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This "Story of Liberty" is a true narrative. It covers a period of five hundred years, and is an outline of the march of the human race from Slavery to Freedom.
There are some points in this book to which I desire to direct your attention. You will notice that the events which have given direction to the course of history have not always been great battles, for very few of the many conflicts of arms have had any determining force; but it will be seen that insignificant events have been not unfrequently followed by momentous results: You will see that everything of the present, be it good or bad, may be traced to something in the past; that history is a chain of events. You will also notice that history is like a drama, and that there are but a few principal actors. How few there have been!
The first to appear in this "Story" is King John of England. Out of his signing his. name to the Magna Charta have come the Parliament of Great Britain and the Congress of the United States, and representative governments everywhere. The next actors were John Wicklif and Geoffrey Chaucer, who sowed seed that is now ripening in individual liberty. Then came Henry VII., Henry VIII, Katherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Katherine's daughter (Mary Tudor), Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Cranmer, Anne Boleyn's daughter (Elizabeth), King James, John Smith, John Robinson, William Brewster, and the men and women of Austerfield and Scrooby.
In Scotland were Mary Stuart and George Buchanan; in Bohemia, Professor Faulfash and John Huss; in Germany, the boy who sung for his breakfast (Martin Luther), Duke Frederick, John Tetzel, and John Guttenberg; in Holland, Laurence Coster, Doctor Erasmus, and William the Silent; in France, Francis I., Catherine de' Medici, the Duke of Guise, Charles IX., and Henry IV.; in Spain, Thomas de Torquemada, Isabella, Ferdinand, Christopher Columbus, Charles V., Philip II., and Loyola; in Italy, Alexander VI and Leo X. These have taken great parts in the drama: actively or passively, they have been the central figures.
One other thing: you will notice that the one question greater than all others has been in regard to the right of men to think for themselves, especially in matters pertaining to religion. Popes, archbishops, cardinals, bishops, and priests have disputed the right, to secure which hundreds of thousands of men and women have yielded their lives. You will also take special notice that nothing is said against religion — nothing against the Pope because he is Pope; nothing against a Catholic because he is a Catholic; nor against a Protestant because he protests against the authority of the Church of Rome. Facts of history only are given.' Catholics and Protestants alike have persecuted, robbed, plundered, maltreated, imprisoned, and burned men and women for not believing as they believed. Through ignorance, superstition, intolerance, and bigotry; through thinking that they alone were right, and that those who differed with them were wrong; forgetting that might never makes right; honestly thinking that they were doing God service in rooting out heretics, they filled the world with woe.
There is still another point to be noticed: that the successes of those who have struggled to keep men in slavery have often proved to be in reality failures; while the defeats of those who were fighting for freedom have often been victories. Emperors, kings, cardinals, priests, and popes have had their own way, and yet their plans have failed in the end. They plucked golden fruit, which changed to apples of Sodom. Mary Tudor resolutely set herself to root out all heretics, and yet there were more heretics in England on the day of her death than when she ascended the throne. Charles V. and Philip II. grasped at universal dominion; but their strength became weakness, their achievements failures. On the other hand, see what has come from disaster! How bitter to John Robinson, William Brewster, and the poor people of Scrooby and Austerfield, to be driven from home, to be exiles! But out of that bitterness has come the Republic of the Western world! Who won — King James, or John Robinson and William Brewster?
There is still one other point: you will notice that while the oppressors have carried out their plans, and had things their own way, there were other forces silently at work, which in time undermined their plans, as if a Divine hand were directing the counter-plan. Whoever peruses the "Story of Liberty" without recognizing this feature will fail of fully comprehending the meaning of history. There must be a meaning to history, or else existence is an incomprehensible enigma.
Some men assert that the marvellous events of history are only a series of coincidences; but was it by chance that the great uprising in Germany once lay enfolded, as it were, in the beckoning hand of Ursula Cotta? How happened it that behind the passion of Henry VIII. for Anne Boleyn should be the separation of England from the Church of Rome, and all the mighty results to civilization and Christianity that came from that event? How came it to pass that, when the world was ready for it, and not before, George Buchanan should teach the doctrine that the people were the only legitimate source of power? Men act freely in laying and executing their plans; but behind the turmoil and conflict of human wills there is an unseen power that shapes destiny — nations rise and fall, generations come and go; yet through the ages there has been an advancement of Justice, Truth, Right, and Liberty. To what end? Is it not the march of the human race toward an Eden of rest and peace?
If while reading this "Story" you are roused to indignation, or pained at the recital of wrong and outrage, remember that out of endurance and sacrifice has come all that you hold most dear; so will you comprehend what Liberty has cost, and what it is worth.
Charles Carleton Coffin.
