Above all other Saints in the Calendar, the good people of
Newcastle-upon-Tyne do hold in highest honour Saint Nicholas, since to
him is dedicated the stately Church that is the pride and glory of
their town. Everyone who dwells in the bonnie North Countrie knows
well that shrine of Saint Nicholas, set on high on the steep northern
bank of the River Tyne. Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole
North, is St. Nicholas. Therefore, in olden times, one Roger Thornton,
a wealthy merchant of the town, saw fit to embellish it yet further
with a window at the Eastern end, of glass stained with colours
marvellous to behold. Men said indeed that Merchant Roger clearly owed
that window to the Saint, seeing that when he first entered the town
scarce a dozen years before, he came but as a poor pedlar, possessed
of naught but 'a hap, a halfpenny, and a lambskin,' whereas these few
years spent under the shadow of the Saint's protection had made him
already a man of great estate.
Roger Thornton it was who gave the Eastern window to the Church, but
none know now, for certain, who first embellished the shrine with its
crowning gift, the tall steeple that gathers to itself not only the
affection of all those who dwell beneath its shadow, but also their
glory and their pride. Some believe it was built by King David of
Scotland: others by one Robert de Rede, since his name may still be
seen carven upon the stone by him who has skill to look. But in truth
the architect hath carried both his name and his secret with him, and
the craftsmen of many another larger and more famous city have sought
in vain to build such another tower. By London Bridge and again at
Edinburgh, in the capitals of two fair kingdoms, may indeed be seen a
steeple built in like fashion, but far less fair. One man alone, he
whose very name hath been forgotten, hath known how to swing with
perfect grace a pinnacled Crown, formed of stone yet delicate as
lacework, aloft in highest air. Therefore to this day doth the Lantern
Tower of St. Nicholas remain without a peer.
A Lantern Tower the learned call it, and indeed the semblance of an
open lantern doth rise, supported by pinnacles, in the centre of the
Tower; but to most men it resembles less a lantern than an Imperial
crown swung high in air, under a canopy of dazzling blue. It is a
golden crown in the daytime, as it shines on high above the hum of the
city streets in the clear mid-day light. It becomes a fiery crown when
the sun sets, for then the golden fleurs-de-lys on each of the eight
golden vanes atop of the pinnacles gleam and glow like sparks of
flame, climbing higher and ever higher into the steep and burnished
air. But it is a jewelled crown that shines by night over the
slumbering town beneath; for then the turrets and pinnacles are gemmed
with glittering stars.
That Tower, to those who have been born under it, is one of the
dearest things upon this earth. Judge then of the dismay that was
caused to every man, woman, and child, when Newcastle was being
besieged by the Scottish army during the Civil Wars, at the message
that came from the general of the beleaguering army, that were the
town not surrendered to him without delay, he would train his guns on
the Tower of St. Nicholas itself, and lay that first in ruins. Happily
Sir John Marley, the English Commander, who was likewise Mayor of the
Town, was more than a match for the canny Scot. And this was the
answer that the gallant Sir John sent back from the beleaguered town:
that General Leslie might train his guns on the Tower and welcome, if
such were his pleasure, but if he did so, before he brought down one
single stone of it, he would be obliged to take the lives of his own
Scottish prisoners, whom the guns would find as their first target
there.
Sir John was as good as his word. The Scottish prisoners were strung
out in companies along the Tower ledges, and kept there day after day,
till the Scottish Army had retreated, baffled for that time, and St.
Nicholas was saved. Therefore, thanks to Sir John Marley and his
nimble wit, the pinnacled Crown still soars up aloft into the sky,
keeping guard over the city of Newcastle to-day, as it hath done
throughout the centuries.
* * * * *
Little did the Friends, who came to Newcastle a few years after the
Scotsmen had departed, regard the beauty of St. Nicholas or its Tower.
They came also desiring to besiege the town, though with only
spiritual weapons. The Church to them was but a 'steeple-house,' and
the Tower akin to an idol. Thus slowly do men learn that 'the ways
unto God are as the number of the souls of the children of men,' and
that wherever a man truly seeketh God in whatsoever fashion, so he do
but seek honestly and with his whole heart, God will consent to be
found of him.
Yet though the Friends who came to Newcastle came truly to besiege the
town for love's sake, not with love did the town receive them.
'Ruddy-faced John Audland' was the first to come, he who had been one
of the preachers that memorable Sunday at Firbank Chapel, and who,
having yielded place to George Fox, had been in his turn mightily
convinced of Truth. 'A man beloved of God, and of all good men,' was
John Audland, 'of an exceedingly sweet disposition, unspeakably loving
and tenderly affectionate, always ready to lend a helping hand to the
weak and needy, open-hearted, free and near to his friends, deep in
the understanding of the heavenly mysteries.' Yet little all this
availed him. In Newcastle as elsewhere he preached the Truth, 'full of
dread and shining brightness on his countenance.' Certain of the
townsfolk gathered themselves unto him and became Friends, but the
authorities would have none of the new doctrine, and straightway
clapped him into gaol. There he lay for a time, till at last he was
set free and went his way.
