[1] He loved paintings and music, and encouraged proficients in elegant art. "I ventured," says Evelyn, in 1656, "to go to Whitehall, where of many years I have not been, and found it very glorious and well furnished."
[2] Perfect Politician, quoted in "London," vol. i, p. 360.
Terrific pestilence had often visited London, and swept into the eternal world multitudes of victims; but no calamity of this kind that ever befel the inhabitants can be compared with the awful visitation of the great plague year. It broke out in Drury-lane, in the month of December, 1664. For some time it had been raging in Holland, and apprehensions of its approach to the shores of England had for months agitated the minds of the people. Remarkable appearances in the heavens were construed into Divine warnings of some impending catastrophe; and the common belief in astrology led many, in the excited state of feeling, to listen to the prognostications that issued from the press, in almanacs and other publications of the day. Defoe, in his remarkable history of the plague, which, though in its form fictitious, is doubtless in substance a credible narrative, describes a man who, like Jonah, went through the streets, crying, "Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed." Another ran about, having only some slight clothing round his waist, exclaiming, with a voice and countenance full of horror, "O, the great and dreadful God!" Yet the forebodings which were excited by reports from the continent, the traditions of former visitations of pestilences, the actual breaking out of the disease in a few instances, together with the superstitious aggravations just noticed, only shadowed forth, in light pale hues, the dark and intensely gloomy colors of the desolating providence which the sovereign Ruler of all events brought over the city of London. Head-ache, fever, a burning in the stomach, dimness of sight, and livid spots on the chest, were symptoms of the fatal disorder. These signs became more numerous as the months of the year 1665 advanced; yet the cases of plague were comparatively few till the month of June. "June the 7th," says an observant writer of that period in his diary, "the hottest day that ever I felt in my life. This day, much against my will, I did see in Drury-lane two or three houses marked with a red cross upon the doors, and 'Lord, have mercy upon us!' writ there, which was a sad sight to me, being the first of that kind that to my remembrance I ever saw." Again, on the 17th of June: "It struck me very deep this afternoon, going with a hackney coach down Holborn from the lord treasurer's, the coachman I found to drive easily, and easily, at last stood still, and came down hardly able to stand, and told me he was suddenly struck very sick, and almost blind he could not see; so I light, and went into another coach, with a sad heart for the poor man, and myself also, lest he should have been struck with the plague." This description of the first sight of the marked door, and the coach going more and more easily till it stood still, with its plague-struck driver, places the reader in the midst of the scene of disease and sorrow, awakening sympathetic emotions with those sufferers in a now distant age.
The alarm increased as the deaths multiplied, and people began to pack up and leave London with all possible haste. The court and the nobility removed to a distance, and so also did vast numbers beside who had the means of doing so, and were not confined by business; yet the general terror was so great throughout the kingdom that friends were sometimes far from being welcomed by those whom they visited. "It is scarcely possible," says Baxter, "for people who live in a time of health and security to apprehend the dreadful nature of that pestilence. How fearful people were thirty or forty, if not a hundred miles from London, of anything they brought from mercers' or drapers' shops, or of goods that were brought to them, or of any persons who came to their houses. How they would shut their doors against their friends; and if a man passed over the fields, how one would avoid another, how every man was a terror to another. O, how sinfully unthankful are we for our quiet societies, habitations, and health!" But the bulk of the people, of course, were compelled to remain in the city, and, pent up in dirty, close, unventilated habitations, while the weather was burning hot, were exposed to the unmitigated fury of the contagion. The weekly bills of mortality rose from hundreds to thousands, till, in the month of September, the disease reached its height, and no less than ten thousand souls were hurried into eternity. The operations of business were of course checked, and in many cases entirely suspended by the terrific progress of the calamity. Several shops were closed in every street; dwellings were often left empty, the inmates having been smitten or driven away by the fatal scourge. Some of the public thoroughfares were nearly deserted. The markets being removed beyond the city walls, to prevent the people as much as possible from coming together in masses; the erection of houses also being unnecessary, and therefore discontinued for a while—carts and wagons, laden with provision, or with building materials, no longer frequented the highways, which, a few short months before, had been the scene of busy activity. Coaches were seldom seen, except when parties were hurrying away from the city, or when some one, affected by the disorder, was being conveyed home, with the curtains of the vehicle closely drawn. The grass growing in the streets, and the solemn stillness which pervaded many parts of the great city, in contrast with its previous state, are circumstances particularly mentioned in the descriptions of London in the plague year, and they powerfully serve to give the reader an affecting idea of the awful visitation. Few passengers appeared, and those few hurried on, in manifest fear of each other, as if each was carrying to his neighbor the summons of death.