KATHERINE OF ARAGON is forty-four years old. The freshness has faded from her cheeks. She is a true wife, but Henry is tired of her. He is thirty-eight, in the full vigor of manhood. He is not a true husband, for he finds more pleasure in the society of Anne Boleyn than with Katherine. Anne is a lady of the court. Henry kisses her at a banquet which Cardinal Wolsey gives in the magnificent palace that he has erected with the money which he raked in from Charles, from Henry, from the sale of church-livings, from taxation. It is a grand pile of buildings, with spacious grounds around.
The king sits by Anne's side, gazing upon her fair face, charmed by her pleasing ways, and enchanted by her matchless beauty.
Strange that a woman's smile should change a nation's destiny; that a fair face should be the means, as it were, of giving a new direction to the current of human affairs 1 Wonderful that through the love of a man for a woman should come the rending of the Church of Rome! Marvelous that in the reckless passion of a hard-hearted, cruel despot should lie enfolded, as it were, the rights, the liberties, the advancement, of the human race!
Great changes have taken place in Europe since Henry met Anne, twelve years ago, at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. It is 1532. Doctor Martin Luther, of Wittenberg, has been preaching and writing. Thanks to Laurence Coster and John Guttenberg, the world may know what Is going on, and what people think. Men do not now take all their opinions from the Pope, especially in Germany, in Holland, and France. Martin Luther's doctrines have made little progress in England. Henry and Cardinal Wolsey are fast friends of the Pope. Henry is Defender of the Faith — a strong pillar to the Church.
Leo X. is dead; but his nephew, another of the Medici family, is seated ill the pontifical chair. Cardinal Wolsey intended to be Pope, and expected that Charles, fur whom he had done so much, and who had made him so many solemn promises, would aid him; but the cardinal had discovered that kings can play false as well as other men.
During these twelve years, Charles and Francis have been at war. In February, 152i, their armies met at Pavia, in Italy, where Francis was defeated, and captured. Charles kept him in prison a year, and subjected him to humiliating terms before releasing him. Charles is a good Catholic, but he has been fighting the Pope, and his troops have sacked the city of Rome.
Cardinal Wolsey rode next the king at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and he rides next him now. He has had his own way in everything. He lives in great state. Lords and nobles do his bidding. He is proud and arrogant One day the Duke of Buckingham is holding a gold basin while Henry washes his hands, and Cardinal Wolsey dips his own hands into the dish, whereupon the duke spills the water upon the cardinal's red slippers.
"I will sit on your skirts, sir," says Wolsey.
What he means by that Buckingham soon discovers, for the sheriff comes with an order from Henry for his arrest and commitment to the Tower. He has spoken imprudent words, and Wolsey persuades Henry that the duke is meditating treason. In the "Bloody Tower" Buckingham meets his fate.
"Off with his head! So much for Buckingham."
The King of England can cut off the heads of his greatest nobles as well as of his poorest subjects. He is supreme, and the people are slaves to his will. Will the time ever come when kings will be amenable to law 3 Yes; and this despot will himself unwittingly strike a great blow for human freedom.
Henry is tired of Katherine; how shall he get rid of her! He has been thinking the matter over. He recalls the question whether or not it was right that he should marry his brother's widow. He protested when the betrothal was proposed; but that was in his boyhood. His father came to the conclusion before his death that the betrothal was illegal, and dissolved the contract; but Henry loved Katherine then, and would not break the engagement. Katherine is the mother of his only child, Mary; but, for all that, Henry begins to doubt if the marriage was legal, notwithstanding the Pope gave his sanction. If it was illegal, then he ought to be divorced; but, if divorced, then Mary would not be heir to the throne. What shall he do? He loves Anne. The passion grows; he must have her for a wife — she is so fresh and fair, so witty and captivating.
Henry places the matter in the hands of Cardinal Wolsey, who sends an ambassador to Home to lay the matter before the Pope, who promises to set aside the marriage.
Charles finds out what is going on. Katherine is his aunt, and he enters his protest. What shall the Pope do t Charles is powerful; his troops have once plundered Rome, and may do so again. Henry must wait a little. He sends Cardinal Campeggio to England to sit with Wolsey, as legates, with power to decide the question of divorcement. He writes out a bull setting aside the marriage, which the cardinal may show to Henry; but he is not to give it him till he can make things right with Charles.
The cardinals hold a court in Blackfriars Palace, and Henry and Katherine appear before them.
"I am ready to stand by the decision of the Pope's legates," says Henry.
"I am your truly wedded wife," is Katherine's exclamation as she falls at Henry's feet. She will not recognize the cardinals, turns her back upon them, and leaves the room.
Cardinal Campeggio goes back to Rome. Months pass. Henry is impatient and dissatisfied with Wolsey, who has had the management of affairs. But what shall he do?
