injury, but you have attacked not only my church, but all churches,
all faith, all religions. No,” he continued, shaking his sword in his
fervor as Marlowe was about to reply, “Let me go on. Nothing is sacred
in thine eyes----”
“Cease,” exclaimed Marlowe, “You know little of what you speak. Blinded
by a fanaticism, narrow, violent and perverted, you can see nothing
good in aught that promotes pleasure and breaks the chrysalis of joy.
You would tear down the playhouses, and on the spot where laughter
has chased the gloom from the face of grief and apathy, and where new
generations are being educated in the history of the past and in the
polished manners of the higher classes, a school, wide, noble and
elevating, you would erect houses for wailing and for the blind worship
of an unknown God. And I, whom you deem the head and front of atheism,
you wished burned at the stake, and now would take upon thyself what
your religion deems an unpardonable crime, that of sending my soul
unprepared before its Maker.”
“Maker!”, sneered Bame, “Maker, Thou hast denied the existence of the
Trinity.”
“Such denial,” began Marlowe, undisturbed by the accusation, “is not
inconsistent with the belief in the existence of a supreme intellectual
force of which my soul is part. Thy mind is too narrow to comprehend
the impersonal and omniscient intellect that rules by unswerving laws.
Clinging to the disgusting belief of a resurrection of the body, you
bury it with pomp and lamentation; waste over it your tears, and dream
of its reinhabitation as the temple of the soul. Out upon thee. The
tenure of thy faith is most precarious. Under the dark wings of death,
nought but the longing for eternal rest will pervade thee, like it
has pervaded and ever will pervade all manner of men, whether with or
without creed or belief. But such longing contains no assurance of its
attainment, but is only the reconcilement of the soul to its coming
change of existence without the trammels of the flesh. And this, I
tell thee, blind apostle of a worn-out creed, this world is governed
by a force that worketh ever toward perfection; the perfection of the
material is in beauty; of the spiritual, in wisdom. And both matter
and spirit are eternal. Immortality is not a dream but a demonstrable
fact. Do not the waters of the stream break in silver spray, or become
mirrors for the face of nature, or, being lifted by the sun, form the
clouds whose glorious colors flame and fade at twilight? Do not even
the dull boulders at length present glassy faces, or, crumbling, form
the powdered soil on which flourishes and, aye, is part of, the wild
flowers? Do not the brilliant stars rise from the nebula that strews
the floor of heaven; thus struggling through a thousand changes toward
ideal beauty in form, never losing one atom of substance? And now
what of the mind of man? It grows with years and attains its utmost
perfection as the bodily forces fail. Then comes the disintegration
of the body for new forms as the ages roll. If the material cannot be
lost, how can the spirit, the ego that knows, and is as superior to
the clay as the living face of woman is to the clod under foot? It
must continue under the force that raised it, and in its just line
of aspiration. It is against the nature of all things, material and
spiritual, that the mind with its accumulated knowledge from years of
life should pass into oblivion.”
The eloquence of the poet in the delivery of his sermon of the soul had
stilled the voluble Bame. Marlowe appeared, for the moment, in Bame’s
mind as a martyr of persecution. He could have chewed the accusation
and swallowed it if he had had it. In the transport of these friendly
feelings he felt tempted to sheath his sword, but at that moment the
sounds of footsteps attracted their attention, and they became intent
auditors. Low voices reached their ears, and the noise created by the
stumbling movements of many persons in the darkness came with shocking
distinctness. Bame stood nearest the folding doors of the chantry.
“Close them,” whispered Marlowe, pointing.
Bame turned in instant response, and pushed to the narrow doors,
bolting them. But circular openings were in their fronts, and seeing
this, Marlowe hastily extinguished the burning candles. The voices came
nearer, and the footsteps now sounded in the aisles.
“It cannot be the watchmen, for they are many.”
“And bear no lanterns.”
“It may be a band of thieves.”
“Did you not bar the entrance door?”
“No, I did not even close it.”
