CHAP. V.

Her temper, occasioning these troubles of mind.

§.1. THE soul while in the body, works much according
to the bodies disposition. 1. She
was of an extraordinary sharp and piercing Wit.
2. She had a natural reservedness, and secrecy, increased
by thinking it necessary prudence not to be
open; by which means she was oft mis-understood
by her nearest friends, and consequently often crost
and disappointed by those that would have pleased
her. And as she could understand men much by
their looks and hints, so she expected all should
know her mind without her expressing it, which

G2

bred her frustrations and discontents. 3. And she
had a natural tenderness, and troubledness of mind,
upon the crossing of her just desires: too quick, and
ungovernable a sense of displeasing words or deeds.
4. She had a diseased unresistible fearfulness; her
quick, and too sensible nature was over-timerous:
and to increase it, she said she was four times, before
I knew her, in danger of death of which,
one was by the Small-Pox: And more to increase
it, her Mothers house Apply-Castle, near Wellington,
being a Garison, it was stormed while she was
in it, and part of the housing about it burnt, and
men lay killed before her face, and all of them
threatened, and stript of their cloathing, so that
they were fain to borrow cloaths. 5. And the great
work upon her soul, in her coversion, moved all her
passions. 6. And then her dangerous sickness, and
the sentence of death to so young a Convert, must
needs be a very awaking thing; and coming on her
before she had any assurance of her justification, did
increase her fear. 7. And in this case she lived in
the Church-Yard side, where she saw all the Burials
of the dead, and kept a deaths head a skull in
her Closet still before her. And other such mortifying
spectacles increased her sad disposition.
§.2. And the excessive love which she had to her
Mother, did much increase her grief when she expected
death.
§.3. Though she called it melancholly, that by
all this she was cast into, yet it rather seemed a partly
natural, and partly an adventitious diseased fearfulness
in a tender over-passionate nature, that had
no power to quiet her own fears, without any other
cloud on her understanding.
§.4. And all was much encreased by her wisdom,
so stifling all the appearances of it, that it all inwardly
wrought, and had no ease by vent.
§.5. And having keen spirits, and thin sharp
blood, she had a strong Hemicrania or Head-ake once
a month, and oft once a fortnight, or more, from the
age of fifteen or sixteen years. All these together
much tended to hinder her from a quiet and comfortable
temper.
§.6. And in a word, all the operations of her
soul were very intense and strong; strong wit, and
strong love, and strong displeasure. And when God
shewed her what Holiness was, she thought she must
presently have it in so great a degree as the ripest
Saints do here attain; and that because she had not
as much heavenly life, and sense, and delight in God
as she knew she should have and desired, she concluded
of it that she had none that was sincere.
§.7. One of the first things by which her change
was discovered to her Mother and Friends, was her
fervent secret prayers: for living in a great house, of
which the middle part was ruined in the Wars, she
chose a Closet in the further end, where she thought
none heard her: But some that over-heard her, said,
they never heard so fervent prayers from any person.
§.8. Yet she desired me to draw up a form suited
to her own condition; which I did, and find it now
reserved among her Papers; but I cannot tell whether
she ever used it, having affections and freedom
of expression without it. I had thought to have annexed
it for the use of afflicted Penitents: But it
will be but a digression in this Narrative.

CHAP. VI.

Of our Marriage, and our Habitations.

