FROM THE RESTORATION OF THE CITY TO THE CLOSE OF THE CENTURY.
Great as was the consternation described in the foregoing chapter,
scarcely less terror was produced in the minds of the citizens by the
apprehension of a Dutch invasion about the same time. In 1666, even
before the fire, this feeling was excited. The ships of France and
Holland approached the Thames, and engaged with the English fleet.
"After dinner," says Lady Warwick, whose entry in her journal, under
date, July 29, brings the occurrence home to us--"after dinner came the
news of hearing the guns that our fleet was engaged. My head was much
afflicted by the consideration of the blood that was spilt, and of the
many souls that would launch into eternity." There is a fine passage,
descriptive of the excitement at this time, in Dryden's Essay on
Poesie: "The noise of the cannon from both navies reached our ears
about the city, so that men being alarmed with it, and in dreadful
suspense of the event, which we knew was then deciding, every one went
following the sound as his fancy led him, and leaving the town almost
empty, some took towards the park, some cross the river, others down
it, all seeking the noise in the depth of the silence. Taking, then, a
barge, which the servant of Lisidenis had provided for them, they made
haste to shoot the bridge, and left behind them that great fall of
waters, which hindered them from hearing what they desired; after
which, having disengaged themselves from many vessels which rode in
anchor in the Thames, and almost blocked up the passage to Greenwich,
they ordered the watermen to let fall their oars more gently; and then
every one favoring his own curiosity with a strict silence, it was not
long ere they perceived the air breaking about them, like the noise of
distant thunder, or of swallows in the chimney, those little
undulations of sound, though almost vanishing before they reached them,
yet still seeming to retain somewhat of their first horror, which they
had betwixt the fleets. After they had listened till such time as the
sound, by little and little, went from them, Eugenius, lifting up his
head, and taking notice of it, was the first who congratulated to the
rest that happy omen of our nation's victory, adding, we had but this
to desire in confirmation of it, that we might hear no more of that
noise, which was now leaving the English coast." This passage, which
Montgomery eulogizes most warmly in his Lectures on English Poetry, as
one of the most magnificent in our language, places before us, with
graphic force, the state of curiosity, suspense, and solicitude, which
was experienced by multitudes of citizens at the period referred to.
In the following year, fresh excitement from the same source arose.
The monarch was wasting upon his pleasures a considerable portion of
the money which parliament had voted for the defence of the kingdom.
The national exchequer was empty, and the credit of the navy
commissioners gone. No loans could be obtained, yet ready money was
demanded by the laborers required in the dockyards, by the sailors who
were wanted to man the vessels, and by the merchants from whose stores
the fleet needed its provisions. Not a gun was mounted in Tilbury
Fort, nor a ship of war was in the river ready to oppose the enemy,
while crowds thronged about the Admiralty, demanding their pay, and
justly upbraiding the government. The Dutch ships, under De Ruyter,
entered the Thames, sailed up the Medway, and seized the Royal Charles,
besides three first-rate English vessels. One can easily conceive the
second panic which this event must have produced among the citizens;
nor is it difficult to imagine the suspension of business, the general
exchange of hasty inquiries in that hour of terror, and the flocking of
the people to the river-side to learn tidings of the fleet. Though the
Dutch ships, unable to do further mischief on that occasion, returned
to join the rest of the naval force anchored off the Nore; yet the
citizens could not be relieved from their anxiety by this circumstance,
for they knew that the foe would remain hovering about their coasts,
and they could not tell but that in some unlooked-for moment the
invaders might approach the very walls of their city. Some weeks of
painful apprehension followed, and twice again did the admiral threaten
to remount the Thames. An engagement between the English squadron and
a portion of the invading armament of Holland prevented the
accomplishment of that design, and saved London for the present from
further fear.
Strong political excitement was produced in the city of London, at a
later period of Charles II.'s reign, by another kind of invasion. The
monarch and court, finding themselves thwarted in their arbitrary
system of government by the spirit of the citizens, who were jealous of
their own liberties, ventured, in defiance of the national constitution
and the charters of the city, to interfere in the municipal elections.
They attempted to thrust on the people as sheriffs men whom they knew
they could employ as tools for despotic purposes. In 1681, a violent
attempt of this sort was made, when the city returned in opposition to
the wishes of king and court, two patriotic and popular men, Thomas
Pilkington and Samuel Shaw. The king could not conceal his chagrin at
this election, and when invited to dine with the citizens, replied,
"Mr. Recorder, an invitation from the lord mayor and the city is very
acceptable to me, and to show that it is so, notwithstanding that it is
brought by messengers so unwelcome to me as those two sheriffs are, yet
I accept it." Many of the citizens about the same time, influenced by
fervent Protestant zeal, and by attachment to the civil and religious
liberties of the country, were apprehensive of the consequences if the
Duke of York, known to be a Roman Catholic, were allowed to ascend the
British throne. The anti-papal feelings of the nation had been
increased by the belief of a deeply-laid popish plot, which the
infamous Titus Oates pretended to reveal; and in London those
sentiments had been rendered still more intense by the murder of Sir
Edmondbury Godfery, the magistrate who received Oates's depositions.
