t the same key
that locked it unlock it?" inquired he. "Is this the key hanging here?"

Being informed that it was, he took it down and unlocked the gate. He
removed the satin covering from the throne, carefully dusted the railing
with his handkerchief, before he hung the satin over it, and then seated
himself in the royal chair. "Well," said he, "do I look anything like
his majesty?"

The man seemed embarrassed, but smiled as he answered, "Why, sir, you
certainly fill the throne very respectably."

There were several noblemen in the room, who seemed to be extremely
amused by these unusual proceedings.

At a place called Jordans, about twenty-two miles from London, he
visited the grave of William Penn.

In his journal, he says: "The ground is surrounded by a neat hedge, and
is kept in good order. I picked some grass and moss from the graves of
William Penn, Thomas Ellwood, and Isaac Pennington; and some ivy and
holly from the hedge; which I intend to take with me to America, as a
memorial of my visit. I entered the meeting-house, and sat on the
benches which had been occupied by George Fox, William Penn, and George
Whitehead, in years long since passed away. It brought those old
Friends so distinctly before the view of my mind, that my heart was
ready to exclaim, 'Surely this is no other than the house of God, and
this is the gate of heaven.' I cannot describe my feelings. The manly
and majestic features of George Fox, and the mournful yet benevolent
countenance of Isaac Pennington, seemed to rise before me. But this is
human weakness. Those men bore the burthen and heat of their own day;
they faithfully used the talents committed to their trust; and I doubt
not they are now reaping the reward given to faithful servants. It is
permitted us to love their memories, but not to idolize them. They could
deliver neither son or daughter by their righteousness; but only their
own souls."

"In the great city of London everything tended to satisfy me that the
state of our religious Society is generally very low. A light was once
kindled there, that illuminated distant lands. As I walked the streets,
I remembered the labors, the sufferings, and the final triumph of those
illustrious sons of the morning, George Fox, George Whitehead, William
Penn, and a host of others; men who loved not their lives in comparison
with the holy cause of truth and righteousness, in which they were
called to labor. These worthies have been succe