The History of Thomas Ellwood Written By Himself Part 11

He, to enhance the kindness, made it a matter of some difficulty, and would have me stay till another night. I told him I would be at a word with him, for, as I had told him before that if he denied me I would ask him no more, so he should find I would keep to it.

He was no sooner gone out of my sight but I espied his master crossing the court; wherefore, stepping to him, I asked him if he was willing to let me go out for a little while, to see some friends of mine that evening. "Yes," said he, "very willingly;" and thereupon away walked I to Newgate, where having spent the evening among Friends, I returned in good time.

Under this easy restraint we lay until the Court sat at the Old Bailey again; and then, whether it was that the heat of the storm was somewhat abated, or by what other means Providence wrought it, I know not, we were called to the bar, and, without further question, discharged.

Whereupon we returned to Bridewell again, and having raised some money among us, and therewith gratified both the master and his porter for their kindness to us, we spent some time in a solemn meeting, to return our thankful acknowledgment to the Lord, both for his preservation of us in prison and deliverance of us out of it; and then taking a solemn farewell of each other, we departed with bag and baggage. And I took care to return my hammock to the owner, with due acknowledgment of his great kindness in lending it me.

Being now at liberty, I visited more generally my friends that were still in prison, and more particularly my friend and benefactor William Penington, at his house, and then went to wait upon my Master Milton, with whom yet I could not propose to enter upon my intermitted studies until I had been in Buckinghams.h.i.+re, to visit my worthy friends Isaac Penington and his virtuous wife, with other friends in that country.

Thither therefore I betook myself, and the weather being frosty, and the ways by that means clean and good, I walked it throughout in a day, and was received by my friends there with such demonstration of hearty kindness as made my journey very easy to me.

I had spent in my imprisonment that twenty s.h.i.+llings which I had received of Wm. Penington, and twenty of the forty which had been sent me from Mary Penington, and had the remainder then about me.

That therefore I now returned to her, with due acknowledgment of her husband's and her great care of me, and liberality to me in the time of my need. She would have had me keep it; but I begged of her to accept it from me again, since it was the redundancy of their kindness, and the other part had answered the occasion for which it was sent: and my importunity prevailed.

I intended only a visit hither, not a continuance, and therefore purposed, after I had stayed a few days to return to my lodging and former course in London, but Providence ordered it otherwise.

Isaac Penington had at that time two sons and one daughter, all then very young; of whom the eldest son, John Penington, and the daughter, Mary, the wife of Daniel Wharley, are yet living at the writing of this. And being himself both skilful and curious in p.r.o.nunciation, he was very desirous to have them well grounded in the rudiments of the English tongue, to which end he had sent for a man out of Lancas.h.i.+re, whom, upon inquiry, he had heard of, who was undoubtedly the most accurate English teacher that ever I met with, or have heard of. His name was Richard Bradley. But as he pretended no higher than the English tongue, and had led them, by grammar rules, to the highest improvement they were capable of in that, he had then taken his leave of them, and was gone up to London, to teach an English school of Friends' children there.

This put my friend to a fresh strait. He had sought for a new teacher to instruct his children in the Latin tongue, as the old had done in the English, but had not yet found one. Wherefore one evening, as we sat together by the fire in his bed-chamber (which for want of health he kept), he asked me, his wife being by, if I would be so kind to him as to stay a while with him till he could hear of such a man as he aimed at, and in the meantime enter his children in the rudiments of the Latin tongue.

This question was not more unexpected than surprising to me, and the more because it seemed directly to thwart my former purpose and undertaking, of endeavouring to improve myself by following my studies with my Master Milton, which this would give at least a present diversion from, and for how long I could not foresee.

But the sense I had of the manifold obligations I lay under to these worthy friends of mine shut out all reasonings, and disposed my mind to an absolute resignation of their desire that I might testify my grat.i.tude by a willingness to do them any friendly service that I could be capable of.

And though I questioned my ability to carry on that work to its due height and proportion, yet as that was not proposed, but an initiation only by accidence into grammar, I consented to the proposal as a present expedient till a more qualified person should be found, without further treaty or mention of terms between us than that of mutual friends.h.i.+p. And to render this digression from my own studies the less uneasy to my mind, I recollected and often thought of that rule in Lilly:

Qui docet indoctos, licet indoctissimus esset, Ipse brevi reliquis doctior esse queat.

He that the unlearned doth teach may quickly be More learned than they, though most unlearned he.