After him came George Fox, when some thirteen years had gone by since
Sir John Marley saved the Tower, and General Leslie had returned
discomfited to Edinburgh. From Edinburgh, too, George Fox had come on
his homeward way after that eventful journey to the Northern Kingdom,
when 'the infinite sparks of life sparkled about him as soon as his
horse set foot across the Border.' Weary he was of riding when he
reached the gates of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Yet 'gladded' in his heart
was he, for as he had passed by Berwick-upon-Tweed, the Governor there
had 'shewn himself loving towards Friends,' and, though only a little
Meeting had been gathered, 'the Lord's power had been over all.' As
Fox and his companion rode through the woods and beside the yellow
brown streams and over the heathery moors of Northumberland, they
found and visited many scattered Friends whose welcome had made George
Fox's heart rejoice. But no sooner had he entered the town than all
his gladness left him, at the grievous tale the faithful Friends of
Newcastle had to tell. Ever since John Audland's preaching had stirred
the souls of the townsfolk, the priests and professors had done their
best to prevent 'this pernicious poison from spreading.' Five
Newcastle priests had written a book, entitled 'the Perfect Pharisee
under Monkish Holiness,' in which they blamed Friends for many things,
but above all for their custom of preaching in the streets and open
places. 'It is a pestilent heresy at best,' they said (though they
used not these very words), 'yet did they keep it to themselves 'twere
no great harm, but we find no place hears so much of Friends' religion
as streets and market-places.'
Yet even so their witness agreed not together. For while the priests
accused Friends of too much preaching in public, a certain Alderman of
the city, Thomas Ledger by name, put forth three other books against
them. And his main charge was this--'THAT THE QUAKERS WOULD NOT COME
INTO ANY GREAT TOWNS, BUT LIVED IN THE FELLS LIKE BUTTERFLIES.'
George Fox, hearing these things from the Friends assembled to greet
him at the entrance to the town, was tried in his spirit, and
determined that the matter should be dealt with, without more ado. The
Journal saith: 'The Newcastle priests wrote many books against us,
and one Ledger, an Alderman of the town, was very envious of truth and
friends. He and the priests had said, "the Quakers would not come into
great towns, but lived in the fells like butterflies." I took Anthony
Pearson with me and went to this Ledger, and several others of the
Aldermen, desiring to have a meeting among them, seeing they had
written so many things against us: for we were now come, I told them,
into their great town. But they would not yield we should have a
meeting, neither would they be spoke with, save only this Ledger and
one other. I queried: "Had they not called Friends Butterflies, and
said we would not come into any great towns? And now they would not
come at us, though they had printed books against us; WHO ARE THE
BUTTERFLIES NOW?"
'As we could not have a public meeting amongst them we got a little
meeting amongst friends and friendly people at the Gate-side. As I was
passing by the market-side, the power of the Lord rose in me, to warn
them of the day of the Lord that was coming upon them. And not long
after all the priests were turned out of their profession, when the
King came in.'
Thus did those same envious priests, who had accused Friends of living
like butterflies in the fells, become themselves as butterflies, being
chased out of the great town, and forced to flit to and fro in the
open country. The Friends, meanwhile, increased on both sides of the
river Tyne. In 1657 George Whitehead visited Newcastle, and was kindly
received in the house of one John Dove, who had been a Lieutenant in
the army before he became a Friend.
Whitehead, himself one of the 'Valiant Sixty,' writes:--'The Mayor of
the town (influenced by the priests), would not suffer us to keep any
meeting within the Liberty of the Town, though in Gate-side (being out
of the Mayor's Liberty), our Friends had settled a meeting at our
beloved Friend Richard Ubank's house.... The first meeting we then
endeavoured to have within the town of Newcastle was in a large room
taken on purpose by some Friends.... The meeting was not fully
gathered when the Mayor of the Town and his Officers came, and by
force turned us out of the meeting; and not only so, but out of the
Town also; for the Mayor and his Company commanded us and went along
with us as far as the Bridge over the river Tine that parts Newcastle
and Gates-head, upon which Bridge there is a Blew Stone to which the
Mayor's Liberty extends; when we came to the stone, the Mayor gave his
charge to each of us in these words: "I charge and command you in the
name of His Highness the Lord Protector. That you come no more into
Newcastle to have any more meetings there at your peril.'"
The Friends, therefore, continued to meet at the place that is called
Gateside (though some say that Goat's head was the name of it at
first), and there they remained till, after divers persecutions, they
were at length suffered to assemble within the walls of Newcastle
itself, upon the north side of the 'Blew Stone' above the River Tyne.
