"Alma real, dignissima d'impero,
Se non fossi fra noi scesa si tardo."
Petrarch.
Thus, to soft music, with sufficient minor chords to form a pleasant
contrast to the glad notes of the grand chorus, glided in upon the stage
of England the five awful years of the Marian persecution.
Never had there been five such years in England. The sanguinary
struggles of the Roses, the grinding oppression of Henry the Seventh,
the spasmodic cruelties of Henry the Eighth, were not to be compared
with this time. Of all persecutors, none is, because none other can be,
so coldly, mercilessly, hopelessly unrelenting, as he who believes
himself to be doing God service.
And now the floods of the great waters came nigh the struggling Church.
The storm fell upon her, as it never fell in this island before or
since. The enemy had gathered his forces for one grand effort to crush
the life out of her.
But the life was immortal. The waves beat powerlessly against the frail
barque; for it held One who, though He seemed verily "asleep on a
pillow," was only waiting the moment to arise and say, "Peace, be
still!"
The Lord sat above the water-floods; yea, the Lord sitteth a King for
ever.
Yet the "rough wind was stayed in the day of the east wind." When forty
years are to be spent in the wilderness, then the shoes wax not old, nor
does the strength, fail. But when the furnace is heated seven times
hotter than its wont, then the pain is not for long, and the furnace
holds a more visible Fourth, like to the Son of God. Only dying men see
angels. The sweet soft light of the Master's shining raiment, which we
may pass by in the glaring sunshine, is not so easily left unperceived
when it is the sole light of the martyr's dungeon.
And God was with His Church, during those five sharp, short years of
agony wherein so many of her members went to God.
And all opened with a flourish of silver trumpets. There were flashings
of jewels, set where jewels should flash no more; white bridal robes,
soon to be drenched in blood; ghostly crowns, glimmering for an instant
over heads that should be laid upon the block ere one poor year were
over. "Man proposed, and God disposed." The incorruptible crown was
the fairer and brighter.
The last brilliant day which England was to know before that tempest
broke, dawned on the morning of the 21st of May, 1553. Early on that
day all London was astir. Three noble marriages were to be celebrated
at Durham House, in the King's presence; and to Durham House London was
crowding, to see the sight. Among the crowd were John Avery, Dr Thorpe,
and Robin. Isoult had declined to run the risk of having the clothes
torn off her back, or herself squeezed into a mummy; and it was agreed
on all sides that there would be danger in taking the children: but
nothing could keep Dr Thorpe at home--not even a sharp attack of
rheumatism, from which he had been suffering more or less all the
spring. Mr Underhill of course would be there, in his place as
Gentleman Pensioner; and after a good deal of pressing from more than
one of his friends, a dubious consent to go, _if_ he could find time,
had been wrung from Mr Rose.
The bridegrooms and brides were apportioned in the following order.
The Lady Jane Grey to Lord Guilford Dudley.
The Lady Katherine Grey to Lord Herbert of Pembroke.