Chapter C: E.’ (5)

The statute of 28 Edw. 1. 9. provides that inquests shall be of the next neighbours, most sufficient, and least suspicious, upon penalty of double damages.

25 Edw. 3. cap. 3. No indictor be upon the inquests for felony nor trespass, if challenged.

34 Edw. 3. 4. Juries to be of the next people, not to be suspected or procured. With this agrees Regist. fo. 178.

11 Hen. 4. 9. That if any indictment be made, but by inquest returned by the sheriff, (without denomination to him of their names,) by any but his sworn officer, it shall be void.

* * * * *

By these and the like treatments, we see how the persecutors endeavoured to root out the Quakers, if possible; for the effecting of which, alderman Richard Brown did whatever he could, continually letting loose the reins to his exorbitant malice, without regarding whether that which he was bent against, was really punishable, or not, whereof the following instance may serve for an evidence.

A certain mender of old shoes, who belonged to the society of the Quakers, was desired by a labouring man, on a Seventh day of the week, late at night, to mend a pair of shoes for him, that he might have them again in the morning, because he had no other to wear. The cobler, to accommodate the man, set up at work till after midnight; but the shoes not being finished then, he went to bed, and rising early in the morning, went to his work again as privately as he could in his chamber; but an envious neighbour informed against him for working on a Sunday; whereupon he was had before the said R. Brown, who committed him to Bridewell, to be there kept to hard labour. And he refusing to beat hemp, as being fully persuaded that he had not deserved such a punishment, was cruelly whipt, but he bore it with great constancy, and not yielding, he was turned up among those of his society, who were imprisoned there on a religious account.

As this case, which befel an honest man, was to be pitied, so there happened about that time, something among the Quakers at London, which was facetious and ridiculous: for several of them being taken out of their religious meetings, were confined in Newgate, where in the night they lodged in a large room, having in the middle of it a great pillar, to which they fastened their hammocks at the one end, and to the opposite wall on the other, quite round the room, in three stories high, one over another; so that they who lay in the upper and middle rows were fain to go to bed first, being obliged to climb up to the higher, by getting into the lower: and under the lower rank of hammocks, by the wall side, were laid beds, upon the floor. Such a multitude of bedding for so many persons in one room, could not but somewhat infect the air, and cause an unhealthy steam: so that some of the prisoners grew sick, and one of them died. This caused some bustle, and it was not without good reason that an ancient grave citizen, having seen the prisoners thus crowded up, said, This is enough to breed an infection among them. And this having been told by Sir William Turner, one of the sheriffs of London, he came into Newgate, and bidding the turnkey bring down the said prisoners to him in the press-yard, were he was, he ordered they should return to Bridewell, where they had been before.

Now among these was a shabby fellow, who, to get victuals without working, had thrust himself among the Quakers, when they were taken at a meeting, on purpose to be sent to prison, and to be maintained by them. This lazy varlet was no small burden to our prisoners; for whenever any victuals were brought in to them, either for their money, or sent to them by their friends, he did not stick to thrust in with his knife in hand, and make himself his own carver; and such was his impudence, that if he saw the provision was short, he would be sure to take enough, though others wanted. But how burdensome soever this lazy drone was to the prisoners, they could get no relief; for to whom should they complain? Since the keepers, as well as others, were for vexing and oppressing them. But now at length an opportunity was come to be rid of his troublesome company. Among the prisoners was Thomas Ellwood, a man of literature, and of an acute wit, with whom, long after, I entered into a familiar and pleasing correspondence by letters. The said Ellwood, when he had heard that they were to be sent to Bridewell, drew near to the sheriff, and pointing to the aforesaid fellow, said, That man is not only none of our company, but an idle dissolute fellow, who hath thrust himself among our friends, that he might live upon them; therefore I desire we may not be troubled with him at Bridewell. The sheriff smiling, and seeing this fellow standing with his hat on, and looking as demurely as he could, that the sheriff might take him for a Quaker, called him forth, and said to him, ‘How came you to be in prison?’ ‘I was taken at a meeting,’ said he. ‘But what business had you there,’ said the sheriff. ‘I went to hear,’ returned the fellow. ‘Ay, you went upon a worse design, it seems,’ replied the sheriff; ‘but I will disappoint you,’ continued he; ‘for I will change your company, and send you to them that are like yourself.’ Then calling for the turnkey, he said, ‘Take this fellow, and put him among the felons; and be sure let him not trouble the Quakers any more.’ The fellow, not a little astonished at the hearing of this doom, on a sudden parted with his Quakership; for off went his hat, and falling to bowing and scraping, he said to the sheriff, ‘Good your worship have pity upon me, and set me at liberty.’ ‘No, no,’ said the sheriff, ‘I will not so far disappoint you: since you had a mind to be in prison, in prison you shall be for me.’ Then bidding the turnkey once more to take him away, he had him up, and put him among the felons. After this manner this pretended Quaker was rewarded according to his deeds; and so the true Quakers got rid of him.

