No. LXXI.
In the latter days of William Penn, the sun and the light were darkened—the clouds returned after the rain—the grasshopper became a burden—and the years had drawn nigh, when he could truly say he had no pleasure in them. No mortal, probably, ever enjoyed a more continual feast from the consciousness of a life, devoted to the glory of God, and the welfare of man; but many of his temporal reliances had crumbled under him; and trouble had gathered about his path, and about his bed.
He had not much more comfort in his government, I fear, than Sancho Panza enjoyed, in that of Barataria. Its commencement was marked, by a vexatious dispute with Lord Baltimore; and the Governor’s absence was ever the signal for altercation, between different cliques and parties, and vexatious neglect, on the part of his tenants and agents. In his letters to Thomas Lloyd, the President of his Council, he complains of some in the government, for drinking, carousing, and official extortion.
In his letters to Lloyd and Harrison in 1686, he complains of the Council, for neglecting and slighting his letters; that he cannot get “a penny” of his quit-rents; and adds—“God is my witness, I lie not. I am now above six thousand pounds out of pocket, more than ever I saw by the province; and you may throw in my pains, cares, and hazard of life, and leaving of my family and friends to serve them.”
It is even stated by Clarkson, vol. i. ch. 22, that want of funds from the Province prevented his returning to America, in 1686. In the following year, he renews these complaints.
In 1688, and after the revolution, he was examined, before the Lords of Council, on the charge of being a Papist and a Jesuit; gave bonds for his attendance, on the first day of the next term; and, no witness then appearing against him, he was discharged.
In 1690, he was again arrested, and bound over as before, and, no witness appearing, was again discharged. In the same year, he was once more arrested, and committed to prison. On the day of trial, no witness appeared, and he was again discharged. He resolved to fly from such continual persecution, to America, and, while making his preparation, he was again arrested, upon the information of one Fuller, who was afterward set in the pillory, for his crime.
Penn sought safety, in privacy and retirement from the world. In 1691, a new proclamation was issued for his arrest; and his American affairs wore a gloomy aspect. In 1693, he was deprived of his government, by King William; and pursued with unrelenting rage, by his enemies. In the words of Clarkson, he was “a poor, persecuted exile.”
“Canonized to-day and cursed to-morrow”—such seems to have been the fortune of William Penn. His only prudent course seemed to be to bow down, before the wrath of that popular hurricane, which swept furiously over him, and went upon its way. This good and great man was not wholly forgotten. He had never forfeited the affectionate respect of some persons, who have left bright names, for the admiration of future ages. Such were Locke and Tillotson. They marked their time, and moved in behalf of the oppressed. Lords Ranelagh, Rochester, and Sidney went to King William—they “considered it a dishonor to the Government, that a man, who had lived such an exemplary life, and who had been so distinguished for his talents, disinterestedness, generosity, and public spirit, should be buried in an ignoble obscurity, and prevented from rising to future eminence and usefulness, in consequence of the charge of an unprincipled wretch, whom Parliament had publicly stigmatized, as a cheat and an impostor.”
King William replied to these truly noble lords, “that William Penn was an old friend of his, as well as theirs, and that he might follow his business, as freely as ever, for he had nothing to say against him.” The principal Secretary of State, Sir John Trenchard, and the Marquis of Winchester bore these joyful tidings to William Penn. And how did he receive them? He went instantly, of course, to tender the homage of his humble acknowledgments to King William—not so. He was then greatly embarrassed in his pecuniary affairs. Foes were on every side. The wife whom, in his parting letter, he bade remember, that she was the love of his youth and the joy of his life, was on her death-bed, prostrated there, according to Clarkson, in no small degree, by her too keen sympathy for her long suffering husband. His heart was broken—his spirit was not. He preferred rights before favors, and desired permission publicly to defend himself, before the King in council. This was granted, and he was abundantly acquitted, after a deliberate hearing.
The last hours of his wife, Gulielma Maria, were cheered by this intelligence. In about a month after this event, she died. “She was an excelling person,” said he, “as wife, child, mother, mistress, friend, and neighbor.”
