Chapter One.

The Protectorate had come to an end ten years before the period when our story commences; and Charles the Second, restored to the throne of England, had since been employed in outraging all the right feelings of the people over whom he was called to reign, and in lowering the English name, which had been so gloriously raised by the wisdom of Cromwell. The body of that sagacious ruler of a mighty nation had been dragged out of its tomb among the kings in Westminster, and hanged on the gallows-tree at Tyburn; the senseless deed instigated by the petty revenge of his contemptible successor. The mouldering remains of Blake, also, one of the noblest among England’s naval heroes, had been taken from its honoured resting-place, and cast into an unknown grave in Saint Margaret’s churchyard. Episcopacy had been restored by those who hoped thus to pave the way for the re-introduction of Romanism, with its grinding tyranny and abject superstitions. The “Conventicle Act,” prohibiting more than five persons, exclusive of the family, to meet together for religious worship according to any other than the national ritual, had been passed, and was rigidly enforced; the dominant party thus endeavouring to deprive the people of one of the most sacred rights of man,—that of worshipping God according to the dictates of conscience. England’s debauched king, secretly a Papist, had sold his country for gold to England’s hereditary foe, whose army he had engaged to come and crush the last remnants of national freedom, should his Protestant people dare to resist the monarch’s traitorous proceedings. The profligacy and irreligion of the court was widely imitated by all classes, till patriots, watching with gloomy forebodings the downward progress of their country, began to

despair of her future fate. Such was the state of things when, on the morning of the 14th of August, 1670, several sedate, grave-looking persons were collected at the north end of Gracechurch Street, in the City of London. Others were coming up from all quarters towards the spot. As the first arrived, they stood gazing towards the door of a building, before which were drawn up a body of bearded, rough soldiers, with buff coats, halberds in hand, and iron caps on their heads. Several of the persons collected, in spite of the armed men at the door, advanced as if about to enter the building.

“You cannot go in there,” said the sergeant of the party; “we hold it in the name of the king. Begone about your business, or beware of the consequences!” In vain the grave citizens mildly expostulated. They received similar rough answers. By this time other persons had arrived, while many passers-by stopped to see what was going forward. Among those who came up was a tall young man, whose flowing locks and feathered cap, with richly-laced coat, and silk sash over his shoulder, to which, however, the usual appendage, a sword, was wanting, showed that he was a person of quality and fashion. Yet his countenance wore a grave aspect, which assumed a stern expression as he gazed at the soldiers. He stopped, and spoke to several of those standing round, inquiring apparently what had occurred. About the same time, another man, who seemed to be acquainted with many of the persons in the crowd, was making his way among them. He was considerably more advanced in life than the first-mentioned person, and in figure somewhat shorter and more strongly built. Though dressed as a civilian, he had a military look and air. From an opposite direction two other persons approached the spot, intending, it seemed, to pass by. The one was a man whose grizzly beard and furrowed features showed that he had seen rough service in his time, his dress and general appearance bespeaking the soldier. His companion was a youth of sixteen or seventeen years of age, so like him in countenance that their relationship was evident. From the inquiries they made, they were apparently strangers.

“Canst tell me, friend, what has brought all these people together?” said the elder man to a by-stander.

“Most of these people are ‘Friends,’ as they call themselves,” answered the man addressed, a well-to-do artisan, “or ‘Quakers,’ as the world calls them, because they bid sinners exceedingly to quake and tremble at the word of the Lord. To my mind they are harmless as to their deeds, though in word they are truly powerful at times. The bishops and church people do not like them because they declare that God can be worshipped in the open air, or in a man’s own home, as well as in the grandest cathedral, or ‘steeple house,’ as they call the church. The Independents are opposed to them, because they deem ministers unnecessary, and trust to the sword of the Spirit rather than to carnal weapons; while the wealthy and noble disdain them, because they refuse to uncover their heads, or to pay undue respect to their fellow-men, however rich or exalted in rank they may be. They have come to hold a meeting in yonder house, where the soldiers are stationed; but as speaking will not open the doors, they will have to go away again disappointed.”