Here, in 1698, they bought a plot of ground, within a stone's-throw of
St. Nicholas, facing towards the street that the townsmen call Pilgrim
Street, since thither in olden days did many weary pilgrims wend their
way, seeking to come unto the Mound of Jesu on the outskirts of the
town. And that same Mound of Jesu is now called by men, Jesu Mond, or
shorter, Jesmond, and no longer is it the resort of pilgrims, but
rather of merchants and pleasure seekers. Yet still beside the Pilgrim
Street stands the Meeting-House built by those other pilgrim souls,
those Quakers, whom the men of the town in scorn called 'butterflies.'
And there, so far from flitting over the fells, they have continued to
hold their Meetings and worship God after their own fashion within
those walls for more than two hundred years.
* * * * *
Before ever this had come to pass, and while the Quakers of Newcastle
were still without an assembling place on their own side of the river,
it happened that a certain man among them, named Robert Jeckel, being
nigh unto death (though as yet he knew it not), was seized with a
vehement desire to behold George Fox yet once more in the flesh, since
full sixteen years had gone by since his visit to the town.
Wherefore this same Robert Jeckel, hearing that his beloved friend was
now again to be found at Swarthmoor, dwelling there in much seclusion,
seeking to regain the strength that had been sorely wasted in long and
terrible imprisonments,--this man, Robert Jeckel, would no longer be
persuaded or gainsaid, but set out at once with several others, who
were like-minded and desirous to come as speedily as might be to
Swarthmoor.
In good heart they set forth, but that same day, and before they had
come even as far as unto Hexham, Robert Jeckel was seized with a sore
sickness, whereat his friends entreated him to return the way he came
to his own home and tender wife. But he refused to be dissuaded and
would still press forward. At many other places by the way he was ill
and suffering, yet he would not be satisfied to turn back or to stop
until he should arrive at Swarthmoor. And thither after many days of
sore travel he came.
The Mistress of Swarthmoor was now no longer Margaret Fell but
Margaret Fox. Eight full years after the death of her honoured
husband, Judge Fell, and after long waiting to be sure that the thing
was from the Lord, she had been united in marriage with her beloved
friend, George Fox, unto whom she was ever a most loving and dutiful
wife. Therefore, when Robert Jeckel arrived with his friends before
the high arched stone gateway that led into the avenue that
approacheth Swarthmoor Hall, it was Mistress Fox, who, with her
husband, came to meet their guests. Close behind followed her youngest
daughter, Rachel Fell, the Seventh Sister of Swarthmoor Hall. She, the
Judge's pet and plaything in her childhood, was now a woman grown.
Seeing by Robert Jeckel's countenance that he was sorely stricken,
Mistress Fox led him straight to the fair guest chamber of Swarthmoor,
where she and her daughter nursed him with their wonted tenderness and
skill, hoping thus, if it might be, to restore him to his home in
peace. But it had been otherwise ordained, for Robert Jeckel, arriving
at Swarthmoor on the second day of the fifth month that men call July,
lay sick there but for nine days and then he died.
During his illness many and good words did he say, among others these:
'Though I was persuaded to stay by the way (being indisposed), before
I came to this place, yet this was the place where I would have been,
and the place where I should be, whether I live or die.'
George Fox, being himself, as I say, weakened by his long suffering in
Worcester Gaol, was yet able to visit Robert Jeckel as he lay a-dying,
and exhorted him to offer up his soul and spirit to the Lord, who
gives life and breath to all and takes it again. Whereupon Robert
Jeckel lifted up his hands and said, 'The Lord is worthy of it, and I
have done it.' George Fox then asked him if he could say, 'Thy will,
oh God, be done on earth as it is in heaven,' and he, lifting up his
hands again, and looking upwards with his eyes, answered cheerfully,
'he did it.'
Then, he in his turn, exhorting those about him, said: 'Dear Friends,
dwell in love and unity together, and keep out of jars, strife, and
contentions, and be sure to continue faithful to the end.' And
speaking of his wife, he said, 'As to my wife, I give her up freely to
the Lord; for she loveth the Lord and He will love her. I have often
told my dear wife, as to what we have of outward things, it was the
Lord's first before it was ours; and in that I desire she may serve
the truth to the end of her days.'
'In much patience the Lord did keep him, and he was in perfect sense
and memory all the time of his weakness, often saying, "Dear Friends,
give me up and weep not for me, for I am content with the Lord's
doings." And often said that he had no pain, but gradually declined,
often lifting up his hands while he had strength, praising the Lord,
and made a comfortable end on the 11th day of the fifth month, 1676.'
Thus did the joyful spirit of this dear friend at last take flight
for the Heavenly Country, when, as he said himself in his sickness,
'Soul separated from body, the Spirit returning to God that gave it,
and the body to the earth from whence it came.'
Yea, verily; his soul took flight for the Heavenly Country, happier in
its escape from the worn chrysalis of his weak and weary body than any
glad-winged butterfly that flitteth over the fells of his own beloved
Northumberland.