This is the liberty I chiefly prize,
The other, without this, I can despise.
Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison I was desired by my
quondam master, Milton, to take a house for him in the neighbourhood
where I dwelt, that he might go out of the city, for the safety of
himself and his family, the pestilence then growing hot in London. I
took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont, a mile from me, of which I
gave him notice, and intended to have waited on him, and seen him well
settled in it, but was prevented by that imprisonment.
But now being released and returned home, I soon made a visit to him, to
welcome him into the country.
After some common discourses had passed between us, he called for a
manuscript of his; which being brought he delivered to me, bidding me
take it home with me, and read it at my leisure; and when I had so done,
return it to him with my judgment thereupon.
When I came home, and had set myself to read it, I found it was that
excellent poem which he entitled “Paradise Lost.” After I had, with the
best attention, read it through, I made him another visit, and returned
him his book, with due acknowledgment of the favour he had done me in
communicating it to me. He asked me how I liked it and what I thought of
it, which I modestly but freely told him, and after some further
discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him, “‘Thou hast said much here
of Paradise Lost,’ but what hast thou to say of ‘Paradise Found?’” He
made me no answer, but sat some time in a muse; then brake off that
discourse, and fell upon another subject.
After the sickness was over, and the city well cleansed and become safely
habitable again, he returned thither. And when afterwards I went to wait
on him there, which I seldom failed of doing whenever my occasions drew
me to London, he showed me his second poem, called “Paradise Regained,”
and in a pleasant tone said to me, “This is owing to you, for you put it
into my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont, which before I
had not thought of.” But from this digression I return to the family I
then lived in.
We had not been long at home, about a month perhaps, before Isaac
Penington was taken out of his house in an arbitrary manner by military
force, and carried prisoner to Aylesbury gaol again, where he lay
three-quarters of a year, with great hazard of his life, it being the
sickness year, and the plague being not only in the town, but in the
gaol.
Meanwhile his wife and family were turned out of his house, called the
Grange, at Peter’s Chalfont, by them who had seized upon his estate; and
the family being by that means broken up, some went one way, others
another. Mary Penington herself, with her younger children, went down to
her husband at Aylesbury. Guli, with her maid, went to Bristol, to see
her former maid, Anne Hersent, who was married to a merchant of that
city, whose name was Thomas Biss; and I went to Aylesbury with the
children, but not finding the place agreeable to my health, I soon left
it, and returning to Chalfont, took a lodging, and was dieted in the
house of a friendly man, and after some time went to Bristol to conduct
Guli home.
Meanwhile Mary Penington took lodgings in a farmhouse called Bottrels, in
the parish of Giles Chalfont, where, when we returned from Bristol, we
found her.
We had been there but a very little time before I was sent to prison
again upon this occasion. There was in those times a meeting once a
month at the house of George Salter, a Friend, of Hedgerly, to which we
sometimes went; and Morgan Watkins being with us, he and I, with Guli and
her maid, and one Judith Parker, wife of Dr. Parker, one of the College
of Physicians at London, with a maiden daughter of theirs, neither of
whom were Quakers, but as acquaintances of Mary Penington were with her
on a visit, walked over to that meeting, it being about the middle of the
first month, and the weather good.
This place was about a mile from the house of Ambrose Benett, the justice
who the summer before had sent me and some other Friends to Aylesbury
prison from the burial of Edward Parret of Amersham; and he, by what
means I know not, getting notice not only of the meeting, but, as was
supposed, of our being there, came himself to it, and as he came caught
up a stackwood stick, big enough to have knocked any man down, and
brought it with him, hidden under his cloak.
Being come to the house, he stood for a while without the door and out of
sight, listening to hear what was said, for Morgan was then speaking in
the meeting. But certainly he heard very imperfectly, if it was true
which we heard he said afterwards among his companions, as an argument,
that Morgan was a Jesuit—viz., that in his preaching he trolled over his
Latin as fluently as ever he heard any one; whereas Morgan, good man, was
better versed in Welsh than in Latin, which I suppose he had never
learned: I am sure he did not understand it.
