness or disrespect to him, but merely in
obedience to that drawing of spirit, which I was persuaded was of
the Lord, to join with his people in worshipping Him; and this made
me easy.

But then the enemy, to make me uneasy again, objected, "But how
could that drawing be of the Lord which drew me to disobey my
father?"

I considered thereupon the extent of paternal power, which I found
was not wholly arbitrary and unlimited, but had bounds set unto it;
so that as in civil matters it was restrained to things lawful, so
in spiritual and religious cases it had not a compulsory power over
conscience, which ought to be subject to the heavenly Father.  And
therefore, though obedience to parents be enjoined to children, yet
it is with this limitation [in the Lord]:  "Children, obey your
parents in the Lord; for this is right" (1 Pet. vi. 1).

This turned the scale for going forward, and so on I went.  And yet
I was not wholly free from some fluctuations of mind, from the
besettings of the enemy.  Wherefore, although I knew that outward
signs did not properly belong to the gospel dispensation, yet for my
better assurance I did, in fear and great humility, beseech the Lord
that he would be pleased so far to condescend to the weakness of his
servant as to give me a sign by which I might certainly know whether
my way was right before Him or not.

The sign which I asked was, "That if I had done wrong in coming as I
did, I might be rejected or but coldly received at the place I was
going to; but if this mine undertaking was right in His sight, He
would give me favour with them I went to, so that they should
receive me with hearty kindness and demonstrations of love."
Accordingly, when I came to John Rance's house (which, being so much
a stranger to all, I chose to go to, because I understood the
meeting was commonly held there), they received me with more than
ordinary kindness, especially Frances Rance, John Rance's then wife,
who was both a grave and motherly woman, and had a hearty love to
truth, and tenderness towards all that in sincerity sought after it.
And this so kind reception, confirming me in the belief that my
undertaking was approved of by the Lord, gave great satisfaction and
ease to my mind; and I was thankful to the Lord therefor.

Thus it fared with me there; but at home it fared otherwise with my
father.  He, supposing I had betaken myself to my chamber when he
took my hat from me, made no inquiry after me till evening came; and
then, sitting by the fire and considering that the weather was very
cold, he said to my sister, who sat by him:  "Go up to your
brother's chamber, and call him down; it may be he will sit there
else, in a sullen fit, till he has caught cold."  "Alas! sir," said
she, "he is not in his chamber, nor in the house neither."

At that my farther, starting, said:  "Why, where is he then?"--"I
know not, sir," said she, "where he is; but I know that when he saw
you had sent away his horse he put on shoes, and went out on foot,
and I have not seen him since.  And indeed, sir," added she, "I
don't wonder at his going away, considering how you used him."  This
put my father into a great fright doubting I was gone quite away;
and so great a passion of grief seized on him, that he forebore not
to weep, and to cry out aloud, so that the family heard him:  "Oh,
my son!  I shall never see him more; for he is of so bold and
resolute a spirit that he will run himself into danger, and so may
be thrown into some gaol or other, where he may lie and die before I
can hear of him."  Then bidding her light him up to his chamber, he
went immediately to bed, where he lay restless and groaning, and
often bemoaning himself and me, for the greater part of the night.

Next morning my sister sent a man (whom for his love to me she knew
she could trust) to give me this account; and though by him she sent
me also fresh linen for my use, in case I should go farther or stay
out longer, yet she desired me to come home as soon as I could.

This account was very uneasy to me.  I was much grieved that I had
occasioned so much grief to my father; and I would have returned
that evening after the meeting, but the Friends would not permit it,
for the meeting would in all likelihood end late, the days being
short, and the way was long and dirty.  And besides, John Rance told
me that he had something on his mind to speak to my father, and that
if I would stay till the next day he would go down with me, hoping,
perhaps, that while my father was under this sorrow for me he might
work some good upon him.  Hereupon concluding to stay till the
morrow, I dismissed the man with the things he brought, bidding him
tell my sister I intended, God willing, to return home to-morrow,
and charging him not to let anybody else know that he had seen me,
or where he had been.

Next morning John Rance and I set out, and when we were come to the
end of the town we agreed that he should go before and knock at the
great gate, and I would come a little after, and go in by the back
way.  He did so; and when a servant came to open the gate he asked
if the Justice was at home.  She told him, Yes; and desiring him to
come in and sit down in the hall, went and acquainted her master
that there was one who desired to speak with him.  He, supposing it
was one that came for justice, went readily into the hall to him;
but he was not a little surprised when he found it was a Quaker.
Yet not knowing on what account he came, he stayed to hear his
business; but when he found it was about me he fell somewhat sharply
on him.

In this time I was come by the back way into the kitchen, and
hearing my father's voice so loud, I began to doubt things wrought
not well; but I was soon assured of that.  For my father having
quickly enough of a Quaker's company, left John Rance in the hall,
and came into the kitchen, where he was more surprised to find me.

The sight of my hat upon my head made him presently forget that I
was that son of his whom he had so lately lamented as lost; and his
passion of grief turning into anger, he could not contain himself,
but running upon me with both his hands, first violently snatched
off my hat and threw it away, then giving me some buffets on my
head, he said, "Sirrah, get you up to your chamber."

I forthwith went, he following me at the heels, and now and then
giving me a whirret on the ear, which, the way to my chamber lying
through the hall where John Rance was, he, poor man, might see and
be sorry for (as I doubt not but he was), but could not help me.

This was surely an unaccountable thing, that my father should but a
day before express so high a sorrow for me, as fearing he should
never see me any more, and yet now, so soon as he did see me, should
fly upon me with such violence, and that only because I did not put
off my hat, which he knew I did not put on in disrespect to him, but
upon a religious principle.  But as this hat-honour (as it was
accounted) was grown to be a great idol, in those times more
especially, so the Lord was pleased to engage His servants in a
steady testimony against it, what suffering soever was brought upon
them for it.  And though some who have been called into the Lord's
vineyard at later hours, and since the heat of that day hath been
much over, may be apt to account this testimony a small thing to
suffer so much upon, as some have done, not only to beating, but to
fines and long and hard imprisonments; yet they who, in those times
were faithfully exercised in and under it, durst not despise the day
of small things, as knowing that he who should do so would not be
thought worthy to be concerned in higher testimonies.

I had now lost one of my hats, and I had but one more.  That
therefore I put on, but did not keep it long; for the next time my
father saw it on my head he tore it violently from me, and laid it
up with the other, I knew not where.  Wherefore I put on my montero-
cap, which was all I had left to wear on my head, and it was but a
very little while that I had that to wear, for as soon as my father
came where I was I lost that also.  And now I was forced to go
bareheaded wherever I had occasion to go, within doors and without.

This was in the eleventh month, called January, and the weather
sharp; so that I, who had been bred up more tenderly, took so great
a cold in my head that my face and head were much swollen, and my
gums had on them boils so sore that I could neither chew meat nor
without difficulty swallow liquids.  It held long, and I underwent
much pain, without much pity except from my poor sister, who did
what she could to give me ease; and at length, by frequent
applications of figs and stoned raisins roasted, and laid to the
boils as hot as I could bear them, they ripened fit for lancing, and
soon after sunk; then I had ease.

Now was I laid up as a kind of prisoner for the rest of the winter,
having no means to go forth among friends, nor they liberty to come
to me.  Wherefore I spent the time much in my chamber in waiting on
the Lord, and in reading, mostly in the Bible.

But whenever I had occasion to speak to my father, though I had no
hat now to offend him, yet my language did as much; for I durst not
say "you" to him, but "thou" or "thee," as the occasion required,
and then would he be sure to fall on me with his fists.

At one of these times, I remember, when he had beaten me in that
manner, he commanded me, as he commonly did at such times, to go to
my chamber, which I did, and he followed me to the bottom of the
stairs.  Being come thither, he gave me a parting blow, and in a
very angry tone said:  "Sirrah, if ever I hear you say 'thou' or
'thee' to me again, I'll strike your teeth down your throat."  I was
greatly grieved to hear him say so.  And feeling a word rise in my
heart unto him, I turned again, and calmly said unto him:  "Would it
not be just if God should serve thee so, when thou sayest Thou or
Thee to Him?"  Though his hand was up, I saw it sink and his
countenance fall, and he turned away and left me standing there.
But I, notwithstanding, went up into my chamber, and cried unto the
Lord, earnestly beseeching Him that He would be pleased to open my
father's eyes, that he might see whom he fought against, and for
what; and that He would turn his heart.

After this I had a pretty time of rest and quiet from these
disturbances, my father not saying anything to me, nor giving me
occasion to say anything to him.  But I was still under a kind of
confinement, unless I would have run about the country bareheaded
like a madman, which I did not see it was my place to do.  For I
found that, although to be abroad and at liberty among my friends
would have been more pleasant to me, yet home was at present my
proper place, a school in which I was to learn with patience to bear
the cross; and I willingly submitted to it.  But after some time a
fresh storm, more fierce and sharp than any before, arose and fell
upon me; the occasion thereof was this:  My father, having been in
his younger years, more especially while he lived in London, a
constant hearer of those who are called Puritan preachers, had
stored up a pretty stock of Scripture knowledge, did sometimes (not
constantly, nor very often) cause his family to come together on a
first day in the evening, and expound a chapter to them, and pray.
His family now, as well as his estate, was lessened; for my mother
was dead, my brother gone, and my elder sister at London; and having
put off his husbandry, he had put off with it most of his servants,
so that he had now but one man- and one maid-servant.  It so fell
out that on a first-day night he bade my sister, who sat with him in
the parlour, call in the servants to prayer.

Whether this was done as a trial upon me or no, I know not, but a
trial it proved to me; for they, loving me very well and disliking
my father's carriage to me, made no haste to go in, but stayed a
second summons.  This so offended him that when at length they did
go in, he, instead of going to prayer, examined them why they came
not in when they were first called; and the answer they gave him
being such as rather heightened than abated his displeasure, he with
an angry tone said:  "Call in that fellow" (meaning me, who was left
alone in the kitchen), "for he is the cause of all this."  They, as
they were backward to go in themselves, so were not forward to call
me in, fearing the effect of my father's displeasure would fall upon
me, as soon it did, for I, hearing what was said, and not staying
for the call, went in of myself.  And as soon as I was come in, my
father discharged his displeasure on me in very sharp and bitter
expressions, which drew from me (in the grief of my heart, to see
him so transported with passion) these few words:  "They that can
pray with such a spirit, let them; for my part, I cannot."  With
that my father flew upon me with both his fists, and not thinking
that sufficient, stepped hastily to the place where his cane stood,
and catching that up, laid on me, I thought, with all his strength.
And I, being bareheaded, thought his blows must needs have broken my
skull had I not laid mine arm over my head to defend it.

His man seeing this, and not able to contain himself, stepped in
between us, and laying hold on the cane, by strength of hand held it
so fast, that though he attempted not to take it away, yet he
withheld my father from striking with it, which did but enrage him
the more.  I disliked this in the man, and bade him let go the cane
and begone, which he immediately did, and turning to be gone, had a
blow on his shoulders for his pains, which did not much hurt him.

But now my sister, fearing lest my father should fall upon me again,
besought him to forbear, adding:  "Indeed, sir, if you strike him
any more, I will throw open the casement and cry out murder, for I
am afraid you will kill my brother."  This stopped his hand, and
after some threatening speeches he commanded me to get to my chamber
which I did, as I always did whenever he bade me.

Thither, soon after, my sister followed me, to see my arm and dress
it, for it was indeed very much bruised and swelled between the
wrist and the elbow, and in some places the skin was broken and
beaten off.  But though it was very sore, and I felt for some time
much pain in it, yet I had peace and quietness in my mind, being
more grieved for my father than for myself, who I knew had hurt
himself more than me.

This was, so far as I remember, the last time that ever my father
called his family to prayer; and this was also the last time that he
ever fell, so severely at least, upon me.

Soon after this my elder sister, who in all the time of these
exercises of mine had been at London, returned home, much troubled
to find me a Quaker, a name of reproach and great contempt then, and
she, being at London, had received, I suppose, the worst character
of them.  Yet though she disliked the people, her affectionate
regard for me made her rather pity than despise me, and the more
when she understood what hard usage I had met with.

The rest of the winter I spent in a lonesome solitary life, having
none to converse with, none to unbosom myself unto, none to ask
counsel of, none to seek relief from, but the Lord alone, who yet
was more than all.  And yet the company and society of faithful and
judicious friends would, I thought, have been very welcome as well
as helpful to me in my spiritual travail, in which I thought I made
slow progress, my soul breathing after further attainments, the
sense of which drew from me the following lines:


The winter tree
Resembles me,
   Whose sap lies in its root:
The spring draws nigh;
As it, so I
   Shall bud, I hope, and shoot.


At length it pleased the Lord to move Isaac Penington and his wife
to make a visit to my father, and see how it fared with me; and very
welcome they were to me, whatever they were to him; to whom I doubt
not but they would have been more welcome had it not been for me.

They tarried with us all night, and much discourse they had with my
father, both about the principles of truth in general, and me in
particular, which I was not privy to.  But one thing I remember I
afterwards heard of, which was this:

When my father and I were at their house some months before, Mary
Penington, in some discourse between them, had told him how hardly
her husband's father (Alderman Penington) had dealt with him about
his hat; which my father (little then thinking that it would, and so
soon too, be his own case) did very much censure the alderman for,
wondering that so wise a man as he was should take notice of such a
trivial thing as the putting off or keeping on a hat; and he spared
not to blame him liberally for it.

This gave her a handle to take hold of him by; and having had an
ancient acquaintance with him, and he having always had a high
opinion of and respect for her, she, who was a woman of great
wisdom, of ready speech, and of a well-resolved spirit, did press so
close upon him with this home argument, that he was utterly at a
loss how to defend himself.

After dinner next day, when they were ready to take coach to return
home, she desired my father that, since my company was so little
acceptable to him, he would give me leave to go and spend some time
with them, where I should be sure to be welcome.

He was very unwilling I should go, and made many objections against
it, all which she answered and removed so clearly, that not finding
what excuse further to allege, he at length left it to me, and I
soon turned the scale for going.

We were come to the coach-side before this was concluded on, and I
was ready to step in, when one of my sisters privately put my father
in mind that I had never a hat on.  That somewhat startled him, for
he did not think it fit I should go from home (and that so far and
to stay abroad) without a hat.  Wherefore he whispered to her to
fetch me a hat, and he entertained them with some discourse in the
meantime.  But as soon as he saw the hat coning he would not stay
till it came, lest I should put it on before him, but breaking off
his discourse abruptly, took his leave of them, and hastened in
before the hat was brought to me.

I had not one penny of money about me, nor indeed elsewhere; for my
father, so soon as he saw that I would be a Quaker, took from me
both what money I had and everything of value, or that would have
made money, as some plate, buttons, rings, &c., pretending that he
would keep them for me till I came to myself again, lest I should
destroy them.

But as I had no money, so being among my friends I had no need of
any, nor ever hankered after it; though once upon a particular
occasion I had liked to have wanted it.  The case was this:

I had been at Reading, and set out from thence on the first day of
the week, in the morning, intending to reach (as in point of time I
well might) Isaac Penington's, where the meeting was to be that day;
but when I came to Maidenhead, a thoroughfare town on the way, I was
stopped by the watch for riding on that day.

The watchman, laying hold on the bridle, told me I must go with him
to the constable; and accordingly I, making no resistance, suffered
him to lead my horse to the constable's door.  When we were come
there the constable told me I must go before the warden, who was the
chief officer of that town, and bade the watchman bring me on,
himself walking before.

Being come to the warden's door, the constable knocked, and desired
to speak with Mr. Warden.  He thereupon quickly coming to the door
the constable said:  "Sir, I have brought a man here to you whom the
watch took riding through the town."  The warden was a budge old
man; and I looked somewhat big too, having a good gelding under me,
and a good riding-coat on my back, both which my friend Isaac
Penington had kindly accommodated me with for that journey.

The warden therefore taking me to be (as the saying is) somebody,
put off his hat and made a low congee to me; but when he saw that I
sat still, and neither bowed to him nor moved my hat, he gave a
start, and said to the constable:  "You said you had brought a man,
but he don't behave like a man."

I sat still upon my horse and said not a word, but kept my mind
retired to the Lord, waiting to see what this would come to.

The warden then began to examine me, asking me whence I came and
whither I was going; I told him I came from Reading and was going to
Chalfont.  He asked me why I did travel on that day; I told him I
did not know that it would give any offence barely to ride or to
walk on that day, so long as I did not carry or drive any carriage
or horses laden with burthens.  "Why," said he, "if your business
was urgent, did you not take a pass from the mayor of Reading?"--
"Because," replied I, "I did not know nor think I should have needed
one."--"Well," said he, "I will not talk with you now, because it is
time to go to church, but I will examine you further anon."  And
turning to the constable, "Have him," said he, "to an inn, and bring
him before me after dinner."

The naming of an inn put me in mind that such public-houses were
places of expense, and I knew I had no money to defray it; wherefore
I said to the warden:  "Before thou sendest me to an inn, which may
occasion some expense, I think it needful to acquaint thee that I
have no money."

At that the warden started again, and turning quickly upon me, said:
"How! no money!  How can that be?  You don't look like a man that
has no money."--"However I look," said I, "I tell thee the truth,
that I have no money; and I tell it to forewarn thee, that thou
mayest not bring any charge upon the town."--"I wonder," said he,
"what art you have got, that you can travel without money; you can
do more, I assure you, than I can."

I making no answer, he went on and said:  "Well, well! but if you
have no money, you have a good horse under you, and we can distrain
him for the charge."--"But," said I, "the horse is not mine."--"No,"
said he; "but you have a good coat on your back, and that I hope is
your own."--"No," said I, "but it is not, for I borrowed both the
horse and the coat."

With that the warden, holding up his hands and smiling, said:
"Bless me!  I never met with such a man as you are before.  What!
were you set out by the parish?"  Then turning to the constable, he
said:  "Have him to the Greyhound, and bid the people be civil to
him."  Accordingly, to the Greyhound I was led, my horse set up, and
I put into a large room, and some account, I suppose, given of me to
the people of the house.

This was new work to me, and what the issue of it would be I could
not foresee; but being left there alone, I sat down, and retired in
spirit to the Lord, in whom alone my strength and safety were, and
begged support of Him; even that He would be pleased to give me
wisdom and words to answer the warden when I should come to be
examined again before him.

After some time, having pen, ink, and paper about me, I set myself
to write what I thought might be proper, if occasion served, to give
the warden; and while I was writing, the master of the house, being
come home from his worship, sent the tapster to me to invite me to
dine with him.  I bid him tell his master that I had not any money
to pay for my dinner.  He sent the man again to tell me I should be
welcome to dine with him though I had no money.  I desired him to
tell his master "that I was very sensible of his civility and
kindness in so courteously inviting me to his table, but I had not
freedom to eat of his meat unless I could have paid for it."  So he
went on with his dinner, and I with my writing.

But before I had finished what was on my mind to write, the
constable came again, bringing with him his fellow-constable.  This
was a brisk genteel young man, a shopkeeper in the town, whose name
was Cherry.  They saluted me very civilly, and told me they were
come to have me before the warden.  This put an end to my writing,
which I put into my pocket, and went along with them.

Being come to the warden's, he asked me again the same questions he
had asked me before; to which I gave him the like answers.  Then he
told me the penalty I had incurred, which he said was either to pay
so much money or lie so many hours in the stocks, and asked me which
I would choose; I replied, "I shall not choose either.  And," said
I, "I have told thee already that I have no money; though if I had,
I could not so far acknowledge myself an offender as to pay any.
But as to lying in the stocks, I am in thy power, to do unto me what
it shall please the Lord to suffer thee."

When he heard that he paused awhile, and then told me, "He
considered that I was but a young man, and might not perhaps
understand the danger I had brought myself into, and therefore he
would not use the severity of the law upon me; but, in hopes that I
would be wiser hereafter, he would pass by this offence and
discharge me.

Then putting on a countenance of the greatest gravity, he said to
me:  "But, young man, I would have you know that you have not only
broken the law of the land, but the law of God also; and therefore
you ought to ask His forgiveness, for you have highly offended
Him."--"That," said I, "I would most willingly do if I were sensible
that in this case I had offended Him by breaking any law of His."

"Why," said he, "do you question that?"--"Yes truly," said I; "for I
do not know that any law of God doth forbid me to ride on this day."

"No!" said he:  "that's strange.  Where, I wonder, was you bred?
You can read, can't you?"--"Yes," said I, "that I can."--"Don't you
then read," said he, "the commandment, 'Remember the Sabbath-day to
keep it holy.  Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work; but
the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord; in it thou shalt not do
any work.'"--"Yes," replied I, "I have both read it often, and
remember it very well.  But that command was given to the Jews, not
to Christians; and this is not that day, for that was the seventh
day, but this is the first."--"How," said he, "do you know the days
of the week no better?  You had need then be better taught."

Here the younger constable, whose name was Cherry, interposing,
said:  "Mr. Warden, the gentleman is in the right as to that, for
this is the first day of the week, and not the seventh."

This the old warden took in dudgeon, and looking severely on the
constable, said:  "What! do you take upon you to teach me?  I'll
have you know I will not be taught by you."--"As you please for
that, sir," said the constable; "but I am sure you are mistaken in
this point; for Saturday I know is the seventh day, and you know
yesterday was Saturday."

This made the warden hot and testy, and put him almost out of all
patience, so that I feared it would have come to a downright quarrel
betwixt them, for both were confident and neither would yield; and
so earnestly were they engaged in the contest, that there was no
room for me to put in a word between them.

At length the old man, having talked himself out of wind, stood
still awhile as it were to take breath, and then bethinking himself
of me, he turned to me and said:  "You are discharged, and may take
your liberty to go about your occasions."--"But," said I, "I desire
my horse may be discharged too, else I know not how to go."--"Ay,
ay," said he, "you shall have your horse;" and turning to the other
constable, who had not offended him, he said:  "Go, see that his
horse be delivered to him."

Away thereupon went I with that constable, leaving the old warden
and the young constable to compose their difference as they could.
Being come to the inn, the constable called for my horse to be
brought out; which done, I immediately mounted, and began to set
forward.  But the hostler, not knowing the condition of my pocket,
said modestly to me:  "Sir, don't you forget to pay for your horse's
standing?"--"No, truly," said I, "I don't forget it; but I have no
money to pay it with, and so I told the warden before."--"Well, hold
your tongue," said the constable to the hostler; "I'll see you
paid."  Then opening the gate, they let me out, the constable
wishing me a good journey, and through the town I rode without
further molestation; though it was as much sabbath, I thought, when
I went out as it was when I came in.

A secret joy arose in me as I rode on the way, for that I had been
preserved from doing or saying anything which might give the
adversaries of truth advantage against it, or the friends of it; and
praises sprang in my thankful heart to the Lord, my preserver.

It added also not a little to my joy that I felt the Lord near unto
me, by his witness in my heart, to check and warn me; and my spirit
was so far subjected to him as readily to take warning, and stop at
his check; an instance of both that very morning I had.

For as I rode between Reading and Maidenhead I saw lying in my way
the scabbard of a hanger, which, having lost its hook, had slipped
off, I suppose, and dropped from the side of the wearer; and it had
in it a pair of knives, whose hafts being inlaid with silver, seemed
to be of some value.  I alighted and took it up, and clapping it
between my thigh and the saddle, rode on a little way; but I quickly
found it too heavy for me, and the reprover in me soon began to
check.  The word arose in me, "What hast thou to do with that?  Doth
it belong to thee?"  I felt I had done amiss in taking it; wherefore
I turned back to the place where it lay, and laid it down where I
found it.  And when afterwards I was stopped and seized on at
Maidenhead, I saw there was a Providence in not bringing it with me;
which, if it should have been found (as it needs must) under my coat
when I came to be unhorsed, might have raised some evil suspicion or
sinister thoughts concerning me.

The stop I met with at Maidenhead had spent me so much time that
when I came to Isaac Penington's the meeting there was half over,
which gave them occasion after meeting to inquire of me if anything
had befallen me on the way which had caused me to come so late:
whereupon I related to them what exercise I had met with, and how
the Lord had helped me through it:  which when they had heard, they
rejoiced with me, and for my sake.

Great was the love and manifold the kindness which I received from
these my worthy friends, Isaac and Mary Penington, while I abode in
their family.  They were indeed as affectionate parents and tender
nurses to me in this time of my religious childhood.  For besides
their weighty and seasonable counsels and exemplary conversations,
they furnished me with means to go to the other meetings of Friends
in that country, when the meeting was not in their own house.  And
indeed, the time I stayed with them was so well spent, that it not
only yielded great satisfaction to my mind but turned in good
measure to my spiritual advantage in the truth.

But that I might not, on the one hand, bear too hard upon my
friends, nor on the other hand forget the house of thraldom, after I
had staid with them some six or seven weeks (from the time called
Easter to the time called Whitsuntide) I took my leave of them to
depart home, intending to walk to Wycombe in one day, and from
thence home in another.

That day that I came home I did not see my father, nor until noon
the next day, when I went into the parlour, where he was, to take my
usual place at dinner.

As soon as I came in I observed by my father's countenance that my
hat was still an offence to him; but when I was sat down, and before
I had eaten anything, he made me understand it more fully by saying
to me, but in a milder tone than he had formerly used to speak to me
in, "If you cannot content yourself to come to dinner without your
hive on your head (so he called my hat), pray rise, and go take your
dinner somewhere else."

Upon these words I arose from the table, and leaving the room went
into the kitchen, where I stayed till the servants went to dinner,
and then sat down very contentedly with them.  Yet I suppose my
father might intend that I should have gone into some other room,
and there have eaten by myself but I chose rather to eat with the
servants, and did so from thenceforward so long as he and I lived
together.  And from this time he rather chose, as I thought, to
avoid seeing me than to renew the quarrel about my hat.

My sisters, meanwhile observing my weariness in words and behaviour,
and being satisfied, I suppose, that I acted upon a principle of
religion and conscience, carried themselves very kindly to me, and
did what they could to mitigate my father's displeasure against me.
So that I now enjoyed much more quiet at home, and took more liberty
to go abroad amongst my friends, than I had done or could do before.
And having informed myself where any meetings of Friends were
holden, within a reasonable distance from me, I resorted to them.

At first I went to a town called Hoddenham, in Buckinghamshire, five
miles from my father's, where, at the house of one Belson, a few who
were called Quakers did meet sometimes on a first day of the week;
but I found little satisfaction there.  Afterwards, upon further
inquiry, I understood there was a settled meeting at a little
village called Meadle, about four long miles from me, in the house
of one John White, which is continued there still; and to that
thenceforward I constantly went while I abode in that country, and
was able.  Many a sore day's travel have I had thither and back
again, being commonly in the winter time (how fair soever the
weather was overhead) wet up to the ankles at least; yet, through
the goodness of the Lord to me, I was preserved in health.

A little meeting also there was on the fourth day of the week at a
town called Bledlow (two miles from me), in the house of one Thomas
Saunders, who professed the truth; but his wife, whose name was
Damaris, did possess it (she being a woman of great sincerity and
lively sense), and to that meeting also I usually went.

But though I took this liberty for the service of God, that I might
worship Him in the assemblies of His people, yet did I not use it
upon other occasions, but spent my time on other days for the most
part in my chamber, in retiredness of mind, waiting on the Lord.
And the Lord was graciously pleased to visit me, by His quickening
spirit and life, so that I came to feel the operation of His power
in my heart, working out that which was contrary to His will, and
giving me, in measure, dominion over it.

And as my spirit was kept in due subjection to this divine power, I
grew into a nearer acquaintance with the Lord; and the Lord
vouchsafed to speak unto me in the inward of my soul, and to open my
understanding in His fear, to receive counsel from Him; so that I
not only at some times heard His voice, but could distinguish His
voice from that of the enemy.

As thus I daily waited on the Lord a weighty and unusual exercise
came upon me, which bowed my spirit very low before the Lord.  I had
seen, in the light of the Lord, the horrible guilt of those
deceitful priests, of divers sorts and denominations, who made a
trade of preaching, and for filthy lucre sake held the people always
learning; yet so taught them as that, by their teaching and
ministry, they were never able to come to the knowledge, much less
to the acknowledgment, of the truth; for as they themselves hated
the light, because their own deeds were evil, so by reviling,
reproaching, and blaspheming the true light, wherewith every man
that cometh into the world is enlightened (John i. 9), they begat in
the people a disesteem of the light, and laboured as much as in them
lay to keep their hearers in the darkness, that they might not be
turned to the light in themselves, lest by the light they should
discover the wickedness of these their deceitful teachers, and turn
from them.

Against this practice of these false teachers the zeal of the Lord
had flamed in my breast for some time; and now the burthen of the
word of the Lord against them fell heavily upon me, with command to
proclaim his controversy against them.

Fain would I have been excused from this service, which I judged too
heavy for me; wherefore I besought the Lord to take this weight from
off me, who was in every respect but young, and lay it upon some
other of His servants, of whom he had many, who were much more able
and fit for it.  But the Lord would not be entreated, but continued
the burden upon me with greater weight; requiring obedience from me,
and promising to assist me therein.  Whereupon I arose from my bed,
and in the fear and dread of the Lord committed to writing what He,
in the motion of His divine Spirit, dictated to me to write.  When I
had done it, though the sharpness of the message therein delivered
was hard to my nature to be the publisher of, yet I found acceptance
with the Lord in my obedience to His will, and His peace filled my
heart.  As soon as I could I communicated to my friends what I had
written; and it was printed in the year 1660, in one sheet of paper,
under the title of "An Alarm to the Priests; or, A Message from
Heaven to Forewarn them," &c.

Some time after the publishing of this paper, having occasion to go
to London, I went to visit George Fox the younger, who with another
Friend was then a prisoner in a messenger's hands.  I had never seen
him, nor he me before; yet this paper lying on the table before him,
he, pointing to it, asked me if I was the person that wrote it.  I
told him I was.  "It's much," said the other Friend, "that they bear
it."  "It is," replied he, "their portion, and they must bear it."

While I was then in London I went to a little meeting of Friends
which was then held in the house of one Humphrey Bache, a goldsmith,
at the sign of the Snail, in Tower Street.  It was then a very
troublesome time, not from the government, but from the rabble of
boys and rude people, who upon the turn of the time (at the return
of the King) took liberty to be very abusive.

When the meeting ended, a pretty number of these unruly folk were
got together at the door, ready to receive the Friends as they came
forth, not only with evil words, but with blows; which I saw they
bestowed freely on some of them that were gone out before me, and
expected I should have my share of when I came amongst them.  But,
quite contrary to my expectation, when I came out, they said one to
another, "Let him alone; don't meddle with him; he is no Quaker,
I'll warrant you."

This struck me, and was worse to me than if they had laid their
fists on me, as they did on others.  I was troubled to think what
the matter was, or what these rude people saw in me that made them
not take me for a Quaker.  And upon a close examination of myself,
with respect to my habit and deportment, I could not find anything
to place it on, but that I had then on my head a large montero-cap
of black velvet, the skirt of which being turned up in folds,
looked, it seems, somewhat above the then common garb of a Quaker;
and this put me out of conceit with my cap.

