I HAVE had it on my mind, for some years past, to commit to writing some me­morable passages, the chief of which were transacted in my time, together with some short account of our family.

My grandfather's name was JOHN ROBERTS, alias HAYWARD. He liv'd at a village called Siddington, within a mile of Cirencester, in Gloucestershire. I have heard he lived reputably on a little estate of his own, which he occupied. He married MARY SOLLISS, sister to ANDREW SOLISS, Esq who was in the commission of the peace, and sustain'd great spoil in the time of the civil war between king CHARLES I. and the parliament. I have heard a colonel and his men and horses quartered themselves upon him a considerable time together, turn­ing their horses to the corn and hay mows.

My father and his next neighbour went into the army under Oliver Cromwel, and continued till they heard Cirencester was taken by the king's party; when they thought proper to return home, to see how it fared with their parents and relations.

[Page 4]As they were passing by Cirencester, they were disco­vered and pursued by two soldiers of the king's party (then in possession of the town.) Seeing themselves pur­sued, they quitted their horses, and took to their heels: but by reason of their accoutrements could make little speed. They came up with my father first; and tho' he begged for quarter, none would they give him; but laid on him with their swords, cutting and slashing his hands and arms, which he held up to save his head; as the marks upon them did long after testify. At length it pleased the Almighty to put it into his mind to fall down on his face; which he did. Hereupon the soldiers being on horseback, cry'd to each other, alight, and cut his throat! But neither of them did; yet continued to strike and prick him about the jaws, 'til they thought him dead. Then they left him, and pursued his neighbour, whom they presently overtook and kill'd. Soon after they had left my father, it was said in his heart, Rise, and flee for thy life; which call he obeyed; and starting upon his feet, his enemies espy'd him in motion, and pur­sued him again. He ran down a steep hill, and through a river, which ran at the bottom of it; tho' with ex­ceeding difficulty, his boots filling with water, and his wounds bleeding very much. They followed him to the top of the hill; but, seeing he had got over, they pur­sued him no further. He was at a loss which way to take in this wounded and disconsolate condition, being surrounded with enemies on every hand. At length he determined to go to his uncle Solliss's; from whence he sent a servant to a widow at Cirencester (at whose house the chief officers lay) with whom he was acquainted, de­siring her to come to him; which she readily did, and offered him all the service in her power He desired her, as the principal officers lay at her house, to use her in­terest with them to give command that none of the sol­diers might offer him any abuse. Which she effected; [...] in good-will to her they likewise sent their ablest sur­geon to him. He was a man of great skill, but of a sour disposition; for he told my father, if he had met him in the field, he would have kill'd him himself; but now (said he) I'll [Page 5] cure you; which he did. When my father found himself able, he went to his father's house, and found him very ill in bed. They greeted each other with many tears, and a great intermixture of joy and sorrow. After some time my father perceived him to tremble to such a degree, that the bed shook under him. Upon which my father asked him how it was with him? He replied, ‘I am well. I feel no pain. 'Tis the mighty power of God that shakes me.’ After lying still some time, he broke out in a sweet melody of spirit, saying, "In the Lord only have I righteousness and strength! In God have I salvation!" I don't remember to have heard he said any thing more before his departure.

The civil war continuing, my father found he could not be safe at home; and therefore he went again, and continued till near the conclusion of that dreadful erup­tion: when he returned again to his sorrowful family at Siddington. After some time he took to wife Lydia Tin­dal, daughter of Thomas Tindal of Slincomb, near Dur­sley, a religious family, and one of those under the de­nomination of Puritans. Matthew Hale (afterwards lord chief justice of England) was her kinsman, and drew her marriage-settlement. It pleased God to give them six children, viz. John, Joseph, Lydia, Thomas, Nathani­el, and Daniel. Joseph and Lydia died young; Thomas was kill'd at the age of fourteen, by a kick from a mare; the rest lived to man's estate.

In the year 1665, it pleased the Lord to send two women friends out of the North to Cirencester, who en­quiring after such as feared God, were directed to my fa­ther, as the likeliest person to entertain them. They came to his house, and desired a meeting. He granted it, and invited several of his acquaintance to sit with them. After some time of silence, the friends spake a few words, which had a good effect. After the meeting, my father endeavoured to engage them in discourse: but they said little, only recommended him to Richard Farnsworth, then a prisoner for the testimony of Truth in Banbury jail, to whom they were going. Upon this recommendation my father went shortly after to the pri­son, [Page 6] in order to converse with Richard; where he met with the two women who had been at his house. The turnkey was denying them entrance, and telling them he had an order not to let any of those giddy-headed people in; and therefore if they did go in, he would keep them there: But upon my father's desire they were admitted in along with him, and conducted through several rooms to a dungeon, where Richard Farnsworth was preaching through a grate to the people in the street; but soon af­ter they came in, he desisted; and, after a little time of silence, turning to them, he spake to this purpose: ‘That Zacheus, being a man of low stature, and having a mind to see Christ, ran before, and climb'd up into a sycamore tree: and our Saviour, knowing his good desires, call'd to him, Zacheus, come down. This day is salvation come to thy house. Thus, Zacheus was like some in our day, who are climbing up into the tree of know­ledge, thinking to find Christ there. But the word now is, Zacheus come down, come down; for that which is to be known of God, is manifested within.’ This, with more to the same purpose, was spoken in such authority, that, when my father came home, he told my mother he had seen Richard Farnsworth, who had spoke to his con­dition as if he had known him from his youth. From this time he patiently bore the cross; afterwards, when it pleased God to communicate to him a portion of the knowledge of his blessed Truth, a necessity was laid upon him one first-day morning to go to the public worship-house in Cirencester in the time of worship, not knowing what might be required of him there. He went, and, standing with his hat on, the priest was silent for some time: but being asked why he did not go on? he an­swered, he could not, while that man stood with his hat on. Upon this some took him by the arm, and led him into the street, staying at the door to keep him out: but after waiting a little in stillness, he sound himself clear, and passed away. As he passed the market-place, the tie of his shoe slacken'd; and while he stooped down to fasten it, a man came behind him, and struck him on the back a hard blow with a stone, saying, There, take that for Je­sus [Page 7] Christ's sake. He answered, so I do; not looking back to see who it was, but quietly going his way. A few days after a man came and asked him forgiveness; tell­ing him he was the unhappy man that gave him the blow on his back, and he could have no rest since he had done it.

Not long after, three Friends came that way, who found the like concern, viz. Robert Silvester, Philip Grey, and Thomas Onyon These standing in the steeple-house with their hats on, tho' they said nothing, the priest was silent: And being asked if he was not well? he answered, he could not go forward whilst those dumb dogs stood there. Wherefore the people dragged them out: and the priest afterwards informing a justice that they had inter­rupted him in divine service, they were bound over to the quarter-sessions. My father, at their desire, accom­panyed them to the sessions: and when they were called and the priest had accused them, the bench, in a rage, without asking them any questions, ordered their mitti­mus's to be made. This unjust and illegal proceeding kindled my father's zeal, insomuch that he stepping for­ward, called to the justices, saying, Are not those who sit on the bench sworn to do justice? Is there not a man among you that will do the thing that is right? Whereupon John Ste­phens, of Lipeat (then chairman) cry'd out, Who are you sirrah? What is your name? My father telling him his name, he said, I am glad I have you here: I have heard of you: you deserve a stone doublet: there's many an honester man than you hang'd. It may be so, answered my father: but what do'st thou think becomes of those who hang honest men? The justice reply'd, I'll send you to prison; and if any insurrection or tumult be in the land, I'll come and cut your throat first with my own sword; for I fear to sleep in my bed, lest such fanatics should come and cut my throat: and, snatching up a ball of wax, he violent­ly threw it at my father; who avoided the blow by step­ping aside. Their mittimus's were then made, and they were all sent to prison.

The same evening my uncle Solliss, who was one of the justices on the bench, came to the prison, and calling for [Page 8] my father, asked him if he was willing to have his liberty to go home to his wife and family? Upon [...]? said my father.

Upon such terms, that the jailor open the door, and let you out.

What! without entering into any recog­nizance?

Yes.

Then I accept of my liberty. But ad­mire, uncle, how thou and several others could sit upon the bench as with your thumbs in your mouths, when you should speak a word in behalf of the innocent.

You must learn to live under a law, cousin. And if you will accept of your liberty till next sessions, you may have it: if not, stay where you are.

So they parted; and on the morrow my father went home, having also the jailor's leave.

In the night a concern came upon him, with such weight, that it made him tremble till the bed shook under him. My mother asking the reason of it, he answered: The Lord requires hard things of me: if it would please him, I had rather lay down my life than obey him in what he requires at my hands. To which my mother reply'd: ‘If thou art fully persuaded the Lord requires it of thee, I would not have thee disobey him; for he will require nothing of us but what he will enable us to go through: Therefore we have good cause to trust in him.’ On which he said, I must go to this John Stephens, who is my great enemy, and sent me to prison, where he said he would secure me; and as my uncle Solliss in kindness has given me leave to come home, I can expect no savour from him, if I now go and run myself into the mouth of my adversary. But I must go whatever I suffer. He arose, and prepared for his journey; but durst eat or drink nothing. When he mounted his horse, the com­mand of the Lord was unto him, Remember Lot's wife: look not back. So on he rode very chearfully 8 or 9 miles, till he came within sight of the justice's house, and then he let in the reasoner, who reasoned him out of all his courage, presenting to his mind, that his uncle Solliss [Page 9] and his neighbours would say he had no regard for his wife and family, thus to push himself into the hands of his greatest enemy. This brought such a cloud over his mind, that he alighted off his horse, and sat down upon the ground, to spread his cause before the Lord. After he had waited sometime in silence, the Lord appeared, and dissipated the cloud, and his word was to him, Go, and I will go with thee, and will give thee a threshing instru­ment, and thou shalt thresh the mountains. Now he was ex­ceedingly overcome with the love of God: and I have often heard him say, he was filled like a vessel that want­ed vent, and said in his heart, Thy presence is enough, pro­ceeding to the house with great satisfaction. It being pretty early in the morning, and seeing the stable door open, he went to the groom, and desired him to put up his horse. While this was doing, the justice's son and his clerk came up, the latter roughly said "I thought you had been in Gloucester castle."

So I was.

And how came you out?

When thou hast authority to demand it, I can give thee an answer. But my business is with thy master, if I may speak with him.

You may, if you'll promise to be civil.

If thou seest me uncivil, I desire thee to tell me of it.