When this martial Justice, who at Amersham had with his drawn sword
struck an unarmed man who he knew would not strike again, had now stood
some time abroad, on a sudden he rushed in among us, with the stackwood
stick held up in his hand ready to strike, crying out, “Make way there;”
and an ancient woman not getting soon enough out of his way, he struck
her with the stick a shrewd blow over the breast. Then pressing through
the crowd to the place where Morgan stood, he plucked him from thence,
and caused so great a disorder in the room that it broke the meeting up;
yet would not the people go away or disperse themselves, but tarried to
see what the issue would be.
Then taking pen and paper, he sat down at the table among us, and asked
several of us our names, which we gave, and he set down in writing.
Amongst others he asked Judith Parker, the doctor’s wife, what her name
was, which she readily gave; and thence taking occasion to discourse him,
she so overmastered him by clear reason, delivered in fine language, that
he, glad to be rid of her, struck out her name and dismissed her; yet did
not she remove, but kept her place amongst us.
When he had taken what number of names he thought fit, he singled out
half a dozen, whereof Morgan was one, I another, one man more, and three
women, of whom the woman of the house was one, although her husband then
was, and for divers years before had been, a prisoner in the Fleet for
tithes, and had nobody to take care of his family and business but her
his wife.
Us six he committed to Aylesbury gaol, which when the doctor’s wife heard
him read to the constable, she attacked him again, and having put him in
mind that it was a sickly time, and that the pestilence was reported to
be in that place, she in handsome terms desired him to consider in time
how he would answer the cry of our blood, if by his sending us to be shut
up in an infected place we should lose our lives there. This made him
alter his purpose, and by a new mittimus sent us to the House of
Correction at Wycombe. And although he committed us upon the Act for
banishment, which limited a certain time for imprisonment, yet he in his
mittimus limited no time, but ordered us to be kept till we should be
delivered by due course of law; so little regardful was he, though a
lawyer, of keeping to the letter of the law.
We were committed on the 13th day of the month called March, 1665, and
were kept close prisoners there till the 7th day of the month called
June, which was some days above twelve weeks, and much above what the Act
required.
Then were we sent for to the Justice’s house, and the rest being
released, Morgan Watkins and I were required to find sureties for our
appearance at the next assize; which we refusing to do, were committed
anew to our old prison, the House of Correction at Wycombe, there to lie
until the next assizes; Morgan being in this second mittimus represented
as a notorious offender in preaching, and I as being upon the second
conviction in order to banishment. There we lay till the 25th day of the
same month, and then, by the favour of the Earl of Ancram, being brought
before him at his house, we were discharged from the prison upon our
promise to appear, if at liberty and in health, at the assizes; which we
did, and were there discharged by proclamation.
During my imprisonment in this prison I betook myself for an employment
to making of nets for kitchen-service, to boil herbs, &c., in which trade
I learned of Morgan Watkins, and selling some and giving others, I pretty
well stocked the Friends of that country with them.
Though in that confinement I was not very well suited with company for
conversation, Morgan’s natural temper not being very agreeable to mine,
yet we kept a fair and brotherly correspondence, as became friends,
prison-fellows, and bed-fellows, which we were. And indeed it was a good
time, I think, to us all, for I found it so to me; the Lord being
graciously pleased to visit my soul with the refreshing dews of his
divine life, whereby my spirit was more and more quickened to Him, and
truth gained ground in me over the temptations and snares of the enemy;
which frequently raised in my heart thanksgivings and praises unto the
Lord. And at one time more especially the sense I had of the prosperity
of truth, and the spreading thereof, filling my heart with abundant joy,
made my cup overflow, and the following lines drop out:—
For truth I suffer bonds, in truth I live,
And unto truth this testimony give,
That truth shall over all exalted be,
And in dominion reign for evermore:
The child’s already born that this may see,
Honour, praise, glory be to God therefor.
And underneath thus:
Though death and hell should against truth combine,
Its glory shall through all their darkness shine.
This I saw with an eye of faith, beyond the reach of human sense; for,
As strong desire
Draws objects nigher
In apprehension than indeed they are;
I with an eye
That pierced high
Did thus of truth’s prosperity declare.
