commonly called Judge Fell, vice-chancellor of the Duchy Court
at Westminster, and one of the judges that went the Welsh
circuit; a man greatly esteemed both in his public and private
capacity. His wife was a lady of exemplary piety: she was born
at Marsh Grange, in the parish of Dalton, in the year 1614, and
was married before she had attained to the age of eighteen. The
Judge and his lady being greatly respected, and much hospitality
being displayed in their house to ministers and religious
people, George Fox, in the year 1652, on his first coming into
Furness, called at Swartmoor Hall, and preaching there, and also
at Ulverstone, Mrs Fell, her daughters, and many of the family
adopted his principles. The Judge was then upon the circuit.
On his return he seemed much afflicted and surprised at this
revolution in his family; and in consequence of some malicious
insinuations from those who met him with the intelligence, he
was greatly exasperated against George Fox and his principles.
By the prudent intervention of two friends, however, his
displeasure was greatly mitigated; and Fox, returning hither in
the evening, answered all his objections in so satisfactory a
manner, that the Judge "assented to the truth and reasonableness
thereof;" the tranquillity of the family was restored; and from
that time, notwithstanding numerous attempts to detach him from
the cause, he continued a steady friend to the members of the
society and its founder on all occasions where he had the power.
A weekly meeting was established in his house the following
Sunday. But his patronage did not last many years; he departed
this life in September 1658, his health having been for some
time before considerably on the decline.
Mrs Fell, after his death, suffered much inconvenience and
oppression because of the religious principles she had
embraced; yet, notwithstanding, the weekly meetings continued
to be held at her house until the year 1690, when a new
meetinghouse was opened about a quarter of a mile distant.
In 1669, eleven years after the death of Judge Fell, she
married George Fox, whom she survived eleven years, dying at
Swartmoor Hall in February 1702, nearly eighty-eight years
old.[15]
The house is still inhabited, though in a very dilapidated
condition. The barns and stables by which it is surrounded, and
the litter of the farmyard, give it a very mean and
undignified appearance.
The tenant is a substantial farmer, who is very assiduous in
showing the premises. The hall is spacious, with an oaken
wainscoting. The bedrooms, which are large and airy, were
formerly ornamented with carved work, now greatly damaged. In
one of them is a substantial bedstead, with carved posts, on
which it is said this reformer used to repose, and any of his
followers have permission to occupy it for one night. This
privilege is either not known, or perhaps not very highly
appreciated, for the tenant states that not a single "Friend"
has availed himself of it during the whole time he has resided
there. Here is shown the study of George Fox in all its
pristine plainness and simplicity. On one side of the hall is
an orchard, looking almost coeval with the building. The house
stands high, and the upper windows command an extensive and
beautiful prospect. The meetinghouse is a neat plain building,
in perfect repair, still used by the Friends at Ulverstone and
the neighbourhood for religious worship. Over the door is the
following inscription, "_Ex dono G.F. 1688_." There is a
burial-place surrounded with trees attached to the chapel.
George Fox did not reside constantly at Swartmoor after his
marriage. The greater part of his time was spent in itinerancy.
He travelled nearly over the whole of Great Britain, and
several parts of America in the exercise of his ministry. After
encountering innumerable sufferings, oppositions, and
afflictions, this indefatigable missionary departed this life on
the 13th of November 1690, in the 67th year of his age, at a
house in White Hart Court, London. He was interred in the
"Friends Burying-Ground," near Bunhill Fields.
The author is aware that the following remarkable account of "a
special interposition" has been attributed to other names and
later dates, and is recorded as having happened to individuals
at different places both in England and Ireland. The same fact
attaching itself to different localities and persons--probably
according to the caprice or partialities of the several
narrators--is, as he has found in the course of his researches,
no unusual occurrence. He does not attempt to decide in favour
of any of the conflicting claims or authorities, but merely to
give the tale as it exists, selecting those places and
circumstances which are most suitable for his purpose.