They went in; and my father following them, they bid him take a turn in the hall, and they would acquaint the justice of his being there. He was soon called in; and my father no sooner saw him, but he believed the Lord had been at work upon him: for, as he had be­haved to him with the fierceness of a lion before, he now appeared like a lamb, meeting him with a pleasant coun­tenance, and, taking him by the hand, said, "Friend Haywood, how do you do▪" My father answered, pretty well; and then proceeded thus; I am come in the fear and dread of heaven, to warn thee to repent of thy wickedness with speed, lest the Lord cut the thread of thy life, and send thee to the pit that is bottomless. I am come to warn thee, in great love, whether thou wilt hear or forbear, and to preach the ever­lasting [Page 10] Gospel to thee. The justice reply'd, ‘You are a welcome messenger to me, that is what I have long desired to hear.’ The everlasting Gospel (returned my father) is the same that God sent his servant John to declare, when he saw an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, ‘Fear God, and give glory to his name, and worship him who made heaven and earth, the sea, and the fountains of water.’ The justice then caused my father to sit down by him on a couch; and said, ‘I believe your message is of God, and I receive it as such. I am sorry I have done you wrong: and I will never wrong you more. I would pray you to forgive me, and to pray to God to forgive me.’ After much more discourse, he offered my father the best entertain­ment his house afforded; but my father excused himself from eating or drinking with him at that time, express­ing his kind acceptance of his love; and so in much love they parted.

The same day William Dewsberry had appointed a meeting at Tedbury; whither my mother went. But she was so concerned on account of my father's exercise, that she could receive little benefit from the meeting. After the meeting was ended, William Dewsberry walk'd to and fro in a long passage, groaning in spirit; and by and by came up to my mother, and, tho' she was a stranger to him, he laid his hand upon her head, and said. "Woman thy sorrow is great: I sorrow with thee." Then walking a little to and fro, as before, he came to her again, and said, ‘Now the time is come, that these who marry, must be as tho' they married not, and those who have husbands, as though they had none; for the Lord calls for all to be offered up.’ By this she saw the Lord had given him a sense of her great burthen; for she had not discovered her exercise to any: And it gave her such ease in her mind, that she went home rejoicing in the Lord. She no sooner got home, but she found my fa­ther returned from Lypeat, where his message was re­ceived in such love, as was far from their expectation; the sense of which brake them into tears, in considerati­tion [Page 11] of the great goodness of God, in so eminently mak­ing way for, and helping them that day.

At the next sessions my father and the three Friends appeared in court; where, as soon as justice Stephens espy'd them, he called to my father, and said, ‘John, I accept of your appearance, and discharge you, and the court discharges. You may go about your busi­ness.’ But my father thinking his work not done, did not hasten out of court. Upon which the clerk demand­ed his fees. What! dost mean money? says my father. "Yes: what do you think I mean?" says the clerk. My father reply'd, I don't know that I owe any man here any thing but love, and must I now purchase my liberty with money? I don't accept it on such terms.

An't please your worship, John won't pay the fees of the court.

I don't accept my liberty on such terms.

Then he was ordered to prison with the three friends. But in the evening the clerk discharged them, and ever after carried himself very kindly to my father.

He was afterwards cast into prison at Cirencester, by George Bull, vicar of Upper-Siddington, for tythes. Where was confined at the same time, upon the same account, Elizabeth Hewlings, a widow of Amney, near Cirencester. She was a good christian, and so good a midwife that her confinement was a loss to that side of the country; insomuch, that lady Dunch, of Down-Amney, thought it would be an act of charity to the neighbourhood to purchase her liberty, by paying the priest's demand; which she did. She likewise came to Cirencester in a coach, and sent her footman Alexander Cornwall, to the prison to bring Elizabeth to her. And while Elizabeth was making ready to go with the man, my father and he fell into a little discourse. He asked my father his name, and where his home was; which when my father had told him. ‘What! (said he) are you that John Haywood of Siddington, who keeps great conventicles at your house?’ My father answered, The church of Christ often meets at my house. I suppose I am the man thou meanest. ‘I have often (replyed Cornwall) [Page 12] heard my lady speak of you, and I am sure she would gladly be acquainted with you.’ When he returned to his lady, he told her he had met with such a man in the prison as he believed she would not suffer to lie in prison for conscience-sake; informing her withal who he was. She immediately bid him to go back and fetch him to her. Accordingly he came to the jail, and told my fa­ther his lady wanted to speak with him. My father an­swered, If any body would speak with me, they must come where I am; for I am a prisoner. ‘Oh (said Cornwall) I'll get leave of the jailor for you to go.’ Which he did. And when they came before the lady, she put on a ma­jestic air, to see how the Quaker would greet her. He went up towards her, and bluntly said, Woman, wouldst thou speak with me.

What is your name?

My name is John Roberts, but I am commonly known by the name of John Haywood in the place where I live.

Where do you live?

At a village called Siddington, about a mile distant from this town.

Are you the man that keeps conventicles at your house?

The church of Christ do often meet at my house. I presume I am the man that thou meanest.

What do you lie in prison for?

Because, for conscience-sake, I cant't pay an hireling priest what he demands of me; therefore he, like the false prophets of old, prepares war against me, because I can't put into his mouth.

By what I have heard of you, I took you to be a wise man, and if you could not pay him yourself, you might let somebody else pay him for you.

That would be underhand dealing, and I had rather pay him myself, than be such a hypocrite.

Then suppose some neighbour or friend should pay him for you, unknown to you, you would choose not to lie in prison when you might have your liberty.

I am very well content where I am, till it shall please God to make way for my freedom.

I have a mind to set you at liberty, that I may have some of your company, which I cannot well have while you are in the prison.

Then, speaking to her man, she bid him go to the priest's attorney, and tell him she would satisfy him, and then pay the jailor his fees and get a horse for my father to go to Down-Amney with her.

If thou art a charitable woman, as I take thee to be, there are abroad in the world many real objects of charity on whom to bestow thy boun­ty: but to feed such devourers as these, I don't think to be charity. They are like Pharaoh's lean kine; they eat up the fat and the goodly, and look not a whit the better.

Well; I would have you get ready to go with us.

I don't know thou art like to have me when thou hast bought and paid for me: for if I may have my liberty, I shall think it my place to be at home with my wife and family. But if thou desirest it, I in­tended to come and see thee at Down-Amney some o­ther time.

That will suit me better. But set your time, and I'll lay aside all other business to have your com­pany.

If it please God to give me life, health, and liberty, I intend to come on seventh day next, the day thou callest saturday.

Is that as far as you used to promise?

Yes.

According to his appointment, my father went; and found her very inquisitive about the things of God, and very attentive to the truths he delivered. She engaged him likewise a second time▪ and treated him with a­bundance of regard. A third time she bid her man Cornwall to go to him and desire him to appoint a day when he would pay her another visit: and then ordered him to go to the priest Careless, of Cirencester, and desire him to come and take a dinner with her at the same time; and not let either of them know the other [Page 14] was to be there. On the day appointed my father went; and when he had got within sight of her house, he heard a horse behind him, and looking back, he saw the priest following him which made him conclude the lady had projected to bring them together. When the priest came up to him, "Well overtaken, John (said he) how far are you going this way?" My father answered ‘ I believe we are both going to the same places What! (said Careless) are you going to the great house?’ Yes, said my father. "Come on then John," said he. So then they went in together. And the lady being ill in bed, a servant went up and informed her they were come. "What! (said she) did they come together?" Yes answered the servant. ‘I admire at that (said she). But do you beckon John out▪ and bring him to me first up the back stairs.’ When my father came up, she told him she had been very ill in a fit of the stone, and said, "I have heard you have done good in many distempers.

I confess I have; but to this of the stone I am a stranger. Indeed I once knew a man, who lived at ease, and fared delicately, as thou may'st do, and whilst he continued in that practice he was much afflicted with that distemper. But it pleased the Lord to visit him with the knowledge of his blessed truth, which brought him to a more regular and temperate life, and this preserved him more free from it.

Oh! I know what you aim at. You want to have me a Quaker. And I confess, if I could be such an one as you are, I would be a Quaker tomorrow.— But I understand Mr Careless is below; and tho' you are men of different persuasions, I account you both wise and godly men, and some moderate discourse of the things of God between you, I believe would do me good.

If he ask me any questions, as the Lord shall enable me▪ I shall endeavour to give him an an­swer.

She then had the parson up: and after a compliment or two, she said, I made bold to send for you to take an [Page 15] ordinary dinner with me, tho' I am disappointed of your company by my illness. But John Haywood and you, being persons of different persuasions, (tho' I be­lieve both good christians) if you would soberly ask and answer each other a few questions, it would divert me; so that I should be less sensible of the pains I lie under.

An't please your ladyship, I see nothing in that.

Pray Mr. Careless, ask John some questions.

It will not edify your ladyship; for I have dis­coursed John, and several others of his persuasion, divers times, and I have read their books, and all to no pur­pose; for they sprang from the Papists, and hold the same doctrine the Papists do. Let John deny it if he can.

I find thou art setting us out in very black characters, with design to affright me; but there­in thou wilt be mistaken. I advise thee to say no worse of us than thou canst make out, and then make us as black as thou canst. And if thou canst prove me a Pa­pist in one thing, with the help of God I'll prove thee like them in ten. And this woman who lies here in bed, shall be judge.

The Quakers hold that damnable doctrine, and dangerous tenet, of perfection in this life; and so do the Papists. If you go about to deny it John, I can prove you hold it.

I doubt thou art now going about to be­lie the Papists behind their backs, as thou hast heretofore done by us. For, by what I have learnt of their prin­ciples, they do not believe a state of freedom from sin and acceptance with God possible on this side the grave; and therefore they have imagined to themselves a place of purgation after death. But whether they believe such a state attainable or no, I do.

An't please your ladyship, John has confessed enough out of his own mouth; for that is a damnable doctrine, and dangerous tenet.

I would ask thee one question: dost thou own a purgatory?

No.

Then the Papists, in this case, are wiser than thee. They own the saying of Christ, who told the unbelieving Jews, If'ye die in your sins, whither I go ye cannot come. But, by thy discourse, thou and thy fol­lowers must needs go headlong to destruction; since thou neither ownest a place of purgation after death, nor such a preparation for heaven to be possible in this life, as is absolutely necessary. The Scripture thou knowest tells us, Where death leaves us, judgment will find us. If a tree falls towards the north or south, there it shall lie. And since no unclean thing can enter the kingdom of heaven, pray tell this poor woman, whom, thou hast been preaching to for thy belly, whether ever, or never, she must expect to be freed from her sins, and made fit for the kingdom of heaven; or whether the blind must lead the blind till both fall into the ditch.