After we had been discharged at the assizes I returned to Isaac
Penington’s family at Bottrel’s in Chalfont, and, as I remember, Morgan
Watkins with me, leaving Isaac Penington a prisoner in Aylesbury goal.
The lodgings we had in this farmhouse (Bottrel’s) proving too strait and
inconvenient for the family, I took larger and better lodgings for them
in Berriehouse at Amersham, whither we went at the time called
Michaelmas, having spent the summer at the other place.
Some time after was that memorable meeting appointed to be held at
London, through a divine opening in the motion of life, in that eminent
servant and prophet of God, George Fox, for the restoring and bringing in
again those who had gone out from truth, and the holy unity of Friends
therein, by the means and ministry of John Perrot.
This man came pretty early amongst Friends, and too early took upon him
the ministerial office; and being, though little in person, yet great in
opinion of himself, nothing less would serve him than to go and convert
the Pope; in order whereunto, he having a better man than himself, John
Luff, to accompany him, travelled to Rome, where they had not been long
ere they were taken up and clapped into prison. Luff, as I remember, was
put in the Inquisition, and Perrot in their Bedlam, or hospital for
madmen.
Luff died in prison, not without well-grounded suspicion of being
murdered there; but Perrot lay there some time, and now and then sent
over an epistle to be printed here, written in such an affected and
fantastic style as might have induced an indifferent reader to believe
they had suited the place of his confinement to his condition.
After some time, through the mediation of Friends (who hoped better of
him than he proved) with some person of note and interest there, he was
released, and came back for England. And the report of his great
sufferings there (far greater in report than in reality), joined with a
singular show of sanctity, so far opened the hearts of many tender and
compassionate Friends towards him, that it gave him the advantage of
insinuating himself into their affections and esteem, and made way for
the more ready propagation of that peculiar error of his, of keeping on
the hat in time of prayer as well public as private, unless they had an
immediate motion at that time to put it off.
Now, although I had not the least acquaintance with this man, not having
ever exchanged a word with him, though I knew him by sight, nor had I any
esteem for him, for either his natural parts or ministerial gift, but
rather a dislike of his aspect, preaching, and way of writing; yet this
error of his being broached in the time of my infancy and weakness of
judgment as to truth, while I lived privately in London and had little
converse with Friends, I, amongst the many who were caught in that snare,
was taken with the notion, as what then seemed to my weak understanding
suitable to the doctrine of a spiritual dispensation. And the matter
coming to warm debates, both in words and writing, I, in a misguided
zeal, was ready to have entered the lists of contention about it, not
then seeing what spirit it proceeded from and was managed by, nor
foreseeing the disorder and confusion in worship which must naturally
attend it.
But as I had no evil intention or sinister end in engaging in it, but was
simply betrayed by the specious pretence and show of greater
spirituality, the Lord, in tender compassion to my soul, was graciously
pleased to open my understanding and give me a clear sight of the enemy’s
design in this work, and drew me off from the practice of it, and to bear
testimony against it as occasion offered.
But when that solemn meeting was appointed at London for a travail in
spirit on behalf of those who had thus gone out, that they might rightly
return and be sensibly received into the unity of the body again, my
spirit rejoiced, and with gladness of heart I went to it, as did many
more of both city and country, and with great simplicity and humility of
mind did honestly and openly acknowledge our outgoing, and take
condemnation and shame to ourselves. And some that lived at too remote a
distance in this nation as well as beyond the seas, upon notice given of
that meeting and the intended service of it, did the like by writing in
letters directed to and openly read in the meeting, which for that
purpose was continued many days.
Thus in the motion of life were the healing waters stirred and many
through the virtuous power thereof restored to soundness, and indeed not
many lost. And though most of those who thus returned were such as with
myself had before renounced the error and forsaken the practice, yet did
we sensibly find that forsaking without confessing, in case of public
scandal, was not sufficient, but that an open acknowledgment of open
offences as well as forsaking them, was necessary to the obtaining
complete remission.