I came at this time to London from Isaac Penington's, and thither I
went again in my way home; and while I stayed there, amongst other
Friends who came thither, Thomas Loe, of Oxford, was one.  A
faithful and diligent labourer he was in the work of the Lord, and
an excellent ministerial gift he had.  And I, in my zeal for truth,
being very desirous that my neighbours might have the opportunity of
hearing the gospel, the glad tidings of salvation, livingly and
powerfully preached among them, entered into communication with him
about it; offering to procure some convenient place in the town
where I lived for a meeting to be held, and to invite my neighbours
to it, if he could give me any ground to expect his company at it.
He told me he was not at his own command, but at the Lord's, and he
knew not how He might dispose of him; but wished me, if I found when
I was come home that the thing continued with weight upon my mind,
and that I could get a fit place for a meeting, I would advertise
him of it by a few lines directed to him in Oxford, whither he was
then going, and he might then let me know how his freedom stood in
that matter.

When therefore I was come home, and had treated with a neighbour for
a place to have a meeting in, I wrote to my friend Thomas Loe, to
acquaint him that I had procured a place for a meeting, and would
invite company to it, if he would fix the time, and give me some
ground to hope that he would be at it.

This letter I sent by a neighbour to Thame to be given to a dyer of
Oxford, who constantly kept Thame market, with whom I was pretty
well acquainted, having sometimes formerly used him not only in his
way of trade, but to carry letters between my brother and me when he
was a student in that University, for which he was always paid; and
had been so careful in the delivery that our letters had always gone
safe until now.  But this time (Providence so ordering, or at least
for my trial permitting it) this letter of mine, instead of being
delivered according to its direction, was seized and carried, as I
was told, to the Lord Faulkland, who was then called Lord Lieutenant
of that county.

The occasion of this stopping of letters at that time was that mad
prank of those infatuated fifth-monarchy men, who from their
meeting-house in Coleman Street, London, breaking forth in arms,
under the command of their chieftain Venner, made an insurrection in
the city, on pretence of setting up the kingdom of Jesus, who, it is
said, they expected would come down from heaven to be their leader;
so little understood they the nature of his kingdom, though he
himself had declared it was not of this world.

The King, a little before his arrival in England, had by his
declaration from Breda given assurance of liberty to tender
consciences, and that no man should be disquieted or called in
question for difference of opinion in matters of religion which do
not disturb the peace of the kingdom.  Upon this assurance
dissenters of all sorts relied, and held themselves secure.  But
now, by this frantic action of a few hot-brained men, the King was
by some holden discharged from his royal word and promise, in his
foregoing declaration publicly given.  And hereupon letters were
intercepted and broken open, for discovery of suspected plots and
designs against the government; and not only dissenters meetings' of
all sorts, without distinction, were disturbed, but very many were
imprisoned in most parts throughout the nation; and great search
there was in all countries for suspected persons, who, if not found
at meetings, were fetched in from their own houses.

The Lord Lieutenant (so called) of Oxfordshire had on this occasion
taken Thomas Loe and many others of our friends at a meeting, and
sent them prisoners to Oxford Castle, just before my letter was
brought to his hand, wherein I had invited Thomas Loe to a meeting;
and he, putting the worst construction upon it, as if I, a poor
simple lad, had intended a seditious meeting, in order to raise
rebellion, ordered two of the deputy-lieutenants who lived nearest
to me to send a party of horse to fetch me in.

Accordingly, while I wholly ignorant of what had passed at Oxford,
was in daily expectation of an agreeable answer to my letter, came a
party of horse one morning to my father's gate, and asked for me.

It so fell out that my father was at that time from home, I think in
London; whereupon he that commanded the party alighted and came in.
My eldest sister, hearing the noise of soldiers, came hastily up
into my chamber, and told me there were soldiers below, who inquired
for me.  I forthwith went down to them, and found the commander was
a barber of Thame, and one who had always been my barber till I was
a Quaker.  His name was Whately, a bold brisk fellow.

I asked him what his business was with me:  he told me I must go
with him.  I demanded to see his warrant:  he laid his hand on his
sword, and said that was his warrant.  I told him though that was
not a legal warrant, yet I would not dispute it, but was ready to
bear injuries.  He told me he could not help it; he was commanded to
bring me forthwith before the deputy-lieutenants, and therefore
desired me to order a horse to be got ready, because he was in
haste.  I let him know I had no horse of my own, and would not
meddle with any of my father's horses, in his absence especially;
and that therefore, if he would have me with him, he must carry me
as he could.

He thereupon taking my sister aside, told her he found I was
resolute, and his orders were peremptory; wherefore he desired that
she would give order for a horse to be made ready for me, for
otherwise he should be forced to mount me behind a trooper, which
would be very unsuitable for me, and which he was very unwilling to
do.  She thereupon ordered a horse to be got ready, upon which, when
I had taken leave of my sisters, I mounted, and went off, not
knowing whither he intended to carry me.

He had orders, it seems, to take some others also in a neighbouring
village, whose names he had, but their houses he did not know.
Wherefore, as we rode he asked me if I knew such and such men (whom
he named) and where they lived; and when he understood that I knew
them, he desired me to show him their houses.  "No," said I, "I
scorn to be an informer against my neighbours, to bring them into
trouble."  He thereupon, riding to and fro, found by inquiry most of
their houses; but, as it happened, found none of them at home, at
which I was glad.

At length he brought me to the house of one called Esquire Clark, of
Weston, by Thame, who, being afterwards knighted, was called Sir
John Clark; a jolly man, too much addicted to drinking in soberer
times, but was now grown more licentious that way, as the times did
now more favour debauchery.  He and I had known one another for some
years, though not very intimately, having met sometimes at the Lord
Wenman's table.

This Clark was one of the deputy-lieutenants whom I was to be
brought before; and he had gotten another thither to join with him
in tendering me the oaths, whom I knew only by name and character;
he was called Esquire Knowls, of Grays, by Henley, and reputed a man
of better morals than the other.

I was brought into the hall, and kept there; and as Quakers were not
so common then as they now are (and indeed even yet, the more is the
pity, they are not common in that part of the country), I was made a
spectacle and gazing-stock to the family, and by divers I was
diversely set upon.  Some spake to me courteously, with appearance
of compassion; others ruggedly, with evident tokens of wrath and
scorn.  But though I gave them the hearing of what they said, which
I could not well avoid, yet I said little to them; but keeping my
mind as well retired as I could, I breathed to the Lord for help and
strength from Him, to bear me up and carry me through this trial,
that I might not sink under it, or be prevailed on by any means,
fair or foul, to do anything that might dishonour or displease my
God.

At length came forth the justices themselves (for so they were, as
well as lieutenants), and after they had saluted me, they discoursed
with me pretty familiarly; and though Clark would sometimes be a
little jocular and waggish (which was somewhat natural to him), yet
Knowls treated me very civilly, not seeming to take any offence at
my not standing bare before him.

And when a young priest, who as I understood was chaplain in the
family, took upon him pragmatically to reprove me for standing with
my hat on before the magistrates, and snatched my hat from off my
head, Knowls, in a pleasant manner, corrected him, telling him that
he mistook himself in taking a cap for a hat (for mine was a
montero-cap), and bade him give it me again; which he (though
unwillingly) doing, I forthwith put it on my head again, and
thenceforward none meddled with me about it.

Then they began to examine me, putting divers questions to me
relating to the present disturbances in the nation, occasioned by
the late foolish insurrection of those frantic fifth-monarchy men.
To all which I readily answered, according to the simplicity of my
heart and innocency of my hands, for I had neither done nor thought
any evil against the government.

But they endeavoured to affright me with threats of danger, telling
me (with inuendoes) that for all my pretence of innocency there was
high matter against me, which, if I would stand out, would be
brought forth, and that under my own hand.  I knew not what they
meant by this; but I knew my innocency, and kept to it.

At length, when they saw I regarded not their threats in general,
they asked me if I knew one Thomas Loe, and had written of late to
him.  I then remembered my letter, which till then I had not thought
of, and thereupon frankly told them that I did both know Thomas Loe
and had lately written to him; but that as I knew I had written no
hurt, so I did not fear any danger from that letter.  They shook
their heads, and said, "It was dangerous to write letters to appoint
meetings in such troublesome times."

They added, that by appointing a meeting, and endeavouring to gather
a concourse of people together, in such a juncture especially as
this was, I had rendered myself a dangerous person.  And therefore
they could do no less than tender me the oaths of allegiance and
supremacy, which therefore they required me to take.

I told them if I could take any oath at all, I would take the oath
of allegiance, for I owed allegiance to the King; but I durst not
take any oath, because my Lord and Master Jesus Christ had commanded
me not to swear at all; and if I brake His command I should thereby
both dishonour and displease Him.

Hereupon they undertook to reason with me, and used many words to
persuade me that that command of Christ related only to common and
profane swearing, not to swearing before a magistrate.  I heard
them, and saw the weakness of their arguing, but did not return them
any answer; for I found my present business was not to dispute, but
to suffer; and that it was not safe for me, in this my weak and
childish state especially, to enter into reasonings with sharp,
quick, witty, and learned men, lest I might thereby hurt both the
cause of truth, which I was to bear witness to, and myself;
therefore I chose rather to be a fool, and let them triumph over me,
than by my weakness give them advantage to triumph over the truth.
And my spirit being closely exercised in a deep travail towards the
Lord, I earnestly begged of Him that He would be pleased to keep me
faithful to the testimony He had committed to me, and not suffer me
to be taken in any of the snares which the enemy laid for me.  And,
blessed be His holy name, He heard my cries, and preserved me out of
them.

When the justices saw they could not bow me to their wills, they
told me they must send me to prison.  I told them I was contented to
suffer whatsoever the Lord should suffer them to inflict upon me.
Whereupon they withdrew into the parlour, to consult together what
to do with me, leaving me meanwhile to be gazed on in the hall.

After a pretty long stay they came forth to me again with a great
show of kindness, telling me they were very unwilling to send me to
gaol, but would be as favourable to me as possibly they could, and
that if I would take the oaths, they would pass by all the other
matter which they had against me.  I told them I knew they could not
justly have anything against me, for I had neither done nor intended
anything against the government, or against them.  And as to the
oaths, I assured them that my refusing them was merely matter of
conscience to me, and that I durst not take any oath whatsoever, if
it were to save my life.

When they heard this they left me again, and went and signed a
mittimus to send me to prison at Oxford, and charged one of the
troopers that brought me thither, who was one of the newly-raised
militia troop, to convey me safe to Oxford.  But before we departed
they called the trooper aside, and gave him private instructions
what he should do with me, which I knew nothing of till I came
thither, but expected I should go directly to the castle.

It was almost dark when we took horse, and we had about nine or ten
miles to ride, the weather thick and cold (for it was about the
beginning of the twelfth month), and I had no boots, being snatched
away from home on a sudden, which made me not care to ride very
fast.  And my guard, who was a tradesman in Thame, having confidence
in me that I would not give him the slip, jogged on without heeding
how I followed him.

When I was gone about a mile on the way I overtook my father's man,
who, without my knowledge, had followed me at a distance to Weston,
and waited there abroad in the stables till he understood by some of
the servants that I was to go to Oxford; and then ran before,
resolving not to leave me till he saw what they would do with me.

I would have had him return home, but he desired me not to send him
back, but let him run on until I came to Oxford.  I considered that
it was a token of the fellow's affectionate kindness to me, and that
possibly I might send my horse home by him; and thereupon stopping
my horse I bid him, if he would go on, get up behind me.  He
modestly refused, telling me he could run as fast as I rode.  But
when I told him if he would not ride he should not go forward, he,
rather than leave me, leaped up behind me, and on we went.

But he was not willing I should have gone at all.  He had a great
cudgel in his hand, and a strong arm to use it; and being a stout
fellow, he had a great mind to fight the trooper, and rescue me.
Wherefore he desired me to turn my horse and ride off, and if the
trooper offered to pursue, leave him to deal with him.

I checked him sharply for that, and charged him to be quiet, and not
think hardly of the poor trooper, who could do no other nor less
than he did; and who, though he had an ill journey in going with me,
carried himself civilly to me.  I told him also that I had no need
to fly, for I had done nothing that would bring guilt or fear upon
me, neither did I go with an ill-will; and this quieted the man.  So
on we went, but were so far cast behind the trooper, that we had
lost both sight and hearing of him, and I was fain to mend my pace
to get up to him again.

We came pretty late into Oxford on the seventh day of the week,
which was the market day; and, contrary to my expectation (which was
to have been carried to the castle), my trooper stopped in the High
Street, and calling at a shop asked for the master of the house, who
coming to the door, he delivered to him the mittimus, and with it a
letter from the deputy-lieutenants (or one of them), which when he
had read he asked where the prisoner was.  Whereupon the soldier
pointing to me, he desired me to alight and come in, which when I
did he received me civilly.

The trooper, being discharged of his prisoner, marched back, and my
father's man, seeing me settled in better quarters than he expected,
mounted my horse and went off with him.

I did not presently understand the quality of my keeper, but I found
him a genteel courteous man, by trade a linen-draper; and, as I
afterwards understood, he was City Marshal, had a command in the
county troop, and was a person of good repute in the place; his name
was--Galloway.

Whether I was committed to him out of regard to my father, that I
might not be thrust into a common gaol, or out of a politic design
to keep me from the conversation of my friends, in hopes that I
might be drawn to abandon this profession, which I had but lately
taken up, I do not know.  But this I know, that though I wanted no
civil treatment nor kind accommodations where I was, yet after once
I understood that many Friends were prisoners in the castle, and
amongst the rest Thomas Loe, I had much rather have been among them
there, with all the inconveniences they underwent, than where I was
with the best entertainment.  But this was my present lot, and
therefore with this I endeavoured to be content.

It was quickly known in the city that a Quaker was brought in
prisoner, and committed to the Marshal.  Whereupon (the men Friends
being generally prisoners already in the castle) some of the women
Friends came to me to inquire after me, and to visit me; as Silas
Norton's wife, and Thomas Loe's wife, who were sisters, and another
woman Friend, who lived in the same street where I was, whose
husband was not a Quaker, but kindly affected towards them, a baker
by trade, and his name, as I remember,--Ryland.

By some of these an account was soon given to the Friends who were
prisoners in the castle of my being taken up and brought prisoner to
the Marshal's; whereupon it pleased the Lord to move on the heart of
my dear friend Thomas Loe to salute me with a tender and
affectionate letter in the following terms:


"MY BELOVED FRIEND,

"In the truth and love of the Lord Jesus, by which life and
salvation is revealed in the saints, is my dear love unto thee, and
in much tenderness do I salute thee.  And, dear heart, a time of
trial God hath permitted to come upon us, to try our faith and love
to Him; and this will work for the good of them that through
patience endure to the end.  And I believe God will be glorified
through our sufferings, and His name will be exalted in the patience
and long-suffering of His chosen.  When I heard that thou wast
called into this trial, with the servants of the Most High, to give
thy testimony to the truth of what we have believed, it came into my
heart to write unto thee, and to greet thee with the embraces of the
power of an endless life, where our faith stands, and unity is felt
with the saints for ever.  Well, my dear friend, let us live in the
pure counsel of the Lord, and dwell in His strength, which gives us
power and sufficiency to endure all things for His name's sake; and
then our crown and reward will be with the Lord for ever, and the
blessings of His heavenly kingdom will be our portion.  Oh, dear
heart, let us give up all freely into the will of God, that God may
be glorified by us, and we comforted together in the Lord Jesus;
which is the desire of my soul, who am thy dear and loving friend in
the eternal truth,

"THOMAS LOE.

"We are more than forty here, who suffer innocently for the
testimony of a good conscience, because we cannot swear, and break
Christ's commands; and we are all well, and the blessing and
presence of God is with us.  Friends here salute thee.  Farewell!
The power and the wisdom of the Lord God be with thee.  Amen."


Greatly was my spirit refreshed and my heart gladdened, at the
reading of this consoling letter from my friend; and my soul blessed
the Lord for His love and tender goodness to me in moving His
servant to write thus unto me.

But I had cause soon after to double and redouble my thankful
acknowledgment to the Lord my God, who put it into the heart of my
dear friend Isaac Penington also to visit me with some encouraging
lines from Aylesbury Gaol, where he was then a prisoner; and from
whence (having heard that I was carried prisoner to Oxford) he thus
saluted me:-


"DEAR THOMAS,

"Great hath been the Lord's goodness to thee in calling thee out of
that path of vanity and death wherein thou wast running towards
destruction; to give thee a living name, and an inheritance of life
among His people; which certainly will be the end of thy faith in
Him and obedience to Him.  And let it not be a light thing in thine
eyes that He now accounteth thee worthy to suffer among His choice
lambs, that He might make thy crown weightier and thy inheritance
the fuller.  Oh that that eye and heart may be kept open in thee
which knoweth the value of these things, and that thou mayst be kept
close to the feelings of the life, that thou mayst be fresh in thy
spirit in the midst of thy sufferings, and mayst reap the benefit of
them; finding that pared off thereby which hindereth the bubblings
of the everlasting springs, and maketh unfit for the breaking forth
and enjoyment of the pure power!  This is the brief salutation of my
dear love to thee, which desireth thy strength and settlement in the
power, and the utter weakening of thee as to self.  My dear love is
to thee, with dear Thomas Goodyare and the rest of imprisoned
Friends.

"I remain thine in the truth, to which the Lord my God preserve thee
single and faithful.

"I.  PENINGTON.

"From Aylesbury Gaol, the 14th of the 12th month, 1660."


Though these epistolary visits in the love of God were very
comfortable and confirming to me, and my heart was thankful to the
Lord for them, yet I longed after personal conversation with
Friends, and it was hard, I thought, that there should be so many
faithful servants of God so near me, yet I should not be permitted
to come at them, to enjoy their company, and reap both the pleasure
and benefit of their sweet society.

For although my Marshal-keeper was very kind to me, and allowed me
the liberty of his house, yet he was not willing I should be seen
abroad; the rather, perhaps, because he understood I had been pretty
well known in that city.  Yet once the friendly baker got him to let
me step over to his house, and once (and but once) I prevailed with
him to let me visit my friends in the castle; but it was with these
conditions, that I should not go forth till it was dark, that I
would muffle myself up in my cloak, and that I would not stay out
late:  all which I punctually observed.

When I came thither, though there were many Friends prisoners, I
scarce knew one of them by face, except Thomas Loe, whom I had once
seen at Isaac Penington's; nor did any of them know me, though they
had generally heard that such a young man as I was convinced of the
truth, and come among Friends.

Our salutation to each other was very grave and solemn, nor did we
entertain one another with much talk, or with common discourses; but
most of the little time I had with them was spent in a silent
retiredness of spirit, waiting upon the Lord.  Yet before we parted
we imparted one to another some of the exercises we had gone
through; and they seeming willing to understand the ground and
manner of my commitment, I gave them a brief account thereof,
letting Thomas Loe more particularly know that I had directed a
letter to him, which having fallen into the hand of the Lord
Lieutenant, was (so far as I could learn) the immediate cause of my
being taken up.

Having stayed with them as long as my limited time would permit
(which I thought was but very short), that I might keep touch with
my keeper and come home in due time, I took leave of my friends
there, and with mutual embraces parting, returned to my (in some
sense more easy, but in others less easy) prison, where after this I
stayed not long before I was brought back to my father's house.

For after my father was come home, who, as I observed before, was
from home when I was taken, he applied himself to those justices
that had committed me, and not having disobliged them when he was in
office, easily obtained to have me sent home, which between him and
them was thus contrived.

There was about this time a general muster and training of the
militia forces at Oxford, whither on that occasion came the Lord
Lieutenant and deputy-lieutenants of the county, of which number
they who committed me were two.

When they had been awhile together, and the Marshal with them, he
stepped suddenly in, and in haste told me I must get ready quickly
to go out of town, and that a soldier would come by and bye to go
with me.  This said, he hastened to them again, not giving me any
intimation how I was to go, or whither.

I needed not much time to get ready in; but I was uneasy in thinking
what the Friends of the town would think of this my sudden and
private removal; and I feared lest any report should be raised that
I had purchased my liberty by an unfaithful compliance.  Wherefore I
was in care how to speak with some Friends about it; and that
friendly baker, whose wife was a Friend, living on the other side of
the street at a little distance, I went out at a back door,
intending to step over the way to their house, and return
immediately.

It so fell out that some of the lieutenants (of whom Esquire Clark,
who committed me, was one) were standing in the balcony at a great
inn or tavern, just over the place where I was to go by; and he
spying me, called out to the soldiers, who stood thick in the
street, to stop me.  They being generally gentlemen's servants, and
many of them knowing me, did civilly forbear to lay hold on me, but
calling modestly after me, said, "Stay, sir, stay; pray come back."
I heard, but was not willing to hear, therefore rather mended my
pace, that I might have got within the door.  But he calling
earnestly after me, and charging them to stop me, some of them were
fain to run, and laying hold on me before I could open the door,
brought me back to my place again.

Being thus disappointed, I took a pen and ink, and wrote a few
lines, which I sealed up, and gave to the apprentice in the shop,
who had carried himself handsomely towards me, and desired him to
deliver it to that Friend who was their neighbour, which he promised
to do.

By the time I had done this came the soldier that was appointed to
conduct me out of town.  I knew the man, for he lived within a mile
of me, being, through poverty, reduced to keep an alehouse; but he
had lived in better fashion, having kept an inn at Thame, and by
that means knew how to behave himself civilly, and did so to me.

He told me he was ordered to wait on me to Wheatley, and to tarry
there at such an inn, until Esquire Clark came thither, who would
then take me home with him in his coach.  Accordingly to Wheatley we
walked (which is from Oxford some four or five miles), and long we
had not been there before Clark and a great company of men came in.

He alighted, and stayed awhile to eat and drink (though he came but
from Oxford), and invited me to eat with him; but I, though I had
need enough, refused it; for indeed their conversation was a burthen
to my life, and made me often think of and pity good Lot.

He seemed, at that time, to be in a sort of mixed temper, between
pleasantness and sourness.  He would sometimes joke (which was
natural to him), and cast out a jesting flirt at me; but he would
rail maliciously against the Quakers.  "If" said he to me, "the King
would authorise me to do it, I would not leave a Quaker alive in
England, except you.  I would make no more," added he, "to set my
pistol to their ears and shoot them through the head, than I would
to kill a dog."  I told him I was sorry he had so ill an opinion of
the Quakers, but I was glad he had no cause for it, and I hoped he
would be of a better mind.

I had in my hand a little walking-stick with a head on it, which he
commended, and took out of my hand to look at it; but I saw his
intention was to search it, whether it had a tuck in it, for he
tried to have drawn the head; but when he found it was fast he
returned it to me.

He told me I should ride with him to his house in his coach, which
was nothing pleasant to me; for I had rather have gone on foot (as
bad as the ways were), that I might have been out of his company.
Wherefore I took no notice of any kindness in the offer, but only
answered I was at his disposal, not mine own.

But when we were ready to go the Marshal came to me, and told me if
I pleased I should ride his horse, and he would go in the coach with
Mr. Clark.  I was glad of the offer, and only told him he should
take out his pistols then, for I would not ride with them.  He took
them out, and laid them in the coach by him, and away we went.

It was a very fine beast that I was set on, by much the best in the
company.  But though she was very tall, yet the ways being very
foul, I found it needful, as soon as I was out of town, to alight
and take up the stirrups.  Meanwhile, they driving hard on, I was so
far behind, that being at length missed by the company, a soldier
was sent back to look after me.

As soon as I had fitted my stirrups and was remounted I gave the
rein to my mare, which being courageous and nimble, and impatient of
delay, made great speed to recover the company; and in a narrow
passage the soldier, who was my barber, that had fetched me from
home, and I met upon so brisk a gallop that we had enough to do on
either side to pull up our horses and avoid a brush.

When we were come to Weston, where Esquire Clark lived, he took the
Marshal and some others with him into the parlour; but I was left in
the hall, to be exposed a second time for the family to gaze on.

At length himself came out to me, leading in his hand a beloved
daughter of his, a young woman of about eighteen years of age, who
wanted nothing to have made her comely but gravity.  An airy piece
she was, and very merry she made herself at me.  And when they had
made themselves as much sport with me as they would, the Marshal
took his leave of them, and mounting me on a horse of Clark's had me
home to my father's that night.

Next morning, before the Marshal went away, my father and he
consulted together how to entangle me.  I felt there were snares
laid, but I did not know in what manner or to what end till the
Marshal was ready to go.  And then, coming where I was to take his
leave of me, he desired me to take notice, that although he had
brought me home to my father's house again, yet I was not discharged
from my imprisonment, but was his prisoner still; and that he had
committed me to the care of my father, to see me forthcoming
whenever I should be called for.  And therefore he expected I should
in all things observe my father's orders, and not go out at any time
from the house without his leave.

Now I plainly saw the snare, and to what end it was laid; and I
asked him if this device was not contrived to keep me from going to
meetings; he said I must not go to meetings.  Whereupon I desired
him to take notice that I would not own myself a prisoner to any man
while I continued here; that if he had power to detain me prisoner,
he might take me back again with him if he would, and I should not
refuse to go with him.  But I bade him assure himself, that while I
was at home I would take my liberty both to go to meetings and to
visit Friends.  He smiled, and said if I would be resolute he could
not help it; and so took his leave of me.

By this I perceived that the plot was of my father's laying, to have
brought me under such an engagement as should have tied me from
going to meetings; and thereupon I expected I should have a new
exercise from my father.

It was the constant manner of my father to have all the keys of the
out-doors of his house (which were four, and those linked upon a
chain) brought up into his chamber every night, and fetched out from
thence in the morning; so that none could come in or go out in the
night without his knowledge.

I knowing this, suspected that if I got not out before my father
came down I should be stopped from going out at all that day.
Wherefore (the passage from my chamber lying by his chamber door) I
went down softly without my shoes, and as soon as the maid had
opened the door I went out (though too early), and walked towards
the meeting at Meadle, four long miles off.

I expected to have been talked with about it when I came home, but
heard nothing of it, my father resolving to watch me better next
time.

This I was aware of; and therefore on the next first day I got up
early, went down softly, and hid myself in a back room before the
maid was stirring.

When she was up she went into my father's chamber for the keys; but
he bade her leave them till he was up, and he would bring them down
himself; which he did, and tarried in the kitchen, through which he
expected I would go.

The manner was, that when the common doors were opened the keys were
hung upon a pin in the hall.  While therefore my father stayed in
the kitchen expecting my coming, I, stepping gently out of the room
where I was, reached the keys, and opening another door, not often
used, slipped out, and so got away.

I thought I had gone off undiscovered; but whether my father saw me
through the window, or by what means he knew of my going, I know
not; but I had gone but a little way before I saw him coming after
me.

The sight of him put me to a stand in my mind whether I should go on
or stop.  Had it been in any other case than that of going to a
meeting I could not in any wise have gone a step farther.  But I
considered that the intent of my father's endeavouring to stop me
was to hinder me from obeying the call of my heavenly Father, and to
stop me from going to worship Him in the assembly of His people;
upon this I found it my duty to go on, and observing that my father
gained ground upon me, I somewhat mended my pace.

This he observing, mended his pace also, and at length ran.
Whereupon I ran also, and a fair course we had through a large
meadow of his which lay behind his house and out of sight of the
town.  He was not, I suppose, then above fifty years of age, and
being light of body and nimble of foot, he held me to it for a
while.  But afterwards slacking his pace to take breath, and
observing that I had gotten ground of him, he turned back and went
home; and, as I afterwards understood, telling my sisters how I had
served him, he said, "Nay, if he will take so much pains to go, let
him go if he will."  And from that time forward he never attempted
to stop me, but left me to my liberty, to go when and whither I
would; yet kept me at the usual distance, avoiding the sight of me
as much as he could, as not able to bear the sight of my hat on, nor
willing to contend with me again about it.

Nor was it long after this before I was left not only to myself, but
in a manner by myself; for the time appointed for the coronation of
the King (which was the 23rd of the second month, called April)
drawing on, my father, taking my two sisters with him, went up to
London some time before, that they might be there in readiness, and
put themselves into a condition to see so great a solemnity, leaving
nobody in the house but myself and a couple of servants.  And though
this was intended only for a visit on that occasion, yet it proved
the breaking of the family; for he bestowed both his daughters there
in marriage, and took lodgings for himself, so that afterwards they
never returned to settle at Crowell.

Being now at liberty, I walked over to Aylesbury, with some other
Friends, to visit my dear friend Isaac Penington, who was still a
prisoner there.  With him I found dear John Whitehead, and between
sixty and seventy more, being well nigh all the men Friends that
were then in the county of Bucks; many of them were taken out of
their houses by armed men, and sent to prison, as I had been, for
refusing to swear.  Most of these were thrust into an old room
behind the gaol, which had anciently been a malt-house, but was now
so decayed that it was scarce fit for a doghouse; and so open it
lay, that the prisoners might have gone out at pleasure.  But these
were purposely put there, in confidence that they would not go out,
that there might be room in the prison for others, of other
professions and names, whom the gaoler did not trust there.

While this imprisonment lasted, which was for some months, I went
afterwards thither sometimes to visit my suffering brethren; and
because it was a pretty long way (some eight or nine miles), too far
to be walked forward and backward in one day, I sometimes stayed a
day or two there, and lay in the malt house among my friends, with
whom I delighted to be.

After this imprisonment was over, I went sometimes to Isaac
Penington's house at Chalfont, to visit that family, and the Friends
thereabouts.  There was then a meeting for the most part twice a
week in his house; but one first-day in four there was a more
general meeting (which was thence called the monthly meeting) to
which resorted most of the Friends of other adjacent meetings; and
to that I usually went, and sometimes made some stay there.

Here I came acquainted with a friend of London, whose name was
Richard Greenaway, by trade a tailor, a very honest man, and one who
had received a gift for the ministry.

He having been formerly in other professions of religion, had then
been acquainted with one John Ovy, of Watlington, in Oxfordshire, a
man of some note among the professors there, and understanding upon
inquiry that I knew him, he had some discourse with me about him;
the result whereof was, that he, having an intention then shortly to
visit some meetings of Friends in this county and the adjoining
parts of Oxfordshire and Berkshire, invited me to meet him (upon
notice given), and to bear him company in that journey; and in the
way bring him to John Ovy's house, with whom I was well acquainted;
which I did.

We were kindly received, the man and his wife being very glad to see
both their old friend Richard Greenaway and me also, whom they had
been very well acquainted with formerly, but had never seen me since
I was a Quaker.

Here we tarried that night, and in the evening had a little meeting
there with some few of John Ovy's people, amongst whom Richard
Greenaway declared the truth; which they attentively heard, and did
not oppose, which at that time of day we reckoned was pretty well,
for many were apt to cavil.

This visit gave John Ovy an opportunity to inquire of me after Isaac
Penington, whose writings (those which he had written before he came
among Friends) he had read, and had a great esteem of, and he
expressed a desire to see him, that he might have some discourse
with him, if he knew how.  Whereupon I told him that if he would
take the pains to go to his house I would bear him company thither,
introduce him, and engage he should have a kind reception.

This pleased him much; and he embracing the offer, I undertook to
give him notice of a suitable time, which after I had gone this
little journey with my friend Richard Greenaway and was returned, I
did, making choice of the monthly meeting to go to.

We met by appointment at Stoken Church, with our staves in our
hands, like a couple of pilgrims, intending to walk on foot; and
having taken some refreshment and rest at Wycombe, went on
cheerfully in the afternoon, entertaining each other with grave and
religious discourse, which made the walk the easier, and so reached
thither in good time, on the seventh day of the week.

I gave my friends an account who this person was whom I had brought
to visit them, and the ground of his visit.  He had been a professor
of religion from his childhood to his old age (for he was now both
grey-headed and elderly), and was a teacher at this time, and had
long been so amongst a people, whether Independents or Baptists I do
not well remember.  And so well thought of he was, for his zeal and
honesty, that in those late professing times he was thrust into the
Commission of the Peace, and thereby lifted up on the Bench; which
neither became him nor he it, for he wanted indeed most of the
qualifications requisite for a Justice of the Peace:  an estate to
defray the charge of the office and to bear him up in a course of
living above contempt; a competent knowledge in the laws, and a
presence of mind or body, or both, to keep offenders in some awe; in
all which he was deficient; for he was but a fellmonger by trade,
accustomed to ride upon his pack of skins, and had very little
estate, as little knowledge of the law, and of but a mean presence
and appearance to look on.  But as my father, I suppose, was the
means of getting him put into the Commission, so he, I know, did
what he could to countenance him in it, and help him through it at
every turn, till that turn came (at the King's return) which turned
them both out together.

My friends received me in affectionate kindness, and my companion
with courteous civility.  The evening was spent in common but grave
conversation; for it was not a proper season for private discourse,
both as we were somewhat weary with our walk, and there were other
companies of Friends come into the family, to be at the meeting next
day.

But in the morning I took John Ovy into a private walk, in a
pleasant grove near the house, whither Isaac Penington came to us;
and there in discourse both answered all his questions, objections,
and doubts, and opened to him the principles of truth, to his both
admiration and present satisfaction.  Which done, we went in to take
some refreshment before the meeting began.

Of those Friends who were come overnight in order to be at the
meeting, there was Isaac's brother, William Penington, a merchant of
London, and with him a Friend (whose name I have forgotten), a
grocer of Colchester, in Essex; and there was also our friend George
Whitehead, whom I had not, that I remember, seen before.

The nation had been in a ferment ever since that mad action of the
frantic fifth-monarchy men, and was not yet settled; but storms,
like thunder-showers, flew here and there by coast, so that we could
not promise ourselves any safety or quiet in our meetings.  And
though they had escaped disturbance for some little time before, yet
so it fell out that a party of horse were appointed to come and
break up the meeting that day, though we knew nothing of it till we
heard and saw them.

The meeting was scarce fully gathered when they came; but we that
were in the family, and many others, were settled in it in great
peace and stillness, when on a sudden the prancing of the horses
gave notice that a disturbance was at hand.

We all sat still in our places, except my companion John Ovy, who
sat next to me.  But he being of a profession that approved Peter's
advice to his Lord, "to save himself," soon took the alarm, and with
the nimbleness of a stripling, cutting a caper over the form that
stood before him, ran quickly out at a private door, which he had
before observed, which led through the parlour into the gardens, and
from thence into an orchard; where he hid himself in a place so
obscure, and withal so convenient for his intelligence by
observation of what passed, that no one of the family could scarce
have found a likelier.

By the time he was got into his burrow came the soldiers in, being a
party of the county troop, commanded by Matthew Archdale of Wycombe.
He behaved himself civilly, and said he was commanded to break up
the meeting, and carry the men before a justice of the peace; but he
said he would not take all; and thereupon began to pick and choose,
chiefly as his eye guided him, for I suppose he knew very few.

He took Isaac Penington and his brother, George Whitehead, and the
Friend of Colchester, and me, with three or four more of the county,
who belonged to that meeting.

He was not fond of the work, and that made him take no more; but he
must take some, he said, and bade us provide to go with him before
Sir William Boyer of Denham, who was a justice of the peace.  Isaac
Penington being but weakly, rode, but the rest of us walked thither,
it being about four miles.

When we came there the Justice carried himself civilly to us all,
courteously to Isaac Penington as being a gentleman of his
neighbourhood; and there was nothing charged against us but that we
were met together without word or deed.  Yet this being contrary to
a late proclamation, given forth upon the rising of the fifth-
monarchy men, whereby all dissenters' meetings were forbidden, the
Justice could do no less than take notice of us.

Wherefore he examined all of us whom he did not personally know,
asking our names and the places of our respective habitations.  But
when he had them, and considered from what distant parts of the
nation we came, he was amazed; for George Whitehead was of
Westmoreland, in the north of England; the grocer was of Essex; I
was of Oxfordshire; and William Penington was of London.

Hereupon he told us that our case looked ill, and he was sorry for
it:  "for how," said he, "can it be imagined that so many could jump
altogether at one time and place, from such remote quarters and
parts of the kingdom, if it was not by combination and appointment?"

He was answered that we were so far from coming thither by agreement
or appointment, that none of us knew of the others' coming, and for
the most of us, we had never seen one another before; and that
therefore he might impute it to chance, or, if he pleased, to
Providence.

He urged upon us that an insurrection had been lately made by armed
men, who pretended to be more religious than others; that that
insurrection had been plotted and contrived in their meeting-house,
where they assembled under colour of worshipping God; that in their
meeting-house they hid their arms, and armed themselves, and out of
their meeting-house issued forth in arms, and killed many; so that
the government could not be safe unless such meetings were
suppressed.

We replied, we hoped he would distinguish and make a difference
between the guilty and the innocent, and between those who were
principled for fighting and those who were principled against it,
which we were, and had been always known to be so; that our meetings
were public, our doors standing open to all comers, of all ages,
sexes, and persuasions, men, women, and children, and those that
were not of our religion, as well as those that were; and that it
was next to madness for people to plot in such meetings.

He told us we must find sureties for our good behaviour, and to
answer our contempt of the King's proclamation at the next general
Quarter Sessions, or else he must commit us.

We told him that, knowing our innocency and that we had not
misbehaved ourselves, nor did meet in contempt of the King's
authority, but purely in obedience to the Lord's requirings to
worship Him, which we held ourselves in duty bound to do, we could
not consent to be bound, for that would imply guilt which we were
free from.

"Then," said he, "I must commit you;" and ordered his clerk to make
a mittimus.  And divers mittimuses were made, but none of them would
hold; for still, when they came to be read, we found such flaws in
them as made him throw them aside, and write more.

He had his eye often upon me, for I was a young man, and had at that
time a black suit on.  At length he bid me follow him, and went into
a private room and shut the door upon me.

I knew not what he meant by this; but I cried in spirit to the Lord,
that he would be pleased to be a mouth and wisdom to me, and keep me
from being entangled in any snare.

He asked me many questions concerning my birth, my education, my
acquaintance in Oxfordshire, particularly what men of note I knew
there; to all which I gave him brief but plain and true answers,
naming several families of the best rank in that part of the county
where I dwelt.

He asked me how long I had been of this way, and how I came to be of
it.  Which when I had given him some account of, he began to
persuade me to leave it, and return to the right way--the Church, as
he called it.  I desired him to spare his pains in that respect, and
forbear any discourse of that kind, for that I was fully satisfied
the way I was in was the right way, and hoped the Lord would so
preserve me in it that nothing should be able to draw or drive me
out of it.  He seemed not pleased with that, and thereupon went out
to the rest of the company, and I followed him, glad in my heart
that I had escaped so well, and praising God for my deliverance.

When he had taken his seat again at the upper end of a fair hall, he
told us he was not willing to take the utmost rigour of the law
against us, but would be as favourable to us as he could.  And
therefore he would discharge, he said, Mr. Penington himself,
because he was but at home in his own house.  And he would discharge
Mr. Penington of London, because he came but as a relation to visit
his brother.  And he would discharge the grocer of Colchester,
because he came to bear Mr. Penington of London company, and to be
acquainted with Mr. Isaac Penington, whom he had never seen before.
And as for those others of us who were of this county, he would
discharge them, for the present at least, because they being his
neighbours, he could send for them when he would.  "But as for you,"
said he to George Whitehead and me, "I can see no business you had
there, and therefore I intend to hold you to it, either to give bail
or go to gaol."

We told him we could not give bail.  "Then," said he, "you must go
to gaol;" and thereupon he began to write our mittimus; which
puzzled him again; for he had discharged so many, that he was at a
loss what to lay as the ground of our commitment, whose case
differed nothing in reality from theirs whom he had discharged.

At length, having made divers draughts (which still George Whitehead
showed him the defects of), he seemed to be weary of us; and rising
up said unto us:  "I consider that it is grown late in the day, so
that the officer cannot carry you to Aylesbury to-night, and I
suppose you will be willing to go back with Mr. Penington; therefore
if you will promise to be forthcoming at his house to-morrow
morning, I will dismiss you for the present, and you shall hear from
me again to-morrow."

We told him we did intend, if he did not otherwise dispose of us, to
spend that night with our friend Isaac Penington, and would, if the
Lord gave us leave, be there in the morning, ready to answer his
requirings.  Whereupon he dismissed us all, willing, as we thought,
to be rid of us; for he seemed not to be of an ill temper, nor
desirous to put us to trouble, if he could help it.

Back then we went to Isaac Penington's.  But when we were come
thither, oh the work we had with poor John Ovy!  He was so dejected
in mind, so covered with shame and confusion of face for his
cowardliness, that we had enough to do to pacify him towards
himself.

The place he had found out to shelter himself in was so commodiously
contrived, that undiscovered he could discern when the soldiers went
off with us, and understand when the bustle was over and the coast
clear.  Whereupon he adventured to peep out of his hole, and in a
while drew near by degrees to the house again; and finding all
things quiet and still, he adventured to step within the doors, and
found the Friends who were left behind peaceably settled in the
meeting again.

The sight of this smote him, and made him sit down among them.  And
after the meeting was ended, and the Friends departed to their
several homes, addressing himself to Mary Penington, as the mistress
of the house, he could not enough magnify the bravery and courage of
the Friends, nor sufficiently debase himself.  He told her how long
he had been a professor, what pains he had taken, what hazards he
had run, in his youthful days, to get to meetings; how, when the
ways were forelaid and passages stopped, he swam through rivers to
reach a meeting; and now, said he, that I am grown old in the
profession of religion, and have long been an instructor and
encourager of others, that I should thus shamefully fall short
myself, is matter of shame and sorrow to me.

Thus he bewailed himself to her.  And when we came back he renewed
his complaints of himself to us, with high aggravations of his own
cowardice; which gave occasion to some of the Friends tenderly to
represent to him the difference between profession and possession,
form and power.

He was glad, he said, on our behalfs, that we came off so well, and
escaped imprisonment.

But when he understood that George Whitehead and I were liable to an
after-reckoning next morning, he was troubled, and wished the
morning was come and gone, that we might be gone with it.

We spent the evening in grave conversation and in religious
discourses, attributing the deliverance we hitherto had to the Lord.
And the next morning, when we were up and had eaten, we tarried some
time to see what the Justice would do further with us, and to
discharge our engagement to him; the rest of the Friends, who were
before fully discharged, tarrying also with us to see the event.

And when we had stayed so long that on all hands it was concluded we
might safely go, George Whitehead and I left a few words in writing
to be sent to the Justice if he sent after us, importing that we had
tarried till such an hour, and not hearing from him, did now hold
ourselves free to depart, yet so as that if he should have occasion
to send for us again, upon notice thereof we would return.

This done, we took our leave of the family and one of another; they
who were for London taking horse, and I and my companions, setting
forth on foot for Oxfordshire, went to Wycombe, where we made a
short stay to rest and refresh ourselves, and from thence reached
our respective homes that night.

After I had spent some time at home, where, as I had no restraint,
so (my sisters being gone) I had now no society, I walked up to
Chalfont again, and spent a few days with my friends there.

As soon as I came in I was told that my father had been there that
day to see Isaac Penington and his wife, but they being abroad at a
meeting, he returned to his inn in the town, where he intended to
lodge that night.  After supper Mary Penington told me she had a
mind to go and see him at his inn (the woman of the house being a
friend of ours), and I went with her.  He seemed somewhat surprised
to see me there, because he thought I had been at home at his house;
but he took no notice of my hat--at least showed no offence at it,
for, as I afterwards understood, he had now an intention to sell his
estate, and thought he should need my concurrence therein, which
made him now hold it necessary to admit me again into some degree of
favour.  After we had tarried some little time with him, she rising
up to be gone, he waited on her home, and having spent about an hour
with us in the family, I waited on him back to his inn.  On the way
he invited me to come up to London to see my sisters, the younger of
whom was then newly married, and directed me where to find them, and
also gave me money to defray my charges.

Accordingly I went; yet stayed not long there, but returned to my
friend Isaac Penington's, where I made a little stay, and from
thence went back to Crowell.

When I was ready to set forth, my friend Isaac Penington was so kind
to send a servant with a brace of geldings to carry me as far as I
thought fit to ride, and to bring the horses back.  I, intending to
go no farther that day than to Wycombe, rode no farther than to
Beaconsfield town's end, having then but five miles to walk.  But
here a new exercise befell me, the manner of which was thus:

Before I had walked to the middle of the town I was stopped and
taken up by the watch.  I asked the watchman what authority he had
to stop me, travelling peacefully on the highway:  he told me he
would show me his authority, and in order thereunto, had me into a
house hard by, where dwelt a scrivener whose name was Pepys.  To him
he gave the order which he had received from the constables, which
directed him to take up all rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars.
I asked him for which of these he stopped me, but he could not
answer me.

I thereupon informed him what a rogue in law is, viz., one who for
some notorious offence was burnt on the shoulder; and I told them
they might search me if they pleased, and see if I was so branded.
A vagabond, I told them, was one that had no dwelling-house nor
certain place of abode; but I had, and was going to it, and I told
them where it was.  And for a beggar, I bade them bring any one that
could say I had begged or asked relief.

This stopped the fellow's mouth, yet he would not let me go; but,
being both weak-headed and strong-willed, he left me there with the
scrivener, and went out to seek the constable, and having found him,
brought him thither.  He was a young man, by trade a tanner,
somewhat better mannered than his wardsman, but not of much better
judgment.

He took me with him to his house, and having settled me there, went
out to take advice, as I supposed, what to do with me; leaving
nobody in the house to guard me but his wife, who had a young child
in her arms.

She inquired of me upon what account I was taken up, and seeming to
have some pity for me, endeavoured to persuade me not to stay, but
to go my way, offering to show me a back way from their house which
would bring me into the road again beyond the town, so that none of
the town should see me or know what was become of me.  But I told
her I could not do so.

Then having sat awhile in a muse, she asked me if there was not a
place of Scripture which said Peter was at a tanner's house.  I told
her there was such a Scripture, and directed her where to find it.

After some time she laid her child to sleep in the cradle, and
stepped out on a sudden, but came not in again for a pretty while.

I was uneasy that I was left alone in the house, fearing lest if
anything should be missing I might be suspected to have taken it;
yet I durst not go out to stand in the street, lest it should be
thought I intended to slip away.

But besides that, I soon found work to employ myself in; for the
child quickly waking, fell to crying, and I was fain to rock the
cradle in my own defence, that I might not be annoyed with a noise,
to me not more unpleasant than unusual.  At length the woman came in
again, and finding me nursing the child, gave me many thanks, and
seemed well pleased with my company.

When night came on, the constable himself came in again, and told me
some of the chief of the town were met together to consider what was
fit to do with me, and that I must go with him to them.  I went, and
he brought me to a little nasty hut, which they called a town-house
(adjoining to their market-house), in which dwelt a poor old woman
whom they called Mother Grime, where also the watch used by turns to
come in and warm themselves in the night.

When I came in among them they looked, some of them, somewhat sourly
on me, and asked me some impertinent questions, to which I gave them
suitable answers.

Then they consulted one with another how they should dispose of me
that night, till they could have me before some justice of peace to
be examined.  Some proposed that I should be had to some inn, or
other public-house, and a guard set on me there.  He that started
this was probably an innkeeper, and consulted his own interest.
Others objected against this, that it would bring a charge on the
town, to avoid which they were for having the watch take charge of
me, and keep me walking about the streets with them till morning.
Most voices seemed to go this way, till a third wished them to
consider whether they could answer the doing of that, and the law
would bear them out in it:  and this put them to a stand.  I heard
all their debates, but let them alone, and kept my mind to the Lord.

While they thus bandied the matter to and fro, one of the company
asked the rest if any of them knew who this young man was, and
whither he was going; whereupon the constable to whom I had given
both my name and the name of the town where I dwelt, told them my
name was Ellwood, and that I lived at a town called Crowell, in
Oxfordshire.

Old Mother Grime, sitting by and hearing this, clapped her hand on
her knee, and cried out:  "I know Mr. Ellwood of Crowell very well;
for when I was a maid I lived with his grandfather there when he was
a young man."  And thereupon she gave them such an account of my
father as made them look more regardfully on me; and so Mother
Grime's testimony turned the scale, and took me off from walking the
rounds with the watch that night.

The constable hereupon bade them take no further care, I should lie
at his house that night; and accordingly took me home with him,
where I had as good accommodation as the house did afford.  Before I
went to bed he told me that there was to be a visitation, or
Spiritual Court, as he called it, holden next day at Amersham, about
four miles from Beaconsfield, and that I was to be carried thither.

This was a new thing to me, and it brought a fresh exercise upon my
mind.  But being given up in the will of God to suffer what he
should permit to be laid on me, I endeavoured to keep my mind quiet
and still.

In the morning, as soon as I was up, my spirit was exercised towards
the Lord in strong cries to him, that he would stand by me and
preserve me, and not suffer me to be taken in the snare of the
wicked.  While I was thus crying to the Lord the other constable
came, and I was called down.

This was a budge fellow, and talked high.  He was a shoemaker by
trade, and his name was Clark.  He threatened me with the Spiritual
Court.  But when he saw I did not regard it, he stopped, and left
the matter to his partner, who pretended more kindness for me, and
therefore went about to persuade Clark to let me go out at the back-
door, so slip away.

The plot, I suppose, was so laid that Clark should seem averse, but
at length yield, which he did, but would have me take it for a
favour.  But I was so far from taking it so, that I would not take
it at all, but told them plainly, that as I came in at the fore-
door, so I would go out at the fore-door.  When therefore they saw
they could not bow me to their will, they brought me out at the
fore-door into the street, and wished me a good journey.  Yet before
I went, calling for the woman of the house, I paid her for my supper
and lodging, for I had now got a little money in my pocket again.

After this I got home, as I thought, very well, but I had not been
long at home before an illness seized on me, which proved to be the
small-pox; of which, so soon as Friends had notice, I had a nurse
sent me, and in a while Isaac Penington and his wife's daughter,
Gulielma Maria Springett, to whom I had been play-fellow in our
infancy, came to visit me, bringing with them our dear friend Edward
Burrough, by whose ministry I was called to the knowledge of the
truth.

It pleased the Lord to deal favourably with me in this illness, both
inwardly and outwardly; for His supporting presence was with me,
which kept my spirit near unto Him; and though the distemper was
strong upon me, yet I was preserved through it, and my countenance
was not much altered by it.  But after I was got up again, and while
I kept my chamber, wanting some employment for entertainment's sake
to spend the time with, and there being at hand a pretty good
library of books, amongst which were the works of Augustine and
others of those ancient writers who were by many called the fathers,
I betook myself to reading.  And these books being printed in the
old black letter, with abbreviations of the words difficult to be
read, I spent too much time therein, and thereby much impaired my
sight, which was not strong before, and was now weaker than usual by
reason of the illness I had so newly had, which proved an injury to
me afterwards, for which reason I here mention it.

After I was well enough to go abroad with respect to my own health
and the safety of others, I went up, in the beginning of the twelfth
month, 1661, to my friend Isaac Penington's at Chalfont, and abode
there some time, for the airing myself more fully, that I might be
more fit for conversation.

I mentioned before, that when I was a boy I had made some good
progress in learning, and lost it all again before I came to be a
man; nor was I rightly sensible of my loss therein until I came
amongst the Quakers.  But then I both saw my loss and lamented it;
and applied myself with utmost diligence, at all leisure times, to
recover it; so false I found that charge to be which in those times
was cast as a reproach upon the Quakers, that they despised and
decried all human learning, because they denied it to be essentially
necessary to a gospel ministry, which was one of the controversies
of those times.

But though I toiled hard and spared no pains to regain what once I
had been master of, yet I found it a matter of so great difficulty
that I was ready to say as the noble eunuch to Philip in another
case, "How can I, unless I had some man to guide me?"

This I had formerly complained of to my especial friend Isaac
Penington, but now more earnestly, which put him upon considering
and contriving a means for my assistance.

He had an intimate acquaintance with Dr. Paget, a physician of note
in London, and he, with John Milton, a gentleman of great note for
learning throughout the learned world, for the accurate pieces he
had written on various subjects and occasions.

This person, having filled a public station in the former times,
lived now a private and retired life in London, and having wholly
lost his sight, kept always a man to read to him, which usually was
the son of some gentleman of his acquaintance, whom in kindness he
took to improve in his learning.

Thus, by the mediation of my friend Isaac Penington with Dr. Paget,
and of Dr. Paget with John Milton, was I admitted to come to him,
not as a servant to him (which at that time he needed not), nor to
be in the house with him, but only to have the liberty of coming to
his house at certain hours when I would, and to read to him what
books he should appoint me, which was all the favour I desired.

But this being a matter which would require some time to bring
about, I in the meanwhile returned to my father's house in
Oxfordshire.

I had before received direction by letters from my eldest sister
(written by my father's command) to put off what cattle he had left
about his house, and to discharge his servants; which I had done at
the time called Michaelmas before.  So that all that winter, when I
was at home, I lived like a hermit, all alone, having a pretty large
house, and nobody in it but myself, at nights especially; but an
elderly woman, whose father had been an old servant to the family,
came every morning and made my bed, and did what else I had occasion
for her to do, till I fell ill of the small-pox, and then I had her
with me and the nurse.  But now, understanding by letter from my
sister that my father did not intend to return to settle there, I
made off those provisions which were in the house, that they might
not be spoiled when I was gone; and because they were what I should
have spent if I had tarried there, I took the money made of them to
myself for my support at London, if the project succeeded for my
going thither.

This done, I committed the care of the house to a tenant of my
father's who lived in the town, and taking my leave of Crowell, went
up to my sure friend Isaac Penington again; where understanding that
the mediation used for my admittance to John Milton had succeeded so
well that I might come when I would, I hastened to London, and in
the first place went to wait upon him.

He received me courteously, as well for the sake of Dr. Paget, who
introduced me, as of Isaac Penington, who recommended me; to both
whom he bore a good respect.  And having inquired divers things of
me with respect to my former progression in learning, he dismissed
me, to provide myself with such accommodation as might be most
suitable to my future studies.

I went therefore and took myself a lodging as near to his house
(which was then in Jewyn-street) as conveniently as I could, and
from thenceforward went every day in the afternoon, except on the
first days of the week, and sitting by him in his dining-room read
to him in such books in the Latin tongue as he pleased to hear me
read.

At my first sitting to read to him, observing that I used the
English pronunciation, he told me, if I would have the benefit of
the Latin tongue, not only to read and understand Latin authors, but
to converse with foreigners, either abroad or at home, I must learn
the foreign pronunciation.  To this I consenting, he instructed me
how to sound the vowels; so different from the common pronunciation
used by the English, who speak Anglice their Latin, that--with some
few other variations in sounding some consonants in particular
cases, as C before E or I like CH, SC before I like SH, &c.--the
Latin thus spoken seemed as different from that which was delivered,
as the English generally speak it, as if it were another language.

I had before, during my retired life at my father's, by unwearied
diligence and industry, so far recovered the rules of grammar, in
which I had once been very ready, that I could both read a Latin
author and after a sort hammer out his meaning.  But this change of
pronunciation proved a new difficulty to me.  It was now harder to
me to read than it was before to understand when read.  But


   Labor omnia vincit
Improbus.

Incessant pains,
The end obtains.


And so did I.  Which made my reading the more acceptable to my
master.  He, on the other hand, perceiving with what earnest desire
I pursued learning, gave me not only all the encouragement but all
the help he could; for, having a curious ear, he understood by my
tone when I understood what I read and when I did not; and
accordingly would stop me, examine me, and open the most difficult
passages to me.

Thus went I on for about six weeks' time, reading to him in the
afternoons; and exercising myself with my own books in my chamber in
the forenoons, I was sensible of an improvement.

But, alas!  I had fixed my studies in a wrong place.  London and I
could never agree for health; my lungs, as I suppose, were too
tender to bear the sulphurous air of that city, so that I soon began
to droop; and in less than two months' time I was fain to leave both
my studies and the city, and return into the country to preserve
life; and much ado I had to get thither.

I chose to go down to Wycombe, and to John Rance's house there; both
as he was a physician, and his wife an honest, hearty, discreet, and
grave matron, whom I had a very good esteem of, and who I knew had a
good regard for me.

There I lay ill a considerable time, and to that degree of weakness
that scarce any who saw me expected my life.  But the Lord was both
gracious to me in my illness, and was pleased to raise me up again,
that I might serve him in my generation.

As soon as I had recovered so much strength as to be fit to travel,
I obtained of my father (who was then at his house in Crowell, to
dispose of some things he had there, and who in my illness had come
to see me) so much money as would clear all charges in the house,
for both physic, food, and attendance; and having fully discharged
all, I took leave of my friends in that family and in the town, and
returned to my studies at London.

I was very kindly received by my master, who had conceived so good
an opinion of me that my conversation, I found, was acceptable to
him, and he seemed heartily glad of my recovery and return; and into
our old method of study we fell again, I reading to him, and he
explaining to me, as occasion required.

But as if learning had been a forbidden fruit to me, scarce was I
well settled in my work before I met with another diversion, which
turned me quite out of my work.

For a sudden storm arising, from I know not what surmise of a plot,
and thereby danger to the government, and the meetings of
Dissenters--such I mean as could be found, which perhaps were not
many besides the Quakers--were broken up throughout the city, and
the prisons mostly filled with our friends.

I was that morning, which was the 26th day of the eighth month,
1662, at the meeting at the Bull and Mouth, by Aldersgate, when on a
sudden a party of soldiers (of the trained bands of the city) rushed
in, with noise and clamour, being led by one who was called Major
Rosewell, an apothecary, if I misremember not, and at that time
under the ill name of a Papist.

As soon as he was come within the room, having a file or two of
musketeers at his heels, he commanded his men to present their
muskets at us, which they did, with intent, I suppose, to strike a
terror into the people.  Then he made a proclamation that all who
were not Quakers might depart if they would.

It so happened that a young man, an apprentice in London, whose name
was --- Dove, the son of Dr. Dove, of Chinner, near Crowell, in
Oxfordshire, came that day in curiosity to see the meeting, and
coming early, and finding me there (whom he knew), came and sat down
by me.

As soon as he heard the noise of soldiers he was much startled, and
asked me softly if I would not shift for myself, and try to get out.
I told him no; I was in my place, and was willing to suffer if it
was my lot.  When he heard the notice given that they who were not
Quakers might depart, he solicited me again to be gone.  I told him
I could not do so, for that would be to renounce my profession,
which I would by no means do; but as for him, who was not one of us,
he might do as he pleased.  Whereupon, wishing me well, he turned
away, and with cap in hand went out.  And truly I was glad he was
gone, for his master was a rigid Presbyterian, who in all likelihood
would have led him a wretched life had he been taken and imprisoned
among the Quakers.

The soldiers came so early that the meeting was not fully gathered
when they came, and when the mixed company were gone out, we were so
few, and sat so thin in that large room, that they might take a
clear view of us all, and single us out as they pleased.

He that commanded the party gave us first a general charge to come
out of the room.  But we, who came thither at God's requirings, to
worship him, like that good man of old who said, "We ought to obey
God rather than men" (Acts v. 29), stirred not, but kept our places.
Whereupon he sent some of his soldiers among us, with command to
drag or drive us out, which they did roughly enough.

When we came out into the street, we were received there by other
soldiers, who with their pikes holden lengthways from one another
encompassed us round as sheep in a pound; and there we stood a
pretty time, while they were picking up more to add to our number.

In this work none seemed so eager and active as their leader, Major
Rosewell; which I observing, stepped boldly to him as he was passing
by me, and asked him if he intended a massacre, for of that in those
days there was a great apprehension and talk.  The suddenness of the
question, from such a young man especially, somewhat startled him;
but recollecting himself, he answered, "No; but I intend to have you
all hanged by the wholesome laws of the land."

When he had gotten as many as he could or thought fit, which were in
number thirty-two, whereof two were catched up in the street, who
had not been at the meeting, he ordered the pikes to be opened
before us; and giving the word to march, went himself at the head of
us, the soldiers with their pikes making a lane to keep us from
scattering.

He led us up Martin's, and so turned down to Newgate, where I
expected he would have lodged us.  But, to my disappointment, he
went on though Newgate, and turning through the Old Bailey, brought
us into Fleet Street.  I was then wholly at a loss to conjecture
whither he would lead us, unless it were to Whitehall, for I knew
nothing then of Old Bridewell; but on a sudden he gave a short turn,
and brought us before the gate of that prison, where knocking, the
wicket was forthwith opened, and the master, with his porter, ready
to receive us.

One of those two who were picked up in the street, being near me,
and telling me his case, I stepped to the Major, and told him that
this man was not at the meeting, but was taken up in the street; and
showed him how hard and unjust a thing it would be to put him into
prison.

I had not pleased him before in the question I had put to him about
a massacre, and that, I suppose, made this solicitation less
acceptable to him from me than it might have been from some other;
for looking sternly on me, he said:  "Who are you, that take so much
upon you?  Seeing you are so busy, you shall be the first man that
shall go into Bridewell;" and taking me by the shoulders, he thrust
me in.

As soon as I was in, the porter, pointing with his finger, directed
me to a fair pair of stairs on the farther side of a large court,
and bid me go up those stairs and go on till I could go no farther.

Accordingly I went up the stairs; the first flight whereof brought
me to a fair chapel on my left hand, which I could look into through
the iron grates, but could not have gone into if I would.

I knew that was not a place for me:  wherefore, following my
direction and the winding of the stairs, I went up a storey higher,
which brought me into a room which I soon perceived to be a court-
room or place of judicature.  After I had stood a while there, and
taken a view of it, observing a door on the farther side, I went to
it, and opened it, with intention to go in, but I quickly drew back,
being almost affrighted at the dismalness of the place; for besides
that the walls quite round were laid all over, from top to bottom,
in black, there stood in the middle of it a great whipping-post,
which was all the furniture it had.

In one of these two rooms judgment was given, and in the other it
was executed on those ill people who for their lewdness were sent to
this prison, and there sentenced to be whipped; which was so
contrived that the court might not only hear, but see, if they
pleased, their sentence executed.

A sight so unexpected, and withal so unpleasing, gave me no
encouragement either to rest or indeed to enter at all there; till
looking earnestly I espied, on the opposite side, a door, which
giving me hopes of a farther progress, I adventured to step hastily
to it, and opened it.

This let me into one of the fairest rooms that, so far as I
remember, I was ever in, and no wonder, for though it was now put to
this mean use, it had for many ages past been the royal seat or
palace of the kings of England, until Cardinal Wolsey built
Whitehall, and offered it as a peace offering to King Henry the
Eighth, who until that time had kept his court in this house, and
had this, as the people in the house reported, for his dining-room,
by which name it then went.

This room in length (for I lived long enough in it to have time to
measure it) was threescore feet, and had breadth proportionable to
it.  In it, on the front side, were very large bay windows, in which
stood a large table.  It had other very large tables in it, with
benches round; and at that time the floor was covered with rushes,
against some solemn festival, which I heard it was bespoken for.

Here was my nil ultra, and here I found I might set up my pillar;
for although there was a door out of it to a back pair of stairs
which led to it, yet that was kept locked.  So that finding I had
now followed my keeper's direction to the utmost point, beyond which
I could not go, I sat down and considered that rhetorical saying,
"That the way to Heaven lay by the gate of Hell;" the black room,
through which I passed into this, bearing some resemblance to the
latter, as this comparatively and by way of allusion might in some
sort be thought to bear to the former.

But I was quickly put out of these thoughts by the flocking in of
the other Friends, my fellow-prisoners, amongst whom yet, when all
were come together, there was but one whom I knew so much as by
face, and with him I had no acquaintance; for I having been but a
little while in the city, and in that time kept close to my studies,
I was by that means known to very few.

Soon after we were all gotten together came up the master of the
house after us, and demanded our names, which we might reasonably
have refused to give till we had been legally convened before some
civil magistrate who had power to examine us and demand our names;
but we, who were neither guileful nor wilful, simply gave him our
names, which he took down in writing.

It was, as I hinted before, a general storm which fell that day, but
it lighted most, and most heavily, upon our meetings; so that most
of our men Friends were made prisoners, and the prisons generally
filled.  And great work had the women to run about from prison to
prison to find their husbands, their fathers, their brothers, or
their servants; for according as they had disposed themselves to
several meetings, so were they dispersed to several prisons.  And no
less care and pains had they, when they had found them, to furnish
them with provisions and other necessary accommodations.

But an excellent order, even in those early days, was practised
among the Friends of that city, by which there were certain Friends
of either sex appointed to have the oversight of the prisons in
every quarter, and to take care of all Friends, the poor especially,
that should be committed thither.

This prison of Bridewell was under the care of two honest, grave,
discreet, and motherly women, whose names were Anne Merrick
(afterwards Vivers), and Anne Travers, both widows.

They, so soon as they understood that there were Friends brought
into that prison, provided some hot victuals, meat, and broth, for
the weather was cold; and ordering their servants to bring it them,
with bread, cheese, and beer, came themselves also with it, and
having placed it on a table, gave notice to us that it was provided
for all those that had not others to provide for them, or were not
able to provide for themselves.  And there wanted not among us a
competent number of such guests.

As for my part, though I had lived as frugally as possibly I could,
that I might draw out the thread of my little stock to the utmost
length, yet had I by this time reduced it to tenpence, which was all
the money I had about me, or anywhere else at my command.

This was but a small estate to enter upon an imprisonment with, yet
was I not at all discouraged at it, nor had I a murmuring thought.
I had known what it was, moderately, to abound, and if I should now
come to suffer want, I knew I ought to be content; and through the
grace of God I was so.  I had lived by Providence before, when for a
long time I had no money at all, and I had always found the Lord a
good provider.  I made no doubt, therefore, that He who sent the
ravens to feed Elijah, and who clothes the lilies, would find some
means to sustain me with needful food and raiment; and I had learned
by experience the truth of that saying, Natura paucis contenta--i.e.
Nature is content with few things, or a little.

Although the sight and smell of hot food was sufficiently enticing
to my empty stomach, for I had eaten little that morning and was
hungry, yet, considering the terms of the invitation, I questioned
whether I was included in it; and after some reasonings at length
concluded that, while I had tenpence in my pocket, I should be but
an injurious intruder to that mess, which was provided for such as
perhaps had not twopence in theirs.

Being come to this resolution, I withdrew as far from the table as I
could, and sat down in a quiet retirement of mind till the repast
was over, which was not long; for there were hands enough at it to
make light work of it.

When evening came the porter came up the backstairs, and opening the
door, told us if we desired to have anything that was to be had in
the house, he would bring it us; for there was in the house a
chandler's shop, at which beer, bread, butter, cheese, eggs and
bacon, might be had for money.  Upon which many went to him, and
spake for what of these things they had a mind to, giving him money
to pay for them.

Among the rest went I, and intending to spin out my tenpence as far
as I could, desired him to bring me a penny loaf only.  When he
returned we all resorted to him to receive our several provisions,
which he delivered; and when he came to me he told me he could not
get a penny loaf, but he had brought me two halfpenny loaves.

This suited me better; wherefore returning to my place again, I sat
down and eat up one of my loaves, reserving the other for the next
day.

This was to me both dinner and supper; and so well satisfied I was
with it that I could willingly then have gone to bed, if I had had
one to go to; but that was not to be expected there, nor had any one
any bedding brought in that night.

Some of the company had been so considerate as to send for a pound
of candles, that we might not sit all night in the dark, and having
lighted divers of them, and placed them in several parts of that
large room, we kept walking to keep us warm.

After I had warmed myself pretty thoroughly and the evening was
pretty far spent, I bethought myself of a lodging; and cast mine eye
on the table which stood in the bay window, the frame whereof
looked, I thought, somewhat like a bedstead.  Wherefore, willing to
make sure of that, I gathered up a good armful of the rushes
wherewith the floor was covered, and spreading them under the table,
crept in upon them in my clothes, and keeping on my hat, laid my
head upon one end of the table's frame, instead of a bolster.

My example was followed by the rest, who, gathering up rushes as I
had done, made themselves beds in other parts of the room, and so to
rest we went.

I having a quiet easy mind, was soon asleep, and slept till about
the middle of the night.  And then waking, finding my legs and feet
very cold, I crept out of my cabin and began to walk about apace.

This waked and raised all the rest, who finding themselves cold as
well as I, got up and walked about with me, till we had pretty well
warmed ourselves, and then we all lay down again, and rested till
morning.

Next day, all they who had families, or belonged to families, had
bedding brought in of one sort or other, which they disposed at ends
and sides of the room, leaving the middle void to walk in.

But I, who had nobody to look after me, kept to my rushy pallet
under the table for four nights together, in which time I did not
put off my clothes; yet, through the merciful goodness of God unto
me, I rested and slept well, and enjoyed health, without taking
cold.

In this time divers of our company, through the solicitations of
some of their relations or acquaintance to Sir Richard Brown, who
was at that time a great master of misrule in the city, and over
Bridewell more especially, were released; and among these one
William Mucklow, who lay in a hammock.  He having observed that I
only was unprovided with lodging, came very courteously to me, and
kindly offered me the use of his hammock while I should continue a
prisoner.

This was a providential accommodation to me, which I received
thankfully, both from the Lord and from him; and from thenceforth I
thought I lay as well as ever I had done in my life.

Amongst those that remained there were several young men who cast
themselves into a club, and laying down every one an equal
proportion of money, put it into the hand of our friend Anne
Travers, desiring her to lay it out for them in provisions, and send
them in every day a mess of hot meat; and they kindly invited me to
come into their club with them.  These saw my person, and judged of
me by that, but they saw not my purse, nor understood the lightness
of my pocket.  But I, who alone understood my own condition, knew I
must sit down with lower commons.  Wherefore, not giving them the
true reason, I as fairly as I could excused myself from entering at
present into their mess, and went on, as before, to eat by myself,
and that very sparingly, as my stock would bear; and before my
tenpence was quite spent, Providence, on whom I relied, sent me in a
fresh supply.

For William Penington, a brother of Isaac Penington's, a Friend and
merchant in London, at whose house, before I came to live in the
city, I was wont to lodge, having been at his brother's that day
upon a visit, escaped this storm, and so was at liberty; and
understanding when he came back what had been done, bethought
himself of me, and upon inquiry hearing where I was, came in love to
see me.

He in discourse, amongst other things, asked me how it was with me
as to money, and how well I was furnished:  I told him I could not
boast of much, and yet I could not say I had none; though what I
then had was indeed next to none.  Whereupon he put twenty shillings
into my hand, and desired me to accept of that for the present.  I
saw a Divine hand in thus opening his heart and hand in this manner
to me; and though I would willingly have been excused from taking so
much, and would have returned one half of it, yet he pressing it all
upon me, I received it with a thankful acknowledgment as a token of
love from the Lord and from him.

On the seventh day he went down again, as he usually did, to his
brother's house at Chalfont, and in discourse gave them an account
of my imprisonment.  Whereupon, at his return on the second day of
the week following, my affectionate friend Mary Penington sent me,
by him, forty shillings, which he soon after brought me; out of
which I would have repaid him the twenty shillings he had so kindly
furnished me with, but he would not admit it, telling me I might
have occasion for that and more before I got my liberty.

Not many days after this I received twenty shillings from my father,
who being then at his house in Oxfordshire, and by letter from my
sister understanding that I was a prisoner in Bridewell, sent this
money to me for my support there, and withal a letter to my sister
for her to deliver to one called Mr. Wray, who lived near Bridewell,
and was a servant to Sir Richard Brown in some wharf of his,
requesting him to intercede with his master, who was one of the
governors of Bridewell, for my deliverance; but that letter coming
to my hands, I suppressed it, and have it yet by me.

Now was my pocket from the lowest ebb risen to a full tide.  I was
at the brink of want, next door to nothing, yet my confidence did
not fail nor my faith stagger; and now on a sudden I had plentiful
supplies, shower upon shower, so that I abounded, yet was not lifted
up, but in humility could say, "This is the Lord's doing."  And
without defrauding any of the instruments of the acknowledgments due
unto them, mine eye looked over and beyond them to the Lord, who I
saw was the author thereof and prime agent therein, and with a
thankful heart I returned thanksgivings and praises to Him.  And
this great goodness of the Lord to me I thus record, to the end that
all into whose hands this may come may be encouraged to trust in the
Lord, whose mercy is over all His works, and who is indeed a God
near at hand, to help in the needful time.

Now I durst venture myself into the club to which I had been
invited, and accordingly, having by this time gained an acquaintance
with them, took an opportunity to cast myself among them; and
thenceforward, so long as we continued prisoners there together, I
was one of their mess.

And now the chief thing I wanted was employment, which scarce any
wanted but myself; for the rest of my company were generally
tradesmen of such trades as could set themselves on work.  Of these,
divers were tailors, some masters, some journeymen, and with these I
most inclined to settle.  But because I was too much a novice in
their art to be trusted with their work, lest I should spoil the
garments, I got work from an hosier in Cheapside, which was to make
night-waistcoats, of red and yellow flannel, for women and children.
And with this I entered myself among the tailors, sitting cross-
legged as they did, and so spent those leisure hours with innocency
and pleasure which want of business would have made tedious.  And
indeed that was in a manner the only advantage I had by it; for my
master, though a very wealthy man, and one who professed not only
friendship but particular kindness to me, dealt I thought but hardly
with me.  For though he knew not what I had to subsist by, he never
offered me a penny for my work till I had done working for him, and
went, after I was released, to give him a visit; and then he would
not reckon with me neither, because, as he smilingly said, he would
not let me so far into his trade as to acquaint me with the prices
of the work, but would be sure to give me enough.  And thereupon he
gave me one crown-piece and no more; though I had wrought long for
him, and made him many dozens of waistcoats, and bought the thread
myself; which I thought was very poor pay.  But as Providence had
ordered it, I wanted the work more than the wages, and therefore
took what he gave me, without complaining.

About this time, while we were prisoners in our fair chamber, a
Friend was brought and put in among us, who had been sent thither by
Richard Brown to beat hemp; whose case was thus:

He was a very poor man, who lived by mending shoes, and on a
seventh-day night, late, a carman, or some other such labouring man,
brought him a pair of shoes to mend, desiring him to mend them that
night, that he might have them in the morning, for he had no other
to wear.  The poor man sat up at work upon them till after midnight,
and then finding he could not finish them, went to bed, intending to
do the rest in the morning.

Accordingly, he got up betimes, and though he wrought as privately
as he could in his chamber, that he might avoid giving offence to
any, yet could he not do it so privately but that an ill-natured
neighbour perceived it, who went and informed against him for
working on the Sunday.  Whereupon he was had before Richard Brown,
who committed him to Bridewell for a certain time, to be kept to
hard labour in beating hemp, which is labour hard enough.

It so fell out that at the same time were committed thither (for
what cause I do not now remember) two lusty young men, who were
called Baptists, to be kept also at the same labour.

The Friend was a poor little man, of a low condition and mean
appearance; whereas these two Baptists were topping blades, that
looked high and spoke big.  They scorned to beat hemp, and made a
pish at the whipping-post; but when they had once felt the smart of
it, they soon cried peccavi, and submitting to the punishment, set
their tender hands to the beetles.

The Friend, on the other hand, acting upon a principle, knowing he
had done no evil for which he should undergo that punishment,
refused to work, and for refusing was cruelly whipped; which he bore
with wonderful constancy and resolution of mind.

The manner of whipping there is, to strip the party to the skin from
the waist upwards, and having fastened him to the whipping-post, so
that he can neither resist nor shun the strokes, to lash the naked
body with long but slender twigs of holly, which will bend almost
like thongs, and lap round the body; and these having little knots
upon them, tear the skin and flesh, and give extreme pain.

With these rods they tormented the Friend most barbarously and the
more for that, having mastered the two braving Baptists, they
disdained to be mastered by this poor Quaker.  Yet were they fain at
last to yield when they saw their utmost severity could not make him
yield; and then, not willing to be troubled longer with him, they
turned him up among us.

When we had inquired of him how it was with him, and he had given us
a brief account of both his cause and usage, it came in my mind that
I had in my box (which I had sent for from my lodging, to keep some
few books and other necessaries in) a little gallipot with
Lucatellu's balsam in it.

Wherefore, causing a good fire to be made, and setting the Friend
within a blanket before the fire, we stripped him to the waist, as
if he had been to be whipped again, and found his skin so cut and
torn with the knotty holly rods, both back, side, arms, and breast,
that it was a dismal sight to look upon.  Then melting some of the
balsam, I with a feather anointed all the sores, and putting a
softer cloth between his skin and his shirt, helped him on with his
clothes again.  This dressing gave him much ease, and I continued it
till he was well; and because he was a very poor man, we took him
into our mess, contriving that there should always be enough for him
as well as for ourselves.  Thus he lived with us until the time he
was committed for was expired, and then he was released.

But we were still continued prisoners by an arbitrary power, not
being committed by the civil authority, nor having seen the face of
any civil magistrate from the day we were thrust in here by
soldiers, which was the 26th day of the eighth month, to the 19th of
the tenth month following.

On that day we were had to the Sessions at the Old Bailey; but not
being called there, we were brought back to Bridewell, and continued
there to the 29th of the same month, and then we were carried to the
Sessions again.

I expected I should have been called the first, because my name was
first taken down; but it proved otherwise, so that I was one of the
last that was called; which gave me the advantage of hearing the
pleas of the other prisoners, and discovering the temper of the
Court.

The prisoners complained of the illegality of their imprisonment,
and desired to know what they had lain so long in prison for.  The
Court regarded nothing of that, and did not stick to tell them so,
"For," said the Recorder to them, "if you think you have been
wrongfully imprisoned, you have your remedy at law, and may take it,
if you think it worth your while.  The Court," said he, "may send
for any man out of the street and tender him the oath:  so we take
no notice how you came hither, but finding you here, we tender you
the oath of allegiance; which if you refuse to take, we shall commit
you, and at length praemunire you."  Accordingly, as each one
refused it, he was set aside and another called.

By this I saw it was in vain for me to insist upon false
imprisonment or ask the cause of my commitment; though I had before
furnished myself with some authorities and maxims of law on the
subject, to have pleaded, if room had been given, and I had the book
out of which I took them in my bosom; for the weather being cold, I
wore a gown girt about the middle, and had put the book within it.
But I now resolved to wave all that, and insist upon another plea,
which just then came into my mind.

As soon therefore as I was called I stepped nimbly to the bar, and
stood up upon the stepping, that I might the better both hear and be
heard, and laying my hands upon the bar, stood ready, expecting what
they would say to me.

I suppose they took me for a confident young man, for they looked
very earnestly upon me, and we faced each other, without words, for
a while.  At length the Recorder, who was called Sir John Howel,
asked me if I would take the oath of allegiance.

To which I answered:  "I conceive this Court hath not power to
tender that oath to me, in the condition wherein I stand."

This so unexpected plea seemed to startle them, so that they looked
one upon another, and said some what low one to another, "What! doth
he demur to the jurisdiction of the Court?"  And thereupon the
Recorder asked me, "Do you then demur to the jurisdiction of the
Court?"--"Not absolutely," answered I, "but conditionally, with
respect to my present condition, and the circumstances I am now
under."

"Why, what is your present condition?" said the Recorder.--"A
prisoner," replied I.--"And what is that," said he, "to your taking
or not taking the oath?"--"Enough," said I, "as I conceive, to
exempt me from the tender thereof while I am under this condition."-
-"Pray, what is your reason for that?" said he.--"This," said I,
"that if I rightly understand the words of the statute, I am
required to say that I DO TAKE THIS OATH FREELY AND WITHOUT
CONSTRAINT, which I cannot say, because I am not a free man, but in
bonds and under constraint.  Wherefore I conceive that if you would
tender that oath to me, ye ought first to set me free from my
present imprisonment."

"But," said the Recorder, "will you take the oath if you be set
free?"--"Thou shalt see that," said I, "when I am set free.
Therefore set me free first, and then ask the question."

"But," said he again, "you know your own mind sure, and can tell now
what you would do if you were at liberty."--"Yes," replied I, "that
I can; but I do not hold myself obliged to tell it until I am at
liberty.  Therefore set me at liberty, and ye shall soon hear it."

Thus we fenced a good while, till I was both weary of such trifling
and doubted also lest some of the standers-by should suspect I would
take it if I was set at liberty.  Wherefore when the Recorder put it
upon me again, I told him plainly, No; though I thought they ought
not to tender it me till I had been set at liberty; yet if I was set
at liberty I could not take that nor any other oath, because my Lord
and Master Christ Jesus had expressly commanded his disciples NOT TO
SWEAR AT ALL.

As his command was enough to me, so this confession of mine was
enough to them.  "Take him away, said they; and away I was taken,
and thrust into the bail-dock to my other friends, who had been
called before me.  And as soon as the rest of our company were
called, and had refused to swear, we were all committed to Newgate,
and thrust into the common side.

When we came there we found that side of the prison very full of
Friends, who were prisoners there before (as indeed were at that
time all the other parts of that prison, and most of the other
prisons about the town), and our addition caused a great throng on
that side.  Notwithstanding which we were kindly welcomed by our
friends whom we found there, and entertained by them as well as
their condition would admit, until we could get in our
accommodations and provide for ourselves.

We had the liberty of the hall, which is on the first storey over
the gate, and which in the daytime is common to all the prisoners on
that side, felons as well as others, to walk in and to beg out of;
and we had also the liberty of some other rooms over that hall, to
walk or work in a-days.  But in the night we all lodged in one room,
which was large and round, having in the middle of it a great pillar
of oaken timber, which bore up the chapel that is over it.

To this pillar we fastened our hammocks at the one end, and to the
opposite wall on the other end, quite round the room, and in three
degrees, or three storeys high, one over the other; so that they who
lay in the upper and middle row of hammocks were obliged to go to
bed first, because they were to climb up to the higher by getting
into the lower.  And under the lower rank of hammocks, by the wall-
sides, were laid beds upon the floor, in which the sick and such
weak persons as could not get into the hammocks lay.  And indeed,
though the room was large and pretty airy, yet the breath and steam
that came from so many bodies, of different ages, conditions, and
constitutions, packed up so close together, was enough to cause
sickness amongst us, and I believe did so.  For there were many sick
and some very weak, though we were not long there, yet in that time
one of our fellow-prisoners, who lay in one of those pallet-beds,
died.

This caused some bustle in the house; for the body of the deceased
being laid out and put into a coffin, was carried down and set in
the room called the Lodge, that the coroner might inquire into the
cause and manner of his death.  And the manner of their doing it is
thus:  As soon as the coroner is come the turnkeys run out into the
street under the gate, and seize upon every man that passes by, till
they have got enough to make up the coroner's inquest.  And so
resolute these rude fellows are, that if any man resist or dispute
it with them, they drag him in by main force, not regarding what
condition he is of.  Nay, I have been told they will not stick to
stop a coach, and pluck the men out of it.

It so happened that at this time they lighted on an ancient man, a
grave citizen, who was trudging through the gate in great haste, and
him they laid hold on, telling him he must come in and serve upon
the coroner's inquest.  He pleaded hard, begged and besought them to
let him go, assuring them he was going on very urgent business, and
that the stopping him would be greatly to his prejudice.  But they
were deaf to all entreaties, and hurried him in, the poor man
chafing without remedy.

When they had got their complement, and were shut in together, the
rest of them said to this ancient man, "Come, father, you are the
oldest among us; you shall be our foreman."  And when the coroner
had sworn them on the jury, the coffin was uncovered, that they
might look upon the body.  But the old man, disturbed in his mind at
the interruption they had given him, and grown somewhat fretful upon
it, said to them:  "To what purpose do you show us a dead body here?
You would not have us think, sure, that this man died in this room!
How then shall we be able to judge how this man came by his death
unless we see the place wherein he died, and wherein he hath been
kept prisoner before he died?  How know we but that the
incommodiousness of the place wherein he was kept may have
occasioned his death?  Therefore show us," said he, "the place
wherein this man died."

This much displeased the keepers, and they began to banter the old
man, thinking to have beaten him off it.  But he stood up tightly to
them:  "Come come," said he, "though you have made a fool of me in
bringing me in hither, ye shall not find a child of me now I am
here.  Mistake not yourselves:  I understand my place and your duty;
and I require you to conduct me and my brethren to the place where
this man died:  refuse it at your peril."

They now wished they had let the old man go about his business,
rather than by troubling him have brought this trouble on
themselves.  But when they saw he persisted in his resolution and
was peremptory, the coroner told them they must go show him the
place.

It was in the evening when they began this work, and by this time it
was grown bedtime with us, so that we had taken down our hammocks,
which in the day were hung up by the walls, and had made them ready
to go into, and were undressing ourselves in readiness to go into
them; when on a sudden we heard a great noise of tongues and of
trampling of feet coming up towards us.  And by and by one of the
turnkeys, opening our door, said:  "Hold, hold; do not undress
yourselves:  here is the coroner's inquest coming to see you."

As soon as they were come to the door, for within the door there was
scarce room for them to come, the foreman, who led them, lifting up
his hand, said:  "Lord bless me! what a sight is here!  I did not
think there had been so much cruelty in the hearts of Englishmen to
use Englishmen in this manner.  We need not now question," said he
to the rest of the jury, "how this man came by his death; we may
rather wonder that they are not all dead, for this place is enough
to breed an infection among them.  Well," added he, "if it please
God to lengthen my life till to-morrow, I will find means to let the
King know how his subjects are dealt with."

Whether he did so or not I cannot tell; but I am apt to think that
he applied himself to the Mayor or the Sheriffs of London; for the
next day one of the Sheriffs, called Sir William Turner, a woollen-
draper in Paul's Yard, came to the press-yard, and having ordered
the porter of Bridewell to attend him there, sent up a turnkey
amongst us, to bid all the Bridewell prisoners come down to him, for
they knew us not, but we knew our own company.

Being come before him in the press-yard, he looked kindly on us and
spoke courteously to us.  "Gentlemen," said he, "I understand the
prison is very full, and I am sorry for it.  I wish it were in my
power to release you and the rest of your friends that are in it.
But since I cannot do that, I am willing to do what I can for you,
and therefore I am come hither to inquire how it is; and I would
have all you who came from Bridewell return thither again, which
will be a better accommodation to you, and your removal will give
the more room to those that are left behind; and here is the porter
of Bridewell, your old keeper, to attend you thither."

We duly acknowledged the favour of the Sheriff to us and our friends
above, in this removal of us, which would give them more room and us
a better air.  But before we parted from him I spoke particularly to
him on another occasion, which was this:

When we came into Newgate we found a shabby fellow there among the
Friends, who upon inquiry we understood had thrust himself among our
friends when they were taken at a meeting, on purpose to be sent to
prison with them, in hopes to be maintained by them.  They knew
nothing of him till they found him shut in with them in the prison,
and then took no notice of him, as not knowing how or why he came
thither.  But he soon gave them cause to take notice of him, for
wherever he saw any victuals brought forth for them to eat he would
be sure to thrust in, with knife in hand, and make himself his own
carver; and so impudent was he, that if he saw the provision was
short, whoever wanted, he would be sure to take enough.

Thus lived this lazy drone upon the labours of the industrious bees,
to his high content and their no small trouble, to whom his company
was as offensive as his ravening was oppressive; nor could they get
any relief by their complaining of him to the keepers.

This fellow hearing the notice which was given for the Bridewell men
to go down in order to be removed to Bridewell again, and hoping, no
doubt, that fresh quarters would produce fresh commons, and that he
would fare better with us than where he was, thrust himself amongst
us, and went down into the press-yard with us, which I knew not of
till I saw him standing there with his hat on, and looking as
demurely as he could, that the Sheriff might take him for a Quaker;
at the sight of which my spirit was much stirred.

Wherefore, so soon as the Sheriff had done speaking to us and we had
made our acknowledgment of his kindness, I stepped a little nearer
to him, and pointing to that fellow, said:  "That man is not only
none of our company, for he is no Quaker, but is an idle, dissolute
fellow who hath thrust himself in among our friends to be sent to
prison with them, that he might live upon them; therefore I desire
we may not be troubled with him at Bridewell."

At this the Sheriff smiled, and calling the fellow forth, said to
him:  "How came you to be in prison?"--"I was taken at a meeting,"
said he.--"But what business had you there?" said the Sheriff.--"I
went to hear," said he.--"Aye, you went upon a worse design, it
seems," replied the Sheriff; "but I'll disappoint you," said he,
"for I'll change your company and send you to them that are like
yourself."  Then calling for the turnkey, he said:  "Take this
fellow, and put him among the felons, and be sure let him not
trouble the Quakers any more."

Hitherto this fellow had stood with his hat on, as willing to have
passed, if he could, for a Quaker, but as soon as he heard this doom
passed on him, off went his hat, and to bowing and scraping he fell,
with "Good your worship, have pity upon me, and set me at liberty."-
-"No, no," said the Sheriff:  "I will not so far disappoint you;
since you had a mind to be in prison, in prison you shall be for
me."  Then bidding the turnkey take him away, he had him up, and put
him among the felons, and so Friends had a good deliverance from
him.

The Sheriff then bidding us farewell, the porter of Bridewell came
to us, and told us we knew our way to Bridewell without him, and he
could trust us; therefore he would not stay nor go with us, but left
us to take our own time, so we were in before bedtime.

Then went we up again to our friends in Newgate, and gave them an
account of what had passed, and having taken a solemn leave of them,
we made up our packs to be gone.  But before I pass from Newgate, I
think it not amiss to give the reader some little account of what I
observed while I was there.

The common side of Newgate is generally accounted, as it really is,
the worst part of that prison; not so much from the place as the
people, it being usually stocked with the veriest rogues and meanest
sort of felons and pickpockets, who not being able to pay chamber-
rent on the master's side, are thrust in there.  And if they come in
bad, to be sure they do no go out better; for here they have the
opportunity to instruct one another in their art, and impart to each
other what improvements they have made therein.

The common hall, which is the first room over the gate, is a good
place to walk in when the prisoners are out of it, saving the danger
of catching some cattle which they may have left in it, and there I
used to walk in a morning before they were let up, and sometimes in
the daytime when they have been there.

They all carried themselves respectfully towards me, which I imputed
chiefly to this, that when any of our women friends came there to
visit the prisoners, if they had not relations of their own there to
take care of them, I, as being a young man and more at leisure than
most others, for I could not play the tailor there, was forward to
go down with them to the grate, and see them safe out.  And
sometimes they have left money in my hands for the felons, who at
such times were very importunate beggars, which I forthwith
distributed among them in bread, which was to be had in the place.
But so troublesome an office it was, that I thought one had as good
have had a pack of hungry hounds about one, as these, when they knew
there was a dole to be given.  Yet this, I think, made them a little
the more observant to me; for they would dispose themselves to one
side of the room, that they might make way for me to walk on the
other.

For having, as I hinted before, made up our packs and taken our
leave of our friends, whom we were to leave behind, we took our
bundles on our shoulders, and walked two and two abreast through the
Old Bailey into Fleet Street, and so to Old Bridewell.  And it being
about the middle of the afternoon, and the streets pretty full of
people, both the shopkeepers at their doors and passengers in the
way would stop us, and ask us what we were and whither we were
going; and when we had told them we were prisoners going from one
prison to another, from Newgate to Bridewell, "What!" said they,
"without a keeper?"--"No," said we, "for our word, which we have
given, is our keeper."  Some thereupon would advise us not to go to
prison, but to go home.  But we told them we could not do so; we
could suffer for our testimony, but could not fly from it.  I do not
remember we had any abuse offered us, but were generally pitied by
the people.

When we were come to Bridewell, we were not put up into the great
room in which we had been before, but into a low room in another
fair court, which had a pump in the middle of it.  And here we were
not shut up as before, but had the liberty of the court to walk in,
and of the pump to wash or drink at.  And indeed we might easily
have gone quite away if we would, there being a passage through the
court into the street; but we were true and steady prisoners, and
looked upon this liberty, arising from their confidence in us, to be
a kind of parole upon us; so that both conscience and honour stood
now engaged for our true imprisonment.

Adjoining to this room wherein we were was such another, both newly
fitted up for workhouses, and accordingly furnished with very great
blocks for beating hemp upon, and a lusty whipping-post there was in
each.  And it was said that Richard Brown had ordered those blocks
to be provided for the Quakers to work on, resolving to try his
strength with us in that case; but if that was his purpose, it was
overruled, for we never had any work offered us, nor were we treated
after the manner of those that are to be so used.  Yet we set
ourselves to work on them; for being very large, they served the
tailors for shop-boards, and others wrought upon them as they had
occasion; and they served us very well for tables to eat on.

We had also, besides this room, the use of our former chamber above,
to go into when we thought fit; and thither sometimes I withdrew,
when I found a desire for retirement and privacy, or had something
on my mind to write, which could not so well be done in company.
And indeed about this time my spirit was more than ordinarily
exercised, though on very different subjects.  For, on the one hand,
the sense of the exceeding love and goodness of the Lord to me, in
His gracious and tender dealings with me, did deeply affect my
heart, and caused me to break forth in a song of thanksgiving and
praise to Him; and, on the other hand, a sense of the profaneness,
debaucheries, cruelties, and other horrid impieties of the age, fell
heavy on me, and lay as a pressing weight upon my spirit; and I
breathed forth the following hymn to God, in acknowledgment of His
great goodness to me, profession of my grateful love to Him, and
supplication to Him for the continuance of His kindness to me, in
preserving me from the snares of the enemy, and keeping me faithful
unto Himself:-


Thee, Thee alone, O God, I fear,
   In Thee do I confide;
Thy presence is to me more dear
   Than all things else beside.
Thy virtue, power, life, and light,
   Which in my heart do shine,
Above all things are my delight:
   O make them always mine!
Thy matchless love constrains my life,
   Thy life constrains my love,
To be to Thee as chaste a wife
   As is the turtle-dove
To her elect, espoused mate,
   Whom she will not forsake,
Nor can be brought to violate
   The bond she once did make;
Just so my soul doth cleave to Thee,
   As to her only head,
With whom she longs conjoin'd to be
   In bond of marriage-bed.
But, ah, alas! her little fort
   Is compassed about;
Her foes about her thick resort,
   Within and eke without.
How numerous are they now grown!
   How wicked their intent!
O let thy mighty power be shown,
   Their mischief to prevent.
They make assaults on every side,
   But Thou stand'st in the gap;
Their batt'ring-rams make breaches wide,
   But still Thou mak'st them up.
Sometimes they use alluring wiles
   To draw into their power;
And sometimes weep like crocodiles;
   But all is to devour.
Thus they beset my feeble heart
   With fraud, deceit, and guile,
Alluring her from Thee to start,
   And Thy pure rest defile.
But, oh! the breathing and the moan,
   The sighings of the seed,
The groanings of the grieved one,
   Do sorrows in me breed.
And that immortal, holy birth,
   The offspring of Thy breath
(To whom Thy love brings life and mirth,
   As doth thy absence, death);
That babe, that seed, that panting child,
   Which cannot Thee forsake,
In fear to be again beguiled,
   Doth supplication make:
O suffer not Thy chosen one,
   Who puts her trust in Thee,
And hath made Thee her choice alone,
   Ensnared again to be.