“Hush!” murmured Bame, “and see----”
A faint light flared up in one of the aisles, and then another and
another. Each increased in volume of flame until several torches were
blazing here and there in the body of the church. They were borne aloft
over moving heads, and the two men in the chantry saw villainous faces
and ragged forms. It was a score of the most desperate thieves of the
Straits, who, having found the loosely closed door of the church opened
wide by a furious blast of the storm, had entered like water into the
broken hold of a vessel. The fierce desire for plunder had robbed them
of caution, and they had become emboldened by their numbers. Possibly
they had not thought that the exterior appearance of the lighted church
would cause alarm, and it is questionable whether such thought would
have stayed them. Then began a scene of spoliation which, in splendor
of setting and fierceness of its moving figures, beggars description.
Seldom, if ever, had a house of worship blazed with like illumination.
Black smoke arose from the wavering torches, but it was lost in the
great space intervening between the spots where it took flight and the
groined ceiling, so that nothing obscured the painted windows, the
flamboyant tracery above them, and the great arch over the chancel
and the altar, except the shadows thrown by intercepting columns. The
brilliant colored faces of the saints upon the lancet windows appeared
to look down in wonder upon the vandals, whose glances in turn directed
upward to these rows of costly panes were the extreme of covetousness.
It was only the insurmountable space that kept these pictured saints
inviolate. But there were other treasures which held no positions of
safety against unholy and unlawful onslaught, and it was toward them
that the robbers now directed attention. They began stripping the
gilt trappings from the altar and the pulpit, tearing down the purple
tapestry before the sacristry, gathering up the chalices, books and
vestments, and even wrenching the brass balusters from the winding
rood stair to the choir. It may have been their intense action or the
awfulness of the surroundings, that closed all lips from the moment
that, with eyes feasting on the splendors of the church, they began
its desecration. However that may have been, no sound of human voice
accompanied the furious workings of the robbers. Still, silence did
not prevail. There were blows of solid substances together, rasping of
metals, tearings of cloth, and their echoes prolonged by a construction
of dome, walls and galleries calculated to keep every sound alive.
Toward the closed chantry, two robbers at length turned. One thrust his
torch through a circular window of the door, and the two men within
sunk on the marble floor close by the tomb of the founder. The eyes
of the thief should have followed the torch, but at that moment a cry
attracted his attention, and he saw the tapestry hanging against the
wall behind the pulpit wrapped in fierce flames.
It had been kindled by the careless handling of one of the torches, and
bid fair to supplement the night’s work with total destruction. While
that sight first drew attention, another sight and the sound of shrill
voices immediately caused diversion. New figures had suddenly appeared
at the wide entrances to the body of the church, and a new fear ran
like wildfire through the scattered mob of thieves. There was no outlet
except where the alarmed and hastily gathered watchmen were standing.
The blazing tapestry forced the robbers forward. None of their spoils
were dropped. Having grouped together for an instant, they rushed
recklessly toward the entrances held by the watchmen, who could not
repel the onslaught. Excepting three who stumbled and fell, the thieves
poured forth into the street.
Marlowe was first upon his feet after the withdrawal of the searching
torch. He saw the blazing tapestry and the mad rush of the cornered
robbers. He unbolted the door, flung it open and without a glance
behind him, ran down the aisle and entered the chancel. The light
aided him in his rapid survey. He recognized the tomb by which he had
ascended, and, lifting the slab, he crawled under into the passage made
for the king. In the oratory, a few moments later, he searched his
clothes nervously for the still unread message from Anne. It was not
to be found, and the meeting of the night had resulted in nought but
perplexity and misfortune.
It was not until Marlowe had mysteriously disappeared, that Bame
gathered himself for action. He thought of no chance for escape except
through the way he had entered. He attempted it, and, having traversed
with expedition the aisles and narthex of the church now brilliantly
lighted by the flames of the burning tapestry and its supports, he ran
into the arms of the watchman in the portico to which the latter had
withdrawn. His protestations were of no avail. In vain he pleaded that
he had just come up from the sidewalk. Three officers had seen him
issue from the church entrance. As one of the thieves he was taken into
custody.
GUILTY ON GENERAL PRINCIPLES.
