little journey with my friend Richard Greenaway, and was returned, I did, making choice of the monthly meeting to go to. night, in order to be at the meeting, there was Isaac's brother, William Penington, a merchant of London; and with him a Friend, whose name I have forgotten, a grocer of Colchester in Essex; and there was also our friend George Whitehead, whom I had not, We met by appointment at Stoken-Church, with our staves in our hands like a couple of pilgrims, intending to walk; and having taken some refreshment and rest at Wiccomb, went that I remember, seen before. on cheerfully in the afternoon, entertaining The nation had been in a ferment ever since each other with grave religious discourse, that mad action of the frantic fifth-monarchy. which made the walk the easier, and so reach-men, and was not yet settled; but storms, ed thither in good time on the seventh-day of the week. I gave my friends an account who this person was, whom I had brought to visit them, and the ground of his visit. He had been a professor of religion, from his childhood to his old age, for he was now both grey-headed and elderly, and was a teacher at this time, and had long been so amongst a people, whether Independents or Baptists, I do not well remember. And so well thought of he was, for his zeal and honesty, that in those late professing times he was thrust into the commission of the peace, and thereby lifted up upon the bench; which neither became him, nor he it. For he wanted indeed most of the qualifications requisite for a justice of the peace; an estate to defray the charge of the office, and to bear him up in a course of living above contempt; a competent knowledge in the laws, and a presence of mind or body, or both, to keep offenders in some awe; in all which he was deficient. He was a fellmonger by trade, accustomed to ride upon his pack of skins; and had very little estate, as little knowledge in law, and of but a mean presence and appearance to look on. But as my father, I suppose, was the means of getting him put into the commission, so I know he did what he could to countenance him in it, and help him through it at every turn, till that turn came, at the king's return, which turned them both out together. My friends received me in affectionate kindness, and my companion with courteous civility. The evening was spent in common, but grave conversation; for it was not a proper season for private discourse, both as we were somewhat weary with our walk, and there were other companies of Friends come into the family, to be at the meeting next day. But in the morning I took John Ovy into a private walk, in a pleasant grove near the house, whither Isaac Penington came to us; and there, in discourse, both answered all his questions, objections and doubts, and opened to him the principles of Truth, to his admiration and present satisfaction. Which done, we went in to take some refreshment before the meeting began. Of those Friends who were come over like thunder showers, flew here and there, so that we could not promise ourselves any safety or quiet in our meetings. And though they had escaped disturbance for some little time before, yet so it fell out, that a party of horse were appointed to come and break up the meeting that day, though we knew nothing of it till we heard and saw them. The meeting was not fully gathered when they came. But we that were in the family, and many others, were settled in it in great peace and stillness, when on a sudden the prancing of the horses gave notice that lightning was at hand. We all sat still in our places, except my companion John Ovy, who sat next to me. But he being of a profession that approved Peter's advice to his Lord, to save himself, soon took the alarm; and with the nimbleness of a stripling, cutting a caper over the form that stood before him, ran quickly out at a private door, he had before observed, which led through the parlour into the gardens, and from thence into an orchard; where he hid himself in a place so obscure, and withal so convenient for his intelligence by observation of what passed, that one of the family could scarcely have found a likelier. By that time he was got into his burrow the soldiers came in, being a party of the county troop, commanded by Matthew Archdale of Wiccomb. He behaved himself civilly, and said he was commanded to break up the meeting, and carry the men before a justice of the peace; but he said, he would not take all; and thereupon began to pick and choose, chiefly as his eye guided him, for I suppose he knew very few. He took Isaac Penington and his brother, George Whitehead and the Friend of Colchester, and me, with three or four more of the country, who belonged to that meeting. He was not fond of the work, and that made him take no more. But he must take some, he said; and bade us provide to go with him before Sir William Boyer of Denham, who was a justice of the peace. Isaac Penington being but weakly, rode; but the rest of us walked thither, it being about four miles. When we came there, the justice carried himself