The Golden Grasshopper: A story of the days of Sir Thomas Gresham

by William Henry Giles Kingston

  CHAPTER TEN.

  ERNST VERNER BEGINS HIS JOURNAL.

  I, Ernst Verner, had by this time sufficiently mastered the art ofpenmanship to enter the events of the day in my journal with facility,which I seldom failed to do. My notes are, however, far too numerous tobe copied. I therefore write out only such as I deem most likely to beinteresting to my friends.

  On our return to Antwerp; Master Gresham busied himself greatly in thebusiness which had brought him to that city. We were all busilyemployed from morning till night writing and making up accounts. Notonly were monetary transactions to a vast amount carried on, but largepurchases were made of arms and ammunitions of war. Bullion to aconsiderable amount also was required in England; of this Master Greshampossessed himself for the advantage of the Queen.

  We were also employed in purchasing gunpowder, military stores, andother necessary tackle for the Queen's ships of war, which at that timewere greatly deficient in these articles. I consider that it wasgreatly owing to this forethought of my kind patron that England wasafterwards in a condition to defeat the efforts of Spain to bring herunder subjection; but I am now referring to events which did not takeplace for some time after the period of which I am speaking.

  It was with considerable regret that I heard that my kind patron wasdirected once more to return to England, and that he purposed takingLady Anne and his family with him.

  On our arrival in London I was sent back to Saint Paul's School tofinish my education. I was received kindly by the masters, who had notbeen changed, although they were compelled to be circumspect in theirconduct, lest they should be accused of heresy, of which they knewthemselves to be guilty, according to the ideas entertained by those ofthe Romish Church. The times were very sad. On my first holiday I wentout in search of my old friend A'Dale, for he had left school. I foundthat he had been apprenticed to a mercer in Cheapside. He had growninto a big lad. As he had been somewhat daring and fond of excitementas a boy, he was, as may be supposed, not unwilling to find himself in aturmoil, where a pair of stout fists or a thick cudgel would serve himin good stead. I had somewhat lost my taste for such things during thecourtly life I had lately led. He laughed at my effeminacy, and urgedme to arouse myself, and to practise the old English sports, which wouldfit me for the rough life I might be destined to go through. Hepromised to call for me whenever he could, and, as he had a good deal ofliberty, his visits were not unfrequent.

  A'Dale entertained as strong a dislike to the mass as I did, and we hadagreed that, in spite of the risk we ran of being accused of heresy,nothing should compel us to attend it. One evening we were proceedingthrough the streets, when we found ourselves pressed in by a crowd,which was hurrying up to see a procession of priests pass along. Therewalked Bishop Bonner under a golden canopy supported on poles by fourpriests, all richly arrayed. A vast crucifix was carried before him,and other priests bore banners with various devices. There came also apriest, under another canopy, bearing the host, before which numbersfell down, and worshipped as if it were some idol. Those who did not sowere frowned at by the priests. Some were buffeted and told that theywere heretics, and fit only for the fires of Smithfield. There werealso bands of men in various disguises, and there were figures of saintsand other devices, before which the people were made to bow, albeit thesaints, being badly carved, some of them looking most unsaintly andunbeautiful, were jeered at, and laughed at by those at a distance,those near being compelled to bow down as they did to the host. Andthen followed bands of waits playing all sorts of instruments. Oneither side marched men with burning torches, lighting up the streets asif it were day.

  "Alas! there is no true worship here. The souls of these people, evenif they desire to be fed, are sent away empty," I said to myself.A'Dale and I, who had been forced in with the crowd, now attempted tomake our escape. As we were doing so, I found a hand placed on myshoulder.

  "What, my young friend, have you become a follower of the true faith? Ithought you had been a heretic," said a person, whose voice was that ofa stranger.

  I looked up. A friar, so it seemed by his dress, was standing near me.For some moments I was at a loss to recollect who he was, till Irecognised him as the companion of Father Overton. I had the presenceof mind, however, to be silent till I could frame a wise answer.

