H. M.

_November_ 1885.

THE

HISTORY OF THOMAS ELLWOOD.

_WRITTEN BY HIMSELF_.

ALTHOUGH my station, not being so eminent either in the church of Christ

or in the world as others who have moved in higher orbs, may not afford

such considerable remarks as theirs, yet inasmuch as in the course of my

travels through this vale of tears I have passed through various and some

uncommon exercises, which the Lord hath been graciously pleased to

support me under and conduct me through, I hold it a matter excusable at

least, if not commendable, to give the world some little account of my

life, that in recounting the many deliverances and preservations which

the Lord hath vouchsafed to work for me, both I, by a grateful

acknowledgment thereof and return of thanksgivings unto him therefor, may

in some measure set forth His abundant goodness to me, and others, whose

lot it may be to tread the same path and fall into the same or like

exercises, may be encouraged to persevere in the way of holiness, and

with full assurance of mind to trust in the Lord, whatsoever trials may

befall them.

To begin therefore with mine own beginning, I was born in the year of our

Lord 1639, about the beginning of the eighth month, so far as I have been

able to inform myself, for the parish register, which relates to the time

not of birth but of baptism, as they call it, is not to be relied on.

The place of my birth was a little country town called Crowell, situate

in the upper side of Oxfordshire, three miles eastward from Thame, the

nearest market town.

My father’s name was Walter Ellwood, and my mother’s maiden name was

Elizabeth Potman, both well descended, but of declining families. So

that what my father possessed (which was a pretty estate in lands, and

more as I have heard in moneys) he received, as he had done his name

Walter, from his grandfather Walter Gray, whose daughter and only child

was his mother.

In my very infancy, when I was but about two years old, I was carried to

London; for the civil war between King and Parliament breaking then

forth, my father, who favoured the Parliament side, though he took not

arms, not holding himself safe at his country habitation, which lay too

near some garrisons of the King’s, betook himself to London, that city

then holding for the Parliament.

There was I bred up, though not without much difficulty, the city air not

agreeing with my tender constitution, and there continued until Oxford

was surrendered, and the war in appearance ended.

In this time my parents contracted an acquaintance and intimate

friendship with the Lady Springett, who being then the widow of Sir

William Springett, who died in the Parliament service, was afterwards the

wife of Isaac Penington, eldest son of Alderman Penington, of London.

And this friendship devolving from the parents to the children, I became

an early and particular playfellow to her daughter Gulielma; being

admitted, as such, to ride with her in her little coach, drawn by her

footman about Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

I mention this in this place because the continuation of that

acquaintance and friendship, having been an occasional means of my being

afterwards brought to the knowledge of the blessed TRUTH, I shall have

frequent cause, in the course of the following discourse, to make

honourable mention of that family, to which I am under so many and great

obligations.

Soon after the surrender of Oxford my father returned to his estate at

Crowell, which by that time he might have need enough to look after,

having spent, I suppose, the greatest part of the moneys which had been

left him by his grandfather in maintaining himself and his family at a

high rate in London.

My elder brother (for I had one brother and two sisters, all elder than

myself) was, while we lived in London, boarded at a private school, in

the house of one Francis Atkinson, at a place called Hadley, near Barnet,

in Hertfordshire, where he had made some good proficiency in the Latin

and French tongues. But after we had left the city, and were re-settled

in the country, he was taken from that private school and sent to the

free school at Thame, in Oxfordshire.

Thither also was I sent as soon as my tender age would permit; for I was

indeed but young when I went, and yet seemed younger than I was, by

reason of my low and little stature. For it was held for some years a

doubtful point whether I should not have proved a dwarf. But after I was

arrived at the fifteenth year of my age, or thereabouts, I began to shoot

up, and gave not up growing till I had attained the middle size and

stature of men.

At this school, which at that time was in good reputation, I profited

apace, having then a natural propensity to learning; so that at the first

reading over of my lesson I commonly made myself master of it; and yet,

which is strange to think of, few boys in the school wore out more birch

than I. For though I was never, that I remember, whipped upon the score

of not having my lesson ready, or of not saying it well, yet being a

little busy boy, full of spirit, of a working head and active hand, I

could not easily conform myself to the grave and sober rules and, as I

then thought, severe orders of the school, but was often playing one

waggish prank or other among my fellow-scholars, which subjected me to

correction, so that I have come under the discipline of the rod twice in

a forenoon; which yet brake no bones.

Had I been continued at this school, and in due time preferred to a

higher, I might in likelihood have been a scholar, for I was observed to

have a genius apt to learn. But my father having, so soon as the

republican government began to settle, accepted the office of a justice

of the peace (which was no way beneficial, but merely honorary, and every

way expensive), and put himself into a port and course of living

agreeably thereunto, and having also removed my brother from Thame school

to Merton College in Oxford, and entered him there in the highest and

most chargeable condition of a Fellow Commoner, he found it needful to

retrench his expenses elsewhere, the hurt of which fell upon me. For he

thereupon took me from school, to save the charge of maintaining me

there; which was somewhat like plucking green fruit from the tree, and

laying it by before it was come to its due ripeness, which will

thenceforth shrink and wither, and lose that little juice and relish

which it began to have.

Even so it fared with me. For being taken home when I was but young, and

before I was well settled in my studies (though I had made a good

progress in the Latin tongue, and was entered in the Greek) being left

too much to myself, to ply or play with my books, or without them, as I

pleased, I soon shook hands with my books by shaking my books out of my

hands, and laying them by degrees quite aside, and addicted myself to

such youthful sports and pleasures as the place afforded and my condition

could reach unto.

By this means, in a little time I began to lose that little learning I

had acquired at school, and by a continued disuse of my books became at

length so utterly a stranger to learning, that I could not have read, far

less have understood, a sentence in Latin: which I was so sensible of

that I warily avoided reading to others, even in an English book, lest,

if I should meet with a Latin word, I should shame myself by

mispronouncing it.

Thus I went on, taking my swing in such vain courses as were accounted

harmless recreations, entertaining my companions and familiar

acquaintance with pleasant discourses in our conversations, by the mere

force of mother-wit and natural parts, without the help of school

cultivation; and was accounted good company too.

But I always sorted myself with persons of ingenuity, temperance, and

sobriety; for I loathed scurrilities in conversation, and had a natural

aversion to immoderate drinking. So that in the time of my greatest

vanity I was preserved from profaneness and the grosser evils of the

world, which rendered me acceptable to persons of the best note in that

country then. I often waited on the Lord Wenman at his house, Thame

Park, about two miles from Crowell, where I lived; to whose favour I held

myself entitled in a twofold respect, both as my mother was nearly

related to his lady, and as he had been pleased to bestow his name upon

me, when he made large promises for me at the font. He was a person of

great honour and virtue, and always gave me a kind reception at his

table, how often soever I came. And I have cause to think I should have

received from this lord some advantageous preferment in this world, as

soon as he had found me capable of it (though betwixt him and my father

there was not then so good an understanding as might have been wished),

had I not been, in a little time after, called into the service of the

best and highest Lord, and thereby lost the favour of all my friends,

relations, and acquaintance of this world. To the account of which most

happy exchange I hasten, and therefore willingly pass over many

particularities of my youthful life. Yet one passage I am willing to

mention, for the effect it had upon me afterwards, which was thus.

My father being then in the Commission of the Peace, and going to a Petty

Sessions at Watlington, I waited on him thither. And when we came near

the town, the coachman, seeing a nearer and easier way (than the common

road) through a corn-field, and that it was wide enough for the wheels to

run without damaging the corn, turned down there; which being observed by

a husbandman who was at plough not far off, he ran to us, and stopping

the coach, poured forth a mouthful of complaints, in none of the best

language, for driving over the corn. My father mildly answered him,

“That if there was an offence committed, he must rather impute it to his

servant than himself, since he neither directed him to drive that way,

nor knew which way he drove.” Yet added, “That he was going to such an

inn at the town, whither if he came he would make him full satisfaction

for whatsoever damage he had sustained thereby.” And so on we went, the

man venting his discontent, as he went back, in angry accents. At the

town, upon inquiry, we understood that it was a way often used, and

without damage, being broad enough; but that it was not the common road,

which yet lay not far from it, and was also good enough; wherefore my

father bid his man drive home that way.

It was late in the evening when we returned, and very dark; and this

quarrelsome man, who had troubled himself and us in the morning, having

gotten another lusty fellow like himself to assist him, waylaid us in the

night, expecting we would return the same way we came. But when they

found we did not, but took the common way, they, angry that they were

disappointed, and loth to lose their purpose (which was to put an abuse

upon us), coasted over to us in the dark, and laying hold on the horses’

bridles, stopped them from going on. My father, asking his man what the

reason was that he went not on, was answered, “That there were two men at

the horses’ heads, who held them back, and would not suffer them to go

forward.” Whereupon my father, opening the boot, stepped out, and I

followed close at his heels. Going up to the place where the men stood,

he demanded of them the meaning of this assault. They said, “We were

upon the corn.” We knew by the route we were not on the corn, but in the

common way, and told them so; but they told us, “They were resolved they

would not let us go on any farther, but would make us go back again.” My

father endeavoured by gentle reasoning to persuade them to forbear, and

not run themselves farther into the danger of the law, which they were

run too far into already; but they rather derided him for it. Seeing

therefore fair means would not work upon them, he spake more roughly to

them, charging them to deliver their clubs (for each of them had a great

club in his hand, somewhat like those which are called quarter-staves):

they thereupon, laughing, told him, “They did not bring them thither for

that end.” Thereupon my father, turning his head to me, said, “Tom,

disarm them.”

I stood ready at his elbow, waiting only for the word of command. For

being naturally of a bold spirit, full then of youthful heat, and that,

too, heightened by the sense I had, not only of the abuse, but insolent

behaviour of those rude fellows, my blood began to boil, and my fingers

itched, as the saying is, to be dealing with them. Wherefore, stepping

boldly forward to lay hold on the staff of him that was nearest to me, I

said, “Sirrah, deliver your weapon.” He thereupon raised his club, which

was big enough to have knocked down an ox, intending no doubt to have

knocked me down with it, as probably he would have done, had I not, in

the twinkling of an eye, whipped out my rapier, and made a pass upon him.

I could not have failed running of him through up to the hilt had he

stood his ground, but the sudden and unexpected sight of my bright blade

glittering in the dark night, did so amaze and terrify the man, that,

slipping aside, he avoided my thrust, and letting his staff sink, betook

himself to his heels for safety; which his companion seeing, fled also.

I followed the former as fast as I could, but _timor addidit alas_ (fear

gave him wings), and made him swiftly fly; so that, although I was

accounted very nimble, yet the farther we ran the more ground he gained

on me; so that I could not overtake him, which made me think he took

shelter under some bush, which he knew where to find, though I did not.

Meanwhile, the coachman, who had sufficiently the outside of a man,

excused himself from intermeddling under pretence that he durst not leave

his horses, and so left me to shift for myself; and I was gone so far

beyond my knowledge, that I understood not which way I was to go, till by

halloing, and being halloed to again, I was directed where to find my

company.

We had easy means to have found out who these men were (the principal of

them having been in the daytime at the inn, and both quarrelled with the

coachman, and threatened to be even with him when he went back); but

since they came off no better in their attempt, my father thought it

better not to know them, than to oblige himself to a prosecution of them.

