“o yet, in scorn of mean relief,
let sorrow bear her heavenly fruit!
better the wildest hour of grief
than the low pastime of the brute!
better to weep, for he wept too,
than laugh as every fool can do.”
hon. robert lytton.
“heard you the news, friends?” asked mr holland, coming into the lamb, on the evening of the 14th of august.
“news!” cried dr thorpe. “i am aweary of the news. there is news every day. my lord a. to the tower, and my lord b. delivered thence; and my lord c. to the marshalsea; and my lord d. to the fleet; and my lord e., that yesterday carried the sword afore the queen, to-day hath his head struck off; and my lord f., that was condemned to die yestereven, shall bear the queen’s sword this morrow. pshaw! i am tired of it. ’tis a game of tables (backgammon), with players that have no skill, and care for nought saving to rattle the dice.”
mr holland laughed a moment, but immediately grew grave.
“but heard you my news?” said he. “do you know father rose is deprived?”
all cried out together. they had looked for this indeed, but not now. six months thence, when the protestant bishops were all sequestered, and the prebendaries in the marshalsea, bishop gardiner might stoop to lesser game; but that one of the very first blows should be struck at mr rose, this they had not expected. it showed how formidable an enemy he was considered.
“deprived!” cried all the voices together.
“ay, ’tis too true,” said mr holland. “as a preacher, we shall hear his voice no more.”
“the lambs are like to fare ill,” growled dr thorpe, “when all the great wolves be let forth in a pack.”
“ah, mine old friend!” answered john, “not many weeks gone, you said of my lord of northumberland, ‘will none put this companion in the tower?’ methinks so many henceforward will scarce be over, ere you may say the like with tears of stephen gardiner. the fox is in the tower; but the wolf is out.”
“you speak but truth,” said mr holland. “and now, my masters, after mine ill news, i fear you will scarcely take it well of me to bid you to a wedding; yet for that came i hither.”
“is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?” groaned dr thorpe.
“i think it is,” answered mr holland, stoutly. “the more disease (discomfort) a man hath abroad, the more comfort he lacketh at home.”
“but who is to be married?” asked john.
“i am,” answered mr holland. “have you aught against it?”
“you!” cried avery, in a voice of astonishment, which mr holland understood to imply the reverse of flattery.
“upon my word, you are no losenger!” (flatterer) saith he. “have i two heads, or four legs, that you think no maid should have me? or is my temper so hot that you count i shall lead her a dog’s life? or what see you in me, body or soul, to make you cry out in that fashion?”
“nay, man,” replied john, laughing, “thou art a proper man enough, and as tall of thy hands as any in aldersgate; and for thy temper, a dove were crabbed in comparison. i did but think thou wert wedded to thy cloths and thy napery.”
“you thought i took counsel of velvet, and solaced myself with broidery!” laughed mr holland. “nay, friend; when i take a wife, i will not wed a piece of lincoln green.”
“and who, pray you, is the bride?”
“why, avery, i had thought you should have guessed that without asking. who should it be, but mine old and true friend, bessy lake?”
“then i give you joy,” said john, “for you have chosen well.”
mr holland’s wedding took place at the church of saint giles cripplegate, in august (it was in the first year of queen mary; exact date unknown). bessy lake, the bride, proved a very gentle, amiable-looking woman, not pretty, but not unpleasing, and by at least ten years the senior of her bridegroom. after the ceremony, the wedding party repaired to mr holland’s house. mr rose was present, with his wife and thekla; and mr ferris; and mr ive and helen, who brought mrs underhill’s three elder little girls, anne, christian, and eleanor. augustine bernher did not appear until after dinner. mrs rose and isoult had a little quiet conversation; the former was still looking forward to further troubles, and plainly thought mr holland was courting sorrow.
“but thank god he is not a priest!” she said; and the tears rose to her eyes.
meanwhile, john and mr rose were engaged in their private discourse. it was settled between them that the same day, two years later—august 20th, 1555—should be the date fixed, before which, if robin should not have been ordained, he should give up the expectation of it, and marry thekla. mr holland, being taken into confidence, not only expressed his sense of the wisdom of this arrangement, but at once offered, if robin wished it, to receive him without premium. this part of the subject, however, was left for future decision.
helen ive brought word from mrs underhill, that mr throgmorton had readily promised to intercede for his cousin, as soon as he found a satisfactory opportunity; which meant, when certain members of the council, adverse to underhill, should be absent.
the persecution had begun in good earnest now. the imprisonment of bishop ridley and mr underhill, and the deprivation of mr rose, were only the beginning of sorrows. on the 16th of august, mr john bradford of manchester was sent to the tower; and mr prebendary rogers confined to his own house, nor allowed to speak with any person out of it. and on friday and saturday, the 18th and 19th, were condemned to death in the high court at westminster, the great duke of northumberland, who so many years had been all but a king in england; and the marquis of northampton, and the earl of warwick (son of the duke), and sir andrew dudley, the duke’s brother, and sir thomas palmer. the judges were the lord treasurer, and the old duke of norfolk, the last only just released from the tower, where he had been a prisoner seven years.
“god’s mill grindeth slowly, but it grindeth small.” he sitteth at the disposing of the lots—there is no blind chance, for him: and it was the lord who had these sinners in derision, who sat above the water-floods, and stilled the raging of the people.
and if god’s earthly judgments, that come now and then, be so terrific, what shall be that last judgment of his great white throne, when every man shall receive the things done in the body?
the great traitors—northumberland and palmer—the lesser traitor, northampton,—and the innocent warwick, were tried and sentenced to death. on the following morning, mass was sung in the tower; and the duke, the marquis of northampton, sir andrew dudley, sir harry gates, and sir thomas palmer, received the sacrament in one kind only. then the duke, turning to those present (who were many) said “he had been seduced these sixteen years by the false and erroneous doctrine of the new preachers (namely, the gospel), but he was now assured and did believe that the sacrament there present was our saviour and redeemer, jesus christ.” then he knelt down and asked of all men forgiveness, and said he forgave all men. the duke of somerset’s sons were standing by (who had something to forgive that miserable sinner), and the lady jane saw the duke pass by to the chapel from her window.
