I have always cherished a feeling of regard and respect, for these “cursed” Quakers, originating in early impressions, and increased, by some personal intercourse, with certain members of the Society of Friends.
It appears, by the Salem Records, that John Kitchen was fined thirty pence, for “unworthy and malignant carriages and speeches, in open court, Sept. 25, 1662.” I was very much chagrined, when I first glanced at this record; for he was my great, great, great-grandfather, by the mother’s side; and grandfather of the Hon. Col. John Turner, of Salem, who commanded, at the battle of Haverhill. Great was my satisfaction, when I discovered, that John Kitchen’s offence was neither more nor less, than an absolute refusal to take off his hat, in presence of the magistrate. For the luxury of keeping it on, and absenting themselves from the ordinances, he appears to have paid £40 stirling, in fines, for himself and Elizabeth, his wife. The “cursed” Quakers appear to have had a hard time of it, about the middle of the seventeenth century. Felt tells us, in his Annals, p. 204, that Robinson and Stevenson were hung in 1659, for returning from banishment; and, on p. 206, that Mary Dyer, of the Friends, was hung, June 1, 1660.
The deposition of John Ward and Thomas Mekens, is still of record, taken in that very month and year, showing that they saw Mrs. Kitchen pulled off her horse, and heard one Batter tell her, she was “a base, quaking slut,” and had been “a powowing.”
Now, John Kitchen was a good Quaker, doubtless, so far as regarded the essential qualification of obstinately wearing his hat, and refusing to take an oath. But he was made of flesh and blood, like all other Quakers; and this outrage, in pulling my gr. gr. gr. grandmother down from her horse, was more than flesh and blood could bear. A copy of the deposition of Giles Corey is now before me, showing, that John, upon other occasions, was not so pacific, as he might have been—and that, upon one occasion, “he struck up Mr. Edward Norris his heels”—and, upon another, he beat Giles Corey himself, “till he was all blody.” He seems to have been moved, by the spirit, to thrash them both. I take this Giles Corey to be the man, or the father of the man, who, as Felt says, p. 308, was pressed to death, in Salem, for standing mute, during the witch mania, September 19, 1692.
William Penn was, for many years, engaged in controversy, chiefly in defence of the peculiar, religious opinions of the Quakers. Wood, in his Athenæ Oxonienses, iv. p. 647, Lond. 1820, gives the titles of fifty-two tracts and pamphlets, published by Penn, between 1668 and 1690. In the heat of controversy, his character was rudely assailed, and his conduct grossly misrepresented. The familiar relation, subsisting between him and James II., gave color, with some persons, to the report, that Penn, at heart, was a Papist and a Jesuit. These groundless imputations have, long ago, been swallowed up, in their own absurdity. So strong, however, was the hold, which these ridiculous fancies had taken of the public mind, that, after the revolution of 1688, he was examined before the Council, and obliged to give bond, for his appearance, from time to time; till, at last, he obtained a hearing before King William, and effectually established his innocence.
Among the few men, of elevated standing, who gave, or pretended to give credit to the rumor, that Penn was a Papist, Burnet appears in the foremost rank. He, who could speak of Prior, as “one Prior,” might be expected to speak of William Penn, as “Penn the Quaker.” The appearance of Penn, at the Court of the Prince of Orange, could, on no account, have been agreeable to a Bishop, and, least of all Bishops, to Burnet; who saw, in the new comer, the confidential agent of his bitterest enemy, King James the Second; and who might, on other scores, have been jealous of the influence, even of “Penn the Quaker.” Burnet’s words are these, vol. ii. p. 318, Lond., 1818—“Many suspected that he was a concealed Papist; it is certain he was much with father Peter, and was particularly trusted by the Earl of Sunderland.” On the preceding page Burnet thus describes the Quaker—“He was a talking vain man, who had been long in the King’s favor, he being the Vice Admiral’s son. He had such an opinion of his own faculty of persuading, that he thought none could stand before it; though he was singular in that opinion; for he had a tedious, luscious way, that was not apt to overcome a man’s reason, though it might tire his patience.” It is impossible not to perceive, in this description, some touches, which, historians have told us, were singularly applicable to Burnet himself.
William, who perfectly comprehended the character of Halifax and Burnet, perceived the propriety of keeping them apart, when the former came to Hungerford, as a commissioner from the King, Dec. 8, 1688. How far I judge rightly, in applying a part of Burnet’s description of Penn, to Burnet himself, may appear, in the following passage from Macaulay, vol. ii. p. 538: “Almost all those, who were admitted to his (William’s) confidence, were men, taciturn and impenetrable as himself. Burnet was the only exception. He was notoriously garrulous and indiscreet. Yet circumstances had made it necessary to trust him; and he would, doubtless, under the dexterous management of Halifax, have poured put secrets, as fast as words. William knew this well; and, when he was informed, that Halifax was asking for the Doctor, could not refrain from exclaiming, ‘If they get together, there will be fine tattling.’”
Mr. Macaulay remarks, that—“To speak the whole truth, concerning Penn, is a task, which requires some courage.” He then, vol. i. page 505, delivers himself as follows—“The integrity of Penn had stood firm against obloquy and persecution. But now, attacked by royal wiles, by female blandishments, by the insinuating eloquence and delicate flattery of veteran diplomatists and courtiers, his resolution began to give way. Titles and phrases, against which he had often borne his testimony, dropped occasionally from his lips and his pen. It would be well, if he had been guilty of nothing worse than such compliances with the fashions of the world. Unhappily it cannot be concealed, that he bore a chief part in some transactions, condemned, not merely by the rigid code of the society, to which he belonged, but by the general sense of all honest men. He afterwards solemnly protested that his hands were pure from illicit gain, and that he had never received any gratuity from those, whom he had obliged, though he might easily, while his interest at court lasted, have made a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. To this assertion full credit is due. But bribes may be offered to vanity, as well as to cupidity; and it is impossible to deny that Penn was cajoled into bearing a part, in some unjustifiable transactions of which others enjoyed the profits.”
This passage will tend, in the ratio of Mr. Macaulay’s influence, to disturb the popular opinion of William Penn. It is very carefully written, and will not always be so carefully read. It is, perhaps, unfortunate for Penn, that Mr. Macaulay felt obliged, in pursuing the course of his history, to postpone the presentation of the facts, upon which his opinions rest, until they arise, in their chronological order. Thus the impression, instead of being removed, qualified, or confirmed, by instant examination, is suffered to become imbedded in the mind. Having carefully collated this passage, with every other passage, relative to Penn, in Mr. Macaulay’s work, I must confess, that the exceedingly painful impression, produced by the paragraph, presented above, has been materially relieved, by a careful consideration of all the evidence, subsequently offered, by Mr. Macaulay himself, and by the testimony of other writers. Perhaps the reader will consent to go along with me, in the examination of this question.