CHAPTER XVIII.

[Illustration: Bust of Socrates.]

History and character of Socrates—Account of his death—Prosecution

of John Huss and Jerome of Prague—Attempt to re–establish prelacy in

Scotland—Brown—Guthrie—Reformation in England—Account of Rowland Taylor.

By strictly adhering to our intention of bringing down Greek history

to the close of the Peloponnesian war, we should exclude from

this volume an event which in all ages has commanded an unusual

sympathy—the execution of the philosopher Socrates on the false charge

of blaspheming the recognised divinities, and corrupting the young

citizens of his country. But as the life and actions of this remarkable

man belong almost entirely to the period included in this volume,

though his death did not occur until the year B.C. 399, five years

after the capture of Athens, it seems proper to give some account of

him here.

Socrates was the son of Sophroniscus, a sculptor, and himself gained

a livelihood by working at his father’s profession. But he devoted

himself at an early age to the study of philosophy, and by the extreme

simplicity and frugality of his habits was enabled to give up a very

large portion of his time to that pursuit. In youth he diligently

sought instruction, as far as his means permitted, from the best

teachers of those branches of education which were in repute. How soon

he gained notoriety as a public teacher himself, is not determined: but

he must have been known before the ‘Clouds’ of Aristophanes, in which

he is a leading character, was acted, B.C. 423. His conduct, however,

was very different from that of the professed teachers for pay, who, at

the time of which we speak, were numerous, and if successful, wealthy

and influential. He gave no regular lectures in stated periods and

places, he required no money from those who attended upon him, and

indeed accepted no reward, either from those who heard him in public

or those with whom he familiarly associated: private instruction,

as a paid teacher, he refused to give, though his conversation was

habitually directed to the objects of his public teaching. According to

Xenophon,[179] he was always in public; in the morning he was found in

frequented walks, or in the _gymnasia_ or places of public exercise; he

visited the agora, whenever it was likely to be fullest; he was seen

in the evening, where–ever he was likely to meet with the greatest

number of persons. Instead of saying that he gave no regular lectures,

it would be more correct to say that he never lectured at all: his

usual course was to entrap the person upon whom he chose to exercise

his dialectic powers, into a conversation, in its outset probably

of the most commonplace and unalarming description; and then, by a

series of skilfully contrived questions, to lead him, if a pretender

to knowledge, to expose his presumption, and ignorance of what he

professed to know; or he would take a person confessedly ignorant of

the things to be discussed, and lead him step by step in a succession

of questions, until he obtained out of the respondent’s mouth the

result at which he, the interrogator, wished to arrive.

It would be out of place to enter here upon the discussion of the

abstruse question, how far and in what respects Socrates ought to be

considered as the founder of a new school of philosophy.[180] Indeed to

ascertain exactly what he did teach, is not now possible. Our knowledge

of him is derived almost exclusively from two of his pupils, Plato

and Xenophon; for all his instructions were oral; he wrote nothing.

Now the memoirs (Memorabilia) of Xenophon exhibit “not the whole

character of Socrates, but only that part of it which belonged to the

sphere of the affections and of social life, and which bore upon the

charges brought against him.”[181] In respect of the more extensive

and abstruse writings of Plato, it is to be said, that though we may

be satisfied that his Socrates, as a whole, is a faithful portrait,

yet it is hardly possible to determine exactly what belongs to the

master, and what has been deduced from, and engrafted on the doctrines

of the master by the scholar. For what Plato teaches, he teaches under

the name of Socrates: he advances nothing as his own, and on his own

authority.[182] It is easy however, and sufficient for our present

purpose, to state the grounds upon which Socrates has commanded the

undying love and admiration, not of the learned only, but of all

good men. There is a well–known passage of Cicero, which says, “that

Socrates first drew down philosophy from heaven, and settled it in

cities, and even introduced it into our homes, and made it inquire of

life, and morals, and good and bad things.”[183] It is to be understood

from this, not that Socrates was the first moral teacher, but that

whereas earlier philosophers had directed their attention chiefly to

physical and theological questions of the most unfathomable kind, such

as the nature, form, and essence of divinity, the nature of matter,

the origin and constitution of the universe, &c.; his instructions, on

the contrary, were chiefly directed towards explaining the duties of

life, and the principles on which the conduct of men in their social

relations ought to be regulated. Nor is it impossible that Cicero’s

phrase may have been suggested, in some degree, by the novel style

of language and illustration which Socrates used, of which we shall

presently speak more at length. To physical studies, Socrates, like

his predecessors, had once been deeply addicted. Failing to arrive at

any certain conclusions, he ceased to apply himself to such pursuits,

and bent his own and his pupils’ attention to questions more nearly

connected with our social and moral duties; holding, probably, not that

these abstruse inquiries were pernicious, or unworthy the attention

of a philosopher, but that they ought to be postponed until the

understanding was enlightened upon things bearing directly upon the

duties and business of life.[184] Against those who doubted or denied

the existence of a God, he maintained most ably that existence, and

the incorporeal and immortal nature of the soul. In his disputes with

the sophists[185] and sceptics, he availed himself of a readiness

and dexterity in argument superior to their own; and drawing them by

an artful series of questions into inconsistencies and absurdities,

exposed at once their arrogance and the falseness of their views.

He stated and enforced a system of morality and religion purer and

loftier than that of the Pythagoreans (the purest sect of antecedent

philosophers); but unlike them, he was accessible to all, clear in

all his statements, as far as possible, and ready to explain what was

not understood. Ever earnest in recommending temperance, benevolence,

piety, justice, and showing that man’s happiness and dignity are

determined by his mind and not his fortunes, by virtue and wisdom, not

by wealth and rank, his own life was the best example of his precepts.

His honesty as a public functionary, we have seen tested in the

prosecution of the Athenian generals after the battle of Arginusæ: his

private conduct was no less exemplary. Barefooted and poorly clad, he

associated with the rich and gay as with the needy, in the same spirit

of cheerful goodwill: his advice and instructions were given to all

without fee or reward, for his spirit was rigidly independent, and if

he possessed little, he wanted less.

Such is a sketch of Socrates, as he is commonly drawn in history,

and known to those who are not read in the Greek language. We have

endeavoured not to exaggerate his merits; nor must it be attributed

to a desire to detract from them, if we proceed to describe the

social Socrates in a light which may surprise, and probably startle,

many.[186] The portrait of the philosopher is, indeed, too generally

known to permit them to ascribe to him that elevated cast of

countenance which we associate in our minds with a character such as

that just drawn: but they have most likely regarded him as sedate,

dignified, and decorous in his manners and conduct. The picture, as

we have it from his contemporaries, does not exactly accord with

such a notion. A full conviction that what is good is in its nature

unalterable, and therefore cannot consist in anything perishable, had

led him to esteem what are commonly thought the advantages of life,

such as health, riches, pleasure, power, unfit to be the chief objects

of our desires, or motives of our actions; and he showed this in his

own person by an extreme neglect of the usual luxuries, and even

comforts of life. And he was fortunate, inasmuch as his self–denying

principles were backed by a robust constitution; so that he was

enabled, when serving as a soldier at the siege of Potidæa, to bear an

unusual severity of cold with an indifference which his fellow–soldiers

attributed to the desire of displaying his own hardihood at their

expense. He went barefoot, even in winter; he used the same clothing,

winter and summer; he eschewed the favourite Athenian luxury of

unguents, and seldom indulged in that other favourite luxury, the bath.

The same eccentricity displayed itself in other parts of his conduct.

While serving in the camp before Potidæa, he is said to have stood

motionless for a day, from sunrise to sunrise, engaged in meditation.

The peculiarity of his personal appearance[187] was well qualified

to attract notice, and set off his singular habits: and some of his

habits seem better suited to his personal appearance than to his real

character; for in his conversation (as it is reported by Plato), he

assumed a licence which has given birth to imputations against him,

at variance with the purity of morals which he inculcated, and which

the concurrent testimony of his followers and biographers asserts

that he practised. His favourite associates were the young, among

whom he was most likely to gain converts to his own opinions, and

accordingly he mixed without scruple in their festivities, and even in

their intemperance; though wine was never seen to affect him, and that

not from abstinence in his potations. The banquet of Plato, in which

Socrates, Alcibiades, Aristophanes, and others are the speakers, ends

with a description of the festivities being broken up late at night,

by the irruption of a party of drunken revellers, “after which things

were no longer carried on regularly, but everybody was compelled to

drink a great quantity of wine. On this (said Aristodemus, the relater)

several of the party went away, but he himself fell asleep, and slept

very abundantly, for the nights were then long. But on awaking towards

daybreak, the cocks then crowing, he saw that the other guests were

either gone or asleep, and that Agathon, Socrates, and Aristophanes

were the only persons awake, and were drinking to the right hand out

of a great bowl. Now Socrates was lecturing them: and the rest of his

discourse, Aristodemus said he did not remember, for being asleep, he

had not been present at the beginning. But the sum of it was, that

Socrates compelled them to confess that it was the province of the

same man to know how to compose comedy and tragedy, and that he who

was by art a tragic poet was a comic poet also. And having been forced

to assent to these things, and that without very clearly understanding

them, Aristodemus said they fell asleep; and first Aristophanes went to

sleep, and then, as the day broke, Agathon. And Socrates, having sent

them to sleep, got up and departed; and going to the Lyceum, washed

himself, as at other times, and spent the whole day there, and so in

the evening went home to rest.”[188]

This is not exactly the sort of scene in which the great teacher of

moral philosophy would be expected to figure; but according to the

best notions we can form it is a characteristic one, whether drawn

literally from the life, or freely coloured by Plato, who, it may be

safely concluded, would not have invented such manners for a master

whom he loved and venerated. This freedom of speech and life, combined

with his personal peculiarities and uncouth and eccentric habits,

led Alcibiades to compare him to the Sileni, in the workshops of

statuaries, rude figures which, on being opened, showed that they

contained inside precious images of the gods.[189] Such a man lay open

to a large share of ridicule, and in the earlier part of his vocation

as a public instructor, a plentiful share of ridicule was bestowed on

him by Aristophanes in his celebrated comedy of the Clouds. At the

same time he was not a person to be rashly attacked; and those who were

most hostile to him, and to whom he was most hostile, especially the

sophists, were for the most part roughly handled, when they ventured

to engage with him in a contest of wits. Few of his followers seem

to have been really attached to him; but those, to their honour and

his, remained faithful and attached both to his person and memory

in no common degree. But many frequented his society for a time

with eagerness, to enjoy his subtlety of discourse, to be amused by

the eminent discomfiture which he usually inflicted on those who

ventured publicly to oppose him, and to profit by the novel style of

reasoning introduced by him, which, if a powerful instrument of truth

when used honestly, was not less adapted, when used skilfully and

unscrupulously, to throw all the notions of a commonplace understanding

into inextricable confusion. It was probably the latter motive which

induced many men eminent in after–life to rank themselves, as we are

told, among his pupils; especially three who are recorded to have

frequented his society, Alcibiades, Theramenes, and Critias; for we

can hardly suppose, from their known characters, that these men, none

of them of fair political fame, however attracted by the talents, and

studious to derive intellectual benefit from the society of Socrates,

were in any degree influenced by the true philosophy which, under

this singular coat of eccentricity, he sought to recommend. And as

Socrates does not seem to have been beloved _in general_, even by

those who sought his company, so among the citizens at large he

obtained none of that gratitude which a life devoted without reward

to the public service should seem likely to inspire, except that

those who volunteer their services notoriously get small thanks for

their pains; especially when those services are directed to enlighten

ignorance, or remove prejudice. Nor were his habits calculated to

conciliate favour. His self–denial and frugality of life seemed like

a tacit reproach to the idle and luxurious, numerous everywhere, and

more than commonly numerous at Athens. Again, the dedication of his

life to gratuitous teaching, as he conducted it, was one of the most

unpopular things about him. If he had given lectures at stated periods

to those who chose to hear him, he might have been endured, but his

life seems to have been a never–ending lecture, which is wearisome

to all people. Even at the banquet he would interrupt the song and

dance, the favourite amusements of the Athenians,[190] in favour of

the argumentative conversations which he loved above all things: and

whether at the banquet or elsewhere, stranger or acquaintance, every

person who came across him was liable to be made subject to his moral

dissecting knife, in a way which few would very patiently submit to.