§.1. THE unsuitableness of our age, and my
former known purposes against Marriage,
and against the conveniency of Ministers Marriage,
who have no sort of necessity, made our marriage
the matter of much publick talk and wonder:
And the true opening of her case and mine, and the
many strange occurrences which brought it to pass,
would take away the wonder of her friends and
mine that knew us; and the notice of it would
much conduce to the understanding of some other
passages of our lives: Yet wise Friends, by whom
I am advised, think it better to omit such personal
particularities, at least at this time. Both
in her case and mine, there was much extraordinary,
which it doth not much concern the world to
be acquainted with. From the first thoughts of it,
many changes and stoppages intervened, and long delays,
till I was silenced and ejected with many hundreds
more; and so being separated from my old
Pastoral Charge, which was enough to take up all
my time and labour, some of my disswading Reasons
were then over. And at last, on Septemb. 10.
1662. we were married in Bennet-Fink Church by
Mr. Samuel Clerk yet living, having been before
Contracted by Mr. Simeon Ash, both in the presence
of Mr. Henry Ashurst and Mrs. Ash.
§.2. She consented to these Conditions of our
Marriage: 1. That I would have nothing that before
our Marriage was hers; that I who wanted no
outward supplies might not seem to marry her for
covetousness. 2. That she would so alter her affairs,
that I might be intangled in no Law-suits.
3. That she would expect none of my time which
my Ministerial work should require.
§.3. When we were married, her sadness and melancholy
vanished; counsel did something to it, and
contentment something; and being taken up with
our houshold affairs, did somewhat. And we lived
in inviolated love, and mutual complacency, sensible
of the benefit of mutual help. These near nineteen
years I know not that ever we had any breach
in point of love, or point of interest, save only
that she somewhat grudged that I had persuaded
her for my quietness to surrender so much of her Estate,
to a disabling her from helping others so much
as she earnestly desired.
§.4. But that even this was not from a covetous
mind, is evident by these instances. 1. Though her
Portion which was 2000 l. besides that given up
aforesaid was by ill debtors 200 l. lost in her
Mothers time, and 200 l. after, before her Marriage;
and all she had reduced to almost 1650 l. yet
she never grudged at any thing that the poverty of
Debtors deprived her of.
2. She had before been acquainted with the Lord
Chancellor's offering me a Bishoprick; and though
it might have taken off the censure of those Relations
that thought she debased her self in marrying
me, and also might have seemed desirable to her for
the Wealth as well as the Honour; she was so far
from desiring my accepting it, that I am persuaded
had I done it, it would have alienated her much
from me in point of esteem and love. Not that she
had any opinion against Episcopacy then that ever
I could perceive but that she abhorred a worldly
mercenary mind in a Minister of Christ, and was a
sharp Censurer of all that for gain, or honour, or
worldly ends, would stretch their consciences to any
thing that they thought God forbad. And I am assured
though towards her end she wisht she had
been abler to relieve the needy, and do more good;
yet she lived a far more contented life in our mean
condition, even when she stoopt to receive from others
that had been strangers to her, than she would
have done had I been a Bishop, and she had had many
thousand pounds more at her dispose; yea I am persuaded
she would not easily have endured it.
3. Another tryal of her as to Wealth and Honour,
was when I, and all such others, were cast out
of all possession, and hope of all Ecclesiastical maintenance;
she was not ignorant of the scorn and the
jealousies, and wrath and prosecutions that I was
like to be exposed to; yea, she had heard and seen it
already begun by Bishop Morley's forbidding me to
preach before, and preaching himself, and his Dean,
and many others, fiercely against me in Kederminster
Pulpit; she had quickly heard them that were cast
out and silenced, deeply accused as if they had deserved
it. To chuse a participation of such a life
that had no encouragement from any worldly
Wealth or Honour, yea, that was exposed to such
certain suffering which had no end in prospect on
this side death, did shew that she was far from covetousness.
Much more evidence of this I shall shew you
as it falls in its place.
§.5. Among other troubles that her Marriage exposed
her to, one was our oft necessitated removals;
which to those that must take Houses, and bind themselves
to Landlords, and fit and furnish them, is more
than for single persons that have no such clogs or
cares. First, We took a House in Moorefields, after
at Acton; next that, another at Acton; and after
that, another there; and after that, we were put to
remove to one of the former again; and after that,
to divers others in another place and County, as followeth;
and the women have most of that sort of
trouble. But she easily bare it all.
And I know not that ever she came to any place
where she did not extraordinarily win the love of
the inhabitants unless in any street where she staid
so short a time, as not to be known to them: Had
she had but the riches of the world to have done
the good that she had a heart to do, how much

