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

a sudden; which made me not care to ride me settled in better quarters than he expected, very fast. My guard, who was a tradesman mounted my horse and went off with him. 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 under-place; his name was Galloway. stood 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.

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 de sign, 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,

I would have had him return home, but he desired me not to send him back, but let him run on till I came to Oxford. I considered that it was a token of the fellow's affectionate that though I wanted no civil treatment or kindness to me, and that possibly I might send my horse home by him; and thereupon stopping my horse, I bid him, if he would go on, get up behind me. He modestly refused, telling me he could run as fast as I rode. But when I told him, if he would not ride he should not go forward, rather than leave me, he leaped up behind me, and on we went.

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.

kind accommodations where I was, yet after once I understood that many Friends were prisoners in the castle, and among the rest Thomas Loe, I had much rather have been among them there, with all the inconvenien cies 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 commit. ted to the marshal. Whereupon, the men Friends generally being prisoners already in the castle, some of the women Friends came to inquire after me and to visit me; as Silas Norton's wife and Thomas Loe's wife, who were sisters, and another woman Friend who lived in the same street where I was, whose husband was not a Quaker, but kindly affect ed towards them, a baker by trade, and his name as I remember was, Ryland.

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 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 By some of these an account was soon given fly, for I had done nothing that would bring to the Friends in the castle, of my being taken guilt or fear upon me, neither did I go with up and brought prisoner to the marshal's. an ill will; and this quieted the man. So on Whereupon it pleased the Lord to move the we went; but were so far cast behind the heart of my dear friend Thomas Loe, to trooper, that we had lost both sight and hear-salute me with a very tender and affectionate ing of him, and I was fain to mend my pace letter in the following terms: 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

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 to 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 who through patience endure to the end. 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 believ

ed, it came into my heart to write to 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. 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 king. dom 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.

P. S. 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.

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 Goody are, and the rest of imprisoned Friends.

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

From Aylesbury gaol, the 14th of

Twelfth 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 honed after personal conversation with Friends, and it was hard I thought, that there should be so many faithful servants mitted to come at them, to enjoy their comof God so near me, yet I should not be perpany, and reap both the pleasure and benefit of their sweet society.

For although my marshall-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 underGreatly was my spirit refreshed, and my stood I had been pretty well known in that heart gladdened, at the reading of this consolat-city. Yet once the friendly baker got him to ing 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 to 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; from whence, having heard that I was carried prisoner to Oxford, he thus saluted me:

Dear Thomas,

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 scarcely 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.

Great hath been the Lord's goodness to thee, in calling thee out of that path of vanity Our salutation to each other was very grave and death, wherein thou wast running towards and solemn; nor did we entertain one another destruction, to give thee a living name and an with much talk, or with common discourses; inheritance of life among his people; which but most of the little time I had with them, certainly will be the end of thy faith in him, was spent in a silent retiredness of spirit, waitand obedience to him. And let it not be a lighting upon the Lord. Yet, before we parted, 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. O that that eye and heart may be kept open in thee, which know the value of these things! And that thou mayest be kept close to the feeling of the life, that thou mayest be fresh in thy spirit in the midst of thy sufferings, and mayest reap the benefit of them; finding that pared off thereby, which hindereth the bubblings of the everlasting spring, and maketh unfit for the breaking forth and enjoyment of the pure power! This is the brief salutation of my

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 staid 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 my leave of my friends there, and with mutual em

braces parting, returned to my, in some sense more easy, but in others less easy prison, where after this I staid 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 the deputy-lieutenants of the county, of which number they who committed me

were two.

When they had been a while together, and the marshall with them, he stept 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 by 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 Friend 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.

town. I knew the man, for he lived within a mile of me, being through poverty reduced to keep an ale-house; 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 Whately, and to tarry there at such an inn till Esquire Clark came thither, who would then take me home with him in his coach. Accordingly to Whately 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 rude men came in.

He alighted and staid a while 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 burden to my life, and made me often think of and pity good Lot.

He seemed at that time to be in a sort of mixt temper, between pleasantness and sour. ness. 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 authorize 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 on it, but I saw his intention was to search whether it had a tuck in it, for he tried to draw 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 plea sant 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.