“lo’ you now!” said john, “this was the chosen head of the lutheran party!”
“he was never mine,” replied dr thorpe.
“how long is it sithence you were a lutheran?” answered he.
“go thy ways, jack!” was all dr thorpe would say.
in the evening mr ive came in; who said he had been to newgate to visit his friend, mr underhill.
“and poor underhill,” said he, “is fallen sick of a burning ague in that loathsome gaol. he doth account the cause to be the evil savours and the unquietness of the lodging; as may be also the drinking of a strong draught wherein his fellow-prisoner would needs have him to pledge him. he can take no rest, desiring to change his lodging, and so hath he done from one to an other; but none can he abide, having so much noise of the prisoners and naughty savours. now his wife hath leave to come unto him for to tend him in his sickness; but he is constrained to pay eightpence every meal, and as much for her.”
“and how is he treated of alisaunder?” said john. “not over well, i warrant you.”
“nay, there you are out,” said mr ive; “for (as underhill told me), the very first night that he went in, one of the prisoners took acquaintance of him, whose name was bristo, and would have him to have a bed in his chamber. he had been with sir richard cromwell in his journey to landrecies, that underhill also was in, and could play well on a rebeck, and was a protestant, which yet he kept secret, or (saith he to underhill), ‘i had never found such favour as i do at the keeper’s hand and his wife’s; for to such as love the gospel they be very cruel.’—‘well (saith underhill), i have sent for my bible, and, by god’s grace, therein shall be my daily exercise. i will not hide it from them.’—‘sir (answered he), i am poor, but they will bear with you, for that they see your estate is to pay well; and i will show you the nature and manner of them, for i have been here a good while. they both do love music very well; wherefore you with your lute, and i with my rebeck, will please them greatly. he loveth to be merry and to drink wine, and she also; and if you will bestow upon them every dinner and supper a quart of wine and some music, you shall be their white son (favourite), and have all their favour that they can show you.’ and so, as underhill told me, he found it come to pass.”
“and where is the babe?” said isoult, pityingly.
“my nell hath little guilford,” answered mr ive, “and maketh as much ado of him, as she were his own mother. concern you not for him; with god’s blessing, the child shall fare well.”
on tower hill, whither they had sent so many better than themselves, on the 22nd of august, sir john dudley, duke of northumberland, and sir thomas palmer, ended their wretched and evil lives. with them died sir john gates.
the duke rehearsed his confession, as he had made it in the chapel; avowing himself to be of the old learning, “and a christian now, for these sixteen years i have been none.” which last was the truth. and he said, “he would every man not to be covetous, for that had been a great part of his destruction.” and so he tied the handkerchief over his own eyes, and lay down on the block, and his head was struck off.
so ended this miserable man; for whom it had been a thousand times better that he had never been born, than to have destroyed himself and england together, and to have offended so bitterly christ’s little ones.
after him came sir john gates, who said little, and would have no handkerchief over his eyes; and his head fell at the third blow.
last came sir thomas palmer, “nothing in whose life became him like the leaving it.” for when the people bade him good morrow, he said,—“i do not doubt but that i have a good morrow, and that i shall have a better good even.” and then he went on to tell them, “that he had been lawfully condemned, and that he did therein thank god for his mercy: for that sithence his coming into the tower, he had seen himself, how utterly and verily vile his soul was—yea, he did not think any sin to be, that he had not plunged even into the midst of it (note 1); i and he had moreover seen how infinite were god’s mercies, and how jesus sitteth a redeemer at the right hand of god, by whose means his people shall live eternally. for i have learned (said he) more in one little dark corner in yonder tower, than ever i learned by any travail in so many places as i have been.” and he desired the people to pray for him, for he “did in no wise fear death.” so, taking the executioner by the hand, he said he forgave him heartily, but entreated him not to strike till he had said a few prayers, “and then he should have good leave.” and so he knelt down, and laid his head on the block, and prayed; then lifting his head again, once more asked all present to pray for him; and so again laid down his head, which was stricken from him at one stroke.
and that night isoult avery wrote in her diary—“verily, i do know that the mercies of god are infinite; and i bless him heartily therefor. but had i been to say any that i knew which was little like to come unto them, i had named this man. god be lauded if he hath shown him what is sin, and what is christ, in his last hours, and hath so received him up to that his infinite mercy. i marvel what sort shall be the meeting betwixt my lord, and george bucker, and the duke of somerset, and him.”
