ngs and endings of those stories and of many others. And that
is exactly what we are going to do. The prisoner is going to tell us
his own true story in his own real words. There is no need for our
fancy wings any longer. They may shrivel up and drop off unheeded. For
that prisoner is GEORGE FOX, and he belongs to English history. He has
left the whole story of his life and adventures written in two large
folio volumes that may still be seen in London. The pages are so old
and the edges have worn so thin in the two hundred and fifty years
since they were written, that each page has had to be most carefully
framed in strong paper to keep it from getting torn. The ink is faded
and brown, and the writing is often crabbed and difficult to read. But
it can be read, and it is full of stories. In olden times, probably,
the book was bound in a brown leather cover, but now, because it is
very old and valuable, it has been clothed with beautiful red leather,
on which is stamped in gold letters, the title:

GEORGE FOX'S JOURNAL.

Now let us open it at the right place, and, before any of the other
stories, let us hear what the writer says about that dismal prison in
Scarborough Castle: how long he stayed there, and how he was at last
set free.

'One day the governor of Scarborough castle, Sir Jordan Crosland, came
to see me. I desired the governor to go into my room and see what a
place I had. I had got a little fire made in it, and it was so filled
with smoke that when they were in it they could hardly find their way
out again.... I told him I was forced to lay out about fifty
shillings to stop out the rain, and keep the room from smoking so
much. When I had been at that charge and had made it somewhat
tolerable, they removed me into a worse room, where I had neither
chimney nor fire hearth.'

(This last is the room in the castle cliff that is still called
'George Fox's prison,' where we have been standing in imagination and
looking in upon him. We will listen while he describes it again, so as
to get accustomed to his rather old-fashioned English.)

'This being to the sea-side and lying much open, the wind drove in the
rain forcibly, so that the water came over my bed, and ran about the
room, that I was fain to skim it up with a platter. And when my
clothes were wet, I had no fire to dry them; so that my body was
benumbed with cold, and my fingers swelled, that one was grown as big
as two. Though I was at som