H

would she have been loved, who in her mean and
low condition won so much?
And her carriage won more love than her liberality;
she could not endure to hear one give another
any sowr, rough, or hasty word; her speech
and countenance was always kind and civil, whether
she had any thing to give or not.
And all her kindness tended to some better end,
than barely to relieve peoples bodily wants; even
to oblige them to some duty that tended to the good
of their souls, or to deliver them from some straits
which fill'd them with hurtful care, and became a
matter of great temptation to them. If she could
hire the poor to hear Gods word, from Conformist
or Nonconformist, or to read good serious practical
Books, whether written by Conformists or Nonconformists,
it answered her end and desire: and many
an hundred books hath she given to those ends. But
of these things more hereafter. This is here but to
answer to foresaid objection, and to lead on to the
following particular passages of her life.
§.6. While I was at Acton, her carriage and charity
so won the people there, that all that I ever
heard of, greatly esteemed and loved her. And she
being earnestly desirous of doing good, prepared
her house for the reception of those that would
come in, to be instructed by me, between the morning
and evening publick Assemblies, and after: And
the people that had never been used to such things,
accounted worldly ignorant persons, gave us great
hopes of their edification, and reformation, and filled
the Room, and went with me also into the
Church which was at my door: And when I was
after removed, the people hearing that I again
wanted a house being ten miles off, they unanimously
subscribed a request to me, to return to my
old house with them, and offered to pay my house-rent;
which I took kindly: and it was much her
winning conversation which thus won their love.
§.7. When I was carried thence to the common
Goal, for teaching them, as aforesaid, I never perceived
her troubled at it: she cheerfully went
with me into Prison; she brought her best bed thither,
and did much to remove the removable inconveniencies
of the Prison. I think she had scarce ever a
pleasanter time in her life than while she was with
me there. And whereas people upon such occasions
were not unapt to be liberal, it was against her mind
to receive more than necessity required. Only three
persons gave me just as much as paid Lawyers and
prison-charges, and when one offered me more, she
would not receive it: But all was far short of the
great charges of our removal to another habitation .
§.8. The Parliament making a new sharper Law
against us, I was forced to remove into another
Country; thither she went with me, and removed
her Goods that were movable, from Acton to Totteridge,
being engaged for the Rent of the house we
left: At Totteridge, the first year, few poor people
are put to the hardness that she was put to; we
could have no house but part of a poor Farmers,
where the Chimneys so extreamly smoak't, as greatly

H2

annoyed her health; for it was a very hard Winter,
and the Coal-smoak so filled the Room that we
all day sate in, that it was as a cloud, and we were
even suffocated with the stink. And she had ever a
great straitness of the Lungs, and could not bear
smoak or closeness. This was the greatest bodily
suffering that her outward condition put her to;
which was increased by my continual pain there. But
her charity to her poor Landlady, set her Son Apprentice,
who now liveth well.
§.9. Thence we removed to a house; which we
took to our selves, which required so great alterations
and amendment, as took her up much time and
labour: and, to her great comfort, she got Mr. Corbet
and his Wife to dwell with us. And in all these
changes and troubles she lived in great peace.
§.10. When the Kings Declarations and Licenses
gave Nonconformists leave to build Meeting-places,
and Preach, she was against going to London, till
others were there setled, lest I should anticipate
them, and gather any Auditors, who would else go
to others, especially their old ejected Pastors; but
when others were setled, she was earnest with me to
go, for the exercise of my Ministry.
§.11. Upon our remove to London, out of tender
regard to my health, which she thought the situation
might contribute much unto, she chose, and
took for us the most pleasant and convenient house
in Southampton-Square, where she died. These
were our removes.