at length mr throgmorton found his expected opportunity, and offered his petition for mr underhill’s release. this petition set forth “his extreme sickness and small cause to be committed unto so loathsome a gaol,” and besought that he might therefore be released, offering sureties to be forthcoming when called upon: these were to be himself and his brother-in-law john speryn, a merchant of london, and a man “very zealous in the lord.” poor underhill was still very seriously ill. “i was cast,” he tells us, “into an extreme burning ague, that i could take no rest; desiring to change my lodging, and so did from one to an other, but none i could abide, there was so much noise of prisoners and evil savours. the keeper and his wife offered me his own parlour, where he lay himself, which was furthest from noise, but it was near the kitchen, the savour whereof i could not abide. then did she lodge me in a chamber wherein she said never no prisoner lay, which was her store-chamber, where she said all the plate and money lay, which was much.” (harl. ms. 425, folio 91, a.) mr ive reported that mr underhill could be no weaker than he was, and live. his friend dr record had been to see him in the prison, whom he describes as “doctor of physic, singularly seen (very skilful) in all the seven sciences (grammar, rhetoric, logic, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy), and a great devyne.” mr rose took his deprivation very quietly. some of his friends thought he might be all the safer for it, if the persecutors had done all they cared about doing to him. he had hired three rooms for the present in a house in leadenhall street. tidings of further persecution came now daily. “robin’s orders do seem going further off than ever,” lamented isoult. for bishops hooper of gloucester and coverdale of exeter were cited before the council; and the archbishop, and the dean of saint paul’s; and mass was now celebrated in many churches of london. a rumour went abroad of the lapsing of the archbishop, and that he had sung mass before the queen; but it proved false. again the altar was set up in saint paul’s cathedral; and when bishop bonner came from the marshalsea, great rejoicing was made. many by the way bade him welcome home, and “as many of the women as might kissed him.” no gospeller would have kissed him for a king’s ransom. on the 5th of september came mr ive, with news of mr underhill at once good and bad. he was released from newgate, but was so weak and ill that they were obliged to carry him home in a horse-litter, and the gaoler’s servant bore him down the stairs to the litter in his arms like a child; and for all this, those who accompanied him (mrs underhill, mr speryn, mr ive, and others) were afraid lest he should not live till he came home. they were compelled to go very gently, and frequently to halt; so that two hours were required to pass through the city, from newgate to aldgate, and night fell before he could get to his house: where he now remained in the same weak and deplorable state, and all the gospellers were asked to pray for him.
to the great relief of all protestants, the archbishop published a letter in which he utterly denied that he had ever said or promised to say mass, to gain favour with the queen.
“i could have told you so much,” said john. “my lord archbishop is not the man to curry favelle.”
“now, i had thought he rather were,” said dr thorpe.
“one of your lutheran fantasies,” answered john.
which rather annoyed the old man, who did not like to be reminded that he was or had been a lutheran; and such reminders he occasionally received from mr john avery.
“have you the news?” said mr rose, on the evening of the 14th of september.
“which news?” asked john. “we know all, methinks, touching my lord archbishop, and the bishops of gloucester and exeter, and that mr dean is cited. what more?”
“and that mr latimer is had to the tower?”
“alack, no!” cried isoult. “is it assuredly so?”
“i shake hands with him on his way, and saw him go in,” answered mr rose, sorrowfully.
“with what cheer?”
“as bright and merry as ever i did see him. the warder at the gate was will rutter, whom he knew of old; and quoth he to him, ‘what, my old friend! how do you? i am now come to be your neighbour again.’ and so went in smiling, and is lodged in the garden, in sir thomas palmer’s lodging.”
“he is a marvellous man,” replied john.
“my lord of canterbury,” pursued mr rose, “likewise came into the tower yesterday. he is lodged in the gate against the water-gate, where my lord of northumberland lay.”
“to the same end, i count, for both?” said dr thorpe, bitterly.
“the lord knoweth,” answered mr rose, “and ‘the lord reigneth.’”
“and will they put down the service-book, think you?” said he.
“they will put down everything save god,” said mr rose, solemnly; “and him also, could they but get at him.”
before september was over, john and isoult rode to the limehurst to visit mr underhill. they found him in very good spirits for an invalid in a very weak condition, and he said he was improving every day, and had a long tale to tell them when his strength would permit. mrs underhill had been compelled to present herself before the council in order to procure his release, and had there to endure a severe scolding from lord winchester for the relationship in which little guilford had been placed to lady jane grey. she bore it quietly, and got for her reward a letter to the keeper of newgate, signed by winchester, sussex, bedford, rochester, and sir edward waldegrave, ordering the release of mr underhill, who was to be bound before a magistrate, in conjunction with her brother, mr speryn, to appear when summoned.
the progress of the retrogression—for such it may be fairly termed—was swifter than that of the reformation had been. “facilis descensus averni,”—this is the usual course. high mass was restored in saint paul’s cathedral, and in very few london churches were gospel sermons yet preached. with bitter irony, liberty was granted to bishop ridley—to hear mass in the tower chapel. liberty to commit idolatry was not likely to be used by nicholas ridley. the french protestants were driven out, except a few named by the ambassador; cranmer, latimer, hooper, coverdale, were cited before the council; and on the 28th of september, the queen came to the tower, in readiness for her coronation.
at one o’clock on the 30th, the royal procession set forth, fitly preceded by a crowd of knights, doctors, bishops, and peers. after them rode the council; and then the new knights of the bath, to create whom it had been the custom, the day previous to the coronation. the seal and mace were carried next, between the lord chancellor (bishop gardiner) and the lord treasurer, william paulet, marquis of winchester. the old duke of norfolk followed, with lord arundel on his right, and lord oxford on his left, bearing the swords of state. sir edward hastings, on foot, led the queen’s horse. she sat in a chariot of tissue, trapped with red velvet, and drawn by six horses. mary was dressed in blue velvet, bordered with ermine, and on her head she carried not only a caul of tinsel set with gold and stones, but also a garland of goldsmith’s work, so massive that she was observed to “bear up her head with her hands.” she was subject to violent headaches, and in all probability was suffering from one now. a canopy was borne over her chariot. in the second chariot, which was “all white, and six horses trapped with the same,” sat the heiress presumptive of england, the princess elizabeth, “with her face forward, and the lady anne of cleve, with her back forward:” both ladies were attired in crimson velvet. then came “four ladies of estate riding upon horses”—the eccentric old duchess of norfolk; the marchioness of winchester; gertrude, the long-tried marchioness of exeter; and mary countess of arundel, niece of lady lisle. both riders and horses were apparelled in crimson velvet. the third chariot, covered with cloth of gold, and the horses similarly caparisoned, while the peeresses within were clad in crimson velvet—two ladies on horseback, in crimson velvet—the fourth and fifth chariots, and more ladies on horseback, to the total number of forty-six, and all in crimson velvet—these followed one another in due course. last came the queen’s women, riding upon horses trapped in crimson satin, and attired in the same material. among them, the third of the eight maids of honour, looked out the sweet face of anne basset, gentlest of “her highness’ women.” (note 2.)