“You seem to me, O Lysimachus,” says Nicias, in Plato’s Laches, “not

to be aware that whosoever may be closely connected with Socrates in

argument, as if by birth, and may be attracted to him in disputation,

is compelled, though the conversation may begin concerning something

quite different, not to leave off, being led round and round by him in

discourse, before he falls into giving an account of himself, both how

he now lives, and how he has lived in past time; and that when he is

thus engaged, Socrates will not let him go before he has scrutinized

all these things well and fairly. Now I am used to him, and know that I

must go through all this at his hands; and that I shall do so on this

occasion. For I rejoice, O Lysimachus, in the company of this man,

and think it no bad thing to be reminded of what we have done, or are

doing, amiss.”[191]

Not less remarkable than his appearance, and well suited to it, was

the language in which these familiar inquiries of Socrates were

usually clothed. Constant intercourse with all classes, high and low,

had given him a store of familiar illustrations, often more forcible

than elegant, derived from the habits and experience of artificers,

whose peculiar terms of art he loved to introduce in a style which

must have contrasted oddly with the pompous language of the sophists.

Alcibiades thus characterizes his style in the banquet of Plato: “A

man so unlike all others as Socrates, both for himself and for his

manner of conversation, one could hardly find by inquiry, either of

those now living nor of old times; unless one were to liken him, as

I have said, to no man indeed, but to the Silenuses and Satyrs, both

him and his speech. And, in truth, I omitted this in what I said

before, that his speech is very like to the figures of Silenus when

opened. For if a person should wish to hear the speeches of Socrates,

they would appear at first quite ridiculous; in such terms and words

are they clothed outwardly, as if it were in the hide of a saucy

satyr. For he talks of asses and their burdens, and of braziers, and

leather–cutters, and tanners, and always seems to say the same things

through the same medium; so that an unwise or unexperienced man would

laugh at his words. But he who sees them open, and gets at their

inside, will find, first, that they alone, of all discourses, have

meaning within them; then that they are most divine, and contain most

images of virtue in themselves; and reach to the greatest extent, or

rather to everything, which he who wishes to be good and honourable

ought to regard.”[192] Now the bulk of those who came into contact

with Socrates were unwise or inexperienced; therefore they laughed at

him, as Alcibiades said they would; but it is quite as probable that a

large portion, especially of those who were entrapped into the sort of

cross–examination above described, became angry, or, to use a familiar

expression, were bored. We may fairly conjecture that Socrates had

the reputation of being the greatest bore of his day;[193] and this

in the laughter–loving town of Athens, would have been quite enough

to neutralize all notion of gratitude for his persevering attempts

to teach his countrymen that they knew little or nothing, instead of

everything, as they flattered themselves, or at least everything worth

knowing.

Against this man, after he had continued in this singular mode of life

at least twenty–four years (for the date of the Clouds informs us that

he had obtained some notoriety before the year B.C. 423, in which that

comedy was acted), a criminal accusation was brought, B.C. 399, to the

following effect:—“Socrates does amiss, not recognizing the gods which

the state recognizes, and introducing other new divine natures, and he

does amiss in that he corrupts the young.” The originator of the charge

was an obscure person named Melitus, (Schleiermacher reads Meletus,) a

poet, and a bad one; but he was joined by Lycon, an orator,[194] and

Anytus, a man of wealth and consideration in Athens. The cause of that

enmity which led to this prosecution is nowhere clearly explained.

Mr. Mitford and Mr. Mitchell, who both entertain a sort of horror for

democracy, attribute his condemnation to his known dislike of that form

of government. With this statement, as a matter of belief, we have

no ground of quarrel; if stated as a matter of fact, we know of no

direct authority to support it.[195] In the apology of Plato, Socrates

says, that his three accusers attacked him, “Melitus being my enemy

on account of the poets, but Anytus on account of the artificers and

politicians, and Lycon on account of the orators.”[196] This passage

would rather suggest the notion of private enmity, which is in some

degree confirmed by another passage in the apology of Xenophon, where

Socrates refers the dislike of Anytus, to a comment made on his style

of bringing up his son.[197] The causes of hatred ascribed to Melitus

and Lycon must be explained,—the one by Socrates’ avowed contempt for

the fictions of poets; the other to his equally avowed abhorrence of

that system of instruction practised by the sophists; of which one,

and that the most popular branch, was the teaching oratory as an art,

by which any person could be enabled to speak on any subject, however

ignorant concerning the real merits of it. This desire to remove

Socrates existing, whatever its origin, it could not be gratified

without finding some plausible ground to go upon. Nothing could be

objected to his actions; as a soldier he had distinguished himself for

bravery; as a public officer he had shown inflexible integrity, when

the infamous vote was passed for putting to death the generals who won

the battle of Arginusæ;[198] and on another occasion, as a citizen,

he had refused, when ordered to apprehend Leon of Salamis,[199] at

the hazard of life, to perform an act contrary to the laws. The real

or alleged character of his philosophy and teaching then was the

only handle against him. Of this, we have already said enough in the

beginning of this chapter to show that it was difficult to find just

ground of complaint against it. But to invent false charges is never

difficult; and those which came readiest to hand were the same, to a

certain extent, as Aristophanes, in ignorance or wantonness, had long

before brought against him. “What,” he says in the Apology, “do my

accusers say? It is this, ‘Socrates acts wickedly, and with criminal

curiosity investigates things under the earth, and in the heavens. He

also makes the worse to be the better argument, and he teaches these

things to others.’ Such is the accusation; for things of this kind you

also have yourselves seen in the comedy of Aristophanes: for there

one Socrates is carried about, who affirms that he walks upon the air,

and idly asserts many other trifles of this nature; of which things

however I neither know much nor little.”[200] If we are to take this

literally, it involves the charge of not believing in any gods at

all, for such is the character of Socrates as given in the Clouds; a

charge the falsity of which is amply proved both by Xenophon and Plato

in their respective apologies. The charge of introducing new deities

refers to the dæmon, or divine nature, by which Socrates professed to

be guided in his conduct from a child, and which manifested itself by

an internal voice, which never suggested anything, but very frequently

warned him from that which he was about to do. False, however, as the

charge against him was in all respects, Socrates appears to have felt

that his condemnation was certain, and to have taken no pains either

to avert it or to escape. The orator Lysias is said to have composed

a laboured speech which he offered to the philosopher to be used as

his defence, but he declined it. His trial came on before the court of

Heliæa, the most numerous tribunal in Athens, in which a body of judges

sat, fluctuating in number, but usually consisting of several hundreds,

chosen by lot from among the body of the citizens. It was not therefore

to a bench of judges such as we are used to see them, bred to the law,

and presumed at least to be dispassionate and unprejudiced, but to a

popular assembly, that he had to plead. Nevertheless, he abstained

studiously from every means of working on the passions, even to the

usual method of supplication and moving pity by the introduction of his

weeping family. Such appeals he thought unbecoming his own character,

or the gravity of a court of justice, in which the question of the

guilt or innocence of a prisoner ought alone to be regarded. Judgment,

as he expected, was pronounced against him, though only by a majority

of three. By the Athenian law, the guilt of an accused person being

affirmed by the judges, a second question arose concerning the amount

of his punishment. The accuser, in his charge, stated the penalty which

he proposed to inflict; the prisoner had the privilege of speaking in

mitigation of judgment, and naming that which he considered adequate to

the offence. Socrates, at this stage of his trial, still preserved the

same high tone.[201] If, he said, I am to estimate my own punishment,

it must be according to my merits; and as these are great, I deserve

that reward which is suited to a poor man who has been your benefactor,

namely, a public maintenance in the Prytaneium.[202] Death, he said,

he did not fear, not knowing whether it were a change for the better

or the worse. Imprisonment and exile he esteemed worse than death, and

being persuaded of his own innocence, he would never be party to a

sentence of evil on himself. To a fine, if he had money to pay it, he

had no objection, since the loss of the money would leave him no worse

off than before; and he was able to pay a _mina_ of silver (about 4_l._

English), he would assess his punishment at that sum: or rather, at

thirty minæ, as Plato and three other of his disciples expressed a wish

to become his sureties to that amount.

This was not a line of conduct likely to excite pity, and sentence of

death was passed by a larger majority than before. He again addressed

a short speech to his judges, in which he tells them, that for the

sake of cutting off a little from his life, already verging on the

grave, they had incurred and brought on the city a lasting reproach,

and that he might have escaped, if he would have condescended to use

supplications and lamentations. Of his mode of defence, however, he

repented not, seeing that he had rather die, having so spoken, than

live by the use of unworthy methods; and that to escape death was far

less difficult than to avoid baseness. He concluded by an address to

the judges, who had voted for his acquittal, stating the grounds of

his hopes that death would be a change for the better; the first of

which is, that the dæmon had never opposed or checked his intended line

of conduct during the whole of these proceedings, nor in his speeches

had it ever stopped him from saying anything that he meant to say,

as it was used often to do in conversation: from which he inferred,

that his invisible guide had approved of all that he did, and that

therefore a good thing was about to happen to him. Death, he said, was

either insensibility, or a migration of the soul: in the former case,

as compared with life, he esteemed it a change for the better; in the

latter, if the general belief was true, what greater good could there

be than to meet and enjoy the society of the great men of antiquity?

Urging, therefore, these just judges to look confidently towards death,

and to believe that to a good man, dead or alive, no real harm can

happen; he concludes, “It is time that we should depart, I to die, you

to live; but which of us to the better thing, is known to the Divinity

alone.”