Not long after this, George Fox was moved of the Lord to travel through
the countries, from county to county, to advise and encourage Friends to
set up monthly and quarterly meetings, for the better ordering the
affairs of the church in taking care of the poor, and exercising a true
gospel discipline for a due dealing with any that might walk disorderly
under our name, and to see that such as should marry among us did act
fairly and clearly in that respect.
When he came into this county I was one of the many Friends that were
with him at the meeting for that purpose; and afterwards I travelled with
Guli and her maid into the West of England to meet him there and to visit
Friends in those parts, and we went as far as Topsham in Devonshire
before we found him. He had been in Cornwall, and was then returning,
and came in unexpectedly at Topsham, where we then were providing (if he
had not then come thither) to have gone that day towards Cornwall. But
after he was come to us we turned back with him through Devonshire,
Somersetshire, and Dorsetshire, having generally very good meetings where
he was; and the work he was chiefly concerned in went on very
prosperously and well, without any opposition or dislike, save in that in
the general meeting of Friends in Dorsetshire a quarrelsome man, who had
gone out from Friends in John Perrot’s business and had not come rightly
in again, but continued in the practice of keeping on his hat in time of
prayer, to the great trouble and offence of Friends, began to cavil and
raise disputes, which occasioned some interruption and disturbance.
Not only George and Alexander Parker, who were with him, but divers of
the ancient Friends of that country, endeavoured to quiet that
troublesome man and make him sensible of his error, but his unruly spirit
would still be opposing what was said unto him and justifying himself in
that practice. This brought a great weight and exercise upon me, who sat
at a distance in the outward part of the meeting, and after I had for
some time bore the burden thereof, I stood up in the constraining power
of the Lord, and in great tenderness of spirit declared unto the meeting,
and to that person more particularly, how it had been with me in that
respect, how I had been betrayed into that wrong practice, how strong I
had been therein, and how the Lord had been graciously pleased to show me
the evil thereof, and recover me out of it.
This coming unexpectedly from me, a young man, a stranger, and one who
had not intermeddled with the business of the meeting, had that effect
upon the caviller, that if it did not satisfy him, it did at least
silence him, and made him for the present sink down and be still, without
giving any further disturbance to the meeting. And the Friends were well
pleased with this unlooked-for testimony from me, and I was glad that I
had that opportunity to confess to the truth, and to acknowledge once
more, in so public a manner, the mercy and goodness of the Lord to me
therein.
By the time we came back from this journey the summer was pretty far
gone, and the following winter I spent with the children of the family as
before, without any remarkable alteration in my circumstances, until the
next spring, when I found in myself a disposition of mind to change my
single life for a married state.
I had always entertained so high a regard for marriage, as it was a
divine institution, that I held it not lawful to make it a sort of
political trade, to rise in the world by. And therefore as I could not
but in my judgment blame such as I found made it their business to hunt
after and endeavour to gain those who were accounted great fortunes, not
so much regarding what she is as what she has, but making wealth the
chief if not the only thing they aimed at; so I resolved to avoid, in my
own practice, that course, and how much soever my condition might have
prompted me, as well as others, to seek advantage that way, never to
engage on account of riches, nor at all to marry till judicious affection
drew me to it, which I now began to feel at work in my breast.
The object of this affection was a Friend whose name was Mary Ellis, whom
for divers years I had had an acquaintance with, in the way of common
friendship only, and in whom I thought I then saw those fair prints of
truth and solid virtue which I afterwards found in a sublime degree in
her; but what her condition in the world was as to estate, I was wholly a
stranger to, nor desired to know.
I had once, a year or two before, had an opportunity to do her a small
piece of service, which she wanted some assistance in, wherein I acted
with all sincerity and freedom of mind, not expecting or desiring any
advantage by her, or reward from her, being very well satisfied in the
act itself that I had served a Friend and helped the helpless.
That little intercourse of common kindness between us ended without the
least thought I am verily persuaded on her part, well assured on my own,
of any other or further relation than that of free and fair friendship,
nor did it at that time lead us into any closer conversation or more
intimate acquaintance one with the other than had been before.
But some time, and that a good while after, I found my heart secretly
drawn and inclining towards her, yet was I not hasty in proposing, but
waited to feel a satisfactory settlement of mind therein, before I made
any step thereto.
