Had not the Lord been on our side,
May Israel now say,
We were not able to abide
The trials of that day
When men did up against us rise,
With fury, rage, and spite,
Hoping to catch us by surprise,
Or run us down by might.
Then had not God for us arose,
And shown His mighty power,
We had been swallowed by our foes,
Who waited to devour.
When the joint powers of death and hell
Against us did combine,
And with united forces fell
Upon us, with design
To root us out, then had not God
Appeared to take our part,
And them chastized with His rod,
And made them feel the smart,
We then had overwhelmed been
And trodden in the mire;
Our enemies on us had seen
Their cruel hearts’ desire.
When stoned, when stocked, when rudely stripped,
Some to the waist have been
(Without regard of sex), and whipped,
Until the blood did spin;
Yea, when their skins with stripes looked black,
Their flesh to jelly beat,
Enough to make their sinews crack,
The lashes were so great;
Then had not God been with them to
Support them, they had died,
His power it was that bore them through,
Nothing could do’t beside.
When into prisons we were thronged
(Where pestilence was rife)
By bloody-minded men that longed
To take away our life;
Then had not God been with us, we
Had perished there no doubt
’Twas He preserved us there, and He
It was that brought us out.
When sentenced to banishment
Inhumanly we were,
To be from native country sent,
From all that men call dear;
Then had not God been pleased t’ appear,
And take our cause in hand,
And struck them with a panic fear,
Which put them to a stand:
Nay, had He not great judgments sent,
And compassed them about,
They were at that time fully bent
To root us wholly out.
Had He not gone with them that went,
The seas had been their graves
Or when they came where they were sent,
They had been sold for slaves.
But God was pleased still to give
Them favour where they came,
And in His truth they yet do live
To praise His Holy Name.
And now afresh do men contrive
Another wicked way
Of our estates us to deprive,
And take our goods away.
But will the Lord (who to this day
Our part did always take)
Now leave us to be made a prey,
And that too for His sake?
Can any one who calls to mind
Deliverances past,
Discouraged be at what’s behind,
And murmur now at last?
Oh that no unbelieving heart
Among us may be found,
That from the Lord would now depart,
And coward-like give ground.
For without doubt the God we serve
Will still our cause defend,
If we from Him do never swerve,
But trust Him to the end.
What if our goods by violence
From us be torn, and we
Of all things but our innocence
Should wholly stripped be?
Would this be more than did befall
Good Job? Nay sure, much less:
He lost estate, children and all,
Yet he the Lord did bless.
But did not God his stock augment
Double what ’twas before?
And this was writ to the intent
That we should hope the more.
View but the lilies of the field,
That neither knit nor spin,
Who is it that to them doth yield
The robes they are decked in
Doth not the Lord the ravens feed,
And for the sparrows care?
And will not He for His own seed
All needful things prepare?
The lions shall sharp hunger bear,
And pine for lack of food;
But who the Lord do truly fear,
Shall nothing want that’s good.
Oh! which of us can now diffide
That God will us defend,
Who hath been always on our side,
And will be to the end.
_Spes confisa Deo nunquam confusa recedet_.
Hope which on God is firmly grounded
Will never fail, nor be confounded.
Scarce was the before-mentioned storm of outward persecution from the
Government blown over when Satan raised another storm of another kind
against us on this occasion. The foregoing storm of persecution, as it
lasted long, so in many parts of the nation, and particularly at London,
it fell very sharp and violent especially on the Quakers. For they
having no refuge but God alone to fly unto, could not dodge and shift to
avoid the suffering as others of other denominations could, and in their
worldly wisdom and policy did, altering their meetings with respect both
to place and time, and forbearing to meet when forbidden or kept out of
their meeting-houses. So that of the several sorts of Dissenters the
Quakers only held up a public testimony as a standard or ensign of
religion, by keeping their meetings duly and fully at the accustomed
times and places so long as they were suffered to enjoy the use of their
meeting-houses, and when they were shut up and Friends kept out of them
by force, they assembled in the streets as near to their meeting-houses
as they could.
This bold and truly Christian behaviour in the Quakers disturbed and not
a little displeased the persecutors, who, fretting, complained that the
stubborn Quakers broke their strength and bore off the blow from those
other Dissenters whom, as they most feared, so they principally aimed at.
For indeed the Quakers they rather despised than feared, as being a
people from whose peaceable principles and practices they held themselves
secure from danger; whereas having suffered severely, and that lately
too, by and under the other Dissenters, they thought they had just cause
to be apprehensive of danger from them, and good reason to suppress them.
