_Relations with JOHN MILTON_.
I mentioned, before, that, when I was a boy, I 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
the 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 in 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 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 it about,
I, in the meanwhile, returned to my father's house [at Crowell] in
Oxfordshire.
I had, before, received direction by letters from my eldest sister,
written by my father's command, to put off [_dispose of_] what cattle he
had left about his house, and to discharge his servants; which I had done
at the time called Michaelmas [1661] 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 and settle there; I made off [_sold_] 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 [_in the Spring of 1662_], 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 of
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 of 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 Jewin 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
pronounciation; 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
pronounciation."
To this, I consenting, he instructed me how to sound the vowels so
different[ly] from the common pronounciation used by the English, who
speak _Anglice_ their Latin, that (with some few other variations, in
sounding some consonants: in particular case[s], 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 pronounciation
proved a new difficulty to me. It was now harder for 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.
Thus I went 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 Wiccombe, and to JOHN RANCE's house there: both as
he was a physician, and his wife a 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 scarcely any who saw me, expected my life [_that I should live_]:
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 physic, food,
and attendance: and having fully discharged all, I took leave of my
friends in that family, and town; and returned [_? in October 1662_] 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 [_hindrance_],
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); 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 8th month [_which,
according to the reckoning of the Society of Friends, was October. Their
First month down to 1752, was March_], 1662, at the Meeting, at the _Bull
and Mouth_, by Alders Gate: 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.
[So the Friends there, with ELLWOOD, are taken; and sent to Bridewell
till the 19th December following: when they were taken to Newgate,
expecting to be called at the Old Bailey sessions: but, not being called,
were sent back to Bridewell again. On the 29th December, they were brought
up at the Sessions, and, refusing to swear, were all committed to the
"Common Side" of Newgate; but that prison being so full, they were sent
back to Bridewell again. Then we have the following extraordinary
circumstance.]
Having 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 a breast, 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 and drink at. And, indeed, we might easily have gone quite away, if
we would; there was 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.
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.
Under this easy restraint, we lay till the Court sate 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 monies
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 [_at the end of
January 1663_].
[Thus, by such magnificent patience under arbitrary injustice, these
invincible Quakers shamed the reckless Crime which, in those days, went
by the name of The Law; and such stories as ELLWOOD's _Life_ and GEORGE
FOX's _Journal_ abound with like splendid victories of patience, by men
who were incapable of telling a lie or of intentionally breaking their
word.
JOHN BUNYAN's imprisonment at this time was much of the same kind as
ELLWOOD's, as soon as the Keeper of Bedford gaol found he could trust
him.]
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
[_district or county_].
Thither, therefore, I betook myself; and the weather being frosty, and
the ways by that means clean and good; I walked it through 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 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 [_i.e., of reading to MILTON_] in London. But Providence
ordered 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
[_? 1713_]. And being himself both skilful and curious in pronounciation;
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, 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 sate
together by the fire, in his bedchamber, 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 to 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 of LILLY--
_Qui docet indoctos, licet indoctissimus esset,
Ipse brevi reliquis, doctior esse queat._
He that th'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 28th October in_] the year 1669,
near[ly] 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.
Although the storm raised by the _Act for Banishment [16 Car. II. c. 4.
1664_], fell with the greatest weight and force upon some other parts, as
at London, Hertford, &c.: yet were we, in Buckinghamshire, not wholly
exempted therefrom. For a part of that shower reached us also.
For a Friend, of Amersham, whose name was EDWARD PEROT or PARRET,
departing this life; and notice being given, that his body would be
buried there on such a day (which was the First Day of the Fifth Month
[_July_], 1665): the Friends of the adjacent parts of the country,
resorted pretty generally to the burial. So that there was a fair
appearance of Friends and neighbours; the deceased having been well
beloved by both.
After we had spent some time together, in the house (MORGAN WATKINS, who,
at that time, happened to be at ISAAC PENINGTON's, being with us); the
body was taken up, and borne on Friends' shoulders, along the street, in
order to be carried to the burying-ground: which was at the town's end;
being part of an orchard belonging to the deceased, which he, in his
lifetime, had appointed for that service.
It so happened, that one AMBROSE BENNET, a Barrister at Law, and a
Justice of the Peace for that county, was riding through the town [of
Amersham] that morning, in his way to Aylesbury: and was, by some
ill-disposed person or other, informed that there was a Quaker to be
buried there that day; and that most of the Quakers in the country
[_county_] were come thither to the burial.