One day Doctor Thomas Cranmer, of Cambridge, is dining with Stephen Gardiner, Cardinal Wolsey's secretary, whom we saw at the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
"Why does not the king lay the matter before the chief ministers and doctors of Europe, and let them examine the lawfulness of the marriage?" Doctor Crammer asks.
It is a new idea, and Gardiner makes it known to Henry, who invites the doctor to London, and finds that he is able and learned. He lays the matter before the Oxford doctors, who decide that the marriage was illegal; the Cambridge doctors say the same. He sends a learned man to Italy, and some of the doctors there coincide with the opinion. they discover a lot of old Greek manuscripts, which show that the doctors in old times were of their way of thinking. Henry consults the Jewish rabbies, who say that in Judea, when a man died leaving no children, a brother might marry the widow to preserve possessions, but they thought it would be illegal out of Judea.
The Paris doctors, after three weeks' study, agree that the marriage was a lawful one; and the doctors at Toulon, Angiers, and Orleans are of the same way of thinking. John Calvin, a learned doctor in Geneva, says it was illegal. Philip Melancthon, another learned doctor, Martin Luther's best friend, thinks that it was lawful, but that it may be set aside.
Henry sends Doctor Cranmer, Stephen Gardiner, and Edward Bonner to argue the matter before the Pope. The Pope listens, but makes no answer. Henry is impatient; he will wait no longer. As the Pope has promised to set aside the marriage, and has once written out the bull, as the doctors of Cambridge and Oxford say it was illegal, Henry leaves Katherine, and is privately married to Anne. No longer may the true-hearted queen live in one of the king's palaces. She goes into the country. She is not even permitted to have Mary with her. With a breaking heart, she writes to Charles of the indignity heaped upon her; and Charles stirs up the Pope to summon Henry to appear at Rome and give an account of himself.
"Appear at Rome and give an account of myself! Tell the Pope that I am a sovereign prince, and that he has no authority in England,"
Out of this reply shall come the freedom of a nation. The people, the nobles, are with the king. Cardinal Wolsey makes all the Church appointments in England; and as he is managing affairs for the king, it will be for the interest of all the prelates to be on the king's side. Parliament decides that no cause affecting the interests of the kingdom shall be judged outside of the realm: any person executing any censure of the Pope shall be punished.
Never before has the Parliament of England exercised such independence. New times have come.
Henry appoints Doctor Cranmer Archbishop of Canterbury, There is no reason why the Pope should not confirm so able and learned a man, and, though Henry and Parliament are taking things out of his hands, ho sends a bull for his consecration. The doctor does not desire the office, and upon taking the oath makes this protestation:
"Not to be bound by anything contrary to what I conceive to be my duty to God and to the king."
It is the right of private judgment. He will think for himself. Parliament takes up the marriage of Katherine, Was the marriage lawful? Seven lords say it was, the fourteen say it was not. Of the Commons, two hundred and sixteen say it was not; none say it was. The question goes to the bishops, who hold their court. They summon Henry and Katherine before them; but Katherine will not recognize them as a court The Pope is the one to whom she appeals. The bishops declare her contumacious of their authority; and they decree that the marriage of Henry and Katherine is null and void.
A few days later there is a grand pageant on the Thames. The Lord Mayor of London comes down from Guildhall, and steps into his gilded barge, to lead a procession of boats. He wears a scarlet cloak trimmed with gold-lace, and is accompanied by all the great men of the realm — filling fifty barges. In one boat sits a dragon with a long tail. From the monster's mouth issues a stream of fire. Another barge carries the representation of a mound supporting a tree covered with red and white roses, for the Wars of the Roses (the houses of York and Lancaster) are over, and the great families are living in peace. Upon the tree sits a white falcon. Beneath its branches sit a group of girls, waving flags and singing songs. There are high-born young ladies, who grace the occasion by their presence. Thousands of boats follow in the wake of the procession.
There is still another barge, more gorgeous than all others, containing another company of high-born ladies, one of whom is seated in a golden chair beneath a golden canopy. We have seen her before. We first saw her here upon the Thames, twenty years ago, when she was but seven years of age — on that stormy day when Mary, King Henry's sister, took her departure for France, to be the wife of old Louis XII. We saw her again at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, twelve years ago — the fairest and wittiest of all the ladies there. Now she is the wife of King Henry, and to-morrow she is to be crowned Queen of England — Anne Boleyn.
As the royal procession passes up the stream, the people look out upon it from the quaint old houses huddled along the shore. The rowers ply their oars; the cannon thunder; bells ring; the people rend the air with shouting. The procession moves from the king's palace in Greenwich to the Tower. King Henry greets Anne at the landing with a kiss, and escorts her into the Tower.
