Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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BRAVE
BESSIE WESTLAND
A Story of Quaker Persecution
BY
EMMA LESLIE
AUTHOR OF
"AUDREY'S JEWELS," "AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUE BOAR,"
"FOR FRANCE AND FREEDOM," ETC. ETC.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
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CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD
II. DAME DRAYTON
III. AUDREY LOWE
IV. THE RIVER GARDEN
V. ONE SUNDAY MORNING
VI. A DESOLATE HOUSEHOLD
VII. SIR WILLIAM PENN
VIII. CONCLUSION
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BRAVE BESSIE WESTLAND.
CHAPTER I.
A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD.
"HUSH, hush, Dorothy! Thee must not cry, for fear they should hear
thee, and come and look for us. The Lord will take care of us, now He
hath called mother and father to witness for the truth."
These words were spoken in a whisper to the little sister who lay
trembling in her arms, but there was something like a gasping sob in
Bessie Westland's voice, though she tried to speak bravely and calmly,
for fear the two younger sisters should grow more frightened.
But the mention of their mother brought back all the trouble, and in
spite of the warning words both burst into tears, while Dorothy sobbed
out—
"Oh, where have the cruel soldiers taken mother? Will they burn her,
think ye, Bessie?"
"Nay, nay, the Smithfield burnings are ended; there have been none of
late. King Charles—"
"Down with the Quakers!" shouted a hoarse voice close to their
hiding-place, and Bessie, who was holding the string of the cellar
door, felt her whole body shake with terror, for if the mob should find
them there was no telling what they might do. So with the cellar door
string in one hand, she held the frightened children close to her with
the other, as they sat cowering in the dark, and listening to the angry
threats of their rude neighbours, whom her father had so often warned
to flee from the wrath to come.
"Turn out the rats' nest!" called another voice; and it was clear, from
the sound of trampling feet and the breaking of furniture, that the mob
were doing their best to fulfil the threats of vengeance against the
unfortunate Quakers.
"King Charles has let us see now who are the law-breakers, and who gets
their ears slit off," said a man who had posted himself close to the
cellar door, while the rest ransacked cupboards and chests for what
they could find, as nobody was likely to bring them to account for
sacking the house of a convict Quaker.
They seemed to have forgotten the children who were hiding in the
cellar, for this man stood with his back against the door and talked,
while the rest searched every room and corner, evidently thinking that
it was their lawful spoil, now that the owners had been carried off to
prison.
How long they sat huddled together in the damp dark cellar, listening
to the destruction of their home, and the threats against father and
mother, they never knew; but to Bessie and her frightened sisters it
seemed hours and hours before the people began to go away, and they
were in constant terror lest some one should pull the door open and
reveal their hiding-place.
At last the house began to grow more quiet. The man moved away from
the door, and little Rose Westland ventured to lift her head from her
sister's lap.
"How long shall we have to stay here?" she asked in a trembling whisper.
"Hast thou forgotten mother's words already? how she bade us stay close
in the cellar until the Lord sent His messenger to deliver us?"
"But it is so dark," objected Dorothy; for now that the house was left
in peace, the child thought she might peep out and see what mischief
had been done, and she said so.
"Nay; nay," replied Bessie in a solemn whisper; "we must obey mother,
and wait here for the Lord's messenger."
Her fingers were stiff and cramped, and her arm ached from holding the
string so tightly, but she would not let it fall. "We are safe here;
mother said they would not come to the cellar, and thee seest she was
right. Now we must wait; the Lord will nathless send His messenger
soon." And then Bessie relapsed into silence, to listen for the
messenger who should come to their rescue.
The day before, their father had been carried off while preaching a
few yards from his own house, and at sunrise that morning a party of
soldiers had knocked at the door with a warrant to take their mother
to gaol also, for she had been preaching and teaching, in spite of the
warnings issued to all Quakers and seditious persons against unlawful
assemblies.
Before she went away, she bade Bessie take her younger sisters and
hide with them in the cellar. And here they, had been crouching in one
corner ever since, too frightened to feel hungry, and sick and faint
from terror and exhaustion, yet confidently expecting that God would
send help to them, though who would be brave enough to come to the
rescue of poor Quaker children, Bessie did not know.
Meanwhile, the prisoner, as she was hurried along the streets by the
soldiers, was recognised by one and another she knew, so some of the
little Society of Friends soon heard that one of their number had been
arrested, and several went to the court where the prisoner was first
taken, and there contrived to get a word with her, and to these she
said, "The children are in the cellar."
It would be sufficient, she knew, for the committee of suffering
formed for the relief of distress would help them somehow, and the
brave-hearted woman felt she could go to prison cheerfully if her
children were taken care of.
An hour later there was a meeting at the house of one who knew the
Westlands, to consider the case of the children, and there it was
decided that a messenger should fetch them by water from the Tower
Stairs, and they would be quartered upon three Friends living near, one
of their number undertaking to manage this delicate business.
