Nonconformists regarded the Revolution with thankfulness. William
was, in their eyes, a Heavensent deliverer, and at weekly and monthly
fasts they joined in prayer, that God’s blessing might rest on his
forces,[208] which they regarded as being at war with Babylon. It is
said that had the London Dissenters been requested to raise a monument
to his memory, they would have provided a statue of gold;[209] and
Calamy paints in bright colours their payment of taxes, and hearty
intercession for both King and Queen. He also alludes to their public
ordinations, their loving carriage amongst themselves, and their
friendly behaviour towards the Established Church. There is truth in
what he says, and we can conceive how, with memories of ancestral
troubles, he would rise to enthusiastic delight whilst recording the
blessings of the Revolution; but truth throws strong shadows amidst
these brilliant hues, and, indeed, he himself, in subsequent portions
of his narrative, makes an abatement in his demands on our admiration.
[Sidenote: NONCONFORMISTS.]
Mutual charity would have been exemplified if Howe’s advice had
prevailed, for he urged Conformists and Nonconformists not to magnify
diversities of opinion, but to promote the interests of a common
Christianity. “If our rulers,” he adds, “shall judge such intercourses
conducing to so desirable an end, they may perhaps in due time think
it reasonable to put things into that state, that ministers of both
sorts may be capable of inviting one another occasionally to the
brotherly offices of mutual assistance in each other’s congregations.
For which, and all things that tend to make us a happy people, we
must wait upon Him in whose hands their hearts are.”[210] But on many
people these sentiments fell as idle words; and if by others they
were heard for one moment, the very next they were drowned by the
din of old controversies, or the outburst of new passions. Beautiful
and blessed ideals of union to most were as destitute of all charm
for their affections as of power to work themselves out into facts.
Catholic-minded men on opposite sides, if unencumbered by partizanship,
would have surmounted difficulties, and reached, if not unity of
fellowship, yet freedom of intercourse; but then, as always, prejudices
in the many defeated endeavours on the part of a few, and reopened
breaches when they seemed on the point of being healed.
Death removed some most distinguished Nonconformist Ministers at the
era of the Revolution.
[Sidenote: 1691.]
John Bunyan, who belongs more to the universal church than to a
particular sect, died, as he had lived, in the Baptist communion.
He has come before us in a former volume, not as a leader in
ecclesiastical affairs, but as a sufferer for conscience’ sake, and
as an author of works which have won for him an unparalleled renown.
He trod the paths of private life, save that when he came to London
his “preaching attracted enormous multitudes;” and it was in the city
which had witnessed his vast popularity that he breathed his last. A
minister of peace, he took a long journey on horseback to extinguish
domestic strife, and on his way afterwards to the Metropolis, brought
on a fatal fever, through fatigue and exposure to heavy rains. This
occurred in the month of August, 1688, when the throne of James was
tottering to its fall, and plans which led to the Revolution were being
formed; probably whisperings of what was to happen to his country
reached Bunyan’s ears in his last hours. Illness overtook him in the
house of his friend Mr. Strudwick, a grocer on Snow Hill, and just
before his death he said to his friends, “Weep not for me, but for
yourselves. I go to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will, no
doubt, through the mediation of His blessed Son, receive me, though a
sinner, where I hope we ere long shall meet to sing the new song and
remain everlastingly happy, world without end.” “He felt the ground
solid under his feet in passing the black river which has no bridge,
and followed his pilgrim into the celestial city.” He expired before
the end of August, and was interred in Bunhill Fields; his church at
Bedford lamented with unaffected sorrow his loss at the age of 60;
and keep the next month days of humiliation and prayer for the heavy
bereavement they had sustained.[211]
Dr. John Collinges, a Presbyterian, once Vicar of St. Stephen’s,
Norwich, died in 1690. He had assisted Pool in his _Annotations_,
and written practical as well as controversial works. One of them,
entitled _The Weaver’s Pocket-book, or Weaving Spiritualized_,
was no doubt suggested to him as he had stood watching the loom in the
house of some industrious parishioner in days when the city of Norwich
enjoyed the zenith of its manufacturing industry. He left behind a
good reputation, being, as his brethren testified, “a man of various
learning and excelling as a textuary and a critic, and generally
esteemed for his great industry, humanity, and exemplary piety.”
[Sidenote: NONCONFORMISTS.]