This on Saturday. On Sunday morning all London is astir, for there is to be a grand coronation procession. The houses along the streets through which the procession is to pass are hung with crimson and scarlet. The Lord Mayor, in crimson velvet, leads the procession. After him rides the French ambassador, in a blue-velvet coat, with sleeves of blue and yellow. Then come the judges, in their gowns; then the Knights of the Bath, in velvet gowns and hoods; then the abbots, the bishops, the Archbishop of York; the ambassador from Venice; the Archbishop of Canterbury; the great men — lords, earls, dukes; the Lord High Constable, Duke of Suffolk (Charles Brandon), who married Mary after the death of Louis XII. Anne Boleyn rides in a litter borne by two horses — one before, and the other behind. The litter is covered with cloth of gold. The horses are caparisoned with white damask, and led by footmen in livery.
Anne wears a dress of silver tissue, and a mantle lined with ermine. Her hair hangs in loose tresses upon her shoulders. Upon her brow rests a coroner set with rubies. Four knights bear a canopy, to shelter her from the sun.
Two chariots filled with ladies, and fourteen ladies on horseback, with thirty waiting-maids, follow the queen, accompanied by noblemen, who act as guards. Besides these, there is a great following of merchants and of children.
Fountains of Rhine-wine are erected along the streets, and the people drink all that they wish, at the expense of the king — forgetting that, after all, they will have to foot the bill by increased taxes. School-children sing ballads; poets recite verses. A gentleman presents Anne with a purse filled with gold. there are triumphal arches, festoons, banners; the cannon thunder again, the bells clang once more, and the people shout themselves hoarse, as the procession moves from the Tower to Westminster Abbey. All the great men, all the noble ladies of England, are there. the mayor carries Anne's sceptre; the Earl of Arundel, her ivory rod; the Earl of Oxford, the crown; the Duke of Suffolk, the silver wand; Lord Howard, the marshal's staff. The Bishops of London and Winchester hold the lappets of Anne's robe; the old Duchess of Norfolk carries her train.
Anne takes a seat in a gilded chair; while the Archbishop of Canterbury reads the Collects, anoints her forehead and breast, places the crown upon her brow, and hands her the sceptre. The choir sing a Te Deum, mass is performed, and the procession returns to Westminster Hall, to the banquet.
At the dinner, the Earl of Essex is chief carver; the Earl of Arundel, chief butler; twelve noblemen act as cup-bearers; Lord Burgoyne is chief larder; Viscount Lile, chief pantler — his chief business is to look after the bread; while the Marquis of Oxford keeps the buttery bar. It is Sir Thomas Wyatt's business to pour scented water on Anne's hands. The Countess of Oxford and the Countess of Worcester stand near Anne, with a cloth in their hands, to wipe her nose, in case she needs such service. Two ladies sit at the queen's feet. When all are in their places, the Duke of Suffolk and Lord Howard ride into the hall on horseback, escorting the Knights of the Bath, who bring twenty-seven dishes for the queen. The trumpets sound, and the feasting begins. King Henry takes no part in this demonstration of his subjects, but looks on from a little closet, and enjoys the scene.
Not many weeks after the coronation, Anne gives birth to a babe — a daughter. There is great rejoicing; but there would have been greater joy if it were a son. There is still another grand pageant on the Thames when the babe is taken to Westminster, where it is christened Elizabeth.
Cardinal Wolsey is in his glory — still the most powerful man in the realm. He gives grand banquets and entertainments in the great ball of his palace. But there are often sudden changes in the prospects of great men. Henry is angry with him for his mismanagement of the divorce business. Anne has a grudge against him, for she has discovered that the cardinal did not intend that Henry should make her his wife. The nobles hate him, for he was only a butcher's boy, and not high-born. Henry discovers that he has been accumulating great wealth. He will bear with him no longer. He orders the cardinal to give up the seals of Ms office to Sir Thomas More. The Duke of Norfolk brings the message that all his property is confiscated to the king. Shakspeare pictures the scene in the hall of Wolsey's palace:
"Norfolk. So, fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.
Wolsey. So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening — nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do."
The cardinal bids farewell to London, and goes up the great road leading to York — the road over which Margaret, Henry's sister, travelled when she went to Scotland. In the old manor-house, at Scrooby, he finds a home for a while. It is lonely there. His greatness has all gone by, but the good people of the little hamlet of Austerfield still do him reverence when he enters the old stone church. They see that his locks are growing white, that he has a sad face, that lie walks feebly. He gives money to the poor, and they think that, after all, he has a kind heart. From Scrooby he goes to Esher. A few months pass, and the cardinal is on his deathbed, with this lament upon his lips:
"If I had but served my God as faithfully as I have my king, he would not thus desert me in my old age."