At the corner of Soper Lane he met one of those he was in search of,
and told him his errand.
"It is thought likely that Friend Westland may be sent out to Jamaica
or His Majesty's plantation of Virginia, or he may escape with a fine
and the loss of his other ear, so that he may be able to maintain his
family again by and by."
"True, friend; but none can tell how soon thy home and mine may also be
desolated, and therefore should we be careful how we take charges we
are not able to fulfil," said the other, hastily looking round lest any
one should overhear what they were talking about, and suspect them of
being Quakers.
"But surely we may trust the Lord to provide for us and our little
ones?" returned the other in a tone of protest.
"Yea, yea, I doubt it not, friend; but still I hold that we should not
run needlessly into danger, and this affair of Westland's is becoming
the town talk, and to bring his children among our own just now will be
to invite persecution. Wait awhile, and then we shall see."
"See them starving," interrupted the other, with most un-Quaker-like
haste and heat; for the thought of this family of little children being
left to the tender mercies of a world that was so cruel to Quakers,
made his naturally quick temper rise against the extreme caution of his
companion, and without waiting to say another word he turned and walked
in the direction of his own home.
It was not far from where they had been standing, and in a few minutes
he reached the door, which was almost instantly opened by his wife, who
had been waiting and watching for his return for nearly an hour.
"Now the Lord be praised for bringing thee back to me in safety once
more," said Dame Drayton in a glad whisper, as she closed the street
door, while her husband hung up his cloak and tall steeple-shaped hat
on the peg in the entry.
"What news?" she asked.
"Bad enough, Martha. Westland is condemned to lose his ears and then
be banished to the plantations of Jamaica or Virginia—I am not certain
which—and his wife is to be imprisoned in Bridewell until she has
earned sufficient to pay the charge of her own transport to join him."
"And they have children, Gilbert," said his wife in a pitying tone,
lifting her eyes wistfully to her husband's face, as if mutely asking
what they were to do for these.
He understood the look.
"We will ask counsel of the Lord first, and the inner voice will teach
us what we ought to do," he said gravely. And as he spoke he turned
down a passage leading to his workshop, while his wife went into the
kitchen to superintend the preparation of dinner.
As they silently pursued their daily tasks, each lifted their heart to
God for guidance, and then listened for the voice of the Holy Spirit to
show them what they ought to do.
Two little girls were being taught meanwhile how to help in chopping
suet, washing currants, and pounding savoury herbs, which would all be
required for dinner. They understood, when they saw their mother close
her eyes for a moment, that they were not to talk or ask questions; but
before the morning tasks were over, they were startled by being asked
whether they would like some brothers and sisters to come and live with
them.
"Will they be 'prentices?" inquired the elder, a girl of ten or twelve.
"Why dost thee ask that, Betty?" said her mother.
"Because 'prentices eat so much bread. Deb says she will have to bake
and brew again to-morrow, they eat so much."
"Poor Deb is nathless weary, or she would not grudge the labour, since
the Lord hath sent meal and malt sufficient for all our wants. That is
why thee must learn to do what thee can in the kitchen when thou art
not learning from the horn book—that must by no means be neglected.
Now, Betty, if thou bast finished those currants, thee may take Hannah
and help her with her lesson until I can come to thee."
"But thou hast not told us about the new brothers and sisters," said
the younger, a little fair-haired girl whose curls could not be
persuaded to lie hidden under the close linen cap, but would peep
out all round neck and face, in a fashion that annoyed Dame Drayton
sometimes.
"Go with Betty to the keeping-room and learn the spelling task; it may
be thee will hear and learn something more than the horn book can teach
thee if thou dost ponder over my question. Think of it well, and all it
will mean to thee—about the extra baking and brewing. Thee may leave
Deborah and I to think," added the mother with a gentle smile on her
lips, as the two little girls left the room.
For her own part she had no doubt as to the voice within her, and she
longed for dinner time to come, to know what her husband would say.
Of course she would wait and hear what he should propose first, but
she would contrive to let him know that the Spirit had spoken with no
uncertain voice to her.
Master Drayton was a hatter, working with two apprentices at the back
of the house, in pasting and pressing the various shaped hats that at
present found favour with the London public.
A glance at Master Drayton's workshop would have told the stranger
that the country was in a period of transition, for there were
tall steeple-crowned hats such as were fashionable in the time of
the Lord-Protector Cromwell, but there were quite as many low and
broad-brimmed, that would be adorned with a long ostrich feather before
they were placed in the fashionable shop window; and Master Drayton
often thought of the changes he had seen during the last few years.
But Puritan and Cavalier alike were united in their hatred of Quakers,
and it seemed as though they would surely be exterminated between the
two. Yet they all worshipped the same God and Father in heaven, and
professed to love and serve the same Lord and Saviour who had died to
redeem them.
