Chapter III: Part 3

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 started again, and turning quickly 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 were, 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 tell his master that I had not any money to pay for my dinner. He sent the 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 very 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’s, 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 either 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 me.”

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 His 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, was you bred? You can read, can’t you?”—“Yes,” said I, “that I can.”—“Don’t you then read,” 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 a 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 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 anything 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 unto 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 a 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 arose 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 staid 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 that 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.

As soon as I came in I observed by my father’s countenance that my hat was still an offence to him; but when I was 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 these words I arose 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 this time he rather chose, as I thought, to avoid seeing me than to renew the quarrel about my hat.

My sisters, meanwhile observing my weariness 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 overhead) 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 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 that 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 and denominations, who made a trade of preaching, and for filthy lucre 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. 9), they begat in the people a disesteem of the light, and laboured as much as in them lay to keep their hearers in the 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 heavily 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 wrote 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 time (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 came 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 my 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 montero-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 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 I, 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, 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 which 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 difference of opinion in matters of religion which do 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. And 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 countries 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 others 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 Whately, 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; he was commanded to bring me forthwith before the deputy-lieutenants, and therefore desired me to order a 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 a 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 I 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 their 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 whom I was to be brought before; and he had gotten another thither 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), yet 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 hat from off my head, Knowls, in a pleasant manner, corrected him, telling him that he mistook himself in taking a cap for a hat (for mine was a montero-cap), and bade 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 heads, 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 arguing, 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 suffer 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 stay they came forth to me again with a great show of kindness, telling me they were very unwilling to send me to gaol, 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 merely 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 gave 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 or ten 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 until I came to Oxford. I considered that it 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, he, rather than leave me, 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 house, 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 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 gaol, 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 being generally prisoners already in the castle) some of the women Friends came to me 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 on the heart of my dear friend Thomas Loe to salute me with a 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 thy dear and loving friend in the eternal truth,

“THOMAS LOE.

“We are more than forty here, who suffer innocently for the testimony
of a good conscience, because we cannot swear, and break Christ’s
commands; and we are all well, and the blessing and presence of God
is with us. Friends here salute thee. Farewell! The power and the
wisdom of the Lord God be with thee. Amen.”

Greatly was my spirit refreshed and my heart gladdened, at the reading of this consoling letter from my friend; and my soul blessed the Lord for His love and tender goodness to me in moving His servant to write thus unto me.

But I had cause soon after to double and redouble my thankful acknowledgment to the Lord my God, who put it into the heart of my dear friend Isaac Penington also to visit me with some encouraging lines from Aylesbury Gaol, where he was then a prisoner; and from whence (having heard that I was carried prisoner to Oxford) he thus saluted me:—

“DEAR THOMAS,

“Great hath been the Lord’s goodness to thee in calling thee out of
that path of vanity and death wherein thou wast running towards
destruction; to give thee a living name, and an inheritance of life
among His people; which certainly will be the end of thy faith in Him
and obedience to Him. And let it not be a light thing in thine eyes
that He now accounteth thee worthy to suffer among His choice lambs,
that He might make thy crown weightier and thy inheritance the
fuller. Oh that that eye and heart may be kept open in thee which
knoweth the value of these things, and that thou mayst be kept close
to the feelings of the life, that thou mayst be fresh in thy spirit
in the midst of thy sufferings, and mayst reap the benefit of them;
finding that pared off thereby which hindereth the bubblings of the
everlasting springs, and maketh unfit for the breaking forth and
enjoyment of the pure power! This is the brief salutation of my dear
love to thee, which desireth thy strength and settlement in the
power, and the utter weakening of thee as to self. My dear love is
to thee, with dear Thomas Goodyare and the rest of imprisoned
Friends.

“I remain thine in the truth, to which the Lord my God preserve thee
single and faithful.

“I. PENINGTON.

“From Aylesbury Gaol,
the 14th of the 12th month, 1660.”

Though these epistolary visits in the love of God were very comfortable and confirming to me, and my heart was thankful to the Lord for them, yet I longed after personal conversation with Friends, and it was hard, I thought, that there should be so many faithful servants of God so near me, yet I should not be permitted to come at them, to enjoy their company, and reap both the pleasure and benefit of their sweet society.

For although my Marshal-keeper was very kind to me, and allowed me the liberty of his house, yet he was not willing I should be seen abroad; the rather, perhaps, because he understood I had been pretty well known in that city. Yet once the friendly baker got him to let me step over to his house, and once (and but once) I prevailed with him to let me visit my friends in the castle; but it was with these conditions, that I should not go forth till it was dark, that I would muffle myself up in my cloak, and that I would not stay out late: all which I punctually observed.