The supremacy of a special Providence, guiding and overruling the
affairs of men, is a doctrine which few will have the hardihood to
withstand and still less to deny. It is interwoven with our very
nature, and seems implanted in us for the wisest and most beneficent
of purposes. It is a doctrine full of comfort and consolation; our
stay and succour in the most appalling extremities. There does seem,
at times, vividly bursting through the most important periods of our
existence, a ray from the secret place of the Most High. We see an
opening, as it were, into the very arrangements and councils of the
skies; we catch a glimpse of the machinery by which the universe is
governed; the wheels of Providence are for a moment exhibited,
palpable and unencumbered by secondary causes, while we, stricken
prostrate from the consciousness of our own insignificance,
acknowledge with awe and admiration the protecting power of which we
are so unworthy.
Of the special interference we have just noticed the following
narrative, true as to the more important particulars, is a striking
instance; events, apparently happening out of the ordinary way, seem
brought about by this direct interposition at a period when the most
eminent display of human foresight and sagacity would have been
unavailing.
One chill and misty evening in the year 1652, being the early part of
a wet and, as it proved, a tardy spring, two strangers were benighted
in attempting to cross the wild mountain ridge called Cartmel Fell.
They had proposed taking the most direct route from Kendal to
Cartmel; having, however, missed the few points which indicated their
track, they had for several hours been beating about in the
expectation of finding some clue to extricate themselves, but every
attempt seemed only to fix them more inextricably in a state of doubt
and bewilderment. A dense fog had been rapidly accumulating, and they
began to feel something startled with a vague apprehension of a
night-watch amongst the hills, unprovided as they were with the
requisite essentials for either food or lodging.
The elder of the two, though not more than midway between thirty and
forty years old, was clad in a strange uncouth garb of the coarsest
materials, and his lank long hair hung matted and uncombed upon his
shoulders from a "brim" of extravagant dimensions. This style of dress
was not then recognised as the distinctive badge of a religious sect,
as it is now of the people called "Quakers," or, as they are more
favourably designated, "Friends." The person of whom we speak was the
founder of this society, George Fox, who, only about five years
previous to the date of our story, after much contemplation on
religious subjects, took upon himself the public ministry. In the year
1650 he was imprisoned at Derby for speaking publicly in the church
after divine service; on being brought before a magistrate, he bade
the company "_tremble at the word of the Lord_;" the expression was
turned into ridicule, and he and his friends received the appellation
of "_Quakers_."
His appearance was stout and muscular; and his general demeanour of
that still, undisturbed aspect which, if not one of the essentials of
his own religion, is at least looked upon as its greatest ornament,
betokening the inward grace of a meek and quiet spirit. "He was," says
John Gough, the historian of this people, "a man of strong natural
parts, firm health, undaunted courage, remarkable disinterestedness,
inflexible integrity, and distinguished sincerity. The tenor of his
doctrine, when he found himself concerned to instruct others, was to
wean men from systems, ceremonies, and the outside of religion in
every form, and to lead them to an acquaintance with themselves by a
most solicitous attention to what passed in their own minds; to direct
them to a principle of their own hearts, which, if duly attended to,
would introduce rectitude of mind, simplicity of manners, a life and
conversation adorned with every Christian virtue, and peace, the
effect of righteousness. Drawing his doctrine from the pure source of
religious truth, the New Testament, and the conviction of his own
mind, abstracted from the comments of men, he asserted the freedom of
man in the liberty of the gospel against the tyranny of custom, and
against the combined powers of severe persecution, the greatest
contempt, and keenest ridicule. Unshaken and undismayed, he persevered
in disseminating principles and practices conducive to the present and
everlasting well-being of mankind, with great honesty, simplicity, and
success."