[1] The daughters of music were brought low; the din of business, and the murmur of pleasant talk, and the London cries were silenced. The shrieks, however, of sufferers in agony, or of maniacs driven mad by disease, broke on the awful quietude. People might be heard crying out of the windows for some to help them in their anguish—to assuage the burning fever, or to carry their dead away. Occasionally, some rushed towards the Thames, with bitter cries, to seek relief from their torments by suicide. The Rev. Thomas Vincent, who was residing in London at the time, describes some touching examples of sorrow, which were only specimens of what prevailed to an indescribable extent. "Amongst other sad spectacles," he says, "two, methought, were very affecting; one of a woman coming alone, and weeping by the door where I lived, (which was in the midst of the infection,) witha little coffin under her arm, carrying it to the new churchyard. I did judge that it was the mother of the child, and that all the family besides were dead, and that she was forced to coffin up and to bury with her own hands this her last dead child!" The second case to which this writer alludes is even more terrible than that now given, but out of regard to our readers' feelings we refrain from quoting it. A passenger, the same eye-witness adds, could hardly go out without meeting coffins; and Defoe gives us a picture, as graphic as it is awful, of the mode of sepulture adopted when the plague was at its height. He informs us that a great pit was dug in the churchyard of Aldgate parish, from fifteen to sixteen feet broad, and twenty feet deep; at night, the victims carried off in the day by death were brought in carts by torchlight to this receptacle, the bellman accompanying them, and calling on the inhabitants as they passed along to bring out their dead. Sixteen or seventeen bodies, naked, or wrapped in sheets or rags, were thrown into one cart, and then huddled together into the common grave.
The king of terrors sweeping into the eternal world so many thousands, is a picture which must excite in the mind of the Christian solemn emotions. It is pleasing, however, to learn from Vincent how tranquilly God's people departed in that season of Divine judgment. "They died with such comfort as Christians do not ordinarily arrive unto, except when they are called forth to suffer martyrdom for the testimony of Jesus Christ. Some who have been full of doubts, and fears, and complaints, whilst they have lived and been well, have been filled with assurance, and comfort, and praise, and joyful expectations of glory, when they have been laid on their death-beds by this disease; and not only more growing Christians, who have been more ripe for glory, have had their comforts, but also some younger Christians, whose acquaintance with the Lord hath been of no long standing." There were persons, however, who had lived through a course of profligacy, who, so far from being led to repentance by the awful dispensation they witnessed, only plunged into deeper excesses, driving away care by riot and intemperance, or availing themselves of the confusion of the times to commit robbery. The immorality, daring presumption, and reckless wickedness of a portion of the people during the London plague, as in the plague at Florence in 1348, and the plague at Athens, described by Thucydides, prove the depravity of the human heart, and the inefficacy of afflictions or judgments, if unaccompanied by Divine grace, to melt or change it. We learn, however, that by the preaching of the gospel some were graciously renewed and saved. Baxter informs us, that "abundance were converted from their carelessness, impenitency, and youthful lusts and vanities, and religion took such a hold on many hearts as could never afterwards be loosed." The parish churches were in several instances forsaken by their occupants, but many godly men who had been ejected by the Uniformity Act, now came forward, with their characteristic disinterestedness and zeal, to supply their brethren's lack of service. Vincent, already mentioned, with Clarkson, Cradock, and Terry, distinguished themselves by holy efforts for the conversion of sinners at that dreadful time. A broad sheet exists in the British Museum, containing "short instructions for the sick, especially those who, by contagion, or otherwise, are deprived of the presence of a faithful pastor, by Richard Baxter, written in the great plague year, 1665." Preaching was the principal method of doing good. Large congregations assembled to hear the man of God faithfully proclaim his message. The imagination readily restores the timeworn Gothic structure in the narrow street—the people coming along in groups—the crowded church doors, and the broad aisles, as well as the oaken pews and benches, filled with one dense mass—the anxious countenances looking up at the pulpit—the divine, in his plain black gown and cap—the reading of the Scriptures—the solemn prayer—the sermon, quaint indeed, but full of point and earnestness, and possessing that prime quality, adaptation—the thrilling appeals at the close of each division of the discourse—the breathless silence, broken now and then by half-suppressed sobs and lamentations—the hymn, swelling in dirge-like notes—and the benediction, which each would regard as possibly a dismissal to eternity; for who but must have felt his exposure to the infection while sitting amidst that promiscuous audience? It is at times like these that the worth of the soul is appreciated, and a saving interest in Christ perceived to be more valuable than all the accumulated treasures of earth. So far as their health was concerned, the prudence of the people in congregating together in such crowds, at such a season, has been often and fairly questioned; yet who that looks at the imminent spiritual peril in which multitudes were placed, but must commend the religious concern which they manifested; and who that takes into account the peculiar circumstances of the preachers, laboring without emolument at the hazard of their lives, but must applaud their apostolic zeal?—Spiritual Heroes, p. 289.
