Fox's Book of Martyrs
Chapter XVI (Continued)
(Continued
from previous entry)
After
declaring her faith to the people, she laid her hand on the stake, and said,
"Welcome, thou cross of Christ." Her hand was sooted
in doing this, (for it was the same stake at which Miller and Cooper were
burnt,) and she at first wiped it; but directly after again welcomed and
embraced it as the "sweet cross of Christ." After the tormentors had
kindled the fire, she said, "My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit
doth rejoice in God my Savior." Then crossing her hands upon her breast,
and looking upwards with the utmost serenity, she stood the fiery furnace. Her
hands continued gradually to rise until the sinews were dried, and then they
fell. She uttered no sigh of pain, but yielded her life, an emblem of that
celestial paradise in which is the presence of God, blessed forever.
It
might be contended that this martyr voluntarily sought her own death, as the
chancellor scarcely exacted any other penance of her than to keep her belief to
herself; yet it should seem in this instance as if God had chosen her to be a
shining light, for a twelve-month before she was taken, she had recanted; but
she was wretched until the chancellor was informed, by letter, that she
repented of her recantation from the bottom of her heart. As if to compensate
for her former apostasy, and to convince the Catholics that she meant to more
to compromise for her personal security, she boldly refused his friendly offer
of permitting her to temporize. Her courage in such a cause deserves
commendation-the cause of Him who has said, "Whoever is ashamed of me on
earth, of such will I be ashamed in heaven."
In
consequence of the tide of persecution then setting in, he fled with his wife
to Friesland, and at Nordon they followed the occupation of knitting hose,
caps, etc., for subsistence. Impeded in his business by the want of yarn, he
came over to England to procure a quantity, and on November 10, arrived in
London, where he soon heard of a secret society of the faithful, to whom he
joined himself, and was in a short time elected their minister, in which
occupation he strengthened them in every good resolution.
On
December 12, through the information of one Taylor, a member of the society,
Mr. Rough, with Cuthbert Symson and others, was taken up in the
Saracen's Head, Islington, where, under the pretext of coming to see a
play, their religious exercises were holden. The
queen's vice-chamberlain conducted Rough and Symson
before the Council, in whose presence they were charged with meeting to
celebrate the Communion. The Council wrote to Bonner and he lost no time in
this affair of blood. In three days he had him up, and
on the next (the twentieth) resolved to condemn him. The charges laid against
him were, that he, being a priest, was married, and that he had rejected the
service in the Latin tongue. Rough wanted not
arguments to reply to these flimsy tenets. In short, he was degraded and
condemned.
Mr.
Rough, it should be noticed, when in the north, in Edward VI's reign, had saved
Dr. Watson's life, who afterward sat with Bishop Bonner on the bench. This
ungrateful prelate, in return for the kind act he had received, boldly accused
Mr. Rough of being the most pernicious heretic in the country. The godly
minister reproved him for his malicious spirit; he affirmed that, during the
thirty years he had lived, he had never bowed the knee to Baal; and that twice
at Rome he had seen the pope born about on men's shoulders with the false-named
Sacrament carried before him, presenting a true picture of the very Antichrist;
yet was more reverence shown to him than to the wafer, which they accounted to
be their God. "Ah?" said Bonner, rising, and making towards him, as
if he would have torn his garment, "Hast thou been at Rome, and seen our
holy father the pope, and dost thou blaspheme him after this sort?" This
said, he fell upon him, tore off a piece of his beard, and that the day might
begin to his own satisfaction, he ordered the object of his rage to be burnt by
half-past five the following morning.
Mr. Symson has written an account of his own sufferings, which
he cannot detail better than in his own words:
"On
the thirteenth of December, 1557, I was committed by
the Council to the Tower of London. On the following Thursday, I was called
into the ward-room, before the constable of the Tower,
and the recorder of London, Mr. Cholmly, who
commanded me to inform them of the names of those who came to the English
service. I answered that I would declare nothing; in consequence of my refusal,
I was set upon a rack of iron, as I judge for the space of three hours!
"They
then asked me if I would confess: I answered as
before.
After
being unbound, I was carried back to my lodging. The Sunday after I was brought
to the same place again, before the lieutenant and recorder of London, and they
examined me. As I had answered before, so I answered now. Then the lieutenant
swore by God I should tell; after which my two forefingers were bound together,
and a small arrow placed between them, they drew it through so fast that the
blood followed, and the arrow brake.
"After
enduring the rack twice again, I was retaken to my lodging, and ten days after
the lieutenant asked me if I would not now confess that which they had before
asked of me. I answered, that I had already said as
much as I would. Three weeks after I was sent to the priest, where I was
greatly assaulted, and at whose hand I received the pope's curse, for bearing
witness of the resurrection of Christ. And thus I
commend you to God, and to the Word of His grace, with all those who
unfeignedly call upon the name of Jesus; desiring God of His endless mercy,
through the merits of His dear Son Jesus Christ, to bring us all to His
everlasting Kingdom, Amen. I praise God for His great mercy shown upon us. Sing
Hosanna to the Highest with me, Cuthbert Symson. God forgive my sins! I ask
forgiveness of all the world, and I forgive all the
world, and thus I leave the world, in the hope of a joyful resurrection!"
If
this account be duly considered, what a picture of
repeated tortures does it present! But even the cruelty of the narration is
exceeded by the patient meekness with which it was endured. Here are no
expressions of malice, no invocations even of God's retributive justice, not a
complaint of suffering wrongfully! On the contrary, praise to God, forgiveness
of sin, and a forgiving all the world, concludes this unaffected interesting
narrative.
Bonner's
admiration was excited by the steadfast coolness of this martyr. Speaking of
Mr. Symson in the consistory, he said, "You see
what a personable man he is, and then of his patience, I affirm, that, if he
were not a heretic, he is a man of the greatest patience that ever came before
me. Thrice in one day has he been racked in the Tower;
in my house also he has felt sorrow, and yet never
have I seen his patience broken."
The
day before this pious deacon was to be condemned, while in the stocks in the
bishop's coal-house, he had the vision of a glorified
form, which much encouraged him. This he certainly attested to his wife, to Mr.
Austen, and others, before his death.
With
this ornament of the Christian Reformation were apprehended Mr. Hugh Foxe and
John Devinish; the three were brought before Bonner, March 19, 1558, and the
papistical articles tendered. They rejected them, and were all condemned. As
they worshipped together in the same society, at Islington, so they suffered
together in Smithfield, March 28; in whose death the God of Grace was
glorified, and true believers confirmed!
The
spot of execution was called Lollard's Pit, without Bishipsgate,
at Norwich. After joining together in humble petition to the throne of grace,
they rose, went to the stake, and were encircled with their chains. To the
great surprise of the spectators, Hudson slipped from under his chains, and came forward. A great opinion prevailed that he
was about to recant; others thought that he wanted further time. In the
meantime, his companions at the stake urged every promise and exhortation to
support him. The hopes of the enemies of the cross, however, were disappointed:
the good man, far from fearing the smallest personal terror at the approaching
pangs of death, was only alarmed thathis Savior's
face seemed to be hidden from him. Falling upon his knees, his spirit wrestled
with God, and God verified the words of His Son, "Ask, and it shall be
given." The martyr rose in an ecstasy of joy, and exclaimed, "Now, I
thank God, I am strong! and care not what man can do to me!" With an
unruffled countenance he replaced himself under the chain, joined his
fellow-sufferers, and with them suffered death, to the comfort of the godly,
and the confusion of Antichrist.
Berry,
unsatiated with this demoniacal act, summoned up two hundred persons in the
town of Aylesham, whom he compelled to kneel to the
cross at Pentecost, and inflicted other punishments. He struck a poor man for a
trifling word, with a flail, which proved fatal to the unoffending object. He
also gave a woman named Alice Oxes, so heavy a blow with his fist, as she met
him entering the hall when he was in an ill-humor, that she died with the
violence. This priest was rich, and possessed great
authority; he was a reprobate, and, like the priesthood, he abstained from
marriage, to enjoy the more a debauched and licentious life. The Sunday after
the death of Queen Mary, he was revelling with one of
his concubines, before vespers; he then went to church, administered baptism,
and in his return to his lascivious pastime, he was smitten by the hand of God.
Without a moment given for repentance, he fell to the
ground, and a groan was the only articulation permitted him. In him we may
behold the difference between the end of a martyr and a persecutor.
This
Roger Holland, a merchant-tailor of London, was first an apprentice with one
Master Kemption, at the Black Boy in Watling Street,
giving himself to dancing, fencing, gaming, banqueting, and wanton company. He
had received for his master certain money, to the sum of thirty pounds; and
lost every groat at dice. Therefore he purposed to
convey himself away beyond the seas, either into France or into Flanders.
