These, says John Yeardley, in a letter, are now reduced to about twenty in number.  They have suffered and still suffer much persecution from the Roman Catholics.  They are forbidden by heavy fines to meet together, except in very small companies.  We met them several times in their small meetings to much comfort; there are a few among them who have stood firm through the heat of trial, and these are precious individuals.  The priests are exceedingly jealous.  On our arrival in the town we held our little meeting with, these pious people on First-day morning; the priest came to the house of the woman Friend where we had been to demand who we were and where we lodged, and said it was we who had caused them to err, and he would convince us in their presence that we were not only in error ourselves, but had led them into error also.  But we saw nothing of him, and left the place in safety, which we considered a great favor; for such has been their rage that they have dared to shoot at some missionaries who have been in the neighborhood (Letter to Thomas Yeardley, 4 mo. 19.)

The rest of the journey through France was in general dreary, the external accommodation being bad, and the consolation of spiritual intercourse very scanty.  At Arras, however, they were refreshed by the company of a Protestant minister, a liberal and worthy man, who had “to stand alone in a large district of weak-handed Protestants among strong-headed Catholics.”

Arriving at Calais, Martha Savory and Martha Towell, with Edward Brady, crossed over to England, leaving John Yeardley to follow at a later period.  On the 14th of the Fourth Month he writes:—­

My dear companions left for England.  I watched them from the pier until I could bear to stay no longer, and then returned sorrowfully to my quarters, and soon repaired to the little retired lodging we had engaged for me in the country, where I spent a few days in learning French, &c.  In taking a retrospect of our long journey I feel a large degree of peaceful satisfaction in having been desirous to fulfil (though very imperfectly) a religious duty; and these feelings of gratitude excited a wish that the remainder of my few days might be more faithfully devoted to the service of my great Lord and Master.

The little lodging of which he speaks was “a retired chamber on the garden-wall;” and having left it for a few days to go to Antwerp with the carriage and horses which they had used on the journey, on his return it had already acquired, in his view, something of the character of home.

The beautiful green branches, says he, modestly looking in at the window, give me a silent welcome; and the little birds chirruping in the garden, which is my drawing-room and study.  I cannot but acknowledge how grateful I feel in being permitted to rest in so quiet a retreat, shut up from many of those anxious cares which have perplexed the former part of my life.—­(Diary, 4 mo. 27.)