At that time, and for a good while after, I had no regret upon my mind

for what I had done, and designed to have done, in this case, but went on

in a sort of bravery, resolving to kill, if I could, any man that should

make the like attempt or put any affront on us; and for that reason

seldom went afterwards upon those public services without a loaded pistol

in my pocket. But when it pleased the Lord, in his infinite goodness, to

call me out of the spirit and ways of the world, and give me the

knowledge of his saving truth, whereby the actions of my fore-past life

were set in order before me, a sort of horror seized on me, when I

considered how near I had been to the staining of my hands with human

blood. And whensoever afterwards I went that way, and indeed as often

since as the matter has come into my remembrance, my soul has blessed the

Lord for my deliverance, and thanksgivings and praises have arisen in my

heart (as now at the relating of it, they do) to Him who preserved and

withheld me from shedding man’s blood. Which is the reason for which I

have given this account of that action, that others may be warned by it.

About this time my dear and honoured mother, who was indeed a woman of

singular worth and virtue, departed this life, having a little before

heard of the death of her eldest son, who (falling under the displeasure

of my father for refusing to resign his interest in an estate which my

father sold, and thereupon desiring that he might have leave to travel,

in hopes that time and absence might work a reconciliation) went into

Ireland with a person powerful there in those times, by whose means he

was quickly preferred to a place of trust and profit, but lived not long

to enjoy it.

I mentioned before, that during my father’s abode in London, in the time

of the civil wars, he contracted a friendship with the Lady Springett,

then a widow, and afterwards married to Isaac Penington, Esq., to

continue which he sometimes visited them at their country lodgings, as at

Datchet, and at Causham Lodge, near Reading. And having heard that they

were come to live upon their own estate at Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire,

about fifteen miles from Crowell, he went one day to visit them there,

and to return at night, taking me with him.

But very much surprised we were when, being come thither, we first heard,

then found, they were become Quakers; a people we had no knowledge of,

and a name we had till then scarce heard of.

So great a change, from a free, debonair, and courtly sort of behaviour,

which we formerly had found them in, to so strict a gravity as they now

received us with did not a little amuse us, and disappoint our

expectation of such a pleasant visit as we used to have, and had now

promised ourselves. Nor could my father have any opportunity, by a

private conference with them, to understand the ground or occasion of

this change, there being some other strangers with them (related to Isaac

Penington), who came that morning from London to visit them also.

For my part I sought and at length found means to cast myself into the

company of the daughter, whom I found gathering some flowers in the

garden, attended by her maid, who was also a Quaker. But when I

addressed myself to her after my accustomed manner, with intention to

engage her in some discourse which might introduce conversation on the

footing of our former acquaintance, though she treated me with a

courteous mien, yet, as young as she was, the gravity of her look and

behaviour struck such an awe upon me, that I found myself not so much

master of myself as to pursue any further converse with her. Wherefore,

asking pardon for my boldness in having intruded myself into her private

walks, I withdrew, not without some disorder (as I thought at least) of

mind.

We stayed dinner, which was very handsome, and lacked nothing to

recommend it to me but the want of mirth and pleasant discourse, which we

could neither have with them, nor by reason of them, with one another

amongst ourselves; the weightiness that was upon their spirits and

countenances keeping down the lightness that would have been up in us.

We stayed, notwithstanding, till the rest of the company took leave of

them, and then we also, doing the same, returned, not greatly satisfied

with our journey, nor knowing what in particular to find fault with.

Yet this good effect that visit had upon my father, who was then in the

Commission of the Peace, that it disposed him to a more favourable

opinion of and carriage towards those people when they came in his way,

as not long after one of them did. For a young man, who lived in

Buckinghamshire, came on a first-day to the church (so called) at a town

called Chinner, a mile from Crowell, having, it seems, a pressure on his

mind to say something to the minister of that parish. He being an

acquaintance of mine, drew me sometimes to hear him, as it did then. The

young man stood in the aisle before the pulpit all the time of the

sermon, not speaking a word till the sermon and prayer after it were

ended, and then spoke a few words to the priest, of which all that I

could hear was, “That the prayer of the wicked is abomination to the

Lord, and that God heareth not sinners.”

Somewhat more, I think, he did say, which I could not distinctly hear for

the noise the people made; and more probably he would have said, had he

not been interrupted by the officers, who took him into custody, and led

him out in order to carry him before my father.

When I understood that, I hastened home, that I might give my father a

fair account of the matter before they came. I told him the young man

behaved himself quietly and peaceably, spoke not a word till the minister

had quite done his service, and that what he then spoke was but short,

and was delivered without passion or ill language. This I knew would

furnish my father with a fair ground whereon to discharge the man if he

would.

And accordingly when they came, and made a high complaint against the man

(who said little for himself), my father, having examined the officers

who brought him—what the words that he spoke were (which they did not

well agree in), and at what time he spoke them (which they all agreed to

be after the minister had done), and then, whether he gave the minister

any reviling language, or endeavoured to raise a tumult among the people

(which they could not charge him with); not finding that he had broken

the law, he counselled the young man to be careful that he did not make

or occasion any public disturbance, and so dismissed him; which I was

glad of.

Some time after this, my father, having gotten some further account of

the people called Quakers, and being desirous to be informed concerning

their principles, made another visit to Isaac Penington and his wife, at

their house called the Grange, in Peter’s Chalfont, and took both my

sisters and me with him.

It was in the tenth month, in the year 1659, that we went thither, where

we found a very kind reception, and tarried some days; one day at least

the longer, for that while we were there a meeting was appointed at a

place about a mile from thence, to which we were invited to go, and

willingly went.

It was held in a farmhouse called the Grove, which having formerly been a

gentleman’s seat, had a very large hall, and that well filled.

To this meeting came Edward Burrough, besides other preachers, as Thomas

Curtis and James Naylor, but none spoke there at that time but Edward

Burrough, next to whom, as it were under him, it was my lot to sit on a

stool by the side of a long table on which he sat, and I drank in his

words with desire; for they not only answered my understanding, but

warmed my heart with a certain heat, which I had not till then felt from

the ministry of any man.

When the meeting was ended our friends took us home with them again; and

after supper, the evenings being long, the servants of the family (who

were Quakers) were called in, and we all sat down in silence. But long

we had not so sat before Edward Burrough began to speak among us. And

although he spoke not long, yet what he said did touch, as I suppose, my

father’s (religious) copyhold, as the phrase is. And he having been from

his youth a professor, though not joined in that which is called close

communion with any one sort, and valuing himself upon the knowledge he

esteemed himself to have in the various notions of each profession,

thought he had now a fair opportunity to display his knowledge, and

thereupon began to make objections against what had been delivered.

The subject of the discourse was, “The universal free grace of God to all

mankind,” to which he opposed the Calvinistic tenet of particular and

personal predestination; in defence of which indefensible notion he found

himself more at a loss than he expected. Edward Burrough said not much

to him upon it, though what he said was close and cogent; but James

Naylor interposing, handled the subject with so much perspicuity and

clear demonstration, that his reasoning seemed to be irresistible; and so

I suppose my father found it, which made him willing to drop the

discourse.

As for Edward Burrough, he was a brisk young man, of a ready tongue, and

might have been, for aught I then knew, a scholar, which made me the less

to admire his way of reasoning. But what dropt from James Naylor had the

greater force upon me, because he looked but like a plain simple

countryman, having the appearance of a husbandman or a shepherd.

As my father was not able to maintain the argument on his side, so

neither did they seem willing to drive it to an extremity on their side;

but treating him in a soft and gentle manner, did after a while let fall

the discourse, and then we withdrew to our respective chambers.

The next morning we prepared to return home (that is, my father, my

younger sister, and myself, for my elder sister was gone before by the

stage-coach to London), and when, having taken our leaves of our friends,

we went forth, they, with Edward Burrough, accompanying us to the gate,

he there directed his speech in a few words to each of us severally,

according to the sense he had of our several conditions. And when we

were gone off, and they gone in again, they asking him what he thought of

us, he answered them, as they afterwards told me, to this effect: “As for

the old man, he is settled on his lees, and the young woman is light and

airy; but the young man is reached, and may do well if he does not lose

it.” And surely that which he said to me, or rather that spirit in which

he spoke it, took such fast hold on me, that I felt sadness and trouble

come over me, though I did not distinctly understand what I was troubled

for. I knew not what I ailed, but I knew I ailed something more than

ordinary, and my heart was very heavy.

I found it was not so with my father and sister, for as I rode after the

coach I could hear them talk pleasantly one to the other; but they could

not discern how it was with me, because I, riding on horseback, kept much

out of sight.

By the time we got home it was night; and the next day, being the first

day of the week, I went in the afternoon to hear the minister of Chinner,

and this was the last time I ever went to hear any of that function.

After the sermon I went with him to his house, and in a freedom of

discourse, which, from a certain intimacy that was between us, I commonly

used with him, told him where I had been, what company I had met with

there, and what observations I had made to myself thereupon. He seemed

to understand as little of them as I had done before, and civilly

abstained from casting any unhandsome reflections on them.

I had a desire to go to another meeting of the Quakers, and bade my

father’s man inquire if there was any in the country thereabouts. He

thereupon told me he had heard at Isaac Penington’s that there was to be

a meeting at High Wycombe on Thursday next.

Thither therefore I went, though it was seven miles from me; and that I

might be rather thought to go out a-coursing than to a meeting, I let my

greyhound run by my horse’s side.

When I came there, and had set up my horse at an inn, I was at a loss how

to find the house where the meeting was to be. I knew it not, and was

ashamed to ask after it; wherefore, having ordered the ostler to take

care of my dog, I went into the street and stood at the inn gate, musing

with myself what course to take. But I had not stood long ere I saw a

horseman riding along the street, whom I remembered I had seen before at

Isaac Penington’s, and he put up his horse at the same inn. Him

therefore I resolved to follow, supposing he was going to the meeting, as

indeed he was.

Being come to the house, which proved to be John Raunce’s, I saw the

people sitting together in an outer room; wherefore I stepped in and sat

down on the first void seat, the end of a bench just within the door,

having my sword by my side and black clothes on, which drew some eyes

upon me. It was not long ere one stood up and spoke, whom I was

afterwards well acquainted with; his name was Samuel Thornton, and what

he said was very suitable and of good service to me, for it reached home

as if it had been directed to me.

As soon as ever the meeting was ended and the people began to rise, I,

being next the door, stepped out quickly, and hastening to my inn, took

horse immediately homewards, and (so far as I remember) my having been

gone was not taken notice of by my father.

This latter meeting was like the clinching of a nail, confirming and

fastening in my mind those good principles which had sunk into me at the

former. My understanding began to open, and I felt some stirrings in my

breast, tending to the work of a new creation in me. The general trouble

and confusion of mind, which had for some days lain heavy upon me and

pressed me down, without a distinct discovery of the particular cause for

which it came, began now to wear off, and some glimmerings of light began

to break forth in me, which let me see my inward state and condition

towards God. The light, which before had shone in my darkness, and the

darkness could not comprehend it, began now to shine out of darkness, and

in some measure discovered to me what it was that had before clouded me

and brought that sadness and trouble upon me. And now I saw that

although I had been in a great degree preserved from the common

immoralities and gross pollutions of the world, yet the spirit of the

world had hitherto ruled in me, and led me into pride, flattery, vanity,

and superfluity, all which was naught. I found there were many plants

growing in me which were not of the heavenly Father’s planting, and that

all these, of whatever sort or kind they were, or how specious soever

they might appear, must be plucked up.

Now was all my former life ripped up, and my sins by degrees were set in

order before me. And though they looked not with so black a hue and so

deep a dye as those of the lewdest sort of people did, yet I found that

all sin (even that which had the fairest or finest show, as well as that

which was more coarse and foul) brought guilt, and with and for guilt,

condemnation on the soul that sinned. This I felt, and was greatly bowed

down under the sense thereof.