Death usually followed close upon condemnation: but the death of

Socrates was delayed by an Athenian usage of great antiquity, said to

have been instituted in commemoration of the deliverance of Attica by

Theseus from the tyranny of Minos. Every year the sacred ship in which

Theseus had sailed to Crete, was despatched with offerings to the

sacred island of Delos; and in the interim between its departure and

return no criminals were ever put to death. Socrates was condemned the

evening before its departure, and consequently he was respited until

its return—a period of thirty days. During this time his friends had

access to him; and the dialogues of Plato, entitled Criton and Phædon,

purport to be the substance of conversations held by him towards the

close of this time. If he had been willing to escape, the gaoler was

bribed and the means of escape prepared; but this was a breach of the

laws which he refused to countenance, and he still thought, as he had

said in his speech, exile to be worse than death. On the last day of

his life, when his friends were admitted at sunrise, they found him

with his wife and one child. These where soon dismissed, lest their

lamentations should disturb his last interview with his friends and

pupils: and he commenced a conversation which speedily turned on the

immortality of the soul, the arguments for which, as they could best

be developed by one of the acutest of human intellects, without the

assistance of revelation, are summed up in that celebrated dialogue,

the Phædon, which professes to relate all the events of this last day

of the philosopher’s life. It concludes as follows:—

“When he had thus spoken, ‘Be it so, Socrates,’ said Criton; ‘but

what orders do you leave to these who are present, or to myself,

either respecting your children, or anything else, in the execution of

which we should most gratify you?’ ‘What I always do say, Criton (he

replied), nothing new: that if you pay due attention to yourselves,

do what you will, you will always do what is acceptable to myself, to

my family, and to your ownselves, though you should not now promise

me anything. But if you neglect yourselves, and are unwilling to

live following the track, as it were, of what I have said both now

and heretofore, you will do nothing the more, though you should now

promise many things, and that with earnestness.’ ‘We shall take care

therefore,’ said Criton, ‘so to act. But how would you be buried?’

‘Just as you please (said he), if you can but catch me, and I do

not elude your pursuit.’ And at the same time gently laughing, and

addressing himselfto us, ‘I cannot persuade Criton,’ he said, ‘my

friends, that I am that Socrates who now disputes with you, and

methodizes every part of the discourse; but he thinks that I am he whom

he will shortly behold dead, and asks how I ought to be buried. But all

that long discourse which some time since I addressed to you, in which

I asserted that after I had drunk the poison I should no longer remain

with you, but should depart to certain felicities of the blessed, this

I seem to have declared to him in vain, though it was undertaken to

console both you and myself. Be surety, therefore, for me to Criton, to

the reverse of that, for which he became surety for me to the judges;

for he was my bail that I should remain; but be you my bail that I

shall not remain when I die, but shall depart hence, that Criton may

bear it the more easily, and may not be afflicted when he sees my

body burnt or buried as if I were suffering some dreadful misfortune;

and that he may not say at my interment, that Socrates is laid out,

or carried out, or is buried. For be well assured of this, my friend

Criton, that when we speak amiss, we are not only blameable as to our

expressions, but likewise do some evil to our souls. But it is fit to

be of good heart, and to say that my body will be buried, and to bury

it in such manner as may be most pleasing to yourself, and as you may

esteem it most agreeable to our laws.’”

When he had thus spoken, he arose, and went into another room, that

he might wash himself, and Criton followed him: but he ordered us to

wait for him. We waited therefore accordingly, discoursing over, and

reviewing among ourselves what had been said; and sometimes speaking

about his death, how great a calamity it would be to us; and sincerely

thinking that we, like those who are deprived of their fathers, should

pass the rest of our life in the condition of orphans. But when he had

washed himself, his sons were brought to him (for he had two little

ones, and one older), and the women belonging to his family likewise

came in to him: but when he had spoken to them before Criton, and had

left them such injunctions as he thought proper, he ordered the boys

and women to depart, and he himself returned to us. And it was now

near the setting of the sun; for he had been away in the inner room

for a long time. But when he came in from bathing he sat down, and did

not speak much afterwards: for then the servant of the Eleven[203]

came in, and standing near him, “I do not perceive that in you,

Socrates,” said he, “which I have taken notice of in others; I mean

that they are angry with me, and curse me, when, being compelled by the

magistrates. I announce to them that they must drink the poison. But,

on the contrary, I have found you to the present time to be the most

generous, mild, and best of all the men that ever came into this place;

and therefore I am well convinced that you are not angry with me, but

with the authors of your present condition, for you know who they are.

Now, therefore (for you know what I came to tell you), farewell; and

endeavour to bear this necessity as easily as possible.” And at the

same time, bursting into tears, and turning himself away, he departed.

But Socrates, looking after him, said, “And thou, too, farewell;

and we shall take care to act as you advise.” And at the same time,

turning to us, “How courteous,” he said, “is the behaviour of that man!

During the whole time of my abode here, he has visited me, and often

conversed with me, and proved himself to be the best of men; and now

how generously he weeps on my account! But let us obey him, Criton, and

let some one bring the poison, if it is bruised; and if not, let the

man whose business it is, bruise it.” “But, Socrates,” said Criton,

“I think that the sun still hangs over the mountains, and is not set

yet. And at the same time I have known others who have drunk the poison

very late, after it was announced to them; who have supped and drunk

abundantly. Therefore, do not be in such haste, for there is yet time

enough.” Socrates replied, “Such men, Criton, act fitly in the manner

which you have described, for they think to derive some advantage by so

doing; and I also with propriety shall not act in this manner. For I do

not think I shall gain anything by drinking it later, except becoming

ridiculous to myself through desiring to live, and being sparing of

life, when nothing of it any longer remains. Go, therefore,” said he,

“be persuaded, and comply with my request.”

Then Criton hearing this, gave a sign to the boy that stood near him;

and the boy departing, and having stayed for some time, came back with

the person that was to administer the poison, who brought it pounded in

a cup. And Socrates, looking at the man, said, “Well, my friend (for

you are knowing in these matters), what is to be done?” “Nothing (he

said) but, after you have drunk it, to walk about, until a heaviness

takes place in your legs, and then to lie down: this is the manner in

which you have to act.” And at the same time he extended the cup to

Socrates. And Socrates taking it—and indeed, Echecrates—with great

cheerfulness, neither trembling, nor suffering any change for the

worse in his colour or countenance, but as he was used to do, looking

up sternly[204] at the man. “What say you,” he said, “as to making a

libation from this potion? may I do it or not?” “We only bruise as

much, Socrates,” he said, “as we think sufficient for the purpose.” “I

understand you,” he said; “but it is both lawful and proper to pray

to the gods that my departure from hence thither may be prosperous:

which I entreat them to grant may be the case.” And so saying, he

stopped, and drank the poison very readily and pleasantly. And thus

far indeed the greater part of us were tolerably well able to refrain

from weeping: but when we saw him drinking, and that he had drunk

it, we could no longer restrain our tears. And from me indeed, in

spite of my efforts, they flowed, and not drop by drop;[205] so that

wrapping myself in my mantle, I bewailed myself, not indeed for his

misfortune, but for my own, considering what a companion I should be

deprived of. But Criton, who was not able to restrain his tears, was

compelled to rise before me. And Apollodorus, who during the whole time

prior to this had not ceased from weeping, then wept aloud with great

bitterness, so that he infected all who were present except Socrates.

But Socrates, upon seeing this, exclaimed, “What are you doing, you

strange men! In truth, I principally sent away the women lest they

should produce a disturbance of this kind; for I have heard that it is

proper to die among well–omened sounds.[206] Be quiet, therefore, and

maintain your fortitude.” And when we heard this, we were ashamed, and

restrained our tears. But he, when he found during his walking about

that his legs became heavy, and had told us so, laid himself down on

his back. For the man had told him to do so. And at the same time he

who gave him the poison, touching him at intervals, examined his feet

and legs. And then pressing very hard on his foot, he asked him if

he felt it. But Socrates answered that he did not. And after this he

pressed his thighs, and thus, going upwards, he showed us that he was

cold and stiff. And Socrates also touched himself, and said that when

the poison reached his heart he should then depart. But now the lower

part of his body was almost cold; when uncovering himself (for he was

covered), he said (and these were his last words), “Criton, we owe a

cock to Æsculapius. Discharge this debt therefore for me, and do not

neglect it.” “It shall be done,” said Criton; “but consider whether

you have any other commands.” To this inquiry of Criton he made no

reply; but shortly after moved himself, and the man uncovered him. And

Socrates fixed his eyes; which, when Criton perceived, he closed his

mouth and eyes. “This, Echecrates, was the end of our companion; a man,

as it appears to me, the best of those whom we were acquainted with at

that time, and besides this, the most prudent and just.”[207]

[Illustration]

Such is the narration which Cicero professed himself unable to read

without tears. Its celebrity and beauty will, we hope, be received as

a sufficient excuse for giving this version of a passage which, as a

whole, is little known in an English dress; for we must confess, that

while history, both ancient and modern, abounds in events analogous in

the nature of their interest to the death of Socrates, we find none

which, strictly speaking, can be regarded as parallels to it. This

arises in part from our hardly knowing whether to refer his prosecution

and condemnation to private hatred; or to the enmity of the sophists,

and the powerful party which supported them; or to the genuine zeal of

religious bigotry; or to a political fear that the doctrines taught

by Socrates were calculated to breed up a set of men in too little

respect for the democracy. All these causes have been assigned; and

whatever the motive which influenced his accusers, all may have had

their influence on the judges who condemned him, as well as that

unworthy pride which is expressly mentioned by Xenophon[208] as having

prevented the acquittal of his master. Whether therefore we seek our

instances among civil or religious persecutions, we shall scarcely find

anything strictly analogous to the death of Socrates; and as we have

said, it is here introduced more for the beauty of the narrative than

for the sake of comparison. To that beauty, and to the talents of the

historian, Socrates and his resignation owe no small share of their

extraordinary celebrity. It is well remarked by Mitford, that though

“the magnanimity of Socrates surely deserves admiration, yet it is not

that in which he has most outshone other men. The circumstances of Lord

Russell’s fate were far more trying. Socrates, as we may reasonably

suppose, would have borne Lord Russell’s trial: but with Bishop Burnet

for his eulogist, instead of Plato and Xenophon, he would not have had

his present splendid fame.”[209]

The power of meeting an inevitable death with firmness and composure,

is so far from being uncommon, that our interest in examples of it

might be supposed to be deadened by their frequent occurrence. It is to

be found, the outward show of it at least, in all stations, from the

martyr for religion or patriotism, down to the humble and profligate

sufferer who forfeits his life as a convicted felon. The fancied gaiety

of Captain Macheath is as true to nature as the cheerfulness of Sir

Thomas More; and the iron resolution of the murderer Thurtell enabled

him to face death as composedly as Charles I. or Algernon Sidney.

Still we do read with eagerness and admiration of More’s cheerful

jocularity on the scaffold, of the holy resignation of Latimer, and the

high–souled, yet tender and womanly deportment of Lady Jane Grey. The

subject seems to possess an interest not easily exhausted. Historians

therefore have seldom thought the last hours of great men unworthy

of notice: and the constancy and dying professions of those who have

laid down their lives for their political or religious opinions,

have always been eagerly treasured up by friends and followers, as

evidences both of the sincerity and truth of their belief. Yet such

evidence is doubtful even in respect of the former, and null in respect

of the latter; for there never perhaps was a cause important enough

to challenge persecution, which did not find persons ready to suffer

martyrdom for its sake.

In selecting the examples which occupy the rest of this chapter,

it has been endeavoured to take such as, relating to important and

spirit–stirring seasons, are yet likely not to be familiar in their

details to all our readers. We do not profess that they will bear a

close comparison with the prosecution of Socrates; on the contrary, we

may here again express our belief that nothing can be found analogous

either to the character or the history of that extraordinary man.