The plague reached its height in September—during one night of that month ten thousand persons died. After this the pestilence gradually diminished, and by the end of the year it had ceased. The visitation has acquired additional interest for us of late from the occurrence of cholera to an alarming extent. The former, like the latter, was increased by poverty and filth, and to a much greater degree; for, badly as houses have been ventilated, of late, and defective as may be our drainage, our fathers were incomparably worse off than we are in these respects. Houses were crowded together, and left in a state of impurity which would shock the least delicate and refined of the present day. There were scarcely any under sewers. Ditches were the channels for carrying off refuse; and as supplements to these imperfect methods of cleansing a great city, there were public dunghills. The effluvia from such sources was, indeed, humanly speaking, enough to cause a pestilence, and at the time of the plague must have been intolerable from the heat of the weather; while some means, also, adopted by the authorities for stopping the ravages of mortality, only promoted the evil—such as the shutting up of houses, and the kindling fires in the streets. The state of the metropolis then, and even now, may be assigned as an auxiliary cause of the spread of plague and cholera; but it must be confessed, there lies at the bottom of these visitations much of mystery, inexplicable by reference to mere human agencies. There is a power at work in the universe deeper far than any of those which our poor natural philosophy can detect. Not that these extraordinary occurrences show us the presence of a Divine providence which does not operate at other, and at all times; not as if the mysterious agency of God were sometimes in action, and sometimes in repose; not as if the Almighty visited the earth yesterday, and left it to-day; not as if his kingly rule over the world were broken by interregnums;—by no means; still these events are like the lifting up of the veil of second causes, and the disclosure of depths of power down which mortals ought to look with reverence. They suggest to the devout solemn views of nature and man—of life and death—of God ruling over all. Loudly, also, do they remind us of the malignity of sin, and the evils which it has brought on a fallen world. Happy is he who, amidst desolations such as we have now described, can, through a living faith in Christ, exclaim, "The Lord is my refuge and fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver me from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence."
[1] Judge Whitelock came up to London from Buckingham to sit in Westminster Hall. He reached Hyde Park Corner on the morning of the 2d, "where he and his retinue dined on the ground, with such meat and drink as they brought in the coach with them, and afterwards he drove fast through the streets, which were empty of people and overgrown with grass, to Westminster Hall, where he adjourned the court, returned to his coach, and drove away presently out of town."—Whitelock, p. 2.