and so closed this crimson pageant, meet inauguration of england’s bloodiest reign. of other pageants there was no lack; but i pass them by, as also the airy gyrations of peter the dutchman on the weathercock of saint paul’s.
on the west side of the cathedral was a sight which more amazed the party of sight-seers from the lamb than any other with which they had met that day. this was the hot gospeller, who had literally risen from his bed to see the pageant. mr edward underhill sat upon a horse—but he shall describe his own appearance, for it must have been remarkable. “scant able to sit, girded in a long night-gown, with double kerchiefs about my head, a great hat upon them, my beard dubed hard too, my face so leane and pale that i was the very image of death, wondered at of all that did behold me, unknown to any. my wife and neighbours were toto (too-too, an archaism for very) sorry that i would needs go forth, thinking i would not return alive. then went i forth, having of either side of me a man to stay me... when the queen passed by, ... many of my fellows the pensioners and divers of the council beheld me, and none of them all knew me.” (note 3.)
“why, ned!” cried john, “are you able to sit thus on an horse and mix in crowds?”
“no,” said he.
“then,” he answered, “what brought you hither?”
“marry, mine own obstinate resolvedness,” said mr underhill, laughing feebly, “that neither my jane, nor jack speryn, nor ive, could combat.”
john rode with his friend to the limehurst, and saw him safe home, to the great relief of mrs underhill, who declared that she had not had a minute’s rest since he set out, expecting every hour to receive some terrible news concerning him.
sunday, the 1st of october, was fixed for the coronation. that ceremony was almost invariably on the lord’s day. there was no service in the cathedral; for none but unmarried bishops or priests would the queen permit to officiate before her; and there were very few of the first. order was also issued that no married priest should minister again in any of the churches.
the gospellers were reduced to stratagem. since the churches were closed to them, they opened their own houses. by arrangement with mr rose, service was held in the lamb on the evening of the coronation day, safety being secured by a preconcerted signal-tap. about forty persons gathered, exclusive of the families of the host and the minister. a small congregation; but a congregation of live souls, who were ready to yield life sooner than faith. the majority of congregations are hardly made of that material now. “if all the real christians were gathered out of this church,” once said william romaine to his flock, “there would not be enough to fill the vestry.” how frightfully uncharitable! cries the nineteenth century—and i dare say the flock at saint anne’s thought so too. but there is a charity towards men’s souls, and there is a charity towards men’s feelings. if one of the two must be dispensed with, we shall wish in the great day of account that it had been the latter. the two “keeping-rooms” of the lamb—which they called the great and little chambers, but which we, their degenerate descendants, might term the dining-room and drawing-room—were filled with this living congregation; and mr rose read prayers from the now prohibited service-book, and preached the prohibited doctrines. before all had dispersed, mr george ferris made his appearance, and supped at the lamb, as did mr rose and mr holland, with their respective families.
after supper, mr ferris, leaning back in his chair, suddenly said,—“if you list to know the order of her highness’ crowning, i am he that can tell you; for all this day have i been in westminster abbey and hall.”
he was universally encouraged to proceed.
“the queen,” said he, “came first by water to the old palace, and there tarried she till about eleven of the clock. and thence went she afoot to the abbey, upon blue cloth railed in on every side; and she ware the same array as she came in through london. afore her went the bishops (to wit, all the unwedded), their mitres on their heads and their crosiers borne afore them. she was led betwixt old tunstal of durham and an other bishop, and right behind her came the devil in the likeness of stephen gardiner, a-censing her and casting holy water upon her all the way, which must needs have spoiled her brave blue velvet gown ere she set foot in the abbey. in the abbey was the throne, covered with baudekyn; but i pray you, demand not of me a regular account of all that was done; for it was so many and sundry ceremonies that my weak head will not hold them. i know only there was kneeling and courtesying and bowing and censing, and holy water, and a deal more of the like trumpery, wherewith i am no wise compatient (the lost adjective of compassion); and going up unto the altar, and coming down from it; and five several times was she led thereto, once to offer there her pall of baudekyn and twenty shillings, and once, leaving her crimson velvet mantle behind the travers, she was laid down on a cushion afore the altar, while four knights held the pall over her; and anointed with tedious and endless ceremonies; and crowned with three crowns (saint edward’s, the imperial, and one made for her a-purpose) by the aforesaid stephen gardiner; and a ring of gold set on her finger; and a bracelet of precious stones and gold set upon her arm by the master of the jewel house; and the sceptre given her of my lord of arundel (the old time-server!) and the ball, of the lord treasurer; and the regal of gold, of the bishop of winchester; and the staff of saint edward, of my lord of bath; and the spurs, of my lord of pembroke. come, pray you now, let me take breath!—well, after all this, the bishops and nobles did homage to her highness; but the time would not serve for all, seeing the homage to the altar had taken so much away; so they knelt in groups, and had a spokesman to perform for them. my right reverend lord bishop of winchester was for himself and all other bishops; old norfolk stood alone as a duke (for all the other dukes were in the tower, either alive or dead); the lord marquis of winchester was for his order; my lord of arundel for the earls, my lord of hereford for the viscounts, and my lord of burgavenny for the barons. all these kissed her highness’ left cheek; and all this time stood my lord of shrewsbury by her, aiding her to hold up the sceptre. well then, believe it who will, my masters, but after all this came the mass. and no sooner begun, than the bishop of lincoln and the bishop of hereford marched straight out of the church, mitres and all. it was nigh four of the clock ere her grace came from the abbey; and she came in a gown of purple velvet, with the crown upon her head, and every noble and noble lady following in cramoisie, and on their heads crownets (the old form of the word coronet) of gold. three swords were borne afore her, and a canopy over her, carried of the wardens of the cinque ports: and in one hand she held a sceptre of gold, and in the other a ball of gold, which she twirled and turned in her hand as she came. and no sooner had she set foot in the hall, than the people fell a-scrambling for the cloth and rails. yea, they were not content with the waste meat cast out of the kitchen to them, but they pulled down and carried off the kitchen also.”
