When the days are lengthening in the spring, even though the worst of
the winter may be over, there is often a sharp tooth in the March wind
as it sweeps over the angry sea and bites into the north-eastern coast
of England.
Children, warm and snug in cosy rooms, like to watch the gale and the
damage it does as it hurries past. It amuses them to see the wind at
its tricks, ruffling up the manes of the white horses far out at sea,
blowing the ships away from their moorings in the harbour, and playing
tricks upon the passers-by, when it comes ashore. Off fly stout old
gentlemen's hats, round like windmills go the smart ladies' skirts and
ribbons; even the milkman's fingers turn blue with cold. It is all
very well for children, safe indoors, to laugh at the antics of the
mischievous wind, even on the bleak north-eastern coast nowadays; but
in times long ago, that same wind could be a more cruel playfellow
still. Come back with me for two hundred and fifty years. Let us watch
the tricks the wind is playing on the prisoners in the castle high up
on Scarborough cliff in the year of our Lord 1666.
Though the keen, cutting blast is the same, a very different
Scarborough lies around us from the Scarborough modern children know.
There is a much smaller town close down by the water's edge, and a
much larger castle covering nearly the whole of the cliff.
Nowadays, when children go to Scarborough for their holidays in the
summer, as they run down the steep paths with their spades and buckets
to dig on the beach, they are too busy to pay much attention to the
high cliff that juts out against the sky above the steep red roofs of
the old town. But if they do look up for a moment they notice a pile
of grey stones at the very top of the hill. 'Oh, that is the old
ruined castle,' they say to themselves; and then they forget all about
it and devote themselves to the important task of digging a new castle
of their own that shall not crumble into ruins in its turn, as even
sand castles have an uncomfortable way of doing, if they are
unskilfully made.
Those children are only modern children. They have not gone back, as
you and I are trying to do, two hundred and fifty long years up the
stream of time. If we are really to find out what Scarborough looked
like then, we must put on our thinking caps and flap our fancy wings,
and, shutting our eyes very tight, not open them again until that
long-ago Scarborough is really clear before us. Then, looking up at
the castle, what shall we see? The same hill of course, but so covered
with stately buildings that we can barely make out its outline.
Instead of one old pile of crumbling stones, roofless, doorless,
windowless, there is a massive fortress towering over us, ringed round
with walls and guarded with battlements and turrets. High above all
stands the frowning Norman Keep, of which only some of the thick outer
stones remain to-day. Scarborough Castle was a grand place, and a
strong place too, in the seventeenth century.
In order to reach it, then as now, it was necessary to climb the long
flights of stone steps that stretch up from the lower town near the
water's edge to the high, arched gateway upon the Castle Hill. We will
climb those steps, only of course the stones were newer and cleaner
then, and less worn by generations of climbing feet. Up them we mount
till we reach the gateway with its threatening portcullis, where the
soldiers of King Charles the Second, in their jackboots, are walking
up and down on guard, determined to keep out all intruders. Intruders
we certainly are, seeing that we belong to another generation and
another century. There is no entrance at that gateway for us. Yet
except through that gateway there is no way into the castle, and all
the windows on this side are high up in the walls, and barred and
filled with strong thick glass.
Now let us go round to the far side of the cliff where the castle
overlooks the sea. Here the fortress still frowns above us; but lower
down, nearer our level, we can see some holes and caves scooped out of
the solid rock, through which the wind blows and shrieks eerily. As
these caves can only be reached by going through the castle, some of
the prisoners are kept here for safety. The windows have no glass.
They are merely holes in the rock, open to fog and snow and bitter
wind. Another hole in the cliff does duty for a chimney after a
fashion, but even if the prisoners are allowed to light a fire they
are scarcely any warmer, for the whole cave becomes filled with smoke.
And now we must flap our fancy wings still more vigorously, until
somehow we stand outside one of those prison holes, scooped out of the
cliff, and can look down and see what is to be seen inside it.
There is only one man in this particular prison cave, and what is he
doing? Is he moving about to keep himself warm? At first he seems to
be, for he walks from side to side without a moment's rest. Every now
and then he stretches his arm out of the window, apparently throwing
something away. He is certainly ill. His body and legs are badly
swollen, and there are great lumps in the places where his joints and
knuckles ought to be. Well then, if he is ill, why does he not lie
still in bed and rest and get well? For even in this wretched
cave-room there is something that looks like a bed in one corner. It
has no white sheets or soft blankets, but still it has four legs and a
sort of coverlet, and at least the prisoner could rest upon it, which
would be better for him than dancing about. Look again! The bed stands
under a gaping hole in the roof, and a stream of water is dripping
steadily down upon it. The coarse coverings must be soaked through
already, and the hard mattress too. It is really less like a bed than
a damp and nasty little pond. No wonder the prisoner does not choose
to lie there. But then, why not move the bed somewhere else? And what
is that round thing like a platter in his hand, and what is he doing
with it? Is he playing 'Turn the Trencher' to keep himself warm?