Liberty has not yet dawned upon the people of England. To read the Bible is a great crime. Sir Thomas More is Lord Chancellor. He lives at Greenwich, and is very zealous for the faith as held by the Church. He issues a proclamation against heretics, ordering all laws against them to be put in execution. He burns all the Bibles he can lay his bauds upon. Thomas Bayfield, a monk, is discovered to have a New Testament in his possession, and is brought before Bishop Tunstal, of London. In St. Paul's, Taustal strips off his gown, and while the poor monk is kneeling at the altar the bishop strikes him a blow with his crozier, which knocks him senseless to the floor. Out in Smithfield, where the cattle-dealers market their beeves, he is chained to the stake. The wood is green, and for half an hour he roasts in the flames. The tire curls around his left arm and burns till it drops from the body. All the while the brave-hearted man is praying for Sir Thomas More and Bishop Tunstal, and all his enemies.
Another of Sir Thomas's victims is James Bainham, who is burned on the Smithfield muck-heaps.
"The Lord forgive Sir Thomas," he prays, as he stands there clothed with dames. His face is radiant. "I feel no more pain than when lying on a bed of down; the fire is as a bed of roses," he cries.
Thomas Bilney is a student at Cambridge. One day a Testament in Latin, translated by Erasmus, falls into his hands; he has seen Latin Testaments before, but none with such smooth-flowing sentences as that A verse arrests his attention.
"This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief."
If that is true, then fasting, and penance, and masses, and indulgences are of no account. He begins to preach, and brings Hugh Latimer and many others to his way of thinking. He travels through the country doing good, giving alms, sharing his humble fare with the poor, till he is imprisoned. He renounces his doctrines, and is released; but his conscience troubles him, and he begins to preach again. He is as gentle as a lamb. He has nothing to say against the Pope, or the bishops, or the Church; but he preaches the truth as he understands it, not as taught by the Pope and bishops. It is private judgment. Sir Thomas More cannot permit that, and sends an order to have him burned. It is at Norwich, just outside the city walls, that the officers chain him to the stake. He smites upon them. There is no anger in his heart toward any one. The people love him, he is so sweet and tender, and they scowl upon the friars who have maliciously accused him.
It is a strange request which the friars make of him:
"Oh, Master Bilney! the people think that we have caused you to be put to death, and they will no longer give to us, if you do not speak to them in our behalf."
The man, with the light of heaven on his face, turns to the people:
"I pray you, good people, be never the worse to these men for my sake. They are not the authors of my death."
Not they — but the Lord High Chancellor, Sir Thomas More, as zealous for the Church as Paul when he hold the clothes of those who hurled stones at Stephen just outside of the gate at Jerusalem. Another day will come to Sir Thomas. Now he is burning the meek-hearted man who stands for the right of private judgment. The time will come when lie will assert his right of private judgment, and then we shall see what will happen to him.
One hundred years have passed since the monks dug up the hones of Doctor Wicklif. If there was little liberty in the world then, there is very little now, although a century has gone. If the monks and priests were corrupt then, it is certain that many of them are leading scandalous lives in these days of Henry VIII. the bishops have their courts, and punish with a light penance a crime in a priest, which is atoned for only by death if committed by common people. Thomas Wyseman, a priest, who has led a scandalous life, is sentenced to do penance by offering a wax-candle at the altar of St Bartholomew's Church, and say five Paternosters, five Ave-Marias, and as many Credos. Having done this, he pays six shillings and eightpence into the Bishops' Court, and is absolved, and can go on saying mass and absolving the people. But the same crime committed by one of the people is punished with death.
There is a long list of priests who are leading scandalous lives: The vicars of Ledburg, of Bras-myll, of Stow, of Clome, the parson of Wentnor, of Rusburg, of Plowden, the Dean of Pamtsburg, and many more.
The people are losing confidence in priests who live in sin, or who can atone for sin by offering a wax-candle. They are losing faith in the Church that makes atonement so easy for a priest, while it metes out death to everybody else. The rhymers write ballads lampooning the priests.
"I, Collin Clout,
As I go about,
And wondering as I walk,
I hear the people talk;
Men say for silver and gold
Mitres are bought and sold.
A straw for God's curse!
What are they the worse?
"What care the clergy though Gill sweat,
Or Jack of the Noke?
The poor people they yoke
With summers and citations
And excommunications.
* * * * * *
"But Doctor Ballatus
Parum litteratus
Dominus Doctoratus,
At the broad-gate house,
Doctor Daupatus
And Bachelor Bacheleratus,
Drunken as a mouse,
At the ale-house,
Taketh his pillian and his cup
At the good ale-tap.
For lack of good wine.
* * * * * *
"Such temporal war and hate,
As now is made of late
Against Holy Church estate,
Or to maintain good quarrels:
The laymen call them barrels
Full of gluttony and hypocrisy.
What counterfeits and paints,
As they were very saints!"