No, John, you mistake me: I believe that God Almighty is able of his great mercy to forgive persons their sins, and fit them for heaven, a little before they depart this life.

I believe the same. But, if thou wilt limit the Holy one of Israel, how long wilt thou give the Lord leave to fit a person for his glorious kingdom.

It may be an hour or two.

My faith is a day or two, as well as an hour or two.

I believe so too.

Or a week or two.

And my father car­ried it to a month or two; and so gradually till he brought it to seven years, the priest confessing he believ­ed the same. On which my father thus proceeded: ‘How could'st thou accuse me of popery, in holding this doctrine, which thou thyself hast confessed too? If I am like a Papist, thou art, by thy own confession, as like a Papist as I am. And if it be a damnable doc­trine and dangerous tenet in the Quakers, is it not the [Page 17] same in thyself? Thou told'st me I mistook thee; but hast not thou mistaken thyself in condemning thine own acknowledged opinion when uttered by me? But notwithstanding thou hast sail'd in making me out to be a Papist in this particular, can'st thou do it in any thing else?’ Upon this the priest being mute, my fa­ther thus proceeded: ‘Well! tho' thou hast fail'd in proving me like them, it need not hinder me from shewing thee to be so in many things. For instance, you build houses and consecrate them, calling them churches; as do the Papists. You hang bells in 'em, and consecrate 'em, calling them by the names of saints; so do they. The Pope and the priests of the Roman church wear surplices, gowns, cassocks, &c. calling them their ornaments; here thou hast the like; and do'st thou not stile them thy ornaments? You consecrate the ground where you inter your dead, calling it holy ground; so do they. In short, thou art like a Papist in so many things, he need be a wise man to distinguish betwixt them and thee.’

At this the priest appeared uneasy; and said to the lady, ‘Madam, I must beg your excuse; for there's to be a lecture this afternoon, and I must be there.’ She prest him to stay to dinner, but he earnestly desired to be excused. So a slice or two being cut off of the spit, he eat, and took his leave.

The lady then said to my father, had she not seen it, she could not have believed Mr. Careless could have been so foil'd in discourse by any man; for, said she, I ac­counted him as sound and orthodox a divine as any was; but now I must tell you, I am so far of your opinion, that if you'll let me know when you have a meeting at your house, and somebody to preach, (not a silent meet­ing) I'll come and hear 'em myself. My father answered, he expected she would be as good as her word. Not long after came two friends to my father's house, and tho' the weather was very severe, he found he could not be easy without acquainting her with it. So he went to her house, but she seem'd a little surpriz'd say­ing "What's your will now, John?" He informed [Page 18] her of the two friends, and their intention of having a meeting at his house. ‘How can you expect (said she) I should go out such weather as this? You know I seldom stir out of my chamber, and to go so far may endanger my health.’ My father re­turn'd, ‘I would not have thee make excuses, as some of old did, and were not found worthy. Thou knowest time is none of ours, and we know not whether we may have the like opportunity again. The snow need not much incommode thee: thou mayst be quick­ly in thy coach, and, putting up the glasses, may'st be pretty warm; and when thou comest to my house, I know my wife will do her best for thee.’ So she or­dered her coach and fix to be got ready (for the dis­tance was seven miles) saying, "John's like death, he'll not be deny'd." My father came along with her; and during the time of silence in the meeting, she appear'd something restless; but was very attentive whilst either of the friends were speaking. She was very well pleased after the meeting, and sat at table with the friends. While the rest sat silent, she would be frequently whis­pering to my mother, till one of them spake a few words before meat. She was asham'd, and told my mother, when she was among the great, she was accounted a wise woman; but now (said she) I am among you Qua­kers, I am a very fool. Presently after dinner she re­turn'd home, and came several times to the meeting afterwards; and I am fully persuaded she was convinced of the truth; but going up to London, she was there taken ill, and died.

Her man Alexander Cornwall, was convinced of the truth, and was afterwards a prisoner with my father in Gloucester castle; where the jailor was very cruel to them, sometimes putting them into the common jail a­mong selons, and other times he would hire a tinker (who lay for his fees) to trouble them in the night by playing on his hautboy. One time in particular my father being concerned to speak to him in the dread and power of God, it struck him to such a degree, that he dropt the instrument out of his hand, and would ne­ver [Page 19] take it into hand upon that occasion any more. When the jailor ask'd him why he discontinued it, he answered, ‘They are the servants of the living God, and I'll ne­ver play more to disturb them, if you hang me up at the door for it,’ ‘What! (said the jailor) are you bewitch'd too. I'll turn you out of the castle.’ Which he did; and the friends who were there prisoners rais'd him some money, cloath'd him, and away he went.

Some time after my father had three conferences with — Nicholson, bishop of Gloucester, introduced in the following manner. An apparitor came to cite my father to appear at the bishop's court: but he told my father he could not encourage him to come, lest they should ensnare him, and send him to prison. At the same time they cited a servant of my father's named John Overall. My father went at the time appointed, without his servant: and when his name was call'd over, he answered to it. The discourse that occurr'd was in substance as follows: —

What's your name?

I have been called by my name, and an­swered to it.

I desire to hear it again.

My name is John Roberts.

Well, you were born Roberts; but you were not born John. Pray who gave you that name?

Thou hast asked me a very hard question, my name being given me before I was capable of re­membering who gave it me. But I believe it was my parents, they being the only persons who had a right to give me my name. That name they always call'd me by, and to that name I always answered; and I believe none need call it in question now.

No, no; but how many children have you?

It hath pleased God to give me six chil­dren; three of whom he pleased to take from me; the other three are still living.

And how many of them have been bishop'd?

None that I know of.

What reason can you give for that?

A very good one, I think: most of my children were born in Oliver's days, when bishops were out of fashion.

But how many of them have been baptized?

What dost thou mean by that?

What, don't you own Baptism?

Yes; but perhaps we may differ in that point.

What Baptism do you own? That of the Spi­rit I suppose?

Yes. What other baptism should I own?

Do you own but one baptism?

If one be enough, what needs any more? The apostle said, One Lord, one faith, one baptism.

What say you of the baptism of water?

I say there was a man sent from God, whose name was John, who had a real commission for it? and he was the only man that I read of who was im­power'd for that work.

But what, if I make it appear to you, that some of Christ's disciples themselves baptized with wa­ter, after Christ's ascension?

I suppose that's no very difficult task: but what is that to me?

Is it nothing to you, what Christ's disciples themselves did?

Not in every thing; for Paul, that emi­nent apostle, who I suppose thou wilt grant had as ex­tensive a commission as any of the rest of the apostles; nay, he says himself, he was not a whit behind the chiefest of them, and yet he honestly confesses he had no commission to baptize with water; and further says, I thank God I baptized none but such and such; for (says he) I was not sent to baptize (i. e. with water) but to preach the Gospel. And if he was not sent, I would soberly ask, who required it at his hands? Perhaps he might have as little thanks for his labour as thou may'st [Page 21] have for thine; and I would willingly know who sent thee to baptize?

This is not our present business. You are here return'd for not coming to church. What say you to that?

I desire to see mine accusers.

It is the minister and the church-wardens. Do you deny it?

Yes I do: for it is always my principle and practice to go to church.

And do you go to church?

Yes, and sometimes the church comes to me.

The church comes to you; I don't understand you friend.

It may be so: 'tis often for want of a good understanding that the innocent are made to suffer.

My lord, he keeps meetings at his house, and he calls that a church.

No; I no more believe my house to be a church, than I believe what you call so to be one. I call the people of God the church of God, wheresoever they are met to worship him in spirit and in truth. And when I say the church comes to me, I mean the assem­bly of such worshippers, who frequently meet at my house. I do not call that a church which you do, which is made of wood and stone, that is but the work­manship of men's hands, whereas the true church con­sists of living stones, and is built up by Christ a spiritual house to God.

We call it a church figuratively, meaning the place where the church meets.

I fear you call it a church hypocritically and deceitfully, with design to awe the people into a ve­neration for the place, which is not due to it, as tho' your consecrations had made that house holier than others.

What do you call that which we call a church?

It may properly enough be call'd a mass-house, it being formerly built for that purpose.

Mr. Haywood, it is expected you should shew more respect than you do in this place in keeping on your hat.

Who expects it?

My lord bishop.

I expect better things from him.

No, no; keep on your hat: I don't expect it from you. A little after, the bishop said: Well friend, this is not a convenient time for you and I to dispute; but I may take you to my chamber and convince you of your errors.

I should take it kindly of thee, or any man else, to convince me of any errors that I hold; and would hold them no longer.

Call some others.—Then my father's man was called; who not appearing, the apparitor said, Mr. Hay­wood, is John Overall here?

I believe not.

What's the reason he is not here?

I think there are very good reasons for his absence.

What are they? mayn't I know?

In the first place, he is an old man, and not of ability to undertake such a journey, except it was upon a very good account. In the second place, he is my servant; and I can't spare him out of my business in my absence.

Why does he not go to church then?

He does go to church with me. (At this the court fell a laughing.)

Call somebody else.

Then a Baptist preacher was called, who seeing the bishop's civility to my father, in suffering him to keep on his hat, thought to take the same liberty. At whom the bishop put on a stern countenance, and said, ‘Don't you know this is the king's court, and that I sit here to represent his majesty's person? And do you come here in an uncivil and irreverent manner, in contempt [Page 23] of his majesty and his court, with your hat on? I confess there are some men in the world who make a conscience of putting off their hats, to whom we ought to have some regard. But for you, who can put it off to every mechanic you meet, to come here, in contempt of authority, with it on, I'll assure you, friend, you shall speed never the better for it.’ — I heard my father say, these words came so honestly from the bishop, that it did him good to hear him.—The Bap­tist then taking off his hat, said, ‘An't please you, my lord, I han't been well in my head.’

Why, you have got a cap on; nay you have two caps on. (He had a black one over a white one.) What is your reason for denying your children that holy ordinance of baptism.

An't please you, my lord, I am not well sa­tisfied about it.

What's the ground of your dissatisfaction? did you ever see a book I publish'd, entituled, The order of Baptism?

No, my lord.

I thought so.

