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The History of the Life of Thomas Ellwood

Note on the e-text: this Renascence Edition was transcribed by Risa Stephanie Bear from the Ellwood-authored portion of the Friends Book Store edition of 1865, which was taken from The history of the life of Thomas Ellwood, or, An account of his birth, education, &c. With divers observations on his life and manners when a youth: and how he came to be convinced of the truth; with his many sufferings and services for the same. Also several other remarkable passages and occurrences. By Thomas Ellwood;  Joseph Wyeth;  George Bowles;  Elizabeth Richardson;  Richard Vivers. London : Printed and sold by the assigns of J. Sowle, 1714.

The History of the Life of Thomas Ellwood

Written by Himself

Wherefore, stepping boldly forward, to lay hold on the staff of him that was nearest to me, I said, "Sirrah, deliver your weapon." He thereupon raised his club, which was large enough to have knocked down an ox, intending no doubt to have knocked me down with it; as probably he would have done, had I not, in the twinkling of an eye, whipt out my rapier, and made a pass upon him. I could not have failed running him through up to the hilt, had he stood his ground; but the sudden and unexpected sight of my bright blade, glittering in the dark night, did so amaze and terrify the man, that slipping aside, he avoided my thrust; and letting his staff sink, took to his heels for safety: which his companion seeing, fled also. I followed the former as fast as I could: but fear gave him wings, and made him swiftly fly: thus although I was accounted very nimble, yet the farther we ran, the more ground he gained on me; so that I could not overtake him, which made me think he took shelter under some bush, which he knew where to find, though I did not.

Meanwhile, the coachman, who had sufficiently the outside of a man, excused himself from intermeddling, under pretence that he durst not leave his horses; and so left me to shift for myself. And I was gone so far beyond my knowledge, that I understood not which way to go: till by hallooing, and being hallooed to again, I was directed where to find my company.

We had easy means to have found out who these men were, the principal of them having been in the day-time at the inn, and both quarrelled with the coachman, and threatened to be even with him when he went back; but since they came off no better in their attempt, my father thought it better not to know them, than to oblige himself to a prosecution of them.

At that time, and for a good while after, I had no regret upon my mind for what I had done, and designed to have done, in this case; hut went on in a sort of bravery, resolving to kill, if I could, any man that should make the like attempt, or put any affront upon us; and for that reason seldom went afterwards upon those public services without a loaded pistol in my pocket. But when it pleased the Lord, in his infinite goodness, to call me out of the spirit and ways of the world, and give me the knowledge of his saving truth, whereby the actions of my past life were set in order before me, a sort of horror seized on me, when I considered how near I had been to staining my hands with human blood. And whensoever afterwards I went that way, and indeed as often since as the matter has come into my remembrance, my soul has blessed the Lord for my deliverance; thanksgivings and praises have arisen in my heart, as now at the relating of it they do, to Him who preserved and withheld me from shedding man's blood. This is the reason for which I have given this account of that action, that others may be warned by it.

About this time my dear and honoured mother, who was indeed a woman of singular worth and virtue, departed this life, having a little before heard of the death of her eldest son, who falling under the displeasure of my father, for refusing to resign his interest in an estate which my father sold, and thereupon desiring that he might have leave to travel, in hopes that time and absence might work a reconciliation, went into Ireland with a person powerful there in those times, by whose means he was quickly preferred to a place of trust and profit; but lived not long to enjoy it.

I mentioned before, that during my father's abode in London, in the time of the civil wars, he contracted a friendship with the Lady Springett, then a widow, and afterwards married to Isaac Penington, Esq., to continue which he sometimes visited them at their country lodgings, as at Datchet, and at Causham Lodge near Reading.

Having heard that they were come to live upon their own estate at Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire, about fifteen miles from Growell, he went one day to visit them there, and return at night, taking me with him.

But very much surprised we were, when being come thither, we first heard, then found, they were become Quakers, a people we had no knowledge of, and a name we had till then scarcely heard of. So great a change, from a free, debonair, and courtly sort of behaviour, which we formerly had found them in, to so strict a gravity as they now received us with, did not a little amuse us, and disappoint our expectation of such a pleasant visit as we used to have, and had now promised ourselves. Nor could my father have any opportunity, by a private conference with them, to understand the ground or occasion of this change; there being some other strangers with them, related to Isaac Penington, who came that morning from London to visit them also.

For my part I sought, and at length found, means to cast myself into the company of the daughter, whom I found gathering some flowers in the garden, attended by her maid, who was also a Quaker. But when I addressed myself to her, after my accustomed manner, with intention to engage her in some discourse, which might introduce conversation on the foot of our former acquaintance — though she treated me with a courteous mien, yet, young as she was, the gravity of her look and behaviour struck such an awe upon me, that I found myself not so much master of myself as to pursue any further converse with her. Wherefore asking pardon for my boldness, in having intruded into her private walks, I withdrew, not without some disorder (as I thought at least) of mind.

We stayed dinner, which was very handsome, and lacked nothing to recommend it to me, but the want of mirth and pleasant discourse; which we could neither have with them, nor, by reason of them, with one another among ourselves, the weightiness which was upon their spirits and countenances, keeping down the lightness that would have been up in us. We stayed, notwithstanding, till the rest of the company took leave of them, and then we also, doing the same, returned, not greatly satisfied with our journey, nor knowing what in particular to find fault with. Yet this good effect that visit had upon my father, who was then in the commission for the peace, that it disposed him to a more favorable opinion of and carriage towards those people, when they came in his way, as not long after one of them did. For a young man, who lived in Buckinghamshire, came on a first-day to the church (so called) at the town of Chinner, a mile from Crowell, having it seems a pressure on his mind, to say something to the minister of that parish. He being an acquaintance of mine, drew me sometimes to hear him, as it did then. The young man stood in the aisle before the pulpit all the time of the sermon, not speaking a word till the sermon and prayer after it were ended; and then spake a few words to the priest: of which all that I could hear was, "That the prayer of the wicked is abomination to the Lord, and that God heareth not sinners." Somewhat more I think he did say, which I could not distinctly hear for the noise the people made; and more probably he would have said, had he not been interrupted by the officers, who took him into custody, and led him out in order to carry him before my father.

When I understood that, I hastened home, that I might give my father a fair account of the matter before they came. I told him the young man behaved himself quietly and peaceably, spake not a word till the minister had quite done his service; and that what he then spake was but short, and was delivered without passion or ill language. This I knew would furnish my father with a fair ground whereon to discharge the man if he would.

And accordingly when they came, and made an high complaint against the man, who said little for himself, my father having examined the officers who brought him, what were the words that he spake, (which they did not well agree in) and at what time he spake them, (which they all agreed to be after the minister had done,) and then, whether he gave the minister any reviling language, or endeavoured to raise a tumult among the people, (which they could not charge him with;) — not finding that he had broken the law, he counselled the young man to be careful that he did not make or occasion any public disturbances, and so dismissed him: which I was glad of.

Some time after this, my father having received some further account of the people called Quakers, and being desirous to be informed concerning their principles, made another visit to Isaac Penington and his wife, at their house called the Grange, in Peter's Chalfont; and took both my sisters and me with him.

It was in the tenth month, in the year 1659, that we went thither, where we found a very kind reception, and tarried some days; one day at least the longer, for that, while we were there, a meeting was appointed at a place about a mile from thence, to which we were invited to go, and willingly went.

It was held in a farm-house called the Grove, which having formerly been a gentleman's seat, had a very large hall, and that well filled. To this meeting came Edward Burrough, besides other preachers, as Thomas Curtis and James Naylor; but none spake there at that time but Edward Burrough. Next to whom, as it were under him, it was my lot to sit on a stool, by the side of a long table on which he sat; and I drank in his words with desire, for they not only answered my understanding, but warmed my heart with a certain heat, which I had not till then felt from the ministry of any man. When the meeting was ended, our friends took us home with them again; and after supper, the evenings being long, the servants of the family, who were Quakers, were called in, and we all sat down in silence. But long we had not so sat, before Edward Burrough began to speak among us. And although he spake not long, yet what he said did touch, as I suppose, my father's religious copyhold, as the phrase is. And he having been from his youth a professor, though not joined in that which is called close communion with any one sort, and valuing himself upon the knowledge he esteemed himself to have in the various notions of each profession, thought he had now a fair opportunity to display his knowledge, and thereupon began to make objections against what had been delivered.

The subject of the discourse was, " The universal free grace of God to all mankind." To which my father opposed the Calvinistical tenet of particular and personal predestination. In defence of this indefensible notion, he found himself more at a loss than ho expected. Edward Burrough said not much to him upon it, though what he said was close and cogent; but James Naylor interposing, handle'd the subject with so much perspicuity and clear demonstration, that his reasoning seemed to be irresistible; and so I suppose my father found it, which made him willing to drop the discourse.

As for Edward Burrough, he was a brisk young man, of a ready tongue, and might have been for aught I then knew a scholar, which made me the less to admire his way of reasoning. But what dropped from James Naylor had the greater force upon me, because he looked but like a plain, simple countryman, having the appearance of an husbandman or a shepherd. As my father was not able to maintain the argument on his side, so neither did they seem willing to drive it to an extremity on their side. But treating him in a soft and gentle manner, they after a while let fall the discourse; and then we withdrew to our respective chambers.

The next morning we prepared to return home, that is, my father, my younger sister, and myself, for my elder sister was gone before by the stage-coach to London; and when, having taken our leaves of our friends, we went forth, they, with Edward Burrough, accompanying us to the gate, he there directed his speech in a few words to each of us severally, according to the sense he had of our several conditions. And when we were gone off, and they gone in again, they asking him what he thought of us, he answered them, as they afterwards told me, to this effect: "As for the old man, he is settled on his lees; and the young woman is light and airy; but the young man is reached, and may do well if he does not lose it." And surely that which he said to me, or rather that spirit in which he spake it, took such fast hold on me that I felt sadness and trouble come over me, though I did not distinctly understand what I was troubled for. I knew not what I ailed, but I know I ailed something more than ordinary, and my heart was very heavy. I found it was not so with my father and sister; for as I rode after the coach, I could hear them talk pleasantly one to the other; but they could not discern how it was with me, because I, riding on horseback, kept much out of sight.

By the time we got home it was night. The next day, being the first day of the week, I went in the afternoon to hear the minister of Chinner; and this was the last time I ever went to hear any of that function. After the sermon I went with him to his house, and in a freedom of discourse, which, from a certain intimacy that was between us, I commonly used with him, told him where I had been, what company I had met with there, and what observations I had made to myself thereupon. But he seemed to understand as little of them as I had done before, and civilly abstained from casting any unhandsome reflections on them.

