Chapter 3

For a history of that noble army of martyrs of whom it now becomes our business to speak, we are indebted to John Fox, himself an exile in Mary's reign, and like most of those who then lived abroad, a friend of the Puritan principles at home. He had access to the archives and registers of the bishops; Grindal, who was himself a great collector of such materials, amongst others, supplying him with what he knew; and in many instances to the letters of the martyrs themselves;[15] of all which documents, says Strype, he has been found, by those who have compared his books with his authorities, to have made a faithful use. He lived many years after his first edition was published, which was in 1563, and in the interval laboured to render it still more perfect; suppressing where he found reason to doubt, as in the story of Cranmer's heart remaining unconsumed when the rest of his body was reduced to ashes;[16] enlarging where he was furnished with fresh matter which he thought trustworthy, as in the story of Gardiner's being stricken with sickness on the day of Cranmer's martyrdom;[17] and taking journeys in order to confront witnesses and sift evidence when his facts chanced to be called in question;[18] such was his industry. But, independently of all knowledge of this, his pains-taking, the internal evidence of the book is enough to establish its general good faith. There is a simplicity in the narrative, particularly in many of its minute details, which is beyond all fiction; a homely pathos in the stories which art could not reach. Sometimes an expression casually drops out which suffices to prove the testimony to be that of an eye-witness; thus, where the terrible death of Ridley is described, the martyrologist speaks in general in his own person; yet we read, that "after the legs of the sufferer were consumed by reason of his struggling through the pain, he showed that side toward _us_ clean, shirt and all untouched with flame," as though the informant (whose words the historian had here neglected to accommodate) had been himself the spectator. Sometimes there is a frank confession of ignorance, where a less scrupulous writer would have been under a great temptation to supply the defect of information by conjecture; thus, in the details of the same execution of Ridley and Latimer, it is observed, that after they rose from their knees the one talked with the other a little while, but what they said, adds Fox, "I can learn of no man." Above all, there is such candour in the developement even of his most favourite characters, their failings as well as their virtues so fairly told, that it is plain they have not been packed. Thus it is by him we are taught that Cranmer moved the King to the execution of Joan of Kent, though Cranmer's general disposition would seem repugnant to such an office, and though no mention is made in Edward's Journal of any such interference, or, indeed, of any reluctance on his own part which should render it needful: thus of Latimer, he does not conceal that he probably subscribed on one occasion certain articles which the bishops presented to him, of fear rather than of conscience;[19] and of Hooper, his favourite, if he had one among the martyrs, that he disputed too pertinaciously, and to the breach of mutual charity, with his opponents on the subject of the episcopal habits, and that the prospect of their approaching death for the common cause, and nothing less, could effect the cordial union of the parties. Neither does he suppress any instance of kindness by which the sufferings of the martyrs were mitigated; and as St. Luke tells us of the centurion entreating Paul courteously, so does Fox relate of Saunders, that when his wife came to the prison gate, with her young child in her arms, to visit her husband, the keeper, though he durst not suffer her to enter the prison, yet took the little babe out of her arms and brought him to his father, to his exceeding great joy: and of Hooper's guard, that they interceded with the sheriffs of Gloucester on behalf of their charge, that he might not be sent to the common gaol, they declaring at large how quietly, mildly, and patiently he had behaved himself in the way, and adding, that they would rather themselves be at the pains to watch with him than that he should be so handled: and of Rowland Taylor, that his wife and son Thomas were permitted to sup with him in the Counter, "by the gentleness of his keepers;" and afterwards, that of his guard three out of the four used him friendly. It was to be expected that a work which, had it been published a few years sooner (supposing this possible), would probably have added its author to the catalogue of his own martyrs, should excite no small stir amongst the Catholics, and so it came to pass. But they weakened the force of their attack by betraying prematurely the spirit which animated them, sarcastically inquiring, even before its publication, when the "Golden Legend" was to appear, and denouncing the "Calendar of Saints," which they had heard was to be prefixed to it, as blasphemy against their own. But Fox went on, as he says, without fear and without favour; and no sooner was Elizabeth, to whom he dedicated, out of the way, than an examination of the book appeared, by Parsons the Jesuit, in his "Three Conversions of England," which has furnished more modern objectors with most of the weapons of their warfare. But Parsons writes in a temper which defeats itself. He deals in vague vituperation, rather than in specific accusations of error; or where he ventures upon the latter, he often either wilfully or ignorantly misreads Fox, as in the vapid pleasantry wasted upon Joan Lashford, a married maid, as he is pleased to call her;[20] or he triumphs over him by exposing some flaw in the character of a martyr with an _eureka_, which the honest martyrologist himself did not affect to conceal, and for the knowledge indeed of which Parsons is altogether indebted to him, as where he makes himself merry with the discordant sentiments of nine martyrs executed together, though their want of uniformity is a fact which he learns from Fox himself, who at the same time asserts that their disagreement was in smaller things only;[21] or he prefers charges against him at random without troubling himself to ascertain whether there is foundation for them or not, as where he accuses him of defacing or destroying the records of cathedrals, which he had been permitted to use, lest they should convict him of negligence or fraud; and this not upon investigation of the fact, but simply, "he presuming it," as though a charge so serious was to be an affair of presumption only;[22] or, lastly, he comments upon his author in so fiendish a temper of mind, as would be in itself enough to satisfy every calm and dispassionate judge that he spoke not of truth or a love for it, but of mere malice; as where, after debasing the circumstances of Rowland Taylor's story throughout, he concludes with a repetition of his joke about the worms in Hadley churchyard, as given in Fox, and subjoins "this noteth Fox in the margin for a goodly apophthegm of Dr. Taylor, martyr; and with this, he saith, he went to the fire; _where we must leave him eternally as I fear_;"[23] and in a similar vein he has the heart to write of Latimer and Ridley, "they were burned together, each of them taking gunpowder to despatch himself quickly, as by Fox is seen, which yet is not read to have been practised by old martyrs, and it seemeth that these men would have the fame of martyrdom without the pain; and _now they have incurred the everlasting pain_, if by their end we may judge."[24] The man who could write thus can scarcely lay claim to our credence; for his prejudice has evidently stifled in him every sense by which a regard for truth can be guaranteed.