With this consideration I undertook this province, and left it not until I married, which was not till the year 1669, near seven years from the time I came thither. In which time, having the use of my friend's books, as well as of my own, I spent my leisure hours much in reading, not without some improvement to myself in my private studies, which (with the good success of my labours bestowed on the children, and the agreeableness of conversation which I found in the family) rendered my undertaking more satisfactory, and my stay there more easy to me.

But, alas! not many days (not to say weeks) had I been there, ere we were almost overwhelmed with sorrow for the unexpected loss of Edward Burrough, who was justly very dear to us all.

This not only good, but great good man, by a long and close confinement in Newgate through the cruel malice and malicious cruelty of Richard Brown, was taken away by hasty death, to the unutterable grief of very many, and unspeakable loss to the Church of Christ in general.

The particular obligation I had to him as the immediate instrument of my convincement, and high affection for him resulting therefrom, did so deeply affect my mind that it was some pretty time before my pa.s.sion could prevail to express itself in words, so true I found those of the tragedian:

Curae leves loquuntur, Ingentes stupent.

Light griefs break forth, and easily get vent, Great ones are through amazement closely pent.

At length, my muse, not bearing to be any longer mute, broke forth in the following

ACROSTIC,

WHICH SHE CALLED A PATHETIC ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THAT DEAR AND FAITHFUL SERVANT OF G.o.d,

EDWARD BURROUGH,

Who died the 14th of the Twelfth Month, 1662.

And thus she introduceth it:

How long shall Grief lie smother'd? ah! how long Shall Sorrow's signet seal my silent tongue?

How long shall sighs me suffocate? and make My lips to quiver and my heart to ache?

How long shall I with pain suppress my cries, And seek for holes to wipe my watery eyes?

Why may not I, by sorrow thus oppressed, Pour forth my grief into another's breast?

If that be true which once was said by one, That "He mourns truly who doth mourn alone:" {180} Then may I truly say, my grief is true, Since it hath yet been known to very few.

Nor is it now mine aim to make it known To those to whom these verses may be shown; But to a.s.suage my sorrow-swollen heart, Which silence caused to taste so deep of smart.

This is my end, that so I may prevent The vessel's bursting by a timely vent.

Quis talia fando Temperet a lacrymis!

Who can forbear, when such things spoke he hears, His grave to water with a flood of tears?

E cho ye woods, resound ye hollow places, L et tears and paleness cover all men's faces.

L et groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air, W hile I the cause of my just grief declare, O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile O 'erflow their watery banks; and thou meanwhile D rink in my trickling tears, oh thirsty ground, S o might'st thou henceforth fruitfuler be found.

L ament, my soul, lament; thy loss is deep, A nd all that Sion love sit down and weep, M ourn, oh ye virgins, and let sorrow be E ach damsel's dowry, and (alas, for me!) N e'er let my sobs and sighings have an end T ill I again embrace my ascended friend; A nd till I feel the virtue of his life T o consolate me, and repress my grief: I nfuse into my heart the oil of gladness O nce more, and by its strength remove that sadness N ow pressing down my spirit, and restore

F ully that joy I had in him before; O f whom a word I fain would stammer forth, R ather to ease my heart than show his worth:

H is worth, my grief, which words too shallow are I n demonstration fully to declare, S ighs, sobs, my best interpreters now are.

E nvy begone; black Momus quit the place; N e'er more, Zoilus, show thy wrinkled face, D raw near, ye bleeding hearts, whose sorrows are E qual with mine; in him ye had like share.

A dd all your losses up, and ye shall see R emainder will be nought but woe is me.

E ndeared lambs, ye that have the white stone, D o know full well his name--it is your own.

E ternitized be that right worthy name; D eath hath but kill'd his body, not his fame, W hich in its brightness shall for ever dwell, A nd like a box of ointment sweetly smell.

R ighteousness was his robe; bright majesty D ecked his brow; his look was heavenly.

B old was he in his Master's quarrel, and U ndaunted; faithful to his Lord's command.

R equiting good for ill; directing all R ight in the way that leads out of the fall.

O pen and free to ev'ry thirsty lamb; U nspotted, pure, clean, holy, without blame.

G lory, light, splendour, l.u.s.tre, was his crown, H appy his change to him: the loss our own.

Unica post cineres virtus veneranda beatos Efficit.

Virtue alone, which reverence ought to have, Doth make men happy, e'en beyond the grave.

While I had thus been breathing forth my grief, In hopes thereby to get me some relief, I heard, methought, his voice say, "Cease to mourn: I live; and though the veil of flesh once worn Be now stript off, dissolved, and laid aside, My spirit's with thee, and shall so abide."