With
this resolution, he called early in the morning on a discreet servant in the
house, named Elizabeth, who professed the Gospel, and lived a life that did
honor to her profession. To her he revealed the loss his folly had occasioned,
regretted that he had not followed her advice, and begged her to give his
master a note of hand from him acknowledging the debt, which he would repay if
ever it were in his power; he also entreated his disgraceful conduct might be
kept secret, lest it would bring the gray hairs to his father with sorrow to a
premature grave.
The
maid, with a generosity and Christian principle rarely surpassed, conscious
that his imprudence might be his ruin, brought him the thirty pounds, which was
part of a sum of money recently left her by legacy. "Here," said she,
"is the sum requisite: you shall take the money, and I will keep the note;
but expressly on this condition, that you abandon all lewd and vicious company;
that you neither swear nor talk immodestly, and game no more; for, should I
learn that you do, I will immediately show this note to your master. I also
require, that you shall promise me to attend the daily lecture at Allhallows,
and the sermon at St. Paul's every Sunday; that you cast away all your books of
popery, and in their place substitute the Testament and the Book of Service,
and that you read the Scriptures with reverence and fear, calling upon God for
his grace to direct you in his truth. Pray also fervently to God, to pardon
your former offences, and not to remember the sins of your youth, and would you
obtain his favor ever dread to break his laws or offend his majesty. So shall
God have you in His keeping, and grant you your
heart's desire." We must honor the memory of this excellent domestic,
whose pious endeavors were equally directed to benefit the thoughtless youth in
this life and that which is to come. God did not suffer the wish of this
excellent domestic to be thrown upon a barren soil; within half a year after
the licentious Holland became a zealous professor of the Gospel,
and was an instrument of conversion to his father and others whom he
visited in Lancashire, to their spiritual comfort and reformation from popery.
His
father, pleased with his change of conduct, gave him forty pounds to commence
business with in London.
Then
Roger repaired to London again, and came to the maid that lent him the money to
pay his master withal, and said unto her, "Elizabeth, here is thy money I
borrowed of thee; and for the friendship, good will, and the good counsel I
have received at thy hands, to recompense thee I am not able, otherwise than to
make thee my wife." And soon after they were married, which was in the
first year of Queen Mary.
After
this he remained in the congregations of the faithful, until, the last year of
Queen Mary, he, with the six others aforesaid, were taken.
And
after Roger Holland there was none suffered in Smithfield for the testimony of
the Gospel, God be thanked.
Many
other conflicts did Hinsaw undergo from the bishop; who, at length, to remove him effectually, procured
false witnesses to lay articles against him, all of which the young man denied,
and, in short, refused to answer any interrogatories administered to him. A
fortnight after this, the young man was attacked by a burning ague, and at the
request of his master. Mr. Pugson, of St. Paul's church-yard,
he was removed, the bishop not doubting that he had given him his death in the
natural way; he however remained ill above a year, and in the mean time Queen Mary died, by which act of providence he
escaped Bonner's rage.
John
Willes was another faithful person, on whom the scourging hand of Bonner fell.
He was the brother of Richard Willes, before
mentioned, burnt at Brentford. Hinshaw and Willes were confined in Bonner's
coal house together, and afterward removed to Fulham,
where he and Hinshaw remained during eight or ten
days, in the stocks. Bonner's persecuting spirit
betrayed itself in his treatment of Willes during his examinations, often
striking him on the head with a stick, seizing him by the ears, and filliping him under the chin, saying he held down his head
like a thief. This producing no signs of recantation, he took him into his
orchard, and in a small arbor there he flogged him first with a willow rod, and
then with birch, until he was exhausted. This cruel ferocity arose from the
answer of the poor sufferer, who, upon being asked how long it was since he had
crept to the cross, replied, 'Not since he had come to years of discretion, nor
would he, though he should be torn to pieces by wild horses.' Bonner then bade him make the sign of the cross on his forehead, which
he refused to do, and thus was led to the orchard.
One
day, when in the stocks, Bonner asked him how he liked his lodging and fare.
"Well enough," said Willes, "might I
have a little straw to sit or lie upon." Just at this time came in Willes'
wife, then largely pregnant, and entreated the bishop for her husband, boldly
declaring that she would be delivered in the house, if he were not suffered to
go with her. To get rid of the good wife's importunity, and the trouble of a
lying-in woman in his palace, he bade Willes make the sign of the cross, and
say, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,
Amen. Willes omitted the sign, and repeated the words, "in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen." Bonner would have
the words repeated in Latin, to which Willes made no objection, knowing the
meaning of the words. He was then permitted to go home with his wife, his
kinsman Robert Rouze being charged to bring him to St. Paul's the next day,
whither he himself went, and subscribing to a Latin instrument of little
importance, was liberated. This is the last of the twenty-two taken at
Islington.
At
last Justice Moile, of Kent, took Mr. Yeoman, and set
him in the stocks a day and a night;
but, having no evident matter to charge him with, he let him go again. Coming
secretly again to Hadley, he tarried with his poor wife, who kept him
privately, in a chamber of the town house, commonly called the Guildhall, more than a year. During this time the good old father abode
in a chamber locked up all the day, spending his time
in devout prayer, in reading the Scriptures, and in carding the wool which his wife spun. His wife also begged bread for herself and her children, by which
precarious means they supported themselves. Thus the
saints of God sustained hunger and misery, while the prophets of Baal lived in
festivity, and were costily pampered at Jezebel's
table.
Information
being at length given to Newall, that Yeoman was secreted by his wife, he came,
attended by the constables, and broke into the room where the object of his
search lay in bed with his wife. He reproached the poor woman with being a
whore, and would have indecently pulled the clothes off, but Yeoman resisted
both this act of violence and the attack upon his wife's character, adding that
he defied the pope and popery. He was then taken out, and
set in stocks until day.
In
the cage also with him was an old man, named John Dale, who had sat there three
or four days, for exhorting the people during the time service was performing
by Newall and his curate. His words were, "O miserable and blind guides,
will ye ever be blind leaders of the blind? Will ye never amend? Will ye never
see the truth of God's Word? Will neither God's threats nor promises enter into your hearts? Will the blood of the martyrs nothing mollify your stony
stomachs? O obdurate, hard-hearted, perverse, and crooked generation! to whom
nothing can do good."
These
words he spake in fervency of spirit agains tthe superstitious religion of Rome; wherefore Newall
caused him forthwith to be attached, and set in the stocks
in a cage, where he was kept until Sir Henry Doile, a justice, came to Hadley.
When
Yeoman was taken, the parson called earnestly upon Sir Henry Doile to send them
both to prison. Sir Henry Doile as earnestly entreated the parson to consider
the age of the men, and their mean condition; they were neither persons of note
nor preachers; wherefore he proposed to let them be punished a day or two and
to dismiss them, at least John Dale, who was no priest, and therefore, as he
had so long sat in the cage, he thought it punishment enough for this time.
When the parson heard this, he was exceedingly mad, and in a great rage called
them pestilent heretics, unfit to live in the commonwealth of Christians.
Sir
Henry, fearing to appear too merciful, Yeoman and Dale were pinioned, bound
like thieves with their legs under the horses' bellies, and carried to Bury
jail, where they were laid in irons; and because they continually rebuked
popery, they were carried into the lowest dungeon, where John Dale, through the
jail-sickness and evil-keeping, died soon after: his body was thrown out, and
buried in the fields. He was a man of sixty-six years of age, a weaver by
occupation, well learned in the holy Scriptures, steadfast in his confession of
the true doctrines of Christ as set forth in King Edward's time; for which he
joyfully suffered prison and chains, and from this worldly dungeon he departed
in Christ to eternal glory, and the blessed paradise of everlasting felicity.
After
Dale's death, Yeoman was removed to Norwich prison, where, after strait and
evil keeping, he was examined upon his faith and religion,
and required to submit himself to his holy father the pope. "I defy
him, (quoth he), and all his detestable abomination:
I will in no wise have to do with him." The chief articles objected to him, were his marriage and the Mass sacrifice. Finding he
continued steadfast in the truth, he was condemned, degraded, and not only
burnt, but most cruelly tormented in the fire. Thus he
ended this poor and miserable life, and entered into
that blessed bosom of Abraham, enjoying with Lazarus that rest which God has
prepared for His elect.
When
standing at the stake he began to untie his points, and to prepare himself;
then he gave his gown to the keeper, by way of fee. His jerkin was trimmed with
gold lace, which he gave to Sir Richard Pecksal, the high sheriff. His cap of velvet he took from his head, and
threw away. Then, lifting his mind to the Lord, he engaged in prayer.
When
fastened to the stake, Dr. Seaton begged him to recant, and he should have his
pardon; but when he saw that nothing availed, he told
the people not to pray for him unless he would recant, no more than they would
pray for a dog.