Now also did I receive a new law—an inward law superadded to the

outward—the law of the spirit of life in Christ Jesus, which wrought in

me against all evil, not only in deed and in word, but even in thought

also; so that everything was brought to judgment, and judgment passed

upon all. So that I could not any longer go on in my former ways and

course of life, for when I did, judgment took hold upon me for it.

Thus the Lord was graciously pleased to deal with me in somewhat like

manner as he had dealt with his people Israel of old when they had

transgressed his righteous law, whom by his prophet he called back,

required to put away the evil of their doings, bidding them first cease

to do evil, then learn to do well, before he would admit them to reason

with him, and before he would impart to them the effects of his free

mercy. (Isaiah i. 16, 17.)

I was now required by this inward and spiritual law (the law of the

spirit of life in Christ Jesus) to put away the evil of my doings, and to

cease to do evil; and what in particular the evil was which I was

required to put away and to cease from, that measure of the divine light

which was now manifested in me discovered to me, and what the light made

manifest to be evil, judgment passed upon.

So that here began to be a way cast up before me for me to walk in—a

direct and plain way, so plain that a wayfaring man, how weak and simple

soever (though a fool to the wisdom and in the judgment of the world)

could not err while he continued to walk in it, the error coming in by

his going out of it. And this way with respect to me I saw was that

measure of divine light which was manifested in me, by which the evil of

my doings which I was to put away and to cease from was discovered to me.

By this divine light, then, I saw that though I had not the evil of the

common uncleanness, debauchery, profaneness, and pollutions of the world

to put away, because I had, through the great goodness of God and a civil

education, been preserved out of those grosser evils, yet I had many

other evils to put away and to cease from; some of which were not by the

world, which lies in wickedness (1 John v. 19), accounted evils; but by

the light of Christ were made manifest to me to be evils, and as such

condemned in me.

As particularly those fruits and effects of pride that discover

themselves in the vanity and superfluity of apparel; which I, as far as

my ability would extend to, took, alas! too much delight in. This evil

of my doings I was required to put away and cease from; and judgment lay

upon me till I did so. Wherefore, in obedience to the inward law, which

agreed with the outward (1 Tim. ii. 9; 1 Pet. iii. 3; 1 Tim. vi. 8; James

i. 21), I took off from my apparel those unnecessary trimmings of lace,

ribbons, and useless buttons, which had no real service, but were set on

only for that which was by mistake called ornament; and I ceased to wear

rings.

Again, the giving of flattering titles to men between whom and me there

was not any relation to which such titles could be pretended to belong.

This was an evil I had been much addicted to, and was accounted a ready

artist in; therefore this evil also was I required to put away and cease

from. So that thenceforward I durst not say, Sir, Master, My Lord, Madam

(or My Dame); or say Your Servant to any one to whom I did not stand in

the real relation of a servant, which I had never done to any.

Again, respect of persons, in uncovering the head and bowing the knee or

body in salutation, was a practice I had been much in the use of; and

this, being one of the vain customs of the world, introduced by the

spirit of the world, instead of the true honour which this is a false

representation of, and used in deceit as a token of respect by persons

one to another, who bear no real respect one to another; and besides,

this being a type and proper emblem of that divine honour which all ought

to pay to Almighty God, and which all of all sorts, who take upon them

the Christian name, appear in when they offer their prayers to Him, and

therefore should not be given to men;—I found this to be one of those

evils which I had been too long doing; therefore I was now required to

put it away and cease from it.

Again, the corrupt and unsound form of speaking in the plural number to a

single person, _you_ to one, instead of _thou_, contrary to the pure,

plain, and single language of truth, _thou_ to one, and _you_ to more

than one, which had always been used by God to men, and men to God, as

well as one to another, from the oldest record of time till corrupt men,

for corrupt ends, in later and corrupt times, to flatter, fawn, and work

upon the corrupt nature in men, brought in that false and senseless way

of speaking _you_ to one, which has since corrupted the modern languages,

and hath greatly debased the spirits and depraved the manners of

men;—this evil custom I had been as forward in as others, and this I was

now called out of and required to cease from.

These and many more evil customs which had sprung up in the night of

darkness and general apostacy from the truth and true religion, were now,

by the inshining of this pure ray of divine light in my conscience,

gradually discovered to me to be what I ought to cease from, shun, and

stand a witness against.

But so subtly and withal so powerfully did the enemy work upon the weak

part in me, as to persuade me that in these things I ought to make a

difference between my father and all other men; and that therefore,

though I did disuse these tokens of respect to others, yet I ought still

to use them towards him, as he was my father. And so far did this wile

of his prevail upon me, through a fear lest I should do amiss in

withdrawing any sort of respect or honour from my father which was due

unto him, that being thereby beguiled, I continued for a while to demean

myself in the same manner towards him, with respect both to language and

gesture, as I had always done before. And so long as I did so (standing

bare before him, and giving him the accustomed language) he did not

express—whatever he thought—any dislike of me.

But as to myself and the work begun in me, I found it was not enough for

me to cease to do evil, though that was a good and a great step. I had

another lesson before me, which was to learn to do well; which I could by

no means do till I had given up with full purpose of mind to cease from

doing evil.

And when I had done that, the enemy took advantage of my weakness to

mislead me again.

For whereas I ought to have waited in the light for direction and

guidance into and in the way of well-doing, and not to have moved till

the divine Spirit (a manifestation of which the Lord has been pleased to

give unto me for me to profit with or by), the enemy, transforming

himself into the appearance of an angel of light, offered himself in that

appearance to be my guide and leader into the performance of religious

exercises. And I not then knowing the wiles of Satan, and being eager to

be doing some acceptable service to God, too readily yielded myself to

the conduct of my enemy instead of my friend.

He thereupon, humouring the warmth and zeal of my spirit, put me upon

religious performances in my own will, in my own time, and in my own

strength; which in themselves were good, and would have been profitable

unto me and acceptable unto the Lord, if they had been performed in His

will, in His time, and in the ability which He gives. But being wrought

in the will of man and at the prompting of the evil one, no wonder that

it did me hurt instead of good.

I read abundantly in the Bible, and would set myself tasks in reading,

enjoining myself to read so many chapters, sometimes a whole book or long

epistle, at a time. And I thought that time well spent, though I was not

much the wiser for what I had read, reading it too cursorily, and without

the true Guide, the Holy Spirit, which alone could open the understanding

and give the true sense of what was read.

I prayed often, and drew out my prayers to a great length, and appointed

unto myself certain set times to pray at, and a certain number of prayers

to say in a day: we knew not meanwhile what true prayer was, which stands

not in words, though the words which are uttered in the movings of the

Holy Spirit are very available, but in the breathing of the soul to the

heavenly Father through the operation of the Holy Spirit, who maketh

intercession sometimes in words and sometimes with sighs and groans only,

which the Lord vouchsafes to hear and answer.

This will-worship, which all is that is performed in the will of man and

not in the movings of the Holy Spirit, was a great hurt to me, and

hindrance of my spiritual growth in the way of truth. But my heavenly

Father, who knew the sincerity of my soul to Him and the hearty desire I

had to serve Him, had compassion on me, and in due time was graciously

pleased to illuminate my understanding further, and to open in me an eye

to discern the false spirit, and its way of working from the true, and to

reject the former and cleave to the latter.

But though the enemy had by his subtlety gained such advantages over me,

yet I went on notwithstanding, and firmly persisted in my godly

resolution of ceasing from and denying those things which I was now

convinced in my conscience were evil. And on this account a great trial

came quickly on me; for the general Quarter Sessions for the Peace coming

on, my father, willing to excuse himself from a dirty journey, commanded

me to get up betimes and go to Oxford, and deliver in the recognisances

he had taken, and bring him an account what justices were on the bench,

and what principal pleas were before them; which he knew I knew how to

do, having often attended him on those services.

I, who knew how it stood with me better than he did, felt a weight come

over me as soon as he had spoken the word; for I presently saw it would

bring a very great exercise upon me. But having never resisted his will

in anything that was lawful, as this was, I attempted not to make any

excuse, but ordering a horse to be ready for me early in the morning, I

went to bed, having great strugglings in my breast.

For the enemy came in upon me like a flood, and set many difficulties

before me, swelling them up to the highest pitch, by representing them as

mountains which I should never be able to get over; and alas! that faith

which could remove such mountains, and cast them into the sea, was but

very small and weak in me.

He cast into my mind not only how I should behave myself in court and

dispatch the business I was sent about, but how I should demean myself

towards my acquaintance, of which I had many in that city, with whom I

was wont to be jolly; whereas now I could not put off my hat, nor bow to

any of them, nor give them their honorary titles (as they are called),

nor use the corrupt language of _you_ to any one of them, but must keep

to the plain and true language of _thou_ and _thee_.

Much of this nature revolved in my mind, thrown in by the enemy to

discourage and cast me down. And I had none to have recourse to for

counsel or help, but to the Lord alone; to whom therefore I poured forth

my supplications, with earnest cries and breathings of soul, that He, in

whom all power was, would enable me to go through this great exercise,

and keep me faithful to Himself therein. And after some time He was

pleased to compose my mind to stillness, and I went to rest.

Early next morning I got up, and found my spirit pretty calm and quiet,

yet not without a fear upon me lest I should slip and let fall the

testimony which I had to bear. And as I rode a frequent cry ran through

me to the Lord, in this wise: “Oh, my God, preserve me faithful, whatever

befalls me: suffer me not to be drawn into evil, how much scorn and

contempt soever may be cast upon me.”

Thus was my spirit exercised on the way almost continually; and when I

was come within a mile or two of the city, whom should I meet upon the

way coming from thence but Edward Burrough. I rode in a montero-cap (a

dress more used then than now), and so did he; and because the weather

was exceedingly sharp, we both had drawn our caps down, to shelter our

faces from the cold, and by that means neither of us knew the other, but

passed by without taking notice one of the other; till a few days after,

meeting again, and observing each other’s dress, we recollected where we

had so lately met. Then thought I with myself, oh, how glad should I

have been of a word of encouragement and counsel from him when I was

under that weighty exercise of mind! But the Lord saw it was not good

for me, that my reliance might be wholly upon Him, and not on man.

When I had set up my horse I went directly to the hall where the sessions

were held, where I had been but a very little while before a knot of my

old acquaintances, espying me, came to me. One of these was a scholar in

his gown, another a surgeon of that city (both my school-fellows and

fellow-boarders at Thame school), and the third a country gentleman with

whom I had long been very familiar.

When they were come up to me they all saluted me after the usual manner,

pulling off their hats and bowing, and saying, “Your humble servant,

sir,” expecting no doubt the like from me. But when they saw me stand

still, not moving my cap, nor bowing my knee in way of congee to them,

they were amazed, and looked first one upon another, then upon me, and

then one upon another again, for a while, without speaking a word.

At length the surgeon, a brisk young man, who stood nearest to me,

clapping his hand in a familiar way upon my shoulder, and smiling on me,

said, “What, Tom! a Quaker?” To which I readily and cheerfully answered,

“Yes, a Quaker.” And as the words passed out of my mouth I felt joy

spring in my heart; for I rejoiced that I had not been drawn out by them

into a compliance with them, and that I had strength and boldness given

me to confess myself to be one of that despised people.

They stayed not long with me nor said any more, that I remember to me;

but looking somewhat confusedly one upon another, after a while took

their leave of me, going off in the same ceremonious manner as they came

on.

After they were gone I walked a while about the hall, and went up nearer

to the court, to observe both what justices were on the bench and what

business they had before them. And I went in fear, not of what they

could or would have done to me if they should have taken notice of me,

but lest I should be surprised, and drawn unwarily into that which I was

to keep out of.