Upon this, he set up his horses, and stayed. And when we, not knowing
anything of his design against us, went innocently forward to perform our
Christian duty, for the interment of our Friend; he rushed out of his Inn
upon us, with the Constables and a rabble of rude fellows whom he had
gathered together: and, having his drawn sword in his hand, struck one of
the foremost of the bearers, with it; commanding them "To set down the
coffin!" But the Friend, who was so stricken, whose name was THOMAS DELL
(being more concerned for the safety of the dead body than his own, lest
it should fall from his shoulder, and any indecency thereupon follow)
held the coffin fast. Which the Justice observing, and being enraged that
his word (how unjust soever) was not forthwith obeyed, set his hand to the
coffin; and, with a forcible thrust, threw it off the bearers' shoulders,
so that it fell to the ground, in the midst of the street: and there, we
were forced to leave it.
For, immediately thereupon, the Justice giving command for the
apprehending us; the Constables with the rabble fell on us, and drew
some, and drove others in the Inn: giving thereby an opportunity to the
rest, to walk away.
Of those that were thus taken, I was one. And being, with many more, put
into a room, under a guard; we were kept there, till another Justice,
called Sir THOMAS CLAYTON, whom Justice BENNET had sent for, to join with
him in committing us, was come.
And then, being called forth severally before them, they picked out ten
of us; and committed us to Aylesbury gaol: for what, neither we, nor
_they_ knew. For we were not convicted of having either done or said
anything, which the law could take hold of.
For they took us up in the open street, the King's highway, not doing any
unlawful act; but peaceably carrying and accompanying the corpse of our
deceased Friend, to bury it. Which they would not suffer us to do; but
caused the body to lie in the open street, and in the cartway: so that
all the travellers that passed by (whether horsemen, coaches, carts, or
waggons) were fain to break out of the way, to go by it, that they might
not drive over it; until it was almost night. And then, having caused a
grave to be made in the unconsecrated part, as it is accounted, of that
which is called the Church Yard: they forcibly took the body from the
widow (whose right and property it was), and buried it there.
When the Justices had delivered us prisoners to the Constable, it being
then late in the day, which was the seventh day of the week: he (not
willing to go so far as Aylesbury, nine long miles, with us, that night;
nor to put the town [of Amersham] to the charge of keeping us, there,
that night and the First day and night following) dismissed us, upon our
_parole_, to come to him again at a set hour, on the Second day morning.
Whereupon, we all went home to our respective habitations; and coming to
him punctually [_on Monday, 3rd July_, 1665] according to promise, were
by him, without guard, conducted to the Prison.
The Gaoler, whose name was NATHANIEL BIRCH, had, not long before, behaved
himself very wickedly, with great rudeness and cruelty, to some of our
Friends of the lower side of the country [_i.e., Buckinghamshire_]; whom
he, combining with the Clerk of the Peace, whose name was HENRY WELLS,
had contrived to get into his gaol: and after they were legally
discharged in Court, detained them in prison, using great violence, and
shutting them up close in the Common Gaol among the felons; because they
would not give him his unrighteous demand of Fees, which they were the
more straitened in, from his treacherous dealing with them. And they
having, through suffering, maintained their freedom, and obtained their
liberty: we were the more concerned to keep what they had so hardly
gained; and therefore resolved not to make any contract or terms for
either Chamber Rent or Fees, but to demand a Free Prison. Which we did.
When we came in, the gaoler was ridden out to wait on the Judges, who
came in, that day [_3rd July, 1665_], to begin the Assize; and his wife
was somewhat at a loss, how to deal with us. But being a cunning woman,
she treated us with a great appearance of courtesy, offering us the
choice of all her rooms; and when we asked, "Upon what terms?" she still
referred us to her husband; telling us, she "did not doubt, but that he
would be very reasonable and civil to us." Thus, she endeavoured to have
drawn us to take possession of some of her chambers, at a venture; and
trust to her husband's kind usage: but, we, who, at the cost of our
Friends, had a proof of his kindness, were too wary to be drawn in by the
fair words of a woman: and therefore told her, "We would not settle
anywhere till her husband came home; and then would have a Free Prison,
wheresoever he put us."
Accordingly, walking all together into the court of the prison, in which
was a well of very good water; and having, beforehand, sent to a Friend
in the town, a widow woman, whose name was SARAH LAMBARN, to bring us
some bread and cheese: we sate down upon the ground round about the well;
and when we had eaten, we drank of the water out of the well.
Our great concern was for our Friend, ISAAC PENINGTON, because of the
tenderness of his constitution: but he was so lively in his spirit, and
so cheerfully given up to suffer; that he rather encouraged us, than
needed any encouragement from us.
In this posture, the gaoler, when he came home, found us. And having,
before he came to us, consulted his wife; and by her, understood on what
terms we stood: when he came to us, he hid his teeth, and putting on a
shew of kindness, seemed much troubled that we should sit there abroad
[_in the open air_], especially his old friend, Mr. PENINGTON; and
thereupon, invited us to come in, and take what rooms in his house we
pleased. We asked, "Upon what terms?" letting him know, withal, that we
were determined to have a Free Prison.
