to regard; therefore, they forget that they have a God, a Redeemer, a soul to mind. These matters of the world are still with them. They see these; but they see not God, nor Christ, nor their souls, nor everlasting glory. These things are near at hand, and therefore work naturally, and so work forcibly; but the others are thought on as a great way off, and therefore too distant to work on their affections or be at the present so much regarded by them. Their body hath life and sense; therefore, if they want meat or drink or clothes, will feel their want and tell them of it, and give them no rest till their wants be supplied, and therefore they cannot make light of their bodily necessities: but their souls in spiritual respects are dead, and therefore feel not these wants, but will let them alone in their greatest necessities, and be as quiet when they are starved and languishing to destruction as if all were well and nothing ailed them. And hereupon poor people are wholly taken up in providing for the body, as if they had nothing else to mind. They have their trades and callings to follow, and so much to do from morning to night, that they can find no time for matters of salvation. Christ would teach them, but they have no leisure to hear him. The Bible is before them, but they cannot have time to read it. A minister is in the town with them, but they take no opportunity to go and inquire of him what they should do to be saved. And when they do hear, their hearts are so full of the world and carried away with their lower matters, that they cannot mind the things which they hear. They are so full of the thoughts, and desires, and cares of this world, that there is no room to pour into them the waters of life. The cares of the world do choke the word and make it unfruitful. Men cannot serve two masters, God and mammon; but they will lean to the one and despise the other. He that loveth the world, the love of the Father is not in him. Men cannot choose but set light by Christ and salvation, while they set so much by anything on earth. It is that which is highly

esteemed among men that is abominable in the sight of God. Oh, this is the ruin of many souls! To see how the world fills people's mouths, their hands, their houses, their hearts, and Christ hath little more than a bare title to come into their company, and to hear no discourse but about the world; to come into their houses, and to hear and see nothing but for the world, as if this world would last for ever, or would purchase them another. When I ask sometimes the ministers of the gospel how their labours succeed, they tell me, 'People continue still the same, and give themselves up wholly to the world, so that they mind not what ministers say to them, nor will give any full entertainment to the word, and all because of this deluding world.""

Now, that was preaching of a kind to rouse attention and excite inquiry, and carry home burning truths to the hearts of men; and with a beseeching voice and melting manner, such as Baxter is said to have commanded, it was just the preaching, not only to gather crowds, but to create a revival of religion and save the souls of men. Sylvester says of him, with as much force as quaintness, "He had a moving pathos and useful acrimony in his words, neither did his expressions want that emphatical accent which the matter did require. When he did speak of weighty concerns you might find his very spirit drenched therein."

We must walk down to the Borough, and pause by the Parkstreet brewery, to remember that there stood formerly a timber edifice, where Mr. Wadsworth's congregation was accustomed to assemble. "Just when I was kept out of Swallow-street," says Baxter, "his flock invited me to Southwark, where, though I refused to be their pastor, I preached many months in peace, there being no justice willing to disturb us.”

Passing through Bloomsbury-square, we are again in the footsteps of this persecuted one. There he lived in what he calls his "pleasant and convenient house," and there died Mistress Margaret,

his wife, of whom Howe said, in his funeral sermon for her, that she displayed "a strangely vivid and great wit, with very sober conversation."

Baxter was sent to gaol. We see him taken there as we pass by Clerkenwell prison; but have far more vivid images of him and his sufferings as we visit Westminster Hall and the King's Bench. A thousand memories gather round the former from the time when Rufus built the first edifice down to the present day; but among the crowds of the good and the evil, who, as we pace up and down beneath the oak-raftered roof, "come like shadows, so depart," we single out, with special honour, our great divine; and there, in the Court of King's Bench, we think we see the whole of the processfor trial it cannot be called-before the infamous Jeffreys, when Baxter was arraigned and sentenced for publishing his notes on the New Testament. There sits the Chief Justice in his ermine. There are the counsel for the prosecution and the defence. There stands, in conscious rectitude, the arraigned, like Paul before Festus. We hear the miserable mockery of the Puritans from one who ought to have held even-handed the balance of justice, squeaking and snorting in pretended imitation of their tone and manner; and we catch the smart reply of Pollexfen, Baxter's counsel: Why, my lord, some will think it hard measure to stop these men's mouths, and not let them speak through their noses." Then comes a torrent of abuse: "Come, what do you say for yourself, you old knave. I'm not afraid of you for all the snivelling calves you have got about you"-looking at the people in tears. "Does your lordship think any jury will pretend to pass a verdict upon me upon such a trial?" asks Baxter. "I'll warrant you, Mr. Baxter," says the man in the red robe; "don't you trouble yourself about that." No story more arouses our indignation than this of the doings at Westminster in 1685.