When I came thither, though there were many Friends prisoners, I scarce knew one of them by face, except Thomas Loe, whom I had once seen at Isaac Penington’s; nor did any of them know me, though they had generally heard that such a young man as I was convinced of the truth, and come among Friends.

Our salutation to each other was very grave and solemn, nor did we entertain one another with much talk, or with common discourses; but most of the little time I had with them was spent in a silent retiredness of spirit, waiting upon the Lord. Yet before we parted we imparted one to another some of the exercises we had gone through; and they seeming willing to understand the ground and manner of my commitment, I gave them a brief account thereof, letting Thomas Loe more particularly know that I had directed a letter to him, which having fallen into the hand of the Lord Lieutenant, was (so far as I could learn) the immediate cause of my being taken up.

Having stayed with them as long as my limited time would permit (which I thought was but very short), that I might keep touch with my keeper and come home in due time, I took leave of my friends there, and with mutual embraces parting, returned to my (in some sense more easy, but in others less easy) prison, where after this I stayed not long before I was brought back to my father’s house.

For after my father was come home, who, as I observed before, was from home when I was taken, he applied himself to those justices that had committed me, and not having disobliged them when he was in office, easily obtained to have me sent home, which between him and them was thus contrived.

There was about this time a general muster and training of the militia forces at Oxford, whither on that occasion came the Lord Lieutenant and deputy-lieutenants of the county, of which number they who committed me were two.

When they had been awhile together, and the Marshal with them, he stepped suddenly in, and in haste told me I must get ready quickly to go out of town, and that a soldier would come by and bye to go with me. This said, he hastened to them again, not giving me any intimation how I was to go, or whither.

I needed not much time to get ready in; but I was uneasy in thinking what the Friends of the town would think of this my sudden and private removal; and I feared lest any report should be raised that I had purchased my liberty by an unfaithful compliance. Wherefore I was in care how to speak with some Friends about it; and that friendly baker, whose wife was a Friend, living on the other side of the street at a little distance, I went out at a back door, intending to step over the way to their house, and return immediately.

It so fell out that some of the lieutenants (of whom Esquire Clark, who committed me, was one) were standing in the balcony at a great inn or tavern, just over the place where I was to go by; and he spying me, called out to the soldiers, who stood thick in the street, to stop me. They being generally gentlemen’s servants, and many of them knowing me, did civilly forbear to lay hold on me, but calling modestly after me, said, “Stay, sir, stay; pray come back.” I heard, but was not willing to hear, therefore rather mended my pace, that I might have got within the door. But he calling earnestly after me, and charging them to stop me, some of them were fain to run, and laying hold on me before I could open the door, brought me back to my place again.

Being thus disappointed, I took a pen and ink, and wrote a few lines, which I sealed up, and gave to the apprentice in the shop, who had carried himself handsomely towards me, and desired him to deliver it to that Friend who was their neighbour, which he promised to do.

By the time I had done this came the soldier that was appointed to conduct me out of town. I knew the man, for he lived within a mile of me, being, through poverty, reduced to keep an alehouse; but he had lived in better fashion, having kept an inn at Thame, and by that means knew how to behave himself civilly, and did so to me.

He told me he was ordered to wait on me to Wheatley, and to tarry there at such an inn, until Esquire Clark came thither, who would then take me home with him in his coach. Accordingly to Wheatley we walked (which is from Oxford some four or five miles), and long we had not been there before Clark and a great company of men came in.

He alighted, and stayed awhile to eat and drink (though he came but from Oxford), and invited me to eat with him; but I, though I had need enough, refused it; for indeed their conversation was a burthen to my life, and made me often think of and pity good Lot.

He seemed, at that time, to be in a sort of mixed temper, between pleasantness and sourness. He would sometimes joke (which was natural to him), and cast out a jesting flirt at me; but he would rail maliciously against the Quakers. “If” said he to me, “the King would authorise me to do it, I would not leave a Quaker alive in England, except you. I would make no more,” added he, “to set my pistol to their ears and shoot them through the head, than I would to kill a dog.” I told him I was sorry he had so ill an opinion of the Quakers, but I was glad he had no cause for it, and I hoped he would be of a better mind.

I had in my hand a little walking-stick with a head on it, which he commended, and took out of my hand to look at it; but I saw his intention was to search it, whether it had a tuck in it, for he tried to have drawn the head; but when he found it was fast he returned it to me.

He told me I should ride with him to his house in his coach, which was nothing pleasant to me; for I had rather have gone on foot (as bad as the ways were), that I might have been out of his company. Wherefore I took no notice of any kindness in the offer, but only answered I was at his disposal, not mine own.