On the other hand, the more ingenuous amongst other Dissenters of each
denomination, sensible of the ease they enjoyed by our bold and steady
suffering, which abated the heat of the persecutors and blunted the edge
of the sword before it came to them, frankly acknowledged the benefit
received; calling us the bulwark that kept off the force of the stroke
from them, and praying that we might be preserved and enabled to break
the strength of the enemy, nor could some of them forbear, those
especially who were called Baptists, to express their kind and favourable
opinion of us, and of the principles we professed, which emboldened us to
go through that which but to hear of was a terror to them.
This their good-will raised ill-will in some of their teachers against
us, who though willing to reap the advantage of a shelter, by a retreat
behind us during the time that the storm lasted, yet partly through an
evil emulation, partly through fear lest they should lose some of those
members of their society who had discovered such favourable thoughts of
our principles and us, they set themselves as soon as the storm was over
to represent us in as ugly a dress and in as frightful figure to the
world as they could invent and put upon us.
In order whereunto, one Thomas Hicks, a preacher among the Baptists at
London, took upon him to write several pamphlets successively under the
title of “A Dialogue between a Christian and a Quaker,” which were so
craftily contrived that the unwary reader might conclude them to be not
merely fictions, but real discourses actually held between one of the
people called a Quaker and some other person. In these feigned
dialogues, Hicks, having no regard to justice or common honesty, had made
his counterfeit Quaker say whatsoever he thought would render him one
while sufficiently erroneous, another while ridiculous enough, forging in
the Quaker’s name some things so abominably false, other things so
intolerably foolish, as could not reasonably be supposed to have come
into the conceit, much less to have dropped from the lip or pen of any
that went under the name of a Quaker.
These dialogues, shall I call them, or rather diabologues, were answered
by our friend William Penn in two books; the first being entitled “Reason
against Railing,” the other “The Counterfeit Christian Detected;” in
which Hicks being charged with manifest as well as manifold forgeries,
perversions, downright lies, and slanders against the people called
Quakers in general, William Penn, George Whitehead, and divers others by
name, complaint was made, by way of an appeal, to the Baptists in and
about London for justice against Thomas Hicks.
Those Baptists, who it seems were in the plot with Hicks to defame at any
rate, right or wrong, the people called Quakers, taking advantage of the
absence of William Penn and George Whitehead, who were the persons most
immediately concerned, and who were then gone a long journey on the
service of truth, to be absent from the city, in all probability, for a
considerable time, appointed a public meeting in one of their
meeting-houses, under pretence of calling Thomas Hicks to account and
hearing the charge made good against him, but with design to give the
greater stroke to the Quakers, when they, who should make good the charge
against Hicks, could not be present. For upon their sending notice to
the lodgings of William Penn and George Whitehead of their intended
meeting, they were told by several Friends that both William Penn and
George Whitehead were from home, travelling in the countries, uncertain
where, and therefore could not be informed of their intended meeting,
either by letter or express, within the time by them limited, for which
reason they were desired to defer the meeting till they could have notice
of it and time to return, that they might be at it. But these Baptists,
whose design was otherwise laid, would not be prevailed with to defer
their meeting, but, glad of the advantage, gave their brother Hicks
opportunity to make a colourable defence where he had his party to help
him and none to oppose him; and having made a mock show of examining him
and his works of darkness, they, in fine, having heard one side,
acquitted him.
This gave just occasion for a new complaint and demand of justice against
him and them. For as soon as William Penn returned to London, he in
print exhibited his complaint of this unfair dealing, and demanded
justice by a rehearing of the matter in a public meeting to be appointed
by joint agreement. This went hardly down with the Baptists, nor could
it be obtained from them without great importunity and hard pressing. At
length, after many delays and tricks used to shift it off, constrained by
necessity, they yielded to have a meeting at their own meeting-house in
Barbican, London.
There, amongst other Friends, was I, and undertook to read our charge
there against Thomas Hicks, which not without much difficulty I did;
they, inasmuch as the house was theirs, putting all the inconveniences
they could upon us.
The particular passages and management of this meeting, as also of that
other which followed soon after, they refusing to give us any other
public meeting, we were fain to appoint in our own meeting-house, by
Wheeler Street, near Spitalfields, London, and gave them timely notice
of, I forbear here to mention; there being in print a narrative of each,
to which for particular information I refer the reader.
But to this meeting Thomas Hicks would not come, but lodged himself at an
alehouse hard by; yet sent his brother Ives, with some others of the
party, by clamorous noises to divert us from the prosecution of our
charge against him; which they so effectually performed that they would
not suffer the charge to be heard, though often attempted to be read.