Then telling how and where he might get it, he gave him a space of time to peruse it; and told him if that would not satisfy him, to come to him, and he would give him full satisfaction.—Some time after the bishop sent his bailiff to take my father: but he was then gone to Bristol with George Fox. The officers came several times and searched the house for him, pretending they only wanted him for a small tres­pass, which would soon be made up, if they could see him. My mother answered she didn't believe any neigh­bour he had would trouble him upon such an account; for if by chance any of his cattle trespass'd upon any, he would readily make 'em satisfaction, without further trouble. Which they very well knew. However, she always treated them civilly, and frequently set meat and drink before 'em. My father staying away longer than was expected, they imagin'd he absconded for fear of 'em; and therefore offered my mother, if she would give them twenty shillings, to let him come home for a month. [Page 24] But she told them she knew of no wrong he had done to any man, and therefore would give 'em no money; for that would imply a consciousness of guilt. ‘But (said she) if my enemy hunger, I can feed him; and if he thirst. I can give him drink.’ Upon this they flew into a rage, and said, they would have him if he were above ground; for none could pardon him but the king. My father returning home thro' Tedbury, was there in­formed that the bailiffs had been about his house almost ever since he went from home. He therefore contrived to come home after day-light; when he came into his own grounds, the moon shining bright, he spy'd the shadow of a man, and ask'd, who's there? "It is I," says the man.

Who! Sam. Stubbs?

Yes▪ master.

Hast thou any thing against me? (He was a bailiff.)

No, master: I might; but I would not meddle: I have wrong'd you enough already: God forgive me. But those who now lie in wait for you are the Paytons, my lord bishop's bailiffs. I would not have you fall into their hands, for they are merciless rogues I would have you, master, take my counsel: ever while you live please a knave, for an honest man won't hurt you.

My father came home, and desired us not to let the bailiffs in upon him that night, that he might have an opportunity of taking counsel on his pillow. In the morning he told my mother what he had seen that night in a vision. ‘I thought (said he) I was walking a fine pleasant green way; but it was narrow, and had a wall an each side of it. In my way lay something like a bear, but more dreadful. The sight of him put me to a stand. A man seeing me surprized, came to me with a smiling countenance, and said, Why art tho afraid, friend? he is chain'd, and can't hurt thee. [...] thought I made answer, The way is so narrow, I can pass by but he may reach me. Don't be afraid (says the man) he [...] hurt thee. I saw he spake in great good [Page 25] will, and thought his face shone like the face of an angel. Upon which I took courage, and stepping forward, laid my hand upon his head.’ The con­struction he made of this to my mother was: Truth is a narrow way; and this bishop lies in my way; I must go to him, whatever I suffer. So he arose, and set forward, and call­ed upon Amariah Drewett, a friend of Cirencester, to accompany him. When they came to the bishop's house at Cleve, near Gloucester, they found a butcher's wife of Cirencester, who was come to intercede for her hus­band, who was put into the bishop's court for killing meat on first-days. Two young sparks of the bishop's attendance, were asking her if she knew John Haywood? She answered, "Yes, very well." ‘What is he for a man?’ said they. A very good man, (said she) setting aside his religion: but I have nothing to say to that. One of them said he'd give five shillings to see him; the other offer'd eight. Upon which my father stepp'd up to them; but they said not one word to him. One of them presently informed the bishop he was come. Whereup­on the bishop dismiss'd his company, and had him up stairs. My father found him seated in his chair, with his hat under his arm, assuming a majestic air. My fa­ther stood silent a while; and seeing the bishop didn't begin with him, he approached nearer, and thus accost­ed him: "Old man my business is with thee."

What is your business with me?

I have heard thou hast sent out thy bai­liffs to take me: but I rather chose to come myself, to know what wrong I have done thee. If it appear I have done thee any, I am ready to make thee satisfaction: but if, upon enquiry, I appear to be innocent, I desire thee, for thy own soul's sake, thou do'st not injure me.

You are misinformed, friend; I am not your adversary.

Then I desire thee to tell me who is my adversary, that I may go and agree with him while I am in the way.

The king is your adversary. The king's laws [Page 26] you have broken: And to the king you shall answer; that's more.

Our subjection to laws is either active or passive. So that if a man can't, for conscience-sake, do the thing the law requires, but passively suffers what the law inflicts, the law, I conceive, is as fully answered as if he had actually obeyed.

You are wrong in that too: for suppose a man steal an ox, and then be taken, and hang'd for the fact; what restitution is that to the owner?

None at all. But tho' it is no restituti­on to the owner, yet the law is satisfied. Tho' the owner be a loser, the criminal has suffered the punish­ment the law inflicts, as an equivalent for the crime committed. But thou may'st see the corruptness of such laws, which put the life of a man upon a level with the life of a beast.

What! do such men as you find fault with the laws?

Yes; and I'll tell thee plainly, 'tis high time wiser men were chosen, to make better laws. For if this thief was taken and sold for a proper term, ac­cording to the law of Moses, and the owner had four oxen for his ox, and four sheep for his sheep, he would be satisfied, and the man's life preserved, that he might repent, and amend his ways.—But! hope thou dost not accuse me of having stole any man's ox or ass.

No, no; God forbid!

Then, if thou pleasest to give me leave, I'll state a case more parellel to the matter in hand.

You may.

There liv'd in days past Nebuchadnez­zar, king of Babylon, who set up an image, and made a decree, that all who would not bow to it should be cast the same hour into a burning fiery furnace. There were then three young men, who served the same God that I do now, and those durst not bow down to it; but pas­sively submitted their bodies to the flames. Was not that a sufficient satisfaction to the unjust decree of the king?

Yes: God forbid else.—For that was to wor­ship the workmanship of men's hands; which is idolatry.

Is that thy judgment, that to worship the workmanship of men's hands is idolatry?

Yes certainly.

Then give me leave to ask thee, by whose hands the common-prayer-book was made, I am sure it was made by somebody's hands, for it could not make itself?

Do you compare our common-prayer-book to Nebuchadnezzar's image?

Yes, I do: that was his image, and this is thine. And be it known unto thee, I speak in the dread of the God of heaven, I no more dare bow to thy common-prayer-book than the three children could to Nebuchadnezzar's image.

Yours is a strange upstart religion, of a very few years standing, and you are grown so confident in it, that there is no beating you out of it.

Out of my religion? God forbid: I was a long time seeking acquaintance with the living God a­mongst the dead forms of worship, and enquiring after the right way and worship of God, before I could find it; and now, I hope neither thou nor any man living shall be able to perswade me out of it. But tho' thou art an ancient man and a bishop, I find thou art very ig­norant of the rise and antiquity of our religion?

(Smiling.) Do you Quakers pretend antiqui­ty for your religion?

Yes; and I don't question, but, with the help of God, I can make it appear that our religion was many hundred years before thine was thought of.

You see I have given you liberty of discourse, and have not sought to ensnare you in your words; but if you can make the Quakers religion appear to be many hundred years older than mine, you'll speed the better.

If I do not, I seek no favour at thy hands, and, in order to it, I hope thou'lt give me liber­ty to ask a few sober questions.

You may.

Then first I would ask thee, where was thy religion in Oliver's days? The common-prayer-book was then become (even among the clergy) like an old al­manack, very few regarding it in our country. There were two or three priests indeed, who stood honestly to their principles, and suffered pretty much; but the far greater number turn'd with the tide: and we have rea­son to believe, that if Oliver would have put mass into their mouths, they would have conformed even to that for their bellies.

What wou'd you have us do? wou'd you have Oliver cut our throats?

No, by no means. But what religion was that you were afraid to venture your throats for? Be it known unto thee, I ventur'd my throat for my re­ligion in Oliver's days, as I do now.

And I must tell you, tho' in Oliver's days I did not dare to own it as I do now, yet I never own'd any other religion.

Then I suppose thou madest a conscience of it; and I should abundantly rather choose to fall in­to such a man's hands, than into the hands of one who makes no conscience towards God, but will conform to any thing for his belly. But if thou didst not think thy religion worth venturing thy throat for in Oliver's days, I desire thee to consider, it is not worth cutting other men's throats now, for not conforming to it.

You say right: I hope we shall have a care how we cut mens throats. (Several others were now come into the room.) But you know the common-pray­er-book was before Oliver's days.

Yes: I have a great deal of reason to know that; for I was bred up under a common-pray­er-priest, and a poor old drunken man he was: some­times he was so drunk he could not say his prayers, and at best he could but say 'em; tho' I think he was by far a better man than he that is priest there now.

Who is your minister now?

My minister is Christ Jesus, the minister [Page 29] of the everlasting covenant; but the present priest of the parish is George Bull.

Do you say that drunken old man was better than Mr. Bull? I tell you, I account Mr. Bull as sound, able, and orthodox a divine as any we have a­mong us.

I am sorry for that; for if he is one of the best of you, I believe the Lord will not suffer you long: for he is a proud, ambitious, ungodly man; he has often sued me at law, and brought his servants to swear against me wrongfully. His servants themselves have confess'd to my servants, that I might have their ears; for their master made 'em drunk, and then told them they were set down in the list as witnesses against me, and they must swear to it: and so they did, and brought treble damages. They likewise owned they took tythes from my servant, threshed 'em out, and sold 'em for their master. They have also several times took my cat­tle out of my grounds, drove 'em to fairs and markets, and sold them without giving me any account.

I do assure you I will ifnorm Mr. Bull of what you say.

Very well. And if thou pleasest to send for me to face him, I shall make much more appear to his face than I'll say behind his back.

But I remember you said you could make it appear that your religion was long before mine; and that is what I want to hear you make out.

Our religion, as thou may'st read in the scripture (John iv.) was set up by Christ himself, be­tween sixteen and seventeen hundred years ago: and he had full power to establish the true religion in his church, when he told the woman of Samaria, that neither at that mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, was the place of true worship. They worship they knew not what. For, said he, God is a Spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in Spirit and in truth. This is our religion, and hath ever been the religion of all those who have worshipped God ac­ceptably thro' the several ages since down to this time; and will be the religion of the true spiritual worshippers [Page 30] of God to the world's end; a religion perform'd by the assistance of the spirit of God, because God is a spirit; a religion establish'd by Christ himself before the mass­book, service-book, or directory, or any of those inven­tions and traditions of men, which in the night of a­postacy were set up.

Are all the Quakers of the same opinion?

Yes they are. If any hold doctrines con­trary to that taught by our Saviour to the woman of Samaria, they are not of us.

Do you own the trinity?

I don't remember such a word in the holy scriptures.

Do you own three persons?

I believe according to the scripture, that there are Three that bear record in heaven, and that those Three are One: thou may'st make as many persons of them as thou canst. But I would soberly ask thee, since the scriptures say the heaven of heavens cannot contain him, and that he is incomprehensible, by what person or likeness canst thou comprehend the Almighty?

