Chapter 17

When he had introduced me to Titchborn, I gave him a like account of the occasion of my coming at that time as I had before given to the other Justice. And both he and his lady, who was present, expressed much concern for Guli Penn’s illness.

I found this man to be of quite another temper than Justice Fotherly; for he was smooth, soft, and oily, whereas the other was rather rough, severe, and sharp. Yet at the winding-up I found Fotherly my truest friend.

When I had told Sir Benjamin Titchborn that I came from Justice Fotherly, and requested him to give him a meeting to consider of my business, he readily, without any hesitation, told me he would go with me to Rickmansworth, from which his house was distant about a mile, and calling for his horses, mounted immediately, and to Rickmansworth we rode.

After they had been a little while together, I was called in before them, and in the first place they examined me, “What was my intention and design in writing that book?” I told them the introductory part of it gave a plain account of it—viz., “That it was to get ease from the penalties of a severe law often executed with too great a severity by unskilful officers, who were driven on beyond the bounds of their duty by the impetuous threats of a sort of insolent fellows, as needy as greedy, who for their own advantage sought our ruin.” To prevent which was the design and drift of that book, by acquainting such officers how they might safely demean themselves in the execution of their offices towards their honest and peaceable neighbours, without ruining either their neighbours or themselves to enrich some of the worst of men; and that I humbly conceived it was neither unlawful nor unreasonable for a sufferer to do this, so long as it was done in a fair, sober, and peaceable way.

They then put me in mind of the plot; told me it was a troublesome and dangerous time, and my book might be construed to import sedition, in discouraging the officers from putting the laws in execution, as by law and by their oath they were bound; and in fine brought it to this issue, that they were directed to secure me by a commitment to prison until the assize, at which I should receive a further charge than they were provided now to give me; but because they were desirous to forward my visit to Madam Penn, they told me they would admit me to bail, and therefore, if I would enter a recognisance, with sufficient sureties, for my appearance at the next assize, they would leave me at liberty to go on my journey.

I told them I could not do it. They said they would give me as little trouble as they could, and therefore they would not put me to seek bail, but would accept those two friends of mine who were then present, to be bound with me for my appearance.

I let them know my strait lay not in the difficulty of procuring sureties, for I did suppose myself to have sufficient acquaintance and credit in that place, if on such an occasion I could be free to use it; but as I knew myself to be an innocent man, I had not satisfaction in myself to desire others to be bound for me, nor to enter myself into a recognisance, that carrying in it, to my apprehension, a reflection on my innocency and the reputation of my Christian profession.

Here we stuck and struggled about this a pretty while, till at length finding me fixed in my judgment, and resolved rather to go to prison than give bail, they asked me if I was against appearing, or only against being bound with sureties to appear. I told them I was not against appearing, which as I could not avoid if I would, so I would not if I might; but was ready and willing to appear, if required, to answer whatsoever should be charged against me. But in any case of a religious nature, or wherein my Christian profession was concerned, which I took this case to be, I could not yield to give any other or further security than my word or promise as a Christian.

They, unwilling to commit me, took hold of that, and asked if I would promise to appear. I answered, “Yes; with due limitations.”—“What do you mean by due limitations?” said they.—“I mean,” replied I, “if I am not disabled or prevented by sickness or imprisonment. For,” added I, “as you allege that it is a troublesome time, I perhaps may find it so. I may, for aught I know, be seized and imprisoned elsewhere on the same account for which I now stand here before you, and if I should, how then could I appear at the assize in this county?”—“Oh,” said they, “these are due limitations indeed. Sickness or imprisonment are lawful excuses, and if either of these befall you, we shall not expect your appearance here; but then you must certify us that you are so disabled by sickness or restraint.”

“But,” said I, “how shall I know when and where I shall wait upon you again after my return from Sussex?”—“You need not,” said they, “trouble yourself about that; we will take care to give you notice of both time and place, and till you hear from us you may dispose yourself as you please.”

“Well, then,” said I, “I do promise you that when I shall have received from you a fresh command to appear before you, I will, if the Lord permit me life, health, and liberty, appear when and where you shall appoint.”

“It is enough,” said they; “we will take your word.” And desiring me to give their hearty respects and service to Madam Penn, they dismissed me with their good wishes for a good journey.

I was sensible that in this they had dealt very favourably and kindly with me, therefore I could not but acknowledge to them the sense I had thereof; which done, I took leave of them, and mounting, returned home with what haste I could, to let my wife know how I had sped. And having given her a summary account of the business, I took horse again, and went so far that evening towards Worminghurst that I got thither pretty early next morning, and to my great satisfaction found my friend in a hopeful way towards recovery.