Breaking off now this jocose and diverting, though true, narrative, I return to a serious relation of the sufferings of the faithful, which caused the death of some of them; among these was Richard Hubberthorn, who some time before, as hath been related, had a conference with the king; who then promised him, that he and his friends should not suffer for their opinions or religion. But now he was in the month called June, violently hauled from the meeting, bearing the name of the Bull and Mouth, and brought before alderman Richard Brown, who with his own hands pulled down his hat upon his head with such violence, that he brought his head near to the ground, and then committed him to Newgate, where being thronged among others, he soon grew sick; and his sickness so increased, that he had hardly been two months in prison, before he was taken away by death. Two days before his departure, being visited by some of his friends, who asked him if any thing was upon his spirit, he said, that there was no need to dispute matters, for he knew the ground of his salvation, and was satisfied for ever in his peace with the Lord. He also said, ‘That faith which hath wrought my salvation, I well know, and have grounded satisfaction in it.’ In the morning before he deceased, one Sarah Blackberry was with him, to whom he said, ‘Do not seek to hold me, for it is too strait for me, and out of this straitness I must go; for I am wound into largeness, and am to be lifted up on high, far above all.’ In this frame of mind he departed this life, in the evening, and so entered with happiness into eternity.

Now I come also to the glorious exit of E. Burrough, that valiant hero, of whom mention hath often been made in this history. For several years he had been very much in London, and there preached the gospel with piercing and powerful declarations. And that city was so near to him, that oftentimes, when persecution grew hot, he said to Francis Howgill, his bosom friend, ‘I can freely go to the city of London, and lay down my life for a testimony to that Truth, which I have declared through the power and Spirit of God.’ Being in this year at Bristol, and thereabouts, and moved to return to London, he said to many of his friends, when he took his leave of them, that he did not know he should see their faces any more; and therefore he exhorted them to faithfulness and steadfastness, in that wherein they had found rest for their souls. And to some he said, ‘I am now going up to the city of London again, to lay down my life for the gospel, and suffer amongst Friends in that place.’

Not long after, coming to London, and preaching in the meeting-house called the Bull and Mouth, he was violently pulled down by some soldiers, and had before alderman Richard Brown, and committed to Newgate. Several weeks afterwards, being brought to the sessions-house in the Old Bailey, he was fined by the court twenty marks, and to lie in prison till payment. But judging this unreasonable in a high degree, he could not bend thereto for conscience-sake. He was kept there in prison about eight months, with six or seven score prisoners beside, upon the same account. But they being so crowded, that for want of room their natures were suffocated, many grew sick and died, of which number he was one. And though a special order from the king, was sent to the sheriffs of London, for his and some other prisoners’ release, yet such was the enmity of some of the city magistrates, especially Brown, that they did what was in their power to prevent the execution of the said order. And thus E. Burrough continued prisoner, though his sickness increased. During the time of his weakness, he was very fervent in prayer, as well for his friends as for himself; and many consolatory and glorious expressions proceeded from his mouth. Once he was heard to say, ‘I have had the testimony of the Lord’s love unto me from my youth: and my heart, O Lord, hath been given up to do thy will. I have preached the gospel freely in this city, and have often given up my life for the gospel’s sake; and now, O Lord, rip open my heart, and see if it be not right before thee.’ Another time he said, ‘There is no iniquity lies at my door; but the presence of the Lord is with me, and his life I feel justifies me.’ Another day he was thus heard in prayer to God, ‘Thou hast loved me when I was in the womb; and I have loved thee from my cradle: and from my youth unto this day; and have served thee faithfully in my generation.’ And to his friends that were about him, he said, ‘Live in love and peace, and love one another.’ And at another time he said, “The Lord taketh the righteous from the evil to come.” And praying for his enemies and persecutors, he said, ‘Lord, forgive Richard Brown, if he may be forgiven.’ And being sensible that death was approaching, he said, ‘Though this body of clay must turn to dust, yet I have a testimony that I have served God in my generation; and that spirit which hath lived and acted, and ruled in me, shall yet break forth in thousands.’ The morning before he departed this life, (which was about the latter end of this year,) he said, ‘Now my soul and spirit is centred into its own being with God; and this form of person must return from whence it was taken.’ And after a little season he gave up the ghost. This was the exit of E. Burrough, who, in his flourishing years, viz. about the age of eight and twenty; in an unmarried state, changed this mortal life for an incorruptible, and whose youthful summer flower was cut down in the winter season, after he had very zealously preached the gospel about ten years.