His death, over which a large amount of mystery still rests, was
attributed to the revenge of the papists for the part he had taken in
the prosecution against them. The hatred of which, in general, Roman
Catholics were the objects, centered on the prince, from whose
succession to the crown the restoration of the old religion of the
country was anticipated. His name became odious, and it was difficult
to shield it from popular indignity. Some one cut and mangled a
picture of him which hung in Guildhall. The corporation, to prevent
his royal highness from supposing that they countenanced or excused the
insult, offered a large reward for the detection of the offender, and
the Artillery Company invited the prince to a city banquet. The party
most active in opposing his succession determined to have a large
meeting and entertainment of their own, to express their opinion on the
vital point of the succession to the crown; but the proceeding was
sternly forbidden by the court, a circumstance which only served to
deepen the feelings of discontent already created to a serious extent
in very many breasts. This was followed up by the lord mayor
nominating, in the year 1682, a sheriff favorable to the royal
interests, and intimating to the citizens that they were to confirm his
choice. The uproar at the common hall on Midsummer-day was tremendous.
The citizens contended for their right of election, and nominated both
sheriffs themselves, selecting two persons of popular sentiments.
Amidst the riot, the lord mayor was roughly treated, and consequently
complained to his majesty, the result of which was, that the two
sheriffs already in office, and obnoxious to the court, were committed
to the Tower for not maintaining the peace. Papillion and Dubois, the
people's candidates, were elected. The privy council annulled the
election, and commanded another; when the lord mayor most arbitrarily
declared North and Box, the court candidates, duly chosen. Court and
city were now pledged to open conflict; the former pursuing thoroughly
despotic measures to bring the latter to submission. One rich popular
citizen was fined to the amount of L100,000, for an alleged scandal on
the popish duke, and at length it was resolved to take away the city
charter. Forms of law were adopted for the purpose. An information,
technically entitled a _quo warranto_, was brought against the
corporation in the court of King's Bench. It was alleged, in support
of this suit at the instance of the crown, that the common council had
imposed certain tolls by an ordinance of their own, and had presented
and published throughout the country an insolent petition to the king,
in 1679, for the calling of parliament. The court, swayed by a desire
to please the king, pronounced judgment against the corporation, and
declared their charter forfeited; yet only recorded that judgment, as
if to inveigle the corporation into some kind of voluntary submission,
as the price of preserving a portion of what they were now on the point
of altogether losing. Such an issue, of course, was regarded by the
court as more desirable than an act of direct force, which was likely
to irritate the citizens, and arouse wrath, which might be treasured up
against another day. The city, to save their estates, yielded to the
law, and submitted to the conditions imposed by the king--namely, that
no mayor, sheriff, recorder, or other chief officer, should be admitted
until approved by the king; that in event of his majesty's twice
disapproving the choice of the citizens, he should himself nominate a
person to fill the office, without waiting for another election; that
the court of aldermen might, with the king's permission, remove any one
of their body, and that they should have a negative on the election of
the common council, and, in case of disapproving a second choice on the
part of the citizens, should themselves proceed to nominate such as
they themselves approved. "The city was of course absolutely
subservient to the court from this time to the revolution." (Hallam's
Constitutional History, chap. ii, p. 146.)
The unconstitutional proceedings of the king and court, of which the
circumstances just related are a specimen, aroused some patriotic
spirits in the country; but the power which inspired their indignation
crushed their energies. Two illustrious men, who fell victims to that
power, were connected with the city of London as the place of their
abode, and the scene where they sealed their principles by death.
Russell and Sydney both perished there in 1683. They were accused of
participation in the notorious Rye House plot, and upon evidence, such
as would convince no jury in the present day, were found guilty of
treason. Lord Russell was conveyed from Newgate on the 21st of July,
1683, to be beheaded in Lincoln's-inn-fields. The duke of York, who
intensely hated the patriot, wished him to be executed in
Southampton-square, before his own residence; but the king, says
Burnet, "rejected that as indecent." Lord Russell's behavior on the
scaffold was in keeping with his previous piety and fortitude. "His
whole behavior looked like a triumph over death." He said, the day
before he died, that the sins of his youth lay heavy on his mind, but
he hoped God had forgiven them, for he was sure he had forsaken them,
and for many years had walked before God with a sincere heart. The
faithful lady Rachel, who had so nobly acted as his secretary on his
trial, and had used her utmost efforts to save his life, attended him
in prison, and sought to strengthen his mind with the hopes and
consolations of the gospel of Christ. Late the last night he spent on
earth their final separation in this world took place; when, after
tenderly embracing her several times, both magnanimously suppressing
their indescribable emotions, he exclaimed, as she left the cell, "The
bitterness of death is past." Winding up his watch the next morning,
he observed, "I have done with time, and am going to eternity." He
earnestly pressed upon Lord Cavendish the importance of religion, and
declared how much comfort and support he derived from it in his
extremity. Some among the crowds that filled the streets wept, while
others insulted; he was touched by the tenderness of the one party,
without being provoked by the heartlessness of the other. Turning into
Little Queen-street, he said, "I have often turned to the other hand
with great comfort, but now I turn to this with greater." "A tear or
two" fell from his eyes as he uttered the words. He sang psalms a
great part of the way, and said he hoped to sing better soon. On being
asked what he was singing, he said, the beginning of the 119th Psalm.
