A Story of Quaker Persecution

BY

EMMA LESLIE

AUTHOR OF

"AUDREY'S JEWELS," "AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUE BOAR,"

"FOR FRANCE AND FREEDOM," ETC. ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD

II. DAME DRAYTON

III. AUDREY LOWE

IV. THE RIVER GARDEN

V. ONE SUNDAY MORNING

VI. A DESOLATE HOUSEHOLD

VII. SIR WILLIAM PENN

VIII. CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I.

A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD.

"HUSH, hush, Dorothy! Thee must not cry, for fear they should hear thee, and come and look for us. The Lord will take care of us, now He hath called mother and father to witness for the truth."

These words were spoken in a whisper to the little sister who lay trembling in her arms, but there was something like a gasping sob in Bessie Westland's voice, though she tried to speak bravely and calmly, for fear the two younger sisters should grow more frightened.

But the mention of their mother brought back all the trouble, and in spite of the warning words both burst into tears, while Dorothy sobbed out—

"Oh, where have the cruel soldiers taken mother? Will they burn her, think ye, Bessie?"

"Nay, nay, the Smithfield burnings are ended; there have been none of late. King Charles—"

"Down with the Quakers!" shouted a hoarse voice close to their hiding-place, and Bessie, who was holding the string of the cellar door, felt her whole body shake with terror, for if the mob should find them there was no telling what they might do. So with the cellar door string in one hand, she held the frightened children close to her with the other, as they sat cowering in the dark, and listening to the angry threats of their rude neighbours, whom her father had so often warned to flee from the wrath to come.

"Turn out the rats' nest!" called another voice; and it was clear, from the sound of trampling feet and the breaking of furniture, that the mob were doing their best to fulfil the threats of vengeance against the unfortunate Quakers.

"King Charles has let us see now who are the law-breakers, and who gets their ears slit off," said a man who had posted himself close to the cellar door, while the rest ransacked cupboards and chests for what they could find, as nobody was likely to bring them to account for sacking the house of a convict Quaker.

They seemed to have forgotten the children who were hiding in the cellar, for this man stood with his back against the door and talked, while the rest searched every room and corner, evidently thinking that it was their lawful spoil, now that the owners had been carried off to prison.

How long they sat huddled together in the damp dark cellar, listening to the destruction of their home, and the threats against father and mother, they never knew; but to Bessie and her frightened sisters it seemed hours and hours before the people began to go away, and they were in constant terror lest some one should pull the door open and reveal their hiding-place.

At last the house began to grow more quiet. The man moved away from the door, and little Rose Westland ventured to lift her head from her sister's lap.

"How long shall we have to stay here?" she asked in a trembling whisper.

"Hast thou forgotten mother's words already? how she bade us stay close in the cellar until the Lord sent His messenger to deliver us?"

"But it is so dark," objected Dorothy; for now that the house was left in peace, the child thought she might peep out and see what mischief had been done, and she said so.

"Nay; nay," replied Bessie in a solemn whisper; "we must obey mother, and wait here for the Lord's messenger."

Her fingers were stiff and cramped, and her arm ached from holding the string so tightly, but she would not let it fall. "We are safe here; mother said they would not come to the cellar, and thee seest she was right. Now we must wait; the Lord will nathless send His messenger soon." And then Bessie relapsed into silence, to listen for the messenger who should come to their rescue.

The day before, their father had been carried off while preaching a few yards from his own house, and at sunrise that morning a party of soldiers had knocked at the door with a warrant to take their mother to gaol also, for she had been preaching and teaching, in spite of the warnings issued to all Quakers and seditious persons against unlawful assemblies.

Before she went away, she bade Bessie take her younger sisters and hide with them in the cellar. And here they, had been crouching in one corner ever since, too frightened to feel hungry, and sick and faint from terror and exhaustion, yet confidently expecting that God would send help to them, though who would be brave enough to come to the rescue of poor Quaker children, Bessie did not know.

