Tramping! Tramping! Tramping! An endless journey along the white,
dusty highroad it seemed to little James. Indeed the one hundred and
fifty miles that separate Retford in Nottinghamshire from Carlisle in
far-off Cumberland would have been a long distance even for a
full-grown man to travel on foot in those far-off, railroad-less days
of 1652. Whereas little James, who had undertaken this journey right
across England, was but a boy of sixteen, delicate and small for his
age.
'Ye will never get there, James,' the neighbours cried when he
unfolded his plans. 'To go afoot to Carlisle! Did any one ever hear
the like? It would be a wild-goose chase, even if a man hoped to come
to speak with a King in his palace at the end of it; but for _thee_ to
go such a journey in order to speak but for a few moments with a man
thou dost not know, and in prison, it is nothing but a daft notion!
What ails thee, boy?'
The only answer James gave was to knit his brows more firmly together,
and to mutter resolutely to himself, as he gathered his few belongings
into a bundle, 'I must and I will see George Fox!'
George Fox! The secret was out. That was the explanation of this
fantastic journey. George Fox, after gathering a 'great people' up in
the North, was now himself kept a close prisoner in Carlisle Gaol: yet
he was the magnet attracting this lad, frail of body but determined of
will, to travel right across England for the hope of speaking with him
in his prison cell.
* * * * *
Let us look back a little and see how this befell.
In the stately old church of Saint Swithin at East Retford a record
shows that 'James, son of Thomas Parnell and Sarah his wife, was
baptized there on the sixth day of September 1636.' James' parents
were pious church people. It must have been a proud and thankful day
for them when they took their baby son to be christened in the
beautiful old font in that church, where their elder daughter, Sarah,
had received her name a few years before. On the font may still be
seen the figure of Saint Swithin himself, the patron Saint of the
church. This gentle saint, whose dying wish had been that he might be
buried in no stately building of stone but 'where his grave might be
trod by human feet and watered with the raindrops of heaven,' was the
guardian the parents chose for their little lad. All through his short
life the boy seems to have shared this love of Nature and of the open
air.
James' parents were well-to-do people, and wisely determined to give
their only son a good education. They sent him, therefore, as soon as
he was old enough, to the Retford Grammar School, to be 'trained up in
the Schools of Literature.' James tells us that he was 'as wild as
others during the time he was at school, and that he was perfect in
sin and iniquity as any in the town where he lived, yea and exceeded
many in the wickedness of his life,' until something or other happened
to sober the wild boy. He does not say what it was. Perhaps it may
have been the news that reached Retford during his school days, that
the King of England had been executed at Whitehall, one cold January
morning. Or it may have been something quite different. Anyhow, before
he left school, he was already anxious and troubled about his soul.
School days finished, he sought for help in his difficulties from
'priests and professors.' But, like George Fox, a few years earlier,
James Parnell got small help from them. Some of the priests told him
that he was deluded. Others, whose words sounded better, did not
practise what they preached. He says, they 'preached down with their
tongues what they upheld in their lives.' Therefore he decided, out of
his scanty experience, that they all were 'hollow Professors,' and
could be of no use to him. A very hasty judgment! But little James was
tremendously sure of himself at this time, quite certain that he knew
more than most of the people he met, feeling entirely able to set his
neighbours to rights, and yet with a real wish to learn, if only he
could find a true teacher.
He says, 'I was the first in all that town of Retford which the Lord
was pleased to make known His power in, and turn my heart towards Him
and truly to seek Him, so that I became a wonder to the world and an
astonishment to the heathen round about.'
He adds that, at this time or a little later, even 'his own relations
became his enemies.' This is not surprising. A young man of fifteen
who described his neighbours and friends as 'the heathen round about'
must have been a distinctly trying companion to the aforesaid
'heathen.'
Possibly there was more than one sigh of relief heaved in East Retford
when the first of little James's journeys began. It was to be only a
short one, to 'a people with whom I found union a few miles out of the
town where I lived. The Lord was a-gathering them out of the dark
world to sit down together and to wait upon His name.'