John Flavel ended his days on the 26th of June, 1691, at Exeter. He
had, before his death, left the town of Dartmouth, the scene of his
long and zealous ministrations, because the rabble, headed by certain
aldermen, in 1685 paraded the town, carrying the good man’s effigy to
be burnt,--an insult he revenged by praying, “Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do.” With his lively imagination he combined
intense spiritual emotion, and the following story, which he relates
of himself in his _Pneumatologia_ is so curious that, though
familiar from frequent quotation, it deserves to be inserted here. It
exemplifies a phase of spiritual life belonging to an age which has
passed away.[212]
“Being on a journey, he set himself to improve his time by meditation;
when his mind grew intent, till at length he had such ravishing tastes
of heavenly joys, and such full assurance of his interest therein, that
he utterly lost the sight and sense of this world and all its concerns,
so that for hours he knew not where he was. At last, perceiving himself
faint from a great loss of blood from his nose, he alighted from his
horse and sat down at a spring, where he washed and refreshed himself;
earnestly desiring, if it were the will of God, that he might there
leave the world. His spirits reviving, he finished his journey in the
same delightful frame. And all that night passed without a wink of
sleep, the joy of the Lord still overflowing him, so that he seemed an
inhabitant of the other world. After this, an heavenly serenity and
sweet peace continued long with him; and for many years he called that
day one of the days of heaven, and professed he understood more of the
life of heaven by it, than by all the discourses he had heard or the
books he ever read.”[213]
[Sidenote: 1691.]
Richard Baxter was an old man at the time of the Revolution, weighed
down by suffering; and the Toleration Act came too late to give scope
to energies which, had the event happened twenty years earlier, would
have been ardently spent in tilling the newly-opened fields of labour.
Yet, when the adoption of the Doctrinal Articles of the Church was
required as the condition of exercising a Nonconformist ministry, the
trembling hand of the veteran theologist could not resist an impulse
to write down scholastically the sense in which the Articles were to
be subscribed. It was his own sense, yet it was also, as he believed,
one in which many of his brethren concurred. Few, it is said, took
notice of his explication, and at this we are not surprised, as his
explication contains more in the way of suggestive thought than of
explicit definition. His metaphysics, warmed by zeal for practical
religion, appear distinctly in this farewell effort. He has something
abstruse to say as to the glorified body of Christ, and upon some
other points; and he lays down a dictum, often repeated since in a
wider sense than he specifies, with regard to legislation in Church
and State: “God’s laws are the supreme civil laws, man’s laws are
but by-laws.” He also insists upon the doctrine of the Apostle James,
as well as the doctrine of the Apostle Paul; and, after charitably
saying, “all were not accursed that hoped well of Socrates, Antonine,
Alexander, Severus, Cicero, Epictetus, Plutarch,” and others, he
adds, “there is no name, that is, no Messiah, to be saved by, but
Christ.”[214]
[Sidenote: NONCONFORMISTS.]
[Sidenote: 1691.]
In a tenement near his friend Sylvester’s, in Charterhouse Square,
Baxter spent his last days; and when disabled from preaching in his
friend’s meeting-house, he preached in his own dwelling, almost dying
in the exercise of his favourite employment. “It would doubtless,”
it is said, “have been his joy to have been transfigured on the
Mount.” “He talked in the pulpit,” as one reports, “with great freedom
about another world, like one who had been there, and was come as a
sort of express from thence to make report concerning it.” His busy
pen was employed as long as he could grasp it with his fingers, in
writing something for the benefit of his fellow-men. At last growing
infirmities confined him to his chamber, and then to his bed. There his
vigorous mind “abode rational, strong in faith and hope, arguing itself
into, and preserving itself in, that patience, hope, and joy, through
grace.” With unaffected humility he spoke of himself as a sinner worthy
of being condemned for the best duty he ever did, whose hopes were all
“from the free mercy of God in Christ.” Reminded of the good which his
works had produced, he replied, “I was but a pen in God’s hands, and
what praise is due to a pen?” When extremity of pain constrained him
to pray for release, he would check himself with the words, “It is
not fit for me to prescribe;--_when Thou wilt, what Thou wilt, and
how Thou wilt_!” “Oh! how unsearchable are His ways, and His paths
past finding out; the reaches of His providence we cannot fathom! Do
not think the worse of religion for what you see me suffer.” He had
assurance of future happiness, and great peace and joy in believing,
only lamenting that because of pain he could not express all he felt.
Still he spoke of heaven, and quoting the Apostle’s description of
the celestial Church, remarked, that it deserved a thousand thousand
thoughts. With characteristic width of sympathy, he spent many of his
last hours in praying for a distracted world, and a divided Church.