In 1694, a complete reconciliation took place between Penn and the society of Friends; and, in the same year, he was restored to the Government of Pennsylvania. In 1696, he married Hannah Callowhill, of Bristol. These gleams of returning happiness were soon obscured. A few weeks after this marriage, he lost his eldest son. This young man was upon the eve of twenty-one. His father’s simple narrative of the dying hour is truly affecting. “His time drawing on apace, he said to me—‘My dear father, kiss me. Thou art a dear father. How can I make thee amends?’ He also called his sister, and said to her, ‘poor child, come and kiss me,’ between whom seemed a tender and long parting. I sent for his brother, that he might kiss him too, which he did. All were in tears about him. Turning his head to me, he said softly, ‘Dear father, hast thou no hope for me?’ I answered, ‘My dear child, I am afraid to hope, and I dare not despair, but am and have been resigned, though one of the hardest lessons I ever learned.’” When the doctor came, he was very weak, and the narrative continues thus. “He said—‘Let my father speak to the doctor, and I’ll go to sleep,’ which he did and waked no more; breathing his last upon my breast, the tenth day of the second month, between nine and ten in the morning, 1696. So ended the life of my dear child and eldest son, much of my comfort and hope, and one of the most tender and dutiful, as well as ingenuous and virtuous youths I knew, if I may say so of my own dear son, in whom I lost all that any father can lose in a child; since he was capable of anything, that became a sober young man, my friend and companion, as well as most affectionate and dutiful child.”
About this time Penn was sorely grieved, by the conduct of George Keith, the apostate Quaker, who had been excommunicated, and now spent his time, in abusing the society.
Penn had become well convinced of many solemn truths, presented in the last chapter of Ecclesiastes, and of none more fully, than that there is no end of making books. He continued to pour forth pamphlets, on various subjects. In this year, 1696, he became acquainted, and had several interviews, with Peter the Great, who was then working, as a common shipwright, in the dock yards at Deptford. In 1699 he once more visited Pennsylvania. In 1701 he returned to England. In 1702 and 1703 he continued to preach and publish, as vigorously as ever.
In 1707 he became involved in a lawsuit, with the executors of one Ford, his former steward, or agent. Ford was undoubtedly a knave. Penn suffered severely from this cause. The decision was against him; and, though Chancery could not relieve, many thought him greatly wronged. He was compelled, in 1708, to live within the rules of the Fleet. This, doubtless, was the occasion of Mr. Burke’s erroneous statement, many years after, that Penn died in the Fleet Prison. An amusing anecdote may be referred to this period, which, though not mentioned by Clarkson, nor in the life by Chalmers, may be found in the Encyclopædia Britannica, of 1798, and is repeated, in Napier’s edition of 1842. Penn is said to have had a peep-hole, through which, unseen, he could see every visitor. A creditor, having often knocked, and becoming impatient, knocked more violently; “will not your master see me?” said he, when the door was opened—“He hath seen thee, friend,” the servant replied, “but he doth not like thee.”
In 1709, his necessities were such, that he mortgaged his whole Province of Pennsylvania, for £6600. This necessity, as Oldmixon says, in his “Account of the British Empire in America,” arose from “his bounty to the Indians, his generosity in minding the public affairs of the Colony more than his own private ones, his humanity to those, who have not made suitable returns, his confidence in those, who have betrayed him.”
In 1712, he had three apoplectic fits, followed by those painful effects, which are usual in such cases. His friend, Thomas Story, the first recorder of Philadelphia, made him yearly visits, after this period, till his death, which took place July 30, 1718. It is impossible to read the account of these visits, as given by Thomas Story himself, and presented by Clarkson, vol. ii. chap. 18, without emotion.
It has too often befallen those, whose lives have been devoted to the benefit of mankind, to be outraged, after they were dead and buried. Malice delights to meddle with their ashes. Political prejudice and priestly bigotry seek, in graves, undisturbed by ages, for something to gratify their unnatural appetites, and satisfy the gnawings of a mean, vindictive spirit.
Penn had not long been committed to the tomb, when a wretch, Henry Pickworth, an excommunicated renegade, spread abroad, with all the industry and energy of a malicious spirit, the report that Penn had died a raving maniac, at Bath. This rumor became so general, that it was thought necessary to destroy it, by the publication of certificates from those, who had ministered about his dying bed.
For one hundred and thirty years, William Penn has slumbered in the grave. That hutesium et clamor, that spirit of persecution, by which this excellent man was pursued, vilified, impoverished, and exiled, has long been hushed. The high churchman, the bigot, the Quaker renegade, the false accuser, have worn out their viperous teeth upon the file. All, that bore the primeval impress of human weakness, in William Penn, had well nigh perished, and departed from the minds of men. All, that was excellent, and lovely, and of good report, had become case hardened, as it were, into a sort of precious immortality. That his spirit had found a celestial niche, among the just made perfect, was the firm faith of all, who believe, that their Father in Heaven is a God of toleration and of mercy. I have paid my imperfect tribute of affectionate respect to the memory of William Penn.
Notwithstanding Mr. Macaulay’s efforts to disturb the popular opinion, in regard to William Penn, his History of England is one of the most amusing books, in the English language. Relationship is worth something, even in a library; I have placed the two volumes, already published, between the works of Sir Walter Scott, and a highly prized edition of the Arabian Nights.