I, Ernst Verner, had by this time sufficiently mastered the art of
penmanship to enter the events of the day in my journal with facility,
which I seldom failed to do. My notes are, however, far too numerous to
be copied. I therefore write out only such as I deem most likely to be
interesting to my friends.
On our return to Antwerp; Master Gresham busied himself greatly in the
business which had brought him to that city. We were all busily
employed from morning till night writing and making up accounts. Not
only were monetary transactions to a vast amount carried on, but large
purchases were made of arms and ammunitions of war. Bullion to a
considerable amount also was required in England; of this Master Gresham
possessed himself for the advantage of the Queen.
We were also employed in purchasing gunpowder, military stores, and
other necessary tackle for the Queen's ships of war, which at that time
were greatly deficient in these articles. I consider that it was
greatly owing to this forethought of my kind patron that England was
afterwards in a condition to defeat the efforts of Spain to bring her
under subjection; but I am now referring to events which did not take
place for some time after the period of which I am speaking.
It was with considerable regret that I heard that my kind patron was
directed once more to return to England, and that he purposed taking
Lady Anne and his family with him.
On our arrival in London I was sent back to Saint Paul's School to
finish my education. I was received kindly by the masters, who had not
been changed, although they were compelled to be circumspect in their
conduct, lest they should be accused of heresy, of which they knew
themselves to be guilty, according to the ideas entertained by those of
the Romish Church. The times were very sad. On my first holiday I went
out in search of my old friend A'Dale, for he had left school. I found
that he had been apprenticed to a mercer in Cheapside. He had grown
into a big lad. As he had been somewhat daring and fond of excitement
as a boy, he was, as may be supposed, not unwilling to find himself in a
turmoil, where a pair of stout fists or a thick cudgel would serve him
in good stead. I had somewhat lost my taste for such things during the
courtly life I had lately led. He laughed at my effeminacy, and urged
me to arouse myself, and to practise the old English sports, which would
fit me for the rough life I might be destined to go through. He
promised to call for me whenever he could, and, as he had a good deal of
liberty, his visits were not unfrequent.
A'Dale entertained as strong a dislike to the mass as I did, and we had
agreed that, in spite of the risk we ran of being accused of heresy,
nothing should compel us to attend it. One evening we were proceeding
through the streets, when we found ourselves pressed in by a crowd,
which was hurrying up to see a procession of priests pass along. There
walked Bishop Bonner under a golden canopy supported on poles by four
priests, all richly arrayed. A vast crucifix was carried before him,
and other priests bore banners with various devices. There came also a
priest, under another canopy, bearing the host, before which numbers
fell down, and worshipped as if it were some idol. Those who did not so
were frowned at by the priests. Some were buffeted and told that they
were heretics, and fit only for the fires of Smithfield. There were
also bands of men in various disguises, and there were figures of saints
and other devices, before which the people were made to bow, albeit the
saints, being badly carved, some of them looking most unsaintly and
unbeautiful, were jeered at, and laughed at by those at a distance,
those near being compelled to bow down as they did to the host. And
then followed bands of waits playing all sorts of instruments. On
either side marched men with burning torches, lighting up the streets as
if it were day.
"Alas! there is no true worship here. The souls of these people, even
if they desire to be fed, are sent away empty," I said to myself.
A'Dale and I, who had been forced in with the crowd, now attempted to
make our escape. As we were doing so, I found a hand placed on my
shoulder.
"What, my young friend, have you become a follower of the true faith? I
thought you had been a heretic," said a person, whose voice was that of
a stranger.
I looked up. A friar, so it seemed by his dress, was standing near me.
For some moments I was at a loss to recollect who he was, till I
recognised him as the companion of Father Overton. I had the presence
of mind, however, to be silent till I could frame a wise answer.
"Perchance you mistake me for some one else," I answered. "I am a young
man still under instruction; but, young as I am, I desire to follow the
true faith."