He (like the Sun and the Wind, in the fable, that strove which of them
should take from the traveller, his cloak) having, like the wind, tried
rough, boisterous, violent means to our Friends before, but in vain;
resolved now to imitate the Sun, and shine as pleasantly as he could upon
us. Wherefore, he told us, "We should make the terms ourselves; and be as
free as we desired. If we thought fit, when we were released, to give him
anything; he would thank us for it: and if not, he would demand nothing."
Upon these terms, we went in: and dispose ourselves, some in the
dwelling-house, others in the malt-house: where they chose to be.
During the Assize, we were brought before Judge MORTON [_Sir WILLIAM
MORTON, Recorder of Gloucester_], a sour angry man, who [_being an old
Cavalier Officer, naturally_,] very rudely reviled us, but would not hear
either us or the cause; referring the matter to the two Justices, who had
committed us.
They, when the Assize was ended, sent for us, to be brought before them,
at their Inn [at Aylesbury]; and fined us, as I remember, 6s. 8d. a
piece: which we not consenting to pay, they committed us to prison again,
for one month from that time; on the _Act for Banishment_.
When we had lain there that month [_i.e., not later than the middle of
August, 1665_], I, with another, went to the gaoler, to demand our
liberty: which he readily granted, telling us, "The door should be
opened, when we pleased to go."
This answer of his, I reported to the rest of my Friends there; and,
thereupon, we raised among us a small sum of money, which they put into
my hand, for the gaoler. Whereupon, I, taking another with me, went to
the gaoler, with the money in my hand; and reminding him of the terms,
upon which we accepted the use of his rooms, I told him, "That though we
could not pay Chamber Rent nor Fees, yet inasmuch as he had now been
civil to us, we were willing to acknowledge it by a small token": and
thereupon, gave him the money. He, putting it into his pocket, said, "I
thank you, and your Friends for it! and to let you see that I take it as
a gift, not a debt; I will not look on it, to see how much it is."
The prison door being then set open for us; we went out, and departed to
our respective homes.
Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison [_on 3rd July, 1665_],
I was desired by my quondam Master, MILTON, to take a house for him in the
neighbourhood where I dwelt; that he might get out of the City, for the
safety of himself and his family: the Pestilence then growing hot in
London.
I took a pretty box for him [_i.e., in June, 1665_] in Giles-Chalfont
[_Chalfont St. Giles_], a mile from me [_ELLWOOD was then living in ISAAC
PENINGTON's house, called The Grange, at Chalfont St. Peter; or Peter's
Chalfont, as he calls it_], of which, I gave him notice: and intended to
have waited on him, and seen him well settled in it; but was prevented by
that imprisonment. [_Therefore MILTON did not come into Buckinghamshire at
this time, till after the 3rd July, 1665_.]
But, now [_i.e., not later than the middle of August, 1665_], being
released, and returned home; I soon made a visit to him, to welcome him
into the country [_county_].
After some common discourses had passed between us [_evidently at
ELLWOOD's first visit_], called for a manuscript of his: which being
brought, he delivered to me; bidding me, "Take it home with me, and read
it at my leisure; and, when I had so done, return it to him, with my
judgement thereupon!"
When I came home [_i.e., The Grange; from which ISAAC PBNINGTON, with his
family (including THOMAS ELLWOOD) was,_ by military force, _expelled about
a month after their first return from Aylesbury gaol (i.e., about the
middle of September); and he again sent to the same prison_], and had set
myself to read it; I found it was that excellent poem, which he entitled,
_Paradise Lost_.
After I had, with the best attention, read it through: I made him another
visit, and returned him his book; with due acknowledgment of the favour he
had done me, in communicating it to me.
He asked me, "How I liked it? And what I thought of it?" Which I,
modestly but freely, told him.
And, after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him,
"Thou hast said much, here, of _Paradise lost_: but what hast thou to say
of _Paradise found_?"
He made me no answer; but sate some time in a muse: then brake off that
discourse, and fell upon another subject.
After the sickness [_Plague_] was over; and the City well cleansed, and
become safely habitable again: he returned thither.
And when, afterwards [_probably in 1668 or 1669_], I went to wait on him
there (which I seldom failed of doing, whenever my occasions drew me to
London), he showed me his second poem, called _Paradise Regained_: and,
in a pleasant tone, said to me, "This is owing to you! For you put it
into my head, by the question you put to me at Chalfont! which, before, I
had not thought of."
[_Paradise Regained_ was licensed for publication on 2nd July, 1670.]