After some time I took an opportunity to open my mind therein unto my
much-honoured friends Isaac and Mary Penington, who then stood _parentum
loco_ (in the place or stead of parents) to me. They having solemnly
weighed the matter, expressed their unity therewith; and indeed their
approbation thereof was no small confirmation to me therein. Yet took I
further deliberation, often retiring in spirit to the Lord, and crying to
Him for direction, before I addressed myself to her. At length, as I was
sitting all alone, waiting upon the Lord for counsel and guidance in
this—in itself and to me—so important affair, I felt a word sweetly arise
in me, as if I had heard a voice which said, “Go, and prevail.” And
faith springing in my heart with the word, I immediately arose and went,
nothing doubting.
When I was come to her lodgings, which were about a mile from me, her
maid told me she was in her chamber, for having been under some
indisposition of body, which had obliged her to keep her chamber, she had
not yet left it; wherefore I desired the maid to acquaint her mistress
that I was come to give her a visit, whereupon I was invited to go up to
her. And after some little time spent in common conversation, feeling my
spirit weightily concerned, I solemnly opened my mind unto her with
respect to the particular business I came about, which I soon perceived
was a great surprise to her, for she had taken in an apprehension, as
others also had done, that mine eye had been fixed elsewhere and nearer
home.
I used not many words to her, but I felt a divine power went along with
the words, and fixed the matter expressed by them so fast in her breast,
that, as she afterwards acknowledged to me, she could not shut it out.
I made at that time but a short visit, for having told her I did not
expect an answer from her now, but desired she would in the most solemn
manner weigh the proposal made, and in due time give me such an answer
thereunto as the Lord should give her, I took my leave of her and
departed, leaving the issue to the Lord.
I had a journey then at hand, which I foresaw would take me up two weeks’
time. Wherefore, the day before I was to set out I went to visit her
again, to acquaint her with my journey, and excuse my absence, not yet
pressing her for an answer, but assuring her that I felt in myself an
increase of affection to her, and hoped to receive a suitable return from
her in the Lord’s time, to whom in the meantime I committed both her,
myself, and the concern between us. And indeed I found at my return that
I could not have left it in better hands; for the Lord had been my
advocate in my absence, and had so far answered all her objections that
when I came to her again she rather acquainted me with them than urged
them.
From that time forward we entertained each other with affectionate
kindness in order to marriage, which yet we did not hasten to, but went
on deliberately. Neither did I use those vulgar ways of courtship, by
making frequent and rich presents, not only for that my outward condition
would not comport with the expense, but because I liked not to obtain by
such means, but preferred an unbribed affection.
While this affair stood thus with me, I had occasion to take another
journey into Kent and Sussex, which yet I would not mention here, but for
a particular accident which befell me on the way.
The occasion of this journey was this. Mary Penington’s daughter Guli,
intending to go to her Uncle Springett’s, in Sussex, and from thence
amongst her tenants, her mother desired me to accompany her, and assist
her in her business with her tenants.
We tarried at London the first night, and set out next morning on the
Tunbridge road, and Seven Oaks lying in our way we put in there to bait;
but truly we had much ado to get either provisions or room for ourselves
or our horses, the house was so filled with guests, and those not of the
better sort. For the Duke of York being, as we were told, on the road
that day for the Wells, divers of his guards and the meaner sort of his
retinue had near filled all the inns there.
I left John Gigger, who waited on Guli in this journey and was afterwards
her menial servant, to take care of the horses, while I did the like as
well as I could for her. I got a little room to put her into, and having
shut her into it, went to see what relief the kitchen would afford us,
and with much ado, by praying hard and paying dear, I got a small joint
of meat from the spit, which served rather to stay than satisfy our
stomachs, for we were all pretty sharp set.