"One woe is past, another woe cometh quickly." Just a year after the plague was at its height, the great fire of London occurred. On Sunday, September 3d, 1666, soon after midnight, the house of Farryner the king's baker, near London-bridge, was discovered to be in flames. Before breakfast time no less than three hundred houses were consumed. Such a rapid conflagration struck dismay throughout the neighborhood, and unnerved those who, in the first instance, by prompt measures might have stayed the mischief. Charles II., as soon as he heard of what had happened, displayed a decision, firmness, and humanity, which relieve, in some degree, the dark shades Of his character and life; and gave orders to pull down the houses in the vicinity of the fire. Soon afterwards he hastened to the scene of danger, in company with his brother, the duke of York, using prudent measures to check the conflagration, to help the sufferers, and inspire confidence in the minds of the people. But the lord mayor was like one distracted, uttering hopeless exclamations on receiving the royal message, blaming the people for not obeying him, and leaving the scene of peril to seek repose; while the inhabitants ran about raving in despair, and the fire, which no proper means were employed to quench, went on its own way, devouring house after house, and street after street. By Monday night, the fire had reached to the west as far as the Middle Temple, and to the east as far as Tower-street. Fleet-street, Old Bailey, Ludgate-hill, Warwick-lane, Newgate, Paul's-chain, Watling-street, Thames-street, and Billingsgate, were destroyed or still wrapped in flame.
On Tuesday the fire reached the end of Fetter-lane and the entrance to Smithfield. Around Cripplegate and the Tower, the devouring element violently raged, but in other directions it somewhat abated. Engines had been employed in pulling down houses, but this process was too slow to overtake the mischief. Gunpowder was then used to blow up buildings, so that large gaps were made, which cut off the edifices that were burning from those still untouched. By these means, on the afternoon of Tuesday, the devastation was curbed. The brick buildings of the Temple also checked its progress to the west. Throughout Wednesday the efforts of the king and duke, and some of the lords of the council, were indefatigable. Indeed, his majesty made the round of the fire twice a day, for many hours together, both on horseback and on foot, giving orders to the men who were pulling down houses, and repaying them on the spot for their toils out of a money-bag which he carried about with him. On Thursday, the fire was thought to be quite extinguished, but in the evening it burst out afresh near the Temple. Renewed and vigorous efforts at that point, however, soon stayed its ravages, and in the course of a short time it was finally extinguished.
The space covered with ruins was four hundred and thirty-six acres in extent. The boundaries of the conflagration were Temple-bar, Holborn-bridge, Pye-corner, Smithfield, Aldersgate, Cripplegate, near the end of Coleman-street, at the end of Basinghall-street, by the postern at the upper end of Bishopsgate-street, in Leadenhall-street, by the Standard in Cornhill, at the church in Fenchurch-street, by the Clothworkers' Hall, at the middle of Mark-lane, and at the Tower-dock. While four hundred and thirty-six acres were covered with ruins, only seventy-five remained with the property upon it uninjured. Four hundred streets, thirteen thousand houses, eighty-seven parish churches, and six chapels; St. Paul's Cathedral, the Royal Exchange and Custom House, Guildhall and Newgate, and fifty-two halls of livery companies, besides other public buildings, were swept away. Eleven millions' value of property the fire consumed, but, through the mercy of God, only eight lives were lost.
The rapid spread of the devastation may be easily accounted for in the absence of timely means to stop it. The buildings were chiefly constructed of timber, and covered with thatch. The materials were rendered even more than commonly combustible by a summer intensely hot and dry. Many of the streets were so narrow that the houses facing each other almost touched at the top. A strong east wind steadily blew for three days over the devoted spot, like the blast of a furnace, at once fanning the flame and scattering firebrands beyond it. It was like a fire kindled in an old forest, feeding on all it touched, curling like a serpent round tree after tree, leaving ashes behind, and darting on with the speed of lightning to seize on the timber before.
Into the origin of the calamity the strictest investigation was made. Some ascribed it to incendiaries. Party spirit led to the accusation of the papists, as perpetrators of the deed. One poor man was executed, on his own confession, of having a hand in it, but under circumstances which pretty clearly prove that he was a madman, and was really innocent of the crime of which, through a strange, but not incredible hallucination of mind, he feigned himself guilty. Other persons ascribed it to what would commonly be called an accidental circumstance—a great stock of fagots in the baker's shop being kindled, and carelessly left to burn in close contiguity with stores of pitch and rosin. Many considered that the providence of Almighty God, who works out his own wonderful purposes of judgment and mercy by means which men call accidental, overruled the circumstances out of which the fire arose, as a source of terrific chastisement for the sins of a wicked and godless population, who had hardened their necks against Divine reproof administered to them in another form so shortly before. A religious sentiment in reference to the visitation took possession of many minds, habitually undevout; and even Charles himself was heard, we are told by Clarendon, to "speak with great piety and devotion of the displeasure that God was provoked to."