Look again! How could he move the bed? He is in a tiny cave, and all
its walls are leaky. The bed must stand in that particular corner
because there is nowhere else that it could be placed. Now look down
at the floor. Notice how uneven it is, and the big pools of water
standing on it, and then you will understand what the prisoner is
doing. Indeed he is not playing 'Turn the Trencher'; he is trying to
scoop up some of the water in that shallow platter, because he has
nothing else in the room that will hold it. If he can do this fast
enough, and can manage to pour enough of the water away out of one of
the holes in the walls, he may be able to keep himself from being
flooded out, and thus he may preserve one little dry patch of floor,
dry enough for his swollen feet to stand on, till the storm is over.
But it is like trying to bale water out of a very leaky boat; for
always faster than he can scoop it up and pour it away, more rain
comes pouring in steadily, dripping and drenching. The wind shrieks
and whistles and the prisoner is numb with cold.
What a wicked man he must be, to be punished by being put in this
dreadful place! Certainly, if he has committed some dreadful crime, he
has found a terrible punishment. But does he look wicked? See, at last
he is too stiff and weary to move about any longer. In spite of the
rain and the wind he sinks down exhausted upon a rickety chair and
draws it to the spot where there is the best chance of a little
shelter. There he sits in silence for some time. He is soaked to the
skin, as well as tired and stiff and hungry. There is a small mug by
the door, but it is empty and there is not a sign of food. Some bitter
water to drink and a small piece of bread are all the food he has had
to-day, and that is all gone now, for it was so very little. In this
place a small threepenny loaf of bread has sometimes to last for three
weeks. This poor man must be utterly miserable and wretched. But is
he? Let us watch him.
Do you think he can be a wicked man after all? Is not the prisoner
being punished through some dreadful mistake? He looks kind and good,
and, stranger still, he looks happy, even through all his sufferings
in this horrible prison. His face has a sort of brightness in it, like
the mysterious light there is sometimes to be seen in a dark sky,
behind a thunderstorm. A radiance is about him too as if, in spite of
all he is enduring, he has some big joy that shines through everything
and makes it seem worth while.
He is actually 'letting the sunlight through,' even in this dismal
place. Any one who can do that must be a very real and a very big
saint indeed. We must just find out all that we can about him. Let us
take a good look at him now, while we have the chance. Then we shall
know him another time, when we meet him again, having all sorts of
adventures in all sorts of places. It is impossible to see his eyes,
as he sits by the bed, for they are downcast, but we can see that he
has a long, nearly straight nose, and lips tightly pressed together.
His hair is parted and hangs down on each side of his head, stiff and
lank now, owing to the wet, but in happier days it must have hung in
little curls round his neck, just below his ears. He is a tall man,
with a big strong-looking body. In spite of the coarse clothes he
wears, there is a strange dignity about him. You feel something
drawing you to him, making you want to know more about him.
You feel somehow as if you were in the presence of some one who is
very big, and that you yourself are very small, smaller perhaps than
you ever felt in your life. Yet you feel ready to do anything for him,
and, at the same time, you believe that, if only you could make him
know that you are there, he would be ready to do anything for you.
Even in this wretched den he carries himself with an air of authority,
as if he were accustomed to command. Now, at last he is looking up;
and we can see his eyes. Most wonderful eyes they are! Eyes that look
as if they could pierce through all sorts of disguises, and read the
deepest secrets of a man's heart. They are kind eyes too; and look as
if they could be extraordinarily tender at times. They are something
like a shepherd's eyes, as if they were accustomed to gazing out far
and wide in search of strayed sheep and lost lambs. Yet they are also
like the eyes of a Judge; thoroughly well able to distinguish right
from wrong. It would be terrible to meet those eyes after doing
anything the least bit crooked or shabby or untrue. They look as if
they would know at the first glance just how much excuses were worth;
and what was the truth. No wonder that once, when those eyes fell on a
man who was arguing on the wrong side, he felt ashamed all of a sudden
and cried out in terror: 'Do not pierce me so with thine eyes! Keep
thine eyes off me!' Another time when this same prisoner was reasoning
with a crowd of people, who did not agree with him, they all cried out
with one accord: 'Look at his eyes, look at his eyes!' And yet another
time when he was riding through an angry mob, in a city where men were
ready to take his life, they dared not touch him. 'Oh, oh,' they
cried, 'see, he shines! he glisters!'
Then what happened next? We do not want to look at the prisoner in
fancy any longer. We want really to know about him: to hear the
beginnings and endings of those stories and of many others. And that
is exactly what we are going to do. The prisoner is going to tell us
his own true story in his own real words. There is no need for our
fancy wings any longer. They may shrivel up and drop off unheeded. For
that prisoner is GEORGE FOX, and he belongs to English history. He has
left the whole story of his life and adventures written in two large
folio volumes that may still be seen in London. The pages are so old
and the edges have worn so thin in the two hundred and fifty years
since they were written, that each page has had to be most carefully
framed in strong paper to keep it from getting torn. The ink is faded
and brown, and the writing is often crabbed and difficult to read. But
it can be read, and it is full of stories. In olden times, probably,
the book was bound in a brown leather cover, but now, because it is
very old and valuable, it has been clothed with beautiful red leather,
on which is stamped in gold letters, the title: