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 playfellow 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 præmunire 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 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 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:

   _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 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