Meanwhile, the prisoner, as she was hurried along the streets by the soldiers, was recognised by one and another she knew, so some of the little Society of Friends soon heard that one of their number had been arrested, and several went to the court where the prisoner was first taken, and there contrived to get a word with her, and to these she said, "The children are in the cellar."

It would be sufficient, she knew, for the committee of suffering formed for the relief of distress would help them somehow, and the brave-hearted woman felt she could go to prison cheerfully if her children were taken care of.

An hour later there was a meeting at the house of one who knew the Westlands, to consider the case of the children, and there it was decided that a messenger should fetch them by water from the Tower Stairs, and they would be quartered upon three Friends living near, one of their number undertaking to manage this delicate business.

At the corner of Soper Lane he met one of those he was in search of, and told him his errand.

"It is thought likely that Friend Westland may be sent out to Jamaica or His Majesty's plantation of Virginia, or he may escape with a fine and the loss of his other ear, so that he may be able to maintain his family again by and by."

"True, friend; but none can tell how soon thy home and mine may also be desolated, and therefore should we be careful how we take charges we are not able to fulfil," said the other, hastily looking round lest any one should overhear what they were talking about, and suspect them of being Quakers.

"But surely we may trust the Lord to provide for us and our little ones?" returned the other in a tone of protest.

"Yea, yea, I doubt it not, friend; but still I hold that we should not run needlessly into danger, and this affair of Westland's is becoming the town talk, and to bring his children among our own just now will be to invite persecution. Wait awhile, and then we shall see."

"See them starving," interrupted the other, with most un-Quaker-like haste and heat; for the thought of this family of little children being left to the tender mercies of a world that was so cruel to Quakers, made his naturally quick temper rise against the extreme caution of his companion, and without waiting to say another word he turned and walked in the direction of his own home.

It was not far from where they had been standing, and in a few minutes he reached the door, which was almost instantly opened by his wife, who had been waiting and watching for his return for nearly an hour.

"Now the Lord be praised for bringing thee back to me in safety once more," said Dame Drayton in a glad whisper, as she closed the street door, while her husband hung up his cloak and tall steeple-shaped hat on the peg in the entry.

"What news?" she asked.

"Bad enough, Martha. Westland is condemned to lose his ears and then be banished to the plantations of Jamaica or Virginia—I am not certain which—and his wife is to be imprisoned in Bridewell until she has earned sufficient to pay the charge of her own transport to join him."

"And they have children, Gilbert," said his wife in a pitying tone, lifting her eyes wistfully to her husband's face, as if mutely asking what they were to do for these.

He understood the look.

"We will ask counsel of the Lord first, and the inner voice will teach us what we ought to do," he said gravely. And as he spoke he turned down a passage leading to his workshop, while his wife went into the kitchen to superintend the preparation of dinner.

As they silently pursued their daily tasks, each lifted their heart to God for guidance, and then listened for the voice of the Holy Spirit to show them what they ought to do.

Two little girls were being taught meanwhile how to help in chopping suet, washing currants, and pounding savoury herbs, which would all be required for dinner. They understood, when they saw their mother close her eyes for a moment, that they were not to talk or ask questions; but before the morning tasks were over, they were startled by being asked whether they would like some brothers and sisters to come and live with them.

"Will they be 'prentices?" inquired the elder, a girl of ten or twelve.

"Why dost thee ask that, Betty?" said her mother.

"Because 'prentices eat so much bread. Deb says she will have to bake and brew again to-morrow, they eat so much."

"Poor Deb is nathless weary, or she would not grudge the labour, since the Lord hath sent meal and malt sufficient for all our wants. That is why thee must learn to do what thee can in the kitchen when thou art not learning from the horn book—that must by no means be neglected. Now, Betty, if thou bast finished those currants, thee may take Hannah and help her with her lesson until I can come to thee."

"But thou hast not told us about the new brothers and sisters," said the younger, a little fair-haired girl whose curls could not be persuaded to lie hidden under the close linen cap, but would peep out all round neck and face, in a fashion that annoyed Dame Drayton sometimes.