These people were either a little group of Friends already gathered at
Balby, or they may have been 'Seekers' meeting together here in
Nottinghamshire, as they did in the North, at Sedbergh and Preston
Patrick and many another place, 'not celebrating Baptism or the Holy
Communion,' but 'waiting together in silence to be instruments in the
hand of the Lord.' Truly helpful 'instruments' they proved to little
James, for they sent him straight on to Nottingham, where a company of
'Children of Light' was already gathered, to worship God. 'Children of
Light' is the first, and the most beautiful, name given to the Society
of Friends in England.
When these Nottingham Friends saw the vehement, impulsive boy, his
thin frame trembling, his eyes glowing, as he poured forth his
difficulties, naturally their thoughts went back to the other lad who
had also passed through severe soul struggles in this same
neighbourhood, some ten or twelve years earlier.
They all said to him, one after the other, 'James Parnell, thou must
see George Fox.'
'George Fox!' cried little James eagerly, 'I have never even heard his
name. Who is he? Where is he? I will go and find him this very moment,
if he can help me.'
At these words, all the Nottingham Friends shook their heads very
solemnly and sadly and said, 'That is impossible, James, for our
Friend languisheth in Carlisle Gaol. But we can tell thee of him.'
Then one after another they recounted the well-known story of George
Fox's boyhood, of his difficulties, of his seeking, of his finding,
and lastly of his preaching, when the Power of God shone through him
as he spoke, and melted men's hearts till they became as wax.
James, drinking in every word, exclaimed breathlessly as soon as the
story was finished, 'That is the man for me. I will set out for
Carlisle this very minute to find him!'
Of course all the Friends were aghast at the effect of their words.
They declared that he really couldn't and really shouldn't, that it
was out of the question, and that he must do nothing of the kind! They
did their very best to stop him. But little James (who, as we know,
was not in the habit of paying over-much attention to other people's
opinions at any time) treated all these remonstrances as if they had
been thistledown. He swung his small bundle at the end of a short
stick over his shoulder, tightened his belt, tore himself from their
restraining hands, and exclaiming, 'Farewell, Friends, I go to find
George Fox,' off he set on the long, long journey to Carlisle.
His spirit was aflame with desire to meet his unknown friend. The
miles seemed few and short that separated him from his goal. But
doubtless some of the women among the 'Children of Light' wiped their
eyes as they watched the fiery little figure disappear along the
dusty road, and said, 'Truly that lad hath a valiant heart!'
Thus, in a burning fury of desire, the journey began. After many weary
days of travel the flame still burned unquenchably, although the boy's
figure looked yet leaner and more under-sized than when he left his
home.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, on and ever on, till at last the long-desired day
came, when, over the crest of a low hill, he made out for the first
time the distant spire and towers of the fair Border city. The river
Eden in the meadows below lay gleaming in the sunshine like a silver
bow.
Threadbare and very dusty were his clothes, his feet swollen and sore,
but his chin was pressed well forward, and the light in his eyes was
that of a conqueror, when at last, tramp, tramp, tramp, his tired feet
came pattering up the stones of the steep old bridge that spans the
Eden and leads to Carlisle Town.
'Which is the prison?' James asked himself, as his eyes scanned a
bewildering maze of towers and roofs. The tall leaden spire of the
Cathedral was unmistakable, 'no prisoners there.' Next he made out the
big square fortress of sandstone, red as Red William the Norman who
built it long ago, on its central mound frowning over the town.
His unknown friend might very possibly be within those walls. James
quickened his tired steps at the thought, and then stopped short, for
the gates of the bridge were shut. Droves of sheep and oxen on their
way to market filled the entry, and all foot passengers must wait.
James threw himself down, full length, on one of the broad stone
parapets of the bridge to rest his tired limbs until the way should
be clear again. Two men were seated in a stone recess below him, also
waiting to pass. At first James noticed only the dress they wore;
their tall hats and sombre clothes marked them out as Baptists; the
younger man a deacon probably, and the elder a pastor.
Presently James began to listen to their conversation.
'It is well he is safe in the Castle,' said the younger man, 'most
pernicious Quaker doctrine did he deliver that Sabbath day in answer
to our questions in the Abbey.'
