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 dearThan 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 wifeAs is the turtle-doveTo her elect, espoused mate,Whom she will not forsake,Nor can be brought to violateThe 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 beIn bond of marriage-bed.But, ah, alas! her little fortIs 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 wilesTo draw into their power;And sometimes weep like crocodiles;But all is to devour.Thus they beset my feeble heartWith 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 quærunt.
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 beMore 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:
Curæ 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 longShall Sorrow’s signet seal my silent tongue?How long shall sighs me suffocate? and makeMy 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 knownTo 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 preventThe vessel’s bursting by a timely vent.
Quis talia fandoTemperet 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 NileO ’erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhileD 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 beE ach damsel’s dowry, and (alas, for me!)N e’er let my sobs and sighings have an endT ill I again embrace my ascended friend;A nd till I feel the virtue of his lifeT o consolate me, and repress my grief:I nfuse into my heart the oil of gladnessO nce more, and by its strength remove that sadnessN 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 areI 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 areE qual with mine; in him ye had like share.A dd all your losses up, and ye shall seeR 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 majestyD ecked his brow; his look was heavenly.
B old was he in his Master’s quarrel, andU ndaunted; faithful to his Lord’s command.R equiting good for ill; directing allR 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 beatosEfficit.
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 wornBe 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 heWhom 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 braveryDeath 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 spanOf 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 sunDisplays 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 seeksTo set fresh colours on her with red cheeks,That, when the sun declines, some dapper sparkMay take her to Spring Garden or the park.Plays some frequent, and balls; others their primeConsume 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 waitingEither at cock-pit or some great bull-baiting.This dotes on running-horses; t’other foolIs 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-pailTo 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 toysFor girls and boysTo play withal, at best deceitful joys.She lives for ever; ye are transitory,Her honour is unstained; but your gloryIs 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 bendTo blear men’s eyesWith 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 denyTo 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 conformityUnto our form. Q. Then we shall ne’er have done.For, if your fickle minds should alter, weShould 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, weCannot 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 lieConfined 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 makeInto the lake.Awake, I pray, O mighty Jah, awakeMake all the world before Thy presence quake,Not only earth, but heaven also shake.Arise, arise, O Jacob’s God, arise,And hear the criesOf 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 decreedAgainst 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 flightThose sons of Belial who do despiteTo the upright:Ride on, I say, Thou Champion, and smiteThine and Thy people’s enemies, with such mightThat 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 eyeWhich 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 suspendHis 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 desireDraws objects nigherIn apprehension than indeed they are;I with an eyeThat pierced highDid 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 stoodparentum 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.