“come, ferris, be reasonable in your romaunts,” said mr holland.
“who did ever hear any man to be reasonable in a romaunt?” asked he. “but this is not romance, ’tis truth. why, the kitchen was but cast up of boards outside the palace, for the time and occasion; and they made it a waste indeed. it was candle-light ere her grace took barge.”
“but was there no pardon proclaimed?” said john.
“lo’ you, now! i forgat that. ay, afore the anointing, my gracious lord chancellor proclaimeth her majesty’s goodly pardon unto all prisoners whatsoever and wheresoever—save and except an handful only, to wit, such as were in the marshalsea, and the fleet, and the tower, and such as had order to keep their houses, and sixty-two more.”
“why, that were to except them all!” cried mr holland.
“nay, they excepted not them in newgate, nor the counter.”
“a goodly procession of pardoned men!” said john.
“well,” said dr thorpe, after a short pause, “the queen’s reign is now fairly established; what shall the end be?”
“ask not me,” replied mr ferris.
“we know what it shall be,” answered mr rose, thoughtfully. “‘i will overturn, overturn, overturn, until he come whose right it is, and i will give it him.’ let as pray for his coming. and in the mean time have we a care that our loins be girded about, and our lamps burning; that when he cometh and knocketh, we may open unto him immediately. we shall be unready to open immediately, if our hands be overfull of worldly matters. it were not well to have to say to him, ‘lord, let me lay down this high post, and that public work, and these velvet robes, and this sweet cup, and this bitter one—and then i will open unto thee.’ i had rather mine hand were on the latch of the door, looking out for him.”
“but, father rose, men must see to public matters, and wear velvet robes, and carry weights of all fashions—why, the world would stand still else!”
“must men do these things, master ferris? yet be there two ways of doing them. believe me, there is one other thing they must do—they must meet christ.”
a jovial, merry, gallant gentleman was george ferris; and a protestant—of some sort. but he outlived the persecution. it was not of such stuff as his that martyrs were made. the gorgeous pageants were over, and the bitter suffering came back.
parliament was opened on the 13th of november, with a solemn mass of the holy ghost, the queen herself being present in her robes; but as soon as the mass began, the archbishop of york, and the bishops of lincoln and hereford, rose and attempted to walk out of the house. hands were laid on the bishop of lincoln, and his parliament robe taken from him; and upon confession of his faith, (which he made boldly) he was cited before the council. the archbishop and the bishop of hereford were suffered to depart for that time; but rumour ran that hereford would soon be deprived, being a married priest. perhaps he was not made of metal that would bear the furnace; for god took his child home, before the day of suffering came. the rough wind was stayed again in the day of the east wind. but on the 14th of november came a more woeful sight. for the prisoners in the tower were led on foot to the guild hall, the axe carried before them, there to be judged. first walked the archbishop of canterbury, his face cast down, between two others. then followed the lord guilford dudley, also between two. after him came his wife, the lady jane, apparelled in black, a black velvet book hanging at her girdle, and another open in her hand. after her followed her two gentlewomen, and lords ambrose and henry dudley. the archbishop was attainted for treason, although he had utterly refused to subscribe the king’s letters patent for the disinheriting of his sisters.
late in the evening mr ive looked in, to say that he hath spent all the day at the guild hall, and brought the sad news that the gentle lady jane and all the lords dudley were condemned to death. it was expected, however, that the queen would not suffer the sentence to be executed on her own cousin lady jane. the archbishop, mr ive told them, came back to the tower, looking as joyful as he had before been cast down. he was entirely acquitted of treason, and remanded to be tried for heresy; for which he blessed god in the hearing of the court.
“one step more,” said mr rose to avery, whom he met in cheapside. “the old service-book of king henry must now be used, and the new of king edward put away; and in every church in london shall the mass be next sunday or monday. and saint katherine’s eve shall be processions, and saint nicholas shall go about as aforetime.”
so, slowly and darkly, closed the black year, 1553.
married priests forbidden to minister—the english service-book prohibited—orders issued for every parish church to provide cross, censer, vestments, and similar decorations of the house of baal—mass for the soul of king edward in all the churches of london. it was not six months since the boy had died, with that last touching prayer on his lips—“lord god, preserve this realm from papistry!” was that prayer lost in the blue space it had to traverse, between that soul and the altar of incense in heaven? we know now that it was not. but it seemed utterly lost then. o lord, we know not what thou doest now. give us grace to wait patiently, to be content with thy promise that we shall know hereafter!
there was one bright spot visible to the tear-dimmed eyes of the gospellers, and only one. the parliament had been prorogued, and the bloody statute was not yet re-enacted. all statutes of premunire were repealed, and all laws of king edward in favour of reformation in the church. but that first and worst of all the penalties remained as yet in the oblivion to which he had consigned it. but in recompense for this, there was a very black cloud darkening the horizon of 1554. the queen had announced to her parliament her intended marriage with prince philip of spain. all the old insular prejudices against foreigners rose up to strengthen the protestant horror of a spanish and popish king. the very children in the streets were heard to cry, “down with the pope and the spaniards!” elizabeth would have known how to deal with such an emergency. but mary was blind and deaf. disregarding this outbreak of popular feeling, she went on, in the way which led to her ruin and england’s. it was only one of the two which was irremediable. the one was followed by a summer day of glory; the other closed only in the night of death.
