Part 10

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.