As this rude behaviour of theirs was a cause of grief to me, so
afterwards, when I understood that they used all evasive tricks to avoid
another meeting with us, and refused to do us right, my spirit was
greatly stirred at their injustice, and in the sense thereof, willing, if
possible, to have provoked them to more fair and manly dealing. I let
fly a broadside at them, in a single sheet of paper, under the title of
“A Fresh Pursuit”; in which, having restated the controversy between them
and us, and reinforced our charge of forgery, &c., against Thomas Hicks
and his abettors, I offered a fair challenge to them, not only to Thomas
Hicks himself, but to all those his compurgators who had before
undertaken to acquit him from our charge, together with their companion
Jeremy Ives, to give me a fair and public meeting, in which I would make
good our charge against him as principal, and all the rest of them as
accessories. But nothing could provoke them to come fairly forth.
Yet not long after, finding themselves galled by the narrative lately
published of what had passed in the last meeting near Wheeler Street,
they, to help themselves if they could, sent forth a counter-account of
that meeting and of the former at Barbican, as much to the advantage of
their own cause as they upon deliberate consideration could contrive it.
This was published by Thomas Plant, a Baptist teacher, and one of Thomas
Hicks’ former compurgators, and bore (but falsely) the title of “A
Contest for Christianity; or, a Faithful Relation of two late Meetings,”
&c.
To this I quickly wrote and published an answer; and because I saw the
design and whole drift of the Baptists was to shroud Thomas Hicks from
our charge of forgery under the specious pretence of his and their
standing up and contending for Christianity, I gave my book this general
title: “Forgery no Christianity; or, a Brief Examen of a late Book,” &c.
And having from their own book plainly convicted that which they called a
“faithful relation” to be indeed a false relation, I, in an expostulatory
postscript to the Baptists, reinforced our charge and my former
challenge, offering to make it good against them before a public and free
auditory. But they were too wary to appear further, either in person or
in print.
This was the end of that controversy, which was observed to have this
issue: that what those dialogues were written to prevent was by the
dialogues, and their unfair, unmanly, unchristian carriage, in
endeavouring to defend them, hastened and brought to pass; for not a few
of the Baptists’ members upon this occasion left their meetings and
society, and came over to the Quakers’ meetings and were joined in
fellowship with them; thanks be to God.
The controversy which had been raised by those cavilling Baptists had not
been long ended before another was raised by an Episcopal priest in
Lincolnshire, who fearing, as it seemed, to lose some of his hearers to
the Quakers, wrote a book which he miscalled, “A Friendly Conference
between a Minister and a Parishioner of his inclining to Quakerism,” in
which he misstated and greatly perverted the Quakers’ principles, that he
might thereby beget in his parishioners an aversion to them; and that he
might abuse us the more securely, he concealed himself, sending forth his
book without a name.
This book coming to my hand, became my concern (after I had read it, and
considered the evil management and worse design thereof) to answer it;
which I did in a treatise called “Truth Prevailing, and Detecting Error,”
published in the year 1676.
My answer I divided, according to the several subjects handled in the
conference, into divers distinct chapters, the last of which treated of
Tithes.
This being the priests’ Delilah, and that chapter of mine pinching them,
it seems, in a tender part, the belly, they laid their heads together,
and with what speed they could sent forth a distinct reply to the last
chapter, “Of Tithes,” in mine, under the title of “The Right of Tithes
Asserted and Proved.” This also came forth without a name, yet pretended
to be written by another hand.
Before I had finished my rejoinder to this came forth another called “A
Vindication of the Friendly Conference,” said to be written by the author
of the “Feigned Conference,” who was not yet willing to trust the world
with his name. So much of it as related to the subject I was then upon
(Tithes) I took into my rejoinder to the “Right of Tithes,” which I
published in the year 1678, with this title: “The Foundation of Tithes
Shaken,” &c.
After this it was a pretty while before I heard from either of them
again. But at length came forth a reply to my last, supposed to be
written by the same hand who had before written “The Right of Tithes
Asserted,” &c., but still without a name. This latter book had more of
art than argument in it. It was indeed a hash of ill-cooked cram set off
with as much flourish as the author was master of, and swelled into bulk
by many quotations; but those so wretchedly misgiven, misapplied, or
perverted, that to a judicious and impartial reader I durst oppose my
“Foundation of Tithes Shaken” to the utmost force that book has in it.
Yet it coming forth at a time when I was pretty well at leisure, I
intended a full refutation thereof, and in order thereunto had written
between forty and fifty sheets, when other business, more urgent,
intervening, took me off, and detained me from it so long that it was
then judged out of season, and so it was laid aside.