On entering Lincoln's-inn-fields, the sins of his youth were brought to
his remembrance, as he had there indulged in those vices which
characterized the court of Charles II. "This has been to me a place of
sinning, and God now makes it the place of my punishment." As he
observed the great crowds assembled to witness his end, he remarked, "I
hope I shall quickly see a better assembly." He walked round the
scaffold several times, and then delivered to the sheriffs a paper,
which had been carefully prepared, declaring his innocence of the
charge of treason, and his strong attachment to the Protestant faith.
After this, he prayed by himself, and then Dr. Tillotson prayed with
him. Another private prayer, and the patriot, having calmly unrobed
himself, as if about to lie down on his couch to sleep, placed his head
upon the block, and with two strokes of the axe was hastened into the
eternal world. The faith, hope, patience, and love of his illustrious
lady surpassed even his own, and her letters breathe a spirit redolent
of heaven rather than earth. After a severe illness, she wrote, in
October, 1680: "I hope this has been a sorrow I shall profit by; I
shall, if God will strengthen my faith, resolve to return him a
constant praise, and make this the season to chase all secret murmurs
from grieving my soul for what is past, letting it rejoice in what it
should rejoice--His favor to me, in the blessings I have left, which
many of my betters want, and yet have lost their chiefest friend also.
But, O! the manner of my deprivation is yet astonishing." Five years
afterwards she says, "My friendships have made all the joys and
troubles of my life, and yet who would live and not love? Those who
have tried the insipidness of it would, I believe, never choose it.
Mr. Waller says--
'What know we of the bless'd above.
But that they sing, and that they love!'
And 'tis enough; for if there is so charming a delight in the love, and
suitableness in humors, to creatures, what must it be to the clarified
spirits to love in the presence of God!"
Algernon Sydney was a man of very powerful mind and of great eloquence,
in these respects utterly eclipsing his noble compatriot; but in his
last days it is painful to miss that Christian faith, tenderness of
heart, and beautiful religious hope, which shone with such serene
brightness amidst the sorrows of his friend. Sydney was a staunch
republican, and his patriotism was cast in the hard and severe mould of
ancient Rome. He was another Brutus. This distinguished man was
executed on Tower-hill, December the 7th, 1683, and faced death with
the utmost indifference, not seeking any aid from the ministers of
religion in his last moments, nor addressing the assembled multitude,
but only remarking to those who stood by that he had made his peace
with God, and had nothing to say to man.
Another sufferer in the same cause, less known to history, but more
closely connected with London, was alderman Cornish. From his great
zeal in the cause of Protestantism, he had become peculiarly odious to
the reigning powers. He was suddenly accused of treason, and hurried
to Newgate on the 13th of October. On the following Saturday he
received notice of his indictment, and the next Monday was arraigned at
the bar. Having been denied time to prepare his defence, he was
completely in the hands of his persecutors, who wreaked on him their
vengeance with merciless intensity and haste. On the 23d of the same
month, he was hanged, drawn, and quartered, in front of his own house,
at the end of King-street, Cheapside. After his death his innocency
was established, and it is said that James, who now occupied the
throne, lamented the injustice he had done. The duke of Monmouth, the
king's nephew, perished on Tower-hill, July, 1685, for his rebellion in
the western counties. The awful tragedy of an execution, with which
the citizens had become so familiar, was in this instance rendered
additionally horrid by the circumstance that the headsman, after
several ineffectual attempts to decapitate his victim, who, with the
gashes in his neck, reproached him for his tardiness, flung down the
axe, declaring he could not go on; forced by the sheriffs, the man at
length fulfilled his bloody task.
The arbitrary and cruel government of the country for many years was
now on the point of working out its remedy. The trial and acquittal of
the seven bishops at Westminster hastened on a crisis, and nothing
could exceed the joy which the city evinced on that occasion. On their
way to the Tower by water, the most enthusiastic demonstrations of
sympathy were evinced by the multitudes who lined the banks of the
Thames, and on reaching the fortress itself, the garrison knelt and
begged their blessing. Their subsequent discharge on bail, and
especially their final acquittal, excited boundless joy throughout the
city, and were celebrated by bonfires and illuminations. The king,
observing the tide of popular feeling set in so decidedly against him,
endeavored to reconcile the city of London by restoring to it the
charter, which, in his brother's reign, had been so unjustly taken
away. But though this brought votes of thanks in return, it
established no confidence towards the sovereign on the part of the
people. The prince of Orange, invited over by several distinguished
persons, wearied by the long continuance of tyranny, landed at Torbay,
when James, having committed the care of the metropolis to the lord
mayor, marched forth to meet his formidable rival. The result belongs
to the history of England. The lords spiritual and temporal held one
of their important meetings, during the interregnum, at Guildhall, and
summoned to it the chief magistrate and aldermen. Judge Jeffreys, of
infamous memory, was brought before the lord mayor, and committed to
the Tower, where he died through excessive drinking. Disturbances
broke out in the city, and the populace plundered the houses of the
papists. The mayor, aldermen, and a deputation from the common
council, were summoned to attend the convention parliament, which
raised the prince of Orange to the throne. These are the principal
incidents in the history of London, as connected with the glorious
revolution of 1688.