I had a desire to go to another meeting of the Quakers, and bid my father's man enquire if there was any in the country thereabouts. He thereupon told me he had heard at Isaac Pcnington's, there was to be a meeting at High Wycombe on Thursday next. Thither, therefore I went, though it was seven miles from me. And that I might be rather thought to go out a coursing than to a meeting, I let my greyhound run by my horse's side. When I came there, and had put up my horse at an inn, I was at a loss bow to find the house where the meeting was to be. I knew it not, and was ashamed to ask after it; wherefore having ordered the hostler to take care of my dog, I went into the street, and stood at the inn gate, musing with myself what course to take. But I had not stood long ere I saw a horseman riding along the street, whom I remembered having seen before at Isaac Penington's; and he put up his horse at the same inn. Him therefore I resolved to follow, supposing he was going to the meeting, as indeed he was. Being come to the house, which proved to be John Baunce's, I saw the people sitting together in an outer room; wherefore I stepped in and sat down on the first void seat, the end of a bench just within the door, having my sword by my side, and black clothes on, which drew some eyes upon me. It was not long ere one stood up and spake, whom I was afterwards well acquainted with; his name was Samuel Thornton, and what he spake was very suitable, and of good service to me, for it reached home as if it had been directed to me.

As soon as ever the meeting was ended, and the people began to rise, I being next the door stepped out quickly, and hastening to my inn, took horse immediately homewards; and, so far as I remember, my having been gone was not taken notice of by my father.

This latter meeting was like the clinching of a nail, confirming and fastening in my mind those good principles which had sunk into me at the former. My understanding began to open, and I felt some stirrings in my breast, tending to the work of a new creation in me. The general trouble and confusion of mind which had for some days laid heavy upon me, and pressed me down without a distinct discovery of the particular cause for which it came, began now to wear off; and some glimmerings of Light began to break forth in me, which let me see my inward state and condition towards God. The Light, which before had shone in my darkness, and the darkness could not comprehend it, began now to shine out of darkness, and in some measure discovered to me what it was that had before clouded me, and brought that sadness and trouble upon me. And now I saw, that although I had been in a great degree preserved from the common immoralities and gross pollutions of the world, yet the spirit of the world had hitherto ruled in me, and led me into pride, flattery, vanity, and superfluity, all which was naught. I found there were many plants growing in me which were not of the Heavenly Father's planting, and that all these, of whatever sort or kind they were, or how specious soever they might appear, must be plucked up.

Now was all my former life ripped up, and my sins by degrees were set in order before me. And though they looked not with so black a hue and so deep a dye as those of the lewdest sort of people did, yet I found that all sin, even that which had the fairest or finest shew, as, well as that which was more coarse and foul, brought guilt, and with and for guilt, condemnation on the soul that sinned. This I felt, and was greatly bowed down under the sense thereof. Now also did I receive a new law, (an inward law superadded to the outward) the law of the spirit of life in Christ Jesus, which wrought in me against all evil, not only in deed, and in word, but even in thought also; so that everything was brought to judgment, and judgment passed upon all. So that I could not any longer go on in my former ways, and course of life, for when I did, judgment took hold upon me for it. Thus the Lord was graciously pleased to deal with me, in somewhat like manner as he had dealt with his people Israel of old, when they had transgressed his righteous law; whom by his prophet he called back, and required to put away the evil of their doings, bidding them first cease to do evil, then learn to do well, before he would admit them to reason with him, and before he would impart to them the effects of his free mercy. (Isaiah i. 10, 17.)

I was now required by this inward and spiritual law (the law of the spirit of life in Christ Jesus) to put away the evil of my doings, and to cease to do evil. And what in particular was the evil which I was required to put away and cease from, that measure of the divine Light, which was now manifested in mo, discovered to me; and what the Light made manifest to be evil, judgment passed upon.

So that here began to be a way cast up before me for me to walk in; a direct and plain way, so plain that a wayfaring man, how weak and simple soever, though a fool to the wisdom and in the judgment of the world, could not err while he continued to walk in it; the error coming in by his going out of it. And this way with respect to me I saw was that measure of divine Light which was manifested in me, by which the evil of my doings, which I was to put away and to cease from, was discovered to me. By this divine Light then I saw, that though I had not the evil of the common uncleanness, debauchery, profaneness, and pollutions of the world to put away, because I had, through the goodness of God, and a civil education, been preserved out of those grosser evils, yet I had many other evils to put away and to cease from; some of which were not by the world, which lies in wickedness, accounted evils; but by the Light of Christ were made manifest to me to be evils, and as such condemned in me. As particularly, those fruits and effects of pride, that discover themselves in the vanity and superfluity of apparel, which I, as far as my ability would extend to, took, alas! too much delight in. This evil of my doings I was required to put away and cease from, and judgment lay upon me till I did so.

Wherefore, in obedience to the inward law, which agreed with the outward, I took off from my apparel those unnecessary trimmings of lace, ribands, and useless buttons, which had no real service, but were set on only for that which was by mistake called ornament; and I ceased to wear rings.

Again: the giving of flattering titles to men, between whom and me there was not any relation to which such titles could be pretended to belong. This was an evil I had been much addicted to, and was accounted a ready artist in: therefore this evil also was I required to put away and cease from. So that thenceforward I durst not say, Sir, Master, My Lord, Madam, (or My Dame) or say Your Servant, to any one to whom I did not stand in the real relation of a servant, which I have never done to any.

Again: respect of persons, in uncovering the head, and bowing the knee or body in salutations, was a practice I had been much in the use of. And this being one of the vain customs of the world, introduced by the spirit of the world instead of the true honour, which this is a false representation of, and used in deceit, as a token of respect, by persons one to another, who bear no real respect one to another; and besides, this being a type and proper emblem of that divine honour which all ought to pay to Almighty God, and which all, of all sorts, who take upon them the Christian name, appear in when they offer their prayers to him, and therefore should not be given to men. I found this to be one of those evils, which I had been too long doing; therefore I was now required to put it away, and cease from it.

Again: the corrupt and unsound form of speaking in the plural number to a single person, You to one, instead of Thou, contrary to the pure, plain, and single language of truth, Thou to one, and You to more than one, which had always been used by God to men, and men to God, as well as one to another, from the oldest record of time, till corrupt men, for corrupt ends, in later and corrupt times, to flatter, fawn, and work upon the corrupt nature in men, brought in that false and senseless way of speaking, You to one; which hath since corrupted the modern languages, and hath greatly debased the spirits and depraved the manners of men. This evil custom I had been as forward in as others, and this I was now called out of, and required to cease from.

These, and many more evil customs, which had sprung up in the night of darkness and general apostasy from the truth and true religion, were now by the in-shining of this pure ray of divine Light in my conscience, gradually discovered to me to be what I ought to cease from, shun, and stand a witness against.

But so subtilly, and withal so powerfully did the Enemy work upon the weak part in me, as to persuade me that in these things I ought to make a difference between my father and all other men; and that therefore, though I did disuse these tokens of respect to others, yet I ought still to use them towards him, as he was my father. And so far did this wile of his prevail upon me, through a fear lest I should do amiss, in withdrawing any sort of respect or honour from my father, which was due unto him, that being thereby beguiled, I continued for a while to demean myself in the same manner towards him, with respect both to language and gesture, as I had always done before. And so long as I did so, standing bare before him, and giving him the accustomed language, he did not express, whatever he thought, any dislike of me.

But as to myself, and the work begun in me, I found it was not enough for me to cease to do evil, though that was a good and great step. I had another lesson before me, which was to learn to do well; which I could by no means do, till I had given up, with full purpose of mind, to cease from doing evil. And when I had done that, the Enemy took advantage of my weakness to mislead me again. For whereas I ought to have waited in the Light, for direction and guidance into and in the way of well-doing, and not to have moved till the divine Spirit, (a manifestation of which the Lord had been pleased to give unto me, for me to profit with or by) the Enemy transforming himself into the appearance of an angel of light, offered himself in that appearance, to be my guide and leader into the performance of religious exercises. And I, not then knowing the wiles of Satan, and being eager to be doing some acceptable service to God, too readily yielded myself to the conduct of my enemy, instead of my friend. He thereupon, humouring the warmth and zeal of my spirit, put me upon religious performances in my own will, in my own time, and in my own strength; which in themselves were good, and would have been profitable unto me, and acceptable unto the Lord, if they had been performed in his will, in his time, and in the ability which he gives. But being wrought in the will of man, and at the prompting of the Evil One, no wonder that it did me hurt instead of good.

I read abundantly in the Bible, and would set myself tasks in reading; enjoining myself to read so many chapters, sometimes a whole book, or long epistle, at a time. And I thought that time well spent, though I was not much wiser for what I had read, reading it too cursorily, and without the true guide, the Holy Spirit, which alone could open the understanding, and give the true sense of what was read. I prayed often, and drew out my prayers to a great length; and appointed unto myself certain set times to pray at, and a certain number of prayers to say in a day; knowing not, meanwhile, what true prayer was. This stands not in words, though the words which are uttered in the movings of the Holy Spirit, are very available; but in the breathing of the soul to the Heavenly Father, through the operation of the Holy Spirit, who inaketh intercession sometimes in words, and sometimes with sighs and groans only, which the Lord vouchsafes to hear and answer.

This will-worship, which all is that is performed in the will of man, and not in the movings of the Holy Spirit, was a great hurt to me, and hinderance of my spiritual growth in the way of truth. But my Heavenly Father, who knew the sincerity of my soul to him, and the hearty desire I had to serve him, had compassion on me; and in due time was graciously pleased to illuminate my understanding further, and to open in me an eye to discern the false spirit, and its way of working, from the true; and to reject the former, and cleave to the latter.

But though the Enemy had by his subtlety gained such advantages over me, yet I went on notwithstanding, and firmly persisted in my godly resolution of ceasing from and denying those things which I was now convinced in my conscience were evil. And on this account a great trial came quickly on me. For the general quarter sessions for the peace coming on, my father, willing to excuse himself from a dirty journey, commanded me to get up betimes, and go to Oxford, and deliver in the recognisances he had taken; and bring him an account what justices were on the bench, and what principal pleas were before them; which he knew I knew how to do, having often attended him on those services.

I, who knew how it stood with me better than he did, felt a weight come over me as soon as he had spoken the word. For I presently saw, it would bring a very great exercise upon me. But having never resisted his will in any thing that was lawful, as this was, I attempted not to make any excuse, but ordering a horse to be ready for me early in the morning, I went to bed, having great strugglings in my breast.

