rd at Pendle), or James
Nayler, or Leonard Fell, or many another, of whom there are other
stories yet to tell.

Never was George Fox happier than when he was sowing the seed in a new
place. All over England there are memories of him, even as far away as
the Land's End.

When, in 1656, he reached the rocky peninsula of granite at the
extreme south-west of England, he wrote in his journal: 'At Land's End
we had a precious meeting. Here was a fisherman, Nicholas Jose,
convinced, that became a faithful minister. He spoke in meetings and
declared truth to the people, so that I told Friends he was "like
Peter." I was glad the Lord raised up His standard in those dark parts
of the nation, where since there is a fine meeting of honest-hearted
Friends, and a great people the Lord will have in that country.'

Unluckily, some of the other Cornish fisherfolk were not at all 'like
Peter.' They were wreckers, and used to entice ships on to the rocks
by means of false lights in order to enrich themselves with the spoils
washed up on their coasts. This is why George Fox spoke of them as a
'dark people,' and was moved to put forth a paper 'warning them
against such wicked practices.'

There are memories of him also in the town which was then called
Smethwick, and is now called Falmouth, as well as at grim old
Pendennis Castle: one of the twin castles that had been built by King
Henry the Eighth to guard the mouth of Falmouth harbour. Here George
Fox was confined. From hence he was carried to Launceston, where he
lay for many weeks in prison in the awful den of Doomsdale, under
conditions so dreadful that it is impossible to describe them here.
When, at length, he was set at liberty he found a refuge at the
hospitable farmhouse of Tregangeeves near St. Austell--the Swarthmoor
of the West of England--with its warm-hearted mistress, Loveday
Hambley. At Exeter he stayed at an inn, at the foot of the bridge,
named 'the Seven Stars.' In our own day some of his followers have
found another 'Inn of Shining Stars' at Exeter also, when their turn
has come to be lodged within the grim walls of the Gaol for conscience
sake.

* * * * *

Now let us borrow the Giant's Seven-Leagued boots, and fancy ourselves
in the far North of England, in 1657, just leaving Cumberland and
crossing the Scottish border. Again the same square-set figure in the
plain, soft, wide hat is riding ahead. But on this journey George Fox
h