I stayed some days with her, and then, finding her illness wear daily off, and some other Friends being come from London to visit her, I, mindful of my engagement to the Justices, and unwilling by too long an absence to give them occasion to suspect I was willing to avoid their summons, leaving those other Friends to bear her company longer, took my leave of her and them, and set my face homewards, carrying with me the welcome account of my friend’s recovery.

Being returned home, I waited in daily expectation of a command from the Justices to appear again before them; but none came. I spoke with those Friends who had been with me when I was before them, and they said they had heard nothing of it from them, although they had since been in company with them. At length the assize came, but no notice was given to me that I should appear there: in fine, they never troubled themselves nor me any further about it.

Thus was a cloud, that looked black and threatened a great storm, blown gently over by a providential breath, which I could not but with a thankful mind acknowledge to the All-great, All-good, All-wise Disposer, in whose hand and at whose command the hearts of all men, even the greatest, are, and who turns their counsels, disappoints their purposes, and defeats their designs and contrivances as He pleases. For if my dear friend Guli Penn had not fallen sick, if I had not thereupon been sent for to her, I had not prevented the time of my appearance, but had appeared on the day appointed; and, as I afterwards understood, that was the day appointed for the appearance of a great many persons of the Dissenting party in that side of the country, who were to be taken up and secured on account of the aforementioned plot, which had been cast upon the Presbyterians. So that if I had then appeared with and amongst them, I had in all likelihood been sent to gaol with them for company, and that under the imputation of a plotter, than which nothing was more contrary to my profession and inclination.

But though I came off so easily, it fared not so well with others; for the storm increasing, many Friends in divers parts, both of city and country, suffered greatly; the sense whereof did deeply affect me, and the more for that I observed the magistrates, not thinking the laws which had been made against us severe enough, perverted the law in order to punish us. For calling our peaceable meetings riots, which in the legal notion of the word riot is a contradiction in terms, they indicted our friends as rioters for only sitting in a meeting, though nothing was there either said or done by them, and then set fines on them at pleasure.

This I knew to be not only against right and justice, but even against law; and it troubled me to think that we should be made to suffer not only by laws made directly against us, but even by laws that did not at all concern us. Nor was it long before I had occasion offered more thoroughly to consider this matter.

For a justice of the peace in this county, who was called Sir Dennis Hampson, of Taplow, breaking in with a party of horse upon a little meeting near Wooburn, in his neighbourhood, the 1st of the fifth month, 1683, sent most of the men, to the number of twenty-three, whom he found there, to Aylesbury prison, though most of them were poor men who lived by their labour; and not going himself to the next Quarter Sessions at Buckingham, on the 12th of the same month, sent his clerk with direction that they should be indicted for a riot. Whither the prisoners were carried and indicted accordingly, and being pressed by the court to traverse and give bail, they moved to be tried forthwith, but that was denied them. And they, giving in writing the reason of their refusing bail and fees, were remanded to prison till next Quarter Sessions; but William Woodhouse was again hailed, as he had been before, and William Mason and John Reeve, who not being Friends, but casually taken at that meeting, entered recognisance as the court desired, and so were released till next sessions; before which time Mason died, and Reeve being sick, appeared not, but got himself taken off. And in the eighth month following the twenty-one prisoners that remained were brought to trial; a jury was found, who brought in a pretended verdict that they were _guilty of a riot_ for only sitting peaceably together without word or action, and though there was no proclamation made nor they required to depart. But one of the jurymen afterwards did confess he knew not what a riot was; yet the prisoners were fined a noble apiece, and recommitted to prison during life (a hard sentence) or the King’s pleasure, or until they should pay the said fines. William Woodhouse was forthwith discharged by his kinsman’s paying the fine and fees for him; Thomas Dell and Edward Moore also, by other people of the world paying their fines and fees; and shortly after, Stephen Pewsey, by the town and parish where he lived, for fear his wife and children should become a charge upon them. The other seventeen remained prisoners till King James’s proclamation of pardon; whose names were Thomas and William Sexton, Timothy Child, Robert Moor, Richard James, William and Robert Aldridge, John Ellis, George Salter, John Smith, William Tanner, William Batchelor, John Dolbin, Andrew Brothers, Richard Baldwin, John Jennings, and Robert Austin.

FOOTNOTES.

{180} Ille dolet vere, qui fine teste dolet.

{190} Rom. viii. 9

{230} Understand this of natural things.

{276a} Almost from our cradle.

{276b} From our tender age.