The companion of this reformer was arrayed in a more worldly suit; a
mulberry-coloured cloak and doublet, with a hat of grey felt, that,
for brevity of brim, would almost have vied with that of the brass
basin worn by the knight of the rueful countenance, whose history may
be consulted at length in the writings of that veracious historian,
Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. His movements were of a more
irregular and erratic nature than comported with the well-ordered and
equable gait of his companion. The rarely-occurring remarks of the
latter were anything but explicit as to the state of his feelings in
contemplation of an event, the possibility of which increased with
every step--a night's lodgings in these inhospitable wilds. The sun
was now evidently beneath the horizon; darkness came on with frightful
rapidity; and they had, as yet, no reason to divest themselves of so
disagreeable an anticipation. To one in the full glare of daylight, or
with a sound roof-tree over his head and a warm fire at his elbow, the
idea of a night-vigil may not appear either unpleasant or
extraordinary; but, wrapped in a sheet of grey mist, the wet heath
oozing beneath his feet, with the cold and benumbing air of the hills
for his supper, there could be little question that he would be apt to
regard it as a condition not far removed from the extremity of human
suffering; especially if at the same time he had just exchanged a snug
fireside and an affectionate neighbourhood of friends for these
appalling discomforts.
"I know not what we shall do," said the younger traveller. "It never
entered into my head beforehand to imagine the possibility of such an
event. Surely, surely, we are not to live through a whole night in
these horrid wilds. Pray, do speak out, and let me at least have the
comfort of a complaint, for we are past consolation."
"I have been ruminating on this very matter," replied the other; "and
it does appear that we are as safe in this place verily as though we
were encompassed with walls and bulwarks. Methinks, friend, thou
speakest unadvisedly; in future, when thee knowest not what to
do--wait! The more thee pulls and hauls, and frets and kicks, depend
on it thou wilt be the less able to extricate thyself thereby. We are
not left quite without comfort in this dreary wilderness; here is a
goodly and a well-set stone, I perceive, just convenient. Verily, it
is a mercy if we get a little rest for our limbs. Many a meek and holy
disciple, of whom the world was not worthy, has ere now been fain of a
slice of hard rock for his pillow."
"And, in truth, we are as likely as the holiest of 'em to refresh
ourselves all night on a stone bolster," pettishly replied the
unthankful youth, as he seated himself beside his friend.
It was not long ere a slight breeze began to roll the mist into
irregular masses of cloud. The dense atmosphere appeared to break, and
a star twinkled for a moment, but disappeared as suddenly as it came
forth. Ralph Seaton, the younger of the pedestrians, pointed out the
friendly visitant to his companion. It seemed as though the eye of
mercy were beaming visibly upon them.
"I have seen it," said the man of quiet endurance; "and now gird up
thy loins to depart. The fog will rapidly disperse; and it may be that
some distant light will guide us to rest and shelter."
While he was speaking the mist coiled upwards, driving rapidly across
the sky in the shape of a heavy scud. A few stars twinkled here and
there through the lucid intervals, "few and far between;" but they
were continually changing place, closing and unfolding as the wind
mingled or separated their shapeless fragments.
"It is even as I said. Seest thou yonder light?"
"I see not anything," replied Seaton.
"Just beneath that bright star to our left?" again inquired the elder
traveller.
"I only see a dark hill rising there abruptly against the lowering
swell of the sky."
Our "Friend" was silent for a space, when he replied in a tone of deep
solemnity--
"It is the inward light of which I have spoken to thee before; a token
of no ordinary import. To-night, or I am deceived, we are called on
to pass through no common allotment of toil and tribulation. Oft hath
this light been outwardly manifest, and as often has it been the
precursor of some sharp and fiery trial! Again! But thou seest it not.
Yet mayest thou follow in my steps. Take heed thou turn not either to
the right hand or to the left. But"----The speaker's voice here grew
fearfully ominous and emphatic.
"Hast thou courage to do as I shall bid thee? I must obey the will of
the Spirit; but unless thou hast faith to follow the light that is
within me, rather pass the night on that cold unsheltered rock than
draw back from His witness. Remember, it is no slight peril that
awaits us."
Not without a struggle and certain waverings, which indicated a faith
somewhat less implicit than was desirable on such an occasion, did the
disciple promise to obey--ay, to the very letter--every command that
might be given. Peradventure, a well-founded apprehension of spending
the night companionless on the cold and wet dormitory to which his
evil stars had conducted him, had some influence in this
determination. Suffice it to say, never did disciple resolve more
faithfully to obey than did our young adventurer in this perilous
extremity.