About the 19th year of his age, he first came to London with a public testimony, and continued almost eight years together to preach the word of God in that city, with great success; so that many came to be convinced, and great addition was made to the church there. In his youth he surpassed others of his age in knowledge; and though G. Croese, who wrote the pretended history of the Quakers, calls him a rustic fellow, yet he was no more such than the said author himself, who is a country preacher: for he was well educated and instructed in that learning which the place of his nativity, viz. the barony of Kendal in Westmoreland, afforded. Insomuch, that though he was not skilful in languages, yet he had the tongue of the learned; and in his public ministry was very fluent, and elegant in speech, even according to the judgment of learned men.

His enemies now began to rejoice, for they seemed to imagine that the progress of that doctrine, which he so powerfully and successfully had preached, by his decease would have been stopped or retarded: but they made a wrong reckoning. Francis Howgill then gave forth a kind of epicedium, which though in prose, yet was not void of poetical expressions, and was as followeth.

‘Shall days, or months, or years, wear out thy name, as though
thou hadst no being? Oh nay! Shall not thy noble and valiant
acts, and mighty works which thou hast wrought through the power
of him that separated thee from the womb, live in generations to
come? O yes! The children that are yet unborn, shall have thee in
their mouths, and thy works shall testify of thee in generations,
who yet have not a being, and shall count thee blessed. Did thy
life go out as the snuff of a candle? O nay! Thou hast penetrated
the hearts of many, and the memorial of the just shall live for
ever; and be had in renown among the children of men: for thou
hast turned many to righteousness, and shalt shine as a star
of God in the firmament of God’s power, for ever and ever; and
they that are in that, shall see thee there, and enjoy thee
there, though thou be gone away hence, and can no more be seen
in mutability; yet thy life and thy spirit shall run parallel
with immortality. Oh Edward Burrough! I cannot but mourn for
thee, yet not as one without hope or faith, knowing and having a
perfect testimony of thy well-being in my heart, by the Spirit of
the Lord; yet thy absence is great, and years to come shall know
the want of thee. Shall I not lament as David did for a worse
man than thee, even for Abner; when in wrath he perished by the
hand of Joab, without any just cause, though he was a valiant
man? David lamented over Abner, and said, died Abner as a fool
dieth? (Oh nay! He was betrayed of his life.) Even so hast thou
been bereaved of thy life by the hand of the oppressor, whose
habitations are full of cruelty. Oh my soul, come not thou within
their secret, for thy blood shall be required at the hands of
them who thirsted after thy life; and it shall cry as Abel’s
who was in the faith; even so wert thou, it shall weigh as a
ponderous millstone upon their necks, and shall crush them under,
and be as a worm that gnaweth, and shall not die. When I think
upon thee, I am melted into tears of true sorrow; and because
of the want that the inheritance of the Lord hath of thee, my
substance is even as dissolved. Shall I not say as David did of
Saul and Jonathan, when they were slain in mount Gilboa, the
beauty of Israel is slain upon the high places: even so wast
thou stifled in nasty holes, and prisons, and many more who were
precious in the eyes of the Lord: and surely precious wast thou
to me, oh dear Edward, I am distressed for thee my brother, very
pleasant hast thou been to me, and my love to thee was wonderful,
passing the love of woman: Oh thou whose bow never turned back,
nor sword empty from the blood of the slain, from the slaughter
of the mighty; who made nations and multitudes shake with the
word of life in thy mouth, and wast very dreadful to the enemies
of the Lord; for thou didst cut like a razor, and yet to the seed
of God brought forth, thy words dropped like oil, and thy lips
as the honeycomb. Thou shalt be recorded amongst the valiants
of Israel, who attained to the first degree, through the power
of the Lord, that wrought mightily in thee in thy day, and wast
worthy of double honour, because of thy works. Thou wast expert
to handle thy weapon, and by thee the mighty have fallen, and the
slain of the Lord have been many; many have been pricked to the
heart through the power of the word of life; and coals of fire
from thy life came forth of thy mouth, that in many a thicket,
and among many briers and thorns it came to be kindled, and did
devour much stubble that cumbered the ground, and stained the
earth. Oh how certain a sound did thy trumpet give! And how great
an alarm didst thou give in thy day, that made the host of the
uncircumcised greatly distressed! What man so valiant, though
as Goliath of Gath, would not thy valour have encountered with,
while many despised thy youth? And how have I seen thee with thy
sling and thy stone, (despised weapons to war with,) wound the
mighty! And that which hath seemed contemptible to the dragon’s
party, even as the jaw bone of an ass, with it thou hast slain
the Philistines heaps upon heaps, as Samson. Thou hast put thy
hand to the hammer of the Lord, and hast often fastened nails in
the heads of the Lamb’s enemies, as Jael did to Sisera; and many
a rough stone hast thou polished and squared, and made it fit
for the buildings of God; and much knotty wood hast thou hewed
in thy day, which was not fit for the building of God’s house.
Oh thou prophet of the Lord, thou shalt for ever be recorded in
the Lamb’s book of life, among the Lord’s worthies, who have
followed the Lamb through great tribulations, as many can witness
for thee from the beginning; and at last hast overcome, and been
found worthy to stand with the Lamb upon Mount Sion, the hill of
God; as I have often seen thee, and thy heart well tuned as a
harp, to praise the Lord, and to sound forth his great salvation;
which many a time hath made glad the hearts of them that did
believe, and strengthened their faith and hope. Well, thou art
at rest, and bound up in the bundle of life; and I know tears
were wiped away from thy eyes, because there was no cause of
sorrow in thee: for I know thou witnessedst the old things done
away, and there was no curse, but blessings were poured upon thy
head as rain, and peace as a mighty shower, and trouble was far
from thy dwelling; though in the outward man trouble on every
side, and hast had a greater share in that, for the gospel-sake,
(though a youth,) in thy time, than many besides: but now thou
art freed from that, and hast obtained a name through faith, with
the saints in light. Well, hadst thou more to give up than thy
life for the name of Jesus in this world? Nay: and to seal the
testimony committed unto thee with thy blood, as thou hast often
said in thy day, which shall remain as a crown upon thee for ever
and ever. And now thou art freed from the temptations of him who
had the power of death; and from thy outward enemies, who hated
thee because of the love that dwelt in thee; and remainest at the
right hand of God, where there is joy and pleasure for evermore
in the everlasting light; which thou hast often testified unto,
according to the word of prophecy in thy heart, which was given
unto thee by the Holy Ghost; and art at rest in the perfection
thereof, in the beauty of holiness; yet thy life and thy spirit
I feel as present, and have unity with it, and in it, beyond all
created and visible things, which are subject to mutation and
change; and thy life shall enter into others, to testify unto the
same Truth, which is from everlasting to everlasting; for God
hath raised, and will raise up children unto Abraham, of them
that have been as dead stones; his power is Almighty, great in
his people in the midst of their enemies.’