William and Mary were soon welcomed by the citizens to a very splendid
entertainment, the usual token of loyalty offered by them to new
sovereigns; and no time was lost by their majesties in reversing the
_quo warranto_, and fully restoring to the city its ancient charter.
When a conspiracy against William was discovered, in 1692, the city
train bands displayed their loyalty, and marched to Hyde Park to be
reviewed by the queen; and again, when an assassination plot was
detected, an association was formed among the citizens to defend his
person. These occurrences, with sundry rejoicings and entertainments
upon the king's return to this country, after the Irish and foreign
campaigns in which he engaged, are the principal civic events connected
with the reign of William III.
On turning from the political history of London to look at the manners
and morals of society during the latter part of the seventeenth
century, our attention is immediately arrested by the scenes at
Whitehall during the reign of Charles II. There the monarch fixed his
court, gathering around him some of the most profligate persons of the
age, and freely indulging in the most criminal pleasures. The palace
was adorned with the greatest splendor, the ceilings and walls being
decorated, and the furniture and other ornaments being fashioned
according to the French taste, as it then prevailed under Louis XIV.
Courtiers and idlers here flocked together from day to day, to lounge
in the galleries, to talk over public news and private scandal, and to
listen to the tales and jests of the king, whose presence was very
accessible, and whose wit and familiarity with his courtiers made him a
great favorite. Banquets, balls, and gambling, formed the amusements
of the evening, often disgraced by open licentiousness. "I can never
forget," says Evelyn, "the inexpressible luxury and profaneness, gaming
and all dissoluteness, and as it were total forgetfulness of God, (it
being Sunday evening,) which this day se'nnight I was witness of."
This was at the close of the sovereign's wretched career. "Six days
after," adds the writer, "was all in the dust!" This passage cannot
but call up in the Christian mind, awful thoughts of the eternal
condition of such as spend their days in the pleasures of sin, and then
drop into that invisible world, on the brink of which they were all
along "sporting themselves with their own deceivings." Sinful
practices, such as stained the court of Charles II., are too often
attempted to be disguised under palliative terms; but the solemn
warning of Scripture remains, "Let no man deceive you with vain words,
for because of these things cometh the wrath of God on the children of
disobedience." It is pleasing here to remember, that among those whom
their dignified station, or their duties towards the sovereign and
royal family, brought more or less into contact with the court, there
were persons of a very different character from the gay circle around
them, and whose thoughts, amidst the most brilliant spectacles, were
lifted up to objects that are beyond earthly vision. "In the morning,"
says lady Warwick, in her diary, April 23, 1667, "as soon as dressed,
in a short prayer I committed my soul to God, then went to Whitehall,
and dined at my lord chamberlain's, then went to see the celebration of
St. George's feast, which was a very glorious sight. Whilst I was in
the Banqueting House, hearing the trumpets sounding, in the midst of
all that great show God was pleased to put very mortifying thoughts
into my mind, and to make me consider, what if the trump of God should
now sound?--which thought did strike me with some seriousness, and made
me consider in what glory I had in that very place seen the late king,
and yet out of that very place he was brought to have his head cut off.
And I had also many thoughts how soon all that glory might be laid in
the dust, and I did in the midst of it consider how much greater glory
was provided for a poor sincere child of God. I found, blessed be God!
that my heart was not at all taken with anything I saw, but esteemed it
not worth the being taken with."--_Lady Warwick's Memoirs_. Lady
Godolphin was another beautiful instance of purity and piety amidst
scenes of courtly splendor, and manifold temptations to worldliness and
vice; and the more remarkable in this respect, that her duties required
her frequent attendance at Whitehall, and brought her into close
contact with the perils of the place.
The parks were favorite places of resort. "Hyde Park," observes a
cotemporary writer, "every one knows is the promenade of London;
nothing was so much in fashion during the fine weather as that
promenade, which was the rendezvous of magnificence and beauty; every
one, therefore, who had a splendid equipage, constantly repaired
thither, and the king seemed pleased with the place. Coaches with
glasses were then a late invention; the ladies were afraid of being
shut up in them." Charles was fond of walking in the parks, which he
did with such rapidity, and for such a length of time as to wear out
his courtiers. He once said to prince George of Denmark, who was
corpulent, "Walk with me, and hunt with my brother, and you will not
long be distressed with growing fat." Playing with dogs, feeding
ducks, and chatting with people, were occupations the king was much
addicted to, and were thought by his subjects to be so condescending,
familiar, and kind, that they tended much to promote his personal
popularity with the London citizens and others. Along St. James's
Park, at the back of what are now Carlton Gardens, there ran a wall,
which formed the boundary of the king's garden. On the north side of
it was an avenue, with rows of elms on one side, and limes on the
other, the one sheltering a carriage road, the other a foot-path.