Yours is the strangest of all persuasions: For tho' there are many sects (which he named) and tho' they and we differ in some circumstances, yet in fun­damentals we agree as one. But I observe, you of all others, strike at the very root and basis of our religion.

Art thou sensible of that?

Yes I am.

I am glad of that; for the root is the rottenness, and truth strikes at the very foundation there­of. That little stone which Daniel saw cut out of the moun­tain without hands will overturn all in God's due time, when you have done all you can to support it But, as to those others thou mention'st, there is so little difference between you, that wise men wonder why you differ at all; only we read, the beast had many heads and many horns, which push against each other. And yet I am fully perswaded, there are many in this day true spiritual worshippers in all per­suasions.

But you will not give us the same liberty you give a common mechanic to call our tools by their own names.

I desire thee to explain thyself.

Why, you will give a carpenter leave to call his gimblet a gimblet, and his gouge a gouge; but you call our church a mass-house.

I wish you were half so honest men as carpenters.

Why? do you upbraid us?

I would not upbraid you; but I'll en­deavour to shew thee wherein you fall short of carpenters. Suppose I had a son intended to learn the trade of a carpenter; I indent with an honest man of that calling, in consideration of so much money, to teach my son his trade in such a term of years; at the end of which term my son may be as good, or perhaps a better workman than his master, and he shall be at liberty from him to follow the business for himself. Now will you be so honest as this carpenter? You are men who pretend to know more of light, life, and salvation, and things pertaining to the kingdom of heaven, than we do: I would ask in how long a time you would undertake to teach us as much as you know? and what shall we give you, that we may be once free from our masters? But here you keep us always learning, that he may be al­ways paying you. Plainly 'tis a very cheat. What! always, learning and never able to come to the knowledge of God! miserable sinners you found us, and miserable sinners you leave us.

Are you against confession?

No: for I believe those who confess and forsake their sins shall find mercy at the [...] of God; but those who persist in them shall be [...]. But if ever you intend to be better, you must throw away your old book, and get a new one, or turn over a new leaf; for if you keep on in your old lessons you must always be doing what you ought not, and leaving un­done what ye ought to do: and you can never do worse. I believe in my heart, you mock God.

How dare you say?

I'll state the case, and thou shalt judge. Suppose thou had'st a son, and thou should'st daily let him know what thou would'st have have him to do, and he should day by day, week by week, and year after year provoke thee to thy face, and say, father I have not done what thou commandedst me to do; but have done quite the contrary; and continue to provoke thee to thy face in this manner once or oft'ner every week, wouldst thou not think him a rebellious child, and that his application to thee was mere mockery? and would it not occasion thee to disinherit him?

After some more discourse, my father told him time was far spent; and said, "It nothing will serve thee but my body in a prison, here it is in thy power, and if thou commandest me to deliver myself up either to the sheriff, or to the jailor of Gloucester castle, as thy prisoner, I will go, and seek no other judge, advocate, or attor­ney to plead my cause, but the great judge of heaven and earth, who knows I have nothing but love and good-will in my heart to thee and all mankind."

No; you shall go home about your business.

Then I desire thee for the future not to trouble thyself to send any more bailiffs after me; for if thou pleasest at any time to let me know by a line or two, thou would'st speak with me, tho' it be to send me that to prison, if I am well and able, I'll come.

The Bishop then call'd for something to drink; but my father acknowledg'd his kindness, and excused him­self from drinking. And the Bishop being call'd out of the room, one Cuthbert, who took offence at my fa­ther's freedom with the bishop, said, Haywood, you are afraid of nothing; I never met with such a man in my life. I'am afraid of my life, lest such fanatics as you should cut my throat as I sleep.

I don't wonder that thou art afraid.

Why should I be afraid any more than you?

Because I am under the protection of him who numbereth the very hairs of my head, and [Page 33] without whose providence a sparrow shall not fall to the ground; but thou hast Cain's mark of envy on thy forehead, and like him art afraid whoever meets thee will kill thee.

(In a great rage) If all the Quakers in England are not hanged in a month's time, I'll be hang­ed for them.

(Smiling) Prithee, friend, remember and be as good as thy word.

My father, and his friend Amariah Drewett, then took their leave, and returned home with the answer of peace in their bosoms.

Some time after this, the bishop and the chancellor in their coaches, accompanied with Thomas Masters, Esq in his coach, and about 20 clergymen on horse­back, made my father's house in their way to a visita­tion, which was to be at Tedbury the next day. They stopped at the gate, and George Evans, the bishop's kinsman, rode into the yard to call my father? who coming to the bishop's coach side, he put out his hand (which my father respectfully took) saying, I could not well go out of the county without seeing you. That's very kind (said my father) wilt thou please to alight and come in, with those who are along with thee?

I thank you, John; we are going to Tedbury, and time will not admit of it now; but I will drink with you if you please.

My father went in, and ordered some drink to be brought, and then return'd to the coach-side.

John, is your house free to entertain such men as we are?

Yes, George; I entertain honest men, and sometimes others.

(To the bishop) My lord, John's friends are the honest men, and we are the others.

That's not fair, George, for thee to put thy construction on my words: thou should'st have given me leave to do that.

'Squire Masters came out of his coach, and stood by the bishop's coach-side; and the chancellor, in a divert­ing [Page 34] humour, said to my father, "My lord and these gentlemen have been to see your burying-ground, and and we think you keep it very decent." (This piece of ground my father had given to the friends for that pur­pose; it lay at the lower end of his orchard.) My father answered, yes; tho' we are against pride, we think it commendable to be decent.

But there is one thing among you, which I did not expect to see; I think it looks a little supersti­tious; I mean those grave-stones which are placed at the head and feet of your graves.

That I confess is what I cannot much plead for; but it was permitted to gratify some who had their relations there interred. We, notwithstanding, propose to have them taken up e'er long, and converted to some better use. But I desire thee to take notice, we had it from among you, and I have observed in many things wherein we have taken you for our pattern you have led us wrong; and therefore we are now resolved, with the help of God, not to follow you one step fur­ther.

At this the bishop smiled, and said, John, I think your beer is long a coming.

I suppose my wife is willing thou should'st have the best, and therefore stays to broach a fresh vessel.

Nay, if it be for the best, we'll stay.

Presently my mother brought the drink, and when the bishop had drank, he said, I commend you John, you keep a cup of good beer in your house. I have not drank any that pleased me better since I came from home. The chancel­lor drank next; and the cup coming round again to my father's hand, squire Masters said to him, Now, old school-fellow, I hope you'll drink to me?

Thou know'st it is not my practice to drink to any man; If it was, I would as soon drink to thee as another, as being my old acquaintance and school-fellow; but if thou art pleased to drink, thou art very welcome.

The 'squire then taking the cup into his hand, said, Now, John, before my lord and all these gentlemen, tell me [Page 35] what ceremony or compliment do you Quakers use when you drink to one another.

None at all. For me to drink to ano­ther, and drink the liquor, is at best but a compliment, and that borders much on a lie.

What do you do then?

Why, if I have a mind to drink, I take the cup and drink; and if my friend pleases, he does the same; if not, he may let it alone.

Honest John, give me thy hand. Here's to thee with all my heart; and, according to thy own compliment, if thou wilt drink, thou may'st, if not, thou may'st let it alone.

My father then offering the cup to the priest Bull, he refused it, saying, It is full of hops and heresy. To which my father reply'd, As for hops, I cannot say much, not being at the brewing of it; but as for heresy, I do assure thee neighbour Bull, there's none in my beer; and if thou pleasest to drink, thou art welcome; but if not, I desire thee to take notice, as good as thee will; and those are as well able to judge of heresy. Here thy lord bishop hath drank of it, and commends it; he finds no heresy in the cup.

(Leaning over the coach door, and whispering to my father, said) John, I advise you to take care you don't offend against the higher powers. I have heard great complaints against you, that you are the ringlead­er of the Quakers in this country; and that if you are not suppress'd, all will signify nothing. Therefore, pray John, take care for the future, and don't offend any more.

I like thy council very well, and intend to take it. But thou know'st God is the higher power; and you mortal men, however advanced in this world, are but the lower power; and it is only because I endea­vour to be obedient to the will of the higher powers, that the lower powers are angry with me. But I hope, with the assistance of God, to take thy counsel, and be subject to the higher powers, let the lower powers do [Page 36] with me as it may please God to suffer them.

I want some more discourse with you. Will you go with me to Mr. Bull's.

Thou know'st he hath no good-will for me. I had rather attend on thee elsewhere.

Will you come to-mrrow to Tedbury?

Yes, if thou desireth it.

Well I do.

The Bishop then took his leave, and went not to George Bull's, at which he was very much offended.

Next morning my father took his son Nathaniel with him, in case the bishop (in compliance with the violent clamors of the priests) should send him to prison, which he expected. As they were passing along a street in Tedbury they were met by Anthony Sharp, of Ireland, whose mother lived a Tedbury. After he understood by my father where he was going, he ask'd if he would accept of a companion? If thou hast a mind to go to prison, says my father, thou may'st go with me. I'll venture that, (reply'd Anthony) for if I do, I shall have good com­pany. When they came to the foot of the stairs which led up to the bishop's chamber, they were espy'd by George Evans, who said, come up, John; my lord thought you long. When they came up, the Bishop was just setting down to dinner, with a number of clergymen; and offering to make room for my father, he excused himself, and retired with his friend till dinner was over. The bishop spoke to the woman of the house for another room, which (it being market-day) was soon filled with priests and clothiers, &c.

(Putting on a stern contenance) said, come, John, I must turn over a new leaf with you. If you will not promise me to go to churh, and to keep no more of these seditious conventicles at your house, I must make your mittimus, and send you to prison,

Would'st thou have me shut my doors against my friends? It was but yesterday that thou thy­self, and many others here present, were at my house; and I was so far from shutting my doors against you, [Page 37] that I invited you in, and you should have been welcome to the best entertainment I had.

It is those meetings I speak of which you keep at your house, to the terror of the country.

This I'll promise thee, before all this company, that if any plotters or ill minded persons come to my house to plot or conspire against the king or go­vernment, if I know of it, I'll be the first informer against them myself tho' I have not a penny for my labour. But if honest and sober people come to my house, to wait upon, and worship the God of heaven, in spirit and in truth, such shall be welcome to me as long I have a house for 'em to meet in; and if I should have none, the Lord will provide one for 'em.

Will you promise to go to your own parish-church to hear divine service?

I can promise no such thing. The last time I was there, I was moved and required of the Lord, whom I serve, to bear testimony against a hireling priest, who was preaching for hire and divining for money; and he was angry with me, and caused the people to turn me out. And I don't intend to trouble him again till he learn more civility, except the Lord requires it of me.