It is the year 1547. Fourteen years have passed since Anne Boleyn's coronation. A great man, with a round, bloated face, double chin, coarse features, fat paunch, weak and helpless, with an offensive ulcer on one of his legs, lies in bed. A fair-looking, kind-hearted woman sits by his side, taking care of him. The man is fifty-six years old, and has been a king thirty-six years. His will has been supreme; he has had things his own way, but can have them no longer, for one mightier than he is about to make him a visit — the king of terrors — Death.
We saw him at the Field of the Cloth of Gold; we saw him putting away Katherine of Aragon, and marrying Anne Boleyn. Three years later, he chopped off Anne's head, and married Jane Seymour the next day, who died the next year in giving birth to a son — happily for her. He married Anne of Cleves, and was divorced from her. Then he married Katherine Howard, in July, 1540, and cut her head off, February 12th, 1542; and married Katherine Parr, in July, 1543 — the woman who is sitting by his side and soothing his pain.
Important changes have taken place during these years, in which great things have been unwittingly done for liberty by this man, so powerful once, so weak and helpless now. The changes have been brought about through his passion for Anne Boleyn.
The timid Pope — destitute of conscience or moral principle; afraid of Charles; afraid of Henry — promised to grant him a divorce from Katherine, and then failed to keep his promise. Archbishop Cranmer, speaking for the bishops of England, pronounces the marriage with.Katherine illegal, and sanctions his marriage with Anne. The Pope declares that the bishop cannot make such a decision — all power belongs to him. The Parliament will see about that, and declares that the Pope has no authority in England. The bishops decide, in their sessions, that the Pope has no more authority in England than any other foreign bishop, which is none at all.
The king has always appointed the bishops, and Parliament makes the king the head of the Church^thus setting the Pope aside. Parliament declares that Elizabeth, and not Mary, is the true heir to the crown, because the marriage of Henry and Katherine was illegal; and they require all the nobles and bishops to swear to support the law. If any one refuses, he shall be deemed guilty of high treason. Sir Thomas More, who has resigned his office to Thomas Cromwell, whom we saw with Wolsey at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, is living at Greenwich, His daughter Margaret is married to Mr. Roper, and lives with him. He is called upon to appear at Lambeth Palace and take the oath. He comes up the Thames in a boat, with his daughter's husband, and appears before the commission. He is willing to take part of the oath — to support Elizabeth whenever she may come to the throne; but he will not swear that the marriage of Henry and Katherine was illegal. He sets up his private judgment, just as Thomas Bilney and Thomas Bayfold set up theirs. It was for having a New Testament in his possession, for preaching the truth as he understood it, not as dictated by the Pope, that Sir Thomas sent the good man to his death; and now he sets up his own judgment against the law of the realm. It is treason, to be punished with death; and he goes to the Bloody Tower, a prisoner, entering by the Traitor's Gate, with Bishop Fisher, an old man eighty years of age, who also will not take the oath. In Westminster Hall, where Anne Boleyn sat down to the grand banquet, Sir Thomas has his trial. He will not swear, and is found guilty of high treason.
At the Tower stairs, he bids farewell to his beloved daughter Margaret, who has affectionately waited upon him in prison.
At nine o'clock on the morning of the 6th of July, 1535, Sir Thomas and the sheriff come out from the Tower. A great company has assembled to see him executed. Some of the people do not like him. They remember how he has sent many a poor man to the stake, and there is no pity in some of the faces around him; but there are others who are sorry to see him suffer for conscience' sake. He goes with a brave heart His life has been sweet and pure. The scaffold stairs are weak.
"See me safe up, Mr. Sheriff. As for the coming down, I can take care of myself," he says, with a smile on his face.
"I ask your prayers, good people. I die in the faith of the Holy Catholic Church. I am a faithful servant to God and to the king."
He kneels, and repeats a Psalm.
The sheriff kneels to him, and asks forgiveness for what he is about to do.
"Pluck up spirit, man, and be not afraid to do thine office. My neck is short. Take heed how yon strike."
He himself ties a handkerchief over his eyes, and lays aside his white beard.
"Pity it should be cut; it never has committed treason."
They are his last words. He lays his head upon the block, and all is over.
"What measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again."
Many times those lips, motionless now, have sentenced men and women to death for reading the New Testament — for not believing that the bread of the sacrament is Christ's body. They were heretics, and died for conscience' sake. Sir Thomas dies for conscience' sake, not as a heretic, but as a rebel, disobedient to government.