civilly to us all, courteously to Isaac Penington as being a gentleman of his neigh- and that we had not mis-behaved ourselves, bourhood, and there was nothing charged nor met in contempt of the king's authority, against us, but that we were met together but purely in obedience to the Lord's requir without word or deed. Yet this being contra-ings, to worship him, which we held ourselves ry to a late proclamation, given forth upon in duty bound to do, we could not consent to the rising of the fifth-monarchy-men, whereby be bound, for that would imply guilt, which all dissenters' meetings were forbidden, the we were free from. justice could do no less than take notice of Then,' said he, I must commit you;' and ordered his clerk to make a mittimus. And divers mittimuses were made, but none of them would hold; for still when they came to be read, we found such flaws in them, as made him throw them aside and write more. us. Wherefore he examined all of us whom he did not personally know, asking our names and the places of our respective habitations. But when he had them, and considered from what distant parts of the nation we came, he was amazed. For George Whitehead was of Westmoreland, in the north of England; the grocer was of Essex; I was of Oxfordshire; and William Penington was of London. 6 Hereupon he told us that our case looked ill, and he was sorry for it. For how,' said he, can it be imagined that so many could jump altogether at one time and place, from such remote quarters and parts of the kingdom, if it was not by combination and appointment?' He was answered, that we were so far from coming thither by agreement or appointment, that none of us knew of the others coming, and for the most of us, we had never seen one another before; and that therefore he might impute it to chance, or, if he pleased, to Providence. He had his eye often upon me, for I was a young man, and had at that time a black suit on. At length he bid me follow him, and went into a private room and shut the door upon me. I knew not what he meant by this; but I cried in spirit to the Lord, that he would be pleased to be a mouth and wisdom to me, and keep me from being entangled in any snare. He asked me many questions concerning my birth, my education, my acquaintance in Oxfordshire; particularly what men of note I knew there. To all which I gave him brief, but plain and true answers, naming several families of the best rank, in that part of the country where I dwelt. He asked me how long I had been of this way, and how I came to be of it? When I had given him some account he began to persuade me to leave it, and return to the right way, the church, as he called it. I desired He urged upon us, that an insurrection had been lately made by armed men, who pretended to be more religious than others: that that insurrection had been plotted and con-him to spare his pains in that respect, and fortrived in their meeting-house, where they assembled under colour of worshipping God; that in their meeting-house they hid their arms, and armed themselves, and out of their meeting-house issued forth in arms and killed many; so that the government could not be safe, unless such meetings were suppressed. We replied, that we hoped he would distinguish and make a difference between the guilty and the innocent; and between those who were principled for fighting, and those who were principled against it; which we were, and had been always known to be so. That our meetings were public, our doors standing open to all comers, of all ages, sexes and persuasions, those that were not of our religion, as well as those that were; and that it was next to madness for people to plot in such meetings. bear any discourse of that kind, for that I was fully satisfied, the way I was in was the right way, and hoped the Lord would so preserve me in it, that nothing should be able to draw or drive me out of it. He seemed not pleased with that; and thereupon went out to the rest of the company, and I followed him, glad in my heart that I had escaped so well, and praising God for my deliverance. When he had taken his seat again at the upper end of a fair hall, he told us, he was not willing to take the utmost rigour of the law against us, but would be as favourable to us as he could. And therefore he would discharge, he said, Mr. Penington himself, because he was but at home in his own house. And he would discharge Mr. Penington of London, because he came but as a relation to visit his brother. And he would discharge the grocer of Colchester, because he came to bear Mr. Penington of London, company, and to be acquainted with Mr. Isaac Penington, whom he had never seen before. And as for those others of us, who were of this country, We told him, that knowing our innocency, he would discharge them for the present at He told us we must find sureties for our good behaviour, and to answer our contempt of the king's proclamation at the next general Quarter Sessions; or else he must commit us. least, because they being his neighbours, he a professor, what pains he had taken, what