Quiet and lonely now stands the small old farmhouse of Drawwell, on
the sunny slope of a hill, under the shadow of the great fells. To
this day the old draw-well behind the house, which gives its name to
the homestead, continues to yield its refreshing draught of pure cold
water. 'It is generally full, even in times of drought, and never
overflows.'[32] To this day, also, the 'living water,' drawn in many a
'mighty Meeting' held around that well in the early years of
Quakerism, continues to refresh thirsty souls.
* * * * *
It was to Drawwell Farm that George Fox came with his hosts Thomas and
John Blaykling, on Whitsun Wednesday evening in June 1652, at the end
of Sedbergh Fair. From Drawwell he accompanied them to Firbank Chapel,
the following Sunday forenoon. There, high up on the opposite fell, he
was moved, as he says in his Journal, to 'sit down upon the rock on
the mountain' and 'discourse to over a thousand people, amongst whom I
declared God's everlasting Truth and word of life freely and largely,
for about the space of three hours, whereby many were convinced.'
More than once in after days, George Fox returned again thankfully to
Drawwell, seeking and finding rest and refreshment for soul and body
under its hospitable, low, stone roof, as he went up and down on
those endless journeys of his, throughout the length and breadth of
England, whereby he 'kept himself in a perpetual motion, begetting
souls unto God.'
Many hallowed memories cling about Drawwell Farm,--as closely as the
silvery mist clings to every nook and cranny of its walls in damp
weather,--but none more vivid than that of the Undisturbed Meeting of
1665.
George Fox was not present that day. His open-air wanderings, and his
visits to the home under the great fells were alike at an end for a
time, while in the narrow prison cells of Lancaster and Scarborough he
was bearing witness, after a different fashion, to the freedom of the
Spirit of the Lord. George Fox was not among the guests at Drawwell.
No 'mighty Meeting,' as often at other times, was gathered there that
day. There was only a company of humble men and women seated on forms
and chairs under the black oak rafters of the big barn that adjoins
the house, since the living-room was not spacious enough to hold them
all with ease, although their numbers were not much above a score.
The Master and Mistress of Drawwell were present of course. Good
Farmer Blaykling, with his ever ready courtesy and kindness, looked
older now than on the day, thirteen years before, when he and his
father had brought the young preacher back with them from the Fair. He
himself had known latterly what it was to suffer 'for Truth's sake,'
as some extra furrows on his brow had testified plainly since the day
when 'Priest John Burton of Sedbergh beat John Blaykling and pulled
him by the hair off his seat in his high place.' Happily that outbreak
had passed over, and all seemed quiet this Sunday morning, as he took
his place in the big barn. His wife sat by his side; around them were
their children (none of them young), the farm lads and lasses, and
several families of neighbouring Friends. But it chanced that the
youngest person present, one of the farm lasses, was well into her
teens.
'Surely it was the loving-kindness of the Lord' (motherly Mistress
Blaykling was wont to testify in after years) 'that brought the ordeal
only upon us, grown men and women, and not upon any tender babes.' The
Meeting began, much like any other Meeting in that peaceful country,
where Friends ever loved to gather under the shadow of the hills and
the yet mightier overshadowing of the Spirit of God. The Dove of Peace
brooded over the company. Even as the unseen water bubbled in the dark
depths of the old draw-well close by, so, in the deep stillness,
already some hearts were becoming conscious of--
'The bubbling of the hidden springs,
That feed the world.'
Soon, out of the living Silence would have been born the fresh gift of
living speech....
When suddenly, into all this peace, there came the clattering of
horses' hoofs along the stony road that leads to the farm, followed by
loud voices and a pistol shot, as a body of troopers trotted right up
to the homestead. Finding that deserted and receiving no answers to
their shouts, they proceeded to the barn itself in search of the
assembled Friends. The officer in charge was a young Ensign, Lawrence
Hodgson, a very gay gentleman indeed, a gentleman of the Restoration,
when not only courtiers but soldiers too, knew well what it was to be
courtly.
He came from Dent, 'with other officers of the militia and soldiers.'
Now Dent was a place of importance, in those days, and looked down on
even Sedbergh as a mere village. Wherefore to be sent off to a small
farm in the outskirts of Sedbergh in search of a nest of Quakers was a
paltry job at best for these fine gentlemen from Dent. Naturally, they
set about it, cursing and swearing with a will, to shew what brave
fellows they were. For here were all these Quakers whom they had been
sent to harry, brazening out their crime in the full light of day. By
Act of Parliament it had been declared, not so long ago either, that
any Quakers who 'assembled to the number of five or more persons at
any one time, and in any one place, under pretence of joining in a
religious worship not authorised by law, were, on conviction, to
suffer merely fines or imprisonment for their first and second
offences, but for the third, they were to be liable to be transported
to any of His Majesty's plantations beyond seas.' A serious penalty
this, in those days second only to death itself, and a terror to the
most hardened of the soldiery; but here was a handful of humble
farmfolk, deliberately daring such a punishment unafraid.
'Stiff-necked Quakers--you shall answer for this,' shouted Ensign
Hodgson as he entered 'cursing and swearing' (so says the old account)
'and threatening that if Friends would not depart and disperse he
would kill them and slay and what not.' 'You look like hardened
offenders, all of you, and I doubt this is not a first offence.' So
saying, the Ensign set spurs to his horse and rode up and down the
barn, overturning forms and chairs, slashing at the women Friends
with the flat of his sword, while some of the roughest of his
followers poked the sharp points of their blades through the coats of
the men, 'just to remind you, Quaker dogs, of what we could do, an' we
chose.'