For the Enemy came in upon me like a flood, and set many difficulties before me, swelling them up to the highest pitch, by representing them as mountains, which I should never be able to get over; and alas! that faith which could remove such mountains, and cast them into the sea, was but very small and weak in me. He cast into my mind not only how I should behave myself in the court, and dispatch the business I was sent about, but how I should demean myself towards my acquaintance, of which I had many in that city, with whom I was wont to be jolly; whereas now I could not put off my hat, nor bow to any of them, nor give them their honorary titles, as they are called, nor use the corrupt language of You to any one of them, but must keep to the plain and true language of Thou and Thou.

Much of this nature revolved in my mind, thrown in by the Enemy, to discourage and cast me down: and I had none to have recourse to for counsel or help, but the Lord alone. To whom therefore I poured forth my supplications, with earnest cries and breathings of soul, that He, in whom all power was, would enable me to go through this great exercise, and keep me faithful to himself therein. And after some time, he was pleased to compose my mind to stillness; and I went to rest.

Early next morning I got up, and found my spirit pretty calm and quiet, yet not without a fear upon me, lest I should slip, and let fall the testimony which I had to bear. And as I rode, a frequent cry ran through me to the Lord, on this wise: O my God, preserve me faithful, whatever befalls me! suffer me not to be drawn into evil, how much scorn and contempt soever may be cast upon me!

Thus was my spirit exercised on the way almost continually. And when I was within a mile or two of the city, whom should I meet upon the way coming from thence, but Edward Burrough. I rode in a mountier-cap, a dress more used then than now, and so did he; and because the weather was exceedingly sharp, we both had drawn our caps down to shelter our faces from the cold, and by that means neither of us knew the other, but passed by without taking notice one of the other; till a few days after, meeting again, and observing each other's dress, we recollected where we had so lately met. Then thought I with myself, Oh! how glad should I have been of a word of encouragement and counsel from him, when I was under that weighty exercise of mind; but the Lord saw it was not good forme; that my reliance might be wholly upon him, and not on man.

When I had set up my horse, I went directly to the hall where the sessions were held; where I had been but a very little while, before a knot of my old acquaintances espying me, came to me. One of these was a scholar in his gown, another a surgeon of that city, both my schoolfellows and fellow-boarders at Thame-school, and the third a country gentleman, with whom I had long been very familiar. When they were come up to me, they all saluted me after the usual manner, putting off their hats and bowing, and saying, "Your humble servant, Sir," expecting, no doubt, the like from me. But when they saw me stand still, not moving my cap, nor bowing my knee in the way of congee to them, they were amazed, and looked first one upon another, then upon me, and then one upon another again for a while, without speaking a word. At length the surgeon, a brisk young man, who stood nearest to me, clapping his hand in a familiar way upon my shoulder, and smiling on me, said, "What, Tom, a Quaker!" To which I readily and cheerfully answered, "Yes, a Quaker." And as the words passed out of my mouth, I felt joy spring in my heart; for I rejoiced that I had not been drawn out by them, into a compliance with them, and that I had strength and boldness given me, to confess myself to be one of that despised people. They stayed not long with me, nor said more, that I remember, to me; but looking somewhat confusedly one upon another, after a while took their leave of me, going off in the same ceremonious manner as they came on.

After they were gone, I walked a while about the hall, and went up nearer to the court, to observe both what justices were on the bench, and what business they had before them. And I went in fear, not of what they could or would have done to me, if they should have taken notice of me, but lest I should be surprised, and drawn unwarily into that which I was to keep out of.

It was not long before the court adjourned to go to dinner, and that time I took to go to the clerk of the peace at his house, with whom I was well acquainted. So soon as I came into the room where he was, he came and met me, and saluted me after his manner; for he had a great respect for my father, and a kind regard for me. And though he was at first somewhat startled at my carriage and language, yet he treated me very civilly, without any reflection or show of lightness. I delivered him the recognisances which my father had sent; and having done the business I came upon, withdrew, and went to my inn to refresh myself, and then to return home.

But when I was ready to take horse, looking out into the street, I saw two or three justices standing just in the way where I was to ride. This brought a, fresh concern upon me. I knew if they saw me they would know me; and I concluded, if they knew me, they would stop me to enquire after my father; and I doubted how I should come off with them. This doubting brought weakness on me; and that weakness led to contrivance, how I might avoid this trial. I knew the city pretty well, and remembered there was a back way, which though somewhat about, would bring me out of town, without passing by those justices; yet loth I was to go that way. Wherefore I stayed a pretty time, in hopes they would have parted company, or removed to some other place out of my way. But when I had waited till I was uneasy for losing so much time, having entered into reasonings with flesh and blood, the weakness prevailed over me, and away I went the back way; which brought trouble and grief upon my spirit for having shunned the cross.

But the Lord looked on me with a tender eye; and seeing my heart was right to him, and that what I had done was merely through weakness and fear of falling, and that I was sensible of my failing therein, and sorry for it, he was graciously pleased to pass it by, and speak peace to me again. So that before I got home, as when I went in the morning, my heart was full of breathing prayer to the Lord, that he would vouchsafe to be with me, and uphold and carry me through that day's exercise; so now at iny return in the evening, my heart was full of thankful acknowledgments, and praises unto him, for his great goodness and favour to me, in having thus far preserved and kept me from falling into anything that might have brought dishonour to his holy name, which I had now taken on me.

But notwithstanding that it was thus with me, and that I found peace and acceptance with the Lord in some good degree, according to my obedience to the convictions I had received by his Holy Spirit in me, yet was not the veil so done away, or fully rent, but that there remained a cloud upon my understanding, with respect to my carriage towards my father. And that notion which the Enemy had brought into my mind, did yet prevail with me, namely, that I ought to put such a difference between him and all others, as that, on the account of paternal relation, I should still deport myself towards him, both in gesture and language, as I had always heretofore done. So that when I came home, I went to my father bareheaded, as I used to do, and gave him a particular account of the business he had given me in command, in such manner, that he, observing no alteration in my carriage towards him, found no cause to take offence at me.

I had felt for some time before an earnest desire of mind to go again to Isaac Penington's. And I began to question whether, when my father should come (us I concluded ere long he would) to understand I inclined to settle among the people called Quakers, he would permit me the command of his horses, as before. Wherefore, in the morning, when I went to Oxford, I gave direction to a servant of his, to go that day to a gentleman of my acquaintance, who I knew had a riding nag to put off either by sale, or to be kept for his work, and desire him, in my name, to send him to to me, which he did, and I found him in the stable when I came home.

On this nag I designed to ride next day to Isaac Penington's, and in order thereunto arose betimes and got myself ready for the journey; but because I would pay all due respect to my father, and not go without his consent, or knowledge at the least, I sent one up to him (for he was not yet stirring) to acquaint him, that I had a purpose to go to Isaac Penington's, and desired to know if he pleased to command me any service to them. He sent mo word, he would speak with me before I went, and would have me come up to him, which I did, and stood by his bed-side.

Then, in a mild and gentle tone, he said, "I understand you have a mind to go to Mr. Penington's." I answered, "I have so." "Why," said he, "I wonder why you should. You were there, you know, but a few days ago; and unless you had business with them, don't you think it will look oddly?" I said, I thought not. "I doubt," said he, "You'll tire them with your company, and make them think they shall be troubled with you." "If," replied I, "I find anything of that, I'll make the shorter stay." "But," said he, "can you propose any sort of business with them, more than a mere visit?" "Yes," said I, "I propose to myself not only to see them, but to have some discourse with them." "Why," said he, in a tone a little harsher, "I hope you don't incline to be of their way." "Truly," answered I, "I like them and their way very well, so far as I yet understand it; and I am willing to go to them, that I may understand it better."

Thereupon he began to reckon up a bead-roll of faults against the Quakers; telling me they were a rude, unmannerly people, that would not give civil respect or honour to their superiors, no, not to magistrates; that they held many dangerous principles; that they were an immodest, shameless people; and tluit one of them stripped himself stark naked, and went in that unseemly manner about the streets, at fairs and on market days, in great towns.

To all the other charges I answered only, that perhaps they might be either misreported or misunderstood, as the best of people had sometimes been. But to the last charge of going naked, a particular answer, by way of instance, was just then brought into iny mind, and put into my mouth, which I had not thought of before; and thnt was the example of Isaiah, who went naked among the people for a long time. (Isaiah xx. 4.) "Aye," said my father, "but you must consider that he was a prophet of the Lord, and had an express command from God to go so." "Yes, Sir," replied I, " I do consider that; but I consider also, that the Jews, among whom he lived, did not own him for a prophet, nor believe that that he had such a command from God." "And," added I, "how know we but that this Quaker may be a prophet too, and might be commanded to do as he did, for some reason which we understand not?"

This put my father to a stand; so that letting fall his charges against the Quakers, he only said, "I would wish you not to go so soon, but take a little time to consider of it; you may visit Mr. Penington hereafter." "Nay, Sir," replied I, " pray don't hinder my going now, for I have so strong a desire to go, that I do not well know how to forbear." And as I spake those words, I withdrew gently to the chamber door, and then hastening down stairs, went immediately to the stable, where, finding my horse ready bridled, I forthwith mounted, and wont off, lest I should receive a countermand.

This discourse with my father had cast me somewhat back in my journey; and it being fifteen long miles thither, the ways bad, and my nag but small, it was in the afternoon that I got thither. And understanding by the servant who took my horse, that there was then a meeting in the house, (as there was weekly on that day, which was the fourth day of the week, though I till then understood it not) I hastened in; and knowing the rooms, went directly to the little parlour, where I found a few friends sitting together in silence; and I sat down among them well satisfied, though without words.

When the meeting was ended, and those of the company who were strangers withdrawn, I addressed myself to Isaac Penington and his wife, who received me courteously; but not knowing what exercises I had been in, and yet was under, nor having heard anything of me since I had been there before in another garb, they were not forward at first to lay sudden hands on me, which I observed, and did not dislike. But as they came to see a change in me, not in habit only, but in gesture, speech, and carriage, and which was more, in countenance also, for the exercise I had passed through, and yet was under, had imprinted a visible character of gravity upon my face, they were exceedingly kind and tender towards me.