the first news which reached the lamb in 1554, was the startling information—if any information can be called startling in that age of sudden and shocking events—that the night before, mr ive had been hastily apprehended and committed to the marshalsea. he was soon released, unhurt; but this occurrence quickened mr underhill’s tardy movements. he had already made up his mind to remove from the limehurst, where his abode was too well-known to the enemy; the arrest of his friend and neighbour determined him to go at once. he took “a little house in a secret corner at the nether end of wood street,” cheapside. about epiphany was born susan bertie, the only daughter of the duchess of suffolk. shortly before this the emperor’s ambassadors came over to treat concerning the queen’s marriage, and were pelted with snowballs by children in the streets of the city. the vacant sees were filled up by popish divines; cardinal pole was invited to return to england (from which he had been so many years exiled), in the capacity of legate; the queen dissolved the court of first fruits, and commanded that the title of “head of the church in earth” should be omitted from the enumeration of her titles in all future documents. permission granted to lady jane to walk in the queen’s garden and on tower hill revived for a moment the hopes of the protestants so far as concerned her. no harm would come to her, they sanguinely repeated, if the queen were left to herself. possibly they were fight. but what likelihood was there that gardiner would so leave her? and—a question yet more ominous—what might philip of spain require in this matter? men not yet sixty years of age could remember the time when, previous to the marriage of katherine of aragon, the earl of warwick, last surviving male of the house of york, had been beheaded on tower hill. once before, the royal blood of england had been shed at the demand of spain: might the precedent not be repeated now? the only difference being, that the victim then was a tercel gentle, and now it would be a white dove.
in the middle of january, before his removal from the limehurst, and when he was sufficiently recovered to “walk to london an easy pace,” mr underhill made his appearance one afternoon in the minories. he came with the evident intention of telling his own story.
“and would you,” said he, “hear the tale of my examination and imprisonment?”
“that would we, and with a right good will,” answered dr thorpe, speaking for all. “we do know even what mr ive could tell us, but nothing further.”
“then what ive could not tell you,” resumed he, “take from me (these incidents in underhill’s life are given almost entirely in his own words). i guessed (and rightly so) what was the cause of mine arrest; to wit, a certain ballad that i had put forth against the papists, and for that i was a sacramentary. well, when i came into the tower, where the council sat, they were already busied with dr coxe and the lord ferrers; wherefore i was to wait. so i and my two men went to an alehouse to dinner in the tower, and after that repaired to the council chamber door, to be the first taken, for i desired to know my lot. then came secretary bourne to the door, looking as the wolf doth for a lamb; unto whom my two keepers delivered me, and he took me in greedily. the earl of bedford was chief judge, next the earl of sussex, and sir richard southwell; and on the side next me sat the earl of arundel and lord paget. by them stood sir john gage, the constable, the earl of bath, and mr mason; at the board’s end stood sergeant morgan and secretary bourne. and the lord wentworth stood in the bay window. then my lord of bedford (who was my very friend, owing unto the chance that i had to recover his son, as i told you aforetime; yet would not now seem to be familiar with me, nor called me not by my name), said,—‘did not you set a ballad of late in print?’—i kneeled down, saying, ‘yes, truly, my lord; is that the cause i am called before your honours?’—‘marry,’ said secretary bourne, ‘you have one of them about you, i am sure.’—‘nay truly, have i not,’ said i.—then took he one out of his bosom and read it over distinctly, the council giving diligent ear. when he had ended,—‘i trust, my lord,’ said i, ‘i have not offended the queen’s majesty in the ballad, nor spoken against her title, but maintained it.’—‘you have, sir,’ said morgan. ‘yes, i can divide your ballad, and make a distinction in it, and so prove at the least sedition in it.’—‘yea,’ i said, ‘you men of law will make of a matter what ye list.’—‘lo!’ said sir richard southwell, ‘how he can give a taunt! you maintain the queen’s title with the help of an arrant heretic, tyndale.’—‘you speak of papists there, sir,’ said mr mason. ‘i pray you, how define you a papist?’—‘why,’ said i, ‘it is not long since you could define a papist better than i.’ with that some of them secretly smiled, as the lord of bedford, arundel, sussex, and paget. in great haste sir john gage took the matter in hand. ‘thou callest men papists there,’ said he; ‘who be they thou judgest to be papists?’—‘sir,’ said i, ‘i do name no man, nor i am not hither to accuse any, nor none i will accuse; but your honours do know that in this controversy that hath been, some be called papists and some protestants.’—‘but we will know whom thou judgest to be papists, and that we command thee upon thine allegiance to declare.’—‘sir,’ said i, ‘i think if you look among the priests in poules, ye shall find some old mumpsimuses there.’—‘mumpsimuses, knave!’ saith he, ‘mumpsimuses! thou art an heretic knave!’ and sware a great oath.—says the earl of bath, ‘i warrant him an heretic knave, indeed.’—‘i beseech your honours,’ said i (speaking to the lords that sat at the table, for these other that stood by be not now of the council), ‘be my good lords. i have offended no laws, and i have served the queen’s majesty’s father and her brother long time, and in their service have spent and consumed part of my living, never having as yet any preferment or recompense, and the rest of my fellows likewise, to our utter undoing, unless the queen’s highness be good unto us; and for my part i went not forth against her majesty, notwithstanding i was commanded, nor liked those doings.’—‘no, but with your writings you will set us together by the ears,’ saith the earl of arundel.—‘he hath spent his living wantonly,’ saith bourne, ‘and now saith he hath spent it in the king’s service; which i am sorry for: he is come of a worshipful house in worcestershire.’ (note 4)—‘it is untruly said of you,’ said i, ‘that i have spent my living wantonly. i never consumed no part thereof until i came into the king’s service, which i do not repent, nor doubted of recompense if either of my two masters had lived. i perceive you are bourne’s son of worcester, who was beholden unto my uncle wynter, and therefore you have no cause to be my enemy, nor you never knew me, nor i you, before now, which is too soon.’