Their path now appeared to wind precipitately down a steep and narrow
defile, through which a rapid torrent was heard foaming and tumbling
over its rugged bed. Following the course of the stream to a
considerable distance, a rude bridge was discerned, sufficiently
indicating a path to some house or village in that direction. The wind
was rising in sharp and heavy gusts. The moon, not yet above the
hills, was brightening the dark clouds that hung behind them like a
huge curtain. The sky was studded, in beauteous intervals, with hosts
of stars. This light enabled them to follow a narrow footpath, which,
abruptly turning the head of a projecting crag, showed them a distant
glimmer as though from some friendly habitation. Seaton bounded past
his more recondite companion; and it was not long ere a fierce growl
challenged him as he approached nearer to the dwelling. He threw open
the door, and discovered what was sufficiently distinguishable as a
public-house, a homely interior, dignified by the name of tavern. Two
grim-looking men sat before a huge pile of turf, glowing fiercely from
the wide expanse appropriated to several uses beside that of fireplace
and chimney. Liquor and coarse bread were near them on a low
three-legged table; while Seaton, overjoyed at his good fortune and
happy escape, thought the rude hut a palace, and the smell of turf
and oat-cake a refection fit for the gods.
"Be quiet, Vixen." The fierce animal, at this rebuke from her
mistress, slunk into a dark corner beside the chimney, whence two
hideous and glaring eyes were fixed on the strangers for the rest of
the evening. Wherever Seaton turned, he still beheld them, intently
watching, as though gloating on their prey. The female who had thus
spoken did not welcome her guests with that cheerful solicitude which
the arrival of profitable customers generally creates. She bustled
about unceasingly; but showed neither anxiety nor inclination to offer
them any refreshment. Short and firm-set in person, she looked more
muscular than was befitting her sex. Her hair was grizzled, and the
straggling tresses hung untrammelled about her smoke-dried and
hard-lined visage. Her features wore a dubious and unpleasant aspect,
calculated to create more distrust than seemed desirable to their
owner. Every effort, however, to disguise their expression only
rendered them the more forbidding and repulsive.
Near the turf-stack, by the chimney, sat a being to all appearance in
a state of mental derangement almost approaching to idiotcy. His eye
rested for a moment, with a vacant and undefined stare, upon the
strangers; then, with a loud shrill laugh, which made the listeners
shudder, he again bent his head, basking moodily before the blaze. The
moment Seaton had thrown down a light portmanteau that he carried, the
dame, with a low tap, summoned two stout fellows from an inner room,
who, with a suspicious and over-acted civility, inquired the
destination and wishes of their guests. The elder of the travellers,
now coming forward as spokesman, inquired about the possibility of
obtaining lodgings for the night, and was informed that a room,
detached from the rest, was generally used as a guest-chamber on all
extra occasions.
"There's a bed in 't fit to streek down the limbs of a king," said one
of the gruff helpers; "and maybe the gentlemen will sleep as sound
here as they could wish. Rabbit thee, Will, but the luggage will break
thy back. Have a care, lad. Let me feel: it's as light as a church
poor's-box. The de'il's flown awa' with aw the shiners, I think; for
it's lang sin' I heard a good ow'd-fashioned jink in a traveller's
pack."
This was said more by way of comment than conversation, as he handled
the stranger's valise.
The features of these men exhibited a strange mixture of ferocity and
mirth. Savage, and almost brutal in their expression, still an
atmosphere of fun hovered about them--a Will-o'-the-wisp sort of
playfulness, unnatural and decoying, like the capricious gambols of
that renowned and mischievous sprite.