"You are cautious in your speech," said the friar; "but go on--I find I
am not mistaken. I wish to have a word with you in private. I mean you
no harm. You can tell me of one in whom I am interested."
Keeping hold of A'Dale's arm, I at length found myself again in the
street. We went down the hill towards Ludgate, and then turning along
the bank of the Fleet, soon found ourselves in a quiet spot, free from
observation. The friar had kept us in sight, and soon again joined us.
"I thank you for this confidence, young sir," he said. "These are
dangerous times, and those who trust others may fare ill; but of you I
have no fear. I want to learn from you news of one whom you knew as
Father Overton. I have received several epistles from him, and by their
means I have been brought to hold very different doctrines to those I
had before believed were true; yet hitherto I have not dared to express
them, but I feel that I can keep silence no longer. My great desire is
to go forth and preach the great doctrine of justification by faith,
held by Luther and those true and pious bishops who have lately been
committed to the flames. Their deaths, testifying as they did to the
truth, were, with the exhortations of my friend Overton, the means of
turning me from the Church of Rome. I trust that you have not fallen
back into the errors of that Church."
"No, indeed, I have not," I answered. "I rejoice to find that you, as
well as Father Overton, have deserted them. With regard to him, I saw
him several times at Antwerp, where he was supported by my patron,
Master Gresham, but suddenly he disappeared, and no one could tell what
had become of him. The fears were that he had been carried off by the
Inquisition."
"We shall ere long meet again," said the friar, after we had exchanged a
few more words. "However tempted, my young friends, hold fast to the
faith. I never knew happiness till I embraced it. I am very sure that
bitter regret and misery will be the lot of those who have once known
and then deserted it."
Thus saying, he pressed our hands, and hurried away along the banks of
the river. We slowly returned homewards, afraid of exchanging our
thoughts, lest we should be overheard.
The next day was a holiday, for it was the festival of some saint in the
Romish Calendar. A'Dale and I were on foot early. Finding a large
concourse of people going in the direction of the northern part of the
City outside the gates, known as Smithfield, we followed them. On one
side were some high and ancient houses, but on the other the ground was
entirely open, with meadows and woods beyond.
"It is to be the grandest burning we have had yet," I heard a person
remark. "There is a priest to be burnt, and two women, besides a knight
and two other laymen."
My heart sickened when I heard this, for I had no wish to see the
burning, but A'Dale urged me on. "He liked to be in a crowd," he said,
"and we might come away before the fire was set to the piles." We found
that none of the prisoners had as yet passed. At length we saw them
coming along from Newgate, the Fleet, and other prisons. They walked on
with their hands bound, and a few guards only, and priests on either
side. I wondered that none of the crowd attempted to rescue them. It
might have been done with great ease, though, perchance, to escape
afterwards might have been more difficult.
Occasionally the friends of the prisoners came up and spoke to them, and
received their farewells. Some, indeed, kept by their side the whole
way, the guards not interfering. Among them, nearly the last, walked a
lady. Her figure was tall and graceful, though she stooped somewhat,
bowed down by sickness or sorrow. Her features were deadly pale, their
whiteness increased by the black dress she wore, her raven hair flowing
over her shoulders, for her head was bare. People looked on her with a
pitying eye, but no one came up to her. She alone of all the victims
appeared to have no friends in that vast crowd. Yet every now and then
she lifted up her eyes, and glanced round as if in search of some one.
As she passed near where A'Dale and I were standing, it struck me she
looked earnestly at me. Fearless of consequences, I darted forward, and
took my place by her side.
"Can I be of any service to you?" I said.
She looked at me with an inquiring glance. Her lips opened. "Who are
you?" she asked.
"My parents died for the truth at Antwerp, as you are about to die,
lady," I replied. "I would thankfully render you the aid which it was
denied me to offer them."
"I will trust you," she said. "You will not deceive a dying woman."
As she spoke, she hastily took a parchment from her bosom, and handed it
to me.