It was not long before the court adjourned to go to dinner, and that time

I took to go to the Clerk of the Peace at his house, whom I was well

acquainted with. So soon as I came into the room where he was he came

and met me, and saluted me after his manner; for he had a great respect

for my father and a kind regard for me. And though he was at first

somewhat startled at my carriage and language, yet he treated me very

civilly, without any reflection or show of lightness. I delivered him

the recognisances which my father had sent, and having done the business

I came upon, withdrew, and went to my inn to refresh myself, and then to

return home.

But when I was ready to take horse, looking out into the street, I saw

two or three justices standing just in the way where I was to ride. This

brought a fresh concern upon me. I knew if they saw me they would know

me; and I concluded, if they knew me, they would stop me and inquire

after my father, and I doubted how I should come off with them.

This doubting brought weakness on me, and that weakness led to

contrivance how I might avoid this trial. I knew the city pretty well,

and remembered there was a back way, which though somewhat about, would

bring me out of town without passing by those justices; yet loth I was to

go that way. Wherefore I stayed a pretty time, in hopes they would have

parted company, or removed to some other place out of my way. But when I

had waited until I was uneasy for losing so much time, having entered

into reasonings with flesh and blood, the weakness prevailed over me, and

away I went the back way, which brought trouble and grief upon my spirit

for having shunned the cross.

But the Lord looked on me with a tender eye, and seeing my heart was

right to Him, and that what I had done was merely through weakness and

fear of falling, and that I was sensible of my failing therein, and sorry

for it, He was graciously pleased to pass it by, and speak peace to me

again. So that before I got home, as when I went in the morning, my

heart was full of breathing prayer to the Lord, that He would vouchsafe

to be with me, and uphold and carry me through that day’s exercise; so

now at my return in the evening, my heart was full of thankful

acknowledgments and praises unto Him for His great goodness and favour to

me, in having thus far preserved and kept me from falling into anything

that might have brought dishonour to His holy name, which I had now taken

on me.

But notwithstanding that it was thus with me, and that I found peace and

acceptance with the Lord in some good degree, according to my obedience

to the convictions I had received by His holy Spirit in me, yet was not

the veil so done away, or fully rent, but that there still remained a

cloud upon my understanding with respect to my carriage towards my

father. And that notion which the enemy had brought into my mind, that I

ought to put such a difference between him and all others as that, on

account of the paternal relation, I should still deport myself towards

him, both in gesture and language, as I had always heretofore done, did

yet prevail with me. So that when I came home I went to my father

bareheaded, as I used to do, and gave him a particular account of the

business he had given me in command, in such manner that we, observing no

alteration in my carriage towards him, found no cause to take offence at

me.

I had felt for some time before an earnest desire of mind to go again to

Isaac Penington’s, and I began to question whether, when my father should

come (as I concluded ere long he would) to understand I inclined to

settle among the people called Quakers, he would permit me the command of

his horses, as before. Wherefore, in the morning when I went to Oxford I

gave directions to a servant of his to go that day to a gentleman of my

acquaintance, who I knew had a riding nag to put off either by sale or to

be kept for his work, and desired him, in my name, to send him to me;

which he did, and I found him in the stable when I came home.

On this nag I designed to ride next day to Isaac Penington’s, and in

order thereunto arose betimes and got myself ready for the journey; but

because I would pay all due respect to my father, and not go without his

consent, or knowledge at the least, I sent one up to him (for he was not

yet stirring) to acquaint him that I had a purpose to go to Isaac

Penington’s, and desired to know if he pleased to command me any service

to them. He sent me word he would speak with me before I went, and would

have me come up to him, which I did, and stood by his bedside.

Then, in a mild and gentle tone, he said: “I understand you have a mind

to go to Mr. Penington’s.” I answered, “I have so.”—“Why,” said he, “I

wonder why you should. You were there, you know, but a few days ago, and

unless you had business with them, don’t you think it will look oddly?”—I

said, “I thought not.”—“I doubt,” said he, “you’ll tire them with your

company, and make them think they shall be troubled with you.”—“If,”

replied I, “I find anything of that, I’ll make the shorter stay.”—“But,”

said he, “can you propose any sort of business with them, more than a

mere visit?”—“Yes,” said I, “I propose to myself not only to see them,

but to have some discourse with them.”—“Why,” said he, in a tone a little

harsher, “I hope you don’t incline to be of their way.”—“Truly,” answered

I, “I like them and their way very well, so far as I yet understand it;

and I am willing to go to them that I may understand it better.”

Thereupon he began to reckon up a beadroll of faults against the Quakers,

telling me they were a rude, unmannerly people, that would not give civil

respect or honour to their superiors, no not to magistrates; that they

held many dangerous principles; that they were an immodest shameless

people; and that one of them stripped himself stark naked, and went in

that unseemly manner about the streets, at fairs and on market days, in

great towns.

To all the other charges I answered only, “That perhaps they might be

either misreported or misunderstood, as the best of people had sometimes

been.” But to the last charge of going naked, a particular answer, by

way of instance, was just then brought into my mind and put into my

mouth, which I had not thought of before, and that was the example of

Isaiah, who went naked among the people for a long time (Isaiah xx. 4).

“Ay,” said my father, “but you must consider that he was a prophet of the

Lord, and had an express command from God to go so.”

“Yes, sir,” replied I, “I do consider that; but I consider also, that the

Jews, among whom he lived, did not own him for a prophet, nor believe

that he had such a command from God. And,” added I, “how know we but

that this Quaker may be a prophet too, and might be commanded to do as he

did, for some reason which we understand not?”

This put my father to a stand; so that, letting fall his charges against

the Quakers, he only said, “I would wish you not to go so soon, but take

a little time to consider of it; you may visit Mr. Penington

hereafter.”—“Nay, sir,” replied I, “pray don’t hinder my going now, for I

have so strong a desire to go that I do not well know how to forbear.”

And as I spoke those words, I withdrew gently to the chamber door, and

then hastening down stairs, went immediately to the stable, where finding

my horse ready bridled, I forthwith mounted, and went off, lest I should

receive a countermand.

This discourse with my father had cast me somewhat back in my journey,

and it being fifteen long miles thither, the ways bad, and my nag but

small, it was in the afternoon that I got thither. And understanding by

the servant that took my horse that there was then a meeting in the house

(as there was weekly on that day, which was the fourth day of the week,

though till then I understood it not), I hastened in, and knowing the

rooms, went directly to the little parlour, where I found a few friends

sitting together in silence, and I sat down among them well satisfied,

though without words.

When the meeting was ended, and those of the company who were strangers

withdrawn, I addressed myself to Isaac Penington and his wife, who

received me courteously; but not knowing what exercise I had been in, and

yet was under, nor having heard anything of me since I had been there

before in another garb, were not forward at first to lay sudden hands on

me, which I observed, and did not dislike. But as they came to see a

change in me, not in habit only, but in gesture, speech, and carriage,

and, which was more, in countenance also (for the exercise I had passed

through, and yet was under, had imprinted a visible character of gravity

upon my face), they were exceedingly kind and tender towards me.

There was then in the family a friend, whose name was Anne Curtis, the

wife of Thomas Curtis, of Reading, who was come upon a visit to them, and

particularly to see Mary Penington’s daughter Guli, who had been ill of

the small-pox since I had been there before. Betwixt Mary Penington and

this friend I observed some private discourse and whisperings, and I had

an apprehension that it was upon something that concerned me. Wherefore

I took the freedom to ask Mary Penington if my coming thither had

occasioned any inconvenience in the family. She asked me if I had had

the small-pox; I told her no. She then told me her daughter had newly

had them, and though she was well recovered of them, she had not as yet

been down amongst them, but intended to have come down and sat with them

in the parlour that evening, yet would rather forbear till another time,

than endanger me; and that that was the matter they had been discoursing

of. I assured her that I had always been, and then more especially was,

free from any apprehension of danger in that respect, and therefore

entreated that her daughter might come down. And although they were

somewhat unwilling to yield to it, in regard to me, yet my importunity

prevailed, and after supper she did come down and sit with us; and though

the marks of the distemper were fresh upon her, yet they made no

impression upon me, faith keeping out fear.

We spent much of the evening in retiredness of mind, our spirits being

weightily gathered inward, so that not much discourse passed among us;

neither they to me, nor I to them offered any occasion. Yet I had good

satisfaction in that stillness, feeling my spirit drawn near to the Lord,

and to them therein.

Before I went to bed they let me know that there was to be a meeting at

Wycombe next day, and that some of the family would go to it. I was very

glad of it, for I greatly desired to go to meetings, and this fell very

aptly, it being in my way home. Next morning Isaac Penington himself

went, having Anne Curtis with him, and I accompanied them.

At Wycombe we met with Edward Burrough, who came from Oxford thither that

day that I, going thither, met him on the way; and having both our

monter-caps on, we recollected that we had met, and passed by each other

on the road unknown.

This was a monthly meeting, consisting of friends chiefly, who gathered

to it from several parts of the country thereabouts, so that it was

pretty large, and was held in a fair room in Jeremiah Stevens’ house; the

room where I had been at a meeting before, in John Raunce’s house, being

too little to receive us.

A very good meeting was this in itself and to me. Edward Burrough’s

ministry came forth among us in life and power, and the assembly was

covered therewith. I also, according to my small capacity, had a share

therein; for I felt some of that divine power working my spirit into a

great tenderness, and not only confirming me in the course I had already

entered, and strengthening me to go on therein, but rending also the veil

somewhat further, and clearing my understanding in some other things

which I had not seen before. For the Lord was pleased to make His

discoveries to me by degrees, that the sight of too great a work, and too

many enemies to encounter with at once, might not discourage me and make

me faint.

When the meeting was ended, the friends of the town taking notice that I

was the man that had been at their meeting the week before, whom they

then did not know, some of them came and spoke lovingly to me, and would

have had me stay with them; but Edward Burrough going home with Isaac

Penington, he invited me to go back with him, which I willingly consented

to, for the love I had more particularly to Edward Burrough, through

whose ministry I had received the first awakening stroke, drew me to

desire his company; and so away we rode together.

But I was somewhat disappointed of my expectation, for I hoped he would

have given me both opportunity and encouragement to have opened myself to

him, and to have poured forth my complaints, fears, doubts, and

questionings into his bosom. But he, being sensible that I was truly

reached, and that the witness of God was raised and the work of God

rightly begun in me, chose to leave me to the guidance of the good Spirit

in myself (the Counsellor that could resolve all doubts), that I might

not have any dependence on man. Wherefore, although he was naturally of

an open and free temper and carriage, and was afterwards always very

familiar and affectionately kind to me, yet at this time he kept himself

somewhat reserved, and showed only common kindness to me.

Next day we parted, he for London, I for home, under a very great weight

and exercise upon my spirit. For I now saw, in and by the farther

openings of the Divine light in me, that the enemy, by his false

reasonings, had beguiled and misled me with respect to my carriage

towards my father. For I now clearly saw that the honour due to parents

did not consist in uncovering the head and bowing the body to them, but

in a ready obedience to their lawful commands, and in performing all

needful services unto them. Wherefore, as I was greatly troubled for

what I already had done in that case, though it was through ignorance, so

I plainly felt I could no longer continue therein without drawing upon

myself the guilt of wilful disobedience, which I well knew would draw

after it divine displeasure and judgment.

Hereupon the enemy assaulted me afresh, setting before me the danger I

should run myself into of provoking my father to use severity towards me;

and perhaps to be casting me utterly off. But over this temptation the

Lord, who I cried unto, supported me, and gave me faith to believe that

He would bear me through whatever might befall me on that account.