With these sublime expressions F. Howgill lamented his endeared friend E. Burrough.

* * * * *

In the latter end of this year, William Ames also deceased at Amsterdam, being come from England in a weak condition, for he had suffered so much hardship in Bridewell, London, that his health was much impaired when he came into Holland. In his sickness, which was a lingering disease, he was told, that among the Baptists and Collegians, it was said of him, that he had changed his judgment, and was grieved for having judged them wrongfully. But to this he said, ‘It was not so; but that he still judged their way of worship, especially their disputations and will worship, to be out of the way of the Lord.’ And in this belief he died in peace.

In his youth he was of a cheerful temper, and a lover of such company; but being in that condition often disquieted in his mind, he became a close follower of the priests and teachers, and exercised himself diligently in reading the holy scriptures, which, though good in itself, yet did not bring him to true peace with God; but being of a quick understanding, he could talk much out of them, insomuch, that entering into society with the Baptists, he became a teacher among them. Now, though he was more precise, and endeavoured to avoid the committing of sins, yet he found that root from whence they sprang remained alive in him; for when he met with something that was contrary to his own will, or mind, anger soon prevailed: nevertheless, in that state he would speak of justification, sanctification, and cleansing by the blood of Christ, though he himself was not come to that pure washing. In this state he perceived that he was no true member of Christ, because regeneration was still wanting. Thus he saw that a high profession would not avail, and that something more was required to obtain a happy state; but as yet, he knew not what it was that thus disquieted him; though sometimes, on the committing of any sin, he felt something that struck him with terror. At length it pleased the Lord, that hearing one of the Quakers, so called, preach, that that which convinceth man of sin, was the light of Christ, which enlightens every man coming into the world, this doctrine entered so deep with him, that he embraced it as wholesome; and thus walking with great circumspection and fear before the Lord, he found that by giving diligent heed to that which inwardly reproved and condemned him from evil, he came to be delivered therefrom, and to witness sanctification. And thus advancing in godliness he himself became a zealous preacher of that doctrine, which had struck him so to the heart. He was indeed a zealous man, and though some were ready to think him too zealous, yet he was discreet; and I know that he was condescending in indifferent matters, thinking that there were customs, which though not followed in one country, were yet tolerable in another. He was also generous, and lest he might seem to be burdensome to any, he rather choose to work with his hands.

1663.

Now I return again to the occurrences of G. Fox, whom we left at London, where, having spent some time, he went about the beginning of the year 1663, to Norwich, and from thence to Cambridgeshire, where he heard of E. Burrough’s decease, and, being sensible how great a grief this loss would be to his friends, wrote the following lines to them.

‘_Friends_,

‘Be still and quiet in your own conditions, and settled in the
seed of God, that doth not change; that in that ye may feel dear
E. B. among you, in the seed, in which, and by which, he begot
you to God, with whom he is; and that in the seed ye may all see
and feel him, in which is the unity with him in the life; and to
enjoy him in the life that doth not change, which is invisible.