Hitherto the war I had been engaged in was in a sort foreign, with people
of other religious persuasions, such as were open and avowed enemies; but
now another sort of war arose, an intestine war, raised by some among
ourselves—such as had once been of us, and yet retained the same
profession, and would have been thought to be of us still; but having
through ill-grounded jealousies let in discontents, and thereupon fallen
into jangling, chiefly about church discipline, they at length broke
forth into an open schism, headed by two Northern men of name and note,
John Wilkinson and John Story; the latter of whom, as being the most
active and popular man, having gained a considerable interest in the
West, carried the controversy with him thither, and there spreading it,
drew many, too many, to abet him therein.
Among those, William Rogers, a merchant of Bristol, was not the least,
nor least accounted of by himself and some others. He was a bold and
active man, moderately learned, but immoderately conceited of his own
parts and abilities, which made him forward to engage, as thinking none
would dare to take up the gauntlet he should cast down. This high
opinion of himself made him rather a troublesome than formidable enemy.
That I may here step over the various steps by which he advanced to open
hostility, as what I was not actually or personally engaged in: He in a
while arrived to that height of folly and wickedness that he wrote and
published a large book, in five parts, to which he maliciously gave for a
title, “The Christian Quaker distinguished from the Apostate and
Innovator,” thereby arrogating to himself and those who were of his party
the topping style of Christian Quaker, and no less impiously than
uncharitably branding and rejecting all others, even the main body of
Friends, for apostates and innovators.
When this book came abroad it was not a little (and he, for its sake)
cried up by his injudicious admirers, whose applause setting his head
afloat, he came up to London at the time of the yearly meeting then
following, and at the close thereof gave notice in writing to this
effect—viz., “That if any were dissatisfied with his book he was there
ready to maintain and defend both it and himself against all comers.”
This daring challenge was neither dreaded nor slighted, but an answer
forthwith returned in writing, signed by a few Friends, amongst whom I
was one, to let him know that, as many were dissatisfied with his book
and him, he should not fail, God willing, to be met by the sixth hour
next morning at the meeting-place at Devonshire House.
Accordingly we met, and continued the meeting till noon or after, in
which time he, surrounded with those of his own party as might abet and
assist him, was so fairly foiled and baffled, and so fully exposed, that
he was glad to quit the place, and early next morning the town also,
leaving, in excuse for his going so abruptly off, and thereby refusing us
another meeting with him, which we had earnestly provoked him to, this
slight shift, “That he had before given earnest for his passage in the
stage-coach home, and was not willing to lose it.”
I had before this gotten a sight of his book, and procured one for my use
on this occasion, but I had not time to read it through; but a while
after, Providence cast another of them into my hands very unexpectedly,
for our dear friend George Fox passing through this country among
Friends, and lying in his journey at my house, had one of them in his
bag, which he had made some marginal notes upon. For that good man, like
Julius Cæsar, willing to improve all parts of his time, did usually, even
in his travels, dictate to his amanuensis what he would have committed to
writing. I knew not that he had this book with him, for he had not said
anything to me of it, till going in the morning into his chamber while he
was dressing himself, I found it lying on the table by him; and
understanding that he was going but for a few weeks to visit Friends in
the meetings hereabouts and the neighbouring parts of Oxford and
Berkshire, and so return through this county again, I made bold to ask
him if he would favour me so much as to leave it with me till his return,
that I might have the opportunity of reading it through. He consented,
and as soon almost as he was gone I set myself to read it over. But I
had not gone far in it ere, observing the many foul falsehoods, malicious
slanders, gross perversions, and false doctrines abounding in it, the
sense thereof inflamed my breast with a just and holy indignation against
the work, and that devilish spirit in which it was brought forth;
wherefore, finding my spirit raised and my understanding divinely opened
to refute it, I began the book again, and reading it with pen in hand,
answered it paragraphically as I went. And so clear were the openings I
received from the Lord therein, that by the time my friend came back I
had gone through the greatest part of it, and was too far engaged in
spirit to think of giving over the work; wherefore, requesting him to
continue the book a little longer with me, I soon after finished the
answer, which, with Friends’ approbation, was printed under the title of
“An Antidote against the Infection of William Rogers’ Book, miscalled
‘The Christian Quaker, &c.’” This was written in the year 1682. But no
answer was given to it, either by him or any other of his party, though
many others were concerned therein, and some by name, so far as I have
ever heard. Perhaps there might be the hand of Providence overruling
them therein, to give me leisure to attend some other services which soon
after fell upon me.
For it being a stormy time, and persecution waxing hot, upon the
Conventicle Act, through the busy boldness of hungry informers, who for
their own advantage did not only themselves hunt after religious and
peaceable meetings, but drove on the officers, not only the more inferior
and subordinate, but in some places even the justices also, for fear of
penalties, to hunt with them and for them; I found a pressure upon my
spirit to write a small treatise to inform such officers how they might
secure and defend themselves from being ridden by those malapert
informers, and made their drudges.