Bridewell, London, 1662.


In this sort did I spend some leisure hours during my confinement in
Bridewell, especially after our return from Newgate thither, when we
had more liberty, and more opportunity and room for retirement and
thought:  for, as the poet said,


Carmina scribentes secessum et otia quaerunt.

   They who would write in measure,
Retire where they may, stillness have and pleasure.


And this privilege we enjoyed by the indulgence of our keeper, whose
heart God disposed to favour us.  So that both the master and his
porter were very civil and kind to us, and had been so indeed all
along.  For when we were shut up before, the porter would readily
let some of us go home in an evening, and stay at home till next
morning; which was a great conveniency to men of trade and business,
which I being free from, forbore asking for myself, that I might not
hinder others.

This he observed, and asked me when I meant to ask to go out; I told
him I had not much occasion nor desire, yet at some time or other,
perhaps, I might have; but when I had I would ask him but once, and
if he then denied me, I would ask him no more.

After we were come back from Newgate I had a desire to go thither
again, to visit my friends who were prisoners there, more especially
my dear friend and father in Christ, Edward Burrough, who was then a
prisoner, with many Friends more, in that part of Newgate which was
then called Justice Hall.  Whereupon, the porter coming in my way, I
asked him to let me go out for an hour or two, to see some friends
of mine that evening.

He, to enhance the kindness, made it a matter of some difficulty,
and would have me stay till another night.  I told him I would be at
a word with him, for, as I had told him before that if he denied me
I would ask him no more, so he should find I would keep to it.

He was no sooner gone out of my sight but I espied his master
crossing the court; wherefore, stepping to him, I asked him if he
was willing to let me go out for a little while, to see some friends
of mine that evening.  "Yes," said he, "very willingly;" and
thereupon away walked I to Newgate, where having spent the evening
among Friends, I returned in good time.

Under this easy restraint we lay until the Court sat at the Old
Bailey again; and then, whether it was that the heat of the storm
was somewhat abated, or by what other means Providence wrought it, I
know not, we were called to the bar, and, without further question,
discharged.

Whereupon we returned to Bridewell again, and having raised some
money among us, and therewith gratified both the master and his
porter for their kindness to us, we spent some time in a solemn
meeting, to return our thankful acknowledgment to the Lord, both for
his preservation of us in prison and deliverance of us out of it;
and then taking a solemn farewell of each other, we departed with
bag and baggage.  And I took care to return my hammock to the owner,
with due acknowledgment of his great kindness in lending it me.

Being now at liberty, I visited more generally my friends that were
still in prison, and more particularly my friend and benefactor
William Penington, at his house, and then went to wait upon my
Master Milton, with whom yet I could not propose to enter upon my
intermitted studies until I had been in Buckinghamshire, to visit my
worthy friends Isaac Penington and his virtuous wife, with other
friends in that country.

Thither therefore I betook myself, and the weather being frosty, and
the ways by that means clean and good, I walked it throughout in a
day, and was received by my friends there with such demonstration of
hearty kindness as made my journey very easy to me.

I had spent in my imprisonment that twenty shillings which I had
received of Wm. Penington, and twenty of the forty which had been
sent me from Mary Penington, and had the remainder then about me.
That therefore I now returned to her, with due acknowledgment of her
husband's and her great care of me, and liberality to me in the time
of my need.  She would have had me keep it; but I begged of her to
accept it from me again, since it was the redundancy of their
kindness, and the other part had answered the occasion for which it
was sent:  and my importunity prevailed.

I intended only a visit hither, not a continuance, and therefore
purposed, after I had stayed a few days to return to my lodging and
former course in London, but Providence ordered it otherwise.

Isaac Penington had at that time two sons and one daughter, all then
very young; of whom the eldest son, John Penington, and the
daughter, Mary, the wife of Daniel Wharley, are yet living at the
writing of this.  And being himself both skilful and curious in
pronunciation, he was very desirous to have them well grounded in
the rudiments of the English tongue, to which end he had sent for a
man out of Lancashire, whom, upon inquiry, he had heard of, who was
undoubtedly the most accurate English teacher that ever I met with,
or have heard of.  His name was Richard Bradley.  But as he
pretended no higher than the English tongue, and had led them, by
grammar rules, to the highest improvement they were capable of in
that, he had then taken his leave of them, and was gone up to
London, to teach an English school of Friends' children there.

This put my friend to a fresh strait.  He had sought for a new
teacher to instruct his children in the Latin tongue, as the old had
done in the English, but had not yet found one.  Wherefore one
evening, as we sat together by the fire in his bed-chamber (which
for want of health he kept), he asked me, his wife being by, if I
would be so kind to him as to stay a while with him till he could
hear of such a man as he aimed at, and in the meantime enter his
children in the rudiments of the Latin tongue.

This question was not more unexpected than surprising to me, and the
more because it seemed directly to thwart my former purpose and
undertaking, of endeavouring to improve myself by following my
studies with my Master Milton, which this would give at least a
present diversion from, and for how long I could not foresee.

But the sense I had of the manifold obligations I lay under to these
worthy friends of mine shut out all reasonings, and disposed my mind
to an absolute resignation of their desire that I might testify my
gratitude by a willingness to do them any friendly service that I
could be capable of.

And though I questioned my ability to carry on that work to its due
height and proportion, yet as that was not proposed, but an
initiation only by accidence into grammar, I consented to the
proposal as a present expedient till a more qualified person should
be found, without further treaty or mention of terms between us than
that of mutual friendship.  And to render this digression from my
own studies the less uneasy to my mind, I recollected and often
thought of that rule in Lilly:


Qui docet indoctos, licet indoctissimus esset,
Ipse brevi reliquis doctior esse queat.

He that the unlearned doth teach may quickly be
More learned than they, though most unlearned he.


With this consideration I undertook this province, and left it not
until I married, which was not till the year 1669, near seven years
from the time I came thither.  In which time, having the use of my
friend's books, as well as of my own, I spent my leisure hours much
in reading, not without some improvement to myself in my private
studies, which (with the good success of my labours bestowed on the
children, and the agreeableness of conversation which I found in the
family) rendered my undertaking more satisfactory, and my stay there
more easy to me.

But, alas! not many days (not to say weeks) had I been there, ere we
were almost overwhelmed with sorrow for the unexpected loss of
Edward Burrough, who was justly very dear to us all.

This not only good, but great good man, by a long and close
confinement in Newgate through the cruel malice and malicious
cruelty of Richard Brown, was taken away by hasty death, to the
unutterable grief of very many, and unspeakable loss to the Church
of Christ in general.

The particular obligation I had to him as the immediate instrument
of my convincement, and high affection for him resulting therefrom,
did so deeply affect my mind that it was some pretty time before my
passion could prevail to express itself in words, so true I found
those of the tragedian:


Curae leves loquuntur,
Ingentes stupent.

Light griefs break forth, and easily get vent,
Great ones are through amazement closely pent.


At length, my muse, not bearing to be any longer mute, broke forth
in the following


ACROSTIC,

WHICH SHE CALLED A PATHETIC ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THAT DEAR AND
FAITHFUL SERVANT OF GOD,

EDWARD BURROUGH,

Who died the 14th of the Twelfth Month, 1662.


And thus she introduceth it:


How long shall Grief lie smother'd? ah! how long
Shall Sorrow's signet seal my silent tongue?
How long shall sighs me suffocate? and make
My lips to quiver and my heart to ache?
How long shall I with pain suppress my cries,
And seek for holes to wipe my watery eyes?
Why may not I, by sorrow thus oppressed,
Pour forth my grief into another's breast?
If that be true which once was said by one,
That "He mourns truly who doth mourn alone:" {180}
Then may I truly say, my grief is true,
Since it hath yet been known to very few.
Nor is it now mine aim to make it known
To those to whom these verses may be shown;
But to assuage my sorrow-swollen heart,
Which silence caused to taste so deep of smart.
This is my end, that so I may prevent
The vessel's bursting by a timely vent.

   Quis talia fando
Temperet a lacrymis!

Who can forbear, when such things spoke he hears,
His grave to water with a flood of tears?

E cho ye woods, resound ye hollow places,
L et tears and paleness cover all men's faces.
L et groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air,
W hile I the cause of my just grief declare,
O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile
O 'erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhile
D rink in my trickling tears, oh thirsty ground,
S o might'st thou henceforth fruitfuler be found.

L ament, my soul, lament; thy loss is deep,
A nd all that Sion love sit down and weep,
M ourn, oh ye virgins, and let sorrow be
E ach damsel's dowry, and (alas, for me!)
N e'er let my sobs and sighings have an end
T ill I again embrace my ascended friend;
A nd till I feel the virtue of his life
T o consolate me, and repress my grief:
I nfuse into my heart the oil of gladness
O nce more, and by its strength remove that sadness
N ow pressing down my spirit, and restore

F ully that joy I had in him before;
O f whom a word I fain would stammer forth,
R ather to ease my heart than show his worth:

H is worth, my grief, which words too shallow are
I n demonstration fully to declare,
S ighs, sobs, my best interpreters now are.

E nvy begone; black Momus quit the place;
N e'er more, Zoilus, show thy wrinkled face,
D raw near, ye bleeding hearts, whose sorrows are
E qual with mine; in him ye had like share.
A dd all your losses up, and ye shall see
R emainder will be nought but woe is me.
E ndeared lambs, ye that have the white stone,
D o know full well his name--it is your own.

E ternitized be that right worthy name;
D eath hath but kill'd his body, not his fame,
W hich in its brightness shall for ever dwell,
A nd like a box of ointment sweetly smell.
R ighteousness was his robe; bright majesty
D ecked his brow; his look was heavenly.

B old was he in his Master's quarrel, and
U ndaunted; faithful to his Lord's command.
R equiting good for ill; directing all
R ight in the way that leads out of the fall.
O pen and free to ev'ry thirsty lamb;
U nspotted, pure, clean, holy, without blame.
G lory, light, splendour, lustre, was his crown,
H appy his change to him:  the loss our own.

Unica post cineres virtus veneranda beatos
Efficit.

Virtue alone, which reverence ought to have,
Doth make men happy, e'en beyond the grave.

While I had thus been breathing forth my grief,
In hopes thereby to get me some relief,
I heard, methought, his voice say, "Cease to mourn:
I live; and though the veil of flesh once worn
Be now stript off, dissolved, and laid aside,
My spirit's with thee, and shall so abide."
This satisfied me; down I shrew my quill,
Willing to be resigned to God's pure will.


Having discharged this duty to the memory of my deceased friend, I
went on in my new province, instructing my little pupils in the
rudiments of the Latin tongue, to the mutual satisfaction of both
their parents and myself.  As soon as I had gotten a little money in
my pocket, which as a premium without compact I received from them,
I took the first opportunity to return to my friend William
Penington the money which he had so kindly furnished me with in my
need, at the time of my imprisonment in Bridewell, with a due
acknowledgment of my obligation to him for it.  He was not at all
forward to receive it, so that I was fain to press it upon him.

While thus I remained in this family various suspicions arose in the
minds of some concerning me with respect to Mary Penington's fair
daughter Guli; for she having now arrived at a marriageable age, and
being in all respects a very desirable woman--whether regard was had
to her outward person, which wanted nothing to render her completely
comely; or to the endowments of her mind, which were every way
extraordinary and highly obliging; or to her outward fortune, which
was fair, and which with some hath not the last nor the least place
in consideration--she was openly and secretly sought and solicited
by many, and some of them almost of every rank and condition, good
and bad, rich and poor, friend and foe.  To whom, in their
respective turns, till he at length came for whom she was reserved,
she carried herself with so much evenness of temper, such courteous
freedom, guarded with the strictest modesty, that as it gave
encouragement or ground of hopes to none, so neither did it
administer any matter of offence or just cause of complaint to any.

But such as were thus either engaged for themselves or desirous to
make themselves advocates for others, could not, I observed, but
look upon me with an eye of jealousy and fear, that I would improve
the opportunities I had by frequent and familiar conversation with
her, to my own advantage, in working myself into her good opinion
and favour, to the ruin of their pretences.

According therefore to the several kinds and degrees of their fears
of me, they suggested to her parents their ill surmises against me.

Some stuck not to question the sincerity of my intentions in coming
at first among the Quakers, urging with a why may it not be so, that
the desire and hopes of obtaining by that means so fair a fortune
might be the prime and chief inducement to me to thrust myself
amongst that people?  But this surmise could find no place with
those worthy friends of mine, her father-in-law and her mother, who,
besides the clear sense and sound judgment they had in themselves,
knew very well upon what terms I came among them, how strait and
hard the passage was to me, how contrary to all worldly interest,
which lay fair another way, how much I had suffered from my father
for it, and how regardless I had been of attempting or seeking
anything of that nature in these three or four years that I had been
amongst them.

Some others, measuring me by the propensity of their own
inclinations, concluded I would steal her, run away with her, and
marry her; which they thought I might be the more easily induced to
do, from the advantageous opportunities I frequently had of riding
and walking abroad with her, by night as well as by day, without any
other company than her maid.  For so great indeed was the confidence
that her mother had in me, that she thought her daughter safe if I
was with her, even from the plots and designs that others had upon
her; and so honourable were the thoughts she entertained concerning
me, as would not suffer her to admit a suspicion that I could be
capable of so much baseness as to betray the trust she with so great
freedom reposed in me.

I was not ignorant of the various fears which filled the jealous
heads of some concerning me, neither was I so stupid nor so divested
of all humanity as not to be sensible of the real and innate worth
and virtue which adorned that excellent dame, and attracted the eyes
and hearts of so many with the greatest importunity to seek and
solicit her.  But the force of truth and sense of honour suppressed
whatever would have risen beyond the bounds of fair and virtuous
friendship; for I easily foresaw that if I should have attempted
anything in a dishonourable way by force or fraud upon her, I should
have thereby brought a wound upon my own soul, a foul scandal upon
my religious profession, and an infamous stain upon mine honour;
either of which was far more dear unto me than my life.  Wherefore,
having observed how some others had befooled themselves by
misconstruing her common kindness, expressed in an innocent, open,
free, and familiar conversation, springing from the abundant
affability, courtesy, and sweetness of her natural temper, to be the
effect of a singular regard and peculiar affection to them, I
resolved to shun the rock on which I had seen so many run and split;
and remembering that saying of the poet,


Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum,

   Happy's he
Whom others' dangers wary make to be,


I governed myself in a free yet respectful carriage towards her,
that I thereby both preserved a fair reputation with my friends and
enjoyed as much of her favour and kindness in a virtuous and firm
friendship as was fit for her to show or for me to seek.

Thus leading a quiet and contented life, I had leisure sometimes to
write a copy of verses on one occasion or another, as the poetic
vein naturally opened, without taking pains to polish them.  Such
was this which follows, occasioned by the sudden death of some lusty
people in their full strength:


EST VITA CADUCA.

   As is the fragrant flower in the field,
Which in the spring a pleasant smell doth yield,
And lovely sight, but soon is withered;
So's Man:  to-day alive, to-morrow dead.
And as the silver dew-bespangled grass,
Which in the morn bedecks its mother's face,
But ere the scorching summer's passed looks brown,
Or by the scythe is suddenly cut down.
   Just such is Man, who vaunts himself to-day,
Decking himself in all his best array;
But in the midst of all his bravery
Death rounds him in the ear, "Friend, thou must die."
   Or like a shadow in a sunny day,
Which in a moment vanishes away;
Or like a smile or spark,--such is the span
Of life allowed this microcosm, Man.
   Cease then vain man to boast; for this is true,
Thy brightest glory's as the morning dew,
Which disappears when first the rising sun
Displays his beams above the horizon.


As the consideration of the uncertainty of human life drew the
foregoing lines from me, so the sense I had of the folly of mankind,
in misspending the little time allowed them in evil ways and vain
sports, led me more particularly to trace the several courses
wherein the generality of men run unprofitably at best, if not to
their hurt and ruin, which I introduced with that axiom of the
Preacher (Eccles. i. 2):


ALL IS VANITY.

See here the state of man as in a glass,
And how the fashion of this world doth pass.

   Some in a tavern spend the longest day,
While others hawk and hunt the time away.
Here one his mistress courts; another dances;
A third incites to lust by wanton glances.
This wastes the day in dressing; the other seeks
To set fresh colours on her with red cheeks,
That, when the sun declines, some dapper spark
May take her to Spring Garden or the park.
Plays some frequent, and balls; others their prime
Consume at dice; some bowl away their time.
With cards some wholly captivated are;
From tables others scarce an hour can spare.
One to soft music mancipates his ear;
At shovel-board another spends the year.
The Pall Mall this accounts the only sport;
That keeps a racket in the tennis-court.
Some strain their very eyes and throats with singing,
While others strip their hands and backs at ringing.
Another sort with greedy eyes are waiting
Either at cock-pit or some great bull-baiting.
This dotes on running-horses; t'other fool
Is never well but in the fencing-school.
Wrestling and football, nine-pins, prison-base,
Among the rural clowns find each a place.
Nay, Joan unwashed will leave her milking-pail
To dance at May-pole, or a Whitsun ale.
Thus wallow most in sensual delight,
As if their day should never have a night,
Till Nature's pale-faced sergeant them surprise,
And as the tree then falls, just so it lies.
   Now look at home, thou who these lines dost read,
See which of all these paths thyself dost tread,
And ere it be too late that path forsake,
Which, followed, will thee miserable make.


After I had thus enumerated some of the many vanities in which the
generality of men misspent their time, I sang the following ode in
praise of virtue:-


Wealth, beauty, pleasures, honours, all adieu;
I value virtue far, far more than you.
   You're all but toys
   For girls and boys
To play withal, at best deceitful joys.
She lives for ever; ye are transitory,
Her honour is unstained; but your glory
   Is mere deceit -
   A painted bait,
Hung out for such as sit at Folly's gate.
True peace, content, and joy on her attend;
You, on the contrary, your forces bend
   To blear men's eyes
   With fopperies,
Which fools embrace, but wiser men despise.


About this time my father, resolving to sell his estate, and having
reserved for his own use such parts of his household goods as he
thought fit, not willing to take upon himself the trouble of selling
the rest, gave them unto me; whereupon I went down to Crowell, and
having before given notice there and thereabouts that I intended a
public sale of them, I sold them, and thereby put some money into my
pocket.  Yet I sold such things only as I judged useful, leaving the
pictures and armour, of which there was some store there, unsold.

Not long after this my father sent for me to come to him at London
about some business, which, when I came there, I understood was to
join with him in the sale of his estate, which the purchaser
required for his own satisfaction and safety, I being then the next
heir to it in law.  And although I might probably have made some
advantageous terms for myself by standing off, yet when I was
satisfied by counsel that there was no entail upon it or right of
reversion to me, but that he might lawfully dispose of it as he
pleased, I readily joined with him in the sale without asking or
having the least gratuity or compensation, no, not so much as the
fee I had given to counsel to secure me from any danger in doing it.

There having been some time before this a very severe law made
against the Quakers by name, and more particularly prohibiting our
meetings under the sharpest penalties of five pounds for the first
offence so called, ten pounds for the second, and banishment for the
third, under pain of felony for escaping or returning without
license--which law was looked upon to have been procured by the
bishops in order to bring us to a conformity to their way of
worship--I wrote a few lines in way of dialogue between a Bishop and
a Quaker, which I called


CONFORMITY, PRESSED AND REPRESSED.

B.  What!  You are one of them that do deny
To yield obedience by conformity.
Q.  Nay:  we desire conformable to be.
B.  But unto what?  Q.  The Image of the Son. {190}
B.  What's that to us!  We'll have conformity
Unto our form.  Q.  Then we shall ne'er have done.
For, if your fickle minds should alter, we
Should be to seek a new conformity.
Thus, who to-day conform to Prelacy,
To-morrow may conform to Popery.
But take this for an answer, Bishop, we
Cannot conform either to them or thee;
For while to truth your forms are opposite,
Whoe'er conforms thereto doth not aright.
B.  We'll make such knaves as you conform, or lie
Confined in prisons till ye rot and die.
Q.  Well, gentle Bishop, I may live to see,
For all thy threats, a check to cruelty;
But in the meantime, I, for my defence,
Betake me to my fortress, Patience.


No sooner was this cruel law made but it was put in execution with
great severity; the sense whereof working strongly on my spirit,
made me cry earnestly to the Lord that he would arise and set up his
righteous judgment in the earth for the deliverance of his people
from all their enemies, both inward and outward; and in these terms
I uttered it:


Awake, awake, O arm of th' Lord, awake,
   Thy sword uptake;
Cast what would Thine forgetful of Thee make
   Into the lake.
Awake, I pray, O mighty Jah, awake
Make all the world before Thy presence quake,
Not only earth, but heaven also shake.
Arise, arise, O Jacob's God, arise,
   And hear the cries
Of ev'ry soul which in distress now lies,
   And to Thee flies.
Arise, I pray, O Israel's hope, arise;
Set free Thy seed, oppressed by enemies.
Why should they over it still tyrannize?
Make speed, make speed, O Israel's help, make speed,
   In time of need;
For evil men have wickedly decreed
   Against Thy seed.
Make speed, I pray, O mighty God, make speed;
Let all Thy lambs from savage wolves be freed,
That fearless on Thy mountain they may feed.
Ride on, ride on, Thou Valiant Man of Might,
   And put to flight
Those sons of Belial who do despite
   To the upright:
Ride on, I say, Thou Champion, and smite
Thine and Thy people's enemies, with such might
That none may dare 'gainst Thee or Thine to fight.


Although the storm raised by the Act for banishment fell with the
greatest weight and force upon some other parts, as at London,
Hertford, &c., yet we were not in Buckinghamshire wholly exempted
therefrom, for a part of that shower reached us also.

For a Friend of Amersham, whose name was Edward Perot or Parret,
departing this life, and notice being given that his body would be
buried there on such a day, which was the first day of the fifth
month, 1665, the Friends of the adjacent parts of the country
resorted pretty generally to the burial, so that there was a fair
appearance of Friends and neighbours, the deceased having been well-
beloved by both.

After we had spent some time together in the house, Morgan Watkins,
who at that time happened to be at Isaac Penington's, being with us,
the body was taken up and borne on Friends' shoulders along the
street in order to be carried to the burying-ground, which was at
the town's end, being part of an orchard belonging to the deceased,
which he in his lifetime had appointed for that service.

It so happened that one Ambrose Benett, a barrister at law and a
justice of the peace for that county, riding through the town that
morning on his way to Aylesbury, was by some ill-disposed person or
other informed that there was a Quaker to be buried there that day,
and that most of the Quakers in the country were come thither to the
burial.

Upon this he set up his horses and stayed, and when we, not knowing
anything of his design against us, went innocently forward to
perform our Christian duty for the interment of our friend, he
rushed out of his inn upon us with the constables and a rabble of
rude fellows whom he had gathered together, and having his drawn
sword in his hand, struck one of the foremost of the bearers with
it, commanding them to set down the coffin.  But the Friend who was
so stricken, whose name was Thomas Dell, being more concerned for
the safety of the dead body than his own, lest it should fall from
his shoulder, and any indecency thereupon follow, held the coffin
fast; which the Justice observing, and being enraged that his word
(how unjust soever) was not forthwith obeyed, set his hand to the
coffin, and with a forcible thrust threw it off from the bearers'
shoulders, so that it fell to the ground in the midst of the street,
and there we were forced to leave it.

For immediately thereupon, the Justice giving command for the
apprehending us, the constables with the rabble fell on us, and drew
some and drove others into the inn, giving thereby an opportunity to
the rest to walk away.

Of those that were thus taken I was one.  And being, with many more,
put into a room under a guard, we were kept there till another
Justice, called Sir Thomas Clayton, whom Justice Benett had sent for
to join with him in committing us, was come, and then being called
forth severally before them, they picked out ten of us, and
committed us to Aylesbury gaol, for what neither we nor they knew;
for we were not convicted of having either done or said anything
which the law could take hold of, for they took us up in the open
street, the king's highway, not doing any unlawful act, but
peaceably carrying and accompanying the corpse of our deceased
friend to bury it, which they would not suffer us to do, but caused
the body to lie in the open street and in the cartway, so that all
the travellers that passed by, whether horsemen, coaches, carts, or
waggons, were fain to break out of the way to go by it, that they
might not drive over it, until it was almost night.  And then having
caused a grave to be made in the unconsecrated part (as it is
accounted) of that which is called the churchyard, they forcibly
took the body from the widow whose right and property it was, and
buried it there.

When the Justices had delivered us prisoners to the constable, it
being then late in the day, which was the seventh day of the week,
he, not willing to go so far as Aylesbury, nine long miles, with us
that night, nor to put the town to the charge of keeping us there
that night, and the first day and night following, dismissed us upon
our parole to come to him again at a set hour on the second day
morning; whereupon we all went home to our respective habitations,
and coming to him punctually according to promise, were by him,
without guard, conducted to the prison.

The gaoler, whose name was Nathaniel Birch, had not long before
behaved himself very wickedly, with great rudeness and cruelty, to
some of our friends of the lower side of the county, whom he,
combining with the Clerk of the Peace, whose name was Henry Wells,
had contrived to get into his gaol; and after they were legally
discharged in court, detained them in prison, using great violence,
and shutting them up close in the common gaol among the felons,
because they would not give him his unrighteous demand of fees,
which they were the more straitened in from his treacherous dealing
with them.  And they having through suffering maintained their
freedom and obtained their liberty, we were the more concerned to
keep what they had so hardly gained, and therefore resolved not to
make any contract or terms for either chamber-rent or fees, but to
demand a free prison, which we did.

When we came in, the gaoler was ridden out to wait on the judges,
who came in that day to begin the assize, and his wife was somewhat
at a loss how to deal with us; but being a cunning woman, she
treated us with great appearance of courtesy, offering us the choice
of all her rooms; and when we asked upon what terms, she still
referred us to her husband, telling us she did not doubt but that he
would be very reasonable and civil to us.  Thus she endeavoured to
have drawn us to take possession of some of her chambers at a
venture, and trust to her husband's kind usage.  But we, who at the
cost of our friends had a proof of his kindness, were too wary to be
drawn in by the fair words of a woman, and therefore told her we
would not settle anywhere till her husband came home, and then would
have a free prison, wheresoever he put us.

Accordingly, walking all together into the court of the prison, in
which was a well of very good water, and having beforehand sent to a
friend in the town, a widow woman, whose name was Sarah Lambarn, to
bring us some bread and cheese, we sat down upon the ground round
about the well, and when we had eaten, we drank of the water out of
the well.

Our great concern was for our friend Isaac Penington, because of the
tenderness of his constitution; but he was so lively in his spirit,
and so cheerfully given up to suffer, that he rather encouraged us
than needed any encouragement from us.

In this posture the gaoler, when he came home, found us, and having
before he came to us consulted his wife, and by her understood on
what terms we stood, when he came to us he hid his teeth, and
putting on a show of kindness, seemed much troubled that we should
sit there abroad, especially his old friend Mr. Penington, and
thereupon invited us to come in and take what rooms in his house we
pleased.  We asked upon what terms; letting him know withal that we
determined to have a free prison.

He, like the sun and wind in a fable, that strove which of them
should take from the traveller his cloak, having like the wind tried
rough, boisterous, violent means to our friends before, but in vain,
resolved now to imitate the sun, and shine as pleasantly as he could
upon us; wherefore he told us we should make the terms ourselves,
and be as free as we desired if we thought fit, when we were
released, to give him anything, he would thank us for it, and if
not, he would demand nothing.

Upon these terms we went in and disposed ourselves, some in the
dwelling-house, others in the malt-house, where they chose to be.

During the assize we were brought before Judge Morton, a sour, angry
man, who very rudely reviled us, but would not either hear us or the
cause, but referred the matter to the two justices who had committed
us.

They, when the assize was ended, sent for us to be brought before
them at their inn, and fined us, as I remember, six shillings and
eightpence apiece, which we not consenting to pay, they committed us
to prison again for one month from that time, on the Act for
banishment.

When we had lain there that month, I, with another, went to the
gaoler to demand our liberty, which he readily granted, telling us
the door should be opened when we pleased to go.

This answer of his I reported to the rest of my friends there, and
thereupon we raised among us a small sum of money, which they put
into my hand for the gaoler, whereupon I, taking another with me,
went to the gaoler with the money in my hand, and reminding him of
the terms upon which we accepted the use of his rooms, I told him,
that although we could not pay chamber rent or fees, yet inasmuch as
he had now been civil to us, we were willing to acknowledge it by a
small token, and thereupon gave him the money.  He, putting it into
his pocket, said, "I thank you and your friends for it, and to let
you see I take it as a gift, not a debt, I will not look on it to
see how much it is."

The prison door being then set open for us, we went out, and
departed to our respective homes.

But before I left the prison, considering one day with myself the
different kinds of liberty and confinement, freedom and bondage, I
took my pen, and wrote the following enigma or riddle:-


Lo! here a riddle to the wise,
In which a mystery there lies;
Read it, therefore, with that eye
Which can discern a mystery.

THE RIDDLE.

Some men are free while they in prison lie;
Others, who ne'er saw prison, captives die.

CAUTION.

He that can receive it may;
He that cannot, let him stay,
And not be hasty, but suspend
His judgment till he sees the end.

SOLUTION.

He only's free indeed that's free from sin,
And he is safest bound that's bound therein.

CONCLUSION.

This is the liberty I chiefly prize,
The other, without this, I can despise.


Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison I was desired by
my quondam master, Milton, to take a house for him in the
neighbourhood where I dwelt, that he might go out of the city, for
the safety of himself and his family, the pestilence then growing
hot in London.  I took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont, a
mile from me, of which I gave him notice, and intended to have
waited on him, and seen him well settled in it, but was prevented by
that imprisonment.

But now being released and returned home, I soon made a visit to
him, to welcome him into the country.

After some common discourses had passed between us, he called for a
manuscript of his; which being brought he delivered to me, bidding
me take it home with me, and read it at my leisure; and when I had
so done, return it to him with my judgment thereupon.

When I came home, and had set myself to read it, I found it was that
excellent poem which he entitled "Paradise Lost."  After I had, with
the best attention, read it through, I made him another visit, and
returned him his book, with due acknowledgment of the favour he had
done me in communicating it to me.  He asked me how I liked it and
what I thought of it, which I modestly but freely told him, and
after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him,
"'Thou hast said much here of Paradise Lost,' but what hast thou to
say of 'Paradise Found?'"  He made me no answer, but sat some time
in a muse; then brake off that discourse, and fell upon another
subject.

After the sickness was over, and the city well cleansed and become
safely habitable again, he returned thither.  And when afterwards I
went to wait on him there, which I seldom failed of doing whenever
my occasions drew me to London, he showed me his second poem, called
"Paradise Regained," and in a pleasant tone said to me, "This is
owing to you, for you put it into my head by the question you put to
me at Chalfont, which before I had not thought of."  But from this
digression I return to the family I then lived in.

We had not been long at home, about a month perhaps, before Isaac
Penington was taken out of his house in an arbitrary manner by
military force, and carried prisoner to Aylesbury gaol again, where
he lay three-quarters of a year, with great hazard of his life, it
being the sickness year, and the plague being not only in the town,
but in the gaol.