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Matthew Henry visited Baxter when he was confined within the

rules, and found him cheerful and resigned. He says: "I went into Southwark, to Mr. Baxter; I was to wait upon him once before, and then he was busy. I found him in pretty comfortable circumstances, though a prisoner, in a private house near the prison, attended on by his own man and maid. My good friend, Mr. S(amuel) L(awrence), went with me. He is in as good health as one can expect; and, methinks, looks better, and speaks heartier, than when I saw him last. The token you sent, he would by no means be persuaded to accept, and was almost angry when I pressed it. From one outed as well as himself, he said he did not use to receive, and I understand his need is not great. We sat with him about an hour. I was glad to find that he so much approved of my present circumstances. He said he knew not why young men might not improve as well as by travelling abroad. He inquired for his Shropshire friends, and observed that of those gentlemen who were with him at Wem, he hears of none whose sons tread in their father's steps but Colonel Hunt's. He inquired about Mr. Macworth's and Mr. Lloyd's (of Aston) children. He gave us some good counsel to prepare for trials; and said the best preparation for them was a life of faith, and a constant course of self-denial. He thought it harder constantly to deny temptations to sensual lust and pleasures, than to resist one single temptation to deny Christ for fear of suffering the former requiring such constant watchfulness; however, after the former, the latter will be the easier. He said, we who are young are apt to count upon great things, but we must not look for them; and much more to this purpose. He said he thought dying by sickness usually much more painful and dreadful than dying a violent death: especially considering the extraordinary supports which those have who suffer for righteousness' sake."

This leads us to Charterhouse-square, where once Venetian ambassadors lived in palaces. Howell says, in 1651, "The yard hath lately been conveniently railed, and made more

neat and comely." There are still rails but no palaces; yet have the houses an air of old-fashioned comfort and old English domesticity. Baxter died in Charterhouse-square. We have tried to ascertain whether the house is in existence, but in vain; yet we can never go near it without thinking of his calm, hopeful, joyous deathbed, thus described by his friend Sylvester :

"I went to him, with a very worthy friend, Mr. Mather, of New England, the day before he died; and speaking some comforting words to him, he replied, 'I have pain; there is no arguing against sense, but I have peace, I have peace.' I told him, you are now approaching to your long-desired home; he answered, ‘I believe, I believe.' He said to Mr. Mather, 'I bless God that you have accomplished your business; the Lord prolong your life.' He expressed great willingness to die; and during his sickness, when the question was asked, 'How he did?' his reply was, Almost well.' His joy was most remarkable, when in his own apprehensions death was nearest; and his spiritual joy, was at length consummated in eternal joy.

"On Monday," says Sylvester, "about five in the evening, death sent his harbinger to summon him away. A great trembling and coldness extorted strong cries from him, for pity and redress from Heaven; which cries and agonies continued for some time, till at length he ceased, and lay in patient expectation of his change. Being once asked by his faithful friend and constant attendant in his weakness, Mrs. Bushel, his housekeeper, whether he knew her or not, requesting some sign of it if he did; he softly cried, 'Death, death!' He now felt the benefit of his former preparations for the trying time. The last words that he spoke to me, on being informed I was come to see him, 'Oh, I thank him, I thank him;' and turning his eye on me, he said, 'The Lord teach you how to die.'

In Christ Church, near the communion table, we stand over his grave. There his beloved Margaret was entombed in 1681. It was