This treatise I called “A Caution to Constables and other inferior
Officers concerned in the Execution of the Conventicle Act: with some
Observations thereupon, humbly offered by way of Advice to such
well-meaning and moderate Justices of the Peace as would not willingly
ruin their peaceable Neighbours,” &c.
This was thought to have some good service where it came upon such sober
and moderate officers, as well justices as constables, &c., as acted
rather by constraint than choice, by encouraging them to stand their
ground with more courage and resolution against the insults of saucy
informers.
But whatever ease it brought to others, it brought me some trouble, and
had like to have brought me into more danger, had not Providence wrought
my deliverance by an unexpected way.
For as soon as it came forth in print, which was in the year 1683, one
William Ayrs, of Watford in Hertfordshire, a Friend, and an acquaintance
of mine, who was both an apothecary and barber, being acquainted with
divers of the gentry in those parts, and going often to some of their
houses to trim them, took one of these books with him when he went to
trim Sir Benjamin Titchborn of Rickmansworth, and presented it to him,
supposing he would have taken it kindly, as in like cases he had formerly
done. But it fell out otherwise. For he, looking it over after Ayrs was
gone, and taking it by the wrong handle, entertained an evil opinion of
it, and of me for it, though he knew me not.
He thereupon communicated both the book and his thoughts upon it to a
neighbouring justice, living in Rickmansworth, whose name was Thomas
Fotherly, who concurring with him in judgment, they concluded that I
should be taken up and prosecuted for it as a seditious book; for a libel
they could not call it, my name being to it at length.
Wherefore, sending for Ayrs, who had brought the book, Justice Titchborn
examined him if he knew me, and where I dwelt; who telling him he knew me
well, and had been often at my house, he gave him in charge to give me
notice that I should appear before him and the other justice at
Rickmansworth on such a day; threatening that if I did not appear, he
himself should be prosecuted for spreading the book.
This put William Ayrs in a fright. Over he came in haste with his
message to me, troubled that he should be a means to bring me into
trouble; but I endeavoured to give him ease by assuring him I would not
fail, with God’s leave, to appear at the time and place appointed, and
thereby free him from trouble or danger.
In the interim I received advice, by an express out of Sussex, that Guli
Penn, with whom I had had an intimate acquaintance and firm friendship
from our very youths, was very dangerously ill, her husband being then
absent in Pennsylvania, and that she had a great desire to see and speak
with me.
This put me to a great strait, and brought a sore exercise on my mind. I
was divided betwixt honour and friendship. I had engaged my word to
appear before the justices, which to omit would bring dishonour on me and
my profession. To stay till that time was come and past might probably
prove, if I should then be left at liberty, too late to answer her desire
and satisfy friendship.
After some little deliberation, I resolved, as the best expedient to
answer both ends, to go over next morning to the justices, and lay my
strait before them, and try if I could procure from them a respite of my
appearance before them until I had been in Essex, and paid the duty of
friendship to my sick friend; which I had the more hopes to obtain,
because I knew those justices had a great respect for Guli; for when
William Penn and she were first married they lived for some years at
Rickmansworth, in which time they contracted a neighbourly friendship
with both these justices and theirs, who ever after retained a kind
regard for them both.
Early therefore in the morning I rode over; but being wholly a stranger
to the justices, I went first to Watford, that I might take Ayrs along
with me, who supposed himself to have some interest in Justice Titchborn,
and when I came there, understanding that another Friend of that town,
whose name was John Wells, was well acquainted with the other Justice
Fotherly, having imparted to them the occasion of my coming, I took them
both with me, and hasted back to Rickmansworth, where having put our
horses up at an inn, and leaving William Ayrs, who was a stranger to
Fotherly, there, I went with John Wells to Fotherly’s house, and being
brought into a fair hall, I tarried there while Wells went into the
parlour to him, and having acquainted him that I was there and desired to
speak with him, brought him to me with severity in his countenance.
After he had asked me, in a tone which spoke displeasure, what I had to
say to him, I told him I came to wait on him upon an intimation given me
that he had something to say to me. He thereupon plucking my book out of
his pocket, asked me if I owned myself to be the author of that book? I
told him, if he pleased to let me look into it, if it were mine, I would
not deny it. He thereupon giving it into my hand, when I had turned over
the leaves and looked it through, finding it to be as it came from the
press, told him I wrote the book, and would own it, all but the errors of
the press. Whereupon he, looking sternly on me, answered, “Your own
errors, you should have said.”