After this short repast, being weary of our quarters, we quickly mounted
and took the road again, willing to hasten from a place where we found
nothing but rudeness; a knot of [rude people] soon followed us,
designing, as we afterwards found, to put an abuse upon us, and make
themselves sport with us. We had a spot of fine smooth sandy way,
whereon the horses trod so softly that we heard them not till one of them
was upon us. I was then riding abreast with Guli, and discoursing with
her, when on a sudden hearing a little noise, and turning mine eye that
way, I saw a horseman coming up on the further side of her horse, having
his left arm stretched out, just ready to take her about the waist and
pluck her off backwards from her own horse to lay her before him upon
his. I had but just time to thrust forth my stick between him and her,
and bid him stand off, and at the same time reining my horse to let hers
go before me, thrust in between her and him, and being better mounted
than he my horse ran him off. But his horse being, though weaker than
mine, yet nimble, he slipped by me and got up to her on the near side,
endeavouring to offer abuse to her, to prevent which I thrust in upon him
again, and in our jostling we drove her horse quite out of the way and
almost into the next hedge.
While we were thus contending I heard a noise of loud laughter behind us,
and turning my head that way I saw three or four horsemen more, who could
scarce sit their horses for laughing to see the sport their companion
made with us. From thence I saw it was a plot laid, and that this rude
fellow was not to be dallied with; wherefore I bestirred myself the more
to keep him off, admonishing him to take warning in time and give over
his abusiveness, lest he repented too late. He had in his hand a short
thick truncheon, which he held up at me, on which laying hold with a
strong grip, I suddenly wrenched it out of his hand, and threw it at as
far a distance behind me as I could.
While he rode back to fetch his truncheon, I called up honest John
Gigger, who was indeed a right honest man, and of a temper so thoroughly
peaceable that he had not hitherto put in at all; but now I roused him,
and bade him ride so close up to his mistress’s horse on the further side
that no horse might thrust in between, and I would endeavour to guard the
near side. But he, good man, not thinking it perhaps decent enough for
him to ride so near his mistress, left room enough for another to ride
between. And indeed so soon as our brute had recovered his truncheon, he
came up directly thither, and had thrust in again, had not I, by a nimble
turn, chopped in upon him, and kept him at bay.
I then told him I had hitherto spared him, but wished him not to provoke
me further. This I spoke with such a tone as bespoke a high resentment
of the abuse put upon us, and withal pressed so close upon him with my
horse that I suffered him not to come up any more to Guli.
This his companions, who kept an equal distance behind us, both heard and
saw, and thereupon two of them advancing, came up to us. I then thought
I might likely have my hands full, but Providence turned it otherwise;
for they, seeing the contest rise so high, and probably fearing it would
rise higher, not knowing where it might stop, came in to part us, which
they did by taking him away, one of them leading his horse by the bridle,
and the other driving him on with his whip, and so carried him off.
One of their company stayed yet behind; and it so happening that a great
shower just then fell, we betook ourselves for shelter to a thick and
well-spread oak which stood hard by. Thither also came that other
person, who wore the Duke’s livery, and while we put on our defensive
garments against the weather, which then set in to be wet, he took the
opportunity to discourse with me about the man that had been so rude to
us, endeavouring to excuse him by alleging that he had drank a little too
liberally. I let him know that one vice would not excuse another; that
although but one of them was actually concerned in the abuse, yet both he
and the rest of them were abettors of it and accessories to it; that I
was not ignorant whose livery they wore, and was well assured their lord
would not maintain them in committing such outrages upon travellers on
the road, to our injury and his dishonour; that I understood the Duke was
coming down, and that they might expect to be called to an account for
this rude action.
He then begged hard that we would pass by the offence, and make no
complaint to their lord; for, he knew, he said, the Duke would be very
severe, and it would be the utter ruin of the young man. When he had
said what he could, he went off before us, without any ground given him
to expect favour; and when we had fitted ourselves for the weather we
followed after our own pace.
When we came to Tunbridge I set John Gigger foremost, bidding him lead on
briskly through the town, and placing Guli in the middle, I came close up
after her that I might both observe and interpose if any fresh abuse
should have been offered her. We were expected, I perceived, for though
it rained very hard, the street was thronged with men, who looked very
earnestly on us, but did not put any affront upon us.