could send for them when he would. But hazards he had run, in his youthful days, to for you,' said he to George Whitehead and get to meetings; how, when the ways were me, I can see no business you had there; forelaid, and passages stopped, he swam and therefore I intend to hold you to it, either through rivers to reach a meeting; And to give bail, or go to gaol.' now,' said he, that I am grown old in the profession of religion, and have long been an instructer and encourager of others, that I We told him we could not give bail. Then,' said he, 'you must go to gaol;' and thereupon he began to write our mittimus; which puz-should thus shamefully fall short myself, is zled him again. For he had discharged so matter of shame and sorrow to me.' many, that he was at a loss what to lay as the ground of our commitment, whose case differed nothing in reality from theirs whom he had discharged. Thus he bewailed himself to her;-when we came back, he renewed his complaints of himself to us, with high aggravations of his own cowardice. Which gave occasion to some of the Friends, tenderly to represent to him the difference between profession and possession, form and power. He was glad, he said, on our behalf, that we came off so well, and escaped imprisonment. At length, having had made divers draughts, of which still George Whitehead showed him the defects, he seemed to be weary of us; and rising up said to us, I consider that it is grown late in the day, so that the officer cannot carry you to Aylesbury to night, and I suppose you will be willing to go back with But when he understood that George WhiteMr. Penington; therefore if you will promise head and I were liable to an after-reckoning to be forthcoming at his house to-morrow next morning, he was troubled, and wished morning, I will dismiss you for the present, the morning was come and gone, that we and you shall hear from me again to-morrow.' might be gone with it. We told him, we did intend, if he did not otherwise dispose of us, to spend that night with our friend Isaac Penington, and would, if the Lord gave us leave, be there in the morning ready to answer his requirings. Whereupon he dismissed us all, willing, as we thought, to be rid of us; for he seemed not to be of an ill temper, nor desirous to put us to trouble if he could help it. Back then we went to Isaac Penington's. But when we were come thither, O the work we had with poor John Ovy! He was so dejected in mind, so covered with shame and confusion of face for his cowardliness, that we had enough to do to pacify him towards himself. The place he had found out to shelter himself in, was so commodiously contrived, that undiscovered he could discern when the soldiers went off with us, and understand when the bustle was over and the coast clear. Whereupon he ventured to peep out of his hole, and in a while drew near, by degrees, to the house again; and finding all things quiet and still, he adventured to step within the doors, and found the Friends, who were left behind, peaceably settled in the meeting again. We spent the evening in grave conversation, and in religious discourse, attributing the deliverance, we hitherto had, to the Lord. The next morning when we were up and had eaten, we tarried some time to see what the justice would do further with us, and to discharge our engagement to him; the rest of the Friends, who were before fully discharged, tarrying also with us to see the event. When we had staid so long, that on all hands it was concluded we might safely go, George Whitehead and I left a few words in writing, to be sent to the justice, if he sent after us, importing that we had tarried till such an hour, and not hearing from him, did now hold ourselves free to depart; yet so, as that if he should have occasion to send for us again, upon notice thereof we would return. This done, we took our leave of the family, and one of another; they who were for London taking horse, and I and my companion, setting forth on foot for Oxfordshire, went to Wiccomb, where we made a short stay to rest and refresh ourselves, and from thence reached our respective homes that night. After I had spent some time at home, where, as I had no restraint, so my sisters being gone, I had now no society, I walked up to Chalfont again, and spent a few days with my friends there. The sight of this smote him, and made him sit down among them. And after the meeting was ended, and the friends departed to their As soon as I came in, I was told that my several homes, addressing himself to Mary father had been there that day to see Isaac Penington as the mistress of the house, he Penington and his wife; but they being abroad could not enough magnify the bravery and at a meeting, he returned to his inn in the courage of the Friends, nor sufficiently debase town, where he intended to lodge that night. himself. He told her how long he had been After supper, Mary Penington told me she VOL. VII.-No. 10. 