The king goes on burning Catholics who will not recognize him as head of the Church, and heretics who say that there is no purgatory. But amidst all this burning and hanging a great revolution is going on. The people have lost confidence in the Church. There are more than six hundred monasteries and nunneries in England, and the country is overrun by a set of lazy monks and priests and nuns, who own immense estates. The Pope has always had control of the monasteries; but now he has no authority in England. The king is the head of the Church; and commissioners are appointed to visit the monasteries. They report them rich, and that the monks,friars, and abbots lead scandalous lives. Parliament makes a law suppressing them. The lands, jewels, and estates are seized; and the men and women, who have been living on the people so long, are turned adrift, to get their living as they can. The king fills his coffers, the nobles, dukes, earls, and baronets take good care to fill their own pockets, with the spoils. One woman, Widow Cornwallis, makes a pudding for the king, which is so good, with so many plums in it, that he, in return, makes her a present of all the lands of an abbey.
Workmen tear down the monasteries to get the lead and iron; and the stately stone edifices, which have stood so long, soon are heaps of ruins.
Though Stephen Gardiner and Edmund Bonner, the nobles, the king, are spoiling the abbeys, they are at the same time burning heretics.
Anne Askew is arrested fur not believing that the bread of the sacrament is the flesh of Christ. She is brought before the Lord Mayor of London.
"You do not believe that the bread becomes Christ's body?"
"No, your honor."
"What if a mouse should eat the bread after it is consecrated?" the mayor asks.
"What say you to it, my lord?" Anne asks, in return.
"I say that the mouse is damned."
"Alas! poor mouse!"
The Lord Mayor sees that he has made a little mistake. Anne is put upon the rack in the Tower, and two of the questioners throw off their gowns, and work the winches till her limbs are all but torn from her body. They carry her in a chair to the place of burning, at the Muck-heap of Smithfield, and bind her to the stake with a chain. Two others are to suffer with her. The executioner fastens bags of powder to their bodies. The Lord Mayor, the Duke of Norfolk, and the Earl of Bedford sit upon a seat by St. Bartholomew's Church, but, though several rods away, are afraid that the powder will hurt them.
Anne Askew has a countenance like that of an angel. She smiles upon the executioners.
"Here is a pardon if you will recant," says the sheriff.
"I came not here to deny my Lord."
With these heroic words upon her lips, she gives her life for liberty.
But notwithstanding all these I burnings, liberty is advancing. The king has ordered that the Bible, in English, shall be in every church in England. Desks have been put up, and the books chained to them. All day long the people stand there hearing them read, and as the reading goes on they think for themselves, and heretics are multiplying.
The woman who sits by the bedside of the king — Katherine Parr — secretly befriends those whom Stephen Gardiner and Edmund Bonner have thrust into prison, and they resolve that she too shall suffer; but she finds out what is going on, and cares for Henry very tenderly. Gardiner comes with his accusation.
"Get out, you knave!" is the salutation which he receives when he makes his business known.
Henry knows that he cannot get well. Jane Seymour's son, Edward, is ten years old. Who shall conduct affairs till he is old enough to wear the crown? There are two great parties in England now — the old party and the new. The old party do not wish to have the Bible in the churches, and they believe that the Pope is their head of the Church. The new party accept the king as head of the Church, and the Bible, and not the Pope, as authority in matters of religion. Henry selects men of the new party to direct affairs. Edward is to be king, and after him Mary and Elizabeth are to be heirs to the throne.
On the 28th of January, 1547, the despot who through life has been trampling upon the rights of men, who has cut off the heads of his wives and nobles, who has plundered the people at will through an obsequious and time-serving Parliament, yields his sceptre to one mightier than himself. He has been a wicked man, a tyrant; yet, through his wickedness and tyranny, liberty shall dawn upon the oppressed and suffering people of England, and, through them, upon all the world.
ALTHOUGH sixty years have rolled away since Cardinal Wolsey made the old manor-house at Scrooby his home, some of the old people living there can remember how he distributed alms to the poor on Sunday, how he fed the lame and the blind from his kitchen-table. It is the year 1590, and the occupant of the old house is the young man, William Brewster — Sir William Davison's secretary. He has seen the hollowness of court life, and is dissatisfied with it. He learns that men who will be great have no end of trouble. Elizabeth has made him one of her postmasters, and there he is, living a quiet and peaceful life, looking after the mail, and the post-riders, and the traveller who go by post from London up the great road to York.
Great changes are taking place in England. Men are beginning to be independent in thought and action. Robert Brown, a zealous minister, has been preaching to congregations in London. Richard Clifton — a man with a long white beard — is also preaching independently of any authority from the bishop. William Brewster believes that every man has the right to think for himself; that neither bishop, pope, king, nor queen should control men in religions matters. Many of his neighbors at Scrooby, Austertield, Bawtry, Gainsborough, and other little hamlets, are of the same way of thinking. They believe in having a pure worship, and object to the wearing of gold-embroidered vestments by the bishops, to bowing before the altar during service, and making the sign of the cross when their children are baptized. They hate mummery, and so stay away from church, although it has been decreed that everybody in England must attend church, of which Elizabeth is the head. If they do not, the bishops will know why. They have a complicated machinery of courts to compel everybody to believe as they shall direct. Every man and woman in England must believe in the Thirty-nine Articles, which have been decreed by Parliament and the queen. Commissioner have been appointed to inquire about "heretical opinions," "seditious books," and to punish all who shall stay away from church on Sunday. They arrest and imprison all who disobey their commands. The bishops hang John Copping and Elias Thacker, and arrest. Henry Barrow and John Greenwood. For what? For not believing as they believe. Although Archbishop Whitgift is himself a heretic, he will not tolerate a man who does not believe as he believes. If the Pope will not tolerate Archbishop Whitgift, he, in turn, will not tolerate John Copping and the rest.