We had a good way to ride beyond Tunbridge and beyond the Wells, in
byeways among the woods, and were the later for the hindrance we had had
on the way. And when, being come to Harbert Springett’s house, Guli
acquainted her uncle what danger and trouble she had gone through on the
way, he resented it so high that he would have had the persons prosecuted
for it; but since Providence had interposed, and so well preserved and
delivered her, she chose to pass by the offence.
When Guli had finished the business she went upon, we returned home, and
I delivered her safe to her glad mother. From that time forward I
continued my visits to my best beloved Friend until we married, which was
on the 28th day of the eighth month, called October, in the year 1669.
We took each other in a select meeting of the ancient and grave Friends
of that country, holden in a Friend’s house, where in those times not
only the monthly meeting for business but the public meeting for worship
was sometimes kept. A very solemn meeting it was, and in a weighty frame
of spirit we were, in which we sensibly felt the Lord with us, and
joining us; the sense whereof remained with us all our lifetime, and was
of good service and very comfortable to us on all occasions.
My next care after marriage was to secure my wife what moneys she had,
and with herself bestowed upon me; for I held it would be an abominable
crime in me, and savour of the highest ingratitude, if I, though but
through negligence, should leave room for my father, in case I should be
taken away suddenly, to break in upon her estate, and deprive her of any
part of that which had been and ought to be her own. Wherefore with the
first opportunity—as I remember, the very next day, and before I knew
particularly what she had—I made my will, and thereby secured to her
whatever I was possessed of as well all that which she brought, either in
moneys or in goods, as that little which I had before I married her;
which indeed was but little, yet more by all that little than I had ever
given her ground to expect with me.
She had indeed been advised by some of her relations to secure before
marriage some part at least of what she had, to be at her own disposal;
which, though perhaps not wholly free from some tincture of self-interest
in the proposer, was not in itself the worst of counsel. But the
worthiness of her mind, and the sense of the ground on which she received
me, would not suffer her to entertain any suspicion of me; and this laid
on me the greater obligation, in point of gratitude as well as of
justice, to regard and secure her; which I did.
I had not been long married before I was solicited by my dear friends
Isaac and Mary Penington, and her daughter Guli, to take a journey into
Kent and Sussex to account with their tenants and overlook their estates
in those counties, which before I was married I had had the care of; and
accordingly the journey I undertook, though in the depth of winter.
My travels into those parts were the more irksome to me from the
solitariness I underwent, and want of suitable society. For my business
lying among the tenants, who were a rustic sort of people of various
persuasions and humours, but not Friends, I had little opportunity of
conversing with Friends, though I contrived to be with them as much as I
could, especially on the first day of the week.
But that which made my present journey more heavy to me was a sorrowful
exercise which was newly fallen upon me from my father.
He had, upon my first acquainting him with my inclination to marry, and
to whom, not only very much approved the match, and voluntarily offered,
without my either asking or expecting, to give me a handsome portion at
present, with assurance of an addition to it hereafter. And he not only
made this offer to me in private, but came down from London into the
country on purpose, to be better acquainted with my friend, and did there
make the same proposal to her; offering also to give security to any
friend or relation of hers for the performance. Which offer she most
generously declined, leaving him as free as she found him. But after we
were married, notwithstanding such his promise, he wholly declined the
performance of it, under pretence of our not being married by the priest
and liturgy. This usage and evil treatment of us thereupon was a great
trouble to me; and when I endeavoured to soften him in the matter, he
forbade my speaking to him of it any more, and removed his lodging that I
might not find him.
The grief I conceived on this occasion was not for any disappointment to
myself or to my wife, for neither she nor I had any strict or necessary
dependence upon that promise; but my grief was for the cause assigned by
him as the ground of it, which was that our marriage was not by priest or
liturgy.
And surely hard would it have been for my spirit to have borne up under
the weight of this exercise, had not the Lord been exceeding gracious to
me, and supported me with the inflowings of his love and life, wherewith
he visited my soul in my travail. The sense whereof raised in my heart a
thankful remembrance of his manifold kindnesses in his former dealings
with me; and in the evening, when I came to my inn, while supper was
getting ready, I took my pen and put into words what had in the day
revolved in my thoughts. And thus it was