48 He took me with him to his house. And having settled me there, went out to take advice, as I supposed, what to do with me; leaving nobody in the house to guard me, but his wife, who had a young child in her arms. had a mind to go and see him at his inn, the thither. He was a young man, by trade a woman of the house being a friend of ours, tanner, somewhat better mannered than this and I went with her. He seemed somewhat wardsman, but not of much better judgment. surprised to see me there, because he thought I had been at home at his house; but he took no notice of my hat, at least showed no of fence at it; for as I afterwards understood, he had now an intention to sell his estate, and thought he should need my concurrence therein; which made him now hold it necessary to admit me again into some degree of favour. After we had tarried some little time with him, she rising up to be gone, he waited on her home, and having spent about an hour with us in the family, I waited on him back to his inn. On the way, he invited me to come up to London to see my sisters, the younger of whom was then newly married, and direct-| ed me where to find them; and also gave me money to defray my charges. Accordingly I went; yet staid not long there, but returned to my friend Isaac Penington's where I made a little stay, and from thence went back to Crowell. When I was ready to set forth, my friend Isaac Penington was so kind as to send a servant with a brace of geldings, to carry me as far as I thought fit to ride, and to bring the horses back. I, intending to go no farther that day than to Wiccomb, rode no farther than to Beaconsfield town's-end, having then but five miles to walk. But here a new exercise befel me, the manner of which was thus: Before I had walked to the middle of the town, I was stopped and taken up by the watch. I asked the watchman, what authority he had to stop me, travelling peaceably on the highway? He told me he would show me his authority; and in order thereunto, had me into a house hard by, where dwelt a scrivener, whose name was Pepys. To him he gave the order which he had received from the constables, which directed him to take up all rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars. I asked him, for which of these he stopped me? but he I could not answer me. I thereupon informed him what a rogue in law is, viz. One, who for some notorious of fence was burnt on the shoulder; and I told them they might search me if they pleased, and see if I was so branded. A vagabond, I told them, was one that had no dwelling-house, nor certain place of abode; but I had, and was going to it; and I told them where it was. And for a beggar, I bid them bring any one that could say, I had begged or asked relief. This stopped the fellow's mouth, yet he would not let me go; but being both weak headed and strong-willed, he left me there with the scrivener, and went out to seek the constable; and having found him, brought him She inquired of me, upon what account I was taken up; and seeming to have some pity for me, endeavoured to persuade me not to stay, but to go my way-offering to show me a back way from their house, which would bring me into the road again beyond the town, so that none of the town should see me, or know what was become of me. But I told her I could not do so. Then having sat a while in a muse, she asked me if there was not a place in Scripture which said, Peter was at a tanner's house? I told her there was such a Scripture, and directed her where to find it. After some time, she laid her child to sleep in the cradle, and stepped out on a sudden; but came not in again in a pretty while. I was uneasy that I was left alone in the house, fearing lest, if any thing should be missing, I might be suspected to have taken it; yet I durst not go out to stand in the street, lest it should be thought I intended to slip away. But besides that, I soon found work to employ myself in; for the child quickly waking, fell to crying, and I was fain to rock the cradle in my own defence, that I might not be annoyed with a noise, to me not more unpleasant than unusual. At length the woman came in again, and finding me nursing the child, gave me many thanks, and seemed well pleased with my company. When night came on, the constable himself came in again, and told me some of the chief of the town were met together, to consider what was fit to do with me; and that I must go with him to them. I went, and he brought me to a little nasty hut, which they called a town-house, adjoining to their market-house, in which dwelt a poor old woman whom they called mother Grime, where also the watch used by turns to come in and warm themselves in the night. When I came in among them, some of them looked sourly on me, and asked me some impertinent questions; to which I gave them suitable answers. Then they consulted one with another, how they should dispose of me that night, till they could have me before some justice of peace to be examined. Some proposed that I should be had to an inn, or other public house, and a guard set on me there. He that started this was probably an inn-keeper, and consulted his own interest. Others objected against this, that it would bring