Meanwhile his wife and family were turned out of his house, called
the Grange, at Peter's Chalfont, by them who had seized upon his
estate; and the family being by that means broken up, some went one
way, others another.  Mary Penington herself, with her younger
children, went down to her husband at Aylesbury.  Guli, with her
maid, went to Bristol, to see her former maid, Anne Hersent, who was
married to a merchant of that city, whose name was Thomas Biss; and
I went to Aylesbury with the children, but not finding the place
agreeable to my health, I soon left it, and returning to Chalfont,
took a lodging, and was dieted in the house of a friendly man, and
after some time went to Bristol to conduct Guli home.

Meanwhile Mary Penington took lodgings in a farmhouse called
Bottrels, in the parish of Giles Chalfont, where, when we returned
from Bristol, we found her.

We had been there but a very little time before I was sent to prison
again upon this occasion.  There was in those times a meeting once a
month at the house of George Salter, a Friend, of Hedgerly, to which
we sometimes went; and Morgan Watkins being with us, he and I, with
Guli and her maid, and one Judith Parker, wife of Dr. Parker, one of
the College of Physicians at London, with a maiden daughter of
theirs, neither of whom were Quakers, but as acquaintances of Mary
Penington were with her on a visit, walked over to that meeting, it
being about the middle of the first month, and the weather good.

This place was about a mile from the house of Ambrose Benett, the
justice who the summer before had sent me and some other Friends to
Aylesbury prison from the burial of Edward Parret of Amersham; and
he, by what means I know not, getting notice not only of the
meeting, but, as was supposed, of our being there, came himself to
it, and as he came caught up a stackwood stick, big enough to have
knocked any man down, and brought it with him, hidden under his
cloak.

Being come to the house, he stood for a while without the door and
out of sight, listening to hear what was said, for Morgan was then
speaking in the meeting.  But certainly he heard very imperfectly,
if it was true which we heard he said afterwards among his
companions, as an argument, that Morgan was a Jesuit--viz., that in
his preaching he trolled over his Latin as fluently as ever he heard
any one; whereas Morgan, good man, was better versed in Welsh than
in Latin, which I suppose he had never learned:  I am sure he did
not understand it.

When this martial Justice, who at Amersham had with his drawn sword
struck an unarmed man who he knew would not strike again, had now
stood some time abroad, on a sudden he rushed in among us, with the
stackwood stick held up in his hand ready to strike, crying out,
"Make way there;" and an ancient woman not getting soon enough out
of his way, he struck her with the stick a shrewd blow over the
breast.  Then pressing through the crowd to the place where Morgan
stood, he plucked him from thence, and caused so great a disorder in
the room that it broke the meeting up; yet would not the people go
away or disperse themselves, but tarried to see what the issue would
be.

Then taking pen and paper, he sat down at the table among us, and
asked several of us our names, which we gave, and he set down in
writing.

Amongst others he asked Judith Parker, the doctor's wife, what her
name was, which she readily gave; and thence taking occasion to
discourse him, she so overmastered him by clear reason, delivered in
fine language, that he, glad to be rid of her, struck out her name
and dismissed her; yet did not she remove, but kept her place
amongst us.

When he had taken what number of names he thought fit, he singled
out half a dozen, whereof Morgan was one, I another, one man more,
and three women, of whom the woman of the house was one, although
her husband then was, and for divers years before had been, a
prisoner in the Fleet for tithes, and had nobody to take care of his
family and business but her his wife.

Us six he committed to Aylesbury gaol, which when the doctor's wife
heard him read to the constable, she attacked him again, and having
put him in mind that it was a sickly time, and that the pestilence
was reported to be in that place, she in handsome terms desired him
to consider in time how he would answer the cry of our blood, if by
his sending us to be shut up in an infected place we should lose our
lives there.  This made him alter his purpose, and by a new mittimus
sent us to the House of Correction at Wycombe.  And although he
committed us upon the Act for banishment, which limited a certain
time for imprisonment, yet he in his mittimus limited no time, but
ordered us to be kept till we should be delivered by due course of
law; so little regardful was he, though a lawyer, of keeping to the
letter of the law.

We were committed on the 13th day of the month called March, 1665,
and were kept close prisoners there till the 7th day of the month
called June, which was some days above twelve weeks, and much above
what the Act required.

Then were we sent for to the Justice's house, and the rest being
released, Morgan Watkins and I were required to find sureties for
our appearance at the next assize; which we refusing to do, were
committed anew to our old prison, the House of Correction at
Wycombe, there to lie until the next assizes; Morgan being in this
second mittimus represented as a notorious offender in preaching,
and I as being upon the second conviction in order to banishment.
There we lay till the 25th day of the same month, and then, by the
favour of the Earl of Ancram, being brought before him at his house,
we were discharged from the prison upon our promise to appear, if at
liberty and in health, at the assizes; which we did, and were there
discharged by proclamation.

During my imprisonment in this prison I betook myself for an
employment to making of nets for kitchen-service, to boil herbs,
&c., in which trade I learned of Morgan Watkins, and selling some
and giving others, I pretty well stocked the Friends of that country
with them.

Though in that confinement I was not very well suited with company
for conversation, Morgan's natural temper not being very agreeable
to mine, yet we kept a fair and brotherly correspondence, as became
friends, prison-fellows, and bed-fellows, which we were.  And indeed
it was a good time, I think, to us all, for I found it so to me; the
Lord being graciously pleased to visit my soul with the refreshing
dews of his divine life, whereby my spirit was more and more
quickened to Him, and truth gained ground in me over the temptations
and snares of the enemy; which frequently raised in my heart
thanksgivings and praises unto the Lord.  And at one time more
especially the sense I had of the prosperity of truth, and the
spreading thereof, filling my heart with abundant joy, made my cup
overflow, and the following lines drop out:-


For truth I suffer bonds, in truth I live,
   And unto truth this testimony give,
That truth shall over all exalted be,
   And in dominion reign for evermore:
The child's already born that this may see,
   Honour, praise, glory be to God therefor.


And underneath thus:


Though death and hell should against truth combine,
Its glory shall through all their darkness shine.


This I saw with an eye of faith, beyond the reach of human sense;
for,


      As strong desire
      Draws objects nigher
In apprehension than indeed they are;
      I with an eye
      That pierced high
Did thus of truth's prosperity declare.


After we had been discharged at the assizes I returned to Isaac
Penington's family at Bottrel's in Chalfont, and, as I remember,
Morgan Watkins with me, leaving Isaac Penington a prisoner in
Aylesbury goal.

The lodgings we had in this farmhouse (Bottrel's) proving too strait
and inconvenient for the family, I took larger and better lodgings
for them in Berriehouse at Amersham, whither we went at the time
called Michaelmas, having spent the summer at the other place.

Some time after was that memorable meeting appointed to be held at
London, through a divine opening in the motion of life, in that
eminent servant and prophet of God, George Fox, for the restoring
and bringing in again those who had gone out from truth, and the
holy unity of Friends therein, by the means and ministry of John
Perrot.

This man came pretty early amongst Friends, and too early took upon
him the ministerial office; and being, though little in person, yet
great in opinion of himself, nothing less would serve him than to go
and convert the Pope; in order whereunto, he having a better man
than himself, John Luff, to accompany him, travelled to Rome, where
they had not been long ere they were taken up and clapped into
prison.  Luff, as I remember, was put in the Inquisition, and Perrot
in their Bedlam, or hospital for madmen.

Luff died in prison, not without well-grounded suspicion of being
murdered there; but Perrot lay there some time, and now and then
sent over an epistle to be printed here, written in such an affected
and fantastic style as might have induced an indifferent reader to
believe they had suited the place of his confinement to his
condition.

After some time, through the mediation of Friends (who hoped better
of him than he proved) with some person of note and interest there,
he was released, and came back for England.  And the report of his
great sufferings there (far greater in report than in reality),
joined with a singular show of sanctity, so far opened the hearts of
many tender and compassionate Friends towards him, that it gave him
the advantage of insinuating himself into their affections and
esteem, and made way for the more ready propagation of that peculiar
error of his, of keeping on the hat in time of prayer as well public
as private, unless they had an immediate motion at that time to put
it off.

Now, although I had not the least acquaintance with this man, not
having ever exchanged a word with him, though I knew him by sight,
nor had I any esteem for him, for either his natural parts or
ministerial gift, but rather a dislike of his aspect, preaching, and
way of writing; yet this error of his being broached in the time of
my infancy and weakness of judgment as to truth, while I lived
privately in London and had little converse with Friends, I, amongst
the many who were caught in that snare, was taken with the notion,
as what then seemed to my weak understanding suitable to the
doctrine of a spiritual dispensation.  And the matter coming to warm
debates, both in words and writing, I, in a misguided zeal, was
ready to have entered the lists of contention about it, not then
seeing what spirit it proceeded from and was managed by, nor
foreseeing the disorder and confusion in worship which must
naturally attend it.

But as I had no evil intention or sinister end in engaging in it,
but was simply betrayed by the specious pretence and show of greater
spirituality, the Lord, in tender compassion to my soul, was
graciously pleased to open my understanding and give me a clear
sight of the enemy's design in this work, and drew me off from the
practice of it, and to bear testimony against it as occasion
offered.

But when that solemn meeting was appointed at London for a travail
in spirit on behalf of those who had thus gone out, that they might
rightly return and be sensibly received into the unity of the body
again, my spirit rejoiced, and with gladness of heart I went to it,
as did many more of both city and country, and with great simplicity
and humility of mind did honestly and openly acknowledge our
outgoing, and take condemnation and shame to ourselves.  And some
that lived at too remote a distance in this nation as well as beyond
the seas, upon notice given of that meeting and the intended service
of it, did the like by writing in letters directed to and openly
read in the meeting, which for that purpose was continued many days.

Thus in the motion of life were the healing waters stirred and many
through the virtuous power thereof restored to soundness, and indeed
not many lost.  And though most of those who thus returned were such
as with myself had before renounced the error and forsaken the
practice, yet did we sensibly find that forsaking without
confessing, in case of public scandal, was not sufficient, but that
an open acknowledgment of open offences as well as forsaking them,
was necessary to the obtaining complete remission.

Not long after this, George Fox was moved of the Lord to travel
through the countries, from county to county, to advise and
encourage Friends to set up monthly and quarterly meetings, for the
better ordering the affairs of the church in taking care of the
poor, and exercising a true gospel discipline for a due dealing with
any that might walk disorderly under our name, and to see that such
as should marry among us did act fairly and clearly in that respect.

When he came into this county I was one of the many Friends that
were with him at the meeting for that purpose; and afterwards I
travelled with Guli and her maid into the West of England to meet
him there and to visit Friends in those parts, and we went as far as
Topsham in Devonshire before we found him.  He had been in Cornwall,
and was then returning, and came in unexpectedly at Topsham, where
we then were providing (if he had not then come thither) to have
gone that day towards Cornwall.  But after he was come to us we
turned back with him through Devonshire, Somersetshire, and
Dorsetshire, having generally very good meetings where he was; and
the work he was chiefly concerned in went on very prosperously and
well, without any opposition or dislike, save in that in the general
meeting of Friends in Dorsetshire a quarrelsome man, who had gone
out from Friends in John Perrot's business and had not come rightly
in again, but continued in the practice of keeping on his hat in
time of prayer, to the great trouble and offence of Friends, began
to cavil and raise disputes, which occasioned some interruption and
disturbance.

Not only George and Alexander Parker, who were with him, but divers
of the ancient Friends of that country, endeavoured to quiet that
troublesome man and make him sensible of his error, but his unruly
spirit would still be opposing what was said unto him and justifying
himself in that practice.  This brought a great weight and exercise
upon me, who sat at a distance in the outward part of the meeting,
and after I had for some time bore the burden thereof, I stood up in
the constraining power of the Lord, and in great tenderness of
spirit declared unto the meeting, and to that person more
particularly, how it had been with me in that respect, how I had
been betrayed into that wrong practice, how strong I had been
therein, and how the Lord had been graciously pleased to show me the
evil thereof, and recover me out of it.

This coming unexpectedly from me, a young man, a stranger, and one
who had not intermeddled with the business of the meeting, had that
effect upon the caviller, that if it did not satisfy him, it did at
least silence him, and made him for the present sink down and be
still, without giving any further disturbance to the meeting.  And
the Friends were well pleased with this unlooked-for testimony from
me, and I was glad that I had that opportunity to confess to the
truth, and to acknowledge once more, in so public a manner, the
mercy and goodness of the Lord to me therein.

By the time we came back from this journey the summer was pretty far
gone, and the following winter I spent with the children of the
family as before, without any remarkable alteration in my
circumstances, until the next spring, when I found in myself a
disposition of mind to change my single life for a married state.

I had always entertained so high a regard for marriage, as it was a
divine institution, that I held it not lawful to make it a sort of
political trade, to rise in the world by.  And therefore as I could
not but in my judgment blame such as I found made it their business
to hunt after and endeavour to gain those who were accounted great
fortunes, not so much regarding what she is as what she has, but
making wealth the chief if not the only thing they aimed at; so I
resolved to avoid, in my own practice, that course, and how much
soever my condition might have prompted me, as well as others, to
seek advantage that way, never to engage on account of riches, nor
at all to marry till judicious affection drew me to it, which I now
began to feel at work in my breast.

The object of this affection was a Friend whose name was Mary Ellis,
whom for divers years I had had an acquaintance with, in the way of
common friendship only, and in whom I thought I then saw those fair
prints of truth and solid virtue which I afterwards found in a
sublime degree in her; but what her condition in the world was as to
estate, I was wholly a stranger to, nor desired to know.

I had once, a year or two before, had an opportunity to do her a
small piece of service, which she wanted some assistance in, wherein
I acted with all sincerity and freedom of mind, not expecting or
desiring any advantage by her, or reward from her, being very well
satisfied in the act itself that I had served a Friend and helped
the helpless.

That little intercourse of common kindness between us ended without
the least thought I am verily persuaded on her part, well assured on
my own, of any other or further relation than that of free and fair
friendship, nor did it at that time lead us into any closer
conversation or more intimate acquaintance one with the other than
had been before.

But some time, and that a good while after, I found my heart
secretly drawn and inclining towards her, yet was I not hasty in
proposing, but waited to feel a satisfactory settlement of mind
therein, before I made any step thereto.

After some time I took an opportunity to open my mind therein unto
my much-honoured friends Isaac and Mary Penington, who then stood
parentum loco (in the place or stead of parents) to me.  They having
solemnly weighed the matter, expressed their unity therewith; and
indeed their approbation thereof was no small confirmation to me
therein.  Yet took I further deliberation, often retiring in spirit
to the Lord, and crying to Him for direction, before I addressed
myself to her.  At length, as I was sitting all alone, waiting upon
the Lord for counsel and guidance in this--in itself and to me--so
important affair, I felt a word sweetly arise in me, as if I had
heard a voice which said, "Go, and prevail."  And faith springing in
my heart with the word, I immediately arose and went, nothing
doubting.

When I was come to her lodgings, which were about a mile from me,
her maid told me she was in her chamber, for having been under some
indisposition of body, which had obliged her to keep her chamber,
she had not yet left it; wherefore I desired the maid to acquaint
her mistress that I was come to give her a visit, whereupon I was
invited to go up to her.  And after some little time spent in common
conversation, feeling my spirit weightily concerned, I solemnly
opened my mind unto her with respect to the particular business I
came about, which I soon perceived was a great surprise to her, for
she had taken in an apprehension, as others also had done, that mine
eye had been fixed elsewhere and nearer home.

I used not many words to her, but I felt a divine power went along
with the words, and fixed the matter expressed by them so fast in
her breast, that, as she afterwards acknowledged to me, she could
not shut it out.

I made at that time but a short visit, for having told her I did not
expect an answer from her now, but desired she would in the most
solemn manner weigh the proposal made, and in due time give me such
an answer thereunto as the Lord should give her, I took my leave of
her and departed, leaving the issue to the Lord.

I had a journey then at hand, which I foresaw would take me up two
weeks' time.  Wherefore, the day before I was to set out I went to
visit her again, to acquaint her with my journey, and excuse my
absence, not yet pressing her for an answer, but assuring her that I
felt in myself an increase of affection to her, and hoped to receive
a suitable return from her in the Lord's time, to whom in the
meantime I committed both her, myself, and the concern between us.
And indeed I found at my return that I could not have left it in
better hands; for the Lord had been my advocate in my absence, and
had so far answered all her objections that when I came to her again
she rather acquainted me with them than urged them.

From that time forward we entertained each other with affectionate
kindness in order to marriage, which yet we did not hasten to, but
went on deliberately.  Neither did I use those vulgar ways of
courtship, by making frequent and rich presents, not only for that
my outward condition would not comport with the expense, but because
I liked not to obtain by such means, but preferred an unbribed
affection.

While this affair stood thus with me, I had occasion to take another
journey into Kent and Sussex, which yet I would not mention here,
but for a particular accident which befell me on the way.

The occasion of this journey was this.  Mary Penington's daughter
Guli, intending to go to her Uncle Springett's, in Sussex, and from
thence amongst her tenants, her mother desired me to accompany her,
and assist her in her business with her tenants.

We tarried at London the first night, and set out next morning on
the Tunbridge road, and Seven Oaks lying in our way we put in there
to bait; but truly we had much ado to get either provisions or room
for ourselves or our horses, the house was so filled with guests,
and those not of the better sort.  For the Duke of York being, as we
were told, on the road that day for the Wells, divers of his guards
and the meaner sort of his retinue had near filled all the inns
there.

I left John Gigger, who waited on Guli in this journey and was
afterwards her menial servant, to take care of the horses, while I
did the like as well as I could for her.  I got a little room to put
her into, and having shut her into it, went to see what relief the
kitchen would afford us, and with much ado, by praying hard and
paying dear, I got a small joint of meat from the spit, which served
rather to stay than satisfy our stomachs, for we were all pretty
sharp set.

After this short repast, being weary of our quarters, we quickly
mounted and took the road again, willing to hasten from a place
where we found nothing but rudeness; a knot of [rude people] soon
followed us, designing, as we afterwards found, to put an abuse upon
us, and make themselves sport with us.  We had a spot of fine smooth
sandy way, whereon the horses trod so softly that we heard them not
till one of them was upon us.  I was then riding abreast with Guli,
and discoursing with her, when on a sudden hearing a little noise,
and turning mine eye that way, I saw a horseman coming up on the
further side of her horse, having his left arm stretched out, just
ready to take her about the waist and pluck her off backwards from
her own horse to lay her before him upon his.  I had but just time
to thrust forth my stick between him and her, and bid him stand off,
and at the same time reining my horse to let hers go before me,
thrust in between her and him, and being better mounted than he my
horse ran him off.  But his horse being, though weaker than mine,
yet nimble, he slipped by me and got up to her on the near side,
endeavouring to offer abuse to her, to prevent which I thrust in
upon him again, and in our jostling we drove her horse quite out of
the way and almost into the next hedge.

While we were thus contending I heard a noise of loud laughter
behind us, and turning my head that way I saw three or four horsemen
more, who could scarce sit their horses for laughing to see the
sport their companion made with us.  From thence I saw it was a plot
laid, and that this rude fellow was not to be dallied with;
wherefore I bestirred myself the more to keep him off, admonishing
him to take warning in time and give over his abusiveness, lest he
repented too late.  He had in his hand a short thick truncheon,
which he held up at me, on which laying hold with a strong grip, I
suddenly wrenched it out of his hand, and threw it at as far a
distance behind me as I could.

While he rode back to fetch his truncheon, I called up honest John
Gigger, who was indeed a right honest man, and of a temper so
thoroughly peaceable that he had not hitherto put in at all; but now
I roused him, and bade him ride so close up to his mistress's horse
on the further side that no horse might thrust in between, and I
would endeavour to guard the near side.  But he, good man, not
thinking it perhaps decent enough for him to ride so near his
mistress, left room enough for another to ride between.  And indeed
so soon as our brute had recovered his truncheon, he came up
directly thither, and had thrust in again, had not I, by a nimble
turn, chopped in upon him, and kept him at bay.

I then told him I had hitherto spared him, but wished him not to
provoke me further.  This I spoke with such a tone as bespoke a high
resentment of the abuse put upon us, and withal pressed so close
upon him with my horse that I suffered him not to come up any more
to Guli.

This his companions, who kept an equal distance behind us, both
heard and saw, and thereupon two of them advancing, came up to us.
I then thought I might likely have my hands full, but Providence
turned it otherwise; for they, seeing the contest rise so high, and
probably fearing it would rise higher, not knowing where it might
stop, came in to part us, which they did by taking him away, one of
them leading his horse by the bridle, and the other driving him on
with his whip, and so carried him off.

One of their company stayed yet behind; and it so happening that a
great shower just then fell, we betook ourselves for shelter to a
thick and well-spread oak which stood hard by.  Thither also came
that other person, who wore the Duke's livery, and while we put on
our defensive garments against the weather, which then set in to be
wet, he took the opportunity to discourse with me about the man that
had been so rude to us, endeavouring to excuse him by alleging that
he had drank a little too liberally.  I let him know that one vice
would not excuse another; that although but one of them was actually
concerned in the abuse, yet both he and the rest of them were
abettors of it and accessories to it; that I was not ignorant whose
livery they wore, and was well assured their lord would not maintain
them in committing such outrages upon travellers on the road, to our
injury and his dishonour; that I understood the Duke was coming
down, and that they might expect to be called to an account for this
rude action.

He then begged hard that we would pass by the offence, and make no
complaint to their lord; for, he knew, he said, the Duke would be
very severe, and it would be the utter ruin of the young man.  When
he had said what he could, he went off before us, without any ground
given him to expect favour; and when we had fitted ourselves for the
weather we followed after our own pace.

When we came to Tunbridge I set John Gigger foremost, bidding him
lead on briskly through the town, and placing Guli in the middle, I
came close up after her that I might both observe and interpose if
any fresh abuse should have been offered her.  We were expected, I
perceived, for though it rained very hard, the street was thronged
with men, who looked very earnestly on us, but did not put any
affront upon us.

We had a good way to ride beyond Tunbridge and beyond the Wells, in
byeways among the woods, and were the later for the hindrance we had
had on the way.  And when, being come to Harbert Springett's house,
Guli acquainted her uncle what danger and trouble she had gone
through on the way, he resented it so high that he would have had
the persons prosecuted for it; but since Providence had interposed,
and so well preserved and delivered her, she chose to pass by the
offence.

When Guli had finished the business she went upon, we returned home,
and I delivered her safe to her glad mother.  From that time forward
I continued my visits to my best beloved Friend until we married,
which was on the 28th day of the eighth month, called October, in
the year 1669.  We took each other in a select meeting of the
ancient and grave Friends of that country, holden in a Friend's
house, where in those times not only the monthly meeting for
business but the public meeting for worship was sometimes kept.  A
very solemn meeting it was, and in a weighty frame of spirit we
were, in which we sensibly felt the Lord with us, and joining us;
the sense whereof remained with us all our lifetime, and was of good
service and very comfortable to us on all occasions.

My next care after marriage was to secure my wife what moneys she
had, and with herself bestowed upon me; for I held it would be an
abominable crime in me, and savour of the highest ingratitude, if I,
though but through negligence, should leave room for my father, in
case I should be taken away suddenly, to break in upon her estate,
and deprive her of any part of that which had been and ought to be
her own.  Wherefore with the first opportunity--as I remember, the
very next day, and before I knew particularly what she had--I made
my will, and thereby secured to her whatever I was possessed of as
well all that which she brought, either in moneys or in goods, as
that little which I had before I married her; which indeed was but
little, yet more by all that little than I had ever given her ground
to expect with me.

She had indeed been advised by some of her relations to secure
before marriage some part at least of what she had, to be at her own
disposal; which, though perhaps not wholly free from some tincture
of self-interest in the proposer, was not in itself the worst of
counsel.  But the worthiness of her mind, and the sense of the
ground on which she received me, would not suffer her to entertain
any suspicion of me; and this laid on me the greater obligation, in
point of gratitude as well as of justice, to regard and secure her;
which I did.

I had not been long married before I was solicited by my dear
friends Isaac and Mary Penington, and her daughter Guli, to take a
journey into Kent and Sussex to account with their tenants and
overlook their estates in those counties, which before I was married
I had had the care of; and accordingly the journey I undertook,
though in the depth of winter.

My travels into those parts were the more irksome to me from the
solitariness I underwent, and want of suitable society.  For my
business lying among the tenants, who were a rustic sort of people
of various persuasions and humours, but not Friends, I had little
opportunity of conversing with Friends, though I contrived to be
with them as much as I could, especially on the first day of the
week.

But that which made my present journey more heavy to me was a
sorrowful exercise which was newly fallen upon me from my father.

He had, upon my first acquainting him with my inclination to marry,
and to whom, not only very much approved the match, and voluntarily
offered, without my either asking or expecting, to give me a
handsome portion at present, with assurance of an addition to it
hereafter.  And he not only made this offer to me in private, but
came down from London into the country on purpose, to be better
acquainted with my friend, and did there make the same proposal to
her; offering also to give security to any friend or relation of
hers for the performance.  Which offer she most generously declined,
leaving him as free as she found him.  But after we were married,
notwithstanding such his promise, he wholly declined the performance
of it, under pretence of our not being married by the priest and
liturgy.  This usage and evil treatment of us thereupon was a great
trouble to me; and when I endeavoured to soften him in the matter,
he forbade my speaking to him of it any more, and removed his
lodging that I might not find him.

The grief I conceived on this occasion was not for any
disappointment to myself or to my wife, for neither she nor I had
any strict or necessary dependence upon that promise; but my grief
was for the cause assigned by him as the ground of it, which was
that our marriage was not by priest or liturgy.

And surely hard would it have been for my spirit to have borne up
under the weight of this exercise, had not the Lord been exceeding
gracious to me, and supported me with the inflowings of his love and
life, wherewith he visited my soul in my travail.  The sense whereof
raised in my heart a thankful remembrance of his manifold kindnesses
in his former dealings with me; and in the evening, when I came to
my inn, while supper was getting ready, I took my pen and put into
words what had in the day revolved in my thoughts.  And thus it was


A SONG OF PRAISE.

Thy love, dear Father, and thy tender care,
   Have in my heart begot a strong desire
To celebrate Thy Name with praises rare,
   That others too Thy goodness may admire,
   And learn to yield to what Thou dost require.
Many have been the trials of my mind,
   My exercises great, great my distress;
Full oft my ruin hath my foe designed,
   My sorrows then my pen cannot express,
   Nor could the best of men afford redress.
When thus beset to Thee I lift mine eye,
   And with a mournful heart my moan did make;
How oft with eyes o'erflowing did I cry,
   "My God, my God, oh do me not forsake!
   Regard my tears!  Some pity on me take!"
And to the glory of Thy holy name,
   Eternal God, whom I both love and fear,
I hereby do declare I never came
   Before Thy throne, and found Thee loth to hear,
   But always ready, with an open ear.
And though sometimes Thou seem'st Thy face to hide,
   As one that had withdrawn Thy love from me,
'Tis that my faith may to the full be tried,
   And that I thereby may the better see
   How weak I am when not upheld by Thee.
For underneath Thy holy arm I feel,
   Encompassing with strength as with a wall,
That, if the enemy trip up my heel,
   Thou ready art to save me from a fall:
   To Thee belong thanksgivings over all.
And for Thy tender love, my God, my King,
   My heart shall magnify Thee all my days,
My tongue of Thy renown shall daily sing,
   My pen shall also grateful trophies raise,
   As monuments to Thy eternal praise.

T. E.
KENT, the Eleventh Month, 1669.


Having finished my business in Kent, I struck off into Sussex, and
finding the enemy endeavouring still more strongly to beset me, I
betook myself to the Lord for safety, in whom I knew all help and
strength was, and thus poured forth my supplication, directed


TO THE HOLY ONE.

Eternal God! preserver of all those
   (Without respect of person or degree)
Who in Thy faithfulness their trust repose,
   And place their confidence alone in Thee;
Be Thou my succour; for Thou know'st that I
On Thy protection, Lord, alone rely.
Surround me, Father, with Thy mighty power,
   Support me daily by Thine holy arm,
Preserve me faithful in the evil hour,
   Stretch forth Thine hand to save me from all harm.
Be Thou my helmet, breast-plate, sword, and shield,
And make my foes before Thy power yield.
Teach me the spiritual battle so to fight,
   That when the enemy shall me beset,
Armed cap-a-pie with the armour of Thy light,
   A perfect conquest o'er him I may get;
And with Thy battle-axe may cleave the head
Of him who bites that part whereon I tread.
Then being from domestic foes set free,
   The cruelties of men I shall not fear;
But in Thy quarrel, Lord, undaunted be,
   And for Thy sake the loss of all things bear;
Yea, though in dungeon locked, with joy will sing
An ode of praise to Thee, my God, my King.

T. E.
SUSSEX, the Eleventh Month, 1669.


As soon as I had dispatched the business I went about, I returned
home without delay, and to my great comfort found my wife well, and
myself very welcome to her; both which I esteemed as great favours.

Towards the latter part of the summer following I went into Kent
again, and in my passage through London received the unwelcome news
of the loss of a very hopeful youth who had formerly been under my
care for education.  It was Isaac Penington, the second son of my
worthy friends Isaac and Mary Penington, a child of excellent
natural parts, whose great abilities bespoke him likely to be a
great man, had he lived to be a man.  He was designed to be bred a
merchant, and before he was thought ripe enough to be entered
thereunto, his parents, at somebody's request, gave leave that he
might go a voyage to Barbadoes, only to spend a little time, see the
place, and be somewhat acquainted with the sea, under the care and
conduct of a choice friend and sailor, John Grove, of London, who
was master of a vessel, and traded to that island; and a little
venture he had with him, made up by divers of his friends and by me
among the rest.  He made the voyage thither very well, found the
watery element agreeable, had his health there, liked the place, was
much pleased with his entertainment there, and was returning home
with his little cargo, in return for the goods he carried out, when
on a sudden, through unwariness, he dropped overboard, and, the
vessel being under sail with a brisk gale, was irrecoverably lost,
notwithstanding the utmost labour, care, and diligence of the master
and sailors to have saved him.

This unhappy accident took from the afflicted master all the
pleasure of his voyage, and he mourned for the loss of this youth as
if it had been his own, yea only, son; for as he was in himself a
man of a worthy mind, so the boy, by his witty and handsome
behaviour in general, and obsequious carriage towards him in
particular, had very much wrought himself into his favour.

As for me, I thought it one of the sharpest strokes I had met with,
for I both loved the child very well and had conceived great hopes
of general good from him; and it pierced me the deeper to think how
deeply it would pierce his afflicted parents.

Sorrow for this disaster was my companion in this journey, and I
travelled the roads under great exercise of mind, revolving in my
thoughts the manifold accidents which the life of man was attended
with and subject to, and the great uncertainty of all human things;
I could find no centre, no firm basis, for the mind of man to fix
upon but the divine power and will of the Almighty.  This
consideration wrought in my spirit a sort of contempt of what
supposed happiness or pleasure this world, or the things that are in
and of it, can of themselves yield, and raised my contemplation
higher; which, as it ripened and came to some degree of digestion, I
breathed forth in mournful accents thus:-


SOLITARY THOUGHTS ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF HUMAN THINGS.
OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN LOSS OF A HOPEFUL YOUTH.

Transibunt cito, quae vos mansura putatis.

Those things soon will pass away
Which ye think will always stay.