_These looks of thine can harbor nought but death!_
_I see my tragedy written in thy brow._
_Yet stay, awhile forbear thy bloody hand._
--_Edward II, v, 5._
_No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt,_
_Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,_
_To revel in the entrails of my lambs._
--_King Richard III, iv, 4._
It could be stated in one sentence that Richard Bame was tried at the
Old Bailey for felony, found guilty, and hung at Tyburn; but what
pictures would that present of the tragedy? The session-hall of the old
court and the straggling road to Tyburn would be less to the mind than
the substance of the vaguest dream; and he, who endeavored to cover
with eternal infamy our eldest and greatest master of the drama, would
steal away like a thief in the night, unnoticed and soon forgotten. It
is not my purpose to close the chapter of the miscreant’s life in so
summary a manner.
While from the window of the oratory, Marlowe had seen the church
consumed to ashes no news of the arrest and impending trial of Bame
had reached his ears. It was during the progress of the conflagration
that he had told Tamworth of the startling events of the night, and the
recital had greatly disturbed the lawyer. He saw in the fact of Bame’s
recognition of his friend, a menace against the safety of Marlowe, for
the prying Bame might endeavor to unravel the mystery concerning the
burial of the dramatist and his later appearance in bodily form. This
apprehension, however, was soon quieted. Tamworth learned of Bame’s
arrest, and then that he was about to be brought to trial.
All this information was sedulously kept from Marlowe, for Tamworth
knew not what Marlowe might do to save the accused, not that his hatred
had abated, but he might have scruples against one being hung for an
offense of which one was innocent. In the mind of the lawyer, Bame
deserved the severest punishment known in the law for his false charges
against the dramatist. Marlowe could do nothing except with peril to
his own safety. He could swear that Bame was not in the church for
any unlawful purpose, but to appear as a witness would be to deliver
his own body into the hands of the executioner. The disclosure was,
therefore, delayed until some time after the fatal day of December 6th,
1594.
It was at one of the sessions of the Old Bailey, during a time when
human life was at the lowest estimate it ever reached in England, that
Richard Bame was brought to trial for the burglary of the church of St.
Olave. Pento and Badly, two of the arrested robbers, had preceded him
in the dock, and having been found guilty of the same crime of which
he was accused, had received the death sentence. In anticipation of the
coming of the Brownist, the gallery which projected from one side of
the square hall, was filled. The lower benches were also occupied, and
here and there amid the forms of the ordinary lookers-on, could be seen
gray-coated Puritans. Their numbers excited comment, and it began to
be whispered that the man to be tried was one of the dissenters. Some
of them were there to testify to his previous good character, others
were there from curiosity. Bame was well known among the congregations
from the Tribulation of Tower Hill and the Lime House, not particularly
as a shining example of devotion, but as a tireless worker for their
interests. It was a grave question whether the fire of persecution
that burned within him was kept alive by wild and extravagant notions
of what man’s duties were to God, or whether he was simply a tool in
the hands of some strong and unscrupulous man who had private wrongs
to redress. He was blind and emotional enough for a fanatic, but while
he expended this frenzy upon apostates and non-observers in the lower
ranks of life, his small courage appeared unequal for an attack upon
those capable of defense. So, when the attack upon Marlowe was known,
the belief arose that he was being prompted and upheld by some one
high in authority [note 38]. The truth of the matter can never be
known. However, Bame conducted himself upon his trial like one who had
friends powerful enough to hold the wheels of the prosecution. This
conduct may have arisen from his innocence of the charge on which he
was tried.
With firm steps he crossed the uncovered Newgate yard from his
temporary cell, and as he entered the Old Bailey with like movement
the crowd noticed with murmured approval his air of a martyr. Boldness
of demeanor is always the subject of admiration with the people; but,
again, a miserable exterior may create a counter wave of feeling. So it
was in this case. As soon as Bame reached the dock, and with face from
the audience, displayed only his ragged garments and unkempt locks the
enthusiasm vanished. He now presented a woeful appearance. He was still
attired in the discarded garments which he had donned on the night of
the storm, and there was nothing to distinguish him from an ordinary
vagabond. His wife had brought his customary street suit--the gray garb
of the Puritan--to the jail, but the turnkey had roughly ordered her
away with it, expressing himself as being averse to allowing jail birds
to impose with fine feathers on the court or the jury. Thus Bame was on
a footing with the ruffians who had preceded him at the bar on a like
charge.
