No. LXIX.
It is remarkable, that such a genuine Quaker, as William Penn, should have sprung from such a belligerent stock. His father, as I have stated, was a British admiral; and his grandfather, Giles, was a captain in the navy. William Penn may, nevertheless, have derived, from this origin, and from his Dutch mother, Margaret Jasper, of Rotterdam—a certain quality, eminently characteristic of the Quaker—that resolute determination, which the coarser man of the world calls pluck, and the Quaker, constancy.
This constancy of purpose, in William Penn, seems never to have been shaken. It appeared, in his refusal to doff his brim, before his father, the Duke of York, and the King. It was manifested, when, being imprisoned in the Tower, for printing his Sandy Foundation Shaken, and hearing, that the Bishop of London had declared the offender should publicly recant, or remain there, for life; he replied, “he would weary out the malice of his enemies by his patience, and that his prison should be his grave, before he would renounce his just opinions, for he owed his conscience to no man.”
This same constancy was signally exhibited, during the disputation, between himself and George Whitehead, for the Quakers, and Thomas Vincent and others, for the Presbyterians. Vincent had a parish, in Spitalfields. Two of his parishioners went to listen, perhaps to laugh, at the Quakers. Like Goldsmith’s scoffers, who came to laugh, and remained to pray—they went in, Presbyterians, and came out, Quakers. They were converted. At this, Vincent lost his patience; and seems to have become a persecutor of the cursed Quakers; and, as Clarkson states, said all manner of “unhandsome” things of them, and their damnable doctrines. Penn and Whitehead invited Vincent to a public discussion. After much delay and evasion, Vincent consented. As every fowl is bravest on his own stercorium, Vincent selected his own Presbyterian meeting-house, as the place for the discussion; and, before the appointed hour, filled it with his own people, so completely, that the disputants themselves, Penn and Whitehead, could scarcely gain admittance. They were instantly insulted, by a charge, suddenly made, that the Quakers held “damnable doctrines.” Whitehead began a reply; Vincent interrupted him, and proposed, as the proper course, that he should put questions to the Quakers. He put the motion, and, as almost all present were of his party, it was agreed to, of course. He then put a question concerning the Godhead, which he knew the Quakers would answer in the negative. Whitehead and Penn attempted to explain. Several rose on the other side. Whitehead desired to put a question to Vincent. This the Presbyterians refused. They proceeded to laugh, hiss and stigmatize. Penn they called a Jesuit. Upon an answer from Whitehead, to a question from Vincent, uproar ensued, and Vincent “went instantly to prayer,” that the Lord would come short with heretics and blasphemers.
When he had, by this manœuvre, discharged his battery upon the Quakers, effectually securing himself from interruption—for no one would presume to interrupt a minister at prayer—he cut off all power of reply, by telling the people to go home immediately, at the same moment setting them the example.
The closing part, which especially exhibits that constancy, for which the Quakers have ever been remarkable, cannot be more happily related, than in the language of Mr. Clarkson himself.
“The congregation was leaving the meeting-house, and they had not yet been heard. Finding they would soon be left to themselves, some of them, at length, ventured to speak; but they were pulled down, and the candles, for the controversy had lasted till midnight, were put out. They were not, however, prevented by this usage, from going on: for, rising up, they continued their defence in the dark; and what was extraordinary, many staid to hear it. This brought Vincent among them with a candle. Addressing himself to the Quakers, he desired them to disperse. To this, at length, they consented, but only, on the promise, that another meeting should be granted them, for the same purpose, in the same place.”
Vincent did not keep his promise. He was, doubtless, fearful that more of his parishioners would be converted. Penn and Whitehead, at last, went to Vincent’s meeting-house, on a lecture day; and, when the lecture was finished, rose and begged an audience: but Vincent went off, as fast as possible; and the congregation, as speedily, followed. Finding no other mode before him, Penn wrote and published his celebrated Sandy Foundation Shaken, which caused his imprisonment in the Tower, as already related.