Mr. Benbridge, standing at the stake with his hands together in
suchj a manner as the priest holds his hands in his
Memento, Dr. Seaton came to him again, and exhorted him to recant, to whom he
said, "Away, Babylon, away!" One that stood by said, "Sir, cut
his tongue out"; another, a temporal man, railed at him worse than Dr.
Seaton had done.
When
they saw he would not yield, they bade the tormentors to light the pile, before
he was in any way covered with fagots. The fire first took away a piece of his
beard, at which he did not shrink. Then it came on the other side and took his
legs, and the nether stockings of his hose being leather, they made the fire pierce the sharper, so that the intolerable heat made him
exclaim, "I recant!" and suddenly he trust
the fire from him. Two or three of his friends being
by, wished to save him; they stepped to the fire to help remove it, for which
kindness they were sent to jail. The sheriff also of his own authority took him
from the stake, and remitted him to prison, for which he was sent to the Fleet,
and lay there sometime. Before, however, he was taken from the stake, Dr.
Seaton wrote articles for him to subscribe to. To these Mr. Benbridge
made so many objections that Dr. Seaton ordered them to set fire again to the
pile. Then with much pain and grief of heart he subscribed to them upon a man's
back.
This
done, his gown was given him
again, and he was led to prison. While there, he wrote a letter to Dr. Seaton,
recanting those words he had spoken at the stake, and
the articles which he had subscribed, for he was
grieved that he had ever signed them. The same day se'night
he was again brought to the stake, where the vile tormentors rather broiled
than burnt him. The Lord give his enemies repentance!
Mrs.
Prest for some time lived about Cornwall, where she
had a husband and children, whose bigotry compelled her to frequent the
abominations of the Church of Rome. Resolving to act as her conscience
dictated, she quitted them, and
made a living by spinning. After some time, returning home, she was accused by
her neighbors, and brought to Exeter, to be examined before Dr. Troubleville, and his chancellor Blackston. As this martyr
was accounted of inferior intellect, we shall put her in competition with the bishop, and let the reader judge which had the most of that
knowledge conducive to everlasting life. The bishop bringing the question to
issue, respecting the bread and wine being flesh and blood, Mrs. Prest said,
"I will demand of you whether you can deny your creed, which says, that
Christ doth perpetually sit at the right hand of His Father, both body and
soul, until He come again; or whether He be there in heaven our Advocate, and
to make prayer for us unto God His Father? If He be so, He is not here on earth
in a piece of bread. If He be not here, and if He do not dwell in temples made with hands, but in heaven,
what! shall we seek Him here? If He did not offer His body once for all, why
make you a new offering? If with one offering He made
all perfect, why do you with a false offering make all imperfect? If He be to
be worshipped in spirit and in truth, why do you worship a piece of bread? If
He be eaten and drunken in faith and truth, if His
flesh be not profitable to be among us, why do you say
you make His flesh and blood, and say it is profitable for body and soul? Alas!
I am a poor woman, but rather than to do as you do, I would live no longer. I
have said, Sir."
Bishop.
I promise you, you are a jolly Protestant. I pray you in what
school have you been brought up?
Mrs.
Prest. I have upon the Sundays visited the sermons, and
there have I learned such things as are so fixed in my breast, that death shall
not separate them.
B. O
foolish woman, who will waste his breath upon thee, or such as thou art? But
how chanceth it that thou wentest
away from thy husband? If thou wert an honest woman, thou wouldst not have left
thy husband and children, and run about the country like a fugitive.
Mrs.
P. Sir, I labored for my livingl; and as my Master
Christ counselleth me, when I was persecuted in one
city, I fled into another.
B.
Who persecuted thee?
Mrs.
P. My husband and my children. For when I would have them to leave idolatry,
and to worship God in heaven, he would not hear me, but he with his children
rebuked me, and troubled me. I fled not for whoredom, nor for theft, but
because I would be no partaker with him and his of that foul idol the Mass; and
wheresoever I was, as oft as I could, upon Sundays and holydays. I made excuses
not to go to the popish Church.
B.
Belike then you are a good housewife, to fly from your husband the Church.
Mrs.
P. My housewifery is but small; but God gave me grace to go to the true Church.
B.
The true Church, what dost thou mean?
Mrs.
P. Not your popish Church, full of idols and abominations, but where two or
three are gathered together in the name of God, to
that Church will I go as long as I live.
B.
Belike then you have a church of your own. Well, let this mad woman be put down
to prison until we send for her husband.
Mrs.
P. No, I have but one husband, who is here already in this city, and in prison
with me, from whom I will never depart.
Some
persons present endeavoring to convince the bishop she was not in her right senses, she was permitted to depart. The keeper of the
bishop's prisons took her into his house, where she either spun worked as a
servant, or walked about the city, discoursing upon the Sacrament of the altar.
Her husband was sent for to take her home, but this
she refused while the cause of religion could be served. She was too active to
be idle, and her conversation, simple as they affected to think her, excited
the attention of several Catholic priests and friars. They teased her with
questions, until she answered them angrily, and this excited a laugh at her
warmth.
"Nay,"
said she, "you have more need to weep than to laugh, and to be sorry that
ever you were born, to be the chaplains of that whore of Babylon. I defy him
and all his falsehood; and get you away from me, you do but trouble my
conscience. You would have me follow your doings; I will first lose my life. I
pray you depart."
"Why,
thou foolish woman," said they, "we come to thee for thy profit and
soul's health." To which she replied, "What profit ariseth by you, that teach nothing but lies for truth? how
save you souls, when you preach nothing but lies, and destroy souls?"
"How
provest thou that?" said they.
"Do
you not destroy your souls, when you teach the people to worship idols, stocks,
and stones, the works of men's hands? and to worship a false God of your own
making of a piece of bread, and teach that the pope is God's vicar, and hath
power to forgive sins? and that there is a purgatory, when God's Son hath by
His passion purged all? and say you make God and sacrifice Him, when Christ's
body was a sacrifice once for all? Do you not teach the people to number their
sins in your ears, and say they will be damned if they confess not all; when
God's Word saith, Who can number his sins? Do you not promise them trentals and
dirges and Masses for souls, and sell your prayers for money, and make them buy
pardons, and trust to such foolish inventions of your imaginations? Do you not
altogether act against God? Do you not teach us to pray upon beads, and to pray
unto saints, and say they can pray for us? Do you not make holy water and holy
bread to fray devils? Do you not do a thousand more abominations?
And yet you say, you come for my profit, and to save my soul. No, no, one hath
saved me. Farewell, you with your salvation."
During
the liberty granted her by the bishop, before-mentioned, she went into St.
Peter's Church, and there found a skilful Dutchman,
who was affixing new noses to certain fine images which had been disfigured in
King Edward's time; to whom she said, "What a madman art thou, to make
them new noses, which within a few days shall all lose their heads?" The
Dutchman accused her and laid it hard to her charge. And she said unto him,
"Thou art accursed, and so are thy images." He called her a whore.
"Nay," said she, "thy images are whores, and thou art a
whore-hunter; for doth not God say, 'You go a whoring after strange gods,
figures of your own making? and thou art one of them.'" After this she was
ordered to be confined, and had no more liberty.
During
the time of her imprisonment, many visited her, some sent by the bishop, and
some of their own will, among these was one Daniel, a great preacher of the
Gospel, in the days of King Edward, about Cornwall and Devonshire, but who,
through the grievous persecution he had sustained, had fallen off. Earnestly
did she exhort him to repent with Peter, and to be
more constant in his profession.
Mrs.
Walter Rauley and Mr. William and John Kede, persons of great respectability,
bore ample testimony of her godly conversation, declaring, that unless God were
with her, it were impossible she could have so ably
defended the cause of Christ. Indeed, to sum up the character of this poor
woman, she united the serpent and the dove, abounding in the highest wisdom
joined to the greatest simplicity. She endured imprisonment, threatenings, taunts, and the vilest epithets, but nothing
could induce her to swerve; her heart was fixed; she had cast anchor; nor could
all the wounds of persecution remove her from the rock on which her hopes of
felicity were built.
Such
was her memory, that, without learning, she could tell in what chapter any text
of Scripture was contained: on account of this singular property, one Gregory
Basset, a rank papist, said she was deranged, and talked as a parrot, wild
without meaning. At length, having tried every manner without effect to make
her nominally a Catholic, they condemned her. After this, one exhorted her to
leave her opinions, and go home to her family, as she was poor and illiterate.
"True, (said she) though I am not learned, I am content to be a witness of
Christ's death, and I pray you make no longer delay with me; for my heart is
fixed, and I will never say otherwise, nor turn to your superstitious
doing."