Some such thoughts as these were passing through the hatter's mind as
he stood silently directing the labours of one of his 'prentice lads;
for even in the workshop the Quaker rule of silence, where words were
not actually needed, held full sway, and so, except for the movement of
fingers and tools, and the slight noise thus caused, this hat factory
was as silent as a church.
"Thee must be more careful not to waste," was Master Drayton's only
word of reproof to a clumsy lad who had just spoiled a hat he was
making; but the words were so gravely spoken, that the lad reproved
felt heartily sorry for his stupidity, and wished he could repair the
mischief he had wrought.
When the dinner bell rang, master and apprentices took off their
aprons, washed their hands at the pump outside the door, and then
went to the fresh sanded dining-room, where Dame Drayton and the two
little girls had already taken their seats, with Deborah, the matronly
maid-of-all work.
There was a silent pause before the meal was served, but no spoken
words of prayer broke the silence.
The plain but bountiful repast was eaten without a word being spoken
beyond what was needful, and yet it was by no means a dull and gloomy
family gathering.
Dame Drayton, from her place at the foot of the table, beamed upon her
husband and his apprentices as though they had been honoured guests,
and the little girls smiled gravely but sweetly, seconding their
mother's welcome. There were little courteous nods and smiles too, as
the bright pewter plates were passed to the master to be filled, the
boys forgetting their hunger in their eagerness to see their mistress
served first. Deborah might sometimes grudge the labour of making up so
much bread, but as she looked at the boys and noted how they enjoyed
their meals, she felt content. Mistress and maid often interchanged
looks of amused interest, as pies, puddings, and pasties vanished
before the healthy appetites.
An atmosphere of peace and content pervaded this household, that needed
no words, for it found expression in acts of kindness and courtesy, and
looks and smiles of tender love. Indeed, it seemed as though the very
repression of all utterance filled the silence with a power of peace
and restfulness that no one desired to break.
When the meal was over, the two lads helped Deborah to carry the plates
and dishes to the kitchen, the little girls went to walk round the
garden, and husband and wife drew together at the window.
"Thou hast thought of my words this morning, dear heart, I can see,"
said Master Drayton with a smile, as he took his wife's hand.
"Thee knowest it would be grievous to part these little children,
Gilbert. The voice of God to me is, that we bring them to dwell here
with our little ones."
"But, Martha, hast thou thought what this will mean to thee and
Deborah? Three children are no light charge, my wife."
"True, Gilbert; but if the Lord send them, He will natheless give grace
and strength to bear with them."
"But the committee of suffering have not apportioned them all to thee,
one only to—"
"The committee are natheless wise men," said his wife quickly; "but the
Lord's voice can be heard by a woman in the stillness of her home, more
clearly, concerning the welfare of little children, and the voice to me
is, 'Part not these little ones.' If another would fain receive them,
even so let it be; but add not grief to grief, by laying a further
burden upon these tender witnesses for the truth. It is enough that
their parents are torn from them; let them have the comfort of abiding
together, wherever their home may be."
For gentle Dame Drayton to make such a long speech as this, made her
husband open his eyes in silent amazement; but it was sufficient to
convince him that she felt very strongly about the matter, and this was
doubtless the Lord's voice in her heart, or she would not thus have
spoken. So after a minute's pause he said, "I will see what Friend
Briggs thinks of thy word, and if he wills to take the three children
he will natheless tell me. If not, I will fetch them hither at sundown."
There was no further need of words about the matter, and none were
spoken. The hatter returned to his workshop, and the busy housewife
took out her spinning-wheel; for if these children came to her poorly
provided with clothes, she would need to draw upon her store in the
linen-press, and so there would be the more need for its replenishment.
But while Dame Drayton's spinning-wheel hummed to the pleasant measure
of her thoughts and plans for the children she was ready to welcome to
her home, her husband was revolving the same matter in his mind, but
in a fashion his wife had never glanced at. He was wondering what the
committee of suffering would think of his wife's proposal, in view of
the fact that she was not held to be a good Quakeress by the leaders of
their district meeting. The cause of this was that she refused to give
up entirely her attendance at "a steeple-house," as the Quakers called
a church. She was born in Maiden Lane, and had attended All Hallow's
Church in Bread Street since she was a child, and there she still took
her own children sometimes, since they had been roughly driven out of
White Swan Court, where their own meeting-house stood.