Wherefore I resolved, in the strength which He should give me to be

faithful to his requirings, whatever might come of it.

Thus labouring under various exercises on the way, I at length got home,

expecting I should have but a rough reception from my father. But when I

came home, I understood my father was from home; wherefore I sat down by

the fire in the kitchen, keeping my mind retired to the Lord, with

breathings of spirit to Him, that I might be preserved from falling.

After some time I heard the coach drive in, which put me into a little

fear, and a sort of shivering came over me. But by that time he was

alighted and come in I had pretty well recovered myself; and as soon as I

saw him I rose up and advanced a step or two towards him, with my head

covered, and said, “Isaac Penington and his wife remember their loves to

thee.”

He made a stop to hear what I said, and observing that I did not stand

bare, and that I used the word _thee_ to him, he, with a stern

countenance, and tone that spake high displeasure, only said, “I shall

talk with you, sir, another time;” and so hastening from me, went into

the parlour, and I saw him no more that night.

Though I foresaw there was a storm arising, the apprehension of which was

uneasy to me, yet the peace which I felt in my own breast raised in me a

return of thanksgiving to the Lord for His gracious supporting hand,

which had thus far carried me through this exercise; with humble cries in

spirit to Him that He would vouchsafe to stand by me in it to the end,

and uphold me, that I might not fall.

My spirit longed to be among friends, and to be at some meeting with them

on the first day, which now drew on, this being the sixth-day night.

Wherefore I purposed to go to Oxford on the morrow (which was the seventh

day of the week), having heard there was a meeting there. Accordingly,

having ordered my horse to be made ready betimes, I got up in the morning

and made myself ready also. Yet before I would go (that I might be as

observant to my father as possibly I could) I desired my sister to go up

to him in his chamber, and acquaint him that I had a mind to go to

Oxford, and desired to know if he pleased to command me any service

there. He bid her tell me he would not have me go till he had spoken

with me; and getting up immediately, he hastened down to me before he was

quite dressed.

As soon as he saw me standing with my hat on, his passion transporting

him, he fell upon me with both his fists, and having by that means

somewhat vented his anger, he plucked off my hat and threw it away. Then

stepping hastily out to the stable, and seeing my borrowed nag stand

ready saddled and bridled, he asked his man whence that horse came; who

telling him he fetched it from Mr. Such-an-one’s; “Then ride him

presently back,” said my father, “and tell Mr. — I desire he will never

lend my son a horse again unless he brings a note from me.”

The poor fellow, who loved me well, would fain have made excuses and

delays; but my father was positive in his command, and so urgent, that he

would not let him stay so much as to take his breakfast (though he had

five miles to ride), nor would he himself stir from the stable till he

had seen the man mounted and gone.

Then coming in, he went up into his chamber to make himself more fully

ready, thinking he had me safe enough now my horse was gone; for I took

so much delight in riding that I seldom went on foot.

But while he was dressing himself in his chamber I (who understood what

had been done), changing my boots for shoes, took another hat, and

acquainting my sister, who loved me very well, and whom I could confide

in, whither I meant to go, went out privately, and walked away to

Wycombe, having seven long miles thither, which yet seemed little and

easy to me, from the desire I had to be among friends.

As thus I travelled all alone, under a load of grief, from the sense I

had of the opposition and hardship I was to expect from my father, the

enemy took advantage to assault me again, casting a doubt into my mind

whether I had done well in thus coming away from my father without his

leave or knowledge.

I was quiet and peaceable in my spirit before this question was darted

into me; but after that, disturbance and trouble seized upon me, so that

I was at a stand what to do—whether to go forward or backward.

Fear of offending inclined me to go back, but desire of the meeting, and

to be with friends, pressed me to go forward.

I stood still awhile to consider and weigh as well as I could the matter.

I was sensibly satisfied that I had not left my father with any intention

of undutifulness or disrespect to him, but merely in obedience to that

drawing of spirit, which I was persuaded was of the Lord, to join with

his people in worshipping Him; and this made me easy.

But then the enemy, to make me uneasy again, objected, “But how could

that drawing be of the Lord which drew me to disobey my father?”

I considered thereupon the extent of paternal power, which I found was

not wholly arbitrary and unlimited, but had bounds set unto it; so that

as in civil matters it was restrained to things lawful, so in spiritual

and religious cases it had not a compulsory power over conscience, which

ought to be subject to the heavenly Father. And therefore, though

obedience to parents be enjoined to children, yet it is with this

limitation [_in the Lord_]: “Children, obey your parents in the Lord; for

this is right” (1 Pet. vi. 1).

This turned the scale for going forward, and so on I went. And yet I was

not wholly free from some fluctuations of mind, from the besettings of

the enemy. Wherefore, although I knew that outward signs did not

properly belong to the gospel dispensation, yet for my better assurance I

did, in fear and great humility, beseech the Lord that he would be

pleased so far to condescend to the weakness of his servant as to give me

a sign by which I might certainly know whether my way was right before

Him or not.

The sign which I asked was, “That if I had done wrong in coming as I did,

I might be rejected or but coldly received at the place I was going to;

but if this mine undertaking was right in His sight, He would give me

favour with them I went to, so that they should receive me with hearty

kindness and demonstrations of love.” Accordingly, when I came to John

Rance’s house (which, being so much a stranger to all, I chose to go to,

because I understood the meeting was commonly held there), they received

me with more than ordinary kindness, especially Frances Rance, John

Rance’s then wife, who was both a grave and motherly woman, and had a

hearty love to truth, and tenderness towards all that in sincerity sought

after it. And this so kind reception, confirming me in the belief that

my undertaking was approved of by the Lord, gave great satisfaction and

ease to my mind; and I was thankful to the Lord therefor.

Thus it fared with me there; but at home it fared otherwise with my

father. He, supposing I had betaken myself to my chamber when he took my

hat from me, made no inquiry after me till evening came; and then,

sitting by the fire and considering that the weather was very cold, he

said to my sister, who sat by him: “Go up to your brother’s chamber, and

call him down; it may be he will sit there else, in a sullen fit, till he

has caught cold.” “Alas! sir,” said she, “he is not in his chamber, nor

in the house neither.”

At that my farther, starting, said: “Why, where is he then?”—“I know not,

sir,” said she, “where he is; but I know that when he saw you had sent

away his horse he put on shoes, and went out on foot, and I have not seen

him since. And indeed, sir,” added she, “I don’t wonder at his going

away, considering how you used him.” This put my father into a great

fright doubting I was gone quite away; and so great a passion of grief

seized on him, that he forebore not to weep, and to cry out aloud, so

that the family heard him: “Oh, my son! I shall never see him more; for

he is of so bold and resolute a spirit that he will run himself into

danger, and so may be thrown into some gaol or other, where he may lie

and die before I can hear of him.” Then bidding her light him up to his

chamber, he went immediately to bed, where he lay restless and groaning,

and often bemoaning himself and me, for the greater part of the night.

Next morning my sister sent a man (whom for his love to me she knew she

could trust) to give me this account; and though by him she sent me also

fresh linen for my use, in case I should go farther or stay out longer,

yet she desired me to come home as soon as I could.

This account was very uneasy to me. I was much grieved that I had

occasioned so much grief to my father; and I would have returned that

evening after the meeting, but the Friends would not permit it, for the

meeting would in all likelihood end late, the days being short, and the

way was long and dirty. And besides, John Rance told me that he had

something on his mind to speak to my father, and that if I would stay

till the next day he would go down with me, hoping, perhaps, that while

my father was under this sorrow for me he might work some good upon him.

Hereupon concluding to stay till the morrow, I dismissed the man with the

things he brought, bidding him tell my sister I intended, God willing, to

return home to-morrow, and charging him not to let anybody else know that

he had seen me, or where he had been.

Next morning John Rance and I set out, and when we were come to the end

of the town we agreed that he should go before and knock at the great

gate, and I would come a little after, and go in by the back way. He did

so; and when a servant came to open the gate he asked if the Justice was

at home. She told him, Yes; and desiring him to come in and sit down in

the hall, went and acquainted her master that there was one who desired

to speak with him. He, supposing it was one that came for justice, went

readily into the hall to him; but he was not a little surprised when he

found it was a Quaker. Yet not knowing on what account he came, he

stayed to hear his business; but when he found it was about me he fell

somewhat sharply on him.

In this time I was come by the back way into the kitchen, and hearing my

father’s voice so loud, I began to doubt things wrought not well; but I

was soon assured of that. For my father having quickly enough of a

Quaker’s company, left John Rance in the hall, and came into the kitchen,

where he was more surprised to find me.

The sight of my hat upon my head made him presently forget that I was

that son of his whom he had so lately lamented as lost; and his passion

of grief turning into anger, he could not contain himself, but running

upon me with both his hands, first violently snatched off my hat and

threw it away, then giving me some buffets on my head, he said, “Sirrah,

get you up to your chamber.”

I forthwith went, he following me at the heels, and now and then giving

me a whirret on the ear, which, the way to my chamber lying through the

hall where John Rance was, he, poor man, might see and be sorry for (as I

doubt not but he was), but could not help me.

This was surely an unaccountable thing, that my father should but a day

before express so high a sorrow for me, as fearing he should never see me

any more, and yet now, so soon as he did see me, should fly upon me with

such violence, and that only because I did not put off my hat, which he

knew I did not put on in disrespect to him, but upon a religious

principle. But as this hat-honour (as it was accounted) was grown to be

a great idol, in those times more especially, so the Lord was pleased to

engage His servants in a steady testimony against it, what suffering

soever was brought upon them for it. And though some who have been

called into the Lord’s vineyard at later hours, and since the heat of

that day hath been much over, may be apt to account this testimony a

small thing to suffer so much upon, as some have done, not only to

beating, but to fines and long and hard imprisonments; yet they who, in

those times were faithfully exercised in and under it, durst not despise

the day of small things, as knowing that he who should do so would not be

thought worthy to be concerned in higher testimonies.

I had now lost one of my hats, and I had but one more. That therefore I

put on, but did not keep it long; for the next time my father saw it on

my head he tore it violently from me, and laid it up with the other, I

knew not where. Wherefore I put on my montero-cap, which was all I had

left to wear on my head, and it was but a very little while that I had

that to wear, for as soon as my father came where I was I lost that also.

And now I was forced to go bareheaded wherever I had occasion to go,

within doors and without.

This was in the eleventh month, called January, and the weather sharp; so

that I, who had been bred up more tenderly, took so great a cold in my

head that my face and head were much swollen, and my gums had on them

boils so sore that I could neither chew meat nor without difficulty

swallow liquids. It held long, and I underwent much pain, without much

pity except from my poor sister, who did what she could to give me ease;

and at length, by frequent applications of figs and stoned raisins

roasted, and laid to the boils as hot as I could bear them, they ripened

fit for lancing, and soon after sunk; then I had ease.

Now was I laid up as a kind of prisoner for the rest of the winter,

having no means to go forth among friends, nor they liberty to come to

me. Wherefore I spent the time much in my chamber in waiting on the

Lord, and in reading, mostly in the Bible.

But whenever I had occasion to speak to my father, though I had no hat

now to offend him, yet my language did as much; for I durst not say “you”

to him, but “thou” or “thee,” as the occasion required, and then would he

be sure to fall on me with his fists.

At one of these times, I remember, when he had beaten me in that manner,

he commanded me, as he commonly did at such times, to go to my chamber,

which I did, and he followed me to the bottom of the stairs. Being come

thither, he gave me a parting blow, and in a very angry tone said:

“Sirrah, if ever I hear you say ‘thou’ or ‘thee’ to me again, I’ll strike

your teeth down your throat.” I was greatly grieved to hear him say so.