Physical pain, his old companion, continued to the last. “I have pain,”
he said, “there is no arguing against sense; but I have peace--I
have peace.” The catalogue of his diseases is enough to excite pity
in the most inhuman, and our sensibilities are positively tortured
by the pathetic descriptions he gives of himself. They illustrate
the beautifulness of his oft-quoted answer to the question, How he
did?--“_Almost well._” “On Monday, about five in the evening,”
says Sylvester, “Death sent his harbinger to summon him away. A great
trembling and coldness awakened nature, and extorted strong cries,
which continued for some time;” at length he ceased, waiting in
patient expectation for his change. The gentle cry in the ear of his
housekeeper, “Death, death!” betokened full consciousness at the last
moment, and turning to thank a friend for his visit, he exclaimed,
“The Lord teach you to die.” About four o’clock on the morning of
the 8th of December, 1691, he had done for ever with the sorrows of
mortality, and entered on the saints’ everlasting rest. His body sleeps
in Christchurch beside the ashes of his wife and mother. Many vied in
doing honour to his memory. Conformists as well as Nonconformists
carried him to the grave, and made great lamentations over him; a train
of mourning-coaches reached from Merchant Taylors’ Hall--whence the
corpse was carried--to the place of burial.
[Sidenote: NONCONFORMISTS.]
At the commencement of the year 1692, another of the old Puritans left
this world. He represented a class which had borne the brunt of the
battle, and who, when the Revolution brought peace, loved to relate
stories of sufferings which promoted Dissent, after the severer laws
against it were relaxed.
Francis Holcroft, son of a knight residing at Westham, near London,
was sent to Clare Hall, Cambridge, where Dr. Cudworth was Master, and
David Clarkson a Fellow. Under the instructions of the latter, the
gownsman became a Puritan, and as, on a Sunday morning, he sat over
the College Gate, in a chamber which he shared in common with young
Tillotson, described as “his bed-fellow,” he sometimes observed a
horse, which was brought up for one of the Fellows, who served the
living of Littlington, and which was frequently led away without its
master. Pitying the sheep without a shepherd, the young Puritan offered
to supply the neglected parish, where his services were crowned with
signal success. Promoted in 1655 to the Vicarage of Bassingbourne,
he became exceedingly popular, and, not content with the effect of
his sermons, he felt anxious to establish ecclesiastical discipline,
and therefore formed a Church upon Congregational principles. At the
Restoration things changed. Holcroft was ejected, and the sheep were
scattered. He met them as he could, some in one place, some in another;
but the circuit of his labours becoming too wide for his failing
strength, he arranged that four members should assist him in pastoral
work. Worship was disturbed by the beating of drums, and the pastor was
imprisoned; but the greater the persecution the more his popularity
increased, and when silenced as a preacher, he sent pastorals round
his wide rural diocese. For some time the congregations to which he
ministered, formed of Baptists and Pædobaptists, constituted only
one Church; but after the Revolution they settled down into distinct
communities. The memory of Holcroft still lingers in the neighbourhood
of Cambridge, and old barns in which he ministered were pointed out
a few years ago. He died on the 6th of January, 1692. Before his
departure, spiritual tranquility, awhile disturbed, was happily
restored, for he died exclaiming, “I know that if the earthly house
of this tabernacle be dissolved, I have a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.” He sleeps in a small burial-ground beside the
churchyard of Oakington, four miles from Cambridge. Three flat stones
cover the spot hallowed by the remains of two other Nonconformist
ministers, as well as his own. Over his resting-place are inscribed the
appropriate words, “They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of
the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars
for ever and ever.”
[Sidenote: 1691.]
[Sidenote: NONCONFORMISTS.]
Several others of the ejected died about the period of the Revolution.
Veneration for them increased as death swept them away: their virtues
were embalmed; their names were canonized. Collectors of anecdotes
published whatever they could find respecting the departed, sometimes
accompanied by severe reflections upon the old laws which had thrust
them out of the gates of the Establishment. People in Derbyshire were
told that rich as might be their treasures in wool and lead, the
shepherds they had lost were more precious than all the flocks grazing
on their beautiful hills; and the sermons they had preached were
costlier than all the metals dug out of their capacious mines. After
a short beadroll of pastors in the county, the writer asks, What hath
cast away the shields of the mighty? _Uniformity._ What hath slain
the beauty of England, and made the mighty fall? _Uniformity._
What hath despoiled the neck of the Church, like the town of David
builded for an armoury, whereon there hung a thousand bucklers, all
shields of mighty men? _Uniformity._[215]