Amid all this noise and hurly-burly, the men and women Friends sat on
in stillness as long as possible. Only when their seats were actually
overturned, they rose to their feet and stood upright in their places.
They were ready to be beaten or trampled upon, if necessary; but they
would not, of their own will, quit their ground. Strangely enough, the
wives did not rush to their husbands or cling to them; the men did not
seek to protect the women-folk. They all remained, even the lads and
lasses, self-poised as it were, one company still; resting, as long as
they could, quietly, in the inward citadel of peace. In spite of all
the hubbub, the true spirit of worship was not disturbed.
At last the soldiers, determined not to be baffled, came to yet closer
quarters and drove their unresisting victims, willy nilly, before them
from under the sheltering rafters of the barn. The Friends were
roughly hustled down the steep hillside and driven hither and thither,
but still the meeting was not interrupted, for their hearts could not
be driven out from the overshadowing presence of God.
So the great fells looked down upon a strange scene a few minutes
later,--a strange scene, yet one all too common in those days. A
cavalcade of glittering horsemen with their flowing perukes, ruffles,
gay coats, plumed hats, and all the extravagances of the costume of
even the fighting man of 'good King Charles's golden days.' In the
centre of this gay throng, a little company of Friends in their plain
garments of homespun and duffel, moving along, with sober faces and
downcast eyes, speaking never a word as their captors prepared to
force them to their destination--the Justice's house at Ingmire Hall
near Sedbergh.
Now from Drawwell Farm to Ingmire is some little distance. The way is
hilly, and the roads are narrow and rough. Bad going it is on those
roads even to-day, and far worse in the times of which I write.
Therefore the troopers quickly grew weary of their task, weary of
trying to rein in their mettlesome horses to keep pace with the slow
steps of their prisoners, weary, too, of even the sport of pricking at
these last with their swords, to try to make them go faster.
They had barely reached the bottom of the slope when Ensign Hodgson,
ever a restless youth, lost patience. As soon as he found his horse on
a bit of level road, he called to his men, 'Halloo! here's our chance
for a canter!--We'll leave the Lambs to follow us to the
slaughter-house at their own sweet will.' Then, seeing mingled relief
and consternation on the men's faces, he slapped his thighs with a
loud laugh and said: 'Ye silly fellows, have no fear! No Quaker ever
yet tried to escape from gaol, nor ever will. We can trust them to
follow us in our absence as well as if we were here to drive them.
Quakers haven't the wit to seek after their own safety.'
The audacity of the plan tickled the troopers. Following Hodgson's
example, they, one and all, raised their plumed hats and, rising high
in their stirrups, bowed with mock courtesy, as they took leave of
their prisoners.
'Farewell, sweet Lambkins,' called out the Ensign, 'hasten your Quaker
pace and meet us at the slaughter-house at Ingmire Hall as fast as you
can, OR' ... he cocked his pistol at them, and then, dashing it up,
fired a shot into the air. With wild shouting and laughter the whole
troop disappeared round a turn of the road. 'To Sedbergh,' they cried,
'to Sedbergh first! Plenty of time for a carouse, and yet to arrive at
Ingmire Hall as soon as the Lambs!'
Arriving in Sedbergh at a canter they slackened rein at a tavern and
refreshed themselves with a draught of ale and an hour's carouse,
before setting off to meet their prisoners at the Justice's house.
When they arrived at Ingmire Hall, to their dismay, not a Quaker was
in sight. Sending his men off to scour the roads, Ensign Hodgson
himself dismounted with an oath on Justice Otway's doorstep, and went
within to inquire if the Quakers from Drawwell had yet arrived.
'The Quakers, WHOM YOU WERE SENT TO FETCH from Drawwell and for whose
non-appearance you are yourself wholly responsible, HAVE NOT ARRIVED,'
answered the Justice tartly, raising his eyebrows as if to emphasise
his words. All men knew that good Sir John Otway was no friend to
persecution; and gay Lawrence Hodgson was no favourite of his.
With a louder oath than that with which he had entered the house, the
Ensign flung out of it again, and rode off at the head of his men--all
of them discomfited by their vain search, for not a Quaker was to be
seen in the neighbourhood. The 'Lambs' were less docile than had been
supposed. After all, they had successfully managed to avoid the
'slaughter-house'; they must have retreated to Drawwell, if they had
not even seized the opportunity to escape.
Back again along the road to Drawwell, therefore, the whole sulky
company of horsemen were obliged to return, much out of humour.
Cursing their leader's carelessness, as he doubtless cursed his own
folly, they trotted along, gloomily enough, till they came to the bend
of the road where the homestead comes in sight, and where they had
taken leave of their prisoners. There, as they turned the corner,
suddenly they all stopped, thunderstruck, pulling their horses back on
to their haunches in their amazement.
The Lambs had not escaped! Though they had not followed meekly to the
slaughter-house, at least they had made no endeavours to flee, or even
to return to the sheepfold on the hillside above them. All the time
that the soldiers had been carousing in the alehouse, or searching the
lanes, the little company of Friends had remained in the very same
spot where the soldiers had left them nearly two hours before.
And there they were still, every one of them;--sitting on the green,
grassy bank by the wayside. There they were, quietly going on with
their uninterrupted worship. Yes; out there, under the shadow of the
everlasting hills, untroubled by the shadow of even a passing cloud of
fear, the Friends calmly continued to wait upon God.