Nor shall we attempt to make out a resemblance where no real one

exists. The design of this work will be sufficiently fulfilled, if the

following passages of history shall appear interesting: the lessons

which they convey cannot be otherwise than profitable. The first and

third refer to persecutions purely religious in their character; the

second refers to what, under the appearance of a religious persecution,

was in fact quite as much a plot against civil liberty.

The first embraces a short sketch of the history and death of two

among the most eminent of the early Reformers, John Huss, and Jerome

of Prague. John Huss, or rather John of Hussinetz (for he derived his

name, according to a common usage of that time, from the place of his

birth), was a Bohemian priest, educated at the University of Prague.

His talents, and the simplicity and severity of his life, raised

him through subordinate stations to the high office of Rector of the

University. By some means, the nature of which is not quite clear, the

opinions and works of our venerable Wiclif, the first translator of

the Bible into the English tongue, were conveyed into Bohemia towards

the close of the fourteenth century. They struck deep root in that

soil: a circumstance to be attributed in no small degree to the effect

produced by Wiclif’s character and doctrines upon the mind of Huss;

who conceived so deep a veneration for his preceptor, that in his

sermons to the people in the chapel of Bethlehem (a chapel endowed by a

pious citizen of Prague, to enable two preachers to address the lower

orders in the Bohemian tongue), he is said often to have addressed his

earnest vows to Heaven, that “whensoever he should be removed from

this life, he might be admitted to the same regions where the soul of

Wiclif resided; since he doubted not that he was a good and holy man,

and worthy of a habitation in heaven.”[210] Already eminent for his

philosophical attainments, Huss had obtained another kind of celebrity,

so early as the year 1405, by these sermons, in which he inveighed

powerfully against the extortions and corruptions by which the papal

hierarchy had disfigured the purity of Christian faith. He continued to

preach, unchecked, till the year 1409, when the Archbishop of Prague

commenced open war on the new doctrines, by ordering all members of

the university who possessed Wiclif’s writings to bring them in,

that those which were found to be heretical might be publicly burnt.

Two hundred volumes are said to have been thus destroyed. Huss, and

other members of the university, appealed to the Pope; but, as might

have been expected, their cause took an unfavourable turn, and the

Archbishop was empowered to suppress the doctrines of Wiclif within his

diocese. Huss, however, with his friend, pupil, and fellow–sufferer,

Jerome of Prague, master of theology in the university, continued to

preach: and the people followed them, in spite of the combination and

determined opposition of the clergy in general. Huss was in consequence

summoned to appear at Rome. He refused to place himself in the power

of the Pope, but sent three deputies to plead his cause. The deputies

were insulted and maltreated, and he himself was declared guilty of

contumacy, and excommunicated. Against this censure he published a

formal protest, in which, after reciting authorities to justify the

step which he was taking, narrating his excommunication, and explaining

the injustice and informality of the proceedings under which he was

condemned, he concludes, “It is therefore manifest that, none of these

conditions being fulfilled in my case, I am acquitted before God of

the crime of contumacy, and am unbound by a pretended and frivolous

excommunication. I, John Huss, present this appeal to Jesus Christ, my

master and just judge, who knows and protects the just cause of every

one.”[211]

He continued accordingly to preach at Prague till early in the year

1413, when the Archbishop interposed, and Huss retired, apparently to

the place of his birth. But he continued to write, and his doctrines

were readily received by the Bohemians, though zealously opposed

by the great body of the clergy. On the meeting of the Council of

Constance, in 1414, Huss was called before it, to declare and to

defend his opinions. He had disobeyed the summons of the Pope, but he

recognised the authority of the church in its general council, and

obeyed its call with alacrity. It seems to have been his earnest desire

to explain the grounds of his faith, and to confess his error, if he

could be convinced of error, in those points wherein he differed from

the received doctrines of the church. With this view, before he went

to Constance, he appeared before a synod of the clergy held at Prague,

with the express view of declaring and supporting his peculiar tenets:

and when permission to do so was refused, he affixed placards in places

of public resort, in which he expressed his intention of appearing at

Constance, and invited all who had any complaint to make against him to

appear in support of it.[212]

The charges against Huss may be reduced to two heads (unless indeed

they should rather be considered as one): that he was a follower of

Wiclif, and that he was infected with the “leprosy of the Vaudois.”

The opinions contained under the latter charge are thus enumerated

(with the exception of a few particulars), from Æneas Sylvius,[213]

by Mr. Waddington; it being premised that, of those thus imputed to

him, Huss expressly disavowed many. “The most important of them were

these:—that the Pope is on a level with other bishops; that all priests

are equal, except in regard to personal merit; that souls, on quitting

their bodies, are immediately condemned to eternal punishment, or

exalted to everlasting happiness; that the fire of purgatory has no

existence; that prayers for the dead are a vain device, the invention

of sacerdotal avarice; that the images of God and the saints should

be destroyed; that the orders of mendicants were invented by evil

spirits; that the clergy ought to be poor, subsisting on eleemosynary

contributions; that it is free to all men to preach the word of God;

that any one guilty of mortal sin is thereby disqualified for any

dignity, secular or ecclesiastical; that confirmation and extreme

unction are not among the holy rites of the church; that auricular

confession is unprofitable, since confession to God is sufficient for

pardon; that the use of cemeteries is without reasonable foundation,

and inculcated for the sake of profit; that the world itself is the

temple of the omnipotent God, and that those only derogate from his

majesty who build churches, monasteries, or oratories; that the

sacerdotal vestments, the ornaments of the altars, the cups and

other sacred utensils, are of no more than vulgar estimation; that

the suffrages of the saints who reign with Christ in heaven are

unprofitable and vainly invoked; that there is no holiday excepting

Sunday; that the festivals of the saints should by no means be

observed; and that the fasts established by the church are equally

destitute of divine authority.” Of these doctrines, whether truly or

falsely imputed to Huss, many were of a nature to excite the anger of a

corrupt and avaricious priesthood; and he is said to have added another

still more calculated to prejudice the minds of his judges against him:

he maintained that tithes were strictly eleemosynary, and that it was

free for the owner of the land to withhold or pay them according to the

measure of his charity. He also maintained the right of the laity to

participate in the sacramental cup. It appears from a short treatise,

written in the year 1413, and exposed to public view at the chapel of

Bethlehem, entitled ‘Six Errors,’ that he denied to the priesthood the

power of granting remission of punishment and absolution from sin;

that he condemned the doctrine, that obedience is due to a superior

in all things; that he maintained that an unjust excommunication was

not binding on the person against whom it was levelled; and that he

condemned as heretical the simoniacal offences against canon law, of

which he accused a large portion of the clergy. He also in his sermons

condemned as useless prayers for the souls of the dead, though it

appears in the same sermon that he believed in purgatory; and rebuked

the avarice of the priests, by whom the practice of exacting large

presents, as the price of ransoming souls from purgatory by their

masses, had been invented.[214]

The readiness of Huss to face the Council is not to be ascribed to

ignorance of the risk which he was about to incur. He addressed a

letter to one of his friends, with a request indorsed, that it might

not be opened, except in case of his death: it contained a species of

confession. He also wrote an exhortation to his Bohemian congregation,

in which he urges them to remain constant in the doctrine which he

had faithfully preached to them; expresses his belief, that he should

meet with more enemies at the council than Christ had at Jerusalem;

prays for health and strength to maintain the truth to the last,

resolved to suffer any extremes, rather than betray the Gospel from

any cowardice; requests the prayers of his friends in his behalf; and

speaks very doubtfully of his return, expressing his willingness to

die in God’s cause.[215] Yet if good faith were necessarily inherent

in high rank, he had no reason to fear. The Emperor Sigismond gave

him a safe conduct, pledging himself, and enjoining his subjects, to

facilitate and secure the safe passage of Huss to and fro: and Pope

John XXIII. professed, “though John Huss should murder my own brother,

I would use the whole of my power to preserve him from every injury,

during all the time of his residence at Constance.” He arrived in that

city in November, 1414. But the first proceedings of the Council showed

that anything rather than an impartial hearing was intended. Huss was

committed to close custody, and denied the privilege of being heard by

an advocate, though he lay sick in prison; on the ground that the canon

law allowed no one to undertake the defence of persons suspected of

heresy. Meanwhile, he was harassed with private interrogatories, and

denied a public audience before the assembled Council. This right he

demanded with urgency; and the interference of the Emperor Sigismond,

who seems to have felt in this instance what was due to one who was

placed under his protection, procured it for him. Early in June, 1415,

the Council was convened, to hear the charges against him, and his

defence. The first charge was read, and he began to reply: but when

he appealed to Scripture, as the authority on which his doctrines

were founded, his voice was overwhelmed with clamour. He ceased: but

when he again attempted to speak, the clamour was renewed; and the

assembly adjourned in confusion to June 7, on which day the Emperor

was requested to preside in person. His presence secured more decency

of proceeding. The charges brought against Huss were based chiefly

on his supposed adherence to the doctrines of Wiclif (concerning the

truth of which it was needless to dispute, since they had already

been condemned by the Council, May 4, 1415), and on his opinion as

to the administration of the Eucharist. The arguments which he was

permitted to adduce were received, as before, with shouts of derision,

and the assembly adjourned to the following day. It happened, and the

coincidence was calculated to make a deep impression on the minds of

those who inclined to his doctrines, that on that day an eclipse of

the sun took place, which was total at Prague, and nearly total at

Constance.

His audience was renewed on the following day. Of the opinions imputed

to him, he rejected some, and admitted others; and those which he

did admit, he defended temperately and reasonably. The hearing being

closed, he was required by the Council to retract his errors. It

does not appear that any distinction was made between those which he

admitted and those which he denied: the Council assumed, that he held

certain opinions, and he was called to recant them in the gross, or to

seal his adherence to them by martyrdom. His reply bears testimony to

the purity of his motives and to the humility of his temper. “As to

the opinions imputed to me, which I have never held, those I cannot

retract; as to those which I do indeed profess, I am ready to retract

them, when I shall be better instructed by the Council.” The Emperor,

who had taken an active part in persuading him to save himself by

submission,[216] now avowed his opinion, that “among the errors of

Huss, which had been in part proved, and in part confessed, there

was not one which did not deserve the penal flames;” and “that the

temporal sword ought instantly to be drawn, for the chastisement of

his disciples, to the end that the branches of the tree might perish,

together with its root.” The Council was not slow to inflict the

penalty thus recommended. Huss was remanded to prison: his constancy

was severely tried by a month’s imprisonment, in which every means of

persuasion and solicitation were used to induce him to retract, and

live. But he continued calm and resolved, in a strain of mind equally

removed from pride and stubbornness, and from laxity and indifference,

replying to those who urged him to abjure his belief, that “he was

prepared to afford an example in himself of that enduring patience

which he had so frequently preached to others, and which he relied on

the grace of God to grant him.” He retained this temper to the end;

and in this he may serve as a pattern or a rebuke to many persons,

who, though zealous for the truth, have shown in the character of

martyrs as much of bigotry and intolerance as their persecutors; and

this temper was shown nowhere more beautifully than in one of his last

trials, “if indeed (we quote from Mr. Waddington) we can so designate

the upright counsel of a faithful and virtuous friend, for such was

the circumstance which completed and crowned the history of his

imprisonment; and it should be everywhere recorded, for the honour of

human nature. A Bohemian nobleman, named John of Chlum, had attended

Huss, whose disciple he was, through all his perils and persecutions,

and had exerted throughout the whole affair every method that he could

learn or devise to save him. At length, when every hope was lost,

and he was about to separate from the martyr for the last time, he

addressed him in these terms: ‘My dear master, I am unlettered, and

consequently unfit to counsel one so enlightened as you. Nevertheless,

if you are secretly conscious of any one of those errors which have

been publicly imputed to you, I do entreat you not to feel any shame

in retracting it; but if, on the contrary, you are convinced of your

innocence, I am so far from advising you to say anything against your

conscience, that I exhort you rather to endure every form of torture,

than to renounce anything which you hold to be true.’ John Huss replied

with tears, that God was his witness, how ready he had ever been, and

still was, to retract on oath, and with his whole heart, from the

moment he should be convicted of any error, by _evidence from the Holy

Scripture_.”[217] He confirmed this assertion in a letter, written on

the eve of his execution, to the Senate of Prague, warning them that he

had retracted and abjured nothing, but was ready to abjure and express

his detestation of every proposition extracted from his books which

could be proved contrary to Scripture.