It so fell out, that some of the lieutenants, of whom Esquire Clark, who committed me, was one, were standing in a 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 below in the street, to stop me. They, being generally gentlemen's servants, and many of them knowing me, civilly forbore 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 to me, and It was a very fine beast that I was set on, desired him to deliver it to that Friend who by much the best in the company. But though was their neighbour; which he promised to do. she was very tall, yet the ways being very By the time I had done this, came the sol- foul, I found it needful, as soon as I was out dier that was appointed to conduct me out of of town, to alight and take up the stirrups.

When we were ready to go, the marshall came to me and told me, if I pleased I should ride his horse, and he would go in the coach with Mr. Clark. I was glad of the offer, and only told him he should take out his pistols then, for I would not ride with them. He took them out and laid them in the coach by him and away we went.

Meanwhile, they driving on, I was so far behind, that being at length missed by the company, a soldier was sent back to look after

me.

father's laying, to have brought me under such an engagement as should have tied me from going to meetings; and thereupon I expected I should have a new exercise from my father.

As soon as I had fitted my stirrups and was remounted, I gave the rein to my mare, which It was the constant manner of my father, being courageous and nimble, and impatient to have all the keys of the out-doors of his of delay, made great speed to recover the house, which were four, and those linked upon company. And in a narrow passage, the sol-a chain, brought up into his chamber every dier, who was my barber that had fetched me from home, and I met upon so brisk a gallop, that we had enough to do on either side to take up our horses and avoid a brush.

When we were come to Weston, where Esquire Clark lived, he took the marshall and some others with him into the parlour; but I was left in the hall, to be exposed a second time for the family to gaze on.

At length himself came out to me, leading in his hand a beloved daughter of his, a young woman of about eighteen years of age, who wanted nothing to have made her comely, but gravity. An airy piece she was; and very merry she made herself at me.

When they had made themselves as much sport with me as they would, the marshall took his leave of them, and mounting me on a horse of Clark's, had me home to my father's that night.

Next morning before the marshall went away, my father and he consulted together how to entangle me. I felt there were snares laid, but I did not know in what manner or to what end, till the marshall was ready to go. And then, coming where he was to take his leave of me, he desired me to take notice, that although he had brought me home to my father's house again, yet I was not discharged from my imprisonment, but was his prisoner still; and that he had committed me to the care of my father, to see me forth-coming whenever I should be called for. And therefore he expected I should in all things observe my father's orders, and not to go at any time from the house without his leave.

night, and fetched out from thence in the morning; so that none could come in or go out in the night without his knowledge.

I knowing this, suspected that if I got not out before my father came down, I should be stopped from going out at all that day. Wherefore, the passage from my room lying by his chamber door, I went down softly without my shoes, and as soon as the maid had opened the door, I went out, though too early, and walked towards the meeting at Meadle, four long miles off.

I expected to have been talked with about it when I came home, but heard nothing of it, my father resolving to watch me better next time.

This I was aware of; and therefore on the next first-day I got up early, went down softly, and hid myself in a back room before the maid was stirring.

When she was up, she went into my father's chamber for the keys; but he bid her leave them till he was up, and he would bring them down himself; which he did, and tarried in the kitchen, through which he expected I would go.

The manner was, that when the common doors were opened, the keys were hung upon a pin in the hall. While therefore my father staid in the kitchen expecting my coming, I stepping gently out of the room where I was, reached the keys, and opening another door, not often used, slipped out and so got away.

I thought I had gone off undiscovered. But whether my father saw me through a window, or by what other means he knew of I now plainly saw the snare, and to what my going, I know not; but I had gone but a end it was laid. I asked him, if this device little way, before I saw him coming after me. was not contrived to keep me from going The sight of him put me to a stand in my to meetings? He said I must not go to meet-mind, whether I should go on or stop. Had ings. Whereupon I desired him to take no- it been in any other case than that of going tice, that I would not own myself a prisoner to a meeting I could not in any wise have to any man while I continued here. That if gone a step further. But I considered, that he had power to detain me a prisoner, he the intent of my father's endeavouring to stop might take me back again with him if he would, and I should not refuse to go. But I bid him assure himself, that while at home I would take my liberty, both to go to meet ings and to visit Friends. He smiled, and said if I would be resolute he could not help it; and so took his leave of me.

