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.”