—‘i have heard enough of you,’ said he.—‘so have i of you,’ said i, ‘how that mr sheldone drave you out of worcestershire for your behaviour.’—with that came sir edward hastings from the queen in great haste, saying, ‘my lords, you must set all things apart, and come forthwith to the queen.’—then said the earl of sussex, ‘have this gentleman unto the fleet, until we may talk further with him.’ (although i was knave before of master gage.)—‘to the fleet?’ saith master southwell, ‘have him to the marshalsea!’—‘have the heretic knave to newgate!’ saith master gage again.—‘call a couple of the guard here,’ saith bourne, ‘and there shall be a letter sent to the keeper how he shall use him, for we have other manner of matters with him than these.’—‘so had ye need,’ said i, ‘or else i care not for you.’—‘deliver him to mr garret, the sheriff,’ said he, ‘and bid him send him to newgate.’—‘my lord (said i unto my lord of arundel, for that he was next me, as they were rising) i trust you will not see me thus used to be sent to newgate; i am neither thief nor traitor.’—‘ye are a naughty fellow,’ said he; ‘ye were alway tuting in the duke of northumberland’s ear, that ye were.’—‘i would he had given better ear unto me,’ said i; ‘it had not been with him then as it is now.’—mr hastings pushing by me (mine old adversary, with whom i had been aforetime wont to reason touching the sacrament), i thought good to prove him, although he threatened before now.—‘sir,’ said i, ‘i pray you speak for me that i be not sent unto newgate, but rather unto the fleet, which was first named. i have not offended. i am a gentleman, as you know, and one of your fellows, when you were of this band of the pensioners.’—very quietly he said unto me, ‘i was not at the table, mr underhill, and therefore i can say nothing to it.’ but i think he was not content with the place i was appointed to. well, i count ive told you all he saw, touching my progress to master sheriff, and thence to newgate. but while i waited in the sheriff’s house, my lord russell heard my voice, and showed very sorry for me; and sent me on the morrow twenty shillings, and every week as much while i was in newgate. i count ive told you moreover of my sickness.”
“ay, and of the ill savours and noise that you could not abide,” said dr thorpe; “and of your changing of your lodging; and how dr record did visit you, and divers other things.”
“then he told you all,” said mr underhill. “and now (for ’tis past nine of the clock) this great knave, rogue, and heretic, must be on his way home.”
mr underhill left behind him a new ballad which he had lately published. since it probably does not exist in print now, it shall be subjoined, and in the orthography of its author.
“love god above all thyngs, and thy neyghboure as thy selffe;
thatt this is crist’s doctryne, no mane cane it denye;
wyche litle is regarded in yngland’s common wealthe,
wherefore greate plags att hande be, the realme for to distroye.
“‘do as thow woldest be done unto,’ no place here he cane have,
off all he is remised, no mane wyll hym reseave;
butt pryvate wealthe, thatt cursed wreche, and most vyle slave,
over all he is imbraced, and ffast to hym they cleave.
“he thatt hathe this world’s goode, and seeth his neyghboure lake,
and off hym hathe no compassyone, nor showithe hym no love,
nor relevithe his nesessite, butt suffers hym go to wrake,
god dwellithe nott in thatt mane, the scriptures playnely prove.
“example we have by dyves, thatt dayntilye dide fare,
in worldely wealthe and ryches therein he dide excell,
off poore lazarous’ mesery he hadde theroff no care,
therfore was sodenly taken and tormentide in hell.”
(see note 5 for explanations.)
ten quiet days followed. for many a month afterwards, quietness was only to be remembered as a lost luxury.
“have you the news?” inquired mr underhill, suddenly opening avery’s door, and coming in hastily.
“i have heard you put that question five-and-twenty times,” responded dr thorpe.
“well!” he answered, “you may hear it yet again so many. there is like to be some trouble.”
“then that is good news,” said the doctor, sarcastically, “for during some time there hath been trouble, not there hath been like to be.”
“what is it, then, ned?” inquired john.
“why,” answered he, “the lord cobham and tom wyatt be up in kent, and my lord warden of dover, and many another, to resist the queen’s marriage, and to remove certain councillors from her, which (as i take it) is another way of spelling stephen gardiner’s name: and my lord of suffolk, and his two brothers (john and thomas grey), are fled from shene (on pretence of going to the court), no man knows whither: and rochester bridge is taken of one set of rebels, and exeter of them in devon—”
“alack the day!” cried isoult, her devon blood stirring.
“and five hundred harnessed men are called to take the field against wyatt. we pensioners go down to white hall to guard the queen.”
and mr underhill shut the door, and they saw no more of him.
there was some trouble. on the 30th of january, the old duke of norfolk and others marched against sir thomas wyatt, but the same night they came back in disorder, flying over london bridge with only a fourth part of their company. mr brent, the lamb’s next neighbour, who was one of the little army, came home with his “coat turned, and all ruinated, and not a string to his bow.” they brought news that wyatt was coming fast on southwark.
on the 1st of february came the queen herself to guild hall, her sceptre in her hand, which was a token of peace; and bishop gardiner attending her, which was a token of blood. she made an oration to the people, which she had learned without book; and when it was done,—“o how happy are we,” cried bishop gardiner, “to whom god hath given such a wise and learned queen!” which outcry dr thorpe said was “as good as proof that the bishop himself writ the oration.”
wyatt and his company entered southwark on the eve of quinquagesima sunday, by four o’clock; and before five he had made a bulwark at the bridge-foot, and fortified himself; but the queen’s men still held the bridge against him. the next morning, mr rose, with mrs rose and thekla, came to the lamb, read the service out of the prayer book, and preached: but they were afraid to sing. at nine o’clock on tuesday morning wyatt drew off his men, seeing that he could not take the bridge, and turned towards kingston.
in the evening came in mr underhill, in armour, with his pole-axe in his hand, which he set down in a corner, and sat down and talked for an hour.