Eye-witnesses have left behind them graphic sketches of this spectacle of terror. "The burning," says Vincent, in his tract called "God's Terrible Advice to the City by Plague and Fire,"—"the burning was in the fashion of a bow; a dreadful bow it was, such as mine eyes never before had seen—a bow which had God's arrow in it with a flaming point." "The cloud of smoke was so great, that travelers did ride at noon-day some six miles together in the shadow of it, though there were no other clouds to be seen in the sky." "The great fury of the fire was in the broader streets in the midst of the night; it was come down to Cornhill, and laid it in the dust, and runs along by the stocks, and there meets with another fire, which came down Threadneedle-street, a little farther with another which came up from Wallbrook, a little farther with another which came up from Bucklersbury, and all these four joining together break into one great flame, at the corner of Cheapside, with such a dazzling light and burning heat, and roaring noise by the fall of so many houses together, that was very amazing." One trembles at the thought of these blazing torrents rolling along the streets, and then uniting in a point, like the meeting of wild waters—floods of fire dashing into a common current. Evelyn observes that the stones of St. Paul's Cathedral flew about like granadoes, and the melted lead ran down the pavements in a bright stream, "so that no horse or man was able to tread on them." "I saw," he says in his Diary, "the whole south part of the city burning, from Cheapside to the Thames, and all along Cornhill, (for it likewise kindled back against the wind as well as forward,) Tower-street, Fenchurch-street, Gracechurch-street, and so along to Baynard's Castle, and was taking hold of St. Paul's Church, to which the scaffolds contributed exceedingly." He saw the Thames covered with goods floating, all the barges and boats laden with such property as the inhabitants had time and courage to save; while on land the carts were carrying out furniture and other articles to the fields, which for many miles were strewed with movables of all sorts, and with tents erected to shelter the people. "All the sky," he adds, "was of a fiery aspect, like the top of a burning oven, and the light seen for above forty miles around for many nights; the noise and cracking of the impetuous flames, the shrieking of women and children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, houses, and churches, was like a hideous storm; and the air all about so hot and inflamed, that at last one was not able to approach it, so that they were forced to stand still, and let the flames burn on, which they did for nearly two miles in length and one in breadth. The clouds also of smoke were dismal, and reached upon computation nearly fifty miles in length."
A great fire is a most sublime, as well as appalling spectacle, and generally presents some features of the picturesquely terrible. Guildhall, built of oak, too solid and old to blaze, became so much red-hot charcoal, as if it had been a palace of gold, or a building of burnished brass. There were circumstances, too, connected with the destruction of magnificent edifices, full of a sort of poetical interest. The flame inwrapped St. Paul's Cathedral, and rent in pieces the noble portico recently erected, splitting the stones into flakes, and leaving nothing entire but the inscription on the architrave, which, without one defaced letter, continued amidst the ruins to proclaim the builder's name. In remarkable coincidence with this, at the same time that the fire entered the Royal Exchange, ran round the galleries, descended the stairs, compassed the walks, filled the courts, and rolled down the royal statues from their niches, the figure of the founder, Sir Thomas Gresham, was left unharmed, as if calmly surveying the destruction of his own munificent donation to the old city, and anticipating the certainty of the re-edification of that monument of his fame, as well as the revival of that commerce, in the history of which his own is involved. As we think of this, we call to mind another interesting incident, which occurred when the building was burned down a second time in 1838. Some readers, perhaps, will remember, that the bells in the tower rang out their last chime to the tune of "There's na' luck about the house," just as they were on the point of coming down with a tremendous crash; as though uttering swanlike notes in death.