There was then in the family a Friend, whose name was Anne Curtis, the wife of Thomas Curtis of Reading, who was come upon a visit to them, and particularly to see Mary Penington's daughter Guli, who had been ill of the small-pox since I had been there before. Betwixt Mary Penington and this Friend I observed some private discourse and whisperings, and had an apprehension that it was upon something that concerned me. Therefore I took the freedom to ask Mary Penington if my coming thither had occasioned any inconvenience in the family. She asked me if I had had the small-pox. I told her no. She then told me her daughter had newly had them, and though she was well recovered of them, she had not as yet been down amongst them, but intended to have come down and sat with them in the parlour that evening, yet would rather forbear till another time, than endanger me: and that that was the matter they had been discoursing of. I assured her, that I had always been, and then more especially was, free from any apprehension of danger in that respect, and therefore entreated that her daughter might come down. And although they were somewhat unwilling to yield to it, in regard of me, yet my importunity prevailed, and after supper she did come down and sit with us, and though the marks of the distemper were fresh upon her, yet they made no impression upon me, faith keeping out fear.

We spent much of the evening in retiredncss of mind, our spirits being weightily gathered inward, so that not much discourse passed among us; neither they to me, nor I to them offered any occasion. Yet I had good satisfaction in that stillness, feeling my spirit drawn near to the Lord, and to them therein.

Before I went to bed, they let me know that there was to be a meeting at Wycombe next day, and that some of the family would go to it. I was very glad of if, for I greatly desired to go to meetings, and this fell very aptly, it being in my way home. Next morning Isaac Penington himself went, having Anne Curtis with him: and I accompanied them.

At Wycombe we met with Edward Burrough, who came from Oxford thither, the day that I, going thither, met him on the way; and having both our mountier-caps on, we recollected that we had met, and passed by each other on the road unknown.

This was a Monthly meeting, consisting of Friends chiefly, who gathered to it from several parts of the country thereabouts, so that it was pretty large, and was held in a fair room in Jeremiah Stevens' house; the room where I had been at a meeting before in John Raunce's house being too little to receive us. A very good meeting was this in itself and to me. Edward Burrough's ministry carne forth among us in life and power, and the assembly was covered therewith. I also, according to my small capacity, had a share therein; for I felt some of that divine power working my spirit into a great tenderness, and not only confirming me in the course I had already entered, and strengthening me to go on therein, but also rending the veil somewhat further, and clearing my understanding in some other things which I had not seen before. For the Lord was pleased to make his discoveries to me by degrees, that the sight of too great a work, and too many enemies to encounter at once, might not discourage me, and make me faint. When the meeting was ended, the Friends of the town, taking notice that I was the man who had been at their meeting the week before, whom they then did not know, some of them came and spake lovingly to me, and would have had me stay with them, but Edward Burrough going home with Isaac Penington, he invited me to go back with him, to which I willingly consented. For the love I had more particularly to Edward Burrough, through whose ministry I had received the first awakening stroke, drew me to desire his company; and so away we rode together.

Yet I was somewhat disappointed of my expectation; for I hoped he would have given me both opportunity and encouragement to have opened myself to him, and to have poured forth my complaints, fears, doubts, and questionings into his bosom. But he, being sensible that I was truly reached, and that the witness of God was raised, and the work of God rightly begun in me, chose to leave me to the guidance of the Good Spirit in myself, the Counsellor that could resolve all doubts, that I might not have any dependence on man. Wherefore, although he was naturally of an open and free temper and carriage, and was afterwards always very familiar and affectionately kind to me, yet at this time he kept himself somewhat reserved, and showed only common kindness to me.

Next day we parted, he for London, I home, undei a very great weight and exercise upon my spirit . For I now saw, in and by the farther openings of the divine Light in me, that the Enemy by his false reasonings had beguiled and misled me, with respect to my carriage towards my father. For I now clearly saw, that the honour due to parents did not consist in uncovering the head, and bowing the body to them, but in a ready obedience to their lawful commands, and in performing all needful services unto them. Wherefore, as I was greatly troubled for what I already had done in that case, though it was through ignorance, so I plainly felt I could no longer continue therein, without drawing on myself the guilt of wilful disobedience, which I well knew would draw after it divine displeasure and judgment.

Hereupon the Enemy assaulted me afresh, setting before me the danger I should run myself into of provoking my father to use severity towards me; and perhaps to casting me utterly off. But over this temptation the Lord, unto whom I cried, supported me, and gave me faith to believe that he would bear me through whatever might befall me on that account. Wherefore I resolved, in the strength which he should give me, to bo faithful to his requirings, whatever might come of it.

Thus labouring under various exercises on the way, I at length got home, expecting I should have but a rough reception from my father. But when I came home, I understood my father was from home. Wherefore I sat down by the fire in the kitchen, keeping my mind retired to the Lord, with breathings of spirit to him, that I might bo preserved from falling. After some time I heard the coach drive in, which put me into a little fear; and a sort of shivering came over me. But by the time he was alighted and come in, I had pretty well recovered myself; and as soon as I saw him, I rose up, and advanced a step or two, with my head covered, and said, " Isaac Penington and his wife remember their loves to thee."

He made a stop to hear what I said, and observing that I did not stand bare, and that I used the word Thee to him, he, with a stern countenance, and tone that spake high displeasure, only said, "I shall talk with you, Sir, another time;" and so hastening from, me, went into the parlour, and I saw him no more that night.

Though I foresaw there was a storm arising, the apprehension of which was uneasy to me, yet the peace which I felt in my own breast, raised in me a return of thanksgivings to the Lord, for his gracious supporting hand, which had thus far carried me through this exercise; with humble cries in spirit to him, that he would vouchsafe to stand by me in it to the end, and uphold me, that I might not fall.

My spirit longed to be among Friends, and to be at some meeting with them on the first day, which now drew on, this being the sixth day night. Wherefore I proposed to go to Oxford on the morrow, which was the seventh day of the week, having heard there was a meeting there.

Accordingly, having ordered my horse to be made ready betimes, I got up in the morning, and made myself ready also. Yet, before I would go, that I might be as observant to my father as possibly I could, I desired my sister to go up to him in his chamber, and acquaint him, that I had a mind to go to Oxford, and desired to know if he pleased to command rue any service there. He bid her tell me, he would not have me go till he had spoken with me; and getting up immediately, ho hastened down to me before he was quite dressed.

As soon as he saw me standing with my hat on, his passion transporting him, he fell upon me with both his fists; and having by that means somewhat vented his anger, he plucked off my hat, and threw it away. Then stepping hastily out to the stable, and seeing my borrowed nag stand ready saddled and bridled, he asked his man whence that horse came; who telling him he fetched it from Mr. ———. "Then ride him presently back," said my father, "and tell Mr. ——— I desire he will never lend my son an horse again, unless he brings a note from me."

The poor fellow, who loved me well, would fain have made excuses and delays; but my father was positive in his command, and so urgent, that he would not let him stay so much as to take his breakfast, though he had five miles to ride, nor would he himself stir from the stable, till he had seen the man mounted and gone. Then coming in, he went up into his chamber to make himself more fully ready, thinking he had me safe enough now my horse was gone; for I took so much delight in riding, that I seldom went on foot.

But while he was dressing himself in his chamber, I, who understood what had been done, changing my boots for shoes, took another hat, and acquainting my sister, who loved me very well, and whom I could confide in, whither I meant to go, went out privately, and walked away to Wycombe, having seven long miles thither, which yet seemed little and easy to me, from the desire I had to be among Friends.

As thus I travelled all alone, under a load of grief, from the sense I had of the opposition and hardship I was to expect from my father, the Enemy took advantage to assault me again, casting a doubt into my mind, whether I had done well in thus coming away from my father, without his leave or knowledge.

I was quiet and peaceable in my spirit before this question was darted into me; but after that, disturbance and trouble seized me, so that I was at a stand what to do, whether to go forward or backward. Fear of offending inclined me to go back, but desire of the meeting, and to be with Friends, pressed me to go forward.

I stood still awhile to consider and weigh the matter as well as I could. I was sensibly satisfied that I had not left my father with any intention of undutifulness or disrespect to him, but merely in obedience to that drawing of spirit, which I was persuaded was of the Lord, to join with his people in worshipping him; and this made me easy.

But then the Enemy, to make mo uneasy again, objected, But how could that drawing be of the Lord, which drew me to disobey my father?

I considered thereupon the extent of paternal power, which I found was not wholly arbitrary and unlimited, but had bounds set unto it. That as in civil matters it was restrained to things lawful, so in spiritual and religious cases it had not a compulsory power over conscience, which ought to be subject to the Heavenly Father. And therefore, though obedience to parents be enjoined to children, yet it is with this limitation, in the Lord: " Children, obey your parents in the Lord; for this is right." (Ephes. vi. 1.)

This turned the scale for going forward, and so on I went: and yet I was not wholly free from some fluctuations of mind, from the besettings of the Enemy; wherefore, although I knew that outward signs did not properly belong to the gospel dispensation, yet for my better assurance, I did, in fear and great humility, beseech the Lord, that he would be pleased so far to condescend to the weakness of his servant, as to give me a sign, by which I might certainly know whether my way was right before him or not.

The sign which I asked was, that if I had done wrong in coming as I did, I might be rejected, or but coldly received at the place I was going to; but if this mine undertaking was right in his sight, he would give me favour with them I went to, so that they should receive me with hearty kindness and demonstrations of love.

Accordingly, when I came to John Raunce's house, which, being so much a stranger to all, I chose to go to, because I understood the meeting was commonly held there, they received me with more than ordinary kindness, especially Frances Raunce, John Raunce's wife, who was both a grave and motherly woman, and had a hearty love for truth, and tenderness towards all that in sincerity sought after it. This kind reception, confirming me in the belief that my undertaking was approved by the Lord, gave great satisfaction and case to my mind; and I was thankful to the Lord therefor. Thus it fared with me there; but at home it fared otherwise with my father. He supposing I had betaken myself to my chamber, when he took my hat from me, made no enquiry after me till evening came; and then sitting by the fire, and considering that the weather was very cold, he said to my sister, who sat by him, " Go up to your brother's chamber, and call him down; it may be he will sit there else, in a sullen fit, till he has caught cold." "Alas! Sir," said she, "he is not in his chamber, nor in the house neither." At that my father startling, said, "Why where is he then?" "I know not, Sir," said she, "where he is; but I know that, when he saw you had sent away his horse, he put on shoes, and went out on foot, and I have not seen him since. And indeed, Sir," added she, "I don't wonder at his going away, considering how you used him." This put my father into a great fright, doubting I was gone quite away; and so great a passion of grief seized on him, that he forbore not to weep, and to cry out aloud, so that the family heard him, " Oh my son! I shall never see him more! for he is of so bold and resolute a spirit, that he will run himself into danger, and so may be thrown into some jail or other, where he may lie, and die before I can hear of him." Then bidding her light him up to his chamber, he went immediately to bed, where he lay restless and groaning, and often bemoaning himself and me, for the greatest part of the night.