G. F.’

G. Fox afterwards travelling through several places, came again to London, where having visited his friends in their meetings, which were numerous, he travelled with Thomas Briggs into Kent, and coming to Tenterden, they had a meeting there, where many came and were convinced of the Truth that was declared. But when he intended to depart with his companion, he saw a captain, and a company of soldiers, with muskets and lighted matches; and some of these coming to them said, they must come to their captain. And when they were brought before him, he asked, where was G. Fox? which was he? To which G. Fox answered, ‘I am the man.’ The captain being somewhat surprised, said, ‘I will secure you among the soldiers:’ yet he carried himself civilly, and said some time after, ‘You must go along with me to the town.’ Where being come, he brought G. Fox and T. Briggs, with some more of their friends, to an inn, which was the jailer’s house. And after a while the mayor of the town, with the said captain and the lieutenant, who were justices, came and examined G. Fox, asking, why he came thither to make a disturbance? G. Fox told them, he did not come to make a disturbance, neither had he made any there. They then said, there was a law, which was against the Quakers’ meetings, made only against them. G. Fox told them he knew no such law. Then they produced the act which was made against Quakers and others. G. Fox seeing it, told them, that law was against such as were a terror to the king’s subjects, and were enemies, and held principles dangerous to the government; and therefore it was not against his friends, for they held truth, and their principles were not dangerous to the government, and their meetings were peaceable, as was well known. Now it was not without good reason that George said, he knew no such law; since they had said, there was a law made only against the Quakers’ meetings: whereas the act had the appearance of being made against plotters, and enemies to the king, which certainly the Quakers were not. Yet it was said to G. Fox he was an enemy to the King; but this he denied, and told them, how he had once been cast into Derby dungeon, about the time of Worcester fight, because he would not take up arms against the king; and how afterwards he had been sent up to London by colonel Hacker, as a plotter to bring in king Charles, and that he was kept prisoner at London till he was set at liberty by Oliver Cromwell. They asked him then, whether he had been imprisoned in the time of the insurrection? And he said ‘Yes,’ but that he was released by the king’s own command. At length they demanded bond for his appearance at the sessions, and would have had him to promise to come thither no more. But he refused the one as well as the other. Yet they behaved themselves moderately, and told him, and Thomas Briggs, and the others, ‘Ye shall see we are civil to you; for it is the mayor’s pleasure you should all be set at liberty.’ To which G. Fox returned, their civility was noble: and so they parted; and he passed on to many places, where he had singular occurrences, and though wiles were laid for him, yet sometimes he escaped the hands of his persecuting enemies.

Coming into Cornwall he found there one Joseph Hellen, and George Bewly, who though they professed Truth, yet had suffered themselves to be seduced by Blanche Pope, a ranting woman, who had ensnared them chiefly by asking, ‘Who made the devil, did not God?’ This silly question, which Hellen and Bewly were at a loss to answer, they propounded to G. Fox, and he answered it with, ‘No; for,’ said he, ‘all that God made was good, and was blest, but so was not the devil: he was called a serpent, before he was called a devil and an adversary; and afterward he was called a dragon, because he was a destroyer. The devil abode not in the truth, and by departing from the truth he became a devil. Now there is no promise of God to the devil, that ever he shall return into truth again; but to man and woman, who have been deceived by him, the promise of God is, that the seed of the woman shall bruise the serpent’s head, and break his power and strength to pieces.’ With this answer, G. Fox gave satisfaction to his friends; but Hellen was so poisoned, and run out, that they denied him; but Bewly was recovered from his fault by sincere repentance.

G. Fox, having performed his service there, went to Helston near Falmouth, where he had a large meeting, at which many were convinced; for he opened to the auditory, the state of the church in the primitive times, and the state of the church in the wilderness, as also the state of the false church that was got up since: next he showed that the everlasting gospel was now preached again, over the head of the whore, beast, antichrist, and the false prophets, which were got up since the apostles’ days; and that now the everlasting gospel was received and receiving, which brought life and immortality to light. And this sermon was of such effect, that the people generally confessed, it was the everlasting Truth that had been declared there that day.

G. Fox passing on, came at length to the Land’s End, where there was an assembly of his friends, and also a fisherman, call Nicholas Jose, who preached among them, having three years before been convinced there by the ministry of G. Fox.

Whilst in these parts, there happened a very dismal and dreadful case.

