to speak with confidence. We
are familiar only with some of the best of his practical works, and our
estimate of the vast and appalling series of his doctrinal, metaphysical
and controversial publications would be entitled to small weight, as the
result of very cursory examination. Many of them relate to obsolete
questions and issues, monumental of controversies long dead, and of
disputatious doctors otherwise forgotten. Yet, in respect to even these,
we feel justified in assenting to the opinion of one abundantly capable
of appreciating the character of Baxter as a writer. "What works of Mr.
Baxter shall I read?" asked Boswell of Dr. Johnson. "Read any of them,"
was the answer, "for they are all good." He has left upon all the
impress of his genius. Many of them contain sentiments which happily
find favor with few in our time: philosophical and psychological
disquisitions, which look oddly enough in the light of the intellectual
progress of nearly two centuries; dissertations upon evil spirits,
ghosts, and witches, which provoke smiles at the good man's credulity;
but everywhere we find unmistakable evidences of his sincerity and
earnest love of truth. He wrote under a solemn impression of duty,
allowing neither pain, nor weakness, nor the claims of friendship, nor
the social enjoyments of domestic affection, to interfere with his
sleepless intensity of purpose. He stipulated with his wife, before
marriage, that she should not expect him to relax, even for her society,
the severity of his labors. He could ill brook interruption, and
disliked the importunity of visitors. "We are afraid, sir, we break in
upon your time," said some of his callers to him upon one occasion. "To
be sure you do," was his answer. His seriousness seldom forsook him;
there is scarce a gleam of gayety in all his one hundred and sixty-eight
volumes. He seems to have relished, however, the wit of others,
especially when directed against what he looked upon as error. Marvell's
inimitable reply to the High-Church pretensions of Parker fairly overcame
his habitual gravity, and he several times alludes to it with marked
satisfaction; but, for himself, he had no heart for pleasentry. His
writings, like his sermons, were the earnest expostulations of a dying
man with dying men. He tells us of no other amusement or relaxation than
the singing of psalms. "Harmony and melody," said he, "are the pleasure
and elevation of my soul. It was not