§.9. The nature of true Religion, Holiness, Obedience,
and all Duty to God and man, was printed
in her conceptions, in so distinct and clear a Character,
as made her endeavours and expectations still
look at greater exactness, than I and such as I could
reach. She was very desirous that we should all
have lived in a constancy of Devotion, and a blameless
Innocency: And in this respect she was the
meetest helper that I could have had in the world
that ever I was acquainted with: For I was apt
to be over-careless in my Speech, and too backward
to my Duty; And she was still endeavouring to
bring me to greater wariness and strictness in both:
If I spake rashly or sharply, it offended her: If I
carried it as I was apt with too much neglect of
Ceremony, or humble Complement to any, she would
modestly tell me of it: If my very Looks seemed not
pleasant, she would have had me amend them which
my weak pained state of Body undisposed me to do:
If I forgat any Week to Catechise my Servants, and
familiarly instruct them personally besides my ordinary
Family-Duties she was troubled at my remisness.
And whereas of late years my decay of Spirits,
and diseased heaviness and pain, made me much more
seldom and cold in profitable Conference and Discourse
in my house, that I had been when I was
younger, and had more Ease, and Spirits, and natural
Vigour, she much blamed me, and was troubled
at it, as a wrong to her self and others: Though
yet her judgment agreed with mine, that too much
and often Table-talk of the best things, doth but
tend to dull the common hearers, and harden them
under it as a customary thing: And that too much
good talk may bring it into contempt, or make it
ineffectual.
And of late years, my constant weakness and pain
made me unable to speak much in my ordinary
course of Duty; and my Writings, Preachings and
other publick Duty which I ever thought I was
bound to prefer before lesser did so wholly take up
those few hours of the day, which I had out of my
Bed, that I was seldomer in secret Prayer with my
Wife than she desired.
§.10. Indeed it troubleth me to think how oft I
told her, That I never understood Solomon's words,
Eccles. 7.16. but by the Exposition of her case, Be
not righteous overmuch, neither make thy self overwise:
Why shouldst thou destroy thy self? I doubt not but
Solomon spake of Humane Civil Righteousness and
Wisdom, as a means respecting Temporal Prosperity
or Adversity, rather than Spiritual, holy Righteousness,
respecting God's everlasting Reward: Or if it
were extended to Religious Righteousness, it can
be but against Superstition, falsly called Righteousness.
But as to our present case, I must thus resolve the
Question, Whether one can be religiously wise and righteous
overmuch? And I Answer, That we must distinguish
between, 1. Material and Formal Righteousness.
2. Between Objective and Subjective measures of
it. 3. Of the good and bad consequents and effects. And
1. no man can be formally and properly too wise or
too righteous. Else it would charge God with Errour:
For formal proper Righteousness is nothing
but our Conformity to God's governing Will. And
if our Obedience were too much, and to be blamed,
God's commands were to be blamed, that required
it. But very strict actions are commonly called Righteousness,
as a written Prayer or words are called a
Prayer, though properly wanting the Form, it is
not so. And not only a good Object, but a right
End, Principle, and Mode, and Circumstances, go
to make an Action righteous. 2. That Action which
compared with the Object cannot possibly be overwise
and righteous, yet as compared with the Agent,
or Subject, may be too much: No man can know,
believe, or love God too much, nor answerable to
his Perfections. But one may possibly be transported
with so earnest a desire of God, Christ, Christian
Society, Holiness and Heaven, as may be more than
Head and Health can bear: And so it may be too
much for the subject. 3. Therefore the probable
effects must be weighed. He that should meditate,
read, yea love God so intensly as to distract him,
would do it overmuch. He that would do a good
work precisely, when the exactness would hinder
the substance of another, perhaps a better, would
be righteous overmuch. And I thought this the case
sometime of my dear Wife; 1. She set her Head
and Heart so intensly upon doing good, that her
Head and Body would hardly bear it. As holy set
Meditation is no Duty to a Melancholy person that
cannot do it without confusion and danger of distraction;
so many other Duties are no Duties, when
they will do more harm than good. 2. And a man
is limited in his Capacity and his Time: No man
can do all the good he would; and to omit a
greater for the better doing of a lesser, or to omit
the substance of the one for exacter doing of another,
I thought was to be unrighteous by being
righteous overmuch. She and some others thought
I had done better to have written fewer Books, and
to have done those few better. I thought, while
I wrote none needlesly, the modall imperfection of
two was less evil than the total omission of one:
She thought I should have spent more time in Religious
exercise with her, my Family, and my Neighbours,
though I had written less. I thought there
were many to do such work, that would not do mine;
and that I chose the greatest, which I durst not omit,
and could not do both in the measure that I desired
else to have done.
§.11. As she saith before cited her self, that
if she was but in a condition, in which Gods service
was costly to her, it would make her know whether she
were sincere or not; so she had her wish, and proved
her sincerity by her costliest obedience: It cost her
not only her labour and Estate, but somewhat of
her trouble of body and mind; For her knife was
too keen, and cut the sheath. Her desires were
more earnestly set on doing good, than her tender
mind and head could well bear; for indeed her great
infirmity was the four Passions of Love, Desire,
Fear, and Trouble of Mind. Anger she either had very
little, next none, or little made it known. She rarely
ever spake in an angry manner: She could not well
bear to hear one speak loud, or hastily, or eagerly,
or angrily, even to those that deserved it: My