One colonel Robinson was, since the king came in, made justice of the peace; and became a cruel persecutor of those called Quakers, of whom he sent many to prison; and hearing that some liberty was allowed them, by the favour of the jailer, to come home sometimes, to visit their wives and children, he made complaint thereof to the judge at the assizes, against the jailer; who thereupon was fined an hundred marks by judge Keeling. Not long after the assizes, Robinson sent to a neighbouring justice, desiring he would go with him a fanatic hunting, (meaning the disturbing of Quakers’ meetings.) On the day that he intended thus to go a hunting, he sent his man about with his horses, and walked himself to a tenement that he had, where his cows and dairy were kept, and where his servants were then milking. Being come there, he asked for his bull, and the maids said, they had shut him into the field, because he was unruly amongst the kine. He then going into the field, and having formerly accustomed himself to play with the bull, he began to fence at him with his staff, as he used to do; but the bull snuffing, went a little back, and then ran fiercely at him, and struck his horn into his thigh, and lifting him upon his horn, threw him over his back, and tore up his thigh to his belly; and when he came to the ground, he broke his leg, and the bull then gored him again with his horns, and roared, and licked up his blood. One of the maid servants hearing her master cry out, came running into the field, and took the bull by the horns to pull him off; but he, without hurting her, gently put her by with his horns, and still fell to goring him, and licking up his blood. Then she ran and got some workmen that were not far off, to come and rescue her master; but they could not at all beat off the bull, till they brought mastiff dogs to set on him; and then the bull fled. His sister having notice of his disaster, came and said, ‘Alack, brother, what a heavy judgment is this!’ And he answered, ‘Ah, sister, it is a heavy judgment indeed: pray let the bull be killed, and the flesh given to the poor.’ So he was taken up, and carried home, but so grievously wounded, that he died soon after; and the bull was become so fierce, that they were forced to kill him by shooting. This was the issue of Robinson’s mischievous intent to go a fanatic hunting. I remember that in my youth I heard with astonishment the relation of this accident from William Caton, who by a letter from England had received intelligence of it; for the thing was so remarkable, that the tidings of it were soon spread afar off.

Now I return to G. Fox, who from Cornwall travelled to Bristol, and so into Wales, from whence passing through Warwickshire and Derbyshire, he came to York. Here he heard of a plot, which made him write a paper to his friends wherein he admonished them to be cautious, and not at all to meddle with such bustlings. And travelling towards Lancashire, he came to Swarthmore, where they told him, that colonel Kirby had sent his lieutenant thither to search for him, and that he had searched trunks and chests. G. Fox having heard this, the next day went to Kirby-hall, where the said colonel lived; and being come to him, he told him, ‘I am come to visit thee, understanding that thou wouldst have seen me, and now I would fain know what thou hast to say to me, and whether thou hast any thing against me.’ The colonel who did not expect such a visit, and being then to go up to London, to the parliament, said before all the company, ‘as I am a gentleman I have nothing against you: but Mrs. Fell must not keep great meetings at her house; for they meet contrary to the act.’ G. Fox told him, ‘That act does not take hold on us, but on such as meet to plot and contrive, and to raise insurrections against the king; and we are none of those, but are a peaceable people.’ After some words more, the colonel took G. Fox by the hand, and said, he had nothing against him; and others said, he was a deserving man.

Then G. Fox parted, and returned to Swarthmore, and shortly after he heard there had been a private meeting of the justices and deputy lieutenants at Houlker-hall, where justice Preston lived, and that there they had issued a warrant to apprehend him. Now he could have gone away, and got out of their reach; but considering that, there being a noise of a plot in the north, if he should go away, they might fall upon his friends; but if he staid, and was taken, his friends might escape the better; he therefore gave up himself to be taken. Next day an officer came with his sword and pistols to take him. G. Fox told him, ‘I knew thy errand before, and have given up myself to be taken; for if I would have escaped imprisonment, I could have been gone forty miles off; but I am an innocent man, and so matter not what ye can do to me.’ Then the officer asked him, how he heard of it, seeing the order was made privately in a parlour. G. Fox said, it was no matter for that: it was sufficient that he heard of it. Then he asked him to show his order. But he laying his hand on his sword, said, ‘You must go with me before the lieutenants, to answer such questions as they shall propound to you.’ Now though G. Fox insisted to see the order, telling him it was but civil and reasonable to show it, yet the officer would not; and then G. Fox said, ‘I am ready.’ So he went along with him, and Margaret Fell also, to Houlker-hall. Being come thither, there was one justice Rawlinson, Sir George Middleton, justice Preston, and several more whom he knew not. Then they brought one Thomas Atkinson, one of his friends, as a witness against him, for some words which he had told to one Knipe, who had informed against him; and these words were, that he had written against the plotters, and had knocked them down: but from these words little could be made. Then Preston asked him, whether he had an hand in the Battledore? (being a folio book already mentioned,) ‘Yes,’ said G. Fox. He then asked him whether he understood languages? He answered, ‘sufficient for myself.’

