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 passion could prevail to express itself in words; so true I found that of the tragedian

Curæ 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, brake forth in the following acrostic, which she called,

A PATHETIC ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THAT DEAR
AND FAITHFUL SERVANT OF GOD EDWARD BUR-
ROUGH, WHO DIED THE 14TH OF 12TH 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?

X

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 opprest,
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."*
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 assuage 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 lachrymis !

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,
Let tears and paleness cover all men's faces.
Let groans, like claps of thunder, pierce the air,
While I the cause of my just grief declare.

O that mine eyes could, like the streams of Nile,
O'er flow their watery banks; and thou, meanwhile,
Drink in my trickling tears, O thirsty ground!
So mightst thou henceforth fruitfuller be found.

Lament, my soul, lament, thy loss is deep,
And all that Sion love, sit down and weep;
Mourn, O ye virgins! and let sorrow be
Each damsel's dowry, and, alas! for me,
N e'er let my sobs and sighings have an end,
Till I again embrace m' ascended friend;
A nd till I feel the virtue of his life

To consolate me, and repress my grief:

I

nfuse into my heart the oil of gladness

Once more, and by its strength, remove that sadness Now pressing down my spirit, and restore

*Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet.'

Fully that joy I had in him before.

Of whom a word I fain would stammer forth, Rather to ease my heart, than show his worth: His worth, my grief, which words too shallow are I n demonstration fully to declare,

Sighs, 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; în him ye had like share.
A dd all your losses up, and ye shall see
Remainder will be nought but woe is me.
E ndeared lambs, ye that have the white stone,
Do know full well his name, it is your own.
Eternitiz'd be that right worthy name,
Death hath but kill'd his body, not his fame,
Which in its brightness shall for ever dwell,
A nd, like a box of ointment, sweetly smell.
Righteousness was his robe; bright majesty
Decked his brow; his look was heavenly.
B old was he in his Master's quarrel, and
Undaunted; faithful to his Lord's command.
R equiting good for ill; directing all
Right in the way that leads out of the fall.
Open and free to ev'ry thirsty lamb;
Unspotted, pure, clean, holy, without blame.
Glory, light, splendour, lustre, 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, dissolv'd, and laid aside,
My spirit's with thee, and shall so abide."
This satisfied me; down I threw my quill,
Willing to be resign'd to God's pure will.

Having discharged this duty to the memory of my deceased friend, I went on in my new province, instructing my little pupils in the rudiments of the Latin tongue, to the mutual satisfaction of both their parents and myself. As soon as I had gotten a little money in my pocket, which, as a premium without compact, I received from them, I took the first opportunity to return to my friend William Penington the money which he had so kindly furnished me with in my need, at the time of my imprisonment in Bridewell, with a due acknowledgment of my obligation to him for it. He was not at all forward to receive it, so that I was fain to press it upon him.

While thus I remained in this family, various suspicions arose in the minds of some concerning me, with respect to Mary Penington's fair daughter Guli. For she having now arrived to a marriageable age, and being in all respects a very desirable woman, whether regard was had to her outward person, which wanted nothing to render her completely comely; or to the endowments of her mind, which were every way extraordinary, and highly obliging; or to her outward fortune, which was fair, and which with some hath not the last, nor the least place in consideration-she was openly and secretly sought, and solicited by many, and some of them almost of every rank and condition; good and bad, rich and poor, friend and foe. To whom, in their respective turns, till he at length came for whom she was reserved, she carried herself with so much evenness of temper, such courteous freedom, guarded with the strictest modesty, that, as it gave encouragement or ground of hopes to none, so neither did it administer any matter of offence or just cause of complaint to any.

But such as were thus either engaged for themselves, or desirous to make themselves advocates for others, could not, I observed, but look upon me with an eye of jealousy and fear, that I would improve the opportunities I had, by frequent and familiar conversation

with her, to my own advantage, in working myself into her good opinion and favour, to the ruin of their pretences. According, therefore, to the several kinds and degrees of their fears of me, they suggested to her parents their ill surmises against me.

Some stuck not to question the sincerity of my intentions, in coming at first among the Quakers; urging, with a "Why may it not be so?" that the desire and hopes of obtaining by that means so fair a fortune, might be the prime and chief inducement to me to thrust myself amongst that people. But this surmise could find no place with those worthy friends of mine, her father-in-law and her mother, who, besides the clear sense and sound judgment they had in themselves, knew very well upon what terms I came among them; how strait and hard the passage was to me; how contrary to all worldly interest, which lay fair another way; how much I had suffered from my father for it; and how regardless I had been of attempting or seeking anything of that nature, in these three or four years I had been amongst them.

Some others, measuring me by the propensity of their own inclinations, concluded I would steal her, run away with her, and marry her; which they thought I might be the more easily induced to do, from the advantageous opportunities I frequently had of riding and walking abroad with her, by night as well as by day, without any other company than her maid. For so great indeed was the confidence that her mother had in me, that she thought her daughter safe if I was with her, even from the plots and designs that others had upon her. And so honourable were the thoughts she entertained concerning me, as would not suffer her to admit a suspicion that I could be' capable of so much baseness as to betray the trust she, with so great freedom, reposed in me.

I was not ignorant of the various fears which filled the jealous heads of some concerning me, neither was