them rose up, took off his hat, and, after making a variety of wry faces and groaning in a most lamentable manner, he, partly from his nose and partly from his mouth, threw out a strange, confused jumble of words (borrowed, as he imagined, from the Gospel) which neither himself nor any of his hearers understood.  When this distorter had ended his beautiful soliloquy, and that the stupid, but greatly edified, congregation were separated, I asked my friend how it was possible for the judicious part of their assembly to suffer such a babbling?  “We are obliged,” says he, “to suffer it, because no one knows when a man rises up to hold forth whether he will be moved by the Spirit or by folly.  In this doubt and uncertainty we listen patiently to everyone; we even allow our women to hold forth.  Two or three of these are often inspired at one and the same time, and it is then that a most charming noise is heard in the Lord’s house.”  “You have, then, no priests?” say I to him.  “No, no, friend,” replies the Quaker, “to our great happiness.”  Then opening one of the Friends’ books, as he called it, he read the following words in an emphatic tone:—“‘God forbid we should presume to ordain anyone to receive the Holy Spirit on the Lord’s Day to the prejudice of the rest of the brethren.’  Thanks to the Almighty, we are the only people upon earth that have no priests.  Wouldst thou deprive us of so happy a distinction?  Why should we abandon our babe to mercenary nurses, when we ourselves have milk enough for it?  These mercenary creatures would soon domineer in our houses and destroy both the mother and the babe.  God has said, ‘Freely you have received, freely give.’  Shall we, after these words, cheapen, as it were, the Gospel, sell the Holy Ghost, and make of an assembly of Christians a mere shop of traders?  We don’t pay a set of men clothed in black to assist our poor, to bury our dead, or to preach to the brethren.  These offices are all of too tender a nature for us ever to entrust them to others.”  “But how is it possible for you,” said I, with some warmth, “to know whether your discourse is really inspired by the Almighty?”  “Whosoever,” says he, “shall implore Christ to enlighten him, and shall publish the Gospel truths he may feel inwardly, such an one may be assured that he is inspired by the Lord.”  He then poured forth a numberless multitude of Scripture texts which proved, as he imagined, that there is no such thing as Christianity without an immediate revelation, and added these remarkable words: “When thou movest one of thy limbs, is it moved by thy own power?  Certainly not; for this limb is often sensible to involuntary motions.  Consequently he who created thy body gives motion to this earthly tabernacle.  And are the several ideas of which thy soul receives the impression formed by thyself?  Much less are they, since these pour in upon thy mind whether thou wilt or no; consequently thou receivest thy ideas from Him who created thy soul.  But as He leaves thy affections at full liberty, He gives thy mind such ideas as thy affections may deserve; if thou livest in God, thou actest, thou thinkest in God.  After this thou needest only but open thine eyes to that light which enlightens all mankind, and it is then thou wilt perceive the truth, and make others perceive it.”  “Why, this,” said I, “is Malebranche’s doctrine to a tittle.”  “I am acquainted with thy Malebranche,” said he; “he had something of the Friend in him, but was not enough so.”  These are the most considerable particulars I learnt concerning the doctrine of the Quakers.  In my next letter I shall acquaint you with their history, which you will find more singular than their opinions.

LETTER III.—ON THE QUAKERS

You have already heard that the Quakers date from Christ, who, according to them, was the first Quaker.  Religion, say these, was corrupted a little after His death, and remained in that state of corruption about sixteen hundred years.  But there were always a few Quakers concealed in the world, who carefully preserved the sacred fire, which was extinguished in all but themselves, until at last this light spread itself in England in 1642.

It was at the time when Great Britain was torn to pieces by the intestine wars which three or four sects had raised in the name of God, that one George Fox, born in Leicestershire, and son to a silk-weaver, took it into his head to preach, and, as he pretended, with all the requisites of a true apostle—that is, without being able either to read or write.  He was about twenty-five years of age, irreproachable in his life and conduct, and a holy madman.  He was equipped in leather from head to foot, and travelled from one village to another, exclaiming against war and the clergy.  Had his invectives been levelled against the soldiery only he would have been safe enough, but he inveighed against ecclesiastics.  Fox was seized at Derby, and being carried before a justice of peace, he did not once offer to pull off his leathern hat, upon which an officer gave him a great box of the ear, and cried to him, “Don’t you know you are to appear uncovered before his worship?”  Fox presented his other cheek to the officer, and begged him to give him another box for God’s sake.  The justice would have had him sworn before he asked him any questions.  “Know, friend,” says Fox to him, “that I never swear.”  The justice, observing he “thee’d” and “thou’d” him, sent him to the House of Correction, in Derby, with orders that he should be whipped there.  Fox praised the Lord all the way he went to the House of Correction, where the justice’s order was executed with the utmost severity.  The men who whipped this enthusiast were greatly surprised to hear him beseech them to give him a few more lashes for the good of his soul.  There was no need of entreating these people; the lashes were repeated, for which Fox thanked them very cordially, and began to preach.  At first the spectators fell a-laughing, but they afterwards listened to him; and as enthusiasm is an epidemical distemper, many were persuaded, and those who scourged him became his first disciples.  Being set at liberty, he ran up and down the country with a dozen proselytes at his heels, still declaiming against the clergy, and was whipped from time to time.  Being one day set in the pillory, he harangued the crowd in so strong and moving a manner, that fifty of the auditors became his converts, and he won the rest so much in his favour that, his head being freed tumultuously from the hole where it was fastened, the populace went and searched for the Church of England clergyman who had been chiefly instrumental in bringing him to this punishment, and set him on the same pillory where Fox had stood.

Fox was bold enough to convert some of Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers, who thereupon quitted the service and refused to take the oaths.  Oliver, having as great a contempt for a sect which would not allow its members to fight, as Sixtus Quintus had for another sect, Dove non si chiamava, began to persecute these new converts.  The prisons were crowded with them, but persecution seldom has any other effect than to increase the number of proselytes.  These came, therefore, from their confinement more strongly confirmed in the principles they had imbibed, and followed by their gaolers, whom they had brought over to their belief.  But the circumstances which contributed chiefly to the spreading of this sect were as follows:—Fox thought himself inspired, and consequently was of opinion that he must speak in a manner different from the rest of mankind.  He thereupon began to writhe his body, to screw up his face, to hold in his breath, and to exhale it in a forcible manner, insomuch that the priestess of the Pythian god at Delphos could not have acted her part to better advantage.  Inspiration soon became so habitual to him that he could scarce deliver himself in any other manner.