Thus passed the month between his trial and his execution, not in

struggles to avoid, but in preparation to meet his fate. “God,” he

said, “in his wisdom, has reasons for thus prolonging my life.” On the

15th of July, he was brought before the Council for the last time.

He listened on his knees while his sentence was read; and though

it was endeavoured to prevent him from speaking, he asserted from

time to time the falsehood of some of the charges brought against

him. That of obstinacy, for instance, he repelled hardily. “This,”

he said, “I deny boldly. I always have, and do still desire to be

better instructed by Scripture; and assert, that I am so zealous for

the truth, that if by one word I could overthrow the errors of all

heretics, there is no peril which I would not face for that end.”

Against the condemnation of his books he protested, because hitherto

no errors had been shown to exist in them, and because, being chiefly

written in Bohemian, or translated into languages understood by few

of the members, the Council could not read, nor understand, nor, by

consequence, legitimately condemn them. At the close of the sentence,

he called God to witness his innocence, and offered a prayer that his

judges and accusers might find pardon. Nothing then remained but to

proceed to his degradation; and it may not be irrelevant to give a

short account of the forms used in this ceremony, childish as they may

appear. Certain bishops, appointed to perform this office, caused Huss

to be robed in his full sacerdotal vestments, and a cup to be placed in

his hand, as if he were going to perform mass. As they put upon him a

long white robe, named the _aube_, he said, “Our Saviour was clothed,

in mockery, in a white robe, when sent by Herod before Pilate:” and he

made similar reflections as the other ensigns of the sacred functions

were successively put upon him. Being thus dressed, the bishops again

exhorted him to recant; but turning to the people, he declared in a

loud voice, that he never would offend and seduce the faithful by

a declaration so full of hypocrisy and impiety, and thus publicly

protested his innocence. Then the bishops took from him the chalice,

reciting the words, “O cursed Judas, who having forsaken the counsel of

peace, hast entered into that of the Jews, we take away this cup, &c.,”

according to the common formula for degrading a priest. On this, Huss

said aloud, that through the mercy of God, he hoped that day to drink

of that cup in his kingdom. The bishops then took away his sacerdotal

garments, one after the other, pronouncing some malediction at the

removal of each. When they came to obliterate the tonsure, the mark

of priesthood, a ludicrous question arose, whether scissors or razors

should be used; and after a warm debate, it was decided in favour of

the former. His hair was closely cropped, a pyramidal paper cap, an ell

high, painted with figures of devils, and inscribed “Heresiarch,” was

put on his head; and thus attired, the prelates charitably consigned

his soul to the infernal devils.[218] Divested thus of the sacred

character of priesthood, he was delivered over to the secular power,

represented by the Emperor, under whose safe–conduct he had repaired

to Constance, and who had yet openly given his voice for causing the

heretic to expiate his errors by the torments of fire. The Emperor

charged the Elector Palatine with the duty of seeing the penalties

of the law inflicted: and it is said, that a succeeding elector, the

descendant in the fourth generation of the person thus employed, who

was a favourer of the Reformation, and dying childless, witnessed the

extinction of his line, was wont to attribute that misfortune to the

anger of Heaven, punishing in the fourth generation the bigoted and

cruel eagerness with which his ancestor had executed the unholy task

intrusted to him on this occasion.

Huss was immediately conducted to the stake, and suffered his agonizing

death with unshaken firmness. It is told by an old writer of his life,

that the people said, hearing the fervency of his address to God, “We

do not know what this man has done before; but now, we hear him offer

up excellent prayers.” His ashes were carefully collected and cast

into the Rhine, lest they should serve to keep up the affection of his

friends: but the precaution was vain, for we are told[219] that the

very earth of the spot on which he was burnt was collected as a sacred

relic, and carried into Bohemia by his disciples.

Before the fate of Huss was determined, the Council had wreaked a

tardy vengeance on his forerunner and preceptor Wiclif, whose body was

ordered “to be taken from the ground, and thrown far away from the

burial of any church.” After the lapse of thirteen years, the empty

insult was most effectually executed, by disinterring and burning the

reformer’s body, and casting the ashes into a neighbouring brook. The

often quoted words of Fuller on this occasion may be equally well

applied to the good man whose history has just been related:—“The brook

did convey his ashes into Avon; Avon into Severn; Severn into the

narrow seas; they into the main ocean. And thus the ashes of Wiclif are

the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the world over.”

Jerome of Prague has been already mentioned as the most distinguished

among Huss’s followers, and his coadjutor in preaching. He also was

summoned to Constance in the spring of 1415, before Huss had suffered

martyrdom; and it was probably in consequence of witnessing his

companion’s sufferings that he was induced to retract, to condemn in

the strongest terms, as blasphemous and seditious, the tenets which

in his heart he still continued to hold, and to profess his entire

adherence to all the doctrines of the Roman church. Fortunately he

was not left to endure through life the reproaches of conscience;

for the continued enmity and mistaken persecution of his adversaries

conferred a benefit on him which they were far from intending. He was

still retained in confinement, and harassed with fresh charges, though

his retractation had been ample and complete: for there were many who

thought that hostility to the hierarchy could not be expiated except by

blood. At last he obtained a public audience before the Council, on the

23rd of May, 1416; when he recalled his former recantation, confessing

that it had been dictated only by the fear of a painful death. There

is a close coincidence between the history of Jerome, and that of the

father of our English church, Cranmer, who suffered a similar death

in the following century. Both swerved through the influence of fear

from the path of duty: both were punished for their weakness by being

treacherously deprived of that temporal advantage which was the price

of their apostacy; and, being recalled by that mistaken malice to their

duty, both redeemed their virtue, and have obtained eternal honour

in exchange for a short and shameful breathing–time on earth. Poggio

the Florentine, who was a witness of the whole course of Jerome’s

trial, has left a long and interesting account of it in a letter to

Leonardo Aretino, from which it appears that his sympathy had been

strongly excited by the constancy of the sufferer. Though connected

with the highest dignitaries of the church, he writes in such a strain

of admiration, that his friend thought it necessary to warn him of the

danger which he might incur by speaking of a condemned heretic in such

terms. The letter will be found entirely translated in Mr. Shepherd’s

Life of Poggio Bracciolini, from which the following description of

Jerome’s final sufferings is extracted:—“No stoic ever suffered death

with such constancy of mind; when he arrived at the place of execution

he stripped himself of his garments, and knelt down before the stake,

to which he was soon after tied with ropes and a chain. Then great

pieces of wood, intermixed with straw, where piled as high as his

breast. When fire was set to the pile, he began to sing a hymn, which

was scarcely interrupted by the smoke and flame. I must not omit a

striking circumstance, which shows the firmness of his mind. When the

executioner was going to apply the fire behind him, in order that he

might not see it, he said, Come this way, and kindle it in my sight;

for if I had been afraid of it, I should never have come to this

place. Thus perished a man in every respect exemplary, except in the

erroneousness of his faith. I was a witness of his end, and observed

every particular of its process. He may have been heretical in his

notions, and obstinate in persevering in them: but he certainly died

like a philosopher. I have rehearsed a long story; as I wish to employ

my leisure in relating a transaction which far surpasses the events of

ancient history. For neither did Mutius suffer his hand to be burnt

so patiently as Jerome endured the burning of his whole body; nor did

Socrates drink the hemlock as cheerfully as Jerome submitted to the

fire.”

If it were really hoped to purge the dross of heresy from Bohemia by

this fiery ordeal, the result is another lesson to prove the inutility

of combating opinion by violence. The nobility considered the breach of

the Emperor’s safe–conduct as an insult to the kingdom of Bohemia: the

commons, prepared for rebellion against the spiritual dominion of Rome,

and inflamed by the fate of their loved and venerated teachers, broke

into acts of violence. Fresh measures of provocation on each side soon

led to extremities; a crusade was proclaimed against Bohemia by Pope

Martin V., and headed by the Emperor Sigismond; and the quarrel was

thus fairly committed to the arbitration of the sword. Enthusiasm made

up for the apparent inequality of force: the insurgents assumed the

name of Taborites, named the mountain on which they pitched their tents

Tabor, and stigmatized their neighbours by the names of the idolatrous

nations from whom the Israelites won the Holy Land. They often defeated

the armies of the church, and maintained their ground so firmly, that

in 1433 the Council of Basle endeavoured to invite their leaders to

a conference. This attempt at pacification failed; but it taught the

Catholics how to avail themselves of the religious differences which

distracted these enthusiastic men: and in 1436, the church and the

Emperor gained the final ascendency, more by civil discord than by

the sword. But in the fifteenth century, a numerous party in Bohemia

preserved the faith for which Huss and Jerome had suffered, and their

fathers had fought; and received with joy the ampler reformation

preached by Luther.