“so wyatt is gone?” said dr thorpe.
“gone about to strengthen himself,” answered mr underhill. “he is coming back, take my word for it. he said unto his soldiers that he would pay them the next time in cheapside; and unto the men that held the bridge quoth he,—‘twice have i knocked, and not been suffered to enter; if i knock the third time i will come in, by god’s grace!’”
“what did you at the court?” said dr thorpe. “is good watch kept?”
mr underhill laughed.
“marry, i did nothing,” said he, “for i was not suffered. i put on mine harness, and went up into the queen’s chamber of presence, where were all her women weeping and wringing their hands, like foolish fluttering birds, and crying they should all be destroyed that night. and then mr norris, the queen’s chief usher, which was appointed to call the watch, read over the names from the book which moore (the clerk of our check) gave him; but no sooner came he to my name than quoth he,—‘what! what doth he here?’—‘sir,’ saith the clerk, ‘he is here ready to serve as the rest be.’—‘nay!’ saith he, and sware a great oath, ‘that heretic shall not watch here! give me a pen.’ and so strake my name off the book. so moore cometh to me, and ‘mr underhill,’ saith he, ‘you are not to watch; you may depart to your lodging.’—‘may i?’ said i; ‘i would be glad of that,’—thinking i had been favoured because i was not recovered of my sickness; but i did not well trust him, because he was also a papist. ‘marry, i depart indeed,’ said i; ‘will you be my discharge?’—‘i tell you true,’ said he, ‘mr norris hath stricken you out of the book, saying these words—that heretic shall not watch here: i tell you true what he said.’—‘marry, i thank him,’ said i, ‘and you also; you could not do me a greater pleasure.’—‘nay, burden not me withal,’ said he, ‘it is not my doing.’ so away went i, with my men and a link. and when i come to the court gate, i fell in with mr clement throgmorton (that was come post from coventry to the queen with tidings of the taking of the duke of suffolk) and george ferris,—both my friends, and good protestants. so away went we three to ludgate, which was fast locked, for it was past eleven of the clock, and the watch set within, but none without. and lo’ you, for all our calling, and declaring of our names, and the like, would they not open the gate. mr throgmorton cried to them that he would go to his lodging within, and mr ferris said he was sent with weighty affairs to my lord will howard within: but they did nought but laugh, and at long last said they had not the keys. ‘what shall i do?’ said mr throgmorton; ‘i am weary and faint, and i wax now cold. i am not acquainted hereabout, nor no man dare open his doors in this dangerous time, nor i am not able to go back again to the court; i shall perish this night.’—‘well,’ said i, ‘let us go to newgate; i think i shall get in there.’—‘tush!’ said he, ‘it is but in vain; we shall be answered there as we are here.’—‘well,’ said i, ‘and the worst fall, i can lodge ye in newgate: you know what acquaintance i have there, and the keeper’s door is without the gate.’—‘that were a bad shift!’ said he; ‘i had almost as lief die in the streets; yet i will rather wander again to the court.’ howbeit, i did persuade them to try at newgate; and there found we my friend newman to be constable of the watch, which saith, ‘mr underhill! what news, that you walk so late?’ so he let us through the gate with a good will, and at long last we reached each man to his lodging.”
at four o’clock on the morning of ash wednesday, london was awoke by drums beating all through the streets of the city. john and robin rose hastily, and went out to ascertain the cause. they came in shortly, saying that the drums beat for all soldiers to arm and repair to charing cross, for that wyatt was seeking to come in by westminster, and had reached as far as brentford. about one or two o’clock, wyatt came, and marched past charing cross, without hindrance (except that as he passed saint james’s the earl of pembroke fell upon his rear), and so marched along the strand, and up fleet street, until he came before ludgate. there they knocked to come in, falsely saying that the queen had granted their request and pardoned them; but lord william howard was not to be thus deceived, as others had been on the way. his answer was a stern cry of “avaunt, traitor! thou shalt not come in here.” for a little while wyatt rested upon a seat at the belle sauvage gate; but at last, being weary of this pastime, he turned back on charing cross. when he reached temple bar the queen’s horsemen met him, and the battle began. when he saw the fight going against him, wyatt yielded. and so sir maurice berkeley and others brought him and his chief captains to court, and at five o’clock they were taken to the tower by water. and as they passed in, sir john bridges, the lieutenant, ungenerously upbraided the prisoner, saying that “if it were not that the law must justly pass upon him, he would strike him with his dagger.” to whom wyatt answered, “with a grim and grievous look”—“it were no mastery now.” and so they passed on.
thus was wyatt’s rebellion quashed. the stars in their courses fought against him.
note 1. in addition to his cruel persecution of the gospellers, he had been a notorious libertine.
note 2. cott. ms., appendix, twenty-eight, folio 93, 94.—miss strickland says (lives of the queens, three, page 459), that this was mary, wife of james basset; but the tallies roll for 2-3 philip et mary distinctly names this lady as one of queen mary’s maids of honour, in recording the payment of her pension—“anna basset, virginis reginae.”
note 3. harl. ms. 425, folio 92, 93.
note 4. underhill is a warwickshire family, but anne wynter, the mother of edward underhill, was a worcestershire woman.
note 5. notes on this poem. see harl. ms. 424, folio 9. plags means plagues. “wealthe” means “personal interest.” “wreche” means “wretch.” “lake” means “lack.” “wrake” means “wrack.”