  "Perchance you mistake me for some one else," I answered. "I am a youngman still under instruction; but, young as I am, I desire to follow thetrue faith."

  "You are cautious in your speech," said the friar; "but go on--I find Iam not mistaken. I wish to have a word with you in private. I mean youno harm. You can tell me of one in whom I am interested."

  Keeping hold of A'Dale's arm, I at length found myself again in thestreet. We went down the hill towards Ludgate, and then turning alongthe bank of the Fleet, soon found ourselves in a quiet spot, free fromobservation. The friar had kept us in sight, and soon again joined us.

  "I thank you for this confidence, young sir," he said. "These aredangerous times, and those who trust others may fare ill; but of you Ihave no fear. I want to learn from you news of one whom you knew asFather Overton. I have received several epistles from him, and by theirmeans I have been brought to hold very different doctrines to those Ihad before believed were true; yet hitherto I have not dared to expressthem, but I feel that I can keep silence no longer. My great desire isto go forth and preach the great doctrine of justification by faith,held by Luther and those true and pious bishops who have lately beencommitted to the flames. Their deaths, testifying as they did to thetruth, were, with the exhortations of my friend Overton, the means ofturning me from the Church of Rome. I trust that you have not fallenback into the errors of that Church."

  "No, indeed, I have not," I answered. "I rejoice to find that you, aswell as Father Overton, have deserted them. With regard to him, I sawhim several times at Antwerp, where he was supported by my patron,Master Gresham, but suddenly he disappeared, and no one could tell whathad become of him. The fears were that he had been carried off by theInquisition."

  "We shall ere long meet again," said the friar, after we had exchanged afew more words. "However tempted, my young friends, hold fast to thefaith. I never knew happiness till I embraced it. I am very sure thatbitter regret and misery will be the lot of those who have once knownand then deserted it."

  Thus saying, he pressed our hands, and hurried away along the banks ofthe river. We slowly returned homewards, afraid of exchanging ourthoughts, lest we should be overheard.

  The next day was a holiday, for it was the festival of some saint in theRomish Calendar. A'Dale and I were on foot early. Finding a largeconcourse of people going in the direction of the northern part of theCity outside the gates, known as Smithfield, we followed them. On oneside were some high and ancient houses, but on the other the ground wasentirely open, with meadows and woods beyond.

  "It is to be the grandest burning we have had yet," I heard a personremark. "There is a priest to be burnt, and two women, besides a knightand two other laymen."

  My heart sickened when I heard this, for I had no wish to see theburning, but A'Dale urged me on. "He liked to be in a crowd," he said,"and we might come away before the fire was set to the piles." We foundthat none of the prisoners had as yet passed. At length we saw themcoming along from Newgate, the Fleet, and other prisons. They walked onwith their hands bound, and a few guards only, and priests on eitherside. I wondered that none of the crowd attempted to rescue them. Itmight have been done with great ease, though, perchance, to escapeafterwards might have been more difficult.

  Occasionally the friends of the prisoners came up and spoke to them, andreceived their farewells. Some, indeed, kept by their side the wholeway, the guards not interfering. Among them, nearly the last, walked alady. Her figure was tall and graceful, though she stooped somewhat,bowed down by sickness or sorrow. Her features were deadly pale, theirwhiteness increased by the black dress she wore, her raven hair flowingover her sho
ulders, for her head was bare. People looked on her with apitying eye, but no one came up to her. She alone of all the victimsappeared to have no friends in that vast crowd. Yet every now and thenshe lifted up her eyes, and glanced round as if in search of some one.As she passed near where A'Dale and I were standing, it struck me shelooked earnestly at me. Fearless of consequences, I darted forward, andtook my place by her side.

  "Can I be of any service to you?" I said.

  She looked at me with an inquiring glance. Her lips opened. "Who areyou?" she asked.

  "My parents died for the truth at Antwerp, as you are about to die,lady," I replied. "I would thankfully render you the aid which it wasdenied me to offer them."