"There! conceal it," she said, "ere it is perceived by others. It
contains the certificate of my marriage to my husband, now in foreign
lands, and the title-deed of an estate which should be my child's. I
have but one--a young girl. I know not to a certainty where she is; for
when I was seized I urged her to fly and to put herself under the
protection of some Protestant family, who, for the love of the faith,
would support her till the return of her father from abroad. I dared
not trust this paper into the hands of my cruel jailers; but I feel sure
I may confide it to you, and that you will, to the best of your power,
do as I desire."
I promised the lady that I would faithfully obey her wishes; and so
interested did I feel in her fate, that I offered to continue by her
side to the last.
"No, no! you will be watched, perchance, if you do, and bring the same
doom I suffer on your own head."
Still I entreated her to allow me to remain; but she insisted upon my
quitting her, not only for my own sake, but lest I might run the risk of
losing the important document she had given me.
While I was thus speaking to her as we moved slowly on through the
crowded streets, another person came up, whom I at once recognised as
the friar I had met on the previous day. He took no notice of me,
however, but at once addressed himself to the lady. At first, with
somewhat of a look of scorn, she desired him to depart; but after he had
whispered a few words in her ear her manner changed, and as they walked
along he continued addressing her. I guessed the purport of his
conversation. Her countenance even brightened as he spoke. Now and
then the priests with the other prisoners cast suspicious glances
towards him; but he continued to walk on, speaking so low that no one
else but the unhappy lady could hear him; and thus the band of prisoners
arrived at Smithfield. Here they were saluted by the ribald shouts of
the populace, who seemed to delight in hurling all sorts of abusive
epithets on their heads. A'Dale wanted to remain, but I kept to my
purpose. My chief interest was with the unhappy lady. I rejoiced,
however, to see that her countenance was calm and unmoved; indeed, a
serene joy seemed occasionally to play over it. I suspect, indeed, that
some of those who stood by thought that the friar had brought her an
offer of freedom, but it was not so; the only freedom she desired was to
be liberated from this state of care and pain, and to mount upwards to
be with her risen Lord. Onward marched the sad procession; but of all
those I saw, none appeared to tremble or to desire to escape the
dreadful fate awaiting them.
A'Dale, taking me by the arm, endeavoured to drag me into the front
rank. "I want to judge how these people behave themselves at the
stake," he said. "You and I perhaps, Ernst, may one day have to go
through the same, and it may be well to take a lesson, so as to know how
to comport ourselves."
I did not like his tone; it appeared more mocking than serious. It was
not so, however. His heart was really as grieved as mine, but more
indignant: such was his temper. Yet he really wished to see the
burning.
"No, no," I answered. "Spare me, A'Dale, I cannot. I would be ready,
if called on, to burn, myself, but to see others suffer, willingly I
cannot. That poor lady, too, with a young child and a husband loving
her, thus to be separated from them. How glorious and firm must be her
faith to support her under such a trial; or rather, I should say, how
gracious is the Holy Spirit who gives her strength for her need! It is
that which supports her."
Still A'Dale would have me accompany him; and, though I was unwilling,
he dragged me forward. I felt faint and sick and confused. The
recollections of the past crowded on me with such force that they almost
shut out, as it were, the scene before my eyes. I remember being in the
midst of a vast crowd, and seeing on a high platform the sheriffs and a
number of great officers in rich dresses, and below huge posts with
chains secured to them, and a number of guards and priests below the
platform, while other persons with their hands bound were in their
midst, and rude rough men carrying faggots to and fro and piling them up
near the posts; and then other persons were brought forward and secured
to the posts, and more words were spoken, and priests seemed to be
exhorting their prisoners, but none were released. And then the faggots
were thrown round them, and the flames ascended, but no exclamation of
fear burst from their breasts. I could gaze no more. Sick unto death,
I uttered a cry and fled from the spot, scarcely knowing where I went.