To
the disgrace of Mr. Blackston, treasurer of the church, he would often send for
this poor martyr from prison, to make sport for him and a woman whom he kept; putting religious questions to her,
and turning her answers into ridicule. This done, he
sent her back to her wretched dungeon, while he battened upon the good things
of this world.
There
was perhaps something simply ludicrous in the form of Mrs. Prest, as she was of
a very short stature, thick set, and about fifty-four years of age; but her
countenance was cheerful and lively, as if prepared for the day of her marriage
with the Lamb. To mock at her form was an indirect accusation of her Creator,
who framed her after the fashion He liked best, and gave her a mind that far
excelled the transient endowments of perishable flesh. When she was offered
money, she rejected it, "because (said she) I am going to a city where
money bears no mastery, and while I am here God has promised to feed me."
When
sentence was read, condemning her to the flames, she lifted
up her voice and praised God, adding, "This day have I found that
which I have long sought." When they tempted her to recant, "That
will I not, (said she) God forbid that I should lose the life eternal, for this
carnal and short life. I will never turn from my heavenly husband to my earthly
husband; from the fellowship of angels to mortal children; and if my husband
and children be faithful, then am I
theirs. God is my father, God is my mother, God is my sister, my brother, my
kinsman; God is my friend, most faithful."
Being
delivered to the sheriff, she was led by the officer to the place of execution,
without the walls of Exeter, called Sothenhey, where
again the superstitious priests assaulted her. While they were tying her to the
stake, she continued earnestly to exclaim "God be merciful to me, a
sinner!" Patiently enduring the devouring conflagration, she was consumed
to ashes, and thus ended a life which in unshaken
fidelity to the cause of Christ, was not surpassed by that of any preceding
martyr.
Thomas
Banion, a weaver, was burnt on August 27, of the same year, and died for the
sake of the evangelical cause of his Savior.
The
articles against them were, as usual, the Sacramental elements and the idolatry
of bending to images. They quoted St. John's words, "Beware of
images!" and respecting the real presence, they urged according to St.
Paul, "the things which are seen are temporal." When sentence was
about to be read against them, and excommunication to take place in the regular
form, John Corneford, illuminated by the Holy Spirit, awfully turned the latter
proceeding against themselves, and in a solemn impressive manner, recriminated
their excommunication in the following words: "In the name of our Lord
Jesus Christ, the Son of the most mighty God, and by the power of His Holy
Spirit, and the authority of His holy Catholic and apostolic Church, we do here
give into the hands of Satan to be destroyed, the bodies of all those
blasphemers and heretics that maintain any error against His most holy Word, or
do condemn His most holy truth for heresy, to the maintenance of any false
church or foreign religion, so that by this Thy just judgment, O most mighty
God, against Thy adversaries, Thy true religion may be known to Thy great glory
and our comfort and to the edifying of all our nation. Good Lord, so be it.
Amen."
This
sentence was openly pronounced and registered, and, as if Providence had
awarded that it should not be delivered in vain, within six days after, Queen
Mary died, detested by all good men and accursed of God!
Though
acquainted with these circumstances, the archdeacon's implacability exceeded
that of his great exemplary, Bonner, who, though he had several persons at that
time under his fiery grasp, did not urge their deaths hastily, by which delay
he certainly afforded them an opportunity of escape. At the queen's decease,
many were in bonds: some just taken, some examined, and others condemned. The
writs indeed were issued for several burnings, but by the death of the three
instigators of Protestant murder-the chancellor, the bishop, and the queen, who
fell nearly together, the condemned sheep were liberated, and
lived many years to praise God for their happy deliverance.
These
five martyrs, when at the stake, earnestly prayed that their blood might be the
last shed, nor did they pray in vain. They died gloriously,
and perfected the number God had selected to bear witness of the truth
in this dreadful reign, whose names are recorded in the Book of Life; though
last, not least among the saints made meet for immortality through the
redeeming blood of the Lamb!
Catharine
Finlay, alias Knight, was first converted by her son's expounding the
Scriptures to her, which wrought in her a perfect work that terminated in
martyrdom. Alice Snoth at the stake sent for her grandmother and godfather, and
rehearsed to them the articles of her faith, and the Commandments of God,
thereby convincing the world that she knew her duty. She died calling upon the
spectators to bear witness that she was a Christian woman,
and suffered joyfully for the testimony of Christ's Gospel.
Among
the numberless enormities committed by the merciless
and uhnfeeling Bonner, the murder of this innocent
and unoffending child may be ranged as the most horrid. His father, John Fetty,
of the parish of Clerkenwell, by trade a tailor, and only twenty-four years of
age, had made blessed election; he was fixed secure in eternal hope, and
depended on Him who so builds His Church that the gates of hell shall not
prevail against it. But alas! the very wife of his bosom, whose heart was
hardened against the truth, and whose mind was influenced by the teachers of
false doctrine, became his accuser. Brokenbery, a
creature of the pope, and parson of the parish, received the information of
this wedded Delilah, in consequence of which the poor man was apprehended. But
here the awful judgment of an ever-righteous God, who is "of purer eyes
than to behold evil," fell upon this stone-hearted and perfidious woman;
for no sooner was the injured husband captured by her wicked contriving, than
she also was suddenly seized with madness, and exhibited an awful and awakening
instance of God's power to punish the evil-doer. This dreadful circumstance had
some effect upon the hearts of the ungodly hunters who had eagerly grasped
their prey; but, in a relenting moment, they suffered him to remain with his
unworthy wife, to return her good for evil, and to comfort two children, who,
on his being sent to prison, would have been left without a protector, or have
become a burden to the parish. As bad men act from little motives, we may place
the indulgence shown him to the latter account.
We
have noticed in the former part of our narratives of the martyrs, some whose
affection would have led them even to sacrifice their own lives, to preserve
their husbands; but here, agreeable to Scripture language, a mother proves,
indeed, a monster in nature! Neither conjugal nor maternal affection could
impress the heart of this disgraceful woman.
Although
our afflicted Christian had experienced so much cruelty and falsehood from the
woman who was bound to him by every tie both human and divine, yet, with a mild
and forbearing spirit, he overlooked her misdeeds, during her calamity
endeavoring all he could to procure relief for her malady, and soothing her by
every possible expression of tenderness: thus she became in a few weeks nearly
restored to her senses. But, alas! she returned again to her sin, "as a dog returneth to his
vomit." Malice against the saints of the Most High was seated in her heart
too firmly to be removed; and as her strength returned, her inclination to work
wickedness returned with it. Her heart was hardened by the prince of darkness;
and to her may be applied these afflicting and soul-harrowing words, "Can
the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? then may ye also do
good, that are accustomed to do evil." Weighing this text duly with
another, "I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy," how shall we
presume to refine away the sovereignty of God by arrainging
Jehovah at the bar of human reason, which, in religious matters, is too often
opposed by infinite wisdom? "Broad is the way, that leadeth to
destruction, and many there be which go in thereat.
Narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find
it." The ways of heaven are indeed inscrutable, and it is our bounden duty
to walk ever dependent on God, looking up to Him with humble confidence, and
hope in His goodness, and ever confess His justice; and where we "cannot
unravel, there learn to trust." This wretched woman, pursuing the horrid
dictates of a heart hardened and depraved, was scarcely confirmed in her
recovery, when, stifling the dictates of honor, gratitude, and every natural
affection, she again accused her husband, who was once more apprehended, and
taken before Sir John Mordant, knight, and one of Queen Mary's commissioners.
Upon
examination, his judge finding him fixed in opinions
which militated against those nursed by superstition and maintained by cruelty,
he was sentenced to confinement and torture in Lollard's Tower. Here he was put
into the painful stocks, and had a dish of water set by him, with a stone put
into it, to what purpose God knoweth,e xcept it were to show that he should look for little other
subsistence: which is credible enough, if we consider their like practices upon
divers before mentioned in this history; as, among others, upon Richard Smith,
who died through their cruel imprisonment touching whom, when a godly woman
came to Dr. Story to have leave she might bury him, he asked her if he had any
straw or blood in his mouth; but what he means thereby, I leave to the judgment
of the wise.
On
the first day of the third week of our martyr's sufferings, an object presented
itself to his view, which made him indeed feel his tortures with all their
force, and to execrate, with bitterness only short of cursing, the author of
his misery. To mark and punish the proceedings of his tormentors, remained with
the Most High, who noteth
even the fall of a sparrow, and in whose sacred Word it is written,
"Vengeance is mine; I will repay." This object was his own son, a
child of the tender age of eight years. For fifteen days, had its hapless
father been suspended by his tormentor by the right arm and left leg, and
sometimes by both, shifting his positions for the purpose of giving him
strength to bear and to lengthen the date of his sufferings. When the unoffending
innocent, desirous of seeing and speaking to its parent, applied to Bonner for
permission to do so, the poor child being asked by the bishop's chaplain the
purport of his errand, he replied he wished to see his father. "Who is thy
father?" said the chaplain. "John Fetty," returned the boy, at
the same time pointing to the place where he was confined. The interrogating
miscreant on this said, "Why, thy father is a heretic!" The little
champion again rejoined, with energy sufficient to
raise admiration in any breast, except that of this unprincipled and unfeeling
wretch-this miscreant, eager to execute the behests of a remoseless
queen-"My father is no heretic: for you have Balaam's mark."