Having innocency on my side, I was not at all daunted at either his
speech or looks, but feeling the Lord present with me, I replied, “I know
there are errors of the press in it, and therefore I excepted them; but I
do not know there are any errors of mine in it, and therefore cannot
except them. But,” added I, “if thou pleasest to show me any error of
mine in it, I shall readily both acknowledge and retract it;” and
thereupon I desired him to give me an instance, in any one passage in
that book, wherein he thought I had erred. He said he needed not go to
particulars, but charge me with the general contents of the whole book.
I replied that such a charge would be too general for me to give a
particular answer to; but if he would assign me any particular passage or
sentence in the book wherein he apprehended the ground of offence to lie,
when I should have opened the terms, and explained my meaning therein, he
might perhaps find cause to change his mind and entertain a better
opinion both of the book and me. And therefore I again entreated him to
let me know what particular passage or passages had given him an offence.
He told me I needed not to be in so much haste for that—I might have it
timely enough, if not too soon; “but this,” said he, “is not the day
appointed for your hearing, and therefore,” added he, “what, I pray, made
you in such haste to come now?” I told him I hoped he would not take it
for an argument of guilt that I came before I was sent for, and offered
myself to my purgation before the time appointed. And this I spake with
somewhat a brisker air, which had so much influence on him as to bring a
somewhat softer air over his countenance.
Then going on, I told him I had a particular occasion which induced me to
come now, which was, that I received advice last night by an express out
of Sussex, that William Penn’s wife, with whom I had had an intimate
acquaintance and strict friendship, _ab ipsis fere incunabilis_, {276a}
at least _a teneris unguiculis_, {276b} lay now there very ill, not
without great danger, in the apprehension of those about her, of her
life, and that she had expressed her desire that I would come to her as
soon as I could, the rather for that her husband was absent in America.
That this had brought a great strait upon me, being divided between
friendship and duty, willing to visit my friend in her illness, which the
nature and law of friendship required, yet unwilling to omit my duty by
failing of my appearance before him and the other justice, according to
their command and my promise, lest I should thereby subject, not my own
reputation only, but the reputation of my religious profession, to the
suspicion of guilt, and censure of willingly shunning a trial. To
prevent which I had chosen to anticipate the time, and came now to see if
I could give them satisfaction in what they had to object against me, and
thereupon being dismissed, pursue my journey into Sussex, or if by them
detained, to submit to Providence, and by an express to acquaint my
friend therewith, both to free her from an expectation of my coming and
myself from any imputation of neglect.
While I thus delivered myself I observed a sensible alteration in the
justice, and when I had done speaking, he first said he was very sorry
for Madam Penn’s illness, of whose virtue and worth he spoke very highly,
yet not more than was her due; then he told me that for her sake he would
do what he could to further my visit to her; “but,” said he, “I am but
one, and of myself can do nothing in it; therefore you must go to Sir
Benjamin Titchborn, and if he be at home, see if you can prevail with him
to meet me, that we may consider of it. But I can assure you,” added he,
“the matter which will be laid to your charge concerning your book is of
greater importance than you seem to think it. For your book has been
laid before the King and Council, and the Earl of Bridgewater, who is one
of the Council, hath thereupon given us command to examine you about it,
and secure you.”
“I wish,” said I, “I could speak with the Earl myself, for I make no
doubt but to acquit myself unto him; and,” added I, “if thou pleasest to
give me thy letter to him, I will wait upon him with it forthwith. For
although I know,” continued I, “that he hath no favour for any of my
persuasion, yet knowing myself to be wholly innocent in this matter, I
can with confidence appear before him, or even before the King in
Council.”
“Well,” said he, “I see you are confident; but for all that, let me tell
you, how good soever your intention was, you timed the publishing of your
book very unluckily, for you cannot be ignorant that there is a very
dangerous plot lately discovered, contrived by the Dissenters against the
Government and his Majesty’s life.” [This was the Rye plot, then newly
broke forth, and laid upon the Presbyterians.] “And for you,” added he,
“to publish a book just at that juncture of time, to discourage the
magistrates and other officers from putting in execution those laws which
were made to suppress their meetings, looks, I must tell you, but with a
scurvy countenance upon you.”
“If,” replied I, with somewhat a pleasanter air, “there was any mistiming
in the case, it must lie on the part of those plotters for timing the
breaking forth of their plot while my book was printing, for I can bring
very good proof that my book was in the press and well-nigh wrought off
before any man talked or knew of a plot, but those who were in it.”
Here our discourse ended, and I, taking for the present my leave of him,
went to my horse, and changing my companion, rode to Justice Titchborn’s,
having with me William Ayrs, who was best acquainted with him, and who
had casually brought this trouble on me.