What ground, alas! has any man
   To set his heart on things below,
Which, when they seem most like to stand,
   Fly like an arrow from a bow?
      Things subject to exterior sense
      Are to mutation most propense.
If stately houses we erect,
   And therein think to take delight,
On what a sudden are we checked,
   And all our hopes made groundless quite!
      One little spark in ashes lays
      What we were building half our days.
If on estate an eye we cast,
   And pleasure there expect to find,
A secret providential blast
   Gives disappointment to our mind:
      Who now's on top ere long may feel
      The circling motion of the wheel.
If we our tender babes embrace,
   And comfort hope in them to have,
Alas! in what a little space
   Is hope, with them, laid in the grave!
      Whatever promiseth content
      Is in a moment from us rent.
This world cannot afford a thing
   Which, to a well-composed mind,
Can any lasting pleasure bring,
   But in its womb its grave will find.
      All things unto their centre tend;
      What had {230} beginning will have end.
But is there nothing then that's sure
   For man to fix his heart upon -
Nothing that always will endure,
   When all these transient things are gone?
      Sad state! where man, with grief oppressed
      Finds nought whereon his mind may rest.
O yes; there is a God above,
   Who unto men is also nigh,
On whose unalterable love
   We may with confidence rely,
      No disappointment can befall
      Us, having him that's All in All.
If unto Him we faithful be,
   It is impossible to miss
Of whatsoever He shall see
   Conducible unto our bliss.
      What can of pleasure him prevent
      Who hath the fountain of content?
In Him alone if we delight,
   And in His precepts pleasure take,
We shall be sure to do aright -
   'Tis not His nature to forsake.
      A proper object's He alone,
      For man to set his heart upon.

Domino mens nixa quieta est.

The mind which upon God is stayed
Shall with no trouble be dismayed.

T. E.
KENT, the 4th of the Seventh Month, 1650.


A copy of the foregoing lines, enclosed in a letter of condolence, I
sent by the first post into Buckinghamshire, to my dear friends the
afflicted parents; and upon my return home, going to visit them, we
sat down, and solemnly mixed our sorrows and tears together.

About this time, as I remember, it was that some bickerings
happening between some Baptists and some of the people called
Quakers, in or about High Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire, occasioned by
some reflecting words a Baptist preacher had publicly uttered in one
of their meetings there, against the Quakers in general, and William
Penn in particular, it came at length to this issue, that a meeting
for a public dispute was appointed, to be holden at West Wycombe,
between Jeremy Ives, who espoused his brother's cause, and William
Penn.

To this meeting, it being so near me, I went, rather to countenance
the cause than for any delight I took in such work; for indeed I
have rarely found the advantage equivalent to the trouble and danger
arising from those contests; for which cause I would not choose
them, as, being justly engaged, I would not refuse them.

The issue of this proved better than I expected; for Ives, having
undertaken an ill cause, to argue against the Divine light and
universal grace conferred by God on all men, when he had spent his
stock of arguments which he brought with him on that subject,
finding his work go on heavily and the auditory not well satisfied,
stepped down from his seat and departed, with purpose to have broken
up the assembly.  But, except some few of his party who followed
him, the people generally stayed, and were the more attentive to
what was afterwards delivered amongst them; which Ives
understanding, came in again, and in an angry, railing manner,
expressing his dislike that we went not all away when he did, gave
more disgust to the people.

After the meeting was ended, I sent to my friend Isaac Penington, by
his son and servant, who returned home, though it was late, that
evening, a short account of the business in the following distich:-


Praevaluit veritas:  inimnici terga dedere;
Nos sumus in tuto; laus tribuenda Deo.

Which may be thus Englished:

Truth hath prevailed; the enemies did fly;
We are in safety; praise to God on high.


But both they and we had quickly other work found us:  it soon
became a stormy time.  The clouds had been long gathering and
threatening a tempest.  The Parliament had sat some time before, and
hatched that unaccountable law which was called the Conventicle Act;
if that may be allowed to be called a law, by whomsoever made, which
was so directly contrary to the fundamental laws of England, to
common justice, equity, and right reason, as this manifestly was.
For,

First, It broke down and overrun the bounds and banks anciently set
for the defence and security of Englishmen's lives, liberties, and
properties--viz., trial by juries; instead thereof, directing and
authorizing justices of the peace, and that too privately out of
sessions, to convict, fine, and by their warrants distrain upon
offenders against it; directly contrary to the Great Charter.

Secondly, By that Act the informers, who swear for their own
advantage, as being thereby entitled to a third part of the fines,
were many times concealed, driving on an underhand private trade; so
that men might be, and often were, convicted and fined, without
having any notice or knowledge of it till the officers came and took
away their goods, nor even then could they tell by whose evidence
they were convicted; than which what could be more opposite to
common justice, which requires that every man should be openly
charged and have his accuser face to face, that he might both answer
for himself before he be convicted, and object to the validity of
the evidence given against him?

Thirdly, By that Act the innocent were punished for the offences of
the guilty.  If the wife or child was convicted of having been at
one of those assemblies which by that Act was adjudged unlawful, the
fine was levied on the goods of the husband or father of such wife
or child, though he was neither present at such assembly, nor was of
the same religious persuasion that they were of, but perhaps an
enemy to it.

Fourthly, It was left in the arbitrary pleasure of the justices to
lay half the fine for the house or ground where such assembly was
holden, and half the fine for a pretended unknown preacher, and the
whole fines of such and so many of the meeters as they should
account poor, upon any other or others of the people who were
present at the same meeting, not exceeding a certain limited sum;
without any regard to equity or reason.  And yet, such blindness
doth the spirit of persecution bring on men, otherwise sharp-sighted
enough, that this unlawful, unjust, unequal, unreasonable, and
unrighteous law took place in almost all places, and was rigorously
prosecuted against the meetings of Dissenters in general, though the
brunt of the storm fell most sharply on the people called Quakers;
not that it seemed to be more particularly levelled at them, but
that they stood more fair, steady, and open, as a butt to receive
all the shot that came, while some others found means and freedom to
retire to coverts for shelter.

No sooner had the bishops obtained this law for suppressing all
other meetings but their own, but some of the clergy of most ranks,
and some others too who were overmuch bigoted to that party,
bestirred themselves with might and main to find out and encourage
the most profligate wretches to turn informers, and to get such
persons into parochial offices as would be most obsequious to their
commands, and ready at their beck to put it into the most rigorous
execution.  Yet it took not alike in all places, but some were
forwarder in the work than others, according as the agents intended
to be chiefly employed therein had been predisposed thereunto.

For in some parts of the nation care had been timely taken, by some
not of the lowest rank, to choose out some particular persons--men
of sharp wit, close countenances, pliant tempers, and deep
dissimulation--and send them forth among the sectaries, so called,
with instructions to thrust themselves into all societies, conform
to all or any sort of religious profession, Proteus-like change
their shapes, and transform themselves from one religious appearance
to another as occasion should require.  In a word, to be all things
to all--not that they might win some, but that they might, if
possible, ruin all; at least many.

The drift of this design was, that they who employed them might by
this means get a full account what number of Dissenters' meetings,
of every sort, there were in each county, and where kept; what
number of persons frequented them, and of what rank; who amongst
them were persons of estate, and where they lived; that when they
should afterwards have troubled the waters, they might the better
know where with most advantage to cast their nets.

He of these emissaries whose post was assigned him in this county of
Bucks adventured to thrust himself upon a Friend under the
counterfeit appearance or a Quaker, but being by the Friend
suspected, and thereupon dismissed unentertained, he was forced to
betake himself to an inn or alehouse for accommodation.  Long he had
not been there ere his unruly nature, not to be long kept under by
the curb of a feigned society, broke forth into open profaneness; so
true is that of the poet,


Naturam expellas furca licet, usque recurret.


To fuddling now falls he with those whom he found tippling there
before, and who but he amongst them in him was then made good the
proverb, in vino veritas, for in his cups he out with that which was
no doubt to have been kept a secret.  'Twas to his pot companions
that, after his head was somewhat heated with strong liquors, he
discovered that he was sent forth by Dr. Mew, the then Vice-
Chancellor of Oxford, on the design before related, and under the
protection of Justice Morton, a warrant under whose hand and seal he
there produced.

Sensible of his error too late, when sleep had restored him to some
degree of sense, and discouraged with this ill success of his
attempt upon the Quakers, he quickly left that place, and crossing
through the country, cast himself among the Baptists at a meeting
which they held in a private place, of which the over-easy credulity
of some that went among them, whom he had craftily insinuated
himself into, had given him notice.  The entertainment he found
amongst them deserved a better return than he made them; for, having
smoothly wrought himself into their good opinion, and cunningly
drawn some of them into an unwary openness and freedom of
conversation with him upon the unpleasing subject of the severity of
those times, he most villainously impeached one of them, whose name
was --- Headach, a man well reputed amongst his neighbours, of
having spoken treasonable words, and thereby brought the man in
danger of losing both his estate and life, had not a seasonable
discovery of his abominable practices elsewhere, imprinting terror,
the effect of guilt, upon him, caused him to fly both out of the
court and country at that very instant of time when the honest man
stood at the bar ready to be arraigned upon his false accusation.

This his false charge against the Baptist left him no further room
to play the hypocrite in those parts; off therefore go his cloak and
vizor.  And now he openly appears in his proper colours, to disturb
the assemblies of God's people, which was indeed the very end for
which the design at first was laid.

But because the law provided that a conviction must be grounded upon
the oaths of two witnesses, it was needful for him, in order to the
carrying on his intended mischief, to find out an associate who
might be both sordid enough for such an employment and vicious
enough to be his companion.

This was not an easy task, yet he found out one who had already
given an experiment of his readiness to take other men's goods,
being not long before released out of Aylesbury gaol, where he very
narrowly escaped the gallows for having stolen a cow.

The names of these fellows being yet unknown in that part of the
country where they began their work, the former, by the general
voice of the country, was called the Trepan; the latter, the
Informer, and from the colour of his hair Red-hair.  But in a little
time the Trepan called himself John Poulter, adding withal that
Judge Morton used to call him John for the King, and that the
Archbishop of Canterbury had given him a deaconry.  That his name
was indeed John Poulter, the reputed son of one --- Poulter, a
butcher in Salisbury, and that he had long since been there branded
for a fellow egregiously wicked and debauched, we were assured by
the testimony of a young man then living in Amersham, who both was
his countryman and had known him in Salisbury, as well as by a
letter from an inhabitant of that place, to whom his course of life
had been well known.

His comrade, who for some time was only called the Informer, was
named Ralph Lacy, of Risborough, and surnamed the Cow-stealer.

These agreed between themselves where to make their first onset,
which was to be, and was, on the meeting of the people called
Quakers, then holden at the house of William Russell, called
Jourdan's, in the parish of Giles Chalfont, in the county of Bucks;
that which was wanting to their accommodation was a place of
harbour, for assistance wherein recourse was had to Parson Philips,
none being so ready, none so willing, none so able to help them as
he.

A friend he had in a corner, a widow woman, not long before one of
his parishioners; her name was Anne Dell, and at that time she lived
at a farm called Whites, a bye-place in the parish of Beaconsfield,
whither she removed from Hitchindon.  To her these fellows were
recommended by her old friend the parson.  She with all readiness
received them; her house was at all times open to them; what she had
was at their command.

Two sons she had at home with her, both at man's estate.  The
younger son, whose name was John Dell, listed himself in the service
of his mother's new guests, to attend on them as their guide, and to
inform them (who were too much strangers to pretend to know the
names of any of the persons there) whom they should inform against.

Thus consorted, thus in a triple league confederated, on the 24th
day of the fifth month, commonly called July, in the year 1670, they
appeared openly, and began to act their intended tragedy upon the
Quakers' meeting at the place aforesaid, to which I belonged, and at
which I was present.  Here the chief actor, Poulter, behaved himself
with such impetuous violence and brutish rudeness as gave occasion
for inquiry who or what he was?  And being soon discovered to be the
Trepan, so infamous and abhorred by all sober people, and afterwards
daily detected of gross impieties and the felonious taking of
certain goods from one of Brainford, whom also he cheated of money--
these things raising an outcry in the country upon him, made him
consult his own safety, and leaving his part to be acted by others,
quitted the country as soon as he could.

He being gone, Satan soon supplied his place by sending one Richard
Aris, a broken ironmonger of Wycombe, to join with Lacy in this
service, prompted thereto in hopes that he might thereby repair his
broken fortune.

Of this new adventurer this single character may serve, whereby the
reader may make judgment of him as of the lion by his paw; that at
the sessions held at Wycombe in October then last past he was openly
accused of having enticed one Harding, of the same town, to be his
companion and associate in robbing on the highway, and proof offered
to be made that he had made bullets in order to that service; which
charge Harding himself, whom he had endeavoured to draw into that
heinous wickedness, was ready in court to prove upon oath had not
the prosecution been discountenanced and smothered.

Lacy, the cow-stealer, having thus got Aris, the intended
highwayman, to be his comrade, they came on the 21st of the month
called August, 1670, to the meeting of the people called Quakers,
where Lacy, with Poulter, had been a month before; and taking for
granted that the same who had been there before were there then,
they went to a justice of the peace called Sir Thomas Clayton, and
swore at all adventure against one Thomas Zachary and his wife, whom
Lacy understood to have been there the month before, that they were
then present in that meeting; whereas neither the said Thomas
Zachary nor his wife were at that meeting, but were both of them at
London, above twenty miles distant, all that day, having been there
some time before and after; which notwithstanding, upon this false
oath of these false men, the Justice laid fines upon the said Thomas
Zachary of 10 pounds for his own offence, 10 pounds for his wife's,
and 10 pounds for the offence of a pretended preacher, though indeed
there was not any that preached at that meeting that day; and issued
forth his warrant to the officers of Beaconsfield, where Thomas
Zachary dwelt, for the levying of the same upon his goods.

I mention these things thus particularly, though not an immediate
suffering of my own, because in the consequence thereof it
occasioned no small trouble and exercise to me.

For when Thomas Zachary, returning home from London, understanding
what had been done against him, and advising what to do, was
informed by a neighbouring attorney that his remedy lay in appealing
from the judgment of the convicting Justice to the general Quarter
Sessions of the Peace, he thereupon ordering the said attorney to
draw up his appeal in form of law, went himself with it, and
tendered it to the Justice.  But the Justice being a man neither
well principled nor well natured, and uneasy that he should lose the
advantage both of the present conviction and future service of such
(in his judgment) useful men as those two bold informers were likely
to be, fell sharply upon Thomas Zachary, charging him that he
suffered justly, and that his suffering was not on a religious
account.

This rough and unjust dealing engaged the good man to enter into
further discourse with the Justice in defence of his own innocency;
from which discourse the insidious Justice, taking offence at some
expression of his, charged him with saying, "The righteous are
oppressed, and the wicked go unpunished."  Which the Justice
interpreting to be a reflection on the Government, and calling it a
high misdemeanour, required sureties of the good man to answer it at
the next Quarter Sessions, and in the meantime to be bound to his
good behaviour.  But he, well knowing himself to be innocent of
having broken any law, or done in this matter any evil, could not
answer the Justice's unjust demand, and therefore was sent forthwith
a prisoner to the county gaol.

By this severity it was thought the Justice designed not only to
wreak his displeasure on this good man, but to prevent the further
prosecution of his appeal; whereby he should at once both oppress
the righteous by the levying of the fines unduly imposed upon him,
and secure the informers from a conviction of wilful perjury and the
punishment due therefor, that so they might go on without control in
the wicked work they were engaged in.

But so great wickedness was not to be suffered to go unpunished, or
at least undiscovered.  Wherefore, although no way could be found at
present to get the good man released from his unjust imprisonment,
yet that his restraint might not hinder the prosecution of his
appeal, on which the detection of the informer's villainy depended,
consideration being had thereof amongst some Friends, the management
of the prosecution was committed to my care, who was thought with
respect at least to leisure and disengagement from other business,
most fit to attend it; and very willingly I undertook it.

Wherefore at the next general Quarter Sessions of the Peace, held at
High Wycombe in October following, I took care that four substantial
witnesses, citizens of unquestionable credit, should come down from
London in a coach and four horses, hired on purpose.

These gave so punctual and full evidence that Thomas Zachary and his
wife were in London all that day whereon the informers had sworn
them to have been at an unlawful meeting, at a place more than
twenty miles distant from London, that notwithstanding what
endeavours were used to the contrary, the jury found them not
guilty.  Whereupon the money deposited for the fines at the entering
of the appeal ought to have been returned, and so were ten pounds of
it; but the rest of the money being in the hand of the Clerk of the
Peace, whose name was Wells, could never be got out again.

Thomas Zachary himself was brought from Aylesbury gaol to Wycombe,
to receive his trial, and though no evil could be charged upon him,
yet Justice Clayton, who at first committed him, displeased to see
the appeal prosecuted and the conviction he had made set aside, by
importunity prevailed with the bench to remand him to prison again,
there to lie until another sessions.

While this was doing I got an indictment drawn up against the
informers Aris and Lacy for wilful perjury, and caused it to be
delivered to the grand jury, who found the bill.  And although the
court adjourned from the town-hall to the chamber at their inn, in
favour as it was thought to the informers, on supposition we would
not pursue them thither, yet thither they were pursued; and there
being two counsel present from Windsor--(the name of the one was
Starky, and of the other, as I remember, Forster, the former of whom
I had before retained upon the trial of the appeal)--I now retained
them both, and sent them into court again, to prosecute the
informers upon this indictment; which they did so smartly that, the
informers being present as not suspecting any such sudden danger,
were of necessity called to the bar and arraigned, and having
pleaded NOT GUILTY, were forced to enter a traverse to avoid a
present commitment:  all the favour the court could show them being
to take them bail one for the other, though probably both not worth
a groat, else they must have gone to gaol for want of bail, which
would have put them besides their business, spoiled the informing
trade, and broke the design; whereas now they were turned loose
again to do what mischief they could until the next sessions.

Accordingly, they did what they could, and yet could make little or
no earnings at it; for this little step of prosecution had made them
so known, and their late apparent perjury had made them so
detestable, that even the common sort of bad men shunned them, and
would not willingly yield them any assistance.

The next Quarter Sessions was held at Aylesbury, whither we were
fain to bring down our witnesses again from London, in like manner
and at like charge, at the least, as before.  And though I met with
great discouragements in the prosecution, yet I followed it so
vigorously that I got a verdict against the informers for wilful
perjury, and had forthwith taken them up, had not they forthwith
fled from justice and hid themselves.  However, I moved by my
attorney for an order of court, directed to all mayors, bailiffs,
high constables, petty constables, and other inferior officers of
the peace, to arrest and take them up wherever they should be found
within the county of Bucks, and bring them to the county gaol.

The report of this so terrified them, that of all things dreading
the misery of lying in a gaol, out of which they could not hope for
deliverance otherwise than by at least the loss of their ears, they,
hopeless now of carrying on their informing trade, disjoined, and
one of them (Aris) fled the country; so that he appeared no more in
this country.  The other (Lacy) lurked privily for a while in woods
and bye-places, until hunger and want forced him out; and then
casting himself upon a hazardous adventure, which yet was the best,
and proved to him best course he could have taken, he went directly
to the gaol where he knew the innocent man suffered imprisonment by
his means and for his sake; where asking for and being brought to
Thomas Zachary, he cast himself on his knees at his feet, and with
appearance of sorrow confessing his fault, did so earnestly beg for
forgiveness that he wrought upon the tender nature of that very good
man, not only to put him in hopes of mercy, but to be his advocate
by letter to me, to mitigate at least, if not wholly to remit, the
prosecution.  To which I so far only consented as to let him know I
would suspend the execution of the warrant upon him according as he
behaved himself, or until he gave fresh provocation; at which
message the fellow was so overjoyed that, relying with confidence
thereon, he returned openly to his family and labour, and applied
himself to business, as his neighbours observed and reported, with
greater diligence and industry than he had ever done before.

Thus began and thus ended the informing trade in these parts of the
county of Bucks; the ill success these first informers found
discouraging all others, how vile soever, from attempting the like
enterprise there ever after.  And though it cost some money to carry
on the prosecution, and some pains too, yet for every shilling so
spent a pound probably might be saved of what in all likelihood
would have been lost by the spoil and havoc that might have been
made by distresses taken on their informations.

But so angry was the convicting Justice, whatever others of the same
rank were, at this prosecution, and the loss thereby of the service
of those honest men, the perjured informers--for, as I heard an
attorney (one Hitchcock, of Aylesbury, who was their advocate in
court) say, "A great lord, a peer of the realm, called them so in a
letter directed to him; whereby he recommended to him the care and
defence of them and their cause"--that he prevailed to have the oath
of allegiance tendered in court to Thomas Zachary, which he knew he
would not take because he could not take any oath at all; by which
snare he was kept in prison a long time after, and, so far as I
remember, until a general pardon released him.

But though it pleased the Divine Providence, which sometimes
vouchsafeth to bring good out of evil, to put a stop, in a great
measure at least, to the prosecution here begun, yet in other parts,
both of the city and country, it was carried on with very great
severity and rigour; the worst of men for the most part being set up
for informers; the worst of magistrates encouraging and abetting
them; and the worst of the priests who first began to blow the fire,
now seeing how it took, spread, and blazed, clapping their hands,
and hallooing them on to this evil work.

The sense whereof, as it deeply affected my heart with a
sympathizing pity for the oppressed sufferers, so it raised in my
spirit a holy disdain and contempt of that spirit and its agent by
which this ungodly work was stirred up and carried on; which at
length broke forth in an expostulatory poem, under the title of
"Gigantomachia" (the Wars of the Giants against Heaven), not without
some allusion to the second Psalm; thus:-


   Why do the heathen in a brutish rage,
Themselves against the Lord of Hosts engage?
Why do the frantic people entertain
Their thoughts upon a thing that is so vain?
Why do the kings themselves together set?
And why do all the princes them abet?
Why do the rulers to each other speak
After this foolish manner, "Let us break
Their bonds asunder; come, let us make haste,
With joint consent, their cords from us to cast?"
Why do they thus join hands, and counsel take
Against the Lord's Anointed?  This will make
Him doubtless laugh who doth in heaven sit;
The Lord will have them in contempt for it.
His sore displeasure on them He will wreak,
And in His wrath will He unto them speak.
For on His holy hill of Sion He
His king hath set to reign:  sceptres must be
Cast down before Him; diadems must lie
At foot of Him who sits in majesty
Upon His throne of glory; whence He will
Send forth His fiery ministers to kill
All those His enemies who would not be
Subject to His supreme authority.
   Where then will ye appear who are so far
From being subjects that ye rebels are
Against His holy government, and strive
Others from their allegiance too to drive?
What earthly prince such an affront would bear
From any of his subjects, should they dare
So to encroach on his prerogative?
Which of them would permit that man to live?
What should it be adjudged but treason? and
Death he must suffer for it out of hand.
   And shall the King of kings such treason see
Acted against Him, and the traitors be
Acquitted?  No:  vengeance is His, and they
That Him provoke shall know He will repay.
   And of a truth provoked He hath been
In a high manner by this daring sin
Of usurpation, and of tyranny
Over men's consciences, which should be free
To serve the living God as He requires,
And as His Holy Spirit them inspires.
For conscience is an inward thing, and none
Can govern that aright but God alone.
Nor can a well-informed conscience lower
Her sails to any temporary power,
Or bow to men's decrees; for that would be
Treason in a superlative degree;
For God alone can laws to conscience give,
And that's a badge of His prerogative.
   This is the controversy of this day
Between the holy God and sinful clay.
God hath throughout the earth proclaim'd that He
Will over conscience hold the sovereignty,
That He the kingdom to Himself will take,
And in man's heart His residence will make,
From whence His subjects shall such laws receive
As please His Royal Majesty to give.
   Man heeds not this, but most audaciously
Says, "Unto me belongs supremacy;
And all men's consciences within my land,
Ought to be subject unto my command."
   God by His Holy Spirit doth direct
His people how to worship; and expect
Obedience from them.  Man says:  "I ordain,
That none shall worship in that way, on pain
Of prison, confiscation, banishment,
Or being to the stake or gallows sent.
   God out of Babylon doth people call,
Commands them to forsake her ways, and all
Her several sorts of worship, to deny
Her whole religion as idolatry.
   Will man thus his usurped power forego,
And lose his ill-got government?  Oh no:
But out comes his enacted, be it "That all
Who when the organs play will not downfall
Before this golden image, and adore
What I have caused to be set up therefor,
Into the fiery furnace shall be cast,
And be consumed with a flaming blast.
Or in the mildest terms conform, or pay
So much a month or so much every day,
Which we will levy on you by distress,
Sparing nor widow nor the fatherless;
And if you have not what will satisfy,
Ye're like in prison during life to lie."
Christ says, swear not; but man says, "Swear [or lie]
In prison, premunired, until you die."
Man's ways are, in a word, as opposite
To God's as midnight darkness is to light;
And yet fond man doth strive with might and main
By penal laws God's people to constrain
To worship what, when, where, how he thinks fit,
And to whatever he enjoins, submit.
   What will the issue of this contest be?
Which must give place--the Lord's or man's decree?
Will man be in the day of battle found
Able to keep the field, maintain his ground,
Against the mighty God?  No more than can
The lightest chaff before the winnowing fan;
No more than straw could stand before the flame,
Or smallest atoms when a whirlwind came.
   The Lord, who in creation only said,
"Let us make man," and forthwith man was made,
Can in a moment by one blast of breath
Strike all mankind with an eternal death.
How soon can God all man's devices squash,
And with His iron rod in pieces dash
Him, like a potter's vessel?  None can stand
Against the mighty power of His hand.
   Be therefore wise, ye kings, instructed be,
Ye rulers of the earth, and henceforth see
Ye serve the Lord in fear, and stand in awe
Of sinning any more against His law,
His royal law of liberty:  to do
To others as you'd have them do to you.
Oh stoop, ye mighty monarchs, and let none
Reject His government, but kiss the Son
While's wrath is but a little kindled, lest
His anger burn, and you that have transgressed
His law so oft, and would not Him obey,
Eternally should perish from the way -
The way of God's salvation, where the just
Are blessed who in the Lord do put their trust.

Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.

      Happy's he
Whom others' harms do wary make to be.


As the unreasonable rage and furious violence of the persecutors had
drawn the former expostulation from me, so in a while after, my
heart being deeply affected with a sense of the great loving-
kindness and tender goodness of the Lord to his people, in bearing
up their spirits in their greatest exercises, and preserving them
through the sharpest trials in a faithful testimony to his blessed
truth, and opening in due time a door of deliverance to them, I
could not forbear to celebrate His praises in the following lines,
under the title of -


A SONG OF THE MERCIES AND DELIVERANCES OF THE LORD.

Had not the Lord been on our side,
   May Israel now say,
We were not able to abide
   The trials of that day
When men did up against us rise,
   With fury, rage, and spite,
Hoping to catch us by surprise,
   Or run us down by might.
Then had not God for us arose,
   And shown His mighty power,
We had been swallowed by our foes,
   Who waited to devour.
When the joint powers of death and hell
   Against us did combine,
And with united forces fell
   Upon us, with design
To root us out, then had not God
   Appeared to take our part,
And them chastized with His rod,
   And made them feel the smart,
We then had overwhelmed been
   And trodden in the mire;
Our enemies on us had seen
   Their cruel hearts' desire.
When stoned, when stocked, when rudely stripped,
   Some to the waist have been
(Without regard of sex), and whipped,
   Until the blood did spin;
Yea, when their skins with stripes looked black,
   Their flesh to jelly beat,
Enough to make their sinews crack,
   The lashes were so great;
Then had not God been with them to
   Support them, they had died,
His power it was that bore them through,
   Nothing could do't beside.
When into prisons we were thronged
   (Where pestilence was rife)
By bloody-minded men that longed
   To take away our life;
Then had not God been with us, we
   Had perished there no doubt
'Twas He preserved us there, and He
   It was that brought us out.
When sentenced to banishment
   Inhumanly we were,
To be from native country sent,
   From all that men call dear;
Then had not God been pleased t' appear,
   And take our cause in hand,
And struck them with a panic fear,
   Which put them to a stand:
Nay, had He not great judgments sent,
   And compassed them about,
They were at that time fully bent
   To root us wholly out.
Had He not gone with them that went,
   The seas had been their graves
Or when they came where they were sent,
   They had been sold for slaves.
But God was pleased still to give
   Them favour where they came,
And in His truth they yet do live
   To praise His Holy Name.
And now afresh do men contrive
   Another wicked way
Of our estates us to deprive,
   And take our goods away.
But will the Lord (who to this day
   Our part did always take)
Now leave us to be made a prey,
   And that too for His sake?
Can any one who calls to mind
   Deliverances past,
Discouraged be at what's behind,
   And murmur now at last?
Oh that no unbelieving heart
   Among us may be found,
That from the Lord would now depart,
   And coward-like give ground.
For without doubt the God we serve
   Will still our cause defend,
If we from Him do never swerve,
   But trust Him to the end.
What if our goods by violence
   From us be torn, and we
Of all things but our innocence
   Should wholly stripped be?
Would this be more than did befall
   Good Job?  Nay sure, much less:
He lost estate, children and all,
   Yet he the Lord did bless.
But did not God his stock augment
   Double what 'twas before?
And this was writ to the intent
   That we should hope the more.
View but the lilies of the field,
   That neither knit nor spin,
Who is it that to them doth yield
   The robes they are decked in
Doth not the Lord the ravens feed,
   And for the sparrows care?
And will not He for His own seed
   All needful things prepare?
The lions shall sharp hunger bear,
   And pine for lack of food;
But who the Lord do truly fear,
   Shall nothing want that's good.
Oh! which of us can now diffide
   That God will us defend,
Who hath been always on our side,
   And will be to the end.

Spes confisa Deo nunquam confusa recedet.

Hope which on God is firmly grounded
Will never fail, nor be confounded.


Scarce was the before-mentioned storm of outward persecution from
the Government blown over when Satan raised another storm of another
kind against us on this occasion.  The foregoing storm of
persecution, as it lasted long, so in many parts of the nation, and
particularly at London, it fell very sharp and violent especially on
the Quakers.  For they having no refuge but God alone to fly unto,
could not dodge and shift to avoid the suffering as others of other
denominations could, and in their worldly wisdom and policy did,
altering their meetings with respect both to place and time, and
forbearing to meet when forbidden or kept out of their meeting-
houses.  So that of the several sorts of Dissenters the Quakers only
held up a public testimony as a standard or ensign of religion, by
keeping their meetings duly and fully at the accustomed times and
places so long as they were suffered to enjoy the use of their
meeting-houses, and when they were shut up and Friends kept out of
them by force, they assembled in the streets as near to their
meeting-houses as they could.

This bold and truly Christian behaviour in the Quakers disturbed and
not a little displeased the persecutors, who, fretting, complained
that the stubborn Quakers broke their strength and bore off the blow
from those other Dissenters whom, as they most feared, so they
principally aimed at.  For indeed the Quakers they rather despised
than feared, as being a people from whose peaceable principles and
practices they held themselves secure from danger; whereas having
suffered severely, and that lately too, by and under the other
Dissenters, they thought they had just cause to be apprehensive of
danger from them, and good reason to suppress them.

On the other hand, the more ingenuous amongst other Dissenters of
each denomination, sensible of the ease they enjoyed by our bold and
steady suffering, which abated the heat of the persecutors and
blunted the edge of the sword before it came to them, frankly
acknowledged the benefit received; calling us the bulwark that kept
off the force of the stroke from them, and praying that we might be
preserved and enabled to break the strength of the enemy, nor could
some of them forbear, those especially who were called Baptists, to
express their kind and favourable opinion of us, and of the
principles we professed, which emboldened us to go through that
which but to hear of was a terror to them.