Preston having spoken something more on that subject, said, ‘Come, we will examine you of higher matters:’ then said George Middleton, ‘You deny God, and the church, and the faith.’ ‘Nay,’ replied G. Fox, ‘I own God, and the true church, and the true faith:’ ‘But,’ asked he, (having understood Middleton to be a Papist,) ‘what church dost thou own?’ The other, instead of answering this question, said ‘You are a rebel and a traitor.’ G. Fox perceiving this Middleton to be an envious man, asked him whom he spoke to? or whom he called a rebel? The other having been silent a while, said at last, ‘I spoke to you.’ G. Fox then striking his hand on the table, told him, ‘I have suffered more than twenty such as thou, or any that are here; for I have been cast into Derby dungeon for six months together, and have suffered much, because I would not take up arms against this king, before Worcester fight; and I have been sent up prisoner out of my own country by colonel Hacker to O. Cromwell, as a plotter to bring in king Charles. Ye talk of the king, a company of you; but where were ye in Oliver’s days; and what did ye do then for the king? But I have more love to him, for his eternal good and welfare, than any of you have.’ Then they asked him, whether he had heard of the plot? And he said, ‘Yes.’ Hereupon he was asked, how he had heard of it, and whom he knew in it? And he answered, he had heard of it through the high sheriff of Yorkshire, who had told Dr. Hodgson, that there was a plot in the north; but that he never heard any thing of it in the south; and that he knew none of them that were in it. Then they asked him, ‘Why would you write against it, if you did not know some that were in it.’ ‘My reason was,’ answered he, ‘because ye are so forward to mash the innocent and guilty together; therefore I wrote against it to clear the Truth from such things, and to stop all forward foolish spirits from running into such things: and I sent copies of it into Westmoreland, Cumberland, Bishoprick, and Yorkshire, and to you here; and I sent also a copy of it to the king and his council; and it is like it may be in print by this time.’ Then said one of them, ‘O this man hath great power.’ ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I have power to write against plotters.’ ‘But,’ said one of them, ‘you are against the laws of the land.’ ‘Nay,’ said he, ‘for I and my friends direct all the people to the Spirit of God in them, to mortify the deeds of the flesh: this brings them into well doing, and from that which the magistrates’ sword is against; which eases the magistrates, who are for the punishment of evil doers,’ &c.

Middleton now weary, as it seemed, of his speaking, cried, ‘Bring the book, and put the oath of allegiance and supremacy to him.’ But G. Fox knowing him to be a Papist, asked him, whether he who was a swearer, had taken the oath of supremacy; for this oath tending to reject the pope’s power in England, was a kind of test to try people whether they were Papists, or no: ‘But as for us,’ said G. Fox, ‘we cannot swear at all, because Christ and his apostles have forbidden it.’ Now some of these that set there, seeing Middleton was thus pinched, would not have had the oath put to G. Fox; but others would, because this was their last snare, and they had no other way to get him into prison: for all other things had been cleared; but this was like the Papists’ sacrament of the altar, by which they formerly ensnared the martyrs: and in the Low Countries they asked the Baptists, whether they were re-baptized; and if this appeared, then they said, ‘We do not kill you, but the emperor’s decree condemns you.’ So they tendered G. Fox the oath, and he refusing to take it, they consulted together about sending him to jail: but all not agreeing, he was only engaged to appear at the sessions; and so for that time they dismissed him.

Then he went back with Margaret Fell to Swarthmore, where colonel West, who was at that time a justice of the peace, came to see him. And G. Fox asking him, what he thought they would do with him at the sessions, he said, they would tender the oath to him again. The time of the sessions now approaching, G. Fox went to Lancaster, and appeared according to his engagement; where he found upon the bench, justice Flemming, who in Westmoreland had offered five pounds to any man that would apprehend G. Fox. There were also the justices Spencer and Rawlinson, and colonel West; and a great concourse of people in court, and when G. Fox came up to the bar, and stood with his hat on, they looked earnestly upon him. Then proclamation being made for all to keep silence on pain of imprisonment, he said twice, ‘Peace be among you.’ Then Rawlinson, who was chairman, spoke, and asked, if he knew where he was? To which he answered, ‘Yes, I do; but it may be my hat offends you; but that’s a low thing, that’s not the honour I give to magistrates: for the true honour is from above; and I hope it is not the hat which ye look upon to be the honour.’ To which the chairman said, ‘We look for the hat too. Wherein do you show your respect to magistrates, if you do not put off your hat?’ G. Fox replied, ‘In coming when they call me.’ They then bid one take off his hat. After some pause, the chairman asked him, whether he knew of the plot. To which he returned, that he had heard of it in Yorkshire, by a friend that had it of the high-sheriff. The next question was, whether he had declared it to the magistrates; and his answer was, ‘I have sent papers abroad against plots and plotters, and also to you, as soon as I came into the country, to take all jealousies out of your minds concerning me and my friends: for it was, and is our principle to declare against such things.’ Then they asked him, if he knew not of an act against meetings. To which he made answer, that he knew there was an act that took hold of such as met to the terrifying of the king’s subjects, and were enemies to the king, and held dangerous principles. ‘But I hope,’ said he, ‘ye do not look upon us to be such men; for our meetings are not to terrify the king’s subjects, neither are, we enemies to him, or any man.’

