Originally published in The Leisure Hour (Religious Tract Society) vol.1 #2 (08 Jan 1852).
Time was, when, in the belief of almost everybody, the green woods were haunted by fairies; when sylphs might be seen dancing on the banks of fresh running streams by moonlight; and when in the court-yards of old castles, and in the chambers of old towers, and in certain memorable parts of old cities, there were strange spirits of the past to be met with. The village maiden, as she came back from her walk in the churchyard at sunset, fancied she saw sitting under the hedge, or coming out to salute her, some Robin Goodfellow. The baron's daughter, as she sat in her chamber watching the embers on a winter's night, with her foot on the rude andirons, and, just as the castle clock struck twelve, lifted up her bright eyes to the grim portrait of the man in armour over the fire-place, was sure to think that she saw, as plain as plain could be, the stalwart figure step out of the canvas, and, striding toward the door, open it with a mysterious key, and then, with his own boot, go thump, thump, along the echoing corridor. The very warder, too, as he kept watch at the still hour of night, if he saw nothing else, would see something not of mortal mould; a crusader, not of flesh and blood, but one impalpable; or a lady fair, all clothed in white, no more to be touched than the moonbeam shining through the turret loophole.
Well, those days are gone by, and we are not sorry that they are. People now are not much troubled or pleased with apparitions of that kind. But we should not at all like to have this world of ours reduced to such a present, matter-of-fact condition, as, in no sense, ever to see anything but what, according to the law of optics, was painted on the retina of the eye. To say nothing now of great spiritual realities, which encircle our globe and interpenetrate the scenes of our whole life, we must confess that we should be very sorry not to have communion sometimes with the shades of the dead, as well as to shake hands and talk with the living. There are shades of a certain kind which we are glad to see. When they haunt us, it is very pleasant, They are far more accommodating than were those of the olden time. Then, when folks called for spirits from the "vasty deep" there was room to ask, "but will they come?" Now the shades we invoke always come when they are called for. By day as well as by night, they come. In the crowded street as well as the silent solitude, they come. They are the Memories of Great Men; and if there be one place more than another haunted by them, it is Old London.
One day, with this thought in our minds, we went down to Whitehall—the stately-looking Whitehall—the palace of so many English kings—with that fine relic of Inigo Jones' architecture, the banqueting house, still standing, with the memory of something far different from revelry connected with it. The edifice spread out, and other buildings rose around it; the street changed, and there stood Holbein's gateway, with its eight medallions; and people were going in and coming out, some of them with doublets of silk and collars of pointed lace, wide boots ruffled with lawn, and a short mantle thrown over one shoulder, all crowned with a broad-leafed. Spanish beaver; and there were men in armour with leather jackets, and people of a very staid appearance with Genevan cloak and lofty wide-brimmed hats. One of them we saw with a youth, about eighteen years of age, rather sickly looking, with a wonderfully intelligent face, a forehead which bespoke thought, eyes which flashed with earnestness, and a quick step which showed he was not, and never meant to be, an idler. They were going to the lodgings of Sir Henry Newport, master of the revels, and in at a side door, and up an oak staircase, they vanished. The boy was from the country, and had come to seek his fortune at Court, as so many did; but he had been brought up in Puritan ways of thinking; and so, as he found that at Whitehall comedies were liked better than sermons, and were even played on a Sunday afternoon, he was very glad to go home again. The fact is, the youth had read a book by Dr. Sibbs, who lived, and preached, and died in Gray's Inn-lane—a book called "The Bruised Reed;" one which old Isaac Walton so much valued, that he left it to his children; and that book, in the hands of more than a human teacher, had changed his very soul.
A slight change passed over the scene, and there was the youth again—also changed—more sickly than before, and now he had come, not to seek fortune, but health.
Walking down the street to Westminster Abbey, we soon saw St. Margaret's Church, like a daughter sitting in her mother's shadow; a building whose remarkable painted window in the chancel, and whose historical associations clustering so thick, have been too much thrown into the shade by the architecture and stones of the older and vaster pile. We could not help thinking of Southey's anecdote of Cowper, who, late one evening, was passing through the churchyard, and saw a glimmering light which looked very mysterious, and on approaching found it to be the lantern of a grave-digger, who was just throwing up a skull; an incident which struck the tender-minded youth, and left, as he said, the best religious impression which he received while at Westminster: but the shade that was haunting us belonged to an earlier period; and entering the church, we saw him there. The place seemed very full; and the congregation was grave and very attentive. It was composed of the members of the restored parliament after Richard Cromwell had resigned the Protectorate. Everything indicated that the times were unsettled—that poor old England's affairs were out of joint—that the vessel of the state was driven about by storms, and wanted sadly a strong hand to hold the helm. The restoration of the king seemed pretty near, in which some saw much of hope. The preacher in St. Margaret's pulpit on that occasion, was no other than the person whom we had seen at Whitehall, long since become a minister. He looked much older now, for thirty more years had rolled over him, and many cares had lined his face. He had on a Genevan gown and broad bands, and the expressive countenance, lighted up with fire as he spoke, was surmounted by a round black cap, from under which there came out thick locks of dark flowing hair. He spoke of differences, and the way to heal them, and insisted that a man could not be protestant without being loyal. And so he was for the king's return, and pleaded for some comprehensive scheme that should unite in the church all contending parties.