Next morning my sister sent a man (whom for his love to me she knew she could trust) to give me this account; and though by him she sent me also fresh linen for my use, in case I should go farther, or stay out longer, yet she desired me to come home as soon as I could. This account was very uneasy to me. I was much grieved that I had occasioned so much grief to my father; and I would have returned that evening after the meeting, but the Friends would not permit it, for the meeting would in likelihood end late, the daya being short, and the way long and dirty. And besides John Raunce told me that he had something on his mind to speak to my father, and that if I would stay till the next day, he would go down with me, hoping, perhaps, that while my father was under this sorrow for me, he might work some good upon him. Hereupon concluding to stay till the morrow, I dismissed the man with the things he brought, bidding him tell my sister, I intended (God willing) to return home tomorrow; and charging him not to let any body else know that he had seen me, or where he had been.

Next morning John Raunce and I set out; and when we were come to the end of the town, we agreed that he should go before, and knock at the great gate, and I would come a little after, and go in by the back way. He did so; and when a servant came to open the gate, he asked if the justice was at home. She told him yes, and desiring him to come in and sit down in the hall, went and acquainted her master that there was one who desired to speak with him. He, supposing it was one that came for justice, went readily into the hall to him. But he was not a little surprised when he found it was a Quaker. Yet, not knowing on what account he came, he stayed to hear his business. But when he found it was about me, he fell somewhat sharply on him.

In this time I was come by the back way into the kitchen, and hearing my father's voice so loud, I began to doubt things wrought not well; but I was soon assured of that. For my father having quickly enough of a Quaker's company, left John Raunce in the hall, and came into the kitchen, where he was more surprised to find me. The sight of my hat upon my head made him presently forget that I was that son of his whom he had so lately lamented as lost; and his passion of grief turning into anger, he could not contain himself, but running upon me, with both his hands, first violently snatched off my hat, and threw it away; then giving me some buffets on my head, he said, "Sirrah, get you up to your chamber." I forthwith went; he following me at the heels, and now and then giving me a whirret on the ear, which, the way to my chamber lying through the hall where John Raunce was, he, poor man, might see and be sorry for, (as I doubt not he was) but could not help me.

This was sure an unaccountable thing, that my father should, but a few days before, express so high a sorrow for me, as fearing he should never see me any more, and yet now, as soon as he saw me, should fly upon me with such violence, and that only because I did not put off my hat, which he knew I did not keep on in disrespect to him, but upon a religious principle. But as this hat-honour, as it was accounted, was grown to be a great idol, in those times more especially, so the Lord was pleased to engage his servants in a steady testimony against it, whatsoever suffering was brought upon them for it. And though some who have been called into the Lord's vineyard at later hours, and since the heat of that day hath been much over, may be apt to account this testimony a small thing to suffer so much upon, as some have done, not only to beating, but to fines and long and hard imprisonments — yet they who in those times were faithfully exercised in and under it, durst not despise the day of small things; as knowing, that he who should do so would not be thought worthy to be concerned in higher testimonies.

I had now lost one of my hats, and I had but one more. That therefore I put on, but did not keep it long; for the next time my father saw it on my head, he tore it violently from me, and laid it up with the other, I knew not where. Wherefore I put on my mountier-cap, which was all I had left to wear on my head; and it was but a very little while that I had that to wear, for as soon as my father came where I was, I lost that also. So now I was forced to go bareheaded, wherever I had occasion to go, within doors and without.

This was in the eleventh month, called January, and the weather sharp, so that I, who had been bred up more tenderly, took so great a cold in my head, that my face and head were much swelled, and my gums had on them boils so sore, that I could neither chew meat, nor without difficulty swallow liquids. It held long, and I underwent much pain, without much pity, except from my poor sister, who did what she could to give me case; and at length, by frequent applications of figs and stoned raisins toasted, and laid to the boils as hot as I could bear them, they ripened fit for lancing, and soon after sunk. Then I had ease.

Now was I laid up as a kind of prisoner for the rest of the winter, having no means to go forth among Friends, nor they liberty to come to me. Wherefore I spent the time much in my chamber, in waiting on the Lord, and in reading, mostly in the Bible. But whenever I had occasion to speak to my father, though I had no hat now to offend him, yet my language did as much; for I durst not say You to him, but Thou or Thee, as the occasion required; and then would he be sure to fall on me with his fists.

At one of these times, I remember, when he had beaten me in that manner, he commanded me, as he commonly did at such times, to go to my chamber; this I did, and he followed rne to the bottom of the stairs. Being come thither, he gave me a parting blow, and in a very angry tone, said, "Sirrah, if ever I hear you say Thou or Thee to me again, I'll strike your teeth down your throat," I was greatly grieved to hear him say so; and feeling a word rise in my heart, I turned again, and calmly said unto him, "Would it not be just, if God should serve thee so, when thou sayest Thou or Thee to him?" Though his hand was up, I saw it sink, and his countenance fall, and he turned away and left me standing there. I notwithstanding went up into my chamber, and cried unto the Lord, earnestly beseeching him, that he would be pleased to open my father's eyes, that he might see whom he fought against, and for what; and that he would turn his heart.

After this I had a pretty time of rest and quiet from these disturbances, my father not saying any thing to me, nor giving mo occasion to say any thing to him. But I was still under a kind of confinement, unless I would have run about the country bareheaded like a madman; which I did not see it was my place to do. For I found that, although to be abroad and at liberty among my friends would have been more pleasant to me, yet home was at present my proper place, a school in which I was to learn with patience to bear the cross, and I willingly submitted to it.

But after some time a fresh storm, more fierce and sharp than any before, arose and fell upon me; the occasion whereof was this. My father having been, in his younger years, more especially while he lived in London, a constant hearer of those who are called Puritan preachers, had stored up a pretty stock of scripture knowledge, did sometimes (not constantly, nor very often) cause his family to come together on a first-day in the evening, and expound a chapter to them, and pray. His family now, as well as his estate, was lessened; for my mother was dead, my brother gone, and my elder sister at London; and having put off his husbandry, he had put off with it most of his servants, so that he had now but one man and one maid servant. It so fell out, that on a first-day night he bid my sister, who sat with him in the parlour, call in the servants to prayer.

Whether this was done as a trial upon me or no, I know not, but a trial it proved to me; for they loving me very well, and disliking my father's carriage to me, made no haste to go in, but stayed a second summons. This so offended him, that when at length they did go in, he, instead of going to prayer, examined them, why they came not in when they were first called; and the answer they gave him being such as rather heightened than abated his displeasure, he with an angry tone said, "Call in that fellow," (meaning me, who was left alone in the kitchen) " for he is the cause of all this." They, as they were backward to go in themselves, so were not forward to call me in, fearing the effect of my father's displeasure would fall upon me; as soon it did, for I hearing what was said, and not staying for the call, went in of myself. And as soon as I was come in, my father discharged his displeasure on me, in very sharp and bitter expressions; which drew from me, in the grief of my heart to see him so transported with passion, these few words, " They that can pray with such a spirit, let them; for my part I cannot." With that my father flew upon me with both his fists, and not thinking that sufficient, stepped hastily to the place where his cane stood, and catching that up, laid on me, I thought, with all his strength. And, being bareheaded, I thought his blows must needs have broken my skull, had I not laid mine arm over my head to defend it. His man seeing this, and not able to contain himself, stepped in between us, and laying hold on the cane, by strength of hand held it so fast, that though he attempted not to take it away, yet he withheld my father from striking with it, which did but enrage him the more. I disliked this in the man, and bid him let go the cane, and be gone, which he immediately did, and turning to be gone had a blow on the shoulders for his pains, which yet did not much hurt him.

But now my sister, fearing lest my father should £all upon me again, besought him to forbear, adding, "Indeed, Sir, if you strike him any more, I will throw open the casement and cry murder, for I am afraid you will kill my brother." This stopped his hand, and after some threatening speeches, he commanded me to to get to my chamber, which I did, as I always did when he bid me.

Thither soon after my sister followed me, to see my arm and dress it; for it was indeed very much bruised and swelled between the wrist and the elbow, and in some places the skin was broken and beaten off. But though it was very sore, and I felt for some time much pain in it, yet I had peace and quietness in my mind, being more grieved for my father than for myself, who I knew had hurt himself more than me.

This was, so far as I remember, the last time that ever my father called his family to prayer. And this was also the last time that he ever fell, so severely at least, upon me.

Soon after this my elder sister, who in all the time of these exercises of mine had been in London, returned home, much troubled to find me a Quaker, a name of reproach and great contempt then; and she being in London had received I suppose the worst character of them. Yet, though she disliked the people, her affectionate regard to me, made her rather pity than despise me; and the more when she understood what hard usage I had met with.

The rest of this winter I spent in a lonesome solitary life, having none to converse with, none to unbosom myself unto, none to ask counsel of, none to seek relief from, but the Lord alone, who yet was more than all. And yet the company and society of faithful and judicious Friends would, I thought, have been very welcome, as well as helpful to rne in rny spiritual travel; in which I thought I made but a slow progress, my soul breathing after further attainments; the sense of which drew from me the following lines:

The winter tree resembles me,
    Whose sap lies in its root:
The spring draws nigh; as it, so I
    Shall bud, I hope, and shoot.

At length it pleased the Lord to move Isaac Penington and his wife to make a visit to my father, and see how it fared with me; and very welcome they were to me, whatever they were to him, to whom I doubt not but they would have been more welcome had it not been for me. They tarried with us all night; and much discourse they had with my father, both about the principles of Truth in general, and me in particular, which I was not privy to. But one thing I remember I afterwards heard of, which was this.

When my father and we were at their house some months before, Mary Penington, in some discourse between them, had told him how hardly her husband's father (Alderman Penington) had dealt with him about his hat; which my father, little then thinking that it would, and so soon to, be his own case, did very much censure the Alderman for, wondering that so wise a man as he was should take notice of such a trivial thing as the putting off or keeping on a hat; and he spared not to blame him liberally for it. This gave her a handle to take hold of him by. And having had an ancient acquaintance with him, and be having always had an high opinion of and respect for her, she, who was a woman of great wisdom, of ready speech, and of a well resolved spirit, did press so close upon him with this home argument, that he was utterly at a loss how to defend himself.

After dinner next day, when they were ready to take coach to return home, she desired my father that, since my company was so little acceptable to him, he would give me leave to go and spend some time with them, where I should be sure to be welcome. He was very unwilling I should go, and made many objections agninst it, all which she answered and removed so clearly, that not finding what excuse further to allege, he at length left it to me, and I soon turned the scale for going.