The second subject which we have proposed to notice belongs to a period

of much interest in British history, that of the fruitless attempt

of Charles II. to re–impose episcopacy upon the Scottish nation. Few

spectacles are more elevating and more improving than the patient

endurance of evil for conscience’ sake even in an individual; and it

is still more impressive, where a multitude are actuated by common

feelings and a common principle. Such was the case with the persecuted

body of the Scottish Presbyterian recusants; and if there be any to

whom the questions, whether a written ritual or extemporaneous prayer

should be used, whether the Episcopal or Presbyterian form of church

government should prevail, appear insufficient grounds of dispute

to justify a civil war, it is to be remembered that in this case the

aggression was entirely on the side of the government; that Charles

II. had more than once taken the Covenant, the mere refusal to abjure

which was now thought worthy of death; that the rebels, if that name

be applicable to them, sought nothing more than liberty to serve God

after their own consciences; and further, that the arbitrary violence

which would have annulled the established church of Scotland, to

substitute another which the bulk of the nation hated, was only one

of that series of mistaken and criminal measures which led to the

expulsion of the House of Stuart from the throne. Upwards of three

hundred ministers were driven from their livings in one day, to derive

a scanty maintenance from their poor but zealous hearers: but these men

neither offered resistance, nor preached rebellion, until they were

debarred from performing their pastoral office. And even when they

and their followers did take arms, it was originally in self–defence,

to protect meetings for the peaceable purpose of divine worship, held

in the wildest recesses of the trackless hills, from the fury of a

most licentious soldiery, which even that strict concealment could

not mitigate or elude. That the better cause was disgraced by some

extravagances and crimes, and that it gave rise in some to a morose and

gloomy spirit of fanaticism, will not surprise any who have considered

the effect of persecution, which, the very converse of mercy, is twice

cursed in its operation, a curse on him who inflicts, as on him who

suffers. Driven to assemble in moss and mountain, girt with their

swords, and prepared to defend life and faith by the strong hand, it

is no wonder if these men turned in preference to the warlike pages of

the sacred records, and in tone, and conduct, and phraseology imitated

the martial leaders and reformers of Judæa, rather than the milder

teachers of the religion which it was their boast to hold fast in its

utmost purity. Continually occupied by the thought of death, engaged

in a constant struggle to subdue their natural fears and affections

into the resolution to serve the Lord after what they deemed the only

true faith, and to abide in him to the uttermost, it is no wonder

that Cameron, Cargill, Peden, and other zealous preachers, whose rude

and stern eloquence roused the Scottish peasant to the indurance of

martyrdom, in many instances lost sight of reason in enthusiasm, and

in some, themselves or their followers, committed acts which rendered

them justly amenable to legal punishment.[220] It forms, however,

no part of our subject to enter into a defence of their conduct or

doctrine. The lofty spirit of resignation in which they met their fate

is the only point in their history which admits of comparison with

the subject–matter of this chapter: and in this respect, the Athenian

philosopher had no advantage over the humblest of these unlettered

peasants. The stories of their resignation, nay of their exultation

in the hour of trial, have been preserved by tradition; and their

scattered graves in the wild moorlands of Southern Scotland are still

regarded with veneration and affection. May it be long before a feeling

dies away, so well calculated to keep alive a hatred of oppression, and

a strong sense of the importance of religion!

There is extant a singular and affecting account of the death of

one of these sufferers, written by Alexander Peden, an enthusiastic

preacher of the Cameronian sect, which is rendered more striking by

the rudeness of the narrative, and the minute circumstantiality of the

details. This is one of the passages which we propose to take from this

portion of our history; the other consists of some extracts relative to

the sufferings and death of one of the most accomplished and discreet,

as well as most pious, of the ministers who suffered during the

persecution under the two last kings of the Stuart family. The former

of these two, by name John Brown, was a small farmer and carrier,

resident at Priesthill, in the parish of Muirkirk, an upland district

on the borders of Ayrshire and Lanarkshire; “a man” says Wodrow, “of

shining piety, who had great measures of solid digested knowledge and

experience, and a singular talent of a most plain and affecting way of

communicating his knowledge to others.” This man was orderly, sedate,

and discreet, and nowise obnoxious to the ruling party, except as a

conscientious and inflexible seceder from the Episcopalian worship

attempted to be imposed. Our tale is taken from a publication entitled

the ‘Life of Mr. Alexander Peden,’ published about the year 1720.[221]

“In the beginning of May, 1685, he (Mr. Alexander Peden) came to the

house of John Brown and Marion Weir, whom he married before he went to

Ireland, where he staid all night, and in the morning, when he took

farewell, he came out of the door, saying to himself, ‘Poor woman, a

fearful morning,’ twice over; ‘A dark misty morning.’ The next morning,

between five and six hours, the said John Brown having performed the

worship of God in his family, was going with a spade in his hand to

make ready some peat ground: the mist being very dark, he knew not

until cruel and bloody Claverhouse compassed him with three troops of

horse, brought him to his house, and then examined him; who, though

he was a man of a stammering speech, yet answered him distinctly and

solidly; which made Claverhouse to examine those whom he had taken to

be his guide through the muirs, if ever they heard him preach. They

answered, No, no; he was never a preacher. He said, ‘If he has not

preached, mickle has he prayed in his time.’ He said to John, ‘Go to

your prayers, for you shall immediately die.’ When he was praying,

Claverhouse interrupted him three times: one time that he stopt him,

he was pleading that the Lord would spare a remnant, and not make a

full end in the day of his anger. Claverhouse said, ‘I gave you time

to pray, and ye are begun to preach:’ he turned about upon his knees

and said, ‘Sir, you know neither the nature of preaching or praying,

that calls this preaching.’ Then continued without confusion; when

ended, Claverhouse said, ‘Take good–night of your wife and children.’

His wife standing by with her child in her arms that she had brought

forth to him, and another child of his first wife’s, he came to her,

and said, ‘Now Marion, the day is come, that I told you would come

when I first spake to you of marrying me.’ She said, ‘Indeed, John, I

can willingly part with you.’ ‘Then,’ he said, ‘this is all I desire,

I have no more to do but to die.’ He kissed his wife and bairns, and

wished purchased and promised blessings to be multiplied upon them, and

his blessing. Claverhouse ordered six soldiers to shoot him:[222] the

most part of the bullets came upon his head, which scattered his brains

on the ground. Claverhouse said to his wife, ‘What thinkest thou of thy

husband now, woman?’ She said, ‘I thought ever much of him, and now

as much as ever.’ He said, ‘It were justice to lay thee beside him.’

She said, ‘If ye were permitted, I doubt not but that your crueltie

would go that length; but how will ye make answer for this morning’s

work?’ He said, ‘To man I can be answerable; and for God, I will take

him in my own hand.’ Claverhouse mounted his horse, and marched, and

left her with the corpse of her dead husband lying there; she set the

bairn upon the ground, and gathered his brains, and tied up his head,

and straighted his body, and covered him in her plaid, and sat down

and wept over him. It being a very desolate place, where never verdure

grew, and far from neighbours, it was some time before any friends came

to her; the first that came was a very fit hand, that old singular

Christian woman in the Cummerhead, named Elizabeth Menzies, three miles

distant, who had been tried with the violent death of her husband at

Pentland, afterwards of two worthy sons, Thomas Weir, who was killed

at Drumclog, and David Steel, who was suddenly shot afterwards when

taken. The said Marion Weir sitting upon her husband’s grave, told me,

that before that, she could see no blood but what she was in danger

to faint; and yet she was helped to be a witness to all this, without

either fainting or confusion, except when the shots were let off, her

eyes dazzled. His corpse was buried at the end of his house, where he

was slain, with this inscription on his grave–stone:—

In earth’s cold bed, the dusty part here lies

Of one who did the earth as dust despise!

Here in this place, from earth he took departure;—

Now he has got the garland of the martyr.

This murder was committed between six and seven in the morning: Mr.

Peden was about ten or eleven miles distant, having been in the fields

all night; he came to the house between seven and eight, and desired to

call in the family, that he might pray amongst them. When praying, he

said, ‘Lord, when wilt thou avenge Brown’s blood? Oh! let Brown’s blood

be precious in thy sight! and hasten the day when thou wilt avenge it,

with Cameron’s, Cargill’s, and many others of our martyrs’ names; and

oh! for that day, when the Lord would avenge all their bloods.’

“When ended, John Muirhead inquired what he meant by Brown’s blood?

He said twice over, ‘What do I mean? Claverhouse has been at the

Priesthill this morning, and has cruelly murdered John Brown: his

corpse was lying at the end of his house, and his poor wife sitting

weeping by his corpse, and not a soul to speak a word comfortably to

her.’”

It is not to be supposed that this atrocity was single or singular

in its nature, or that it and others rest upon doubtful testimony.

“No historical facts,” says Mr. Fox, “are better ascertained than

the account of these instances of cruelty which are to be found in

Wodrow.” And the extent to which they were carried may be appreciated

from the number of military executions or murders recorded by that

author,[223] in the two first months only of the year in which the

above tragedy was enacted. Neither must it be supposed that these were

the unwarranted excesses of a brutal soldiery: the Privy Council, the

chief executive power of Scotland, clearly pointed out the line of

conduct to be pursued in its instructions;[224] and in its dealings

with the prisoners brought before it, showed equally clearly that the

exceeding of their orders in severity would not be harshly construed.

There are few who do not recollect the scene in ‘Old Mortality,’

in which the preacher Macbriar is examined before the Council: and

the fiction does go one step beyond the reality, as detailed in the

authentic pages of Wodrow. Those who did not perish by shot or sword,

had often reason to wish that their sufferings had been ended by the

summary method of military execution. Torture was pitilessly used to

extract confession; and branding, banishment, and hanging, were largely

employed, not only against the violent spirits whom persecution had

driven to assume arms, but against those who offered none but passive

resistance. And this severity was the cause, not the consequence,

of the more violent sects rising in arms: it was the result of a

premeditated scheme to oppress, if not to root out, Presbyterianism,

as tending to keep alive a spirit of independence, civil as well as

religious. With this intention, the ministers and other prominent

persons were first attacked under form of law: it was not until

their firmness proved to be inexpugnable, that the act of assembling

for worship was itself proscribed. Even so early as 1661, Mr. James

Guthrie, one of the most eminent ministers of the Scottish church,

a man of moderation and discretion, as well as zeal, learning, and

piety, was singled out as a victim. Hume’s account of this transaction

is a good specimen of the spirit in which he treats of this period of

history. “It was deemed political to hold over men’s heads for some

time the terror of punishment, till they should have made the requisite

compliances with the new government. Though neither the king’s temper

nor plan of administration led him to severity, some examples, after

such a bloody and triumphant rebellion, seemed necessary; and the

Marquis of Argyle and one Guthrie were pitched upon as the victims....

Guthrie was a seditious preacher, and had personally affronted the

king: his punishment gave surprise to nobody.” On this passage, we have

to observe, that Guthrie was not a person unknown or insignificant,

to be spoken of thus contemptuously (_one Guthrie_); and in denial

the latter statements, to quote the following extract from Wodrow,

whose testimony we do not hesitate to prefer to that of Hume, neither

quoting their authority. “The king himself was so sensible of his

(Guthrie’s) good services to him and his interest when at the lowest,

and of the severity of this sentence, that when he got notice of it,

he asked with some warmth, ‘And what have you done with Mr. Patrick

Gillespie?’ It was answered that Mr. Gillespie had so many friends in

the house, his life could not be taken. ‘Well,’ said the king, ‘if I

had known you would have spared Mr. Gillespie, I would have spared

Mr. Guthrie.’[225] And indeed there was reason for it, as to one

who had been so firm and zealous a supporter of his Majesties title

and interest, and had suffered so much for his continued opposition

to, and disowning of the English usurpation.” And far from being an

insignificant person, whose death might be passed over as a matter of

no account, the greatest pains were taken to induce him to save his

life by[226] making concessions, with the value of which, as coming

from him, the court party were well acquainted. But his offence and

the reason for pursuing him to death are not obscurely hinted at in

the first sentence of our extract from Hume: he had stood up against

invasion of the rights of the Presbyterian kirk, which the king, in

swearing to the Covenant, had bound himself to uphold; and therefore

he was made an example, “to hold over men’s heads the terror of

punishment, till they should have made the requisite compliances with

the new government.” The charge against him was treason and sedition,

founded principally on the language of a petition adopted by a meeting

of ministers, August 23, 1660, of which he was one, and on two

publications, the ‘Western Remonstrance,’ and ‘Causes of God’s Wrath,’

in the sentiments of both of which he expressed his concurrence on his

trial: and in his last speech he acknowledged himself the author of the

latter. From one of his speeches before the parliament, we extract the

following passage, which is worth the attention of those who think that

opinions are to be stifled by violence.