Send for the constable: I must take another course.

If thou should'st come to my house un­der a pretence of friendship, and, in a Judas like manner, betray me hither to send me to prison, as I have hitherto commended thee for thy moderation, I should then have occasion to put thy name in print, and cause it to stink before all sober people. But it is those who set thee on mischief. I would not have thee hearken to 'em but bid 'em take up some honest vocation, and rob their honest neighbours no longer. They are like a company of ca­terpillars who destroy the fruit of the earth, and live on the fruit of other mens labour.

Then priest Rich, of North-Surray, said, who are those you call caterpillars.

We herdsman call them caterpillars, who live on the fruit of other mens fields, and on the [Page 38] sweat of other mens brows. And if thou dost so, thou may'st be one of them.

May it please your lordship, if you suffer such a man as this to thou your lordship, and call you old man, what will become of us?

We honour old age if it be found in the way of well-doing; but one would not think you should be such dunces as to forget grammar rules. You bred up at Oxford and Cambridge! For what? I that am a ayman, and bred at the plowtail, understand the Sin­gular and plural numbers. Thee and Thou is proper to a single person, if it be a prince: thou know'st it old man. What! have you forgot your prayers? Is it You O Lord or Thou O Lord, in your prayers? Will you not accept the same language from your fellow-mortals, which you give to the Almighty? What spirit was that in proud Haman that would have poor Mordecai to bow to him?

This won't do. Make their mittimus's, What's your name?

My name is Anthony Sharp.

Where do you live?

At Dublin, in the kingdom of Ire­land.

What's your business here.

My mother lives in this town: And as she is such, and an ancient woman, I thought it my duty to come and see her.

He only came hither in good-will to bear me company. If thou pleasest, lay the more on me, and let him go free.

No; he may be as dangerous a person as your­self; and as you came for company, you shall go for company. Send for the constable to take them into custody.

The woman of the house understanding the constable was to be sent for, dispatch'd a messenger to him to bid him get out of the way. But the messenger missing him, he came to the house by accident. To whom the landlady said. "What do you do here, when honest John Haywood [Page 39] is going to be sent to prison? Here come along with me." The constable being willing, she conceal'd him in ano­ther room, and the Bishop's messenger bringing him word that the constable was not to be sound, he said to my father:

Here are many gentlemen who have a great-way home, and I can send you to prison in the after­noon; so you may take your liberty until six of the clock.

My father perceived his intent was to get rid of his company. So he withdrew with his friend Anthony Sharp; and at six o'clock returned without him, and found only two persons with the Bishop, i. e. Edward Barnet, a surgeon of Cockerton, and parson Hall.

So, John, you are come. 'Tis well; I want some more discourse with you.

An't Please you, my lord, let me discourse with him,

Ay, do, Mr. Hall, John will give you an answer.

'Tis a great Pity such a man as you should have the light, sight and knowledge of the scrip­tures; for the knowledge of the scriptures hath made you mad.

Why should I not have the privilege of buying the scriptures for my money as well as thee or any other man? But you priests, like the Papists, wou'd have us layman kept in ignorance, that we might pin our faith on your sleeve; and so the blind lead the blind till both fall into the ditch. But if the knowledge of the scriptures had made me mad; the knowledge of the sack pot hath almost made thee mad; and if we two mad men should should dispute about religon, we should make mad work of it. But as thou art an unworthy man, I'll not dispute with thee.

An't please you, my lord, he says I am drunk.

Wilt thou speak an untruth before thy lord bishop.

He did say I was drunk, my lord.

What did you say, John? I'll believe you. My father repeating what he said before the bishop [Page 40] held up his hands, and smiling, said, Did you say so, John? By which Hall perceiving the bishop did not incline to favour him, went away in a huff. The bishop then directing his discourse to my father, said, "John, I thought you dealt hardly with me to day, in telling me before [...] many gentlemen, that I came to your house in a Judas like manner, and betray'd you hither to send you to prison: for if I had not done what I did, people would have reported me an encourager of the Quakers.

If they had, it would have been no dis­credit to thee.

Come now John I'll burn your mittimus before your face. And now Mr. Barnet, I have a mind to ask John some questions. John I have heard Mr. Bull say strange things of you: that you can tell where to find any thing that is lost as well as any cunning man, but I desire to hear from your own mouth 'Twas about some cows that a neighbour had lost, and could no where find them, till they apply'd to you.

If thou pleasest to hear me, I'll tell thee the truth of that story.

Pray do: I shall believe you, John.

I had a poor neighbour, who had a wife and six children, and whom the chief men about us permitted to keep six or seven cows upon the waste, which were the principal support of his family, and preserv'd 'em from becoming chargeable to the parish. One very stormy night the cattle were left in the yard, as usual; but could not be found in the morning. The man and his sons had sought 'em to no purpose: and after they had been lost four days, his wife came to me, and in a great deal of grief, cry'd, O Lord! master Haywood, we are undone! my husband and I must go a begging in our old age! we have lost all our cows! my husband and the boys have been round the country, and can hear nothing of them, I'll down on my bare knees if you'll stand our friend? I desired she would not be in such an a­gony, and told her she should not down on her knees to me; but I would gladly help them in what I could. I know, said she, you are a good man, and God will [Page 41] hear your prayers. I desire thee (said I) to be still and quiet in thy mind; perhaps thy husband or son may hear of 'em to day; if not, let thy husband get a horse and come to me to morrow morning as soon as he will and I think, if it please God, to go with him to [...] The woman seem'd transported with joy, crying, Th [...] we shall have our Cows again! Her faith being so strong, brought the greater exercise upon me, with strong cries unto the Lord, that he would be pleased to make me instrumental in his hand, for the help of the poor family. In the morning early comes the old man, In the name of God, says he, which way shall we go and seek them? I being deeply concerned in my mind, did not answer him till he had thrice repeated it; and then I answered, "In the name of God we will go to seek them (and said before I was aware) we will go to Malmsbury, and at the horse-fair we shall find them" When I had spoken the words I was much troubled lest they should not prove true. It was very early, and the first man we saw, I asked him if he had seen any stray milch cows there abouts? What manner of cattle are they? said he. And the old man de­scribing of their marks and number, he told us there were some stood chewing their cuds in their horse-fair: but thinking they belonged to some of the neighbour­hood, he did not take particular notice of them. When we came to the place, the old man found 'em to be his; but suffered his transports of joy to rise so high, that I was ashamed of his behaviour; for he fell a hollowing, and threw up his mountier cap in the air several times, 'till he raised the neighbours out of their beds to see what was matter. O (said he) I had lost my cows four or five days ago, and thought I should never see them again; and this honest neigh­bour of mine, told me this morning by his own fire side, nine miles off, that here I should them find, and here I have them! Then up goes his cap again. I begged of the poor man to be quiet, and take his cows home, and be thank­ful, as indeed I was, being reverently bowed in my spirit before the Lord, in that he was pleased to put the words of truth into my mouth. And the man drove his cattle home, to the great joy of his family.

I remember another Mr. Bull told me, about a parcel of sheep a neighbour had lost and you told him where to find them.

The truth of the story [...]: a neigh­bour of mine, one John Curtis (at that time a domestic [...] George Bull's) kept some sheep of his own; and it so [...] that he had lost them for some days; but happening [...] me, and knowing I went pretty much abroad, he [...] me if I should see them any where in my travels, to [...] know of it. It happened the next day, I was [...] towards my own field, my dogs being with me, put [...] hare, and seeing they were likely to kill her, I rode [...] to take them off, that she might escape, and by meer accident. I espy'd John Curtis's sheep, in one cor­ner of the field, in a thick briery part of the hedge where­in they stood as secure as if they had [...]een in a pound. I suppose they had been driven there by [...] hounds. When I came home I sent him word of it. And tho' this is no more than a common accident, I find George Bull hath endeavour'd to improve it to my disadvantage.

I Remember one story more he told me about a horse.

If I shan't tire thy patience, I'll ac­quaint thee how that was. One Edward Symons came from Lodon to see his parents at Siddington. They put his horse to grass with their own, in some ground beyond a part of mine, called the Fursen Leases, through which they went with the horse; and when they wanted to take him from the grass they could not find him. After he had been lost some time, they had cry'd him at several mar­ket-towns, somebody (who, 'tis likely, might have heard the former stories told, as thou might'st hear them) directed this Edward Symons to me, who telling me the case, I Ask'd him which way they had the horse to grass? He answer'd through the Fursen Leases. I said, the horse being a stranger in the place, 'tis very likely he might endeavour to bend homewards, and loose himself in the Fursen Leases; for there are a great many acres un­der that name, which are so overgrown with furse-bushes, that a horse may lie there conceal'd a long time. I there­fore [Page 43] advised him to get a good deal of company, and search, the [...] gently as if they were beating for a hare which [...] him I was of the mind he would find him. The man did take my advice, and [...] And where's the cunning of all this? 'Tis no [...] their own reason might have directed them to [...] properly considered the case.

I wanted to hear these stories from [...] mouth, tho I did not, nor should I have [...] in the sense Mr. Bull related them. But I [...] John. And now, Mr. Barnet, we'll ask John [...] questions. I can compare him to nothing [...] a good ring of bells. You know Mr. Barnet, a ring of bells may be made of as good metal as can be put into bells; but they may be out of tune; so we may say of John; he is a man of as good metal as I ever met with, but he is quite out of tune.

Thou may'st well say so; for I can't tune after thy pipe.

Well, I remember to have read, at the preach­ing of the apostle the heart of Lydia was open'd. Can you tell us what it was that opened the heart of Lydia.

I believe I can.

I thought so. I desire you to do it.

It was nothing but the key of David.

Nay, now John, I think you are going wrong.

If thou pleasest to speak, I'll hear thee; but if thou would'st have me to speak, I desire thee to hear me.

Come Mr. Barnet, we'll hear John?

It is written Thou hast the key of David, which opens, and none can shut; and if thou shutt'st, none can open. And that is no other but the spirit of our Lord Jesus Christ. It was the same spiritual key that open'd the heart of Moses, the first penman of the scripture, and gave him a sight of things from the beginning. It was the same spiritual key that opened the hearts of all the holy patriarchs, prophets and apostles, in ages past, who left their experience of the things of God upon record: which if they had not done, you bishops and priests would [Page 44] not have any thing to make a trade of; for it is by tell­ing the experiences of these holy men, that you get your great bishoprics and parsonages. And the same [...], hath, blessed be God, opened the hearts of [...] in this age; and the same spiritual key hath, [...] open'd my heart, and given me to distinguish things that differ. And it must be the same that must open thy heart, if ever thou comest to have it truly open'd.