Another remarkable example of the constancy of Penn is recorded, in the history of his trial, before the Lord Mayor, for a breach of the conventicle act, in 1670. Mr. Macaulay is pleased to say, Penn had never been “a strong-headed man.” This is one of those sliding phrases, that may mean anything, or nothing. It may mean, that not being a strong-headed man, he necessarily belonged to the other category, and was a weak-headed man. Or, it may mean, that he was not as strong-headed as Lord Verulam, or Mr. Macaulay. I wish the reader would decide this question for himself; and, for that end, read the history of this interesting trial, as given by Clarkson, in the first volume, and sixth chapter of his Memoirs of Penn. If the evidences of a strong head and a strong heart were not abundantly exhibited, by the accused, upon that occasion, I know not where to look for them.
The jury returned a verdict of guilty of speaking in Grace Street Church. Sir Samuel Starling, the Mayor, and the whole court abused the jurors, after the example of Jeffreys, and sent them back to their room. After half an hour, they returned the same verdict, in writing, signed with their names. The court were more enraged than before; and, Mr. Clarkson says, the Recorder addressed them thus—“You shall not be dismissed, till we have a verdict, such as the court will accept; and you shall be locked up without meat, drink, fire, and tobacco; you shall not think thus to abuse the court; we will have a verdict, by the help of God, or you shall starve for it.” After being out all night, the jury returned the same verdict, for the third time. They were severely abused by the court, after the fashion of that day, and sent to their room, once more. A fourth time, they returned the same verdict. Penn addressed the jury, and the court ordered the jailor to stop his mouth, and bring fetters, and stake him to the ground. Friend William, for an instant, merged the Quaker in the Englishman, and exclaimed—“Do your pleasure, I matter not your fetters.”
On the fifth of September, the jury, who had received no refreshment, for two days and two nights, returned a verdict of not guilty. Such was the condition of things, at that day, that, for the rendition of that verdict, the jury were fined forty marks apiece, and imprisoned in Newgate. Penn was, at this time, five-and-twenty years of age.
The peculiar position of William Penn, at the court of Charles and James the Second, may be explained, without laying, at his door, the imputation of being a time-server, and a man of the world. Between the latter monarch and the Quaker, there existed a relation, akin to friendship. Penn, in keeping with his Quaker principles, was forgetful of injuries, and mindful of benefits. It is impossible to say, how long he would have remained in the tower, when imprisoned there, through the agency of the Bishop of London, had he not been released, upon the unsolicited importunity of James II., when Duke of York. When the Admiral, his father, was near his end, “he sent one of his friends,” says Mr. Clarkson, “to the Duke of York, to desire of him, as a death-bed request, that he would endeavor to protect his son, as far as he consistently could, and to ask the King to do the same, in case of future persecution. The answer was gratifying, both of them promising their services, upon a fit occasion.”
Perhaps it would not be going too far—with Mr. Macaulay’s permission, of course—to ascribe that personal consideration, which Penn exhibited, for Charles and James—a part of it, at least—to a grateful recollection of their favors, to his father and himself.
“Titles and phrases,” says Mr. Macaulay, “against which he had often borne his testimony, dropped occasionally from his lips and his pen.” I rather doubt, if the recording angel, who will never “set down aught in malice,” has noted the unquakerish sins of William Penn, in doing grammatical justice to personal pronouns. This, truly, is a mighty small matter. If Penn was not so particular, in these little things, as some others of his brotherhood, his birth and education may be well considered. He was not a Quaker born. His residence in France may also be taken into the account. “He had contracted,” says Clarkson, “a sort of polished or courtly demeanor, which he had insensibly taken from the customs of the people, among whom he had lately lived.”
In the matter of the hat, even Mr. Macaulay will never charge William Penn with inconsistency. In Granger’s Biographical History of England, iv. 16, I find the following anecdote—“We are credibly informed, that he sat with his hat on before Charles II., and that the King, as a gentle rebuke for his ill manners, put off his own: upon which Penn said to him—‘Friend Charles, why dost thou not put on thy hat?’ The King answered, ‘’Tis the custom of this place, that never above one person should be covered at a time.’” This tale is told also, in a note to Grey’s Hudibras, on canto ii. v. 225, and elsewhere.