a charge on the town. To avoid which, they were for having the watch take charge of me, and keep me walking about the streets with them till morning. Most voices seemed to go this way; till a third wished them to consider, whether they could answer the doing of that, and the law would bear them out in it? And this put them to a stand. I heard all their debates, but let them alone, and kept my mind to the Lord. While they thus bandied the matter to and fro, one of the company asked the rest, if any of them knew who this young man was, and whither he was going? Whereupon the constable, to whom I had given both my name and the name of the town where I dwelt, told them my name was Ellwood, and that I lived at a town called Crowell, in Oxfordshire. The plot, I suppose, was so laid, that Clark should seem averse, but at length yield, which he did; but would have me take it for a favour. But I was so far from taking it so, that I would not take it at all; but told them plainly, that as I came in at the fore-door, so I would go out at the fore-door. When therefore they saw they could not bow me to their will, they brought me out at the fore-door into the street, and wished me a good journey. Yet before I went, calling for the woman of the house, I paid her for my supper and lodging, for I had now got a little money in my pocket again. After this I got home, as I thought, very well; but I had not been long at home, before an illness seized on me, which proved to be the small-pox. Of which, so soon as Friends had notice, I had a nurse sent me; and in a while Isaac Penington and his wife's daugh ter, Gulielma Maria Springett, to whom I had Old mother Grime, sitting by and hearing been play fellow in our infancy, came to visit this, clapped her hand on her knee, and cried me, bringing with them our dear friend Edout, I know Mr. Ellwood of Crowell very well. ward Burrough, by whose ministry I was For when I was a maid I lived with his grand-called to the knowledge of the Truth. father there, when he was a young man.' It pleased the Lord to deal favourably with And thereupon she gave them such an ac- me in this illness, both inwardly and outwardcount of my father, as made them look more ly. For his supporting presence was with me, regardfully on me; and so mother Grime's which kept my spirit near unto him; and testimony turned the scale, and took me off though the distemper was strong upon me, yet from walking the rounds with the watch that night. The constable hereupon bid them take no further care, I should lie at his house that night, and accordingly took me home with him, where I had as good accommodation as the house did afford. Before I went to bed, he told me that there was to be a visitation, or spiritual court, as he called it, holden next day at Amersham, about four miles from Beaconsfield, and that I was to be carried thither. This was a new thing to me, and it brought a fresh exercise upon my mind. But being given up, in the will of God, to suffer what he should permit to be laid on me, I endeavoured to keep my mind quiet and still. In the morning, as soon as I was up, my spirit, was exercised towards the Lord, in strong cries to him, that he would stand by me and preserve me, and not suffer me to be taken in the snare of the wicked. While I was thus crying to the Lord, the other constable came, and I was called down. I was preserved through it, and my countenance was not much altered by it. But after I was got up again, and while I kept my chamber, wanting some employment for entertainment sake, to spend the time with, and there being at hand a pretty good library of books, amongst which were the works of Augustine, and others of those ancient writers, who were by many called the Fathers, I betook myself to reading. These books being printed in the old black letter, with abbreviations of the words, difficult to be read, I spent too much time therein, and much impaired my sight, which was not strong before, and was now weaker than usual, by reason of the illness I had so newly had, which proved an injury to me afterwards; for which reason I here mention it. After I was well enough to go abroad, with respect to my own health and the safety of others, I went up, in the beginning of the twelfth month, 1661, to my friend Isaac Penington's at Chalfont, and abode there some time, for airing myself more fully, that I might be more fit for conversation. This was a budge fellow, and talked high. He was a shoe-maker by trade, and his name was Clark. He threatened me with the spiritual court. But when he saw I did not re-a gard it, he stopped, and left the matter to his partner, who pretended more kindness for me, and therefore went about to persuade Clark to let me go out at the back door, and so slip away. 1662.-I mentioned before, that when I was boy, I had made good progress in learning, and lost it all again before I came to be a man; nor was I rightly sensible of my loss, until I came amongst the Quakers. But then I both saw my loss, and lamented it; and applied myself with the utmost diligence, at all leisure |