That which followed hereupon, was the tendering of the oath of allegiance and supremacy to him. To which he told them, that he had never taken any oath in his life: and that he could not take any oath at all, because Christ and his apostles had forbidden it. Then Rawlinson, who was a lawyer, asked him, whether he held it was unlawful to swear? G. Fox presently perceived this question to be put on purpose to ensnare him; for by a certain act 13 and 14 Car. 2. cap. 1, such who said, it was unlawful to swear, were liable to banishment, or to a great fine. Therefore to avoid this snare, he told them, that in the time of the law amongst the Jews, before Christ came, the law commanded them to swear; but Christ who did fulfil the law in the gospel time, commands, not to swear at all; and the apostle James forbids swearing, even to them that were Jews, and had the law of God. Now after much other discourse, the jailer was called, and G. Fox committed to prison. He then having the paper about him which he had written against plots, desired it might be read in the court; but this they would not suffer. Being thus committed for refusing to swear, he said to those on the bench, and all the people, ‘Take notice that I suffer for the doctrine of Christ, and for my obedience to his command.’ Afterwards he understood, the justices said, that they had private instructions from colonel Kirby to prosecute him, notwithstanding his fair carriage, and seeming kindness to him before.

Leaving G. Fox in prison, I am to say that the act already mentioned, whereby a penalty was laid on all such who should say, it was unlawful to take an oath, was that which extended to banishment, being made not long before, and expressly levelled against the Quakers, as plainly appeared by the title. This is that act, by direction whereof the Quakers, so called, were afterwards banished, as may be related in due time and place; and though the king himself was pretty good-natured, yet he suffered himself to be so swayed by the instigations of some envious men, as well among the ecclesiastics, as among the laity, that he gave the royal assent thereto.

Whilst G. Fox was prisoner at Lancaster, many of his friends were also imprisoned, for frequenting religious meetings, refusing to take oaths, and for not paying tithes to the priests; but since he was not brought to his trial till next year, we will leave him still in jail, and in the meanwhile will take a turn to Colchester, where persecution now was exceeding fierce.

In the month of October, William More, mayor of that town, came on a First-day of the week, and broke up the meeting of the Quakers, so called, and committed some of them to prison; the next week he did so again, and a week after he caused a party of the county troop to come to the meeting. These beat some, and did much mischief to the forms, seats, and windows of the meeting-place. And afterwards the mayor employed an old man to stop people from going in at the gate to the meeting-room; who told those that would have entered, that the mayor had set him there to keep them out. Now though they knew he was no officer, nor had any warrant, yet they made no resistance, but continuing in the street, thus kept their meeting in a peaceable manner, being not free for conscience-sake to leave off their public worship of God, though in that time of the year it was cold, and often wet weather; and thus it continued many weeks, though attended with so much difficulty.

In the forepart of December there came about forty of the king’s troopers, on horseback, in their armour, with swords, carbines, and pistols, crying, ‘What a devil do ye here?’ And falling violently upon this harmless company, they beat them, some with swords, and others with carbines, without distinction of male or female, old or young, until many were much bruised, chasing them to and fro in the streets. The next First-day of the week these furious fellows came again, having now got clubs, wherewith, as well as with swords and carbines, they most grievously beat those that were peaceably met together in the street to worship God. This cruel beating was so excessive, that some got above an hundred blows, and were beaten so black and blue, that their limbs lost their natural strength. One there was whom a trooper beat so long, that the blade of his sword fell out of the hilt, which he that was thus beaten seeing, said to the other, ‘I will give it thee up again,’ which he did, with these words, ‘I desire the Lord may not lay this day’s work to thy charge.’

But to avoid prolixity. I shall not mention all the particular misusages which I find to have been committed there. These cruel doings continued yet several weeks, and some were beaten so violently, that their blood was shed in the streets, and they sunk down and fainted away. One Edward Graunt, a man of about threescore and ten years of age, (whose wife and daughters I was well acquainted with,) was so terribly knocked down, that he outlived it but a few days. So hot was this time now, that these religious worshippers, when they went to their meeting, seemed to go to meet death; for they could not promise to themselves to return home either whole or alive. But notwithstanding all this, their zeal for their worship was so lively, that they durst not stay at home, though human reasoning might have advised them thereto. And some of them had been people of note in the world; as, among others one Giles Barnadiston, who having spent six years in the university, in the study of human literature, afterwards came to be a colonel; but in process of time, having heard G. Fox the younger, preach, he was so entirely convinced of the Truth by him declared, that laying down his military command, he entered into the society of those called Quakers, and continuing faithful, he in time became a minister of the gospel among the said people; being a man of a meek spirit, and one whom I knew very well. This Barnadiston did not forbear frequenting meetings, how hot soever the persecution was, being fully given up to hazard his life with his friends.