We were come to the coach side before this was concluded on, and I was ready to step in, when one of my sisters privately put my father in mind that I had never a hat on. That somewhat startled him, for he did not think it fit I should go from home (and that so far, and to stay abroad) without a hat. Wherefore he whispered to her to fetch me a hat, and he entertained them with some discourse in the mean time. But as soon as he saw the hat coming, he would not stay till it came, lest I should put it on before him; but breaking off his discourse abruptly, took his leave of them, and hastened in before the hat was brought to me.

I had not one penny of money about me, nor indeed elsewhere: for my father, so soon as he saw that I would be a Quaker, took from me both what money I had, and everything else of value, or that would have made money, as some plate buttons, rings, &c., pretending that he would keep them for me, till I came to myself again, lest I, in the meantime, should destroy them. But as I had no money, so being among my friends, I had no need of any, nor ever honed after it; though once upon a particular occasion I had like to have wanted it: the case was thus.

I had been at Reading, and set out from thence on the first-day of the week in the morning, intending to reach (as, in point of time I well might) to Isaac Penington's, where the meeting was to be that day; but when I came to Maidenhead, a town on the way, I was stopped by the watch for riding on that day.

The watchman, laying hold on the bridle, told me I must go with him to the constable: and accordingly I, making no resistance, suffered him to lead my horse to the constable's door. When we were come there, the constable told me I must go before the warden, who was the chief officer of that town; and bid the watchman bring me on, himself walking before.

Being come to the warden's door, the constable knocked, and desired to speak with Mr. Warden. He thereupon quickly coming to the door, the constable said, "Sir, I have brought a man here to you, whom the watch took riding through the town." The warden was a budge old man; and I looked somewhat big too, having a good gelding under me, and a good riding coat on my back, both which my friend Isaac Penington had kindly accommodated me with for that journey.

The warden, therefore, taking me to be (as the saying is) somebody, put off his hat, and made a low conge to me; but when he saw that I sat still and neither bowed to him, nor moved my hat, he gave a start, and said to the constable, "You said you had brought a man, but he don't behave himself like a man."

I sat still upon my horse, and said not a word, but kept my mind retired to the Lord, waiting to see what this would come to.

The warden then began to examine me, asking me whence I came, and whither I was going: I told him I came from Reading, and was going to Chalfont. He asked me why I did travel on that day: I told him I did not know that it would give any offence barely to ride or to walk on that day, so long as I did not carry or drive any carriage, or horses laden with burthens. "Why," said he, "if your business was urgent, did you not take a pass from the mayor of Reading?" "Because," replied I, "I did not know nor think I should have needed one." "Well," said he, " I will not talk with you now, because it is time to go to church, but I will examine you further anon." And turning to the constable, "Have him," said he, "to an inn, and bring him before me after dinner."

The naming of an inn put me in mind that such public houses were places of expense, and I knew I had no money to defray it; wherefore I said to the warden, " Before thou sendest me to an inn, which may occasion some expense, I think it needful to acquaint thee that I have no money."

At that the warden startled again, and turning quick upon me, said, " How, no money! how can that be? You don't look like a man that has no money." "However I look," said I, "I tell thee the truth, that I have no money; and I tell it to forewarn thee, that thou mayest not bring any charge upon the town." "I wonder," said he, "what art you have got, that you can travel without money; you can do more, I assure you, than I can."

I making no answer, he went on and said, "Well, well, but if you have no money, you have a good horse under you, and we can distrain him for the charge." "But," said I, "the horse is not mine." "No!" said he, "but you have a good coat on your back, and that, I hope, is your own." "No," said I, " but it is not, for I borrowed both the horse and the coat."

With that the warden, holding up his hands, and smiling, said, "Bless me! I never met with such a man as you are before! What, were you set out by the parish?" Then turning to the constable, he said, "Have him to the Greyhound, and bid the people be civil to him." Accordingly to the Greyhound I was led, my horse set up, and I put into a large room, and some account, I suppose, given of me to the people of the house.

This was new work to me, and what the issue of it would be, I could not foresee; but being left there alone, I sat down, and retired in spirit to the Lord, in whom alone my strength and safety was, and begged support of him; even that he would be pleased to give me wisdom and words to answer the warden, when I should come to be examined again before him. After some time, having pen, ink, and paper about me, I set myself to write what I thought might be proper, if occasion served, to give the warden; and while I was writing, the master of the house being come home from his worship, sent the tapster to me, to invite me to dine with him. I bid him toll his master, that I had not any money to pay for my dinner. He sent his man again to tell me, I should be welcome to dine with him, though I had no money. I desired him to tell his master that I was sensible of his civility and kindness, in so courteously inviting me to his table, but I had not freedom to eat of his meat unless I could have paid for it. So he went on with his dinner, and I with my writing.

But before I had finished what was on my mind to write, the constable came again, bringing with him his fellow constable. This was a brisk, genteel young man, a shopkeeper in the town, whose name was Cherry. They saluted me very civilly, and told me they were come to have me before the warden. This put an end to my writing, which I put into my pocket, and went along with them.

Being come to the warden, he asked me again the same questions he had asked me before; to which I gave him the like answers. Then he told me the penalty I had incurred, which he said was cither to pay so much money, or lie so many hours in the stocks; and asked me which I would choose. I replied, "I shall not choose either." "And," said I, "I have told thee already that I have no money; though if I had, I could not so far acknowledge myself an offender as to pay any. But as to lying in the stocks, I am in thy power, to do unto me what it shall please the Lord to suffer thee."

When he heard that, he paused awhile, and then told me, he considered that I was but a young man, and might not perhaps understand the danger I had brought myself into, and therefore he would not use the severity of the law upon me; but in hopes that I would be wiser hereafter, he would pass by this offence, and discharge rne.

Then putting on a countenance of the greatest gravity, he said to me, "But, young man, I would have you know, that you have not only broken the law of the land, but the law of God also; and therefore you ought to ask him forgiveness, for you have highly offended him" "That," said I, "I would most willingly do, if I were sensible that, in this case, I had offended him by breaking any law of his." "Why," said he, "do you question that?" "Yes, truly," said I, "for I do not know that any law of God doth forbid me to ride on this day." "No!" said he, "that's strange! Where, I wonder, were you bred? You can read, can't you?" "Yes," said I, "that I can." "Don't you read then," said he, "the commandment, 'Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy; six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work; but the seventh-day is the Sabbath of the Lord; in it thou shalt not do any work.'" "Yes," replied I, " I have both read it often, and remember it very well. But that command was given to the Jews, not to Christians; and this is not that day, for that was the seventh-day, but this is the first." "How!" said he, "do you know the days of the week no better? You had need then be better taught." Here the younger constable, whose name was Cherry, interposing, said, " Mr. Warden, the gentleman is in the right as to that, for this is the first-day of the week, and not the seventh."

This the old warden took in dudgeon; and looking severely on the constable, said, " What, do you take upon you to teach me? I'll have you know I will not be taught by you." " As you please for that, Sir," said the constable, "but I am sure you are mistaken in this point; for Saturday, I know, is the seventh-day, and you know yesterday was Saturday."

This made the warden hot and testy, and put him almost out of all patience, so that I feared it would have come to downright quarrel betwixt them, for both were confident, and neither would yield. And so earnestly were they engaged in the contest, that there was no room for me to put in a word between them.

At length the old man, having talked himself out of wind, stood still awhile as it were to take breath, and then, bethinking himself of me, he turned to me, and said, "You are discharged, and may take your liberty to go about your occasions." "But," said I, "I desire my horse may be discharged too, else I know not how to go." "Ay, ay," said he, "you shall have your horse." And turning to the other constable, who had not offended him, he said, " Go see that his horse be delivered to him."

Away thereupon went I with that constable, leaving the old warden and the young constable to compose their difference as they could. Being come to the inn, the constable called for my horse to be brought out. Which done, I immediately mounted, and began to set forward. But the hostler, not knowing the condition of my pocket, said modestly to me, "Sir, don't you forget to pay for your horse's standing?" "No truly," said I, "I don't forget it, but I have no money to pay it with, and so I told the warden before." "Well, hold you your tongue," said the constable to the hostler, "I'll see you paid." Then opening the gate they let me out, the constable wishing me a good journey; and through the town I rode without further molestation, though it was as much Sabbath, I thought, when I went out, as it was when I came in.

A secret joy arose in me as I rode on the way, for that I had been preserved from doing or saying any thing which might give the adversaries of Truth advantage against it, or the friends of it; and praises sprang in my thankful heart to the Lord, my preserver.

It added also not a little to my joy, that I felt the Lord near to me, by his witness in my heart, to check and warn me; and my spirit was so far subjected to him, as readily to take warning, and stop at his check; an instance of both, that very morning, I had. For as I rode between Reading and Maidenhead, I saw lying in my way the scabbard of an hanger, which, having lost its hook, had slipped off, I suppose, and dropped from the side of the wearer; and it had in it a pair of knives, whose hafts being inlaid with silver, seemed to be of some value. I alighted and took it up, and clapping it between my thigh and the saddle, rode on a little way; but I quickly found it too heavy for me, and the reprover in me soon began to check. The word rose in me, "What hast thou to do with that? Doth it belong to thee?" I felt I had done amiss in taking it; wherefore I turned back to the place where it lay, and laid it down where I found it. And when afterwards I was stopped and seized on at Maidenhead, I saw there was a Providence in not bringing it with me; which, if it should have been found (as it needs must) under my coat when I came to be unhorsed, might have raised some evil suspicion or sinister thoughts concerning me.

The stop I met with at Maidenhead had spent me so much time, that when I came to Isaac Penington's, the meeting there was half over, which gave them occasion, after meeting, to inquire of me if anything had befallen me on the way, which had caused me to come so late; whereupon I related to them what exercise I had met with, and how the Lord had helped me through it; which when they had heard, they rejoiced with me, and for my sake.

Great was the love and manifold the kindness which I received from these my worthy friends Isaac and Mary Penington, while I abode in their family. They were indeed as affectionate parents and tender nurses to me, in this time of my religious childhood. For besides their weighty and seasonable counsels, and exemplary conversations, they furnished me with means to go to the other meetings of Friends in that country, when the meeting was not in their own house. And indeed, the time I stayed with them was so well spent, that it not only yielded great satisfaction to my mind, but turned, in good measure, to my spiritual advantage in the Truth.

But that I might not, on the one hand, bear too hard upon my friends, nor on the other hand forget the house of thraldom, after I had stayed with them some six or seven weeks, from the time called Easter to the time called Whitsuntide, I took my leave of them to depart home, intending to walk to Wycombe in one day, and from thence home in another.