Irritated
by reproach so aptly applied, the indignant and mortified priest concealed his
resentment for a moment, and took the undaunted boy into the house, where
having him secure, he presented him to others, whose baseness and cruelty being
equal to his own, they stripped him to the skin, and applied their scourges to
so violent a degree, that, fainting beneath the stripes inflicted on his tender
frame, and covered with the blood that flowed from them, the victim of their
ungodly wrath was ready to expire under his heavy and unmerited punishment.
In
this bleeding and helpless state was the suffering infant, covered only with
his shirt, taken to his father by one of the actors in
the horrid tragedy, who, while he exhibited the heart-rending spectacle, made
use of the vilest taunts, and exulted in what he had done. The dutiful child,
as if recovering strength at the sight of his father, on his knees implored his
blessing. "Alas! Will," said the afflicted parent, in trembling
amazement, "who hath done this to thee!" the artless innocent related
the circumstances that led to the merciless correction which had been so basely
inflicted on him; but when he repeated the reproof bestowed on the chaplain,
and which was prompted by an undaunted spirit, he was torn from his weeping
parent, and conveyed again to the house, where he remained a close prisoner.
Bonner,
somewhat fearful that what had been done could not be justified even among the
bloodhounds of his own voracious pack, concluded in his dark and wicked mind,
to release John Fetty, for a time at least, from the severities he was enduring
in the glorious cause of everlasting truth! whose bright rewards are fixed
beyond the boundaries of time, within the confines of eternity; where the arrow
of the wicked cannot wound, even "where there shall be no more sorrowing
for the blessed, who, in the mansion of eternal bliss shall glorify the Lamb
forever and ever." He was accordingly by order of Bonner, (how disgraceful
to all dignity, to say bishop!) liberated from the painful bonds, and led from
Lollard's Tower, to the chamber of that ungodly and infamous butcher, where he
found the bishop bathing himself before a great fire; and at his first entering
the chamber, Fetty said, "God be here and peace!" "God be here
and peace, (said Bonner,) that is neither God speed nor good morrow!"
"If ye kick against this peace, (said Fetty), then this is not the place
that I seek for."
A
chaplain of the bishop, standing by, turned the poor man about, and thinking to
abash him, said, in mocking wise, "What have we
here-a player!" While Fetty was thus standing in the bishop's chamber, he
espied, hanging about the bishop's bed, a pair of great black beads, whereupon
he said, "My Lord, I think the hangman is not far off: for the halter
(pointing to the beads) is here already!" At which words the bishop was in
a marvellous rage. Then he immediately after espied
also, standing in the bishop's chamber, in the window, a little crucifix. Then
he asked the bishop what it was, and he answered, that it was Christ. "Was
He handled as cruelly as He is here pictured!" said Fetty. "Yea, that
He was," said the bishop. "And even so cruelly will you handle such
as come before you; for you are unto God's people as Caiaphas was unto
Christ!" The bishop, being in a great fury, said, "Thou art a vile
heretic, and I will burn thee, or else I will spend all I have, unto my gown."
"Nay, my Lord, (said Fetty) you were better to give it to some poor body,
that he may pray for you." Bonner, notwithstanding his passion, which was
raised to the utmost by the calm and pointed remarks of this observing
Christian, thought it most prudent to dismiss the father, on account of the
nearly murdered child. His coward soul trembled for the consequences which
might ensue; fear is inseparable from little minds; and this dastardly pampered
priest experienced its effects so far as to induce him to assume the appearance
of that he was an utter stranger to, namely, MERCY.
The
father, on being dismissed, by the tyrant Bonner, went
home with a heavy heart, with his dying child, who did not survive many days
the cruelties which had been inflicted on him.
How
contrary to the will of our great King and Prophet, who mildly taught His
followers, was the conduct of this sanguinary and false teacher, this vile
apostate from his God to Satan! But the archfiend had taken entire possession
of his heart, and guided every action of the sinner he had hardened;
who, given up to terrible destruction, was running the race of the wicked,
marking his footsteps with the blood of the saints, as if eager to arrive at
the goal of eternal death.
The
duke was immediately arrested, and Dr. Sands was compelled by the university to
give up his office. He was arrested by the queen's order, and when Mr. Mildmay
wondered that so learned a man could wilfully incur
danger, and speak against so good a princess as Mary, the doctor replied,
"If I would do as Mr. Mildmay has done, I need not fear bonds. He came
down armed against Queen Mary; before a trator-now a
great friend. I cannot with one mouth blow hot and cold in this manner." A
general plunder of Dr. Sands' property ensued, and he was brought to London
upon a wretched horse. Various insults he met on the way from the bigoted
Catholics, and as he passed through Bishopsgate-street, a stone struck him to
the ground. He was the first prisoner that entered the Tower, in that day, on a
religious account; his man was admitted with his Bible, but his shirts and
other articles were taken from him.
On Mary's coronation day the doors of the dungeon were so laxly
guarded that it was easy to escape. A Mr. Mitchell, like a true friend, came to
him, afforded him his own clothes as a disguise, and was willing to abide the consequence of being found in his place. This was
a rare friendship: but he refused the offer; saying, "I know no cause why
I should be in prison. To do thus were
to make myself guilty. I will expect God's good will, yet do I think myself
much obliged to you"; and so Mr. Mitchell
departed.
With
Doctor Sands was imprisoned Mr. Bradford; they were kept close in prison twenty-nine weeks. John Fowler, their keeper, was a
perverse papist, yet, by often persuading him, at length he began to favor the
Gospel, and was so persuaded in the true religion, that on a Sunday, when they
had Mass in the chapel, Dr. Sands administered the Communion to Bradford and to
Fowler. Thus Fowler was their son begotten in bonds.
To make room for Wyat and his accomplices, Dr. Sands and nine other preachers
were sent to the Marshalsea.
The
keeper of the Marshalsea appointed to every preacher a man to lead him in the
street; he caused them to go on before, and he and Dr. Sands followed
conversing together. By this time popery began to be unsavory. After they had
passed the bridge, the keeper said to Dr. Sands: "I perceive the vain
people would set you forward to the fire. You are as vain as they, if you,
being a young man, will stand in your own conceit, and prefer your own judgment
before that of so many worthy prelates, ancient, learned, and grave men as be
in this realm. If you do so, you shall find me a severe keeper, and one that
utterly dislikes your religion." Dr. Sands answered, "I know my years
to be young, and my learning but small; it is enough to know Christ crucified,
and he hath learned nothing who seeth not the great
blasphemy that is in popery. I will yield unto God, and not unto man; I have
read in the Scriptures of many godly and couretous
keepers: may God make you one! if not, I trust He
will give me strength and patience to bear your hard usage." Then said the keeper, "Are you resolved to stand to your
religion?" "Yes," quoth the doctor,
"by God's grace!" "Truly," said the keeper, "I love
you the better for it; I did but tempt you: what favor I can show you, you
shall be assured of; and I shall think myself happy if I might die at the stake
with you."
He
was as good as his word, for he trusted the doctor to walk in the fields alone,
where he met with Mr. Bradford, who was also a prisoner in the King's Bench,
and had found the same favor from his keeper. At his request, he put Mr.
Saunders in along with him, to be his bedfellow, and the Communion was
administered to a great number of communicants.
When
Wyat with his army came to Southwark, he offered to liberate all the imprisoned
Protestants, but Dr. Sands and the rest of the preachers refused to accept
freedom on such terms.
After
Dr. Sands had been nine weeks prisoner in the Marshalsea, by the mediation of
Sir Thomas Holcroft, knight marshal, he was set at liberty. Though Mr. Holcroft
had the queen's warrant, the bishop commanded him not to set Dr. Sands at
liberty, until he had taken sureties of two gentlemen with him, each one bound
in S500, that Dr. Sands should not depart out of the realm without license. Mr.
Holcroft immediately after met with two gentlemen of
the north, friends and cousins to Dr. Sands, who offered to be bound for him.
After
dinner, the same day, Sir Thomas Holcroft sent for Dr.
Sands
to his lodgings at Westminster, to communicate to him all he had done. Dr.