And feeling a word rise in my heart unto him, I turned again, and calmly

said unto him: “Would it not be just if God should serve thee so, when

thou sayest Thou or Thee to Him?” Though his hand was up, I saw it sink

and his countenance fall, and he turned away and left me standing there.

But I, notwithstanding, went up into my chamber, and cried unto the Lord,

earnestly beseeching Him that He would be pleased to open my father’s

eyes, that he might see whom he fought against, and for what; and that He

would turn his heart.

After this I had a pretty time of rest and quiet from these disturbances,

my father not saying anything to me, nor giving me occasion to say

anything to him. But I was still under a kind of confinement, unless I

would have run about the country bareheaded like a madman, which I did

not see it was my place to do. For I found that, although to be abroad

and at liberty among my friends would have been more pleasant to me, yet

home was at present my proper place, a school in which I was to learn

with patience to bear the cross; and I willingly submitted to it. But

after some time a fresh storm, more fierce and sharp than any before,

arose and fell upon me; the occasion thereof was this: My father, having

been in his younger years, more especially while he lived in London, a

constant hearer of those who are called Puritan preachers, had stored up

a pretty stock of Scripture knowledge, did sometimes (not constantly, nor

very often) cause his family to come together on a first day in the

evening, and expound a chapter to them, and pray. His family now, as

well as his estate, was lessened; for my mother was dead, my brother

gone, and my elder sister at London; and having put off his husbandry, he

had put off with it most of his servants, so that he had now but one man-

and one maid-servant. It so fell out that on a first-day night he bade

my sister, who sat with him in the parlour, call in the servants to

prayer.

Whether this was done as a trial upon me or no, I know not, but a trial

it proved to me; for they, loving me very well and disliking my father’s

carriage to me, made no haste to go in, but stayed a second summons.

This so offended him that when at length they did go in, he, instead of

going to prayer, examined them why they came not in when they were first

called; and the answer they gave him being such as rather heightened than

abated his displeasure, he with an angry tone said: “Call in that fellow”

(meaning me, who was left alone in the kitchen), “for he is the cause of

all this.” They, as they were backward to go in themselves, so were not

forward to call me in, fearing the effect of my father’s displeasure

would fall upon me, as soon it did, for I, hearing what was said, and not

staying for the call, went in of myself. And as soon as I was come in,

my father discharged his displeasure on me in very sharp and bitter

expressions, which drew from me (in the grief of my heart, to see him so

transported with passion) these few words: “They that can pray with such

a spirit, let them; for my part, I cannot.” With that my father flew

upon me with both his fists, and not thinking that sufficient, stepped

hastily to the place where his cane stood, and catching that up, laid on

me, I thought, with all his strength. And I, being bareheaded, thought

his blows must needs have broken my skull had I not laid mine arm over my

head to defend it.

His man seeing this, and not able to contain himself, stepped in between

us, and laying hold on the cane, by strength of hand held it so fast,

that though he attempted not to take it away, yet he withheld my father

from striking with it, which did but enrage him the more. I disliked

this in the man, and bade him let go the cane and begone, which he

immediately did, and turning to be gone, had a blow on his shoulders for

his pains, which did not much hurt him.

But now my sister, fearing lest my father should fall upon me again,

besought him to forbear, adding: “Indeed, sir, if you strike him any

more, I will throw open the casement and cry out murder, for I am afraid

you will kill my brother.” This stopped his hand, and after some

threatening speeches he commanded me to get to my chamber which I did, as

I always did whenever he bade me.

Thither, soon after, my sister followed me, to see my arm and dress it,

for it was indeed very much bruised and swelled between the wrist and the

elbow, and in some places the skin was broken and beaten off. But though

it was very sore, and I felt for some time much pain in it, yet I had

peace and quietness in my mind, being more grieved for my father than for

myself, who I knew had hurt himself more than me.

This was, so far as I remember, the last time that ever my father called

his family to prayer; and this was also the last time that he ever fell,

so severely at least, upon me.

Soon after this my elder sister, who in all the time of these exercises

of mine had been at London, returned home, much troubled to find me a

Quaker, a name of reproach and great contempt then, and she, being at

London, had received, I suppose, the worst character of them. Yet though

she disliked the people, her affectionate regard for me made her rather

pity than despise me, and the more when she understood what hard usage I

had met with.

The rest of the winter I spent in a lonesome solitary life, having none

to converse with, none to unbosom myself unto, none to ask counsel of,

none to seek relief from, but the Lord alone, who yet was more than all.

And yet the company and society of faithful and judicious friends would,

I thought, have been very welcome as well as helpful to me in my

spiritual travail, in which I thought I made slow progress, my soul

breathing after further attainments, the sense of which drew from me the

following lines:

The winter tree

Resembles me,

Whose sap lies in its root:

The spring draws nigh;

As it, so I

Shall bud, I hope, and shoot.

At length it pleased the Lord to move Isaac Penington and his wife to

make a visit to my father, and see how it fared with me; and very welcome

they were to me, whatever they were to him; to whom I doubt not but they

would have been more welcome had it not been for me.

They tarried with us all night, and much discourse they had with my

father, both about the principles of truth in general, and me in

particular, which I was not privy to. But one thing I remember I

afterwards heard of, which was this:

When my father and I were at their house some months before, Mary

Penington, in some discourse between them, had told him how hardly her

husband’s father (Alderman Penington) had dealt with him about his hat;

which my father (little then thinking that it would, and so soon too, be

his own case) did very much censure the alderman for, wondering that so

wise a man as he was should take notice of such a trivial thing as the

putting off or keeping on a hat; and he spared not to blame him liberally

for it.

This gave her a handle to take hold of him by; and having had an ancient

acquaintance with him, and he having always had a high opinion of and

respect for her, she, who was a woman of great wisdom, of ready speech,

and of a well-resolved spirit, did press so close upon him with this home

argument, that he was utterly at a loss how to defend himself.

After dinner next day, when they were ready to take coach to return home,

she desired my father that, since my company was so little acceptable to

him, he would give me leave to go and spend some time with them, where I

should be sure to be welcome.

He was very unwilling I should go, and made many objections against it,

all which she answered and removed so clearly, that not finding what

excuse further to allege, he at length left it to me, and I soon turned

the scale for going.

We were come to the coach-side before this was concluded on, and I was

ready to step in, when one of my sisters privately put my father in mind

that I had never a hat on. That somewhat startled him, for he did not

think it fit I should go from home (and that so far and to stay abroad)

without a hat. Wherefore he whispered to her to fetch me a hat, and he

entertained them with some discourse in the meantime. But as soon as he

saw the hat coning he would not stay till it came, lest I should put it

on before him, but breaking off his discourse abruptly, took his leave of

them, and hastened in before the hat was brought to me.

I had not one penny of money about me, nor indeed elsewhere; for my

father, so soon as he saw that I would be a Quaker, took from me both

what money I had and everything of value, or that would have made money,

as some plate, buttons, rings, &c., pretending that he would keep them

for me till I came to myself again, lest I should destroy them.

But as I had no money, so being among my friends I had no need of any,

nor ever hankered after it; though once upon a particular occasion I had

liked to have wanted it. The case was this:

I had been at Reading, and set out from thence on the first day of the

week, in the morning, intending to reach (as in point of time I well

might) Isaac Penington’s, where the meeting was to be that day; but when

I came to Maidenhead, a thoroughfare town on the way, I was stopped by

the watch for riding on that day.

The watchman, laying hold on the bridle, told me I must go with him to

the constable; and accordingly I, making no resistance, suffered him to

lead my horse to the constable’s door. When we were come there the

constable told me I must go before the warden, who was the chief officer

of that town, and bade the watchman bring me on, himself walking before.

Being come to the warden’s door, the constable knocked, and desired to

speak with Mr. Warden. He thereupon quickly coming to the door the

constable said: “Sir, I have brought a man here to you whom the watch

took riding through the town.” The warden was a budge old man; and I

looked somewhat big too, having a good gelding under me, and a good

riding-coat on my back, both which my friend Isaac Penington had kindly

accommodated me with for that journey.

The warden therefore taking me to be (as the saying is) somebody, put off

his hat and made a low congee to me; but when he saw that I sat still,

and neither bowed to him nor moved my hat, he gave a start, and said to

the constable: “You said you had brought a man, but he don’t behave like

a man.”

I sat still upon my horse and said not a word, but kept my mind retired

to the Lord, waiting to see what this would come to.

The warden then began to examine me, asking me whence I came and whither

I was going; I told him I came from Reading and was going to Chalfont.

He asked me why I did travel on that day; I told him I did not know that

it would give any offence barely to ride or to walk on that day, so long

as I did not carry or drive any carriage or horses laden with burthens.

“Why,” said he, “if your business was urgent, did you not take a pass

from the mayor of Reading?”—“Because,” replied I, “I did not know nor

think I should have needed one.”—“Well,” said he, “I will not talk with

you now, because it is time to go to church, but I will examine you

further anon.” And turning to the constable, “Have him,” said he, “to an

inn, and bring him before me after dinner.”

The naming of an inn put me in mind that such public-houses were places

of expense, and I knew I had no money to defray it; wherefore I said to

the warden: “Before thou sendest me to an inn, which may occasion some

expense, I think it needful to acquaint thee that I have no money.”

At that the warden started again, and turning quickly upon me, said:

“How! no money! How can that be? You don’t look like a man that has no

money.”—“However I look,” said I, “I tell thee the truth, that I have no

money; and I tell it to forewarn thee, that thou mayest not bring any

charge upon the town.”—“I wonder,” said he, “what art you have got, that

you can travel without money; you can do more, I assure you, than I can.”

I making no answer, he went on and said: “Well, well! but if you have no

money, you have a good horse under you, and we can distrain him for the

charge.”—“But,” said I, “the horse is not mine.”—“No,” said he; “but you

have a good coat on your back, and that I hope is your own.”—“No,” said

I, “but it is not, for I borrowed both the horse and the coat.”

With that the warden, holding up his hands and smiling, said: “Bless me!

I never met with such a man as you are before. What! were you set out by

the parish?” Then turning to the constable, he said: “Have him to the

Greyhound, and bid the people be civil to him.” Accordingly, to the

Greyhound I was led, my horse set up, and I put into a large room, and

some account, I suppose, given of me to the people of the house.

This was new work to me, and what the issue of it would be I could not

foresee; but being left there alone, I sat down, and retired in spirit to

the Lord, in whom alone my strength and safety were, and begged support

of Him; even that He would be pleased to give me wisdom and words to

answer the warden when I should come to be examined again before him.

After some time, having pen, ink, and paper about me, I set myself to

write what I thought might be proper, if occasion served, to give the

warden; and while I was writing, the master of the house, being come home

from his worship, sent the tapster to me to invite me to dine with him.

I bid him tell his master that I had not any money to pay for my dinner.

He sent the man again to tell me I should be welcome to dine with him

though I had no money. I desired him to tell his master “that I was very

sensible of his civility and kindness in so courteously inviting me to

his table, but I had not freedom to eat of his meat unless I could have

paid for it.” So he went on with his dinner, and I with my writing.

But before I had finished what was on my mind to write, the constable

came again, bringing with him his fellow-constable. This was a brisk

genteel young man, a shopkeeper in the town, whose name was Cherry. They

saluted me very civilly, and told me they were come to have me before the

warden. This put an end to my writing, which I put into my pocket, and

went along with them.