The Quaker seated himself on a low bench before the fire. He took from
his neck a huge handkerchief, spreading it out on his knees. He then
drew off a pair of long worsted stocking-boots; leisurely untied his
shoes, and extending his ample surface in the most convenient manner
to the blaze, appeared, with eyes half-shut, pondering deeply some
inward abyss of thought, yet not wholly indifferent to the objects
around him. His tall and bony figure looked more like some stiff and
imitative piece of mechanism than a living human frame with flexible
articulations, so fashioned was every motion of the body to the formal
and constrained habits and peculiarities of the mind. Seaton had
observed, with no slight uneasiness, the suspicious circumstances in
which they were placed; but he was fearful of betraying his mistrust,
lest it should accelerate the mischief he anticipated. He looked
wistfully at his friend; but there was no outward manifestation that
could elucidate the inward bent of his thoughts. The keen expression
of his eye was not visible; but his other features wore that
imperturbable and stolid aspect which suited the stiff and unyielding
substance of his opinions. Seaton was now reminded of his supper by an
inquiry from the female as to their intentions on that momentous
subject. A "flesh pye," as she termed it, was drawn from its lair--a
dark hole used as a cupboard--and set before the guests. The very name
sounded suspicious and disgusting. In the present state of his
feelings the most trivial circumstance was sufficient to keep alive
the apprehensions that haunted him. He endeavoured to rally himself
out of his fears, and had in some measure succeeded, thrusting his
knife deep into the forbidden envelope. At that moment a slight
rustling caused him to look aside. The idiot was gazing on him. He
shrank from this unexpected glance; and the knife loosened in his
grasp. He thought the creature made a sign with his finger, forbidding
him to eat. It might be fancy; but nevertheless he felt determined not
to touch the food; and the former, with that natural cunning which, in
characters of this description, almost assumes the nature of instinct,
again appeared crouching over the blaze, and incapable either of
observation or intelligence. This transaction passed unnoticed by the
rest of the party; and Seaton, afraid that some horrible and unnatural
food had been set before him, secretly motioned to his friend, who,
apparently unheeding, helped himself to a portion of the mysterious
dish. For a moment it occurred to Seaton that the cunning half-wit,
apprehensive lest too great a share of the savoury victuals should
fall to their lot, had contrived to forbid this appropriation. After a
few mouthfuls, however, he observed that his friend had as little
relish for the provision as himself, remarking that a rasher of bacon
would be preferred, if the hostess could furnish him with this
delicacy. A whisper was the result of this request; but, in the end, a
savoury collop was set upon the table. Beer was added, as a matter of
course; but neither of them partook of the beverage. Though Seaton, to
all appearance, drank a portion, yet his fears got the better of his
fatigue; and some apprehension of treachery made him careful to convey
away the liquor unobserved. Fox now drew up his gaunt figure in the
attitude which indicated a change of position. With great deliberation
he rose, and addressed the hostess--
"Canst thee show us to bed?"
Answering in the affirmative, she snatched up a light, and leading the
way across a narrow yard, she pointed out a small step-ladder outside
the building. Giving the candle into the hands of the grave personage
who followed her, she left them after bidding "Good-night!"
They scrambled up the ladder, entering the room appropriated to their
use. It was low, and of scanty dimensions. The walls were bare; and
the damp oozed through chinks and crevices, where the wind met with
slight interruption, though it clamoured unceasingly for admission.
The only furniture in the apartment was a low bedstead, on which a
straw mattress reposed in all the accumulated filth of past ages. A
coverlid of coarse woollen partly concealed a suit of bed-linen that
would have stricken terror amongst a tribe of Esquimaux. Neither party
appeared wishful to tempt the mysteries that were yet unseen, or to
divest himself of clothing. They flung their luggage on the floor, and
sat upon it, each awaiting the first word of intercourse from his
companion. After a while there was a heavy groan from the Quaker; and
Seaton something hastily intimated his suspicions respecting the
occupation and pursuits of the party below.
"I am of the like persuasion with thyself," was the reply. "Verily,
the warning was not in vain. This night may not pass ere faith shall
have its test. I have had a sore struggle. Our safety will be granted;
but through inward guidance rather than from our own endeavours. Yet
must we use the means."
"I see no way of escape," returned Seaton, "provided they be what we
have unhappily too good cause to apprehend. Unarmed, and without the
means of defence, how can we cope with men whose object, doubtless,
with the robbery, will be the concealment of their crime?"
"Follow my example. It is thine only chance for deliverance. Question
me not; but be silent, and obey. I have said it."