Between lay an open space, called Pall Mall, which designation was
derived from a game played there, consisting of striking a ball through
an iron hoop suspended on a lofty pole. This was a favorite sport in
the days of Charles, and many a gay young cavalier exercised himself,
and displayed his dexterity among those green shades, where now piles
of houses line the busy street, still retaining the name it bore nearly
two centuries ago.
The pleasures of the parks and Whitehall, with all the licentious
accompaniments of the latter, were not always enough to meet the
vitiated appetite for amusement which then prevailed among the
courtiers. Lord Rochester--whose end formed such a striking contrast
to his life; whose sorrow for his sins was so intense, and his desire
for forgiveness and spiritual renewal so earnest--was prominent in
these extravagances, and set himself up in Tower-street as an Italian
mountebank, professing to effect extraordinary cures. Sometimes, also,
he went about in the attire of a porter or beggar. This taste was
cherished and indulged by the highest personages. "At this time,"
(1668,) says Burnet, "the court fell into much extravagance in
masquerading; both the king and queen and all the court went about
masked, and came into houses unknown, and danced there with a great
deal of wild frolic. In all this people were so disguised, that
without being in the secret none could distinguish them. They were
carried about in hackney chairs. Once the queen's chairman, not
knowing who she was, went from her. So she was alone, and was much
disturbed, and came to Whitehall in a hackney coach; some say a cart."
Scenes of dissipation at Whitehall, with occasional excesses of the
kind just noticed, make up the history of the court at London during
the reign of Charles II. The palace, under his brother James, who,
with all his popish zeal, was far from a pure and virtuous man, though
cleansed from some of its pollution, was still the witness of lax
morals. The habits of William III. and his queen Mary, greatly changed
the aspect of things at Whitehall, till its destruction by fire, (the
Banqueting House excepted,) in the year 1691. Afterwards the royal
residence was either at Kensington or Hampton Court.
The riotous pleasures of Charles II. and his favorites, naturally
encouraged imitation among the citizens of London, and during the whole
reign of Charles it was full of scenes of revelry. The excesses which
had been restrained during the commonwealth, and the abandoned
characters who, to escape the churchwardens and other censors of public
morals, sought refuge in retired haunts of villany, now appeared in
open day. The restoration had introduced a sort of saturnalia; and no
wonder, then, that the event was annually celebrated by the lovers of
frivolous pleasure in London, with the gayest rejoicings, in which the
garland and the dance bore a conspicuous part. While habits of
dissipation were too common among the inhabitants generally, vice and
crime were encouraged among the abandoned classes, by the existence of
privileged places, such as Whitefriars, the Savoy, Fuller's Rents, and
the Minories, where men who had lost all character and credit took
refuge, and carried on with impunity their nefarious practices. Other
persons, also, who ranked with decent London tradesmen, would sometimes
avail themselves of these spots; and we are informed that even late in
the seventeenth century, men in full credit used to buy all the goods
they could lay their hands on, and carry them directly to Whitefriars,
and then sending for their creditors, insult them with the exhibition
of their property, and the offer of some miserable composition in
return. If they refused the compromise, they were set at defiance.
The flood of licentiousness which rolled through the city in the time
of Charles II. happily proved insufficient to break down the religious
character of a large number of persons, who had been trained under the
faithful evangelical ministry of earlier times, or had been impressed
by the teaching of earnest-minded preachers and pastors who still
remained. The fire, as well as the plague, in connection with the
fidelity of some of God's servants, was, no doubt, instrumental, under
the blessing of his Holy Spirit, in turning the hearts of many from
darkness to light. The black cloud, as Janeway calls it, which no wind
could blow over, till it fell in such scalding drops, also folded up in
its skirts treasures of mercy for some, whose souls had been
unimpressed by milder means.
By the Act of Uniformity many devoted ministers had been silenced in
London--Richard Baxter, among the rest, whose sermons had attracted, as
they well might, the most crowded auditories;[1] but in private they
continued to do the work of their heavenly Master; and when spaces of
toleration occurred in the persecuting reigns of Charles and James II.,
they opened places of worship, and discharged their holy functions with
happy effects on their numerous auditories. After the fire, they were
for a little time in the enjoyment of this privilege; but, in 1670, an
act was passed for the suppression of conventicles, and the buildings
were forthwith converted into tabernacles, for the use of the
establishment while the parish churches were rebuilding. Eight places
of this description are mentioned, of which may be noticed the
meeting-house of the excellent Mr. Vincent, in Hand-alley,
Bishopsgate-street, a large room, with three galleries, thirty large
pews, and many benches and forms; and also Mr. Doolittle's
meeting-house, built of brick, with three galleries, full of large pews
below. Dr. Manton, a celebrated Presbyterian divine, was apprehended
on a Sunday afternoon, at the close of his sermon, and committed a
prisoner to the Gate-house. His meeting-house in White-yard was broken
up, and a fine of L40 imposed on the people, and L20 on the minister.