The area devastated by the fire may be estimated, if we fancy a line drawn from Temple Bar to the bottom of Holborn-hill, then through Smithfield across Aldersgate-street to the end of Coleman-street, then sweeping round by the end of Bishopsgate and Leadenhall-streets, and taking a curve till it touches the Tower, the river forming the southern boundary of this large space. Within these limits, after the fire, there arose a new London, of nobler aspect, and formed for grander destinies than the old one, relieved by that very fire, under the blessing of Divine Providence, from liability to the recurrence of the dreadful plague, which had from time to time recruited its death-dealing energy from the filth of old crowded streets, with all their noxious exhalations. If a panic seized the citizens when the first alarm of the conflagration spread among them, they redeemed their character by the self-possession and activity which they evinced in repairing the desolation. Not desponding, but inspired with the hope of the future prosperity of their venerable city, they concurred with king and parliament in the zeal and diligence requisite for the emergency. Scarcely were the flames extinguished, when they set to work planning the restoration. "Everybody," observes Evelyn, "brings in his idea; amidst the rest, I presented his majesty my own conceptions, with a discourse annexed. It was the second that was seen within two days after the conflagration, but Dr. Wren had got the start of me." This Dr. Wren had been spoken of by the same writer, fourteen years before, as a miracle of a youth. Having made wonderful attainments in science, he had devoted himself with enthusiasm to the study of architecture, and now, in the wide space in which at once a full-grown city was to appear, a field presented itself worthy of the exercise of the greatest powers of art—a field, indeed, which could rarely in the world's history be looked for. Doubtless Wren's mind was all on fire with the grand occasion, and put forth all its marvelous ability to meet so unparalleled a crisis. Before the architect's imagination there rose the view of a city, built with scientific proportions, with a broad street running in a perfect line from a magnificent piazza, placed where St. Dunstan's church stands, to another piazza on Tower-hill, with an intermediate piazza corresponding with these, from each of which streets should radiate. Then, on the top of Ludgate-hill, over which the broad highway was to run, the new cathedral was to rise, in the midst of a wide open space, displaying to advantage its colossal form; and on its northern side there was to branch out, at a narrow angle with the other main thoroughfare, an avenue of like dimensions, leading to the Royal Exchange—the site, in fact, (but intended to cover a wider space,) of our present Cheapside. The Royal Exchange was to be an additional grand centre, adorned with piazzas, whence a third vast thoroughfare was to sweep along to Holborn. All acute angles were to be avoided. The great openings were to exhibit graceful curves, parochial edifices were to be conspicuous and insulated, the halls of the twelve great companies were to be ranged round Guildhall, and architecture was to do the utmost possible in every street. A like vision dawned on the fancy of Sir John Evelyn, who in this respect was no unworthy compeer of Wren. But, though the architect showed the practicability of the scheme, without any loss of the property, or infringement of the rights of the citizens, their obstinacy in not allowing the old foundations to be altered, and their determination not to give up the ground to commissioners for making out the new streets and sites of buildings, defeated the scheme; "and thus," writes Wren, (with a deep sigh one thinks he penned the words while his darling dream melted away,) "the opportunity, in a great degree, was lost, of making the new city the most magnificent, as well as commodious for health and trade, of any upon earth." Sir Christopher Wren could do nothing as he wished. The Monument was not what he meant it to be. The churches were not placed as he would have had them, so as to exhibit to advantage their architectural character. Even St. Paul's was shorn of the glory with which it was enriched in the architect's mind. It was narrowed and altered by incompetent judges, especially the Duke of York, who wished to preserve in it arrangements convenient for a popish cathedral, which he wildly hoped it would ultimately become. When Wren was compelled to give way, he even shed tears in the bitterness of his disappointment and grief. He finally had to do on a large scale, what common minds are ever doing in their little way—sacrifice some fondly cherished ideal to a stern necessity.
But, crippled as his genius was by the untoward position in which he was placed, he accomplished marvelous works of art in the churches so numerous and varied, built from his designs, and especially in the grand cathedral, which rises above the rich group of towers, domes, steeples, and spires, with a lordly air. It is related, in connection with the building of St. Dunstan's church in the east, the steeple of which is constructed upon quadrangular columns, that so anxious was he respecting the result, that he placed himself on London-bridge, watching through a lens the effect of removing the temporary supporters, by the aid of which the building was reared. The ascent of a rocket proclaimed the stability of the structure, and Sir Christopher smiled at the thought of his having for a moment hesitated to trust to the certainty of mathematical calculations. Informed one night afterwards, that a hurricane had damaged all the steeples in London, he remarked, "Not St. Dunstan's, I am quite sure." St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, is generally considered thechef-d'oeuvreof Sir Christopher Wren. "Had the materials and volume," to quote the opinion of two celebrated architects, "been so durable and extensive as those of St. Paul's Cathedral, he had consummated a much more efficient monument to his well-earned fame than that fabric affords." But the beauty of the edifice is in the interior. "Never was so sweet a kernel in so rough a shell—so rich a jewel in so poor a setting." The cost of the fabric was only £7,652. 13s.(Cunninghame's Handbook of London.)