It is the truth, the very truth. I never heard it [...] before. John, I have done you much wrong: I desire you to forgive me; and I'll never wrong you more.

I do heartly forgive thee, as far as it is in my power; and I truly pray the father of mercies may forgive thee, and make thee his. As to the latter part, that thou wilt never wrong me more: I am of the same mind with thee, for it is in my heart to tell thee, I shall never see thy face any more.

I have heard you told once the jailor of Glou­cester so, and it proved true.

That jailor had been very cruel to me, and the rest of our friends, who were then prisoners. He had kept us in prison from the session to the assize, and from the assize to the session, omitting to put our names in the Kalender, that we might have had a hearing. At length I found means, at assize time, to acquaint the judge (by letter) of his illegal proceedings. In consequence of which we were ordered to be put on the Kalender, had a hear­ing, and were acquitted. The judge severely repri­manded the jailor, saying, "Sirrah! if ever I hear that you do the like for the future, I'll take care that you shall be jailor here no longer. Shall I come here to hear and determine causes, and shall you keep men in prison during your pleasure, and not put their names in the Kalender"? The jailor coming out of the castle was heard by the turnkey to say, "It was about Haywood that I was so severely reprimanded by the judge; and if ever he comes into the castle again, he shall never come out alive." Upon which the turnkey took an opportunity to find me out, and informing me of it, said, "I would not have you by any means come [Page 45] back to the castle to night, to fetch any of your things; for if you do, he'll certainly detain you for his sees. I'll take care of your thing [...] if yourself were present to do it." I acknowledged his kindness, and went home. When the jailor return'd to the castle, he ask'd the turnkey where the Quakers were? He answer'd, he thought it his busi­ness to take care of the felons, and to leave the Quakers to him. Not long after, being constable, I secur'd a felon who broke out of the castle, and sent the turnkey notice of it. He coming over to fetch him back, begg'd if by any means I could prevent it, that I would not come any more a prisoner to the castle whilst his master was jailor. "For (says he) if you do, he swears you shall never go out alive; and that hour you come in I leave the castle; for I can't stay there to see you abused." Does he still say so? said I. Yes, he does, said he, "Then remember me to him (said I) and tell him from me I shall never see his face any more! Soon after it plea­sed God to take him away by death; and in a little time I was had prisoner there again.

This was the last conference my father had with the bishop, who died soon after.

Some time after our friends having been kept out of their meeting at Cirencester a considerable time, had con­tinued to meet in the street. But orders being given one day to permit them to meet in the house, they did and whilst Theophila Townshend was in prayer, the bishop (succes­sor to bishop Nicholson) Sir John Guise, William Burch­er, of Barnsley, justice of the peace, with a great com­pany attending them, came in. The bishop laid his hand of Theophila's head, saying, Enough▪ good woman▪ enough: desist, desist. When she had done, Richard Bowly, of Cirencester went to prayer And when he had done, Sir John Guise ask'd his name.

My name is Richard Bowly.

Where do you live.

In this town.

What trade are you?

A maltster.

Set down Richard Bowly 20l. for [Page 46] preaching. Whose house is this?

This house hath many owners?

But who is the [...]?

One who is [...] us a quiet pos­session of it.

I demand of you who is the landlord of it.

The king is our landlord.

How is the king your landlord?

It is the kings land, and we pay the king's auditors. And we are not only his peaceable sub­jects, but also his good tenants, who pay him rent. Therefore we have reason to hope he will give us a peace­able possession of our bargain.

Who pays the king's auditors?

I do.

Set down R. Bowly 20.l for the house.

Who is that (speaking to the other ju­stice) who is so forward to take names, and levy fines.

Don't you know him? 'Tis Sir John Guise.

What's that to you? What's your name.

I'm not asham'd of my name. But if thy name be John Guise, I knew thy father by a very remarkable incident: and I would have thee take warn­ing by thy father—A word to the wise is sufficient.

Here constable, take this fellow, and lay him by the heels. He affronts me.

My heels, man? Fear and dread the li­ving God: I am not afraid of being laid by the heels. The constable not being forward to obey his orders, he took my father by arm, and bid the constable take him by the other. So they led him into the street, and bid him to go about his business. "I am about my business." said my father: and on their going in again, my father follow'd them.

Haywood, I thought I had you out. What do you here again?

I come to see how you behavest amongst my friends, and if thou dost not behave thyself well. I [Page 47] shall make bold to tell thee of it.

I command you in the king's name, to go out again.

If thou pleasest go out first, I'll follow.

With some pains he got all the friends out, of the house and order'd all the forms to be brought out into the street.

Which being done, my father said, "The seats are our own, and we may as well sit as stand." So the friends sat down: but presently after they were broken up and dispers'd.—Not long after John Timbrel, a friend of Cirencester, wrote to justice Burcher, and told him (amongst other things) he had till then a better opinion of him than to think he would set his hand to such a work; and that he was sorry that he should be one in it. Sir John, being acquainted with it by justice Burcher, sent out a warrant against John Timbrel. The constable who had it to serve was so civil to inform him of it, and tell him he would not serve it on him till his market was over. How­ever, he left his market, came to my father, told him of the warrant, and ask'd advice, My father advised him not to stay for the serving of the warrant, but go directly to Sir John. He engaging my father to accompany him, so away they went. When they came before Sir John, John Timbrel said, "I heard thou had'st sent out a warrant to bring me before thee, But I chose rather to come without it."

What's your name?

My name is John Timbrel.

Are you that saucy, pragmatic fellow that wrote to Mr. Burcher, to deter him from executing the king's laws,

I did write a letter to Wm. Burcher.

Then you deserve a stone doublet.

Hast thou seen the letter.

No but I have had an account of it.

Then tho' thou art but a young man, I de­sire thee to shew thyself so much a wise man, as not to condemn any thing thou hast not seen. I have [Page 48] seen a copy of it, and think there is a great deal of good advice in it; and I wish both thee and W. Burcher were so wise as to take it."

I thought you were the writer or inditer of it, tho' Timbrel's name was to it.

No I was not. I knew nothing of it, till after it was sent,

I remember you affronted me t'other day be­fore a great number of people, concerning my father. Pray what do you know of my father?

Some time ago, several of my friends being met, together with me in a peaceable manner, to worship God, at Stoke Orchard, thy father came in with a file of musquetiers at his heels, and beat and abus'd us very much. I then warn'd him in abundance of love. Yet he did not seem to regard it, but sent about twelve of us to Gloucester castle. I then told him God would plead our cause with him. And I was credibly inform'd that, not the very night, but the next night after, he went to bed as well in appearance as usual; but in the morn­ing, he not ringing a certain bell, which he had by him for that purpose, at the time he us'd to do, his housekeeper went up several times, and thought he was asleep. But at length, suspecting something more than ordinary, she made a closer inspection; and, perceiving his countenance chang'd, she threw open the curtains in a great surprise. On which, he just flash'd open his eyes, but said not a word. She ask'd him how he did? but he made no an­swer. Which made her cry out more earnestly; "Pray sir, how do you do? How is it with you? For God's sake tell me." And all he said to her was Oh these Quak­ers! Oh these Quakers! Would to God I never had a hand against the Quakers! I did not hear that ever he spoke more

Sir John seem'd surprised at this relation, and did not contradict it in the least; which, it is very reasonable to think, he would, and with resentement too, had it not been true. Yet not withstanding this fair warning, he continued his practice of granting warrants against us. [Page 49] But the officers were generally so civil as to acquaint us with it in time. Some time after this, Sir J. Guise and Sir Robert Atkins, being at Perrot's Brook, two miles from Cirencester, quarrell'd as they were gaming. Sir John drew his Sword, and demanded satisfaction: But those in the house stepped between and parted them. They seeming to appear pacified, sat down again. But afterwards, taking a walk together in the bowling-green, the breast of Sir John being filled with resentment, he said, Sir Robert, you gave me the lye; and I will have satisfaction.

If I have said any thing more than what is common for gentlemen to say to each other in their play, betwixt you and I, I ask your pardon.

If you'll go in, and ask it before the people of the house, I will put it up; otherwise I will not.

No, Sir John; that's beneath me.

Then draw, or you shall die like a dog.— They both drew; and Sir Robert gave him a gentle prick in the arm, and said, I desire you, Sir John, to take that for satisfaction. I could have had you else­where; but was unwilling to do you further mischief.

I'll kill or be killed.

If that be your mind, look to yourself as well as you can; for I shall have you at the next pass.— And so he had; for he ran him through, in at the belly and out at the back; on which he fell. Sir Robert stepped up to him, unbuttoned his cloaths, tore his shirt down, and gently drew out his sword; and then, after he had well sucked the wound, taking his handkerchief, he rolled up the corners of it hard, and thrust it into the orifice: then buttoning of his cloaths, he lifted him up, and desired him while he was able, that he would ac­qaint the people of the house that his death was owing to his own seeking. And when they were come about him, he was so generous as to say, "If I die, Sir Ro­bert is clear; for if he had not killed me, I would have killed him." Sir Robert procured him surgeons; and, after a while, when great pain came upon him, he la­mented himself much, and said, "It was the just hand [Page 50] of God upon me for meddling with the Quakers. But, if he will be pleased to spare me, and try me again, I'll never have a hand against them any more. For Hay­wood told me, if I went on persecuting, the same hand that overtook my father would overtake me, before I was aware. He further told me, I was set on by some en­vious priests; and I might have time to repent it. And so I do with all my heart. And 'tis true; I could never come into company with Mr. Careless or Mr. Freame, but they would be stirring me up to put the laws in exe­cution against Dissenters." The sword having missed his entrails, he recovered, stood candidate for the county after, and never more disturbed our meetings.

The next thing I shall take notice of, is the proceeding of justice James George, against my father, my brother Nathaniel and myself. He came to the Ram in Ciren­cester, and sent for my brother and me. My father went with us. And when we came thither, he said:—"'Tis very well, John, that you are come too, I sent for your sons, to let them know it is his Majesty's pleasure to have the laws put in execution: and now I take this oppor­tunity to let them and you know, that we must all be of one church."

Thou oughtest then to be well assured it is the right church. For if thou shouldest be so far permitted to exercise the authority thou art intrusted with, as to force a man against his conscience, to conform to a wrong church, thou canst not indemnify that man for so conforming in the day of account. I have read in­deed, that our Saviour made a whip of small cords to whip the buyers and sellers out of the temple? but I never read that he whipt any in.—The window of the room being open, we had a prospect of Cirencester tower; and the justice pointing to it, said, "What do you call that, John?"

