The Greatest Works of Charles Carleton Coffin. Charles Carleton Coffin
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his liberty, but then he, quite likely, would be roasted alive, if he were to do so humane an act.
"I could have had my life, but I would not take it here to lose it in the next world. Please, Mr. Sheriff, make the fire a hot one, so that it may be quickly over."
It is nine o'clock in the morning. The winter air is chill, but all of Gloucester, and the people from the surrounding country, have gathered to see their dear old friend lay down his life. He is weak and feeble from long imprisonment. He has ridden all the way from London on horseback, and he walks with a feeble step, supporting himself with a cane; but how brave of heart! He looks round upon the multitude with a smile on his face. He would like to speak to his old friends, but the sheriff will not let him. Stephen Gardiner and Bishop Bonner will have no farewell address to stir the hearts of heretics; but those lips, so eloquent once, were never so eloquent as by their silence now.
The bishop, when he arrives at the stake, throws his arms around it as if it were a friend. He kneels and prays.
The sheriff holds a paper in his hand.
"Here is a pardon, if you will recant."
"A pardon if I will recant! Take it away!"
The sheriff strips him of his garments, ties bags of powder under his arms, fastens a chain around his neck, another around his waist, a third around his legs, piles the fagots, and applies the torch.
At the windows, on the house-tops, in trees, are the people. In a room over the college gates* are some priests looking down to see the heretic burned. It is a damp and windy morning. The fagots are wet. The smoke smothers the martyr — the fire scorches and blisters^ his legs, but does not touch his body, for the wind blows the flame aside.
"More fire!"
The people hear the bishop calling from the pillar of smoke. The sheriff heaps on more fagots, and the withered hands, reaching out from the fire, drawn them closer. A handful of flame leaps up and scorches his face. The hands wave to and fro.
"For God's love, good people, give me more fire!"
The minutes go by. His legs are burned to a cinder.
"More fire!" he cries.
Once more the fagots are piled, the flames leap up, and the powder explodes.
"Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!"
Those who stand nearest hear the words — the last that fall upon their ears; yet still his lips are moving. Three-quarters of an hour have passed since the fagots were lighted, and still the scorched hands are beating on his breast.
It is over. He who spread the table for the poor, whose every act was for the good of man, whose life was pure and holy, who was the impersonation of good-will to men, is nothing but a cinder now. He will preach no more heresy. So, perhaps, Stephen Gardiner and Mary and the priests, with hate in their hearts, may think; but when the sun goes down at night there are more heretics in Gloucester than in the morning.
At this same day and hour there is a similar scene in the town of Hadleigh, not far from London. Rev. Rowland Taylor, the minister who has preached there, has been in prison a year. It is two o'clock in the morning when he is brought out from his cell. The good man's family are on the watch, by St. Botolph's Church. All through the weary winter night they have stood there. They hear the tramp of feet — discern a body of men.
"Oh, mother, there they are; there is father!" cries the daughter Elizabeth.
"Rowland, are you there?" the wife asks.
"I am here."
The sheriff is not altogether a brutal man.
"Stop a moment, and let him speak to his wife!" is his command to his men.
The minister takes his little Mary in his arms, presses her to his bosom, feels once more her hands upon his neck. He puts her down, and kneels with his family, and all repeat the Lord's Prayer. Then he kisses them.
"Farewell, dear wife; be of good comfort. God will be a father to my children."
"God bless thee, Mary dear, and make thee his servant."
"God bless thee, Elizabeth; stand strong in Christ."
Once more he presses them to his heart, feels the scalding tears drop upon his cheek in the darkness.
The streets of the old town of Hadleigh are crowded with people, who have come to see their old pastor die. They cannot see his face, for the sheriff has covered it with a hood, with two holes in it, so that he can see without his face being seen. At a foot-bridge a poor man, with his five children, kneels before him.
"God help thee, Doctor Taylor, and succor thee, as thou hast many a time helped me."
He passes the almshouse. Many times has he been into it to give things to the poor. The people are looking out of the window to see their old friend.
"Is the blind man yet alive?" Mr. Taylor asks.
"Yes."
"And the poor old blind woman?"
"Yes."
"Here is some money for them;" and he throws a glove, in which are a few coins, into the window.
He reaches the stake. No longer will he wear the hood, but tears it from his face, and the people see once more the smiling and genial face of their dear old pastor. His beard is white, and he is pale from long imprisonment He would speak to the people, but one of the sheriffs men rudely thrusts a staff into his mouth.
They pile the wood around him, and a brutal fellow hurls a stick into his face. The blood trickles down his cheeks.
"Oh, friend, what need of that?" Mr. Taylor mildly asks.
He is placed in a barrel smeared with pitch. The flames whirl above his head, and then a soldier knocks out his brains.
No more heresy, no more private opinions in Hadleigh.
William Hunter, nineteen years old, is learning to weave silk with Thomas Taylor in London. He does not go to mass, as Mary has commanded everybody to do on Easter-morning, and the priest threatens to have him up before the bishop.
"You had better go home for a little season," says Ins master, hoping that if William is out of the way for a little while the priest will forget all about it; and the boy goes home to Brentwood. He strolls into the church, and sees the Bible chained to the desk. Since Mary has come to the throne, only the priests are allowed to read it; but William dares to open it.
"Reading the Bible I What right have yon to read it?"
It is the shout of the beadle, who opens and shuts the doors.
"I read it because I like to."
The beadle runs for the priest, who comes in hot haste.
"Sirrah! who gave you leave to read the Bible?"
"I found it here, and I have read it because I wish to."
"You have no business with it."
"I intend to read it as long as I live."
"You are a heretic."
"No, I am not."
The priest cannot permit any reading of the Book in his parish,