It is related of James Janeway, that as he was walking by the wall at
Rotherhithe, a bullet was fired at him; and that a mob of soldiers once
broke into his meeting house in Jamaica-row, and leaped upon the
benches. Amidst the confusion, some of his friends threw over him a
colored coat, and placed a white hat on his head, to facilitate his
escape. Once, while preaching in a gardener's house, he was surprised
by a band of troopers, when, throwing himself on the ground, some
persons covered him with cabbage leaves, and so preserved him from his
enemies. (Spiritual Heroes, p. 313.) In secresy the good people often
met to worship, according to the dictates of their consciences; and
until lately there remained in the ruins of the old priory of
Bartholomew, in Smithfield, doors in the crypt, which tradition
reported to have been used for admission into the gloomy subterranean
recesses, where the persecuted ones, like the primitive Christians in
the catacombs of Rome, worshiped the Father through Jesus Christ. The
Friends, or Quakers, as they were termed, at this time manifested great
intrepidity, and continued their worship as before, not stirring at the
approach of the officers who came to arrest them, but meekly going all
together to prison, where they stayed till they were dismissed, for
they would not pay the penalties imposed on them, nor even the jail
fees. On being discharged, they went to their meeting-houses as
before, and finding them closed, crowded in the street around the door,
saying "they would not be ashamed nor afraid to disown their meeting
together in a peaceable manner to worship God, but in imitation of the
prophet Daniel, they would do it more publicly because they were
forbid." _Neale's Puritans_, vol. iv, p. 433. William Penn and
William Mead, two distinguished members of the Society of Friends, were
tried at the Old Bailey in 1670, and were cruelly insulted by the
court. The jury, not bringing in such a harsh verdict as was desired,
were threatened with being locked up without "meat, drink, fire, or
tobacco." "We are a peaceable people, and cannot offer violence to any
man," said Penn; adding, as he turned to the jury, "You are Englishmen,
mind your privileges, give not away your rights." They responded to
the noble appeal, and acquitted the innocent prisoners.
When, in the next year, Charles exercised a dispensing power, and set
aside the persecuting acts, wishing to give freedom to the papists,
most of the London nonconformist ministers took out licences, and great
numbers attended their meetings. In 1672, the famous Merchants'
Lecture was set up in Pinner's Hall, and the most learned and popular
of the dissenting divines were appointed to deliver it. Alderman Love,
member for the city, in the name of such as agreed with him, stood up
in the House of Commons, refusing to take the benefit of the dispensing
power as unconstitutional. He said, "he had rather go without his own
desired liberty than have it in a way so destructive of the liberties
of his country and the Protestant interest, and that this was the sense
of the main body of dissenters." The indulgence was withdrawn.
Toleration bills failed in the House of Commons. The Test Act was
brought in; fruitless attempts were made for a comprehension; and
London was once more a scene of persecution. Informers went abroad,
seeking out places where nonconformists were assembled, following them
to their homes, taking down their names, ascertaining suspected
parties, listening to private conversation, prying into domestic
scenes, and then delivering over their prey into the hands of miscalled
officers of justice, who exacted fines, and rifled their goods, or
carried them off to prison. Such proceedings occurred at several
periods in the reigns of Charles and James II., after which the
revolution of 1688 brought peace and freedom of worship to the
long-oppressed nonconformists in London and throughout the country.
Popery lifted up its head in London on the restoration of Charles II.
Many professors of it accompanied the king on his accession to the
throne, and crowded round the court, being treated with conspicuous
favor. The queen-mother came from France, and took up her abode at
Somerset House, where she gathered round her a number of Roman Catholic
priests. The foreign ambassadors' chapels were used by English
papists, who thus obtained liberty of worship, while the London
Protestant nonconformists were shamefully persecuted. Jesuit schools
and seminaries were established, under royal patronage, and popish
bishops were consecrated in the royal chapel of St. James's. At
Whitehall, the ecclesiastics appeared in their canonical habits, and
were encouraged in their attempts to proselyte the people to the
unreformed faith. A diarist of the times, under date January 23, 1667,
records a visit he paid to the popish establishment in St. James's
Palace, composed of the chaplains and priests connected with Catharine
of Braganza, Charles II.'s queen: "I saw the dormitory and the cells of
the priests, and we went into one--a very pretty little room, very
clean, hung with pictures, and set with books. The priest was in his
cell, with his hair-clothes to his skin, barelegged, with a sandal only
on, and his little bed without sheets, and no feather bed, but yet I
thought soft enough, his cord about his middle; but in so good company,
living with ease, I thought it a very good life. A pretty library they
have: and I was in the refectory where every man had his napkin, knife,
cup of earth, and basin of the same; and a place for one to sit and
read while the rest are at meals. And into the kitchen I went, where a
good neck of mutton at the fire, and other victuals boiling--I do not
think they fared very hard. Their windows all looking into a fine
garden and the park, and mighty pretty rooms all. I wished myself one
of the Capuchins."