In the great struggle for liberty bravo men lay down their lives — not on the battle-field, charging up to the cannon's mouth, but on the scaffold, or else wasting away in loathsome prisons. John Copping and Elias Thacker believe that men should lead pure lives.
The English people, for the most part, are a roistering set. They love outdoor sports, hunting and fishing, and games — pitching quoits, wrestling, and dancing. They go into the green-woods on bright summer days, and have a dance — men, women, and children joining in the sport. In the winter the villagers gather in a peasant's cabin, and hold their rustic balls. They are rude in their manners, and spend much of their time in play and idleness.
John Copping, and others like him, think that so much dancing, feasting, and idleness are a waste of time; that they are not promotive of good morals. Sunday afternoons are given to games and dances. The good ministers believe that Sunday should not be used as a holiday, and they preach boldly for a purer way of living. The peasants are not the only ones who need reforming, for the carpenters, joiners, the tradesmen, and the well-to-do people spend a great deal of time in the ale-houses over their foaming mugs of beer. Archbishop Whitgift does not trouble himself about such things: he has little to say against dancing on Sunday, or against their sports and drinking, or the drunkenness, and idleness, and immorality; but he cannot tolerate a man who will not think as he thinks. He looks sharply after those who dissent from his way of thinking. For six years he keeps Henry Barrow in prison. He does not quite dare to bum him, for the people of England do not intend to have any more roasting of human beings; but one morning, before London is astir, he has the poor man taken out to Tyburn, and speedily put to death by hanging. The same day he arrests John Penry, a Welshman, who has written a pamphlet in which he maintains that every man has a right to act according to the dictates of his conscience in matters pertaining to religion. Archbishop Whifgift cannot permit any such heresy. On June 7th, 1693, John Penry is taken out and hanged.
Notwithstanding the bishops are hunting down those whom they derisively call Puritans, it does not deter the postmaster at Scrooby and his friends from thinking for themselves. More than that, Brewster invites his neighbors to come to the old manor-house on Sunday, to hear a man with a long white beard — Richard Clifton — preach: sometimes, when Clifton is not there, John Robinson preaches. After the service Brewster gives them bread and beer. He and his friends believe that any body of Christian believers may be a church, and that the minister is their bishop. They believe that the churches organized by Peter, Paul, and the other apostles were just such churches.
Among those who come to hear Richard Clifton is a boy from Austerfield, William Bradford. The register in the Austerfield church contains the record of William's baptism:
"William son of Willm Bradfourth baptized the XIXth day of March Anno dm 1589."
The next day, after the hanging of Penry, Parliament passes a law imprisoning for three months all who do not conform to the Queen's Church, with the confiscation of all their property, and perpetual banishment from England.
A non-conforming church has been gathered in London; but upon the passage of this law it is broken up, many of its members being banished, or else seeking safety in Holland. The postmaster of Scrooby and his friends, being so far away, arc not molested; and Sunday after Sunday they meet in the old manor-house for worship.
On March 24th, 1603, Elizabeth, who for forty-five years has been Queen of England, draws her last breath, and James of Scotland (who was spanked by George Buchanan), through his descent from Margaret, who in her bridal journey to Scotland stopped at the old manor-house. becomes King of England. He is thirty-six years old. It is to be feared that the spanking did him little good, for he is vain, self-willed, hypocritical, selfish, and superstitions. He believes that wrinkled old women sell themselves to the devil to bewitch the people; and he has been harrying witches at a fearful rate — hanging, drowning, and burning them. He is not the only one who believes in witches. For that matter, everybody believes that they ride about on broomsticks at night, creeping through key-holes, and entering houses to torment the people. Everybody believes that witches should be put to death. It is the spirit of the age.
There are several hundred ministers in England who desire purer ways in the Church, and they present a petition to James, asking that there may be a new order of things. He grants them an audience at Hampton Court — it is not a hearing, for when they begin to present their plea, he interrupts them:
"I will have one doctrine, one discipline, one religion. I alone will decide. I will make you conform, or I will harry you out of the land, or else do worse — hang you." The bishops are delighted.