One warning had been impressed upon him before entering the hall, by
the felons in the adjoining cells, who had said:
“A gilded sword, with point upward, is suspended against the
crimson-padded wall behind the judge. You will see it when you go in,
but mind you this: Turn your eyes from the sword as soon as the judge
begins his charge, and keep from gazing upon it until the jury returns
with its verdict.”
“Why so?” Bame had asked.
“It is the sword of justice, and it will fall upon you. We were found
guilty. We looked upon the sword.”
The jailer had overheard this conversation and said with an expressive
smile: “The records show that 99 out of 100 look upon the sword and the
hundredth man never returns here to tell whether he looked upon it or
not. It must be true.”
This superstition of the jails had so impressed Bame, that the sword
was the first thing he noticed as he faced the judge’s bench, the
jury-box and the bar. There it hung under the square canopy and against
the crimson drapery on the wall. It was a more striking object to Bame
than the judge himself. He determined to keep his eyes fixed on the
bar and jury during his ordeal. Moreover, the judge’s face was not
attractive; it was so unemotional, and his lips seemed unready to move
with any words or tones except those as harsh as the jury’s verdict of
“guilty.”
Bame’s counsel, Thomas Eliot, was within the bar. He was a
consequential barrister with long flowing robe and powdered periwig.
He condescended to recognize the prisoner, and to confer with him. A
loud buzz of conversation filled the room, stilled at intervals by the
bailiff, who looked as dried and shriveled as though he had been cut
down alive from the Tyburn tree after having hung there in hot winds
for several weeks. He was the only object in the room that caused Bame
to smile.
The day outside was hot, and here the heat was increased by the
respiration of the great crowd, and the sunshine pouring through the
three windows looking toward the prison. However, the dingy walls of
the court-room appeared as cold as the face of the judge. They had
been in position to hear too many convulsive cries, following the
announcements of verdicts, to grow warm under any circumstances.
The clerk read the indictment in sonorous voice. None of it was
understood by the audience; for the Anglo-Saxon words were so
thoroughly shaken up with words in Law French and phrases in Latin
that it seemed like a recital entirely in a foreign language. None of
the lawyers interpreted it as read, for the clerk’s pronunciation was
villainous; and as for Bame, he looked stupidly at the clerk until he
finished, and the plea of not guilty was entered.
“You might have stood mute,” said the barrister afterwards, “but you
would have been taken to the rack or the thumbscrews.”
The attorney for the Crown made no opening statement to the jury. Time
was too precious for that; for Newgate was running over with the scum
of human life, all of which must find evaporation through this gloomy
hall.
The watchman who had made the arrest stated that the prisoner had run
into his arms before the first cloud of smoke had poured from the
church. He (the witness) was then standing on the edge of the portico,
and was positive that the prisoner had come from the church. There
could be no mistake about it, for he was coughing as though stifled
with the smoke. He had nothing in his hands or arms, and on finding
that he was in custody, he immediately protested that he had come up
with the crowd from the street. These protestations had been laughed
at, for others had seen him. The others were called--two more watchmen,
and their testimony was of like effect. The defense failed to shake
them on cross-examination, and then a witness named Pence was brought
from his cell in the prison. He was one of the arrested robbers,--a
ragged, coatless, barefooted boy of sixteen years. Not only the
misery of his own brief existence, but of the unknown line of which
he was a descendent, had so moulded his face that there was no line
nor feature of it but what was debased and expressive of low cunning
and viciousness. His trial had not taken place, but being accused and
confined as one of the participants in the crime, it was in irons that
he entered the Old Bailey. His testimony might be of little weight, but
it had been decided to put it in for what it was worth. He was sworn
and after prompt answers to preliminary questions, he drifted into a
narrative of the night’s work. Cleared of verbiage and the cant of the
Straits and translated into modern English, it read:
“The rain had driven me upon the portico of St. Olave. I lay in a
recess near one of the doors, and was asleep when the conversation
of two men awoke me. I heard them speak of entering the church, and
finding the door partially opened, I followed them in.”