'Pernicious Quaker doctrine!' James pricked up his ears at the words.
He settled himself comfortably to listen, without any scruples, seeing
that the speakers were in a public place, and besides, the entrance to
the bridge was by this time so packed with people that he could hardly
have moved off the parapet had he wished.
The older man shook his head. 'I thought I had hewed him in pieces
before the Lord,' he said in a low voice, 'for no sooner was he silent
than I asked him if he knew what he spake, and what it was should be
damned at the last day. Whereat he did but fix his eyes upon me and
said that "it was that which spoke in me which should be damned." Even
as he spoke my old notions of religion glittered and fell off me, for
I knew that through him whom I despised as a wandering Quaker I was
listening to the Voice of God. He went on to upbraid me as a flashy
notionist and yet, even so, I was constrained to listen to him in
silence.'
The pastor's voice had sunk very low: James could hardly catch the
last words.
'Aye, no wonder,' rejoined the younger man, 'with those eyes he
seemeth to pierce the fleshly veil and to read the secrets of a man's
inmost heart. I, too, experienced this, the following market day, he
being then come to the market cross "a-publishing of truth" as he and
his followers term it, in their quaking jargon. The magistrates, godly
men, had sent the sergeants commanding them to stop his mouth.
Moreover, they had sent their wives as well, and even the sergeants
were less bitter against him than the women. For they declared that if
the Quaker dared to defile the noble market cross of Carlisle city by
preaching there, they themselves would pluck off the hair from his
head, while the sergeants should clap him into gaol. Nevertheless the
Quaker would not be stopped. Preach he did, standing forth boldly on
the high step of the cross.'
'And what said he?' enquired the older man.
'Right forcibly he declared judgment on all the market folk for their
deceitful ways. He spoke to the merchants as if he were a merchant
himself, beseeching them to lay aside their false weights and measures
and deceitful merchandize, with all cozening and cheating, and to
speak truth only to one another. Ever as he spoke, the people flocked
closer around him, hanging on his words as if he were reading their
secret hearts, so that the sergeants could not come nigh him for the
press to lead him away. Thus only when he had finished he stepped down
from the cross and would have passed gently away, but I and some of
the brethren, thinking that now our turn had come, followed after
him. The contention between us was sharp. Yet his words struck into me
like knives, and scarce knowing what I did, I cried out aloud, for a
strange power was over me. Thereat he fixed his eyes upon me and spake
sharply to me, as if he knew that I was resisting the Spirit of the
Lord. I know not why, but I was forced to cry out again, "Do not
pierce me so with thine eyes. Keep thine eyes off me."'
'Well,' questioned the elder man, 'and what followed? Did his eyes
leave thee?'
'They have never left me,' replied the other. 'Wherever I go those
eyes burn me yet, although the man himself lies fast in gaol among the
thieves and murderers, in the worst and most loathsome of the
dungeons. Thither I go every day to assure myself that he is fast
caged behind thick walls, and to rejoice my eyes with the sight of the
gibbet nailed high over-head upon the castle wall. Men say he shall
swing there soon, but of that I know not. Wilt thou come with me now,
for see, the bridge is free?'
'Not I,' returned the pastor, moodily, as he shuffled away, like a man
ill at ease with himself.
Little James, from his perch on the parapet, had drunk in greedily
every word of this conversation. Directly the bridge was clear he
crept down and followed the deacon like a shadow. They passed over the
silver Eden and up the main street of the city, paved with rough,
uneven stones, and with an open sewer flowing through the centre of
it. Right across the busy market-place they passed, before the deacon
halted beneath the castle walls.
Full of noise and hubbub was Carlisle city that day; yet, as the two
entered the courtyard of the castle, James was aware of another
sound, rising clear above the tumult of the town--strains of music,
surely, that came from a fiddle. As they stepped under the inner
gateway and approached the Norman Keep, the fiddler himself came in
sight playing with might and main, under a barred window about six
feet from the ground. By the fiddler's side, urging him on, was a
huge, burly man with a red face. Whenever the fiddler showed signs of
weariness the man beside him raising a large tankard of ale to his
lips would force him to drink of it, saying, 'Play up, man! Play up!'