That day when I came home I did not see my father, nor until noon the next day, when I went into the parlour where he was, to take my usual place at dinner. When I came in, I observed, by my father's countenance, that my hat was still an offence to him; but when I had sat down, and before I had eaten anything, he made me understand it more fully, by saying to me, but in a milder tone than he had formerly used to speak to me in, "If you cannot content yourself to come to dinner without your hive on your head, (so he called my hat) pray rise, and go take your dinner somewhere else."

Upon those words I rose from the table, and leaving the room went into the kitchen, where I stayed till the servants went to dinner, and then sat down very contentedly with them. Yet I suppose my father might intend that I should have gone into some other room, and there have eaten by myself. But I chose rather to eat with the servants; and did so from thenceforward, so long as he and I lived together. And from that time he rather chose, as I thought, to avoid seeing me, than to renew the quarrel about my hat.

My sisters meanwhile, observing my wariness in words and behaviour, and being satisfied, I suppose, that I acted upon a principle of religion and conscience, carried themselves very kindly to me, and did what they could to mitigate my father's displeasure against me. So that I now enjoyed much more quiet at home, and took more liberty to go abroad amongst my friends, than I had done or could do before. And having informed myself where any meetings of Friends were holden, within a reasonable distance from me, I resorted to them.

At first I went to a town called Hoddenham, in Buckinghamshire, five miles from my father's, where at the house of one Belson, a few who were called Quakers did meet sometimes, on a first-day of the week; but I found little satisfaction there. Afterwards, upon further inquiry, I understood there was a settled meeting at a little village called Meadle, about four long miles from me, in the house of one John White, which is continued there still; and to that thenceforward I constantly went while I abode in that country, and was able. Many a sore day's travel have I had thither and back again, being commonly in the winter time (how fair soever the weather was over head) wet up to the ankles at least; yet, through the goodness of the Lord to me, I was preserved in health.

A little meeting also there was on the fourth-day of the week at a town called Bledlow, two miles from me, in the house of one Thomas Saunders, who professed the truth; but his wife, whose name was Damaris, did possess it, she being a woman of great sincerity and lively sense; and to that meeting also I usually went.

But though I took this liberty for the service of God, that I might worship him in the assemblies of his people, yet did I not use it upon other occasions, but spent my time on other days for the most part in my chamber, in retiredness of mind, waiting on the Lord. And the Lord was graciously pleased to visit me by his quickening spirit and life; so that I came to feel the operation of his power in my heart, working out that which was contrary to his will, and giving me, in measure, dominion over it.

And as my spirit was kept in a due subjection to this divine power, I grew into a nearer acquaintance with the Lord; and the Lord vouchsafed to speak unto me in the inward of my soul, and to open my understanding in his fear, to receive counsel from him; so that I not only at some times heard his voice, but could distinguish his voice from the voice of the enemy. As thus I daily waited on the Lord, a weighty and unusual exercise came upon me, which, bowed my spirit very low before the Lord. I had seen, in the Light of the Lord, the horrible guilt of those deceitful priests, of divers sorts arid denominations, who made a trade of preaching, and for filthy lucre's sake held the people always learning; yet so taught them, as that, by their teaching and ministry, they were never able to come to the knowledge (much less to the acknowledgment) of the Truth: for as they themselves hated the Light, because their own deeds were evil, so by reviling, reproaching, and blaspheming the true Light, wherewith every man that cometh into the world is enlightened, (John i. ix.) they begat in the people a disesteem of the Light; and laboured, as much as in them lay, to keep their hearers in darkness, that they might not be turned to the Light in themselves, lest by the Light they should discover the wickedness of these their deceitful teachers, and turn from them.

Against this practice of these false teachers, the zeal of the Lord had flamed in my breast, for some time; and now the burthen of the word of the Lord against them fell heavy upon me, with command to proclaim his controversy against them.

Fain would I have been excused from this service, which I judged too heavy for me; wherefore I besought the Lord to take this weight from off me, who was in every respect but young, and lay it upon some other of his servants, of whom he had many, who were much more able and fit for it. But the Lord would not be entreated, but continued the burden upon me with greater weight; requiring obedience from me, and promising to assist me therein. Whereupon I arose from my bed; and, in the fear and dread of the Lord, committed to writing what he, in the motion of his Divine Spirit, dictated to me to write. When I had done it, though the sharpness of the message therein delivered was hard to my nature to be the publisher of, yet I found acceptance with the Lord in my obedience to his will, and his peace filled my heart. As soon as I could, I communicated to my friends what I had written; and it was printed in the year 1660, in one sheet of paper, under the title of "An Alarm to the Priests; or, A Message from Heaven to forewarn them, &c."

Some time after the publishing of this paper, having occasion to go to London, I went to visit George Fox the younger, who, with another Friend, was then a prisoner in a messenger's hands. I had never seen him, nor he me before; yet this paper lying on the table before him, he pointing to it, asked me if I was the person that writ it. I told him I was. "It's much," said the other Friend, "that they bear it." "It is," replied he, "their portion, and they must bear it."

While I was then in London, I went to a little meeting of Friends, which was then held in the house of one Humphrey Bache, a goldsmith, at the sign of the Snail, in Tower-street, It was then a very troublesome time, not from the government, but from the rabble of boys and rude people, who, upon the turn of the times at the return of the king, took liberty to be very abusive.

When the meeting ended, a pretty number of these unruly folk were got together at the door, ready to receive the Friends as they cnme forth, not only with evil words, but with blows; which I saw they bestowed freely on some of them that were gone out before me, and expected I should have my share of when I came amongst them. But quite contrary to rny expectation, when I came out, they said one to another, ''Let him alone; don't meddle with him; he is no Quaker, I'll warrant you." This struck me, and was worse to me than if they had laid their fists on me, as they did on others. I was troubled to think what the matter was, or what these rude people saw in me, that made them not take me for a Quaker. And upon a close examination of myself with respect to my habit and deportment, I could not find anything to place it on, but that I had then on my head a large mountier-cap of black velvet, the skirt of which being turned up in folds, looked, it seems, somewhat above the then common garb of a Quaker; and this put me out of conceit with my cap.

I came at this time to London from Isaac Penington's, and thither I went again in my way home; and while I stayed there, amongst some other Friends who came thither, Thomas Loe of Oxford was one. A faithful and diligent labourer he was in the work of the Lord; and an excellent ministerial gift he had. And in my zeal for Truth, being very desirous that my neighbours might have the opportunity of hearing the Gospel, the glad tidings of salvation, livingly and powerfully preached among them, I entered into communication with him about it; offering to procure some convenient place in the town where I lived, for a meeting to be held, and to invite my neighbours to it, if he could give me any ground to expect his company at it. He told me he was not at his own command, but at the Lord's, and he knew not how he might dispose of him; but wished me, if I found when I was come home, that the thing continued with weight upon my mind, and that I could get a fit place for a meeting, I would advertise him of it, by a few lines, directed to him in Oxford, whither he was then going; and he might then let me know how his freedom stood in that matter.

When therefore I was come home, and had treated with a neighbour for a place to have a meeting in, I wrote to my friend Thomas Loe, to acquaint him that I had procured a place for a meeting, and would invite company to it, if he would fix the time, and give me some ground to hope that he would be at it. This letter I sent by a neighbour to Thame, to be given to a dyer of Oxford, who constantly kept Thame market, with whom I was pretty well acquainted, having sometimes formerly used him, not only in his way of trade, but to carry letters between my brother and me, when he was a student in that University. For this service he was always paid, and had been so careful in the delivery, that our letters had always gone safe until now. But this time Providence so ordering, or at least for my trial permitting it, this letter of mine, instead of being delivered according to its direction, was seized and carried, as I was told, to the Lord Faulkland, who was then called Lord Lieutenant of that county.

The occasion of this stopping of letters at that time, was that mad prank of those infatuated Fifth-monarchy Men, who from their meeting-house in Coleman-street, London, breaking forth in arms, under the command of their chieftain Venner, made an insurrection in the city, on pretence of setting up the kingdom of Jesus; who, it is said, they expected would come down from heaven to be their leader. So little understood they the nature of his kingdom; though he himself had declared it was not of this world.

The king, a little before his arrival in England, had, by his declaration from Breda, given assurance of liberty to tender consciences; and that no man should be disquieted, or called in question for diiference of opinion in matters of religion, who did not disturb the peace of the kingdom. Upon this assurance dissenters of all sorts relied, and held themselves secure. But now, by this frantic action of a few hot-brained men, the king was, by some, holden discharged from his royal word and promise, in his foregoing declaration publicly given. Hereupon, letters were intercepted and broken open, for discovery of suspected plots and designs against the government; and not only dissenters' meetings of all sorts, without distinction, were disturbed, but very many were imprisoned in most parts throughout the nation; and great search there was, in all counties, for suspected persons, who, if not found at meetings, were fetched in from their own houses.

The Lord Lieutenant (so called) of Oxfordshire, had, on this occasion, taken Thomas Loe and many other of our Friends at a meeting, and sent them prisoners to Oxford Castle, just before my letter was brought to his hand, wherein I had invited Thomas Loe to a meeting; and he, putting the worst construction upon it, as if I (a poor simple lad) had intended a seditious meeting, in order to raise rebellion, ordered two of the Deputy Lieutenants, who lived nearest to me, to send a party of horse to fetch me in.

Accordingly, while I, wholly ignorant of what had passed at Oxford, was in daily expectation of an agreeable answer to my letter, came a party of horse one morning to my father's gate, and asked for me.

It so fell out, that my father was at that time from home, I think in London; whereupon he that commanded the party alighted, and came in. My eldest sister, hearing the noise of soldiers, came hastily up into my chamber, and told me there were soldiers below, who inquired for me. I forthwith went down to them, and found the commander was a barber of Thame, and one who had always been my barber till I was a Quaker. His name was Whatley, a bold brisk fellow. I asked him what his business was with me: he told me I must go with him. I demanded to see his warrant: he laid his hand on his sword, and said that was his warrant. I told him, though that was not a legal warrant, yet I would not dispute it, but was ready to bear injuries. He told me he could not help it, as he was commanded to bring me forthwith before the Deputy Lieutenants; and therefore desired me to order an horse to be got ready, because he was in haste. I let him know I had no horse of my own, and would not meddle with any of my father's horses, in his absence especially; and that therefore, if he would have me with him, he must carry me as he could.