“To steal the first thing you could find, eh?” interjected the counsel
Eliot for the prisoner. The witness looked fearlessly at the speaker
and said:
“Never. I would no more dare steal from a church than I would rob a
grave at night. I was curious to learn what they were going to do.”
“Let the witness proceed without interruption,” demanded the public
prosecutor. At this the boy continued:
“I saw them pass into the lighted chantry, and, being barefooted, I
reached the place without noise and looked in. That man was there.” He
pointed one of his manacled hands at Bame. “The other man was reading a
paper. He was behind the tomb, close by the lighted candles. They said
nothing for a few moments, and then the prisoner drew a sword as though
to kill the other man.”
“What!” exclaimed the prosecutor. The exclamation aroused the judge
from a revery that was more pleasant than listening to the rambling
account of a witness. The witness repeated: “The prisoner drew his
sword.”
“Where was this?” asked the judge.
“In the chantry of the church of St. Olave.”
“Ah,” said the judge sternly; for as a high churchman he looked
unfavorably upon the dissenters, and never let a complaint against them
grow stale for lack of investigation. “See to it, Mr. Attorney, that
if the prisoner escapes this trial, that he be brought here again for
drawing a weapon in the church.”
“We object,” said Bame’s counsel, rising, “to further remarks of this
character. They are prejudicial to the prisoner. The jury should not be
impressed with the idea that my client is guilty of other crimes. He is
on trial for the burglary of the church, not for an affray for which
excommunication and the loss of his ears is the penalty. It is too much
the habit of juries to find a man guilty upon the general principle
that he is an unfit member of society, and therefore a fit subject for
judicial murder.”
“Hold!” thundered the judge, his ears tingling with the remarks, and
noticing how every whisper had been stilled by the barrister’s bold
speech. “Your interest in your client is carrying you beyond the limits
allowed here for argument. Sit down, or you will provoke more than a
reprimand. Let the witness proceed.”
The barrister knew the rigorous character of the judge, and saw
something more than a serene judicial expression on his pale face.
The barrister interpreted it as a fine for himself, if he continued
his remarks, and at the close of the trial a charge to the jury which
would be virtually a command to convict. Realizing that his fervor had
carried him beyond the bounds of discretion, but unable to formulate an
apology for remarks which he knew were justifiable, he reseated himself
amid the murmurs of the audience. These murmurs were of approval of the
stand he had taken against the court, and he felt that the jurors were
with the masses from which they came.
“Well, what was done when Bame drew his sword?”
“The other man looked frightened, and when Bame said ‘I thought you
were dead,’ he staggered as though struck. Then they talked.”
“Well, what did they say?”
“I can’t remember it all. It was about some false charges. The prisoner
said that his name was Richard Bame, and he called the other by name,
but I have forgotten it. He was a handsome man in black cloak, and he
seemed much distressed. The lights showed his face well, which was
smooth, and he had a white feather in his cap. I think the prisoner
would have killed--”
“Never mind what you thought,” interposed Eliot.
“You were interrupted,” said the judge, in the pause which followed,
“because you are not allowed to express your opinions. State only what
you did, what others did and what was said.”
“I was so afraid that the prisoner would kill the other man,” continued
the witness, “that I crept away out of the church. I wanted to find a
watchman, but I saw no lights. I ran around the corner of the church,
and at the mouth of the alley bumped into a man. A score of other men
were with him and these were the thieves, but I didn’t know it. I said,
‘A man is about to be killed in this church.’ And the one who held
my arm asked, ‘How do you know’? And I said, ‘I have just come out.’
Then said he, ‘Are the doors open?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered; and at that he
whispered to those nearest, ‘Come on. The church is open. We can sack
it.’ At that they hurried me along, and we passed into the church with
much noise. The man to whom I had spoken still held my arm and was at
the head. I looked for the lights of the chantry, but saw none, and
someone said, ‘The boy has lied. No one is here,’ and they let go my
arm. And when they had lighted torches, I ran toward the chantry. The
doors were closed and no lights shone.”