The thin, clear strains of the fiddle rose up steadily towards the
barred window, but, above them, James caught another sound that
floated yet more steadily out through the bars: the firm, full tones
of a deep bass voice within, singing loud and strong.
Though he could not see the singer, something in the song thrilled
James through and through. Forgetting his weariness he knew that he
was near his journey's end at last. As he listened, he noticed a
handful of people, listening also, under the barred window.
Loud jeers arose: 'Play up, Fiddler!' 'Sing on, Quaker!' or even, 'Ply
him with more ale, Gaoler: the prisoner is the better musician!'
At these cries the fat man's countenance grew ever more enraged. He
looked savage and huge, 'like a bear-ward,' a man more accustomed to
deal with bears than with human beings. Finally, in his wrath, he
turned the now empty tankard upon the crowd and bespattered them with
the last drops of the ale, and then called lustily for more, with
which he plied the fiddler anew. So the contest continued, but at
last, the ale perhaps taking effect, the fiddler's head dropped, his
bow swept the strings more wearily, while the strong notes inside the
dungeon grew ever more firm and loud. The gaoler seeing, or rather
hearing, himself worsted, caught the bow from the fiddler's hand and
cracked it over his skull. The fiddler, seizing this chance to escape,
leapt to his feet and dashed across the courtyard, followed by the
gaoler and the populace in full chase. Even the sombre Baptist deacon
gathered up the skirts of his long coat and bestirred his lean legs.
The singing ceased. A face appeared at the window: only for an
instant: but one glance was enough for James.
Timidly he approached the window, but he had only taken two steps
towards it when he found himself firmly elbowed off the pavement and
pushed into the gutter. Someone else also had been watching for the
crowd to disperse, in order to have a chance of speaking with the
prisoner. The new-comer was a portly lady in a satin gown, a much
grander person than James had expected to find in the near
neighbourhood of a dungeon. She carried a large, covered basket, and,
as soon as the way was clear, she set it down on the pavement and
began to take out the contents carefully: bread and salt, beef and
elecampane ale. Without looking up from her work she called to the
unseen figure at the window above her head: 'So thou hast stopped
their vain sounds at length with thy singing?'
'Aye,' answered the deep voice from within. 'Thou mayest safely
approach the window now, for the gaoler hath departed. After he had
beaten thee and the other Friends with his great cudgel, next he was
moved to beat me also, through the window, did I but come near to it
to get my meat. And as he struck me I was moved to sing in the Lord's
power, and that made him rage the more, whereat he fetched the
fiddler, saying he would soon drown my noise if I would not cease.'
'Eat now, Dear Heart,' the woman interrupted, 'whilst thou hast the
chance.' So saying, she handed some of the dishes up to the prisoner,
standing herself on tiptoe beneath the prison window in order to reach
his hand stretched out through the bars.
Here James saw his chance.
'Madam,' he cried, 'let me hand the meat up to you.'
The lady looked down and saw the worn, thin face. Perhaps she thought
the boy looked hungry enough to need the food himself, but something
in his eager glance touched her, and when he added, 'For I have come
one hundred and fifty miles to see GEORGE FOX,' her kind heart was
won.
'Nay, then, thou hast a better right to help him even than I,' she
said, 'though I am his very good friend and Colonel Benson's wife.
Thou shall hand up the dishes to me, and when our friend is satisfied,
thou and I will finish what remains, for in the Lord's power I am
moved to eat no meat at my own house, but to share all my sustenance
with His faithful servant who lies within this noisome gaol.'
'Madam,' said the boy, speaking with the concentrated intensity of
weeks of suppressed longing, 'for the food, it is no matter, though I
am much beholden to you. I hunger after but one thing. Bring me within
the gaol where I may speak with him face to face. There is that, that
I have come afoot a hundred miles to ask him.
'Bring me to him, speedily I pray you, for, though even unseen I love
him,
'I MUST SEE GEORGE FOX.'