Sands answered: "I give God thanks, who hath moved your heart to mind me
so well, that I think myself most bound unto you. God shall requite you, nor
shall I ever be found unthankful. But as you have dealt friendly
with me, I will also deal plainly with you. I came
a freeman into prison; I will not go forth a bondman.
As I cannot benefit my friends, so will I not hurt them. And if I be set at liberty, I will not tarry
six days in this realm, if I may get out. If therefore I may not get free
forth, send me to the Marshalsea again, and there you shall be sure of
me."
This
answer Mr. Holcroft much disapproved of; but like a true
friend he replied: "Seeing you cannot be altered, I will change my
purpose, and yield unto you. Come of it what will, I will set you at liberty;
and seeing you have a mind to go over sea, get you gone as quick as you can.
One thing I require of you, that, while you are there, you write nothing to me
hither, for this may undo me."
Dr. Sands having taken an affectionate
farewell of him and his other friends in bonds,
departed. He went by Winchester house, and there took boat, and came to a
friend's house in London, called William Banks, and tarried
there one night. The next night he went to another friend's house, and there he
heard that strict search was making for him, by Gardiner's express order.
Dr.
Sands now conveyed himself by night to one Mr. Berty's house, a stranger who
was in the Marshalsea prison with him a while; he was a good Protestant and
dwelt in Mark-lane. There he was six days, and then
removed to one of his acquaintances in Cornhill; he caused his man Quinton to
provide two geldings for him, resolved on the morrow to ride into Essex, to Mr.
Sands, his father-in-law, where his wife was, which, after a narrow escape, he
effected. He had not been theretwo
hours, before Mr. Sands was told that two of the
guards would that night apprehend Dr. Sands.
That
night Dr. Sands was guided to an honest farmer's near
the sea, where he tarried two days and two nights in a
chamber without company. After that he removed to one
James Mower's, a shipmaster, who dwelt at Milton-Shore, where he waited for a
wind to Flanders. While he was there, James Mower brought to
him forty or fifty mariners, to whom he gave an exhortation; they liked him so
well that they promised to die rather than he should be
apprehended.
The
sixth of May, Sunday, the wind served. In taking leave of his hostess, who had
been married eight years without having a child, he gave her a fine
handkerchief and an old royal of gold, and said, "Be of good comfort;
before that one whole year be past, God shall give you a child, a boy."
This came to pass, for, that day twelve-month, wanting one day, God gave her a
son.
Scarcely
had he arrived at Antwerp, when he learned that King Philip had sent to apprehend him. He next flew
to Augsburg, in Cleveland, where Dr. Sands tarried fourteen days, and then travelled towards
Strassburg, where, after he had lived one year, his
wife came to him. He was sick of a flux nine months, and
had a child which died of the plague. His amiable wife at length fell into a consumption, and died in his arms. When his wife was dead,
he went to Zurich, and there was in Peter Martyr's
house for the space of five weeks.
As
they sat at dinner one day, word was suddenly brought that Queen Mary was dead,
and Dr. Sands was sent for by his friends at
Strassburg, where he preached. Mr. Grindal and he came over to England, and arrived in London the same day that Queen
Elizabeth was crowned. This faithful servant of Christ, under Queen Elizabeth,
rose to the highest distinction in the Church, being successively bishop of
Worcester, bishop of London, and archbishop of York.
Before
Mary attained the crown, she treated Elizabeth with a sisterly kindness, but
from that period her conduct was altered, and the most imperious distance
substituted. Though Elizabeth had no concern in the rebellion of Sir Thomas
Wyat, yet she was apprehended, and treated as a
culprit in that commotion. The manner too of her arrest was similar
to the mind that dictated it: the three cabinet members, whom she
deputed to see the arrest executed, rudely entered the chamber at ten o'clock
at night, and, though she was extremely ill, they could scarcely be induced to
let her remain until the following morning. Her enfeebled state permitted her
to be moved only by short stages in a journey of such length to London; but the
princess, though afflicted in person, had a consolation in mind which her
sister never could purchase: the people, through whom she passed on her way
pitied her, and put up their prayers for her preservation.
Arrived
at court, she was made a close prisoner for a fortnight, without knowing who was her accuser, or seeing anyone who could console or
advise her. The charge, however, was at length unmasked by Gardiner, who, with nineteen of the Council, accused her of abetting Wyat's
conspiracy, which she religiously affirmed to be false. Failing in this, they
placed against her the transactions of Sir Peter Carew in the west, in which
they were as unsuccessful as in the former. The queen now signified that it was
her pleasure she should be committed to the Tower, a step which overwhelmed the
princess with the greatest alarm and uneasiness. In vain she hoped the queen's
majesty would not commit her to such a place; but there was no lenity to be
expected; her attendants were limited, and a hundred northern soldiers
appointed to guard her day and night.
On
Palm Sunday she was conducted to the Tower. When she came to the palace garden,
she cast her eyes towards the windows, eagerly anxious to meet those of the
queen, but she was disappointed. A strict order was given in London that every one should go to church, and carry palms, that she
might be conveyed without clamor or commiseration to her prison.
At
the time of passing under London Bridge the fall of the tide made it very
dangerous, and the barge some time stuck fast against
the starlings. To mortify her the more, she was landed
at Traitors' Stairs. As it rained fast, and she was
obliged to step in the water to land, she hesitated;
but this excited no complaisance in the lord in waiting. When she set her foot
on the steps, she exclaimed, "Here lands as true a subject, being
prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before Thee, O God, I speak it,
having no friend but Thee alone!"
A
large number of the wardens and servants of the Tower were arranged in order
between whom the princess had to pass. Upon inquiring
the use of this parade, she was informed it was customary to do so.
"If," said she, "it is on account of
me, I beseech you that they may be dismissed." On this the poor men knelt down, and prayed that God would preserve her grace,
for which they were the next day turned out of their employments. The tragic
scene must have been deeply interesting, to see an amiable and irreproachable
princess sent like a lamb to languish in expectation of cruelty and death;
against whom there was no other charge than her superiority in Christian
virtues and acquired endowments. Her attendants openly wept as she proceeded
with a dignified step to the frowning battlements of her destination.
"Alas!" said Elizabeth, "what do you mean? I took you to
comfort, not to dismay me; for my truth is such that no one shall have cause to
weep for me."
The
next step of her enemies was to procure evidence by means which, in the present
day, are accounted detestable. Many poor prisoners were racked, to extract, if
possible, any matters of accusation which might affect her life, and thereby
gratify Gardiner's sanguinary disposition. He himself came to examine her,
respecting her removal from her house at Ashbridge to Dunnington castle a long
while before. The princess had quite forgotten this trivial circumstance, and
Lord Arundel, after the investigation, kneeling down,
apologized for having troubled her in such a frivolous matter. "You sift
me narrowly," replied the princess, "but of this I am assured, that
God has appointed a limit to your proceedings; and so
God forgive you all."
Her
own gentlemen, who ought to have been her purveyors, and served her provision,
were compelled to give place to the common soldiers, at the command of the
constable of the Tower, who was in every respect a servile tool of Gardiner;
her grace's friends, however, procured an order of Council which regulated this
petty tyranny more to her satisfaction.
After
having been a whole month in close confinement, she sent for the lord
chamberlain and Lord Chandois, to whom she represented the ill state of her
health from a want of proper air and exercise. Application being made to the
Council, Elizabeth was with some difficulty admitted to walk
in the queen's lodgings, and afterwards in the garden, at which time the
prisoners on that side were attended by their keepers, and not suffered to look
down upon her. Their jealousy was excited by a child of four years, who daily
brought flowers to the princess. The child was threatened with a whipping, and
the father ordered to keep him from the princess's
chambers.
On
the fifth of May the constable was discharged from his office, and Sir Henry
Benifield appointed in his room, accompanied by a hundred ruffian-looking
soldiers in blue. This measure created considerable alarm in the mind of the
princess, who imagined it was preparatory to her undergoing the same fate as
Lady Jane Grey, upon the same block. Assured that this project was not in
agitation, she entertained an idea that the new keeper of the Tower was
commissioned to make away with her privately, as his equivocal character was in
conformity with the ferocious inclination of those by whom he was appointed.
A
report now obtained that her Grace was to be taken away by the new constable
and his soldiers, which in the sequel proved to be true. An order of Council was made for her removal to the manor Woodstock,
which took place on Trinity Sunday, May 13, under the authority of Sir Henry
Benifield and Lord Tame. The ostensible cause of her removal was to make room
for other prisoners. Richmond was the first place they stopped at, and here the
princess slept, not however without much alarm at first, as her own servants
were superseded by the soldiers, who were placed as guards at her chamber door.
Upon representation, Lord Tame overruled this indecent stretch of power, and granted her perfect safety while under his
custody.