"Go with Betty to the keeping-room and learn the spelling task; it may be thee will hear and learn something more than the horn book can teach thee if thou dost ponder over my question. Think of it well, and all it will mean to thee—about the extra baking and brewing. Thee may leave Deborah and I to think," added the mother with a gentle smile on her lips, as the two little girls left the room.

For her own part she had no doubt as to the voice within her, and she longed for dinner time to come, to know what her husband would say. Of course she would wait and hear what he should propose first, but she would contrive to let him know that the Spirit had spoken with no uncertain voice to her.

Master Drayton was a hatter, working with two apprentices at the back of the house, in pasting and pressing the various shaped hats that at present found favour with the London public.

A glance at Master Drayton's workshop would have told the stranger that the country was in a period of transition, for there were tall steeple-crowned hats such as were fashionable in the time of the Lord-Protector Cromwell, but there were quite as many low and broad-brimmed, that would be adorned with a long ostrich feather before they were placed in the fashionable shop window; and Master Drayton often thought of the changes he had seen during the last few years.

But Puritan and Cavalier alike were united in their hatred of Quakers, and it seemed as though they would surely be exterminated between the two. Yet they all worshipped the same God and Father in heaven, and professed to love and serve the same Lord and Saviour who had died to redeem them.

Some such thoughts as these were passing through the hatter's mind as he stood silently directing the labours of one of his 'prentice lads; for even in the workshop the Quaker rule of silence, where words were not actually needed, held full sway, and so, except for the movement of fingers and tools, and the slight noise thus caused, this hat factory was as silent as a church.

"Thee must be more careful not to waste," was Master Drayton's only word of reproof to a clumsy lad who had just spoiled a hat he was making; but the words were so gravely spoken, that the lad reproved felt heartily sorry for his stupidity, and wished he could repair the mischief he had wrought.

When the dinner bell rang, master and apprentices took off their aprons, washed their hands at the pump outside the door, and then went to the fresh sanded dining-room, where Dame Drayton and the two little girls had already taken their seats, with Deborah, the matronly maid-of-all work.

There was a silent pause before the meal was served, but no spoken words of prayer broke the silence.

The plain but bountiful repast was eaten without a word being spoken beyond what was needful, and yet it was by no means a dull and gloomy family gathering.

Dame Drayton, from her place at the foot of the table, beamed upon her husband and his apprentices as though they had been honoured guests, and the little girls smiled gravely but sweetly, seconding their mother's welcome. There were little courteous nods and smiles too, as the bright pewter plates were passed to the master to be filled, the boys forgetting their hunger in their eagerness to see their mistress served first. Deborah might sometimes grudge the labour of making up so much bread, but as she looked at the boys and noted how they enjoyed their meals, she felt content. Mistress and maid often interchanged looks of amused interest, as pies, puddings, and pasties vanished before the healthy appetites.

An atmosphere of peace and content pervaded this household, that needed no words, for it found expression in acts of kindness and courtesy, and looks and smiles of tender love. Indeed, it seemed as though the very repression of all utterance filled the silence with a power of peace and restfulness that no one desired to break.

When the meal was over, the two lads helped Deborah to carry the plates and dishes to the kitchen, the little girls went to walk round the garden, and husband and wife drew together at the window.

"Thou hast thought of my words this morning, dear heart, I can see," said Master Drayton with a smile, as he took his wife's hand.

"Thee knowest it would be grievous to part these little children, Gilbert. The voice of God to me is, that we bring them to dwell here with our little ones."

"But, Martha, hast thou thought what this will mean to thee and Deborah? Three children are no light charge, my wife."

"True, Gilbert; but if the Lord send them, He will natheless give grace and strength to bear with them."

"But the committee of suffering have not apportioned them all to thee, one only to—"

"The committee are natheless wise men," said his wife quickly; "but the Lord's voice can be heard by a woman in the stillness of her home, more clearly, concerning the welfare of little children, and the voice to me is, 'Part not these little ones.' If another would fain receive them, even so let it be; but add not grief to grief, by laying a further burden upon these tender witnesses for the truth. It is enough that their parents are torn from them; let them have the comfort of abiding together, wherever their home may be."