  "I will trust you," she said. "You will not deceive a dying woman."

  As she spoke, she hastily took a parchment from her bosom, and handed itto me.

  "There! conceal it," she said, "ere it is perceived by others. Itcontains the certificate of my marriage to my husband, now in foreignlands, and the title-deed of an estate which should be my child's. Ihave but one--a young girl. I know not to a certainty where she is; forwhen I was seized I urged her to fly and to put herself under theprotection of some Protestant family, who, for the love of the faith,would support her till the return of her father from abroad. I darednot trust this paper into the hands of my cruel jailers; but I feel sureI may confide it to you, and that you will, to the best of your power,do as I desire."

  I promised the lady that I would faithfully obey her wishes; and sointerested did I feel in her fate, that I offered to continue by herside to the last.

  "No, no! you will be watched, perchance, if you do, and bring the samedoom I suffer on your own head."

  Still I entreated her to allow me to remain; but she insisted upon myquitting her, not only for my own sake, but lest I might run the risk oflosing the important document she had given me.

  While I was thus speaking to her as we moved slowly on through thecrowded streets, another person came up, whom I at once recognised asthe friar I had met on the previous day. He took no notice of me,however, but at once addressed himself to the lady. At first, withsomewhat of a look of scorn, she desired him to depart; but after he hadwhispered a few words in her ear her manner changed, and as they walkedalong he continued addressing her. I guessed the purport of hisconversation. Her countenance even brightened as he spoke. Now andthen the priests with the other prisoners cast suspicious glancestowards him; but he continued to walk on, speaking so low that no oneelse but the unhappy lady could hear him; and thus the band of prisonersarrived at Smithfield. Here they were saluted by the ribald shouts ofthe populace, who seemed to delight in hurling all sorts of abusiveepithets on their heads. A'Dale wanted to remain, but I kept to mypurpose. My chief interest was with the unhappy lady. I rejoiced,however, to see that her countenance was calm and unmoved; indeed, aserene joy seemed occasionally to play over it. I suspect, indeed, thatsome of those who stood by thought that the friar had brought her anoffer of freedom, but it was not so; the only freedom she desired was tobe liberated from this state of care and pain, and to mount upwards tobe with her risen Lord. Onward marched the sad procession; but of allthose I saw, none appeared to tremble or to desire to escape thedreadful fate awaiting them.

  A'Dale, taking me by the arm, endeavoured to drag me into the frontrank. "I want to judge how these people behave themselves at thestake," he said. "You and I perhaps, Ernst, may one day have to gothrough the same, and it may be well to take a lesson, so as to know howto comport ourselves."

  I did not like his tone; it appeared more mocking than serious. It wasnot so, however. His heart was really as grieved as mine, but moreindignant: such was his temper. Yet he really wished to see theburning.

  "No, no," I answered. "Spare me, A'Dale, I cannot. I would be ready,if called on, to burn, myself, but to see others suffer, willingly Icannot. That poor lady, too, with a young child and a husband lovingher, thus to be separated from them. How glorious and firm must be herfaith to support her under such a trial; or rather, I should say, howgracious is the Holy Spirit who gives her strength for her need! It isthat which supports her."

  Still A'Dale would have me accompany him; and, though I was unwilling,he dragged me forward. I felt faint and sick and confused. Therecollections of the past crowded on me with such force that they almostshut out, as it were, the scene before my eyes. I remember being in themidst of a vast crowd, and seeing on a high platform the sheriffs and anumber of great officers in rich dresses, and below huge posts withchains secured to them, and a number of guards and priests below theplatform, while other persons with their hands bound were in theirmidst, and rude rough men carrying faggots to and fro and piling them upnear the posts; and then other persons were brought forward and securedto the posts, and more words were spoken, and priests seemed to beexhorting their prisoners, but none were released. And then the faggotswere thrown round them, and the flames ascended, but no exclamation offear burst from their breasts. I could gaze no more. Sick unto death,I uttered a cry and fled from the spot, scarcely knowing where I went.