In St. Paul's—which appeared to us as it was in the year 1660; not the St. Paul's with a dome, but the St. Paul's with a spire; not with its Italian arcades and decorations, but with its Gothic aisles and choir and mediæval adornments—again we saw the same preacher, and fancied we heard him pouring forth, not political declamation, but plain, scriptural, searching truth, which made my Lord Mayor and Aldermen, sitting there in their scarlet gowns, look very thoughtful, and caused not a few of the crowded audience to tremble and weep.
The reader by this time will probably recognise in the preacher at St. Margaret's and St. Paul's, at the time of the Restoration, the famous Richard Baxter.
His memory haunts many other spots in London. In the street called London Wall, there stands one of those old-fashioned edifices, which we meet with here and there in the heart of the City—within whose gates, when we enter, we seem to find ourselves in another world—some old world from which the inhabitants are gone, or only a few are left to keep watch in it; like the halls of the Alhambra, desolate and silent, as if time and its troubles had left it high and dry upon the beach of antiguity. We mean Sion College—a place many people hear of, and but few see, with its almshouse founded by Dr. Thomas White, the vicar of St. Dunstan's in the West, and its library, the munificent gift of John Simson, the rector of St. Olaves, Hart-street. It is still an occasional gathering-place for the London clergy. In Baxter's time, there were famous meetings held there. "We appointed," says he, "to meet from day to day at Sion College, and to consult there openly with any of our brethren that would please to join, that none might say they were excluded. Some city ministers came upon us and some came not, and divers country ministers who were in the city came also to us; as Dr. Worth, since a bishop in Ireland; Mr. Fulwood, since archdeacon of Totness; but Mr. Matthew Newcomen was most constant among us." Pausing by the gateway, among carts and cabs, and porters and merchants' clerks, and men of business of all kinds—who are evidently thinking of invoices and bills come due, and so forth—we see gliding in and out these worthies of two hundred years ago, Richard Baxter the most noticeable by far among them. On entering within the fine old library with its 40,000 volumes, the dusty square little volumes of Puritan theology seem to drop down from the shelves, and swell out into veritable presbyterian divines, and with gown and cap—not like the books of square dimensions, but of orthodox roundness—take their seats at the black oak table, Richard Baxter of course the chief of the party, spreading out terrifying bundles of papers to read to his brethren, full of diverse objections to the old order of ecclesiastical government, and arguments in favour of a modified scheme like Archbishop Usher's; or pleading against opponents with the skill and dexterity of a most accomplished schoolman.
Linked with Sion College, not in local neighbourhood, but in biographical association, is the Savoy; the Savoy chiefly noticed now by the wayfarer alone the Strand, as one of those descending avenues to the Thames whence there ever and anon come up gigantic coal wagons, which provokingly interrupt the everflowing stream of pavement passengers; but noticed two centuries ago for far other things. It had been a palace, a prison, and an hospital. There John of Gaunt had feasted, and John of France had been a captive, and, in Elizabeth's time, rogues and vagabonds had made it their "chief nurserie;" but at the time of which we speak, the chapel within it was just being turned into a French church, and other parts of it were employed for ecclesiastical purposes. A conference between certain bishops on the one side, and certain presbyterians on the other, was held there in July, 1661, and is known in English history from the place of meeting as the Savoy Conference. It was a fruitless attempt at union. There Baxter went with Dr. Bates and Dr. Jacomb and others, expecting to have a verbal discussion with the other party, and by mutual explanations to get at harmonious action; but this was overruled, and it was determined on, that he and his brethren. should state in writing what they objected to, and what they wanted; whereupon they set to work most diligently, the larger part of the task devolving upon Baxter, who not only drew up in the main a huge paper of objections, but entirely compiled a reformed liturgy. The poor man complained, and well he might, that his papers were never read. Whatever may be thought of his opinions, or his papers, his motives were above suspicion. Earnestly did he desire union; and beautifully did he say, "I thought it a cause that I could comfortably suffer for, and should as willingly be a martyr for charity as for faith."