“My lord, my conscience I cannot submit, but this old crazy body, and

mortal flesh I do submit, to do with it whatsoever you will, whether by

death, or banishment, or imprisonment, or anything else; only I beseech

you to ponder well what profit there is in my blood: it is not the

extinguishing of me or many others that will extinguish the Covenant

and work of reformation since the year 1638. My blood, bondage, or

banishment will contribute more for the propagation of those things

than my life or liberty could do, though I should live many years.”[227]

His death, however, was resolved on; and in spite of the vigour of his

defence, and the laxness of the charges against him, on which no lawyer

since the Revolution would have dared to build a charge of constructive

treason, he was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged; which sentence

was carried into effect June 1, 1661. He commenced his dying speech in

these words:—

“Men and brethren, I fear many of you are come hither to gaze, rather

than to be edified by the carriage and last words of a dying man; but

if any have an ear to hear, as I hope some of this great confluence

have, I desire your audience to a few words. I am come hither to lay

down this earthly tabernacle and mortal flesh of mine, and, I bless

God, through his grace, I do it willingly, and not by constraint. I

say, I suffer willingly: if I had been so minded, I might have made a

division, and not been a prisoner; but being conscious to myself of

nothing worthy of death or bonds, I could not stain my innocency with

the suspicion of guiltiness, by my withdrawing; neither have I wanted

opportunities and advantages to escape since I was prisoner,—not by the

fault of my keepers, God knoweth, but otherwise; but neither for this

had I light or liberty, lest I should reflect upon the Lord’s name, and

offend the generation of the righteous: and if some men have not been

mistaken, or dealt deceitfully in telling me so, I might have avoided

not only the severity of the sentence, but also had much favour and

countenance in complying with the courses of the times. But I durst not

redeem my life with the loss of my integrity, God knoweth I durst not;

and that since I was prisoner, he hath so holden me by the hand, that

he never suffered me to bring it in debate in my inward thoughts, much

less to propose or hearken to any overture of that kind. I did judge

it better to suffer than to sin; and therefore I am come hither to lay

down my life this day.”

He proceeded to justify his own loyalty, and the conduct for which

he was condemned, as in no way treasonable or seditious, but a

conscientious upholding of the rights and privileges of the church: and

bearing testimony to the sacredness of the Covenant, and to his own

adherence to it, and to the doctrine and discipline of the Presbyterian

church, he concluded in an exalted strain of piety and thankfulness,

and met his death, according to the testimony of Burnet, above quoted,

with the utmost tranquillity.

“It was very confidently asserted at this time, that some weeks

after Mr. Guthrie’s head had been set up on the Netherbow Port in

Edinburgh, the commissioner’s coach coming down that way, several drops

of blood fell from the head upon the coach, which all their art and

diligence could not wipe off. I have it very confidently affirmed,

that physicians were called, and inquired if any natural cause could

be assigned for the blood dropping so long after the head was put up,

and especially for it not washing out of the leather; and they could

give none. This odd incident beginning to be talked of, and all other

methods being tried, at length the leather was removed, and a new

cover put on: this was much sooner done than the wiping off the guilt

of this great and good man’s blood from the shedders of it, and this

poor nation. The above report I shall say no more of; it was generally

spoken of at the time, and is yet firmly believed by many: at this

distance I cannot fully vouch it as certain; perhaps it may be thought

too miraculous for the age we are now in: but this I will affirm, that

Mr. Guthrie’s blood was of so crying a nature, that even Sir George

Mackenzie was sensible that all his rhetoric, though he was a great

master in that sort, had not been sufficient to drown it, for which

cause he very wisely passed it over in silence.”[228]

This is rather a remarkable instance of a common superstition. The

reader who will consult the original authorities, will be struck by

the elevated tone of joyful anticipation with which the sufferers of

this period almost uniformly met death. See the accounts of King,

Mackail, Renwick, and many others. Compare these deaths with those

of Socrates or Cato, and we have the best exemplification of the

practical difference between Christianity and Heathenism, even in its

purest forms. “The Heathen looked on death without fear, the Christian

exulted.”[229]

The English reader will naturally look in a chapter devoted to the

subjects by which this is occupied, for some account of the persecution

of the reformed church of his own country in the reign of Mary. This

is a period very different in character from that persecution of

the Scottish Presbyterians, which we have just described, but not

inferior in interest. Their stubborn opposition for conscience’ sake

is well contrasted by the mild submission of the English reformers

for conscience’ sake also; as the ascetic lives, and in many cases

the stern and gloomy tenets of the former are contrasted with the

innocent and decent cheerfulness, and more attractive doctrines

encouraged, practised, and preached, by the latter. These differences

may be explained by various causes, arising from a difference of

national character and natural circumstances. The Scotch have always

been a people not lightly moved, but stern in temper, and stubborn

in endurance when roused into action: and their wild country and

defensible fastnesses rendered it easy, in the first instance, to

withdraw from vexatious interference, in the second, when pursued, to

oppose violence successfully. And besides, the resolute resistance of

the Cameronians and others was the fruit of a spirit of independence

of long growth, fostered by long contests with the crown, both in

England and Scotland; and the civil wars had effectually broken

down the notion, that it was forbidden to take up arms, even for

conscience’ sake, against the powers that be. That their conduct, if

not always judicious, was in its main principles worthy of honour and

admiration, we have already stated to be our opinion: but we are not on

that account less ready to admire the calm submission of the English

reformers, coupled with their resolute upholding of the truth. The

Scottish zealots had studied the Old Testament till they had imbibed

rather too much of the Jewish temper: the conduct of the fathers of our

church was full of the very spirit of Christianity. The latter were not

more distinguished than the former for uprightness of life, devotion to

the truth, as they received it, or readiness to seal their adherence

to it by death. But they had the advantage in depth of learning, in a

more temperate gravity of conduct, and soundness of judgment: and it

is on these accounts, as well as by reason of the more eminent station

which they filled in the eyes of the world, that they have always been

reverenced as shining lights; while the persecuted sects of Scotland

were long regarded by those who were but generally acquainted with that

period of our history, either with hatred or contempt in proportion

as the cruel extravagances of a few, or the so–called moroseness, and

puritanical precision of the many, made most impression.

The stories of Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley, and others high in

rank, are familiarly known even to children, in whose limited

circle of historical reading the horrors of this period have been

suffered to hold too prominent a place. Less known to fame, yet not

inferior to any, it should seem, in the qualities of the heart and

the understanding, was he whose memorable death we have selected for

narration; and in whose rustic simplicity of deportment, and somewhat

coarse jocularity, and grotesque contour of person (a circumstance

which is to be inferred from various parts of the narrative), we trace

a resemblance, slight, and unimportant, yet not uninteresting, to the

Athenian philosopher, as well as in his care, retained to the last,

for the feelings and welfare of his friends, and his resolute refusal

to compromise the goodness of his cause by flight.

“Of Rowland Taylor (says Bishop Heber) neither the name nor the

misfortunes are obscure. He was distinguished among the divines of the

Reformation for his abilities, his learning, and piety; and he suffered

death at the stake on Aldham Common, near Hadleigh, in the third year

of Queen Mary, amid the blessings and lamentations of his parishioners,

and with a courageous and kindly cheerfulness which has scarcely its

parallel, even in those days of religious heroism.”

“There is nothing indeed more beautiful, in the whole beautiful Book

of Martyrs, than the account which Fox has given of Rowland Taylor,

whether in the discharge of his duty as a parish priest, or in the

more arduous moments when he was called on to bear his cross in the

cause of religion. His warmth of heart, his simplicity of manners,

the total absence of the false stimulants of enthusiasm or pride, and

the abundant overflow of better and holier feelings, are delineated,

no less than his courage in death, and the buoyant cheerfulness with

which he encountered it, with a spirit only inferior to the eloquence

and dignity of the Phædon. Something, indeed, must be allowed for the

manners of the age, before we can be reconciled to the coarse vigour

of his pleasantry, his jocose menace to Bonner, and his jests with the

Sheriff on his own stature and corpulency. But nothing can be more

delightfully told than his refusal to fly from the Lord Chancellor’s

officers; his dignified yet modest determination to await death in the

discharge of his duty; and his affectionate and courageous parting with

his wife and children. His recollection, when led to the stake, of

‘the blind man and woman,’ his pensioners, is of the same delightful

character; nor has Plato anything more touching than the lamentation of

his parishioners over his dishonoured head and long white beard, and

his own meek rebuke to the wretch who drew blood from that venerable

countenance. Let not my readers blame me for this digression. They

will have cause to thank me, if it induces them to refer to a history

which few men have ever read without its making them ‘sadder and

better.’”[230]

Rowland Taylor, “a right perfect divine,” and parish priest, according

to the manners of the time, was chaplain to Archbishop Cranmer; but

on being appointed rector of Hadleigh, a small town in Suffolk, he

quitted his patron’s family, to devote himself entirely to the care of

his living; and by his diligent study, and preaching, and attention

to the temporal as well as spiritual welfare of his people, he both

recommended the doctrines which he taught, and acquired the esteem and

love of his parishioners in an uncommon degree. Such was his occupation

and character during the reign of Edward VI.: on the accession of Mary,

he was one of the first to suffer for his adherence to the church and

to the laws, in consequence of his resistance to the attempts made

to reinstate Popish priests and Popish ceremonies in the parochial

churches. In this scheme to reconcile England to the Pope, the

renegade Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and the brutal and ferocious

Bonner, Bishop of London, who figure prominently in the following

narrative, were the most zealous actors. The length and prolix style

of the original forbids us to extract the entire story from the Book

of Martyrs; but we shall adhere to it as closely as we can, as well

for the sake of giving (according to the principle laid down in our

introduction) a specimen of the style of that remarkable work, as for

the characteristic touches and intrinsic beauty of a great part of

the narration. It begins with an account of Taylor’s character and

parochial labours up to the death of Edward VI., and the subsequent

attempts of his sister and successor Mary, to restore, by violence, the

supremacy of the Roman Catholic religion.

“In the beginning of this rage of Antichrist (1553), a certain petie

gentleman, after the sort of a lawyer, called Foster, a bitter

persecutor in those days, with one John Clerk, of Hadley, conspired

to bring in the Pope and his maumetrie[231] again into Hadley Church.

To this purpose they builded up with all haste possible the altar,

intending to bring in their masse againe, about the Palme Sunday. But

this their device took none effect; for in the night the altar was

beaten down; wherefore they built it up againe the second time, and

laid diligent watch, lest any should againe break it down.

“On the day following came Foster and John Clerk, bringing with them

their Popish sacrificer, who brought with him all his implements and

garments to play his Popish pageant, whom they and their men guarded

with swords and bucklers, lest any man should disturbe him in his

missall sacrifice.