When he had introduced me to Titchborn, I gave him a like account of the
occasion of my coming at that time as I had before given to the other
Justice. And both he and his lady, who was present, expressed much
concern for Guli Penn’s illness.
I found this man to be of quite another temper than Justice Fotherly; for
he was smooth, soft, and oily, whereas the other was rather rough,
severe, and sharp. Yet at the winding-up I found Fotherly my truest
friend.
When I had told Sir Benjamin Titchborn that I came from Justice Fotherly,
and requested him to give him a meeting to consider of my business, he
readily, without any hesitation, told me he would go with me to
Rickmansworth, from which his house was distant about a mile, and calling
for his horses, mounted immediately, and to Rickmansworth we rode.
After they had been a little while together, I was called in before them,
and in the first place they examined me, “What was my intention and
design in writing that book?” I told them the introductory part of it
gave a plain account of it—viz., “That it was to get ease from the
penalties of a severe law often executed with too great a severity by
unskilful officers, who were driven on beyond the bounds of their duty by
the impetuous threats of a sort of insolent fellows, as needy as greedy,
who for their own advantage sought our ruin.” To prevent which was the
design and drift of that book, by acquainting such officers how they
might safely demean themselves in the execution of their offices towards
their honest and peaceable neighbours, without ruining either their
neighbours or themselves to enrich some of the worst of men; and that I
humbly conceived it was neither unlawful nor unreasonable for a sufferer
to do this, so long as it was done in a fair, sober, and peaceable way.
They then put me in mind of the plot; told me it was a troublesome and
dangerous time, and my book might be construed to import sedition, in
discouraging the officers from putting the laws in execution, as by law
and by their oath they were bound; and in fine brought it to this issue,
that they were directed to secure me by a commitment to prison until the
assize, at which I should receive a further charge than they were
provided now to give me; but because they were desirous to forward my
visit to Madam Penn, they told me they would admit me to bail, and
therefore, if I would enter a recognisance, with sufficient sureties, for
my appearance at the next assize, they would leave me at liberty to go on
my journey.
I told them I could not do it. They said they would give me as little
trouble as they could, and therefore they would not put me to seek bail,
but would accept those two friends of mine who were then present, to be
bound with me for my appearance.
I let them know my strait lay not in the difficulty of procuring
sureties, for I did suppose myself to have sufficient acquaintance and
credit in that place, if on such an occasion I could be free to use it;
but as I knew myself to be an innocent man, I had not satisfaction in
myself to desire others to be bound for me, nor to enter myself into a
recognisance, that carrying in it, to my apprehension, a reflection on my
innocency and the reputation of my Christian profession.
Here we stuck and struggled about this a pretty while, till at length
finding me fixed in my judgment, and resolved rather to go to prison than
give bail, they asked me if I was against appearing, or only against
being bound with sureties to appear. I told them I was not against
appearing, which as I could not avoid if I would, so I would not if I
might; but was ready and willing to appear, if required, to answer
whatsoever should be charged against me. But in any case of a religious
nature, or wherein my Christian profession was concerned, which I took
this case to be, I could not yield to give any other or further security
than my word or promise as a Christian.
They, unwilling to commit me, took hold of that, and asked if I would
promise to appear. I answered, “Yes; with due limitations.”—“What do you
mean by due limitations?” said they.—“I mean,” replied I, “if I am not
disabled or prevented by sickness or imprisonment. For,” added I, “as
you allege that it is a troublesome time, I perhaps may find it so. I
may, for aught I know, be seized and imprisoned elsewhere on the same
account for which I now stand here before you, and if I should, how then
could I appear at the assize in this county?”—“Oh,” said they, “these are
due limitations indeed. Sickness or imprisonment are lawful excuses, and
if either of these befall you, we shall not expect your appearance here;
but then you must certify us that you are so disabled by sickness or
restraint.”
“But,” said I, “how shall I know when and where I shall wait upon you
again after my return from Sussex?”—“You need not,” said they, “trouble
yourself about that; we will take care to give you notice of both time
and place, and till you hear from us you may dispose yourself as you
please.”
“Well, then,” said I, “I do promise you that when I shall have received
from you a fresh command to appear before you, I will, if the Lord permit
me life, health, and liberty, appear when and where you shall appoint.”
“It is enough,” said they; “we will take your word.” And desiring me to
give their hearty respects and service to Madam Penn, they dismissed me
with their good wishes for a good journey.