By this I perceived that the plot was of my

me, was to hinder me from obeying the call of my heavenly Father, and to stop me from going to worship him in the assembly of his people; upon this I found it my duty to go on, and observing that my father gained ground upon me, I somewhat mended my pace.

This he observing, mended his pace also,

and at length ran. Whereupon I ran also; and backward in one day, I sometimes staid and a fair course we had through a large a day or two there, and lay in the malt-house meadow of his, which lay behind his house among my friends, with whom I delighted to and out of sight of the town. He was not, I be. suppose, then above fifty years of age, and After this imprisonment was over, I went being light of body and nimble of foot, he sometimes to Isaac Penington's house at Chalheld me to it for a while. But afterwards font, to visit that family and the Friends thereslacking his pace to take breath, and observ-abouts. There was then a meeting, for the ing that I had gotten ground of him, he turned back and went home; and, as I afterwards understood, told my sisters how I had served him, and said, 'Nay, if he will take so much pains to go, let him go if he will.' From that time forward he never attempted to stop me, but left me to my liberty, to go when and whither I would; yet kept me at the usual distance, avoiding the sight of me as much as he could, as not able to bear the sight of my hat on, nor willing to contend with me again about it.

most part twice a week in his house; but one first-day in four there was a more general meeting, which was thence called the monthly meeting, to which resorted most of the Friends of other adjacent meetings; and to that I usually went, and sometimes made some stay there.

Here I came acquainted with a Friend of London, whose name was Richard Greenaway, by trade a tailor, a very honest man, and one who had received a gift for the ministry.

He having been formerly in other profes Nor was it long after this, before I was left sions of religion, had then been acquainted not only to myself, but in a manner by my- with one John Ovy of Watlington, in Oxfordself. For the time appointed for the corona- shire, a man of some note among the profes tion of the king, which was the 23rd of the sors there, and understanding, upon inquiry, second month, called April, drawing on, my that I knew him, he had some discourse with father taking my two sisters with him, went me about him. The result of this was, that up to London some time before, that they he, having an intention then shortly to visit might be there in readiness, and put themselves some meetings of Friends in this county and into a condition to see that great solemnity, the adjoining parts of Oxfordshire and Berkleaving nobody in the house but myself and a shire, invited me to meet him, upon notice couple of servants. Though this was intended given, and to bear him company in that jouronly for a visit on that occasion, yet it proved ney; and in the way bring him to John Ovy's the breaking up of the family; for he bestow-house, with whom I was well acquainted; ed both his daughters there in marriage, and which I did. took lodgings for himself, so that afterwards they never returned to settle at Crowell.

Being now at liberty, I walked over to Aylesbury with some other Friends, to visit my dear friend Isaac Penington, who was still a prisoner there. With him I found dear John Whitehead, and between sixty and seventy more, being well nigh all the men Friends that were then in the county of Bucks; many of them were taken out of their houses by armed men, and sent to prison, as I had been, for refusing to swear. Most of these were thrust into an old room behind the gaol, which had anciently been a malt-house, but was now so decayed, that it was scarcely fit for a doghouse. It lay so open, that the prisoners might have gone out at pleasure. But these were purposely put there, in confidence that they would not go out, that there might be room in the prison for others, of other professions and names, whom the gaoler did not trust there.

While this imprisonment lasted, which was for some months, I went afterwards thither sometimes to visit my suffering brethren; and because it was a pretty long way, some eight or nine miles, too far to be walked forward

We were kindly received, the man and his wife being very glad to see both their old friend Richard Greenaway and me also, whom they had been very well acquainted with formerly, but had never seen me since I was a Quaker.

Here we tarried that night, and in the even ing had a little meeting there with some few of John Ovy's people, amongst whom Richard Greenaway declared the Truth; which they attentively heard and did not oppose, which at that time of day we reckoned was pretty well-for many were apt to cavil.

This visit gave John Ovy an opportunity to inquire of me after Isaac Penington, whose writings, or those which he had written before he came among Friends, he had read and had a great esteem of; and he expressed a desire to see him, that he might have some discourse with him, if he knew how. Whereupon I told him, that if he would take the pains to go to his house, I would bear him company thither, introduce him, and engage he should have a kind reception.

This pleased him much; and he embracing the offer, I undertook to give him notice of a suitable time; which, after I had gone this