But it does not appear that the London commonalty were infected with
the love of the Papal Church, whatever might be done at court to foster
it. On the contrary, a strong feeling was cherished by multitudes in
opposition to all the popish proceedings of their superiors.
Ebullitions of popular sentiment on the question frequently appeared,
especially in the annual burning of the pope's effigy, on the 17th of
November, at Temple Bar. This was to celebrate the accession of Queen
Elizabeth; and after the discovery of the so-called Meal Tub plot, in
the reign of Charles II., it was performed with increased parade and
ceremony. The morning was ushered in with the ringing of bells, and in
the evening a procession took place, by the light of flambeaux, to the
number of some thousands. The balconies, and windows, and tops of
houses, were crowded with eager faces, reflecting the light that blazed
up from the moving crowds along the streets. Mock friars, bishops, and
cardinals, with the pope, headed by a man on horseback, personating the
dead body of Sir Edmondbury Godfery, composed the spectacle. It
started from Bishopsgate, and passing along Cheapside and Fleet-street
terminated at Temple Bar, where the pope was cast into a bonfire, and
the whole concluded with a display of fireworks. While anti-popish
proceedings of this description might be leavened with much of the
ignorance and intolerance which mark the odious system thus assailed,
and can, therefore, be regarded with little satisfaction, it must be
remembered that there was abundant cause at that time for those who
prized the liberties of their country, as well as those who valued the
truths of religion, to regard with alarm and to resist with vigor the
incursions of a political Church, which sought to crush those
liberties, and to darken those truths. The evils of Popery, inherent
and unchangeable, obtruded themselves most offensively, and with a
threatening aspect, at a period when they were defended and maintained
in high places; and it was notorious that the successor to the English
crown was plotting for the revival of Popish ascendency. During the
reign of James II., the grounds of excitement became stronger than
before. Everything dear to Englishmen as well as Protestants was at
stake. The destinies of Church and state, of religion and civil
policy, were trembling in the balance. Men's hearts might well fail
them for fear, and only confidence in the power of truth, and the God
of truth, with earnest prayer for his gracious succor and protection,
could still and soothe their agitated bosoms. Weapons of the right
kind were employed. The best divines of the Church of England manfully
contended in argument against the baneful errors of Romanism.
Dissenting divines, especially Baxter, threw their energies into the
same conflict. Political measures were also adopted vigorously and
with decision--their nature we can neither criticise nor describe--and
through the good providence of God our fathers were delivered from an
impending curse, which we pray may neither in our times, nor in future
ages, light on our beloved land.
In approaching the termination of this chapter, it is desirable to
insert some account of the extent and state of buildings in London at
the close of the seventeenth century, and a few notices of other
matters relating to that period, which have not yet come under our
consideration. Chamberlayne, in his _Angliae Notitia_, 1692, dwells
with warm delight upon the description of the London squares, "those
magnificent piazzas," as he terms them; and then enumerates
Lincoln's-inn-fields, Convent Garden, St. James's-square,
Leicester-fields, Southampton-square, Red Lion-square, Golden-square,
Spitalfields-square, and "that excellent new structure, called the
King's-square," now Soho. These were all extramural, and beyond the
liberties of the municipality, and they show how the metropolis was
extending, especially in the western direction. As early as 1662, an
act was passed for paving Pall Mall, the Haymarket, and St.
James's-street. Clarendon, in 1604, built his splendid mansion in
Piccadilly, called in reproach Dunkirk House by the common people, who
"were of opinion that he had a good bribe for the selling of that
town." Others, says Burnet, called it Holland House, because he was
believed to be no friend to the war. It was much praised for its
magnificence, and for the beautiful country prospect it commanded.
Evelyn's record of an interview with the builder of the proud palace,
is an affecting illustration of the vanity of this world's grandeur,
and of the disappointments and mortifications that follow ambition.
Clarendon had lost the favor of his sovereign, and the confidence of
the public. "I found him in his garden," says Evelyn, "at his
new-built palace, sitting in his gout wheel-chair, and seeing the gates
set up towards the north and the fields. He looked and spake very
disconsolately. After some while, deploring his condition to me, I
took my leave. Next morning, I heard he was gone." The house was
afterwards pulled down. In 1668, Burlington House was finished, placed
where it is because it was at the time of its erection thought certain
that no one would build beyond it. "In London," says Sir William
Chambers, "many of our noblemen's palaces towards the streets look like
convents; nothing appears but a high wall, with one or two large gates,
in which there is a hole for those who are privileged to go in and out.