L

temper in this she blamed, as too quick and earnest:
When her servants did any fault unwillingly, she
scarce ever told them of it; when one lost Ten
Pounds worth of Linnen in carriage carelesly, and
another Ten Pounds worth of Plate by negligence,
she shewed no anger at any such thing. If servants
had done amiss, and we could not prove it, or knew
not which did it, she would never ask them her self,
nor suffer others, lest it should tempt them to hide it
by a lye unless it were a servant that feared God,
and would not lye.
I took her deep and long sense of the faults of
over-loved and obliged persons, to be one of her
greatest faults. But no one was ever readier to forgive
a fault confessed, or which weakness and religious
differences caused. I will give but one instance:
The good woman whom she used to hire the Rooms
over St. Jameses Market-house, was greatly against
the Common-prayer, and first made my Wife feel
whether I meant to use it, before she would take it.
I told her I intended not to use it, but would not promise
her. Upon that my Wife told her that I would
not. After this I caused the Reader to read the
Psalms, Chapters, Creed, Decalogue, and I used the
Lords Prayer; and I openly told them, that we met not
as a Separated distinct Church, but for the time to
supply the notorious necessities of the people, and
as helpers of the allowed Ministry. The good woman
thought this had been reading the Common-Prayer,
and in a Letter which I now find, accused
my Wife with five or six vehement charges, for telling
her I would not read the Common-Prayer. My
Wife was of my mind for the
Matter; but greatly
offended with me for seeming to do it for the avoiding
of danger; and was so far from not pardoning
these false smart accusations, that she never once
blamed the good woman, but loved her, tendered
her, and relieved her in sickness to the death, but
hardly forgave me; and yet drew me from all other
places, if the Ministers were not of my mind by
prudent diversity.
Much less did her sufferings from the times distemper
her. She hath blamed me for naming in print
my Losses, Imprisonment, and other sufferings by the
Bishops, as being over selfish queralousness, when I
should rather with wonder be thankful for the great
mercy we yet enjoyed. Though I think I never
mentioned them as over-sensible of the sufferings,
but as a necessary evincing of the nature of the
cause, and as part of the necessary history or matter
of fact in order to decide it. She as much disliked the
silencing of the Ministers, as any; but she did not
love to hear it much complained of, save as the publick
loss; nor to hear Conformists talkt against as a
Party; nor the faults of the conscientious sort of
them aggravated in a siding factious manner.
But 1. she was prone to over-love her Relations,
and those good people poor as much as rich
whom she thought most upright. The love was
good, but the degree was too passionate.
2. She over-earnestly desired their spiritual welfare.
If these whom she over-loved, had not been as
good, and done as well as she would have them, in
innocent behaviour, in piety, and if rich in liberality,
it over-troubled her, and she could not bear
it.