“If they are the harmless people you describe, that seems a hard case,” observed the stranger. “By what right are they prohibited from thus meeting?”

“I know not if it is by right, but it is by law,” answered the artisan. “You have doubtless heard of the ‘Conventicle Act,’ prohibiting all religious worship, except according to the established ritual. The ‘Friends’ alone hold it in no respect, and persist in meeting where they have the mind!”

“What! do all the other dissenters of England submit to such a law?” exclaimed the stranger.

“Marry do they,” answered the artisan. “They pocket the affront, and conform in public to what is demanded, satisfying their consciences by worshipping together in private. Do you not know that every head of a family is fined a shilling on every Sunday that he neglects to attend the parish church? You can have been but a short time in England not to have heard of this.”

“Yes, indeed, my friend. My son and I landed but yesterday from a voyage across the Atlantic; and, except from the master and shipmen on board, we have heard but little of what has taken place in England for some years past.”

“Then take my advice, friend,” said the artisan. “Make all the inquiries you please, but utter not your opinions, as you were just now doing to me, or you may find yourself accused of I know not what, and clapped into jail, with slight chance of being set free again.”

“Thank you, friend,” said the stranger; “but will all these people submit to be treated thus by those few soldiers? By my faith, it’s more than I would, if I desired to enter yonder house of prayer.”

While this conversation was going on, the number of people in front of the Quaker’s meeting-house had greatly increased; and though the greater number appeared quietly disposed, there were evidently some hovering about, and others now elbowing their way through the crowd, who were inclined to create an uproar. At this juncture, the young gentleman who has already been described, stepping on one side of the street where the pavement was highest, took off his hat. “Silence, I pray you, dear friends; I would speak a few words,” he said, in a rich musical voice. “We came here purposing to enter yonder house, where we might worship God according to the dictates of our consciences, and exhort and strengthen one another; but it seemeth to me that those in authority have resolved to prevent our thus assembling. We are men of peace, and therefore must submit rather than use carnal weapons; and yet, friends, having the gift of speech, and the power of the pen, we must not cease to protest against being thus deprived of the liberty which Englishmen hold so dear.”

Chapter Two.

While the young man was speaking, the stranger and his son had worked their way close to the stout soldier-like man who has been described. The stranger’s eye fell on his countenance. He touched his son’s shoulder. “An old comrade in arms!” he whispered. “A truer man than Captain William Mead,—trusty Bill Mead, we used to call him,—never drew sword in the cause of liberty. If I can but catch his eye and get a grip of his honest hand, I will ask him who that young man can be,—a brave fellow, whoever he is.” In another instant the two old comrades had recognised each other.

“What, Christison! Nicholas Christison! is it thou?” exclaimed Captain Mead, examining the stranger’s countenance. “Verily, I thought thou wast no longer in the land of the living; but thou art welcome, heartily welcome. Come with me to my house in Cornhill, at the sign of the ‘Spinning Wheel,’ and thou shalt tell me where thou hast been wandering all this time; while, may be, we will have a talk of bygone days.”

“With all my heart,” answered Christison; “but tell me who is that noble youth addressing the people? He seems by his dress and bearing not one likely to utter such sentiments as are now dropping from his mouth!”

“Verily, he is not less noble in deed and word than in look,” answered Mead. “He is William Penn, the son of the admiral who fought so well for the Commonwealth, and now serves a master about whom the less we say the better.”

“I remember him well; a brave, sagacious man, but one who was ever ready to serve his own interest first, and those of his country afterwards. I should not have expected to find a son of his consorting with Quakers.”

“No, verily; as light from darkness, so does the son differ from the father in spiritual matters,” answered Mead. “The son has sacrificed all his worldly prospects for the sake of his own soul and for those of his fellow-creatures. In a righteous cause he fears no foes, temporal or spiritual; and is ready to lay down his life, if needs be, for the truth.”