In
passing through Windsor, she saw several of her poor dejected servants waiting
to see her. "Go to them," said she, to one
of her attendants, "and say these words from me, tanquim
ovis, that is, like a sheep to the slaughter."
The
next night her Grace lodged at the house of a Mr. Dormer, in
her way to which the people manifested such tokens of loyal affection that Sir
Henry was indignant, and bestowed on them very
liberally the names of rebels and traitors. In some villages they rang the
bells for joy, imagining the princess's arrival among them was from a very
different cause; but this harmless demonstration of gladness was sufficient
with the persecuting Benifield to order his soldiers to seize and set these
humble persons in the stocks.
The
day following, her Grace arrived at Lord Tame's house,
where she stayed all night, and was most nobly entertained. This excited Sir
Henry's indignation, and made him caution Lord Tame to
look well to his proceedings; but the humanity of Lord Tame was not to be
frightened, and he returned a suitable reply. At another time, this official
prodigal, to show his consequence and disregard of good manners, went up into a
chamber, where was appointed for her Grace a chair, two cushions, and a foot
carpet, wherein he presumptuously sat and called his man to pull off his boots.
As soon as it was known to the ladies and gentlemen
they laughed him to scorn. When supper was done, he called to his lordship, and
directed that all gentlemen and ladies should withdraw home, marvelling much that he would
permit such a large company, considering the great charge he had committed to
him. "Sir Henry," said his lordship, "content yourself; all
shall be avoided, your men and all." "Nay, but my soldiers,"
replied Sir Henry, "shall watch all night." Lord Tame answered,
"There is no need." "Well," said he,
"need or need not, they shall so do."
The
next day her Grace took her journey from thence to Woodstock, where she was
enclosed, as before in the Tower of London, the soldiers keeping
guard within and without the walls, every day, to the number of sixty; and in
the night, without the walls were forty during all the
time of her imprisonment.
At
length she was permitted to walk in the gardens, but under the most severe
restrictions, Sir Henry keeping the keys himself, and
placing her always under many bolts and locks, whence she was induced to call
him her jailer, at which he felt offended, and begged her to substitute the
word officer. After much earnest entreaty to the Council, she obtained permission
to write to the queen; but the jailer who brought her pen, ink, and paper stood
by her while she wrote, and, when she left off, he carried the things away
until they were wanted again. He also insisted upon carrying it himself to the
queen, but Elizabeth would not suffer him to be the bearer, and it was
presented by one of her gentlemen.
After
the letter, Doctors Owen and Wendy went to the princess, as the state of her
health rendered medical assistance necessary. They stayed with her five or six
days, in which time she grew much better; they then returned to the queen, and
spoke flatteringly of the princess' submission and humility, at which the queen
seemed moved; but the bishops wanted a concession that she had offended her
majesty. Elizabeth spurned this indirect mode of acknowledging herself guilty.
"If I have offended," said she, "and am
guilty, I crave no mercy but the law, which I am certain I should have had ere
this, if anything could have been proved against me. I wish I were as clear
from the peril of my enemies; then should I not be
thus bolted and locked up within walls and doors."
Much
question arose at this time respecting the propriety of uniting the princess to
some foreigner, that she might quit the realm with a suitable portion. One of
the Council had the brutality to urge the necessity of beheading her, if the
king (Philip) meant to keep the realm in peace; but the Spaniards, detesting
such a base thought, replied, "God forbid that oiur
king and master should consent to such an infamous proceeding!" Stimulated
by a noble principle, the Spaniards from this time
repeatedly urged to the king that it would do him the
highest honor to liberate the Lady Elizabeth, nor was
the king impervious to their solicitation. He took her out of prison, and
shortly after she was sent for to Hampton court. It
may be remarked in this place, that the fallacy of
human reasoning is shown in every moment. The barbarian who suggested the
policy of beheading Elizabeth little contemplated the change of condition which
his speech would bring about. In her journey from Woodstock, Benifield treated her
with the same severity as before; removing her on a stormy day, and not
suffering her old servant, who had come to Colnbrook, where she slept, to speak
to her.
She
remained a fortnight strictly guarded and watched,
before anyone dared to speak with her; at length the vile Gardiner with three
more of the Council, came with great submission. Elizabeth saluted them,
remarked that she had been for a long time kept in solitary confinement, and
begged they would intercede with the king and queen to deliver her from prison.
Gardiner's visit was to draw from the princess a confession of her guilt; but
she was guarded against his subtlety, adding, that,
rather than admit she had done wrong, she would lie in prison all the rest of her life. The next day Gardiner came again, and kneeling down, declared that the queen was astonished she
would persist in affirming that she was blameless-whence it would be inferred
that the queen had unjustly imprisoned her grace. Gardiner further informed her
that the queen had declared that she must tell another tale, before she could
be set at liberty. "Then," replied the high-minded Elizabeth, "I
had rather be in prison with honesty and truth, than have my liberty, and be
suspected by her majesty. What I have said, I will stand to; nor will I ever
speak falsehood!" The bishop and his friends then departed, leaving her
locked up as before.
Seven
days after the queen sent for Elizabeth at ten o'clock at night; two years had
elapsed since they had seen each other. It created terror in the mind of the
princess, who, at setting out, desired her gentlemen and ladies to pray for
her, as her return to them again was uncertain.
Being
conducted to the queen's bedchamber, upon entering it the princess knelt down, and having begged of God to preserve her
majesty, she humbly assured her that her majesty had not a more loyal subject
in the realm, whatever reports might be circulated to the contrary. With a
haughty ungraciousness, the imperious queen replied: "You will not confess
your offence, but stand stoutly to your truth. I pray
God it may so fall out."
"If
it do not," said Elizabeth, "I request
neither favor nor pardon at your majesty's hands." "Well," said
the queen, "you stiffly still persevere in your truth. Besides, you will
not confess that you have not been wrongfully
punished."
"I
must not say so, if it please your majesty, to you."
"Why,
then," said the queen, "belike you will to
others."
"No, if it please your majesty: I have borne the burden, and must bear it. I humbly beseech your majesty to
have a good opinion of me and to think me to be your subject, not only from the
beginning hitherto, but for ever, as long as life lasteth." They departed without any heartfelt
satisfaction on either side; nor can we think the conduct of Elizabeth
displayed that independence and fortitude which accompanies perfect innocence.
Elizabeth's admitting that she would not say, neither to the queen nor to others,
that she had been unjustly punished, was in direct contradiction to what she
had told Gardiner, and must have arisen from some
motive at this time inexplicable. King Philip is supposed to have been secretly
concealed during the interview, and to have been friendly to the princess.
In
seven days from the time of her return to imprisonment, her severe jailer and
his men were discharged, and she was set at liberty, under the constraint of
being always attended and watched by some of the queen's Council. Four of her
gentlemen were sent to the Tower without any other charge against them than
being zealous servants of their mistress. This event was soon after followed by
the happy news of Gardiner's death, for which all good and merciful men
glorified God, inasmuch as it had taken the chief
tiger from the den, and rendered the life of the
Protestant successor of Mary more secure.
This
miscreant, while the princess was in the Tower, sent a secret writ, signed by a
few of the Council, for her private execution, and, had Mr. Bridges, lieutenant
of the Tower, been as little scrupulous of dark assassination as this pious
prelate was, she must have perished. The warrant not having
the queen's signature, Mr. Bridges hastened to her majesty to give her
information of it, and to know her mind. This was a
plot of Winchester's, who, to convict her of treasonable practices, caused
several prisoners to be racked; particularly Mr. Edmund Tremaine and Smithwicke were offered considerable bribes to accuse the
guiltless princess.
Her
life was several times in danger. While at Woodstock, fire was apparently put
between the boards and ceiling under which she lay. It was also reported
strongly that one Paul Penny, the keeper of Woodstock, a notorious ruffian, was
appointed to assassinate her, but, however this might
be, God counteracted in this point the nefarious designs of the enemies of the
Reformation. James Basset was another appointed to perform the same deed: he
was a peculiar favorite of Gardiner, and had come within a mile of Woodstock,
intending to speak with Benifield on the subject. The goodness of God however
so ordered it that while Basset was travelling to Woodstock, Benifield, by an
order of Council, was going to London: in consequence of which, he left a
positive order with his brother, that no man should be admitted to the princess
during his absence, not even with a note from the queen; his brother met the
murderer, but the latter's intention was frustrated, as no admission could be
obtained.
When
Elizabeth quitted Woodstock, she left the following
lines written with her diamond on the window:
Much
suspected by me,
Nothing
proved can be. Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.
With
the life of Winchester ceased the extreme danger of the princess, as many of
her other secret enemies soon after followed him, and, last of all, her cruel
sister, who outlived Gardiner but three years.