For gentle Dame Drayton to make such a long speech as this, made her husband open his eyes in silent amazement; but it was sufficient to convince him that she felt very strongly about the matter, and this was doubtless the Lord's voice in her heart, or she would not thus have spoken. So after a minute's pause he said, "I will see what Friend Briggs thinks of thy word, and if he wills to take the three children he will natheless tell me. If not, I will fetch them hither at sundown."

There was no further need of words about the matter, and none were spoken. The hatter returned to his workshop, and the busy housewife took out her spinning-wheel; for if these children came to her poorly provided with clothes, she would need to draw upon her store in the linen-press, and so there would be the more need for its replenishment.

But while Dame Drayton's spinning-wheel hummed to the pleasant measure of her thoughts and plans for the children she was ready to welcome to her home, her husband was revolving the same matter in his mind, but in a fashion his wife had never glanced at. He was wondering what the committee of suffering would think of his wife's proposal, in view of the fact that she was not held to be a good Quakeress by the leaders of their district meeting. The cause of this was that she refused to give up entirely her attendance at "a steeple-house," as the Quakers called a church. She was born in Maiden Lane, and had attended All Hallow's Church in Bread Street since she was a child, and there she still took her own children sometimes, since they had been roughly driven out of White Swan Court, where their own meeting-house stood.

Now, the leaders among this little company of Quakers maintained that, for a woman to take her children to "a steeple-house," in preference to a Friends' meeting-house, because a party of rough soldiers had driven back the worshippers in the name of the king two or three times lately, was a weak compliance to the enemy, that must be strongly condemned. Dame Drayton had pleaded that her elder child was a weak and nervous girl, who had been unable to sleep without terrifying dreams, after the encounter with the soldiers, especially as they had the pain of seeing one of their friends carried off to prison by them. These sturdy witnesses for the truth, as it was held and taught by George Fox, thought the best way to overcome such nervous terror on the part of a child, was to accustom her to the sight of thus witnessing to the truth, and she was commanded to attend her district meeting-house, and bring her children with her, each First Day that it was open for worship.

Now Dame Drayton was as devout a Quakeress as any among them, but she had not so learned the truth either from the lips of George Fox or from the Bible, which she diligently studied.

"I am a child of God, and therefore I may not be in bondage to any man," she pleaded. "God can speak to me by the weak voice of my little child as well as by the committee of discipline," she said, when her husband reluctantly brought her the message passed at their monthly meeting, commanding her attendance at worship whenever the leaders should deem it safe to hold such a meeting, for this was not always possible at the present time of persecution.

That one so gentle, and seemingly so timid and compliant, should dare to disobey this command, was a great surprise to many; but Dame Drayton's love for her weakly child was stronger than her fear of those in authority, and so she held on her way, going herself to the meeting-house occasionally, but always taking her children to All Hallow's Church, where, as she said, they could worship God with other servants who were striving to do His will, though they were not Quakers.

This breach of discipline on the part of one of their number was a sore fret to many among the little company, for in all else Dame Drayton had proved a most exemplary member, one who was ever ready to help and succour the distressed, either among themselves or the poor who were often dependent upon them.

Now as the hatter mused over his work, he feared that when he made his appeal to be allowed to have Westland's three children, his wife's breach of discipline would be remembered against her, and they would view this demand on her part as another impeachment of their wisdom in selecting homes for them; and so it was by no means an easy or pleasant task that he had undertaken, for he felt sure his request would be refused as soon as it was made. However, as the children were to be fetched that evening, there was little time for him to ponder over the matter, and so soon as his work for the day was finished, and the apprentices dismissed, he put on his hat and cloak, and hurried off to the house of one of the committee, to consult him upon the matter, for he had agreed to meet the messenger at Triggs' Stairs, who was to bring the children by water from Southwark that evening.