“A brave youth he must be, by my troth,” observed Christison. “Wenlock, my boy, I pray Heaven you may be like him. I would rather have thee a thorough true-hearted man, than the first noble in the land.”

At this moment, Mead, who had been stopped by the crowd from making his way towards the place where William Penn was speaking, saw an opportunity of advancing, and again moved forward, accompanied by his old friend and his son. There was, indeed, a general movement in the crowd, and voices in tones of authority were heard shouting, “Make way there; make way!” The people who uttered these cries were soon recognised as sheriffs’ officers. They were advancing towards Penn. Their intention was evident.

“They are about to arrest him,” said Mead; “but he has done nothing worthy of bonds.”

“No, by my troth he has not,” exclaimed Christison; “and I would gladly, even now, strike a blow for the cause of liberty, and rescue him from their power, if they attempt to lay hands on him.”

“No, no, friend, put up thy sword,” said Mead; “we fight not with carnal weapons. He would not thank you for any such attempt on your part.”

By this time the constables had reached Penn, and informed him that he was their prisoner. Two others at the same time came up to where Mead was standing, and arrested him also. It was a sore trial to the old Republican officer to stand by and see his friend carried off to prison.

“By whose authority am I arrested?” asked Penn, turning with an air of dignity to the officers.

One of them immediately produced a document. “See here, young sir,” he said in an insulting tone, “This is our warrant! It is signed by the worshipful Lord Mayor, Sir Samuel Starling. I have a notion that neither you nor any of your friends would wish to resist it.”

“We resist no lawful authority; but I question how far this warrant is lawful,” answered the young Quaker. “Howbeit, if thou and thy companions use force, to force we yield, and must needs accompany thee whithersoever thou conductest us.”

“Farewell, old friend,” said Mead, shaking Christison by the hand, as the constables were about to lead him off. “I would rather have spent a pleasant evening with thee in my house than have had to pass it in a jail: but yet in a righteous cause all true men should be ready to suffer.”

“Indeed so, old comrade; and you know that I am not the man to desert you at a pinch. As we are not to pass the evening together at your house, I will spend it with you in jail. I suppose they will not exclude you from the society of your friends?”

Mead shrugged his shoulders. “It is hard to say how we may be treated, for we Quakers gain but scant courtesy or justice.”

These last remarks were made as Mead, with a constable on either side of him, was being led off with William Penn to the Guildhall.

The old Commonwealth officer and his son followed as close behind them as the shouting, jeering mob would allow them; Christison revolving in his mind how he should act best to render assistance to his old friend. At length they arrived at the hall where the Lord Mayor was sitting for the administration of justice.

Captain Christison and his son entered with others who found their way into the court. A short, though somewhat corpulent-looking gentleman, with ferrety eyes and rubicund nose, telling of numerous cups of sack which had gone down between the thick lips below it, occupied the magisterial chair.

“Who are these knaves?” he exclaimed, in a gruff voice, casting a fierce glance at the young William Penn and his companion, Captain Mead. “What! ye varlets, do you come into the presence of the Lord Mayor of London with your hats on? Ho! ho! I know you now,” he exclaimed, as an officer handed him a paper, while he turned his eyes especially on Penn. “Let me tell you, if you pay not proper respect to the court, I will have you carried to Bridewell and well whipped, you varlet, though you are the son of a Commonwealth admiral! Do you hear me, sirrah?”

“By my troth,” whispered Christison to his son. “I should like to rush in with my sword and stop that foul-speaking varlet’s mouth, Lord Mayor of London though he be. And now I look at him, I remember him well, Master Starling, a brawling supporter of the Protector when he was seated firmly at the head of Government. And now see, he is louder still in carrying out the evil designs of this Charles Stuart and his myrmidons.” These words, though said in a low voice, were not altogether inaudible to some of the by-standers.

“Beware!” said some one at his elbow.