“When Dr. Taylor, who (according to his custome) sat at his booke

studying the word of God, heard the bels ring, hee arose, and went into

the church, supposing something had been there to be done, according

to his pastorall office: and coming to the church, he found the church

doores shut, and fast barred, saving the chancel doore, which was only

latched, where he entering, and comming into the chancell, saw a Popish

sacrificer in his robes, with a broad new shaven crown, ready to begin

his Popish sacrifice, beset about with drawn swords and bucklers, lest

any man should approach to disturbe him.

“Then said Dr. Taylor, ‘Thou divell, who made thee so bold to enter

into this church of Christ, to prophane and defile it with this

abominable idolatry?’ With that start up Foster, and, with an ireful

and furious countenance, said to Dr. Taylor, ‘Thou traitor, what doest

thou here, to let and disturb the Queene’s proceedings?’ Dr. Taylor

answered, ‘I am no traitor, but I am the shepherd that God, my Lord

Christ, hath appointed to feed this his flock; wherefore I have good

authority to bee here, and I command thee, thou Popish wolf, in the

name of God, to avoid hence, and not to presume here with such Popish

idolatry to poison Christ’s flock.’”

Taylor being violently put out of the church, the mass was continued.

But he was a man to be feared for his integrity, courage, and ability,

and therefore to be destroyed: and in those times, the transaction

which we have just related furnished means of proceeding against him

under colour of law. In a few days, upon complaint of Clerk and Foster,

he was cited to appear before Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and Lord

Chancellor. “When his friends heard this, they earnestly counselled him

to depart and flye; alledging and declaring unto him, that he could

neither be indifferently heard to speak his conscience and mind, nor

yet look for justice or favour at the said Chancellor’s hands, who, as

it was well knowne, was most fierce and cruell; but must needs (if he

went up to him) wait for imprisonment and cruell death at his hands.”

“Then said Dr. Taylor to his friends, ‘Dear friends, I most heartily

thank you that you have so tender a care over mee; and although I

know that there is neither justice nor truth to be looked for at my

adversaries’ hands, but rather imprisonment and cruell death, yet I

know my cause to be so good and righteous, and the truth so strong on

my side, that I will, by God’s grace, go and appear before them, and to

their beards resist their false doings.’”

In this mind, though strongly urged to fly, he continued, and took his

journey to London on horseback, with a trusty servant named John Hull,

who on the way “laboured to counsel and perswade him very earnestly to

fly, and not to come to the Bishop; and proffered himselfe to go with

him to save him, and in all perils to venture his life for him and with

him. But in no wise would Dr. Taylor consent or agree thereunto. Thus

they came up to London, and shortly after, Taylor presented himself

before the Bishop of Winchester.”

The account of this conference is amusing as well as interesting, but

it is both too long and too theological to extract. Taylor, however,

according to the reporter, had altogether the best of it, except in

the conclusion, which was effected by what Fox, in his marginal note,

quaintly calls “Winchester’s strong argument, Carry him to prison.”

He remained in the King’s Bench about a year and three–quarters, “in

the which time the Papists got certain old tyrannous lawes, which were

put down by King Henry VIII. and by King Edward, to be revived again

by Parliament, so that now they might, _ex officio_, cite whom they

would upon their own suspicion, and charge him with what articles

they lusted, and, except they in all things agreed to their purpose,

burne them. When these laws were once established, they sent for Dr.

Taylor, with certain other prisoners, which were againe convened before

the Chancellor, and other Commissioners, about the 22d of January,

1555. The purport and effect of which talke between them, because it

is sufficiently described by himselfe in his owne letter, written

to a friend of his, I have annexed the said letter here under, as

followeth[232].... After that Dr. Taylor thus, with great spirit and

courage, had answered for himselfe, and stoutly rebuked his adversaries

for breaking their oath made before to King Henry, and to King Edward

his sonne, and for betraying the realme into the power of the Roman

Bishop; they, perceiving that in no case could he be stirred to their

wills and purpose, committed him thereupon to prison againe, where he

endured till the last of January.”

On that day he was again brought before Winchester and other bishops,

and condemned to death. Being a priest, however, he was to be degraded

before he was delivered to the civil power, and Bonner was appointed to

perform that office. “Well,” quoth the Bishop, “I am come to degrade

you; wherefore put on these vestures.”[233] “No,” quoth Dr. Taylor, “I

will not.” “Wilt thou not?” said the Bishop. “I shall make thee, ere I

go.” Quoth Dr. Taylor, “You shall not, by the grace of God.” Then he

charged him upon his obedience to do it; but he would not do it for him.

“So he willed another to put them on his backe; and when he was

thoroughly furnished therewith, he set his hands to his side, walking

up and down, and said, ‘How say you, my Lord, am I not a goodly foole?

How say you, my Masters? If I were in Cheape, should I not have boyes

enow to laugh at these apish toyes and toying trumpery?’ So the Bishop

scraped his fingers, thumbes, and the crowne of his head, and did the

rest of such like divellish observances.

“At the last, when he should have given Dr. Taylor a stroke on the

breast with his crosier–staffe, the Bishop’s Chaplain said, ‘My Lord,

strike him not, for he will sure strike againe.’ ‘Yea, by St. Peter,

will I,’ quoth Dr. Taylor, ‘the cause is Christ’s, and I were no good

Christian if I would not fight in my Master’s quarrell.’ So the Bishop

laid his curse on him, but struck him not.... And when hee came up, he

told Master Bradford (for then both lay in one chamber) that he had

made the Bishop of London afraid: ‘for,’ saith he laughingly, ‘his

Chaplain gave him counsell not to strike me with his crosier–staffe,

for that I would strike againe; and, by my troth,’ said he, rubbing his

hands, ‘I made him believe I would doe so indeed.’”

After this ceremony he was delivered to the secular power. His last

interview with his family is thus simply told. “Now when the Sheriffe

and his company came against St. Botolph church (in Aldgate), Elizabeth

cried, saying, ‘O my deare Father! Mother, Mother, here is my father

led away.’ Then cried his wife, ‘Rowland, Rowland, where art thou?’ for

it was a verie darke morning, that the one could not see the other. Dr.

Taylor answered, ‘Deare wife, I am here,’ and staid. The Sheriffe’s

men would have led him forth, but the Sheriffe said, ‘Stay a little,

maisters, I praie you, and let him speake to his wife;’ and so they

staied.

“Then came she to him; and he tooke his daughter Mary in his armes, and

he, his wife, and Elizabeth, kneeled down and said the Lord’s Praier:

at which sight the Sheriffe wept apace, and so did divers other of the

company. After they had praied, he rose up and kissed his wife, and

shooke her by the hand, and said, ‘Farewell, my deare wife, bee of good

comfort, for I am quiet in my conscience. God shall stir up a father

for my children.’ And then he kissed his daughter Mary, and said, ‘God

blesse thee, and make thee his servant:’ and kissing Elizabeth, hee

said, ‘God blesse thee, I praie you all stand strong and stedfast unto

Christ and his worde, and keep you from idolatry.’ Then said his wife,

‘God be with thee, dear Rowland. I will with God’s grace meet thee at

Hadley.’

“And so he was led forth to the Woolsack.... And at his comming out,

John Hull before spoken of stood at the railes with Dr. Taylor’s sonne.

When Dr. Taylor saw them, he called them, saying, ‘Come hither, my

sonne Thomas;’ and John Hull lifted up the child, and set him on the

horse before his father. Then lifted he up his eyes toward heaven, and

praied for his sonne, laide his hatte on the child’s head, and blessed

him, and so delivered the child to John Hull, whom he tooke by the

hand, and said, ‘Farewell, John Hull, the faithfullest servant that

ever man had.’ And so they rode forth: the Sheriffe of Essex, with

foure yeomen of the guard, and the Sheriffe’s men leading him.”

He was thus conducted to Hadley, in the neighbourhood of which was

appointed the place of his execution, at Aldham Moor. The even and

cheerful tenour of his mind is evinced in many points of our past

narrative, and confirmed by witnesses. “They that were present, and

familiarly conversant with this Dr. Taylor, reported of him that they

never did see in him any feare of death; but especially and above all

the rest, which besides him suffered at the same time, always shewed

himselfe merry and cheerful in time of his imprisonment, as well before

his condemnation as after: he kept one countenance and like behaviour.

Whereunto he was rather confirmed by the company and presence of Mr.

John Bradford, who then was in prison and chamber with him. The same

morning, when he was called up by the Sheriffe to go to his burning,

he cast his armes about a balk which was in the chamber between Mr.

Bradford’s bed and his; and there hanging by the hands, said to Mr.

Bradford, ‘O, Mr. Bradford,’ said he, ‘what a notable sway should I

give if I were hanged,’ meaning for that he was a corpulent and big

man.” His unusual stature seems to have been a favourite subject for

jesting with him; for we find a very elaborate piece of quizzing on the

same subject, approximating in character to that species of wit which

is sometimes denominated _trotting_. It runs thus:—

“At Chelmsford, the Sheriff of Essex, being about to deliver up his

prisoner to the Sheriff of Suffolk, sought, as they sat at supper, to

induce him to recant. After using the common topics, he concludes,

‘Ye should do much better to revoke your opinions, and return to the

Catholike church of Rome: if ye will, doubt ye not but ye shall find

favour at the Queene’s hands. This councell I give you, good Mr.

Doctor, of a good heart, and good will toward you; and thereupon I

drink to you. In like manner said all the Yeomen of the Guard. Upon

that condition, Mr. Doctor, we will all drink to you.’

“When they had all drunk to him, and the cup was come to him, he

stayed a little, as one studying what answer he might give. At the last

thus he answered, and said, ‘Master Sheriffe, and my masters all, I

heartily thank you for your good will; I have hearkened to your words,

and marked well your counsels; and, to be plain with you, I do perceive

that I have been deceived myself, and am likely to deceive a great many

of Hadley of their expectation.’ With that word they all rejoiced.

‘Yea, good Master Doctor,’ quoth the Sheriffe, ‘God’s blessing on your

heart, hold you there still. It is the comfortablest word that we heard

you speak yet. What, should ye cast yourself away in vaine: play a wise

man’s part, and I dare warrant it, ye shall finde favour.’ Thus they

rejoiced very much at the word, and were very merry.

“At the last, ‘Good Master Doctor,’ quoth the Sheriffe, ‘what meane ye

by this, that ye said ye think ye have been deceived yourselfe, and

think ye shall deceive many one in Hadley?’ ‘Would ye know my meaning

plainly?’ quoth he. ‘Yea,’ quoth the Sheriffe, ‘good Master Doctor,

tell it us plainly.’

“‘Then,’ said Dr. Taylor, ‘I will tell you how I have been deceived,

and, as I think, I shall deceive a great many more: I am, as you see,

a man that has a very great carkasse, which I thought should have been

buried in Hadley church–yard, if I had died in my bed, as I well hoped

I should have done; but herein I see I was deceived: and there are a

great number of wormes in Hadley church–yard, which should have had

jolly feeding on this carrion; which they have looked for many a day.

But now I know we be deceived, both I and they; for this carkasse must

be burnt to ashes, and so shall they lose their bait and feeding, that

they looked to have had of it.’