Now, the leaders among this little company of Quakers maintained that,
for a woman to take her children to "a steeple-house," in preference
to a Friends' meeting-house, because a party of rough soldiers had
driven back the worshippers in the name of the king two or three times
lately, was a weak compliance to the enemy, that must be strongly
condemned. Dame Drayton had pleaded that her elder child was a weak and
nervous girl, who had been unable to sleep without terrifying dreams,
after the encounter with the soldiers, especially as they had the pain
of seeing one of their friends carried off to prison by them. These
sturdy witnesses for the truth, as it was held and taught by George
Fox, thought the best way to overcome such nervous terror on the part
of a child, was to accustom her to the sight of thus witnessing to the
truth, and she was commanded to attend her district meeting-house,
and bring her children with her, each First Day that it was open for
worship.
Now Dame Drayton was as devout a Quakeress as any among them, but she
had not so learned the truth either from the lips of George Fox or from
the Bible, which she diligently studied.
"I am a child of God, and therefore I may not be in bondage to any
man," she pleaded. "God can speak to me by the weak voice of my little
child as well as by the committee of discipline," she said, when her
husband reluctantly brought her the message passed at their monthly
meeting, commanding her attendance at worship whenever the leaders
should deem it safe to hold such a meeting, for this was not always
possible at the present time of persecution.
That one so gentle, and seemingly so timid and compliant, should
dare to disobey this command, was a great surprise to many; but Dame
Drayton's love for her weakly child was stronger than her fear of
those in authority, and so she held on her way, going herself to the
meeting-house occasionally, but always taking her children to All
Hallow's Church, where, as she said, they could worship God with other
servants who were striving to do His will, though they were not Quakers.
This breach of discipline on the part of one of their number was a sore
fret to many among the little company, for in all else Dame Drayton
had proved a most exemplary member, one who was ever ready to help and
succour the distressed, either among themselves or the poor who were
often dependent upon them.
Now as the hatter mused over his work, he feared that when he made his
appeal to be allowed to have Westland's three children, his wife's
breach of discipline would be remembered against her, and they would
view this demand on her part as another impeachment of their wisdom in
selecting homes for them; and so it was by no means an easy or pleasant
task that he had undertaken, for he felt sure his request would be
refused as soon as it was made. However, as the children were to be
fetched that evening, there was little time for him to ponder over
the matter, and so soon as his work for the day was finished, and the
apprentices dismissed, he put on his hat and cloak, and hurried off to
the house of one of the committee, to consult him upon the matter, for
he had agreed to meet the messenger at Triggs' Stairs, who was to bring
the children by water from Southwark that evening.
It was by no means a simple business in the times of which we write,
for to give shelter and help to one who was known to be a Quaker would
bring suspicion and espionage; and, therefore, to take in the children
of such a well-known Quaker as Westland might entail a good deal of
inconvenience upon those who were brave enough to do it, even if they
escaped positive persecution from the authorities.
It was doubtless this that made it difficult to find homes for those
who had been practically orphaned, for well-to-do citizens, who could
afford to add to their responsibilities in this way, had much to forego
in the way of fines and business losses, if their connection with the
despised people were thus publicly asserted.
So, when the hatter reached the house of his friend, he found him
in great perplexity over this matter, for each of those to whom the
Westland children had been assigned had some special reason for asking
to be excused the service; and when he saw Drayton, he made up his mind
that he had come to him on a similar errand.
"I know what thou past come to say to me, friend, for thou art not the
first visitor I have had concerning this business. Of course, Dame
Drayton is fearful for her own children, and hath sent thee to say she
cannot take these, though—"
"Nay, nay; the word of the Lord to my wife is, that these little ones
should not be separated the one from the other, and she desires me to
say to thee that she would prefer to have them all, an it so please
thee."
"She will take all these children!" exclaimed the Quaker in a tone of
astonishment.
"Even so, friend; for she deems it but adding to their burden of sorrow
at this time to be parted the one from the other."
"And what sayest thou to this?" asked the other, looking keenly at the
hatter; for he was not a wealthy man, but had to work hard for the
maintenance of his family, and to add thus to his burden was no light
matter.
"I can but follow the word of the Lord in me, and that is that I take
these little ones until their parents can claim them at my hand."
"Be it so, then; and the Lord bless thee in thy work, for thou hast
lifted a heavy burden of care from my mind anent this matter. I have
chosen a discreet messenger to bring them from their home, lest one of
us being known should draw the attention of the authorities to what we
were doing, and that might end in our being lodged in gaol with our
brother Westland."
"But how shall I know this messenger?" asked the hatter. "I can go at
once to Triggs' Stairs and meet him."
"Nay, it is a woman who hath chosen this difficult service; and if thou
art in doubt concerning who it is, by reason of other passengers being
near, ask her the way to the Dyers' Garden; for by that signal was she
to know to whom she might deliver the children."
"I will not fail thee," said the hatter. "And when I have taken charge
of these little ones, I will bid her come to thee and give a due
account of how she hath sped on her errand."
And, saying this, Master Drayton bade his friend farewell, and went at
once to the waterside, where he feared the messenger would be waiting
for him.
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