The
death of Mary was ascribed to several causes. The Council endeavored to console
her in her last moments, imagining it was the absence of her husband that lay
heavy at her heart, but though his treatment had some weight, the loss of
Calais, the last fortress possessed by the English in France, was the true
source of her sorrow. "Open my heart," said Mary, "when I am
dead, and you shall find Calais written there." Religion caused her no
alarm; the priests had lulled to rest every misgiving of conscience, which
might have obtruded, on account of the accusing spirits of the murdered
martyrs. Not the blood she had spilled, but the loss of a town excited her
emotions in dying, and this last stroke seemed to be awarded, that her
fanatical persecution might be paralleled by her political imbecility.
We
earnestly pray that the annals of no country, Catholic or pagan, may ever be
stained with such a repetition of human sacrifices to papal power, and that the
detestation in which the character of Mary is holden, may be a beacon to
succeeding monarchs to avoid the rocks of fanaticism!
Bishop
Thornton, suffragan of Dover, was an indefatigable persecutor of the true
Church. One day after he had exercised his cruel tyranny upon a number of pious persons at Canterbury, he came from the chapter-house to Borne, where as he stood on a Sunday
looking at his men playing at bowls, he fell down in a
fit of the palsy, and did not long survive.
After
the latter, succeeded another bishop or suffragen,
ordained by Gardiner, who not long after he had been raised to the see of
Dover, fell down a pair of stairs in the cardinal's chamber at Greenwich, and
broke his neck. He had just received the cardinal's blessing-he could receive
nothing worse.
John
Cooper, of Watsam, Suffolk, suffered by perjury; he
was from private pique persecuted by one Fenning, who suborned two others to
swear that they heard Cooper say, 'If God did not take away Queen Mary, the
devil would.' Cooper denied all such words, but Cooper was a Proestant and a heretic, and therefore he was hung, drawn
and quartered, his property confiscated, and his wife and nine children reduced
to beggary. The following harvest, however, Grimwood of Hitcham,
one of the witnesses before mentioned, was visited for his villainy: while at
work, stacking up corn, his bowels suddenly burst out, and before relief could
be obtained, her died. Thus was deliberate perjury
rewarded by sudden death!
In
the case of the martyr Mr. Bradford, the severity of Mr.
Sheriff
Woodroffe has been noticed-he rejoiced at the death of the saints, and at Mr.
Rogers' execution, he broke the carman's head, because he stopped the cart to
let the martyr's children take a last farewell of him. Scarcely had Mr.
Woodroffe's sheriffalty expired a week, when he was
struck with a paralytic affection, and languished a few days in the most pitable and helpless condition, presenting a striking
contrast to his former activity in the cause of blood.
Ralph
Lardyn, who betrayed the martyr George Eagles, is believed to have been afterward arraigned and hanged in consequence of
accusing himself. At the bar, he denounced himself in these words: "This
has most justly fallen upon me, for betraying the innocent blood of that just
and good man George Eagles, who was here condemned in the time of Queen Mary by
my procurement, when I sold his blood for a little money."
As
James Abbes was going to execution, and exhorting the
pitying bystanders to adhere steadfastly to the truth, and like him to seal the
cause of Christ with their blood, a servant of the sheriff's interrupted him,
and blasphemously called his religion heresy, and the good man a lunatic.
Scarcely however had the flames reached the martyr, before the fearful stroke
of God fell upn the hardened wretch, in the presence
of him he had so cruelly ridiculed. The man was suddenly seized with lunacy,
cast off his clothes and shoes before the people, (as Abbes had done just
before, to distribute among some poor persons,) at the same time exclaiming,
"Thus did James Abbes, the true servant of God, who is saved by I am damned." Repeating this often, the sheriff had him
secured, and made him put his clothes on, but no sooner was he alone, than he tore them off, and exclaimed as before. Being
tied in a cart, he was conveyed to his master's house, and in about half a year
he died; just before which a priest came to attend him, with the crucifix,
etc., but the wretched man bade him take away such trumpery, and said that he
and other priests had been the cause of his damnation, but that Abbes was
saved.
One
Clark, an avowed enemy of the Protestants in King Edward's reign, hung himself
in the Tower of London.
Froling,
a priest of much celebrity, fell down in the street
and died on the spot.
Dale,
an indefatigable informer, was consumed by vermin, and died a miserable
spectacle.
Alexander,
the severe keeper of Newgate, died miserably,
swelling to a prodigious size, and became so inwardly putrid, that none could
come near him. This cruel minister of the law would go to Bonner, Story, and
others, requesting them to rid his prison, he was so much pestered with
heretics! The son of this keeper, in three years after his father's death,
dissipated his great property, and died suddenly in Newgate
market. "The sins of the father," says the decalogue, "shall be
visited on the children." John Peter, son-in-law of Alexander, a horrid
blasphemer and persecutor, died wretchedly. When he affirmed anything, he would
say, "If it be not true, I pray I may rot ere I die." This awful
state visited him in all its loathsomeness.
Sir
Ralph Ellerker was eagerly desirous to see the heart taken out of Adam Damlip,
who was wrongfully put to death. Shortly after Sir Ralph was slain by the
French, who mangled him dreadfully, cut off his limbs, and tore his heart out.
When
Gardiner heard of the miserable end of Judge Hales, he called the profession of
the Gospel a doctrine of desperation; but he forgot that the judge's
despondency arose after he had consented to the papistry. But with more reason
may this be said of the Catholic tenets, if we consider the miserable end of
Dr. Pendleton, Gardiner, and most of the leading persecutors. Gardiner, upon
his death bed, was reminded by a bishop of Peter denying his master,
"Ah," said Gardiner, "I have denied with Peter, but never
repented with Peter."
After
the accession of Elizabeth, most of the Catholic prelates were imprisoned in
the Tower or the Fleet; Bonner was put into the Marshalsea.
Of
the revilers of God's Word, we detail, among many others, the following
occurrence. One William Maldon, living at Greenwich in servitude, was
instructing himself profitably in reading an English primer one winter's
evening. A serving man, named John Powell, sat by, and ridiculed all that
Maldon said, who cautioned him not to make a jest of the Word of God. Powell
nevertheless continued, until Maldon came to certain English Prayers, and read
aloud, "Lord, have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us," etc.
Suddenly the reviler started, and exclaimed, "Lord, have mercy upon
us!" He was struck with the utmost terror of mind, said the evil spirit
could not abide that Christ should have any mercy upon him, and sunk into
madness. He was remitted to Bedlam, and became an
awful warning that God will not always be insulted with impunity.
Henry
Smith, a student in the law, had a pious Protesant
father, of Camben, in Gloucestershire, by whom he was
virtuously educated. While studying law in the middle temple, he was induced to
profess Catholicism, and, going to Louvain, in France, he returned with
pardons, crucifixes, and a great freight of popish toys. Not content with these
things, he openly reviled the Gospel religion he had been brought up in; but
conscience one night reproached him so dreadfully, that in a fit of despair he
hung himself in his garters. He was buried in a lane, without the Christian
service being read over him.
Dr.
Story, whose name has been so often mtnioned in the
preceding pages, was reserved to be cut off by public execution, a practice in
which he had taken great delight when in power. He is supposed to have had a
hand in most of the conflagrations in Mary's time, and
was even ingenious in his invention of new modes of inflicting torture. When
Elizabeth came to the throne, he was committed to prison, but unaccountably
effected his escape to the continent, to carry fire and sword there among the
Protestant brethren. From the duke of Alva, at Antwerp, he received a special
commission to search all ships for contraband goods, and particularly for
English heretical books.
Dr.
Story gloried in a commission that was ordered by Providence to be his ruin,
and to preserve the faithful from his sanguinary cruelty. It was contrived that
one Parker, a merchant, should sail to Antwerp and
information should be given to Dr. Story that he had a quantity of heretical
books on board. The latter no sooner heard this, than he hastened to the
vessel, sought everywhere above, and then went under the hatches, which were
fastened down upon him. A prosperous gale brought the ship to England, and this
traitorous, persecuting rebel was committed to prison, where he remained a
considerable time, obstinately objecting to recant his Anti-christian
spirit, or admit of Queen Elizabeth's supremacy. He alleged, though by birth
and education an Englishman, that he was a sworn subject of the king of Spain,
in whose service the famous duke of Alva was. The doctor being condemned, was
laid upon a hurdle, and drawn from the Tower to Tyburn, where after being
suspended about half an hour, he was cut down, stripped, and the executioner
displayed the heart of a traitor.
Thus
ended the existence of this Nimrod of England.
Chapter 17 - Rise of Protestants in Ireland -
Barbarous Massacre of 1641
Fox's Book of Martyrs - Introduction
Chapter 15 - Scotland Persecuted by Henry VIII.htm