He thereupon taking my sister aside, told her he found I was resolute, and his orders were peremptory; wherefore he desired that she would give order for an horse to be made ready for me, for otherwise he should be forced to mount me behind a trooper, which would be very unsuitable for me, and which he was very unwilling to do. She thereupon ordered a horse to be got ready, upon which, when I had taken leave of my sisters, I mounted, and went off, not knowing whither he intended to carry me.

He had orders, it seems, to take some others also in a neighbouring village, whose names he had, but their houses he did not know. Wherefore, as we rode, he asked me if 1 knew such and such men, (whom he named) and where they lived; and when he understood that I knew them, he desired me to show him their houses. "No," said I, "I scorn to be an informer against my neighbours, to bring them into trouble." He thereupon riding to and fro, found by inquiry most of tlieir houses, but, as it happened, found none of them at home, at which I was glad.

At length he brought me to the house of one called Esquire Clark, of Weston by Thame, who, being afterwards knighted, was called Sir John Clark; a jolly man, too much addicted to drinking in soberer times, but was now grown more licentious that way, as the times did now more favour debauchery, he and I had known one another for some years, though not very intimately, having met sometimes at the Lord Wenman's table. This Clark was one of the Deputy Lieutenants, before whom I was to be brought; and he had got another to join with him in tendering me the oaths, whom I knew only by name and character; he was called Esquire Knowls, of Grays, by Henley, and reputed a man of better morals than the other.

I was brought into the hall, and kept there; and as Quakers were not so common then as they now are, (and indeed even yet, the more is the pity, they are not common in that part of the country,) I was made a spectacle and gazing-stock to the family, and by divers I was diversely set upon. Some spake to me courteously, with appearance of compassion; others ruggedly, with evident tokens of wrath and scorn. But though I gave them the hearing of what they said, which I could not well avoid, yet I said little to them; but keeping my mind as well retired as I could, I breathed to the Lord for help and strength from him, to bear me up and carry me through this trial, that I might not sink under it, or be prevailed on by any means, fair or foul, to do anything that might dishonour or displease my God.

At length came forth the justices themselves, (for so they were, as well as Lieutenants,) and after they had saluted me, they discoursed with me pretty familiarly; and though Clark would sometimes be a little jocular and waggish, which was somewhat natural to him, Knowls treated me very civilly, not seeming to take any offence at my not standing bare before him. And when a young priest, who, as I understood, was chaplain in the family, took upon him pragmatically to reprove me for standing with my hat on before the magistrates, and snatched my cap from off my head, Knowls, in a pleasant mariner, corrected him, telling him he mistook himself in taking a cap for a hat, for mine was a mountier-cap, and bid him give it me again; which he (though unwillingly) doing, I forthwith put it on my head again, and thenceforward none meddled with me about it.

Then they began to examine me, putting divers questions to me, relating to the present disturbances in the nation, occasioned by the late foolish insurrection of those frantic Fifth-monarchy Men. To all which I readily answered, according to the simplicity of my heart and innocency of my hands; for I had neither done nor thought any evil against the government.

But they endeavoured to affright me with threats of danger, telling me, with inuendoes, that for all my pretence of innocency, there was high matter against me, which, if I would stand out, would be brought forth, and that under my own hand. I knew not what they meant by this; but I knew my innocency, and. kept to it.

At length, when they saw I regarded not their threats in general, they asked me, if I knew one Thomas Loe, and had written of late to him. I then remembered my letter, which till then I had not thought of; and thereupon frankly told them, that I did both know Thomas Loe, and had lately written to him; but that as I knew I had written no hurt, so I did not fear any danger from that letter. They shook their beads, and said, it was dangerous to write letters to appoint meetings in such troublesome times. They added, that by appointing a meeting, and endeavouring to gather a concourse of people together, in such a juncture especially as this was, I had rendered myself a dangerous person. And therefore they could do no less than tender me the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, which therefore they required me to take.

I told them, if I could take any oath at all, I would take the oath of allegiance, for I owed allegiance to the king. But I durst not take any oath, because my Lord and Master Jesus Christ had commanded me not to swear at all; and if I brake his command, I should thereby both dishonour and displease him.

Hereupon they undertook to reason with me, and used many words to persuade me, that that command of Christ related only to common and profane swearing, not to swearing before a magistrate. I heard them, and saw the weakness of their arguings, but did not return them any answer; for I found my present business was not to dispute, but to suffer, and that it was not safe for me, in this my weak and childish state especially, to enter into reasonings with sharp, quick, witty, and learned men, lest I might thereby hurt both the cause of Truth, which I was to bear witness to, and myself. Therefore I chose rather to be a fool, and let them triumph over me, than by my weakness give them advantage to triumph over the Truth. And my spirit being closely exercised in a deep travail towards the Lord, I earnestly begged of him, that he would be pleased to keep me faithful to the testimony he had committed to me, and not suffer me to be taken in any of the snares which the enemy laid for me. And, blessed be his holy name, he heard my cries, and preserved me out of them.

When the justices saw they could not bow me to their wills, they told me they must send me to prison. I told them I was contented to suffer whatsoever the Lord should permit them to inflict upon me. Whereupon they withdrew into the parlour, to consult together what to do with me, leaving me meanwhile to be gazed on in the hall. After a pretty long stare, they came forth to me again with great show of kindness, telling me they were very unwilling to send me to jail, but would be as favourable to me as possibly they could; and that if I would take the oaths, they would pass by all the other matter which they had against me. I told them I knew they could not justly have anything against me, for I had neither done nor intended anything against the government, or against them. And as to the oaths, I assured them, that my refusing them was more a matter of conscience to me, and that I durst not take any oath whatsoever, if it were to save my life.

When they heard this, they left me again, and went and signed a mittimus to send me to prison at Oxford, and charged one of the troopers that brought me thither, who was one of the newly raised militia troop, to convey me safe to Oxford. But before we departed, they called the trooper aside, and give him private instructions what he should do with me; which I knew nothing of till I came thither, but expected I should go directly to the Castle.

It was almost dark when we took horse, and we had about nine miles to ride, the weather thick and cold, for it was about the beginning of the twelfth month, and I had no boots, being snatched away from home on a sudden; which made me not care to ride very fast. And my guard, who was a tradesman in Thame, having confidence in me that I would not give him the slip, jogged on without heeding how I followed him. When I was gone about a mile on the way, I overtook my father's man, who, without my knowledge, had followed me at a distance to Weston, and waited there abroad in the stables, till he understood by some of the servants that I was to go to Oxford; and then ran before, resolving not to leave me till he saw what they would do with me.

I would have had him return home, but he desired me not to send him back, but let him run on till I came to Oxford. I considered that this was a token of the fellow's affectionate kindness to me, and that possibly I might send my horse home by him; and thereupon stopping my horse, I bid him, if he would go on, get up behind me. He modestly refused, telling me he could run as fast as I rode. But when I told him, if he would not ride he should not go forward, rather than leave me, he leaped up behind me, and on we went. But he was not willing I should have gone at all. He had a great cudgel in his hand, and, a strong arm to use it; and being a stout fellow, he had a great mind to fight the trooper, and rescue me. Wherefore he desired me to turn my horse and ride off, and if the trooper offered to pursue, leave him to deal with him. I checked him sharply for that, and charged him to be quiet, and not think hardly of the poor trooper, who could do no other nor less than he did; and who, though he had an ill journey in going with me, carried himself civilly to me. I told him also, that I had no need to fly, for I had done nothing that would bring guilt or fear upon me; neither did I go with an ill will; and this quieted the man. So on we went; but were so far cast behind the trooper, that we had lost both sight and hearing of him, and I was fain to mend my pace to get up to him again.

We came pretty late into Oxford, on the seventh day of the week, which was the market day; and, contrary to my expectation, which was to have been carried to the Castle, my trooper stopped in the High-street, and calling at a shop, asked for the master of the horse: who coming to the door, he delivered to him the mittimus, and with it a letter from the Deputy Lieutenants, or one of them; which, when he had read, he asked where the prisoner was. Whereupon, the soldier pointing to me, he desired me to alight and come in; which, when I did, he received me civilly.

The trooper, being discharged of his prisoner, marched back, and my father's man, seeing me settled in better quarters than he expected, mounted my horse, and went off with him.

I did not presently understand the quality of my keeper, but I found him a genteel, courteous man, by trade a linen-draper; and, as I afterwards understood, he was the city-marshal, had a command in the county troop, and was a person of good repute in the place; his name was Galloway.

Whether I was committed to him out of regard to my father, that I might not be thrust into a common jail, or out of a politic design, to keep me from the conversation of my friends, in hopes that I might be drawn to abandon this profession, which I had but lately taken up, I do not know. But this I know, that though I wanted no civil treatment, nor kind accommodations where I was, yet after once I understood that many Friends were prisoners in the Castle, and amongst the rest Thomas Loe, I had much rather have been among them there, with all the inconveniences they underwent, than where I was with the best entertainment. But this was my present lot, and therefore with this I endeavoured to be content.

It was quickly known in the city, that a Quaker was brought in prisoner, and committed to the Marshal. Whereupon, the men Friends generally being prisoners already in the Castle, some of the women Friends came to inquire after me, and to visit me; as Silas Norton's wife, and Thomas Loe's wife, who were sisters, and another woman Friend, who lived in the same street where I was, whose husband was not a Quaker, but kindly affected towards them, a baker by trade, and his name, as I remember, Ryland.

By some of these an account was soon given to the Friends who were prisoners in the Castle, of my being taken up, and brought prisoner to the Marshal's. Whereupon it pleased the Lord to move the heart of my dear friend Thomas Loe, to salute me with a very tender and affectionate letter, in the following terms:

My beloved Friend,

In the truth and love of the Lord Jesus, by which life and salvation is revealed in the saints, is my dear love unto thee; and in much tenderness do I salute thee. And, dear heart, a time of trial God hath permitted to come upon us, to try our faith and love to him; and this will work for the good of them, that through patience endure to the end. And I believe God will be glorified through our sufferings, and his name will be exalted in the patience and long suffering of his chosen. When I heard that thou wast called into this trial, with the servants of the Most High, to give thy testimony to the truth of what we have believed, it came into my heart to write unto thee, and to greet thee with the embraces of the power of an endless life; where our faith stands, and unity is felt with the saints for ever. Well, my dear friend, let us live in the pure counsel of the Lord, and dwell in his strength, which gives us power and sufficiency to endure all things, for his name's sake; and then our crown and reward will be with the Lord for ever, and the blessings of his heavenly kingdom will be our portion. Oh, dear heart, let us give up all freely into the will of God, that God may be glorified by us, and we comforted together in the Lord Jesus; which is the desire of my soul, who am th