To this tirade of the Lord Mayor, the young gentleman made no answer. “Do you hear me, sirrah?” he exclaimed again; “I speak to you, William Penn. You and others have unlawfully and tumultuously been assembling and congregating yourselves together for the purpose of creating a disturbance of the peace, to the great terror and annoyance of His Majesty’s liege people and subjects, and to the ill example of all others; and you have, in contempt of the law of the land, been preaching to a concourse of people whom you tumultuously assembled for the purpose of instigating them to rebel against His Majesty the king and the authorities of this city of London.”

“Verily, thou art misinformed and mistaken, sir,” answered the young man, in a calm voice. “I neither created a disturbance, nor did I utter words whereby any disturbance could have been created, while I have ever been a loyal and dutiful subject of King Charles as His Majesty.”

“Ho! ho! ho! you have come here to crow high, I warrant you,” exclaimed Sir Samuel Starling; “and your companion, Master Mead, will, I warrant, declare himself equally innocent of offence!”

“Thou speakest truly, friend,” answered Captain Mead; “I was the cause of no disturbance, as all those present very well know; for no disturbance indeed took place, while my principles forbid me to oppose the authorities that be.”

These calm answers only seemed to enrage Sir Samuel Starling, who, heaping further abuse on the prisoners, exclaimed, “Take the varlets off to the ‘Black Dog’ in Newgate Market; there they shall remain in durance till they are tried for their crimes at the Old Bailey, and we shall then see whether this young cock-of-the-woods will crow as loudly as he now does.”

Young Wenlock could with difficulty restrain his father’s indignation when he heard this order pronounced by the city magistrate. He however, managed to get him out of the court.

“We will go and see where they are lodged, at all events,” said the captain, who at length yielded to his son’s expostulation. “Perchance I may render my old friend Mead, and that noble young fellow Penn, some assistance.”

Chapter Three.

In a dirty, ill-ventilated room in a low sponging-house in Newgate Market, known as the “Black Dog,” two persons were seated. Cobwebs hung from the windows and the corners of the ceiling, occupied by huge, active spiders, lying in wait for some of the numerous flies which swarmed on the dust-covered panes. On the walls were scrawled numerous designs, executed by the prisoners who had from time to time occupied the room, to while away their hours of durance. The air felt close and sultry, the heat increased by the rays of the sinking sun, which found their way in by the window, through which also entered unpleasant odours ascending from the court-yard below. One of the persons, whose handsome dress contrasted strangely with the appearance of the room, was busy writing at a rickety table. With youth, wealth, talents, a fair fame, the godson of the future monarch of England, he might, had he so willed, have been a peer of he realm, the founder of a noble family. The other, who has been described as Captain Mead, rose from his seat, and walked up and down with somewhat impatient steps. “I am writing to my dear father to tell him the cause of my absence,” said young Penn, stopping for a moment. “I fear that his sickness is very serious, and deep is my regret to be kept away from him; yet do I glory in thus suffering for the great and noble principles for which we are striving,—liberty of conscience, liberty of action. What is life worth to man without these? And yet our infatuated countrymen run a great risk of losing both, if they refuse to listen to the voice of warning, and to prepare in time for the threatened danger.” Just then a turnkey opened the door, and in an impudent tone of voice said, “Here’s a man and a lad come to see Master Mead. There, go

in and sit as long as you please, till the hour arrives when all visitors must be turned out.”

“Ah! friend Christison and thy fine boy, thou art welcome to this our somewhat sorry abode,” said Mead. “I would rather have seen thee at my family board this evening, as I had proposed; but we must submit to the powers that be. I will now make thee known to our friend Master William Penn, whose father thou and I served under in days gone by.”

“Ay, marry, I remember him well!” exclaimed Christison. “We were with him when he chased that piratical, malignant Rupert, and well-nigh caught him. Many a rich argosy would have been preserved to the Commonwealth had we succeeded; but the devil favours his children, and the rover got off.”

“We will not now speak of those times,” said Mead. “I am not surprised to hear thee, old comrade, allude to them thus; but I, now taught better, have laid aside the use of carnal weapons.”

“Well, well, I know you will always do as your conscience dictates,” said Christison; “and gladly do I shake hands with the son of my old commander.”