If a coach arrives, the whole gate is open indeed, but this is an
operation that requires time, and the porter is very careful to shut it
up again immediately, for reasons to him very weighty. Few in this
vast city suspect, I believe, that behind an old brick wall in
Piccadilly there is one of the finest pieces of architecture in
Europe." All to the west and north of Burlington House was park and
country, where huntsmen followed the chase, or fowlers plied their
toils with gun and net, or anglers wielded rod and line on the margin
of fair ponds of water. "We should greatly err," observes Mr.
Macaulay, "if we were to suppose that any of the streets and squares
then wore the same appearance as at present. The great majority of the
houses, indeed, have since that time been wholly or in part rebuilt.
If the most fashionable parts of the capital could be placed before us,
such as they then were, we should be disgusted with their squalid
appearance, and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere. In Convent
Garden a filthy and noisy market was held, close to the dwellings of
the great. Fruit women screamed, carters fought, cabbage stalks and
rotten apples accumulated in heaps, at the thresholds of the countess
of Berkshire and of the bishop of Durham." Shops in those days did not
present the bravery of plate glass and bold inscriptions, with all
sorts of devices, but exhibited small windows, with huge frames which
concealed rather than displayed the wares within; while all manner of
signs, including Saracens' heads, blue bears, golden lambs, and
terrific griffins, with other wonders, swung on projecting irons across
the street, an humble resemblance of the row of banners lining the
chapels of the Garter and the Bath, at Windsor and Westminster. Though
a general paving and cleansing act for the streets of London was passed
in 1671, they continued long afterwards in a deplorably filthy
condition, the inconvenience occasioned by day being greatly increased
at night by the dense darkness, at best but miserably alleviated by the
few candles set up in compliance with the watchman's appeal, "Hang out
your lights." Glass lamps, known by the name of convex lights, were
introduced into use in 1694, and continued to be employed for
twenty-one years, after which there was a relapse into the old system.
It was dangerous to go abroad after dark without a lantern, and the
streets, with a few wayfarers, guided by this humble illumination, must
have presented a spectacle not unlike some gloomy country path, with
here and there a traveler.
Inns, of course, which still wore the appearance of the old hotels, and
have left a relic for example in the yard of the Spread Eagle, and a
more notable one in that of the Talbot, Southwark, had their
conspicuous signs, including animals known and unknown, and heads
without end. From their huge and hospitable gateways all the public
conveyances of London took their departure; and in an alphabetical list
of these, in 1684, the daily outgoings average forty-one, but the
numbers in one day are very unequal to those in another, seventy-one
departing on a Thursday, and only nine on a Tuesday. As there was only
one conveyance at a time to the same place, we have a remarkable
illustration in this record of the public provision for traveling, as
well as the stay-at-home habits of our good forefathers of the middle
class, about a century and a half ago. The gentry and nobility were
the chief travelers, and they performed their expeditions on horseback,
or in their own coaches. As to the number of the inhabitants in
London, at the close of the century, only an approximation to the fact
can be made, for no census of the population was taken. According to
the number of deaths, it is computed there were about half a million of
souls--a population seventeen times larger than that of the second town
in the kingdom, three times greater than that of Amsterdam, and more
than those of Paris and Rome, or Paris and Rouen put together. Though
the amount of trade was small compared with what it is now, yet the sum
of more than thirty thousand a year, in the shape of customs, (it is
more than eleven millions now,) filled our ancestors with astonishment.
Writers of that day speak of the masts of the ships in the river as
resembling a forest, and of the wealth of the merchants, according to
the notions of the day, as princelike. More men, wrote Sir Josiah
Child in 1688, were to be found upon the Exchange of London, worth ten
thousand pounds than thirty years before there were worth one thousand.
He adds, there were one hundred coaches kept now for one formerly; and
remarks, that a serge gown, once worn by a gentlewoman, was now
discarded by a chambermaid. The manufactures of the country were
greatly increased and wonderfully improved by the arrival of multitudes
of French artisans in 1685, on the revocation of the edict of Nantes.
"An entire suburb of London," says Voltaire, in his _Siecle de Louis
XIV._, "was peopled with French manufacturers of silk; others carried
thither the art of making crystal in perfection, which has been since
this epoch lost in France." Spitalfields is the suburb alluded to;
thousands besides were located in Soho and St. Giles's. "London,"
observes Chamberlayne, in 1692, "is a large magazine of men, money,
ships, horses, and ammunition; of all sorts of commodities, necessary
or expedient for the use or pleasure of mankind. It is the mighty
rendezvous of nobility, gentry, courtiers, divines, lawyers,
physicians, merchants, seamen, and all kinds of excellent artificers of
the most refined arts, and most excellent beauties; for it is observed,
that in most families of England, if there be any son or daughter that
excels the rest in beauty or wit, or perhaps courage or industry, or
any other rare quality, London is their north star, and they are never
at rest till they point directly thither."
[1] He mentions his preaching once at St. Dunstan's church, when an
accident occurred, which alarmed the vast concourse, and was likely to
have occasioned much mischief. He relates the odd circumstance of an
old woman, squeezed in the crowd, asking forgiveness of God at the
church door, and promising, if he would deliver her that time she would
never come to the place again.