I was sensible that in this they had dealt very favourably and kindly
with me, therefore I could not but acknowledge to them the sense I had
thereof; which done, I took leave of them, and mounting, returned home
with what haste I could, to let my wife know how I had sped. And having
given her a summary account of the business, I took horse again, and went
so far that evening towards Worminghurst that I got thither pretty early
next morning, and to my great satisfaction found my friend in a hopeful
way towards recovery.
I stayed some days with her, and then, finding her illness wear daily
off, and some other Friends being come from London to visit her, I,
mindful of my engagement to the Justices, and unwilling by too long an
absence to give them occasion to suspect I was willing to avoid their
summons, leaving those other Friends to bear her company longer, took my
leave of her and them, and set my face homewards, carrying with me the
welcome account of my friend’s recovery.
Being returned home, I waited in daily expectation of a command from the
Justices to appear again before them; but none came. I spoke with those
Friends who had been with me when I was before them, and they said they
had heard nothing of it from them, although they had since been in
company with them. At length the assize came, but no notice was given to
me that I should appear there: in fine, they never troubled themselves
nor me any further about it.
Thus was a cloud, that looked black and threatened a great storm, blown
gently over by a providential breath, which I could not but with a
thankful mind acknowledge to the All-great, All-good, All-wise Disposer,
in whose hand and at whose command the hearts of all men, even the
greatest, are, and who turns their counsels, disappoints their purposes,
and defeats their designs and contrivances as He pleases. For if my dear
friend Guli Penn had not fallen sick, if I had not thereupon been sent
for to her, I had not prevented the time of my appearance, but had
appeared on the day appointed; and, as I afterwards understood, that was
the day appointed for the appearance of a great many persons of the
Dissenting party in that side of the country, who were to be taken up and
secured on account of the aforementioned plot, which had been cast upon
the Presbyterians. So that if I had then appeared with and amongst them,
I had in all likelihood been sent to gaol with them for company, and that
under the imputation of a plotter, than which nothing was more contrary
to my profession and inclination.
But though I came off so easily, it fared not so well with others; for
the storm increasing, many Friends in divers parts, both of city and
country, suffered greatly; the sense whereof did deeply affect me, and
the more for that I observed the magistrates, not thinking the laws which
had been made against us severe enough, perverted the law in order to
punish us. For calling our peaceable meetings riots, which in the legal
notion of the word riot is a contradiction in terms, they indicted our
friends as rioters for only sitting in a meeting, though nothing was
there either said or done by them, and then set fines on them at
pleasure.
This I knew to be not only against right and justice, but even against
law; and it troubled me to think that we should be made to suffer not
only by laws made directly against us, but even by laws that did not at
all concern us. Nor was it long before I had occasion offered more
thoroughly to consider this matter.
For a justice of the peace in this county, who was called Sir Dennis
Hampson, of Taplow, breaking in with a party of horse upon a little
meeting near Wooburn, in his neighbourhood, the 1st of the fifth month,
1683, sent most of the men, to the number of twenty-three, whom he found
there, to Aylesbury prison, though most of them were poor men who lived
by their labour; and not going himself to the next Quarter Sessions at
Buckingham, on the 12th of the same month, sent his clerk with direction
that they should be indicted for a riot. Whither the prisoners were
carried and indicted accordingly, and being pressed by the court to
traverse and give bail, they moved to be tried forthwith, but that was
denied them. And they, giving in writing the reason of their refusing
bail and fees, were remanded to prison till next Quarter Sessions; but
William Woodhouse was again hailed, as he had been before, and William
Mason and John Reeve, who not being Friends, but casually taken at that
meeting, entered recognisance as the court desired, and so were released
till next sessions; before which time Mason died, and Reeve being sick,
appeared not, but got himself taken off. And in the eighth month
following the twenty-one prisoners that remained were brought to trial; a
jury was found, who brought in a pretended verdict that they were _guilty
of a riot_ for only sitting peaceably together without word or action,
and though there was no proclamation made nor they required to depart.
But one of the jurymen afterwards did confess he knew not what a riot
was; yet the prisoners were fined a noble apiece, and recommitted to
prison during life (a hard sentence) or the King’s pleasure, or until
they should pay the said fines. William Woodhouse was forthwith
discharged by his kinsman’s paying the fine and fees for him; Thomas Dell
and Edward Moore also, by other people of the world paying their fines
and fees; and shortly after, Stephen Pewsey, by the town and parish where
he lived, for fear his wife and children should become a charge upon
them. The other seventeen remained prisoners till King James’s
proclamation of pardon; whose names were Thomas and William Sexton,
Timothy Child, Robert Moor, Richard James, William and Robert Aldridge,
John Ellis, George Salter, John Smith, William Tanner, William Batchelor,
John Dolbin, Andrew Brothers, Richard Baldwin, John Jennings, and Robert
Austin.