Being come to the warden’s, he asked me again the same questions he had

asked me before; to which I gave him the like answers. Then he told me

the penalty I had incurred, which he said was either to pay so much money

or lie so many hours in the stocks, and asked me which I would choose; I

replied, “I shall not choose either. And,” said I, “I have told thee

already that I have no money; though if I had, I could not so far

acknowledge myself an offender as to pay any. But as to lying in the

stocks, I am in thy power, to do unto me what it shall please the Lord to

suffer thee.”

When he heard that he paused awhile, and then told me, “He considered

that I was but a young man, and might not perhaps understand the danger I

had brought myself into, and therefore he would not use the severity of

the law upon me; but, in hopes that I would be wiser hereafter, he would

pass by this offence and discharge me.”

Then putting on a countenance of the greatest gravity, he said to me:

“But, young man, I would have you know that you have not only broken the

law of the land, but the law of God also; and therefore you ought to ask

His forgiveness, for you have highly offended Him.”—“That,” said I, “I

would most willingly do if I were sensible that in this case I had

offended Him by breaking any law of His.”

“Why,” said he, “do you question that?”—“Yes truly,” said I; “for I do

not know that any law of God doth forbid me to ride on this day.”

“No!” said he: “that’s strange. Where, I wonder, was you bred? You can

read, can’t you?”—“Yes,” said I, “that I can.”—“Don’t you then read,”

said he, “the commandment, ‘Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy.

Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work; but the seventh day is

the Sabbath of the Lord; in it thou shalt not do any work.’”—“Yes,”

replied I, “I have both read it often, and remember it very well. But

that command was given to the Jews, not to Christians; and this is not

that day, for that was the seventh day, but this is the first.”—“How,”

said he, “do you know the days of the week no better? You had need then

be better taught.”

Here the younger constable, whose name was Cherry, interposing, said:

“Mr. Warden, the gentleman is in the right as to that, for this is the

first day of the week, and not the seventh.”

This the old warden took in dudgeon, and looking severely on the

constable, said: “What! do you take upon you to teach me? I’ll have you

know I will not be taught by you.”—“As you please for that, sir,” said

the constable; “but I am sure you are mistaken in this point; for

Saturday I know is the seventh day, and you know yesterday was Saturday.”

This made the warden hot and testy, and put him almost out of all

patience, so that I feared it would have come to a downright quarrel

betwixt them, for both were confident and neither would yield; and so

earnestly were they engaged in the contest, that there was no room for me

to put in a word between them.

At length the old man, having talked himself out of wind, stood still

awhile as it were to take breath, and then bethinking himself of me, he

turned to me and said: “You are discharged, and may take your liberty to

go about your occasions.”—“But,” said I, “I desire my horse may be

discharged too, else I know not how to go.”—“Ay, ay,” said he, “you shall

have your horse;” and turning to the other constable, who had not

offended him, he said: “Go, see that his horse be delivered to him.”

Away thereupon went I with that constable, leaving the old warden and the

young constable to compose their difference as they could. Being come to

the inn, the constable called for my horse to be brought out; which done,

I immediately mounted, and began to set forward. But the hostler, not

knowing the condition of my pocket, said modestly to me: “Sir, don’t you

forget to pay for your horse’s standing?”—“No, truly,” said I, “I don’t

forget it; but I have no money to pay it with, and so I told the warden

before.”—“Well, hold your tongue,” said the constable to the hostler;

“I’ll see you paid.” Then opening the gate, they let me out, the

constable wishing me a good journey, and through the town I rode without

further molestation; though it was as much sabbath, I thought, when I

went out as it was when I came in.

A secret joy arose in me as I rode on the way, for that I had been

preserved from doing or saying anything which might give the adversaries

of truth advantage against it, or the friends of it; and praises sprang

in my thankful heart to the Lord, my preserver.

It added also not a little to my joy that I felt the Lord near unto me,

by his witness in my heart, to check and warn me; and my spirit was so

far subjected to him as readily to take warning, and stop at his check;

an instance of both that very morning I had.

For as I rode between Reading and Maidenhead I saw lying in my way the

scabbard of a hanger, which, having lost its hook, had slipped off, I

suppose, and dropped from the side of the wearer; and it had in it a pair

of knives, whose hafts being inlaid with silver, seemed to be of some

value. I alighted and took it up, and clapping it between my thigh and

the saddle, rode on a little way; but I quickly found it too heavy for

me, and the reprover in me soon began to check. The word arose in me,

“What hast thou to do with that? Doth it belong to thee?” I felt I had

done amiss in taking it; wherefore I turned back to the place where it

lay, and laid it down where I found it. And when afterwards I was

stopped and seized on at Maidenhead, I saw there was a Providence in not

bringing it with me; which, if it should have been found (as it needs

must) under my coat when I came to be unhorsed, might have raised some

evil suspicion or sinister thoughts concerning me.

The stop I met with at Maidenhead had spent me so much time that when I

came to Isaac Penington’s the meeting there was half over, which gave

them occasion after meeting to inquire of me if anything had befallen me

on the way which had caused me to come so late: whereupon I related to

them what exercise I had met with, and how the Lord had helped me through

it: which when they had heard, they rejoiced with me, and for my sake.

Great was the love and manifold the kindness which I received from these

my worthy friends, Isaac and Mary Penington, while I abode in their

family. They were indeed as affectionate parents and tender nurses to me

in this time of my religious childhood. For besides their weighty and

seasonable counsels and exemplary conversations, they furnished me with

means to go to the other meetings of Friends in that country, when the

meeting was not in their own house. And indeed, the time I stayed with

them was so well spent, that it not only yielded great satisfaction to my

mind but turned in good measure to my spiritual advantage in the truth.

But that I might not, on the one hand, bear too hard upon my friends, nor

on the other hand forget the house of thraldom, after I had staid with

them some six or seven weeks (from the time called Easter to the time

called Whitsuntide) I took my leave of them to depart home, intending to

walk to Wycombe in one day, and from thence home in another.

That day that I came home I did not see my father, nor until noon the

next day, when I went into the parlour, where he was, to take my usual

place at dinner.

As soon as I came in I observed by my father’s countenance that my hat

was still an offence to him; but when I was sat down, and before I had

eaten anything, he made me understand it more fully by saying to me, but

in a milder tone than he had formerly used to speak to me in, “If you

cannot content yourself to come to dinner without your hive on your head

(so he called my hat), pray rise, and go take your dinner somewhere

else.”

Upon these words I arose from the table, and leaving the room went into

the kitchen, where I stayed till the servants went to dinner, and then

sat down very contentedly with them. Yet I suppose my father might

intend that I should have gone into some other room, and there have eaten

by myself but I chose rather to eat with the servants, and did so from

thenceforward so long as he and I lived together. And from this time he

rather chose, as I thought, to avoid seeing me than to renew the quarrel

about my hat.

My sisters, meanwhile observing my weariness in words and behaviour, and

being satisfied, I suppose, that I acted upon a principle of religion and

conscience, carried themselves very kindly to me, and did what they could

to mitigate my father’s displeasure against me. So that I now enjoyed

much more quiet at home, and took more liberty to go abroad amongst my

friends, than I had done or could do before. And having informed myself

where any meetings of Friends were holden, within a reasonable distance

from me, I resorted to them.

At first I went to a town called Hoddenham, in Buckinghamshire, five

miles from my father’s, where, at the house of one Belson, a few who were

called Quakers did meet sometimes on a first day of the week; but I found

little satisfaction there. Afterwards, upon further inquiry, I

understood there was a settled meeting at a little village called Meadle,

about four long miles from me, in the house of one John White, which is

continued there still; and to that thenceforward I constantly went while

I abode in that country, and was able. Many a sore day’s travel have I

had thither and back again, being commonly in the winter time (how fair

soever the weather was overhead) wet up to the ankles at least; yet,

through the goodness of the Lord to me, I was preserved in health.

A little meeting also there was on the fourth day of the week at a town

called Bledlow (two miles from me), in the house of one Thomas Saunders,

who professed the truth; but his wife, whose name was Damaris, did

possess it (she being a woman of great sincerity and lively sense), and

to that meeting also I usually went.

But though I took this liberty for the service of God, that I might

worship Him in the assemblies of His people, yet did I not use it upon

other occasions, but spent my time on other days for the most part in my

chamber, in retiredness of mind, waiting on the Lord. And the Lord was

graciously pleased to visit me, by His quickening spirit and life, so

that I came to feel the operation of His power in my heart, working out

that which was contrary to His will, and giving me, in measure, dominion

over it.

And as my spirit was kept in due subjection to this divine power, I grew

into a nearer acquaintance with the Lord; and the Lord vouchsafed to

speak unto me in the inward of my soul, and to open my understanding in

His fear, to receive counsel from Him; so that I not only at some times

heard His voice, but could distinguish His voice from that of the enemy.

As thus I daily waited on the Lord a weighty and unusual exercise came

upon me, which bowed my spirit very low before the Lord. I had seen, in

the light of the Lord, the horrible guilt of those deceitful priests, of

divers sorts and denominations, who made a trade of preaching, and for

filthy lucre sake held the people always learning; yet so taught them as

that, by their teaching and ministry, they were never able to come to the

knowledge, much less to the acknowledgment, of the truth; for as they

themselves hated the light, because their own deeds were evil, so by

reviling, reproaching, and blaspheming the true light, wherewith every

man that cometh into the world is enlightened (John i. 9), they begat in

the people a disesteem of the light, and laboured as much as in them lay

to keep their hearers in the darkness, that they might not be turned to

the light in themselves, lest by the light they should discover the

wickedness of these their deceitful teachers, and turn from them.

Against this practice of these false teachers the zeal of the Lord had

flamed in my breast for some time; and now the burthen of the word of the

Lord against them fell heavily upon me, with command to proclaim his

controversy against them.

Fain would I have been excused from this service, which I judged too

heavy for me; wherefore I besought the Lord to take this weight from off

me, who was in every respect but young, and lay it upon some other of His

servants, of whom he had many, who were much more able and fit for it.

But the Lord would not be entreated, but continued the burden upon me

with greater weight; requiring obedience from me, and promising to assist

me therein. Whereupon I arose from my bed, and in the fear and dread of

the Lord committed to writing what He, in the motion of His divine

Spirit, dictated to me to write. When I had done it, though the

sharpness of the message therein delivered was hard to my nature to be

the publisher of, yet I found acceptance with the Lord in my obedience to

His will, and His peace filled my heart. As soon as I could I

communicated to my friends what I had written; and it was printed in the

year 1660, in one sheet of paper, under the title of “An Alarm to the

Priests; or, A Message from Heaven to Forewarn them,” &c.

Some time after the publishing of this paper, having occasion to go to

London, I went to visit George Fox the younger, who with another Friend

was then a prisoner in a messenger’s hands. I had never seen him, nor he

me before; yet this paper lying on the table before him, he, pointing to

it, asked me if I was the person that wrote it. I told him I was. “It’s

much,” said the other Friend, “that they bear it.” “It is,” replied he,

“their portion, and they must bear it.”

While I was then in London I went to a little meeting of Friends which

was then held in the house of one Humphrey Bache, a goldsmith, at the

sign of the Snail, in Tower Street. It was then a very troublesome time,

not from the government, but from the rabble of boys and rude people, who

upon the turn of the time (at the return of the King) took liberty to be

very abusive.

When the meeting ended, a pretty number of these unruly folk were got

together at the door, ready to receive the Friends as they came forth,

not only with evil words, but with blows; which I saw they bestowed

freely on some of them that were gone out before me, and expected I

should have my share of when I came amongst them. But, quite contrary to

my expectation, when I came out, they said one to another, “Let him

alone; don’t meddle with him; he is no Quaker, I’ll warrant you.”