The first stone of St. Paul's was laid on the 21st of June, 1675, by the architect; and he notices in his Parentalia a little circumstance connected with the preparations, which was construed by those present into a favorable omen, and which evidently interested and pleased his own mind. When the centre of the dimensions of the great dome was fixed upon, a man was ordered to bring a flat stone from the heap of rubbish, to be laid as a mark for the masons. The piece he happened to take up for the purpose was the fragment of a grave-stone, with nothing of the inscription left but the words, "Resurgam," "I shall rise again." And, true enough, St. Paul's did rise again, with a splendor which posterity has ever admired. It is, undoubtedly, the second church in Christendom of that style of architecture, St. Peter's at Rome being the first. Inferior in point of dimensions, and sadly begrimed with smoke, in contrast with St. Peter's comparatively untarnished freshness—destitute, too, of its marble linings, gilded arches, and splendid mosaics'—it is, on the whole, as Eustace, a critic prejudiced on the side of Rome, acknowledged, a most extensive and stately edifice: "It fixes the eye of the spectator as he passes by, and challenges his admiration, and, even next to the Vatican, though by a long interval, it claims superiority over all the transalpine churches, and furnishes a just subject of national pride and exultation." It was not until 1710 that the building was complete, when the architect's son laid the topmost stone on the lantern of the cupola.
In the prospectus published by Evelyn for the rebuilding of London, he observed, that if the citizens were permitted to gratify their own fancies, "it might possibly become, indeed, a new, but a very ugly city, when all was done." The citizens were permitted to have their own way, and the result was very much what he anticipated. The old sites of streets and public buildings were, to a great extent, adopted. The former remained narrow, winding, inconvenient—indeed, more inconvenient than ever; for what might be borne with when even ladies of quality traveled on horseback, became scarcely endurable when lumbering coaches were all the fashion. Churches and other edifices of importance were planted in inappropriate situations, and were blocked up by houses and shops. In Chamberlayne'sAngliæ Notitiafor 1692, he laments that within the city the spacious houses of noblemen, rich merchants, the halls of companies, and the fair taverns, were hidden from strangers, the room towards the street being reserved for tradesmen's shops; but from his account and that of others, it appears plain enough that the men of that day felt that London, as rebuilt after the fire, was far superior to what it had been in the times of their fathers. The old wooden lath and plaster dwellings gave place to more substantial habitations of brick and stone, and the public structures appeared to those who were contemporary with their erection, proud trophies of skill, art, and wealth. "Notwithstanding," exclaims the author just noticed, "all these huge losses by fire, notwithstanding the most devouring pestilence in the year immediately foregoing, and the then very chargeable war against three potent neighbors, the citizens, recovering in a few months their native courage, have since so cheerfully and unanimously set themselves to rebuild the city, that, (not to mention whole streets built and now building by others in the suburbs,) within the space of four years, they erected in the same streets ten thousand houses, and laid out three millions sterling. Besides several large hospitals, divers very stately halls, nineteen fair solid stone churches were all at the same time erecting, and soon afterwards finished, and now, in the year 1691, above twenty churches more, of various beautiful and solid architecture are rebuilt. Moreover, as if the late fire had only purged the city, the buildings are becoming infinitely more beautiful." The author speaks with immense satisfaction of the new houses, churches, and halls, richly-adorned shops, chambers, balconies, and portals, carved work in stone and wood, with pictures and wainscot, not only of fir and oak, but some with sweet-smelling cedar, the streets paved with stone and guarded with posts; and ends by observing, that though the king might not say he found London of brick and left it of marble, he could say, "I found it wood and left it brick."
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 £100,000, 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 aquo 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 thequo 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 £40 imposed on the people, and £20 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 hisAngliæ 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.