But we must tarry no longer in the Savoy, but hasten off to St. Dunstan's in the West—that handsome church which stands in Fleet-street, hard by Chancery-lane. No remains of the old church exist, but people by no means old can remember it when the clock projected far into the highway, and two quaint-looking figures stood behind to strike the quarters. Well, in that old church, Richard Baxter used to preach, and amazing congregations of people there were to hear the Puritan Demosthenes. Once on a time he tells us, "It fell out in St. Dunstan's church, in the midst of a sermon, a little lime and dust, and perhaps a piece of a brick or two, fell down in the steeple or belfry, near the boys, so that they thought the steeple' and church were falling, which put them all into so confused a haste to get away, that the noise of their feet in the galleries sounded like the falling of stones. The people crowded out of decors, the women left some of them a scarf, and some a shoe behind them, and some in the galleries cast themselves down upon those below, because they could not get down the stairs. I sat down in the pulpit, seeing and pitying their vain distemper, and, as soon as I could be heard, I entreated their silence and went on. The people were no sooner quieted and got in again, and the audience come posed, but some who stood upon a wainscot bench, near the communion table, brake the bench with their weight, so that the noise renewed the fear again, and they were worse disordered than before. One old woman was heard at the church door asking forgiveness of God for not taking the first warning, and promising, if God would deliver her this once, she would take heed of coming hither again. When they were again quieted, I went on." Bates tells us he improved the catastrophe by saying, "We are in the service of God to prepare ours selves, that we may be fearless at the great noise of the dissolving world, when the heavens shall pass away, and the elements melt with fervent heat."
As we go by St. Bride's, the shadow of Baxter going in to preach meets us there. As we walk through Milk-street—upon which, as the birthplace of Sir Thomas More, Fuller could not help perpetrating the pun, that "he was the brightest star that ever shone in that Via lactea"—again we are reminded of the zealous divine, for there he shone as a guiding star to Christ, and tells us that Mr. Ashhurst and twenty citizens desired him to preach a lecture in Milk-street, for which they allowed him £40 per annum. The parish church of St. Anne's, Blackfriars, is no more, having never been rebuilt after the fire, the church of St. Andrew by the Wardrobe now serving instead: had it remained, it too would have been by association suggestive of his eloquent memory.
We have not time now to wander down to the Borough, or we would pause by the Park-street brewery, to remember that there stood formerly a timber edifice, where Mr. Wadsworth's congregation was accustomed to assemble. "Just when I was kept out of Swallow-street," says Baxter, "his flock invited me to Southwark, where, though I refused to be their pastor, I preached many months in peace, there being no justice willing to disturb us."
Passing through Bloomsbury-square, we are again in the footsteps of this persecuted one. There he lived in what he calls his "pleasant and convenient house," and there died Mistress Margaret, his wife, of whom Stowe said, in his funeral sermon for her, that she displayed "a strangely vivid and great wit, with very sober conversation."
Baxter was sent to gaol. We see him taken there as we pass by Clerkenwell prison; but have far more vivid images of him and his sufferings as we visit Westminster Hall and the King's Bench. A thousand memories gather round the former from the time when Rufus built the first edifice down to the present day; but among the crowds of the good and the evil, who, as we pace up and down beneath the oak-raftered roof, "come like shadows, so depart," we single out, with special honour, our great divine; and there, in the Court of King's Bench, we think we see the whole of the process—for trial it cannot be called—before the infamous Jeffreys, when Baxter was arraigned and sentenced for publishing his notes on the New Testament. There sits the Chief Justice in his ermine. There are the counsel for the prosecution and the defence. There stands, in conscious rectitude, the arraigned, like Paul before a far worse than Festus. We hear the miserable mockery of the Puritans from one who ought to have held even-handed the balance of justice, squeaking and snorting in pretended imitation of their tone and manner; and we catch the smart reply of Pollexfen, Baxter's counsel: "Why, my lord, some will think it hard measure to stop these men's mouths, and not let them speak through their noses." Then comes a torrent of abuse: "Come, what do you say for yourself, you old knave. What doth he say? I'm not afraid of you for all the snivelling calves you have got about you"—looking at the people in tears. "Does your lordship think any jury will pretend to pass a verdict upon me upon such a trial?" asks Baxter. "I'll warrant you, Mr. Baxter," says the man in the red robe; "don't you trouble yourself about that." No story more arouses our indignation than this of the doings at Westminster in 1685. Matthew Henry visited Baxter when he was confined within the rules, and found him cheerful and resigned, saying, "He thought dying by sickness really much more painful and dreadful than dying by a violent death, especially considering the extraordinary supports which those have who suffer for righteousness' sake."
This leads us to wander to Charterhouse-square, where once Venetian ambassadors lived in palaces. Howell says, in 1651, "The yard hath lately been conveniently railed, and made more neat and comely." There are still rails, but no palaces; yet have the houses an air of old-fashioned comfort and old English domesticity. Baxter died in Charterhouse-square. We have tried to ascertain whether the house is in existence, but our inquiries were vain; but we can never go near it without thinking of his calm, hopeful, joyous deathbed, and that beautiful answer to the question, "How he did?"—"Almost well."
In Christ church, near the communion table, we stand over his grave. There his beloved Margaret was entombed in 1681. It was "the highest next the old altar or table in the chancel, on which her daughter had caused a very fair, rich, large marble stone to be laid twenty years before." The fair, rich, marble stone was broken in the fire of London. The church was in ruins when Mrs. Baxter was buried there. The present edifice was rising to its completion when, in 1691, the laborious minister of Christ was buried beside his wife.
The last memento of Baxter is in the British Museum. There you may see a large stone, resembling the kidney in shape, extracted after his death, the symbol of his intense sufferings. But on this we will not dwell. He is gone where there shall not "be any more pain."