This struck me, and was worse to me than if they had laid their fists on

me, as they did on others. I was troubled to think what the matter was,

or what these rude people saw in me that made them not take me for a

Quaker. And upon a close examination of myself, with respect to my habit

and deportment, I could not find anything to place it on, but that I had

then on my head a large montero-cap of black velvet, the skirt of which

being turned up in folds, looked, it seems, somewhat above the then

common garb of a Quaker; and this put me out of conceit with my cap.

I came at this time to London from Isaac Penington’s, and thither I went

again in my way home; and while I stayed there, amongst other Friends who

came thither, Thomas Loe, of Oxford, was one. A faithful and diligent

labourer he was in the work of the Lord, and an excellent ministerial

gift he had. And I, in my zeal for truth, being very desirous that my

neighbours might have the opportunity of hearing the gospel, the glad

tidings of salvation, livingly and powerfully preached among them,

entered into communication with him about it; offering to procure some

convenient place in the town where I lived for a meeting to be held, and

to invite my neighbours to it, if he could give me any ground to expect

his company at it. He told me he was not at his own command, but at the

Lord’s, and he knew not how He might dispose of him; but wished me, if I

found when I was come home that the thing continued with weight upon my

mind, and that I could get a fit place for a meeting, I would advertise

him of it by a few lines directed to him in Oxford, whither he was then

going, and he might then let me know how his freedom stood in that

matter.

When therefore I was come home, and had treated with a neighbour for a

place to have a meeting in, I wrote to my friend Thomas Loe, to acquaint

him that I had procured a place for a meeting, and would invite company

to it, if he would fix the time, and give me some ground to hope that he

would be at it.

This letter I sent by a neighbour to Thame to be given to a dyer of

Oxford, who constantly kept Thame market, with whom I was pretty well

acquainted, having sometimes formerly used him not only in his way of

trade, but to carry letters between my brother and me when he was a

student in that University, for which he was always paid; and had been so

careful in the delivery that our letters had always gone safe until now.

But this time (Providence so ordering, or at least for my trial

permitting it) this letter of mine, instead of being delivered according

to its direction, was seized and carried, as I was told, to the Lord

Faulkland, who was then called Lord Lieutenant of that county.

The occasion of this stopping of letters at that time was that mad prank

of those infatuated fifth-monarchy men, who from their meeting-house in

Coleman Street, London, breaking forth in arms, under the command of

their chieftain Venner, made an insurrection in the city, on pretence of

setting up the kingdom of Jesus, who, it is said, they expected would

come down from heaven to be their leader; so little understood they the

nature of his kingdom, though he himself had declared it was not of this

world.

The King, a little before his arrival in England, had by his declaration

from Breda given assurance of liberty to tender consciences, and that no

man should be disquieted or called in question for difference of opinion

in matters of religion which do not disturb the peace of the kingdom.

Upon this assurance dissenters of all sorts relied, and held themselves

secure. But now, by this frantic action of a few hot-brained men, the

King was by some holden discharged from his royal word and promise, in

his foregoing declaration publicly given. And hereupon letters were

intercepted and broken open, for discovery of suspected plots and designs

against the government; and not only dissenters meetings’ of all sorts,

without distinction, were disturbed, but very many were imprisoned in

most parts throughout the nation; and great search there was in all

countries for suspected persons, who, if not found at meetings, were

fetched in from their own houses.

The Lord Lieutenant (so called) of Oxfordshire had on this occasion taken

Thomas Loe and many others of our friends at a meeting, and sent them

prisoners to Oxford Castle, just before my letter was brought to his

hand, wherein I had invited Thomas Loe to a meeting; and he, putting the

worst construction upon it, as if I, a poor simple lad, had intended a

seditious meeting, in order to raise rebellion, ordered two of the

deputy-lieutenants who lived nearest to me to send a party of horse to

fetch me in.

Accordingly, while I wholly ignorant of what had passed at Oxford, was in

daily expectation of an agreeable answer to my letter, came a party of

horse one morning to my father’s gate, and asked for me.

It so fell out that my father was at that time from home, I think in

London; whereupon he that commanded the party alighted and came in. My

eldest sister, hearing the noise of soldiers, came hastily up into my

chamber, and told me there were soldiers below, who inquired for me. I

forthwith went down to them, and found the commander was a barber of

Thame, and one who had always been my barber till I was a Quaker. His

name was Whately, a bold brisk fellow.

I asked him what his business was with me: he told me I must go with him.

I demanded to see his warrant: he laid his hand on his sword, and said

that was his warrant. I told him though that was not a legal warrant,

yet I would not dispute it, but was ready to bear injuries. He told me

he could not help it; he was commanded to bring me forthwith before the

deputy-lieutenants, and therefore desired me to order a horse to be got

ready, because he was in haste. I let him know I had no horse of my own,

and would not meddle with any of my father’s horses, in his absence

especially; and that therefore, if he would have me with him, he must

carry me as he could.

He thereupon taking my sister aside, told her he found I was resolute,

and his orders were peremptory; wherefore he desired that she would give

order for a horse to be made ready for me, for otherwise he should be

forced to mount me behind a trooper, which would be very unsuitable for

me, and which he was very unwilling to do. She thereupon ordered a horse

to be got ready, upon which, when I had taken leave of my sisters, I

mounted, and went off, not knowing whither he intended to carry me.

He had orders, it seems, to take some others also in a neighbouring

village, whose names he had, but their houses he did not know.

Wherefore, as we rode he asked me if I knew such and such men (whom he

named) and where they lived; and when he understood that I knew them, he

desired me to show him their houses. “No,” said I, “I scorn to be an

informer against my neighbours, to bring them into trouble.” He

thereupon, riding to and fro, found by inquiry most of their houses; but,

as it happened, found none of them at home, at which I was glad.

At length he brought me to the house of one called Esquire Clark, of

Weston, by Thame, who, being afterwards knighted, was called Sir John

Clark; a jolly man, too much addicted to drinking in soberer times, but

was now grown more licentious that way, as the times did now more favour

debauchery. He and I had known one another for some years, though not

very intimately, having met sometimes at the Lord Wenman’s table.

This Clark was one of the deputy-lieutenants whom I was to be brought

before; and he had gotten another thither to join with him in tendering

me the oaths, whom I knew only by name and character; he was called

Esquire Knowls, of Grays, by Henley, and reputed a man of better morals

than the other.

I was brought into the hall, and kept there; and as Quakers were not so

common then as they now are (and indeed even yet, the more is the pity,

they are not common in that part of the country), I was made a spectacle

and gazing-stock to the family, and by divers I was diversely set upon.

Some spake to me courteously, with appearance of compassion; others

ruggedly, with evident tokens of wrath and scorn. But though I gave them

the hearing of what they said, which I could not well avoid, yet I said

little to them; but keeping my mind as well retired as I could, I

breathed to the Lord for help and strength from Him, to bear me up and

carry me through this trial, that I might not sink under it, or be

prevailed on by any means, fair or foul, to do anything that might

dishonour or displease my God.

At length came forth the justices themselves (for so they were, as well

as lieutenants), and after they had saluted me, they discoursed with me

pretty familiarly; and though Clark would sometimes be a little jocular

and waggish (which was somewhat natural to him), yet Knowls treated me

very civilly, not seeming to take any offence at my not standing bare

before him.

And when a young priest, who as I understood was chaplain in the family,

took upon him pragmatically to reprove me for standing with my hat on

before the magistrates, and snatched my hat from off my head, Knowls, in

a pleasant manner, corrected him, telling him that he mistook himself in

taking a cap for a hat (for mine was a montero-cap), and bade him give it

me again; which he (though unwillingly) doing, I forthwith put it on my

head again, and thenceforward none meddled with me about it.

Then they began to examine me, putting divers questions to me relating to

the present disturbances in the nation, occasioned by the late foolish

insurrection of those frantic fifth-monarchy men. To all which I readily

answered, according to the simplicity of my heart and innocency of my

hands, for I had neither done nor thought any evil against the

government.

But they endeavoured to affright me with threats of danger, telling me

(with inuendoes) that for all my pretence of innocency there was high

matter against me, which, if I would stand out, would be brought forth,

and that under my own hand. I knew not what they meant by this; but I

knew my innocency, and kept to it.

At length, when they saw I regarded not their threats in general, they

asked me if I knew one Thomas Loe, and had written of late to him. I

then remembered my letter, which till then I had not thought of, and

thereupon frankly told them that I did both know Thomas Loe and had

lately written to him; but that as I knew I had written no hurt, so I did

not fear any danger from that letter. They shook their heads, and said,

“It was dangerous to write letters to appoint meetings in such

troublesome times.”

They added, that by appointing a meeting, and endeavouring to gather a

concourse of people together, in such a juncture especially as this was,

I had rendered myself a dangerous person. And therefore they could do no

less than tender me the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, which

therefore they required me to take.

I told them if I could take any oath at all, I would take the oath of

allegiance, for I owed allegiance to the King; but I durst not take any

oath, because my Lord and Master Jesus Christ had commanded me not to

swear at all; and if I brake His command I should thereby both dishonour

and displease Him.

Hereupon they undertook to reason with me, and used many words to

persuade me that that command of Christ related only to common and

profane swearing, not to swearing before a magistrate. I heard them, and

saw the weakness of their arguing, but did not return them any answer;

for I found my present business was not to dispute, but to suffer; and

that it was not safe for me, in this my weak and childish state

especially, to enter into reasonings with sharp, quick, witty, and

learned men, lest I might thereby hurt both the cause of truth, which I

was to bear witness to, and myself; therefore I chose rather to be a

fool, and let them triumph over me, than by my weakness give them

advantage to triumph over the truth. And my spirit being closely

exercised in a deep travail towards the Lord, I earnestly begged of Him

that He would be pleased to keep me faithful to the testimony He had

committed to me, and not suffer me to be taken in any of the snares which

the enemy laid for me. And, blessed be His holy name, He heard my cries,

and preserved me out of them.

When the justices saw they could not bow me to their wills, they told me

they must send me to prison. I told them I was contented to suffer

whatsoever the Lord should suffer them to inflict upon me. Whereupon

they withdrew into the parlour, to consult together what to do with me,

leaving me meanwhile to be gazed on in the hall.

After a pretty long stay they came forth to me again with a great show of

kindness, telling me they were very unwilling to send me to gaol, but

would be as favourable to me as possibly they could, and that if I would

take the oaths, they would pass by all the other matter which they had

against me. I told them I knew they could not justly have anything

against me, for I had neither done nor intended anything against the

government, or against them. And as to the oaths, I assured them that my

refusing them was merely matter of conscience to me, and that I durst not

take any oath whatsoever, if it were to save my life.

When they heard this they left me again, and went and signed a mittimus

to send me to prison at Oxford, and charged one of the troopers that

brought me thither, who was one of the newly-raised militia troop, to

convey me safe to Oxford. But before we departed they called the trooper

aside, and gave him private instructions what he should do with me, which

I knew nothing of till I came thither, but expected I should go directly

to the castle.

It was almost dark when we took horse, and we had about nine or ten miles

to ride, the weather thick and cold (for it was about the beginning of

the twelfth month), and I had no boots, being snatched away from home on

a sudden, which made me not care to ride very fast. And my guard, who

was a tradesman in Thame, having confidence in me that I would not give

him the slip, jogged on without heeding how I followed him.

When I was gone about a mile on the way I overtook my father’s man, who,

without my knowledge, had followed me at a distance to Weston, and waited

there abroad in the stables till he understood by some of the servants

that I was to go to Oxford; and then ran before, resolving not to leave

me till he saw what they would do with me.

I would have had him return home, but he desired me not to send him back,

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.