This their good-will raised ill-will in some of their teachers
against us, who though willing to reap the advantage of a shelter,
by a retreat behind us during the time that the storm lasted, yet
partly through an evil emulation, partly through fear lest they
should lose some of those members of their society who had
discovered such favourable thoughts of our principles and us, they
set themselves as soon as the storm was over to represent us in as
ugly a dress and in as frightful figure to the world as they could
invent and put upon us.

In order whereunto, one Thomas Hicks, a preacher among the Baptists
at London, took upon him to write several pamphlets successively
under the title of "A Dialogue between a Christian and a Quaker,"
which were so craftily contrived that the unwary reader might
conclude them to be not merely fictions, but real discourses
actually held between one of the people called a Quaker and some
other person.  In these feigned dialogues, Hicks, having no regard
to justice or common honesty, had made his counterfeit Quaker say
whatsoever he thought would render him one while sufficiently
erroneous, another while ridiculous enough, forging in the Quaker's
name some things so abominably false, other things so intolerably
foolish, as could not reasonably be supposed to have come into the
conceit, much less to have dropped from the lip or pen of any that
went under the name of a Quaker.

These dialogues, shall I call them, or rather diabologues, were
answered by our friend William Penn in two books; the first being
entitled "Reason against Railing," the other "The Counterfeit
Christian Detected;" in which Hicks being charged with manifest as
well as manifold forgeries, perversions, downright lies, and
slanders against the people called Quakers in general, William Penn,
George Whitehead, and divers others by name, complaint was made, by
way of an appeal, to the Baptists in and about London for justice
against Thomas Hicks.

Those Baptists, who it seems were in the plot with Hicks to defame
at any rate, right or wrong, the people called Quakers, taking
advantage of the absence of William Penn and George Whitehead, who
were the persons most immediately concerned, and who were then gone
a long journey on the service of truth, to be absent from the city,
in all probability, for a considerable time, appointed a public
meeting in one of their meeting-houses, under pretence of calling
Thomas Hicks to account and hearing the charge made good against
him, but with design to give the greater stroke to the Quakers, when
they, who should make good the charge against Hicks, could not be
present.  For upon their sending notice to the lodgings of William
Penn and George Whitehead of their intended meeting, they were told
by several Friends that both William Penn and George Whitehead were
from home, travelling in the countries, uncertain where, and
therefore could not be informed of their intended meeting, either by
letter or express, within the time by them limited, for which reason
they were desired to defer the meeting till they could have notice
of it and time to return, that they might be at it.  But these
Baptists, whose design was otherwise laid, would not be prevailed
with to defer their meeting, but, glad of the advantage, gave their
brother Hicks opportunity to make a colourable defence where he had
his party to help him and none to oppose him; and having made a mock
show of examining him and his works of darkness, they, in fine,
having heard one side, acquitted him.

This gave just occasion for a new complaint and demand of justice
against him and them.  For as soon as William Penn returned to
London, he in print exhibited his complaint of this unfair dealing,
and demanded justice by a rehearing of the matter in a public
meeting to be appointed by joint agreement.  This went hardly down
with the Baptists, nor could it be obtained from them without great
importunity and hard pressing.  At length, after many delays and
tricks used to shift it off, constrained by necessity, they yielded
to have a meeting at their own meeting-house in Barbican, London.

There, amongst other Friends, was I, and undertook to read our
charge there against Thomas Hicks, which not without much difficulty
I did; they, inasmuch as the house was theirs, putting all the
inconveniences they could upon us.

The particular passages and management of this meeting, as also of
that other which followed soon after, they refusing to give us any
other public meeting, we were fain to appoint in our own meeting-
house, by Wheeler Street, near Spitalfields, London, and gave them
timely notice of, I forbear here to mention; there being in print a
narrative of each, to which for particular information I refer the
reader.

But to this meeting Thomas Hicks would not come, but lodged himself
at an alehouse hard by; yet sent his brother Ives, with some others
of the party, by clamorous noises to divert us from the prosecution
of our charge against him; which they so effectually performed that
they would not suffer the charge to be heard, though often attempted
to be read.

As this rude behaviour of theirs was a cause of grief to me, so
afterwards, when I understood that they used all evasive tricks to
avoid another meeting with us, and refused to do us right, my spirit
was greatly stirred at their injustice, and in the sense thereof,
willing, if possible, to have provoked them to more fair and manly
dealing.  I let fly a broadside at them, in a single sheet of paper,
under the title of "A Fresh Pursuit"; in which, having restated the
controversy between them and us, and reinforced our charge of
forgery, &c., against Thomas Hicks and his abettors, I offered a
fair challenge to them, not only to Thomas Hicks himself, but to all
those his compurgators who had before undertaken to acquit him from
our charge, together with their companion Jeremy Ives, to give me a
fair and public meeting, in which I would make good our charge
against him as principal, and all the rest of them as accessories.
But nothing could provoke them to come fairly forth.

Yet not long after, finding themselves galled by the narrative
lately published of what had passed in the last meeting near Wheeler
Street, they, to help themselves if they could, sent forth a
counter-account of that meeting and of the former at Barbican, as
much to the advantage of their own cause as they upon deliberate
consideration could contrive it.  This was published by Thomas
Plant, a Baptist teacher, and one of Thomas Hicks' former
compurgators, and bore (but falsely) the title of "A Contest for
Christianity; or, a Faithful Relation of two late Meetings," &c.

To this I quickly wrote and published an answer; and because I saw
the design and whole drift of the Baptists was to shroud Thomas
Hicks from our charge of forgery under the specious pretence of his
and their standing up and contending for Christianity, I gave my
book this general title:  "Forgery no Christianity; or, a Brief
Examen of a late Book," &c.  And having from their own book plainly
convicted that which they called a "faithful relation" to be indeed
a false relation, I, in an expostulatory postscript to the Baptists,
reinforced our charge and my former challenge, offering to make it
good against them before a public and free auditory.  But they were
too wary to appear further, either in person or in print.

This was the end of that controversy, which was observed to have
this issue:  that what those dialogues were written to prevent was
by the dialogues, and their unfair, unmanly, unchristian carriage,
in endeavouring to defend them, hastened and brought to pass; for
not a few of the Baptists' members upon this occasion left their
meetings and society, and came over to the Quakers' meetings and
were joined in fellowship with them; thanks be to God.

The controversy which had been raised by those cavilling Baptists
had not been long ended before another was raised by an Episcopal
priest in Lincolnshire, who fearing, as it seemed, to lose some of
his hearers to the Quakers, wrote a book which he miscalled, "A
Friendly Conference between a Minister and a Parishioner of his
inclining to Quakerism," in which he misstated and greatly perverted
the Quakers' principles, that he might thereby beget in his
parishioners an aversion to them; and that he might abuse us the
more securely, he concealed himself, sending forth his book without
a name.

This book coming to my hand, became my concern (after I had read it,
and considered the evil management and worse design thereof) to
answer it; which I did in a treatise called "Truth Prevailing, and
Detecting Error," published in the year 1676.

My answer I divided, according to the several subjects handled in
the conference, into divers distinct chapters, the last of which
treated of Tithes.

This being the priests' Delilah, and that chapter of mine pinching
them, it seems, in a tender part, the belly, they laid their heads
together, and with what speed they could sent forth a distinct reply
to the last chapter, "Of Tithes," in mine, under the title of "The
Right of Tithes Asserted and Proved."  This also came forth without
a name, yet pretended to be written by another hand.

Before I had finished my rejoinder to this came forth another called
"A Vindication of the Friendly Conference," said to be written by
the author of the "Feigned Conference," who was not yet willing to
trust the world with his name.  So much of it as related to the
subject I was then upon (Tithes) I took into my rejoinder to the
"Right of Tithes," which I published in the year 1678, with this
title:  "The Foundation of Tithes Shaken," &c.

After this it was a pretty while before I heard from either of them
again.  But at length came forth a reply to my last, supposed to be
written by the same hand who had before written "The Right of Tithes
Asserted," &c., but still without a name.  This latter book had more
of art than argument in it.  It was indeed a hash of ill-cooked cram
set off with as much flourish as the author was master of, and
swelled into bulk by many quotations; but those so wretchedly
misgiven, misapplied, or perverted, that to a judicious and
impartial reader I durst oppose my "Foundation of Tithes Shaken" to
the utmost force that book has in it.  Yet it coming forth at a time
when I was pretty well at leisure, I intended a full refutation
thereof, and in order thereunto had written between forty and fifty
sheets, when other business, more urgent, intervening, took me off,
and detained me from it so long that it was then judged out of
season, and so it was laid aside.

Hitherto the war I had been engaged in was in a sort foreign, with
people of other religious persuasions, such as were open and avowed
enemies; but now another sort of war arose, an intestine war, raised
by some among ourselves--such as had once been of us, and yet
retained the same profession, and would have been thought to be of
us still; but having through ill-grounded jealousies let in
discontents, and thereupon fallen into jangling, chiefly about
church discipline, they at length broke forth into an open schism,
headed by two Northern men of name and note, John Wilkinson and John
Story; the latter of whom, as being the most active and popular man,
having gained a considerable interest in the West, carried the
controversy with him thither, and there spreading it, drew many, too
many, to abet him therein.

Among those, William Rogers, a merchant of Bristol, was not the
least, nor least accounted of by himself and some others.  He was a
bold and active man, moderately learned, but immoderately conceited
of his own parts and abilities, which made him forward to engage, as
thinking none would dare to take up the gauntlet he should cast
down.  This high opinion of himself made him rather a troublesome
than formidable enemy.

That I may here step over the various steps by which he advanced to
open hostility, as what I was not actually or personally engaged in:
He in a while arrived to that height of folly and wickedness that he
wrote and published a large book, in five parts, to which he
maliciously gave for a title, "The Christian Quaker distinguished
from the Apostate and Innovator," thereby arrogating to himself and
those who were of his party the topping style of Christian Quaker,
and no less impiously than uncharitably branding and rejecting all
others, even the main body of Friends, for apostates and innovators.

When this book came abroad it was not a little (and he, for its
sake) cried up by his injudicious admirers, whose applause setting
his head afloat, he came up to London at the time of the yearly
meeting then following, and at the close thereof gave notice in
writing to this effect--viz., "That if any were dissatisfied with
his book he was there ready to maintain and defend both it and
himself against all comers."

This daring challenge was neither dreaded nor slighted, but an
answer forthwith returned in writing, signed by a few Friends,
amongst whom I was one, to let him know that, as many were
dissatisfied with his book and him, he should not fail, God willing,
to be met by the sixth hour next morning at the meeting-place at
Devonshire House.

Accordingly we met, and continued the meeting till noon or after, in
which time he, surrounded with those of his own party as might abet
and assist him, was so fairly foiled and baffled, and so fully
exposed, that he was glad to quit the place, and early next morning
the town also, leaving, in excuse for his going so abruptly off, and
thereby refusing us another meeting with him, which we had earnestly
provoked him to, this slight shift, "That he had before given
earnest for his passage in the stage-coach home, and was not willing
to lose it."

I had before this gotten a sight of his book, and procured one for
my use on this occasion, but I had not time to read it through; but
a while after, Providence cast another of them into my hands very
unexpectedly, for our dear friend George Fox passing through this
country among Friends, and lying in his journey at my house, had one
of them in his bag, which he had made some marginal notes upon.  For
that good man, like Julius Caesar, willing to improve all parts of
his time, did usually, even in his travels, dictate to his
amanuensis what he would have committed to writing.  I knew not that
he had this book with him, for he had not said anything to me of it,
till going in the morning into his chamber while he was dressing
himself, I found it lying on the table by him; and understanding
that he was going but for a few weeks to visit Friends in the
meetings hereabouts and the neighbouring parts of Oxford and
Berkshire, and so return through this county again, I made bold to
ask him if he would favour me so much as to leave it with me till
his return, that I might have the opportunity of reading it through.
He consented, and as soon almost as he was gone I set myself to read
it over.  But I had not gone far in it ere, observing the many foul
falsehoods, malicious slanders, gross perversions, and false
doctrines abounding in it, the sense thereof inflamed my breast with
a just and holy indignation against the work, and that devilish
spirit in which it was brought forth; wherefore, finding my spirit
raised and my understanding divinely opened to refute it, I began
the book again, and reading it with pen in hand, answered it
paragraphically as I went.  And so clear were the openings I
received from the Lord therein, that by the time my friend came back
I had gone through the greatest part of it, and was too far engaged
in spirit to think of giving over the work; wherefore, requesting
him to continue the book a little longer with me, I soon after
finished the answer, which, with Friends' approbation, was printed
under the title of "An Antidote against the Infection of William
Rogers' Book, miscalled 'The Christian Quaker, &c.'"  This was
written in the year 1682.  But no answer was given to it, either by
him or any other of his party, though many others were concerned
therein, and some by name, so far as I have ever heard.  Perhaps
there might be the hand of Providence overruling them therein, to
give me leisure to attend some other services which soon after fell
upon me.

For it being a stormy time, and persecution waxing hot, upon the
Conventicle Act, through the busy boldness of hungry informers, who
for their own advantage did not only themselves hunt after religious
and peaceable meetings, but drove on the officers, not only the more
inferior and subordinate, but in some places even the justices also,
for fear of penalties, to hunt with them and for them; I found a
pressure upon my spirit to write a small treatise to inform such
officers how they might secure and defend themselves from being
ridden by those malapert informers, and made their drudges.

This treatise I called "A Caution to Constables and other inferior
Officers concerned in the Execution of the Conventicle Act:  with
some Observations thereupon, humbly offered by way of Advice to such
well-meaning and moderate Justices of the Peace as would not
willingly ruin their peaceable Neighbours," &c.

This was thought to have some good service where it came upon such
sober and moderate officers, as well justices as constables, &c., as
acted rather by constraint than choice, by encouraging them to stand
their ground with more courage and resolution against the insults of
saucy informers.

But whatever ease it brought to others, it brought me some trouble,
and had like to have brought me into more danger, had not Providence
wrought my deliverance by an unexpected way.

For as soon as it came forth in print, which was in the year 1683,
one William Ayrs, of Watford in Hertfordshire, a Friend, and an
acquaintance of mine, who was both an apothecary and barber, being
acquainted with divers of the gentry in those parts, and going often
to some of their houses to trim them, took one of these books with
him when he went to trim Sir Benjamin Titchborn of Rickmansworth,
and presented it to him, supposing he would have taken it kindly, as
in like cases he had formerly done.  But it fell out otherwise.  For
he, looking it over after Ayrs was gone, and taking it by the wrong
handle, entertained an evil opinion of it, and of me for it, though
he knew me not.

He thereupon communicated both the book and his thoughts upon it to
a neighbouring justice, living in Rickmansworth, whose name was
Thomas Fotherly, who concurring with him in judgment, they concluded
that I should be taken up and prosecuted for it as a seditious book;
for a libel they could not call it, my name being to it at length.

Wherefore, sending for Ayrs, who had brought the book, Justice
Titchborn examined him if he knew me, and where I dwelt; who telling
him he knew me well, and had been often at my house, he gave him in
charge to give me notice that I should appear before him and the
other justice at Rickmansworth on such a day; threatening that if I
did not appear, he himself should be prosecuted for spreading the
book.

This put William Ayrs in a fright.  Over he came in haste with his
message to me, troubled that he should be a means to bring me into
trouble; but I endeavoured to give him ease by assuring him I would
not fail, with God's leave, to appear at the time and place
appointed, and thereby free him from trouble or danger.

In the interim I received advice, by an express out of Sussex, that
Guli Penn, with whom I had had an intimate acquaintance and firm
friendship from our very youths, was very dangerously ill, her
husband being then absent in Pennsylvania, and that she had a great
desire to see and speak with me.

This put me to a great strait, and brought a sore exercise on my
mind.  I was divided betwixt honour and friendship.  I had engaged
my word to appear before the justices, which to omit would bring
dishonour on me and my profession.  To stay till that time was come
and past might probably prove, if I should then be left at liberty,
too late to answer her desire and satisfy friendship.

After some little deliberation, I resolved, as the best expedient to
answer both ends, to go over next morning to the justices, and lay
my strait before them, and try if I could procure from them a
respite of my appearance before them until I had been in Essex, and
paid the duty of friendship to my sick friend; which I had the more
hopes to obtain, because I knew those justices had a great respect
for Guli; for when William Penn and she were first married they
lived for some years at Rickmansworth, in which time they contracted
a neighbourly friendship with both these justices and theirs, who
ever after retained a kind regard for them both.

Early therefore in the morning I rode over; but being wholly a
stranger to the justices, I went first to Watford, that I might take
Ayrs along with me, who supposed himself to have some interest in
Justice Titchborn, and when I came there, understanding that another
Friend of that town, whose name was John Wells, was well acquainted
with the other Justice Fotherly, having imparted to them the
occasion of my coming, I took them both with me, and hasted back to
Rickmansworth, where having put our horses up at an inn, and leaving
William Ayrs, who was a stranger to Fotherly, there, I went with
John Wells to Fotherly's house, and being brought into a fair hall,
I tarried there while Wells went into the parlour to him, and having
acquainted him that I was there and desired to speak with him,
brought him to me with severity in his countenance.

After he had asked me, in a tone which spoke displeasure, what I had
to say to him, I told him I came to wait on him upon an intimation
given me that he had something to say to me.  He thereupon plucking
my book out of his pocket, asked me if I owned myself to be the
author of that book?  I told him, if he pleased to let me look into
it, if it were mine, I would not deny it.  He thereupon giving it
into my hand, when I had turned over the leaves and looked it
through, finding it to be as it came from the press, told him I
wrote the book, and would own it, all but the errors of the press.
Whereupon he, looking sternly on me, answered, "Your own errors, you
should have said."

Having innocency on my side, I was not at all daunted at either his
speech or looks, but feeling the Lord present with me, I replied, "I
know there are errors of the press in it, and therefore I excepted
them; but I do not know there are any errors of mine in it, and
therefore cannot except them.  But," added I, "if thou pleasest to
show me any error of mine in it, I shall readily both acknowledge
and retract it;" and thereupon I desired him to give me an instance,
in any one passage in that book, wherein he thought I had erred.  He
said he needed not go to particulars, but charge me with the general
contents of the whole book.  I replied that such a charge would be
too general for me to give a particular answer to; but if he would
assign me any particular passage or sentence in the book wherein he
apprehended the ground of offence to lie, when I should have opened
the terms, and explained my meaning therein, he might perhaps find
cause to change his mind and entertain a better opinion both of the
book and me.  And therefore I again entreated him to let me know
what particular passage or passages had given him an offence.  He
told me I needed not to be in so much haste for that--I might have
it timely enough, if not too soon; "but this," said he, "is not the
day appointed for your hearing, and therefore," added he, "what, I
pray, made you in such haste to come now?"  I told him I hoped he
would not take it for an argument of guilt that I came before I was
sent for, and offered myself to my purgation before the time
appointed.  And this I spake with somewhat a brisker air, which had
so much influence on him as to bring a somewhat softer air over his
countenance.

Then going on, I told him I had a particular occasion which induced
me to come now, which was, that I received advice last night by an
express out of Sussex, that William Penn's wife, with whom I had had
an intimate acquaintance and strict friendship, ab ipsis fere
incunabilis, {276a} at least a teneris unguiculis, {276b} lay now
there very ill, not without great danger, in the apprehension of
those about her, of her life, and that she had expressed her desire
that I would come to her as soon as I could, the rather for that her
husband was absent in America.  That this had brought a great strait
upon me, being divided between friendship and duty, willing to visit
my friend in her illness, which the nature and law of friendship
required, yet unwilling to omit my duty by failing of my appearance
before him and the other justice, according to their command and my
promise, lest I should thereby subject, not my own reputation only,
but the reputation of my religious profession, to the suspicion of
guilt, and censure of willingly shunning a trial.  To prevent which
I had chosen to anticipate the time, and came now to see if I could
give them satisfaction in what they had to object against me, and
thereupon being dismissed, pursue my journey into Sussex, or if by
them detained, to submit to Providence, and by an express to
acquaint my friend therewith, both to free her from an expectation
of my coming and myself from any imputation of neglect.

While I thus delivered myself I observed a sensible alteration in
the justice, and when I had done speaking, he first said he was very
sorry for Madam Penn's illness, of whose virtue and worth he spoke
very highly, yet not more than was her due; then he told me that for
her sake he would do what he could to further my visit to her;
"but," said he, "I am but one, and of myself can do nothing in it;
therefore you must go to Sir Benjamin Titchborn, and if he be at
home, see if you can prevail with him to meet me, that we may
consider of it.  But I can assure you," added he, "the matter which
will be laid to your charge concerning your book is of greater
importance than you seem to think it.  For your book has been laid
before the King and Council, and the Earl of Bridgewater, who is one
of the Council, hath thereupon given us command to examine you about
it, and secure you."

"I wish," said I, "I could speak with the Earl myself, for I make no
doubt but to acquit myself unto him; and," added I, "if thou
pleasest to give me thy letter to him, I will wait upon him with it
forthwith.  For although I know," continued I, "that he hath no
favour for any of my persuasion, yet knowing myself to be wholly
innocent in this matter, I can with confidence appear before him, or
even before the King in Council."

"Well," said he, "I see you are confident; but for all that, let me
tell you, how good soever your intention was, you timed the
publishing of your book very unluckily, for you cannot be ignorant
that there is a very dangerous plot lately discovered, contrived by
the Dissenters against the Government and his Majesty's life."
[This was the Rye plot, then newly broke forth, and laid upon the
Presbyterians.]  "And for you," added he, "to publish a book just at
that juncture of time, to discourage the magistrates and other
officers from putting in execution those laws which were made to
suppress their meetings, looks, I must tell you, but with a scurvy
countenance upon you."

"If," replied I, with somewhat a pleasanter air, "there was any
mistiming in the case, it must lie on the part of those plotters for
timing the breaking forth of their plot while my book was printing,
for I can bring very good proof that my book was in the press and
well-nigh wrought off before any man talked or knew of a plot, but
those who were in it."

Here our discourse ended, and I, taking for the present my leave of
him, went to my horse, and changing my companion, rode to Justice
Titchborn's, having with me William Ayrs, who was best acquainted
with him, and who had casually brought this trouble on me.

When he had introduced me to Titchborn, I gave him a like account of
the occasion of my coming at that time as I had before given to the
other Justice.  And both he and his lady, who was present, expressed
much concern for Guli Penn's illness.

I found this man to be of quite another temper than Justice
Fotherly; for he was smooth, soft, and oily, whereas the other was
rather rough, severe, and sharp.  Yet at the winding-up I found
Fotherly my truest friend.

When I had told Sir Benjamin Titchborn that I came from Justice
Fotherly, and requested him to give him a meeting to consider of my
business, he readily, without any hesitation, told me he would go
with me to Rickmansworth, from which his house was distant about a
mile, and calling for his horses, mounted immediately, and to
Rickmansworth we rode.

After they had been a little while together, I was called in before
them, and in the first place they examined me, "What was my
intention and design in writing that book?"  I told them the
introductory part of it gave a plain account of it--viz., "That it
was to get ease from the penalties of a severe law often executed
with too great a severity by unskilful officers, who were driven on
beyond the bounds of their duty by the impetuous threats of a sort
of insolent fellows, as needy as greedy, who for their own advantage
sought our ruin."  To prevent which was the design and drift of that
book, by acquainting such officers how they might safely demean
themselves in the execution of their offices towards their honest
and peaceable neighbours, without ruining either their neighbours or
themselves to enrich some of the worst of men; and that I humbly
conceived it was neither unlawful nor unreasonable for a sufferer to
do this, so long as it was done in a fair, sober, and peaceable way.

They then put me in mind of the plot; told me it was a troublesome
and dangerous time, and my book might be construed to import
sedition, in discouraging the officers from putting the laws in
execution, as by law and by their oath they were bound; and in fine
brought it to this issue, that they were directed to secure me by a
commitment to prison until the assize, at which I should receive a
further charge than they were provided now to give me; but because
they were desirous to forward my visit to Madam Penn, they told me
they would admit me to bail, and therefore, if I would enter a
recognisance, with sufficient sureties, for my appearance at the
next assize, they would leave me at liberty to go on my journey.

I told them I could not do it.  They said they would give me as
little trouble as they could, and therefore they would not put me to
seek bail, but would accept those two friends of mine who were then
present, to be bound with me for my appearance.

I let them know my strait lay not in the difficulty of procuring
sureties, for I did suppose myself to have sufficient acquaintance
and credit in that place, if on such an occasion I could be free to
use it; but as I knew myself to be an innocent man, I had not
satisfaction in myself to desire others to be bound for me, nor to
enter myself into a recognisance, that carrying in it, to my
apprehension, a reflection on my innocency and the reputation of my
Christian profession.

Here we stuck and struggled about this a pretty while, till at
length finding me fixed in my judgment, and resolved rather to go to
prison than give bail, they asked me if I was against appearing, or
only against being bound with sureties to appear.  I told them I was
not against appearing, which as I could not avoid if I would, so I
would not if I might; but was ready and willing to appear, if
required, to answer whatsoever should be charged against me.  But in
any case of a religious nature, or wherein my Christian profession
was concerned, which I took this case to be, I could not yield to
give any other or further security than my word or promise as a
Christian.

They, unwilling to commit me, took hold of that, and asked if I
would promise to appear.  I answered, "Yes; with due limitations."--
"What do you mean by due limitations?" said they.--"I mean," replied
I, "if I am not disabled or prevented by sickness or imprisonment.
For," added I, "as you allege that it is a troublesome time, I
perhaps may find it so.  I may, for aught I know, be seized and
imprisoned elsewhere on the same account for which I now stand here
before you, and if I should, how then could I appear at the assize
in this county?"--"Oh," said they, "these are due limitations
indeed.  Sickness or imprisonment are lawful excuses, and if either
of these befall you, we shall not expect your appearance here; but
then you must certify us that you are so disabled by sickness or
restraint."

"But," said I, "how shall I know when and where I shall wait upon
you again after my return from Sussex?"--"You need not," said they,
"trouble yourself about that; we will take care to give you notice
of both time and place, and till you hear from us you may dispose
yourself as you please."

"Well, then," said I, "I do promise you that when I shall have
received from you a fresh command to appear before you, I will, if
the Lord permit me life, health, and liberty, appear when and where
you shall appoint."

"It is enough," said they; "we will take your word."  And desiring
me to give their hearty respects and service to Madam Penn, they
dismissed me with their good wishes for a good journey.

I was sensible that in this they had dealt very favourably and
kindly with me, therefore I could not but acknowledge to them the
sense I had thereof; which done, I took leave of them, and mounting,
returned home with what haste I could, to let my wife know how I had
sped.  And having given her a summary account of the business, I
took horse again, and went so far that evening towards Worminghurst
that I got thither pretty early next morning, and to my great
satisfaction found my friend in a hopeful way towards recovery.

I stayed some days with her, and then, finding her illness wear
daily off, and some other Friends being come from London to visit
her, I, mindful of my engagement to the Justices, and unwilling by
too long an absence to give them occasion to suspect I was willing
to avoid their summons, leaving those other Friends to bear her
company longer, took my leave of her and them, and set my face
homewards, carrying with me the welcome account of my friend's
recovery.

Being returned home, I waited in daily expectation of a command from
the Justices to appear again before them; but none came.  I spoke
with those Friends who had been with me when I was before them, and
they said they had heard nothing of it from them, although they had
since been in company with them.  At length the assize came, but no
notice was given to me that I should appear there:  in fine, they
never troubled themselves nor me any further about it.

Thus was a cloud, that looked black and threatened a great storm,
blown gently over by a providential breath, which I could not but
with a thankful mind acknowledge to the All-great, All-good, All-
wise Disposer, in whose hand and at whose command the hearts of all
men, even the greatest, are, and who turns their counsels,
disappoints their purposes, and defeats their designs and
contrivances as He pleases.  For if my dear friend Guli Penn had not
fallen sick, if I had not thereupon been sent for to her, I had not
prevented the time of my appearance, but had appeared on the day
appointed; and, as I afterwards understood, that was the day
appointed for the appearance of a great many persons of the
Dissenting party in that side of the country, who were to be taken
up and secured on account of the aforementioned plot, which had been
cast upon the Presbyterians.  So that if I had then appeared with
and amongst them, I had in all likelihood been sent to gaol with
them for company, and that under the imputation of a plotter, than
which nothing was more contrary to my profession and inclination.

But though I came off so easily, it fared not so well with others;
for the storm increasing, many Friends in divers parts, both of city
and country, suffered greatly; the sense whereof did deeply affect
me, and the more for that I observed the magistrates, not thinking
the laws which had been made against us severe enough, perverted the
law in order to punish us.  For calling our peaceable meetings
riots, which in the legal notion of the word riot is a contradiction
in terms, they indicted our friends as rioters for only sitting in a
meeting, though nothing was there either said or done by them, and
then set fines on them at pleasure.

This I knew to be not only against right and justice, but even
against law; and it troubled me to think that we should be made to
suffer not only by laws made directly against us, but even by laws
that did not at all concern us.  Nor was it long before I had
occasion offered more thoroughly to consider this matter.

For a justice of the peace in this county, who was called Sir Dennis
Hampson, of Taplow, breaking in with a party of horse upon a little
meeting near Wooburn, in his neighbourhood, the 1st of the fifth
month, 1683, sent most of the men, to the number of twenty-three,
whom he found there, to Aylesbury prison, though most of them were
poor men who lived by their labour; and not going himself to the
next Quarter Sessions at Buckingham, on the 12th of the same month,
sent his clerk with direction that they should be indicted for a
riot.  Whither the prisoners were carried and indicted accordingly,
and being pressed by the court to traverse and give bail, they moved
to be tried forthwith, but that was denied them.  And they, giving
in writing the reason of their refusing bail and fees, were remanded
to prison till next Quarter Sessions; but William Woodhouse was
again hailed, as he had been before, and William Mason and John
Reeve, who not being Friends, but casually taken at that meeting,
entered recognisance as the court desired, and so were released till
next sessions; before which time Mason died, and Reeve being sick,
appeared not, but got himself taken off.  And in the eighth month
following the twenty-one prisoners that remained were brought to
trial; a jury was found, who brought in a pretended verdict that
they were GUILTY OF A RIOT for only sitting peaceably together
without word or action, and though there was no proclamation made
nor they required to depart.  But one of the jurymen afterwards did
confess he knew not what a riot was; yet the prisoners were fined a
noble apiece, and recommitted to prison during life (a hard
sentence) or the King's pleasure, or until they should pay the said
fines.  William Woodhouse was forthwith discharged by his kinsman's
paying the fine and fees for him; Thomas Dell and Edward Moore also,
by other people of the world paying their fines and fees; and
shortly after, Stephen Pewsey, by the town and parish where he
lived, for fear his wife and children should become a charge upon
them.  The other seventeen remained prisoners till King James's
proclamation of pardon; whose names were Thomas and William Sexton,
Timothy Child, Robert Moor, Richard James, William and Robert
Aldridge, John Ellis, George Salter, John Smith, William Tanner,
William Batchelor, John Dolbin, Andrew Brothers, Richard Baldwin,
John Jennings, and Robert Austin.



Footnotes:

{180}  Ille dolet vere, qui fine teste dolet.

{190}  Rom. viii. 9

{230}  Understand this of natural things.

{276a}  Almost from our cradle.

{276b}  From our tender age.




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