Thou mayest call it a daw-house if thou pleasest. Dost not thou see how the jackdaws flock about it?

Well, notwithstanding your jesting, I warn [Page 51] you, in the King's name, that you meet no more, as you will answer it at your peril.

Then, I suppose thou think'st thou hast done thy duty.

Yes.

Then I desire thee to give me leave to do my duty. And I do now warn thee, in the name of the King of Kings, and Lord of Lords, not to molest or hinder us in the peaceable exercise of our duty to God, as thou wilt answer it at another day.

A little time after this, he sent to the officers, to bid them go to the Quakers meeting-house on sunday next, and bring their names to him. The officers were very unwilling to obey his commands; and some of them ac­quainted me with their orders, desiring we would not meet at the usual time, or otherwise that we would meet at another place. I told them, we did not dare so far to deny the worship of our God: For, said I, we wor­ship the same God that Daniel did: and he, notwith­standing the severe decree of the King, failed not openly to own God, by praying to him, with his window open as usual. And our God is the same he was in Daniel's days, as able to stop the mouths of lions as he was then. And we are not afraid to trust him, having had experience of many deliverances he hath wrought for us. The next first day we met at the time and place we used to meet; and a good meeting we had, the living pre­sence of the Lord being sensibly felt amongst us. One of the constables came in▪ and delivered a warrant to my brother John, desiring him to read it. But my brother put it in his pocket, telling him he designed to read it when the meeting was over. "That will not do, said he for if you will not read it now, I desire you to give it to me again." Which he did. And then they took a list of several of our names, and carried it to justice George. On which he sent out his warrants to distrain our goods. They seized my father's corn in his barns, and locked up the barn-doors. And at that same time the murrain had seized the justice's cattle, and they died apace. His steward told him, he must send for John [Page 52] Haywood, or he would lose all his cattle. ‘No, said the justice, don't send for him now; because I have warrants out against him and his sons. Send for any body else.’ So the steward sent for another; who did what he could for 'em, but to very little purpose, for the cattle continued to sicken and die as before. The steward then told him, "Please your worship, if you don't send for John Haywood, I believe you will lose all your cattle; for now the bull is sick, and off his meat; and I don't find this man does them any good. But if you'll please to send for John, I don't question but he would be of service to them." Send for him then, said the justice; but don't bring him in as you used to do. When he has done what he can, pay him, and dismiss him. So my father was sent for, and went (having learned that great christian lesson to return good for evil) and did his best for 'em. When he had done, as he was wiping his hands in the entry, the justice unde­signedly came by him; and, seeing he could not avoid his notice, said, So, John, you have done something for my cattle, I suppose. Yes, said my father, and I hope it will do them good. Well, (said the justice to the steward) pay John.

No; I'll have none of thy money.

None of my money! why so?

To what purpose is it for me to take a [...] of thy money by retail, and thou'lt come and take my goods by wholesale.

Don't think your coming to drench and bleed my cattle shall deter me from executing the king's laws.

'Tis time enough for thee to deny me a savour when I ask it of thee. I seek no favour at thy hands. But when thou hast done me all the displeasure thou art permitted to do, I will notwithstanding serve thee or thine to the utmost of my power.

Well, John, you must stay and dine with me.

Perhaps I shall intrude if I stay, I had rather be excused.

'Tis no intrusion, John; you shall stay.

[Page 53]So my father stay'd, and presented him with a piece of Thomas Elwood's against persecution. Which, to­gether with my father's readiness to serve him, so wrought on him, that I don't remember any of his corn was taken from him at that time. But my brother Na­thaniel and myself, being partners in trade in Ciren­cester, were fined by this justice George, for ourselves, and unable persons present with us at the meeting, se­venty pounds.

Some time after came to our house Sir Thomas Cutter, with other justices, the sheriff of the county, his men, and two constables. Our neighbours, in good-will to us, shut our doors, and the maid fastened them on the inside. But the justices gave orders they should be broke open. A young woman being in the shop when it was done, ran out at the back door in a fright. Which Sir Tho­mas seeing, said, "There is one gone! There might as well be five hundred gone; I'll take my oath here was a conventicle." I, being near him, bid him take care what he said or swore, because he must give account, and he knew not how soon. A servant belonging to one of them took off my hat, and laid it on the table. I took it, and put it on again, saying, I hope a man may keep his hat on in his own house, without offence to any man.

What's your name?

Daniel Roberts.

Can you swear?

Not that I know of, I never try'd.

Then you must begin now.

I think I shall not.

How will you help it?

By not doing it. But if thou canst con­vince me by that book in thy hand (which was a bible) that it is lawful to swear, since Christ forbids it, then I will swear. For when men come and say you must swear or suffer, 'tis but reasonable to expect such men should be qualified to prove it lawful. Our Saviour says, Swear not at all: Thou say'st I must swear. Pray which must I obey?

Well, Daniel, if you will not swear, you must go to jail.

The will of God be done. For be it known unto you, we had rather be in prison, and enjoy our peace with God, than be at liberty, and break our peace with him.

I suppose you are one of John Hay­wood's sons?

Yes.

I am sorry for that.

Why art thou sorry for that? I never heard an honest man speak against my father in my life. What hast thou against him?

That he is not only misled himself, but he is also a means to mislead others.

If you have nothing against him, but his obedience to the law of his God, that's no more than the accusers of honest Daniel had against him; and that does not concern me.

His worshipping God in the way he does, is crime enough.

Then I hope I shall be a criminal as long as I live.

Then they seized what goods they pleased, and took them away with them. And after they had tendered us oaths twice more, our mittimus was made, and we were sent to Gloucester castle; where we found several of our friends before us; and, with them that were sent in soon after us, we became a family of forty or fifty. The jailor's name was John Landborne; and for a piece of service I did him gratis in his absence ( i. e. officiating as key-turner, and preventing two notorious robbers from breaking out) I could prevail with him to let several of our friends go home, when occasion particularly re­quired, for some time together. We being a large number of us in prison, had often large meetings on the first-days in the castle. Divers of the prisoners, who were not of us, as well as several people out of the city, would come and sit down with us. Therefore Richard Parsons, one of our persecutors, who lived in the city, [Page 55] came to our morning meeting, accompanyed with several others. My father was present with us, and Henry Panton, (who had formerly been a fencing-master) was preaching, when they came in, concerning the confes­sion of some, who perpetually say they are doing what they ought not, and leaving undone what they ought to do: which words Parsons (who was a priest, a chan­cellor, and a justice) took hold of, telling him he was com­plaining of others for what he was doing himself; for (said he) you are now doing what you ought not, and leaving undone what you ought to do; catching hold of his grey locks to pull him down. But Henry being a tall man, strong and active, though in years, he stood his ground, and spoke over his head. Parsons then strove to stop his mouth; but he avoided it, by turning his head on one side. When he had done speaking, a friend stood up, and said, "'Tis a sign the devil's hard put to it to have his drudgery done, that priests must leave their pulpits and parishioners, to take up the business of informers against poor prisoners in the prison." After priest Par­sons had been some time endeavouring to get the names of some present, and no body would give him information, he thus broke out: "If you are thereabouts, I shall be even with you another way." For he had got a list of several of the prisoners names; and taking for granted that they were all present at the time, he sent out his warrants for distraining their goods. However, herein he was mistaken▪ for several were then absent; among whom was Lettice Gush, a widow, who lived about twenty miles distant. Some officers being sent to her house to [...] her goods, for being at this meeting, when she was twenty miles from the place; when the of­ficers came, she told them she was not at the meeting: and to convince them, persuaded them to go with her to her landlord, who was also a justice of the peace, and knew what [...] to be true. When they came before him, and [...] him the warrant, "What a rascal (said he) [...] Parsons! Here, he says, he will take his oath that my tenant was convicted by him of being a [Page 56] conventicle in Gloucester castle such a day of the month; and I'll take my oath she was at home, at the same time, which is twenty miles off. If you touch any of her goods by virtue of this warrant, be it at your peril. I will assure you if you do, I will stick close to your skirts."

What can be done in this case? How can we make a legal return of the warrant without executing it?

Carry it back to Mr. Parsons, and tell him to wipe his breech with it; and I will bear you out in it.

So they returned, without giving her any further trouble. Another warrant was issued out against Francis Boy, physician, on the same account, and of the same value, who was likewise absent at the time of his pre­tended conviction. When the officers came to distrain his goods, he was not at home. So his cattle were taken away to the value of between twenty and thirty pounds. He afterwards, on inspection, found by his books, that he was attending a gentleman the time he was said to be convicted. To this gentleman he went, and enquired of him if he could remember the day he attended him? The gentleman answered, "He had good reason to remember it; for (said he) if you had not done what you did for me that day, I believe I should have been now in my grave." He then informed the gentleman of the reason that induced him to give him that trouble. "Well (replied he) I advise you to ap­peal to the next quarter sessions for redress and you may assure yourself I will endeavour to serve you what lies in my power; for I will take my oath before any judge or bench of justices in England that you was with me that day." But it so fell out that he had no occasion to appeal. For it soon [...] that he had such a substantial evidence in his [...]; and his cattle were returned before the sessions.

Not long after it pleased God to visit my dear father with sickness that proved mortal. I had have to attend him the major part of the time he was sick: and the Lord was pleased to favour him with his living presence in his last moments: and having honourably finished his [Page 57] days work, he departed this life in the year 1683, and was interred in the piece of ground he had long before given to friends for a burying-place, situate at the lower end of his orchard, at Siddington, near Cirencester.

Some days after his interment, I had the news that my brother and myself, with four friends more, were discharged by the judge; but that the other four were detained for the fees I therefore went down to use my interest for their discharge. I found him ill in bed; and he told me he was very willing to remit the fees belong­ing to himself; but there was some due to the under-sheriff, and those were not in his power. But soon after providence so ordered that we all had our liberty; and I came and settled at my present habitation at Chesham, in Buckinghamshire, where I have now dwelt about forty years.

Thus, considering that it were great pity those sin­gular providences of the Almighty should not be re­corded, for the benefit of posterity, I was willing for my own perusal and that of my family, and some few particular friends, to commit them to writing. In the doing of which, respecting the several conferences my father had with the bishops, and others, before-men­tioned, I have been careful to pen them down in the same words they were then expressed in, as near as I could recollect, or at least to retain the genuine sense and purport of them. Which, reader, if they tend to thy confirmation and encouragement in a course of true christian piety, I have my end; who am