L2

3. She was apt when she set her mind and heart
upon some good work which she counted great, or
the welfare of some dear Friend, to be too much
pleased in her expectations and self-made promises of
the success; and then almost overturned with trouble
when they disappointed her. And she too impatiently
bore unkindnesses from the friends that were
most dear to her, or whom she had much obliged.
Her will was set upon good, but her weakness could
not bear the crossing or frustration of it.
§.12. But the great infirmity which tyrannized
over her, was a diseased fearfulness, against which she
had little more free will or power, than a man in an
Ague or Frost, against shaking cold. Her nature was
prone to it; and I said before, abundance of sad
accidents made that, and trouble of mind, her malady.
Besides as she said four times in danger of death.
2. And the storming of her Mothers house by Soldiers,
firing part, killing, plundering, and threatning
the rest. 3. The awakenings of her conversion.
4. The sentence of death by sickness presently, before
her peace was setled. 5. The fire next her
Lodgings in Sweetings-Alley. 6. The burning of a
Merchant, his Wife and Family, in Lothbury, overagainst
her Brother Upton's door. 7. The common
terror and confusion at Dunstans Church in Fleetstreet,
when they thought the Church was falling on
their heads while I was preaching, and the people
cast themselves down from the Galleries. 8. Her
Mothers death. 9. The friendless state she thought
she was then left in. 10. The great Plague. 11. The
Burning of London. 12. The crack and danger of
her Chamber in Aldersgate street. 13. The crack
and confusion at St. Jameses Market-house. 14. The
many Fires and talk of firing since. 15. The common
rumours of Murderings and Massacres. 16. The
death and dangers of many of her friends, and my
own illness. More than all these concurred to make
fear and aptness to be troubled, to be her disease: so
that she much dreamed of fire and murderers; and
her own dreams workt half as dangerously on her
as realities; so that she could not bear the clapping
of a door, or any thing that had suddenness, noise,
or fierceness in it. But all this was more the malady
of her body than of her soul; and I accounted had
little moral guilt: and I took it for an evidence of
the power of grace, that so timerous a person 1. had
overcome most of her fears of Hell and Gods desertion.
2. And was more fearless of persecution, imprisonment,
or losses and poverty thereby, than I or
any that I remember to have known.
§.13. And though her spirits were so quick, and
she so apt to be troubled at mens sin whom she much
loved, she greatly differed from me in her bearing
with them, and carriage towards them. My temper
and judgment much led me to use my dependents,
servants and friends, according to the rules of Church-discipline;
and if they heard not loving, private admonitions
once, twice, and thrice, to speak to them
more sharply, and then before others, and to turn
them off if yet they would not amend. But her way
was to oblige them by all the love, kindness and
bounty that she was able, and to bear with them year
after year while there was hope, and at last not to desert
them, but still use them so as she though was likest
at least to keep them in a state of hope from the
badness which displicency might cause. I could not
have born with a Son, I think, as she could do where
her kindness was at her own choice; and yet she
more disliked the least fault than I did, and was
more desirous of their greatest innocency and exactness.
§.14. Indeed she was so much for calmness, deliberation,
and doing nothing rashly, and in haste,
and my condition and business, as well as temper
made me do, and speak much so suddenly, that she
principally differed from me, and blamed me in this;
every considerable case and business she would have
me take time to think much of before I did it, or
speak, or resolved of any thing. I knew the counsel
was good for one that could stay, but not for one
that must ride Post: I thought still I had but a little
time to live; I thought some considerable work still
called for haste: I have these Forty years been
sensible of the sin of losing time: I could not
spare an hour: I thought I could understand the
matters in question as well at a few thoughts as in
many days: and yet she that had less work and
more leisure, but a far quicker apprehension than
mine, was all for staying to consider, and against
haste and eagerness in almost every thing; and
notwithstanding her over quick, and feeling temper,
was all for mildness, calmness, gentleness, pleasingness
and serenity.
§.15. She had an earnest desire of the conversion
and salvation of her servants, and was greatly
troubled that so many of them though tollerable
in their work went away ignorant, or
strange to true godliness, as they came: And such
as were truly converted with us she loved as children.
§.16. One infirmity made her faulty in the omission
of much of her duty: She was wont to
say, that she had from her childhood Imprinted a
deep fear and hatred of hypocrisie on her mind,
that she could never do the outside of her duty,
as to the speaking part, for fear of hypocrisie: I
scarce ever met with a person that was abler to
speak long, for matter and good language, without
repetitions, even about Religious things; and
few that had more desire that it were well done;
and yet she could not do it her self for fear of
seeming to be guilty of ostentation. In good company
she would speak little of that which she most
desired to hear. When I was at any time from
home, she would not pray in the Family, though
she could not endure to be without it. She would
privately talk to the servants, and read good books to
them. Most of the open speaking part of Religion she
omitted, through a diseased enmity to ostentation and
hypocrisie. But of late years, when she saw me and
others too sparing in profitable speech to young
and ignorant people, she confest that she saw her
error, and that even an hypocrite, using but
the words and outside of Religion, was better
to others than silence and unprofitable omission
was.