It is not thought out of place to introduce here this brief vindication of a book, which, so far as it is a contemporary history, has been, both of old, and of late, an object of unfair depreciation, but from which no right-hearted Protestant can rise, without being at once a sadder and a better man;--a book out of which we shall now fearlessly draw our information, whilst we offer to our readers a few examples of those terrible sufferings which it is at once humiliating to think that man could inflict, and animating to think that man could so nobly bear.--_Family Library_, vol. xxvi.

[15] Strype's Annals, pp. 239,240,241. Strype's Life of Grindal, pp. 11, 17, 22, fol., where will be found much information as to the manner in which Fox's book was composed.

[16] Compare p. 444 of the first edition (very scarce) with subsequent editions.

[17] This incident has been made the subject of much criticism to the disparagement of Fox. He, however, gives it as hearsay only, and, though the circumstantial details might not have been reported to him correctly, the substantial fact may be true nevertheless. Fox, too, was personally connected with the family of the Duke of Norfolk (at whose house the scene is said to have occurred), being once tutor in it.--Strype's Annals, pp 110, 368.

[18] Strype's Annals, p. 242.

[19] Fox, iii. 459.

[20] Three Conversions, ii. 215.

[21] Id. 230.

[22] Id. ii.81, and Strype's Annals, p. 240.

[23] Id. ii. 81, and Strype's Annals, p. 336.

[24] Id. iii. 23.

* * * * *

SONGS,

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

From the _"Summer Féte,"_ just published.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; But, as I'm not particular--wit, love, and wine, Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. Nay--humble and strange as my tastes may appear-- If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank heaven, To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, And with wine such as this is six days out of seven. So pledge me a bumber--your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan; But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offer'd, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnance of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! In the meantime, a bumper--your Angels on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are _not_ angels, why--let the flask fly, We must only be happy _all_ ways that we can.

* * * * *

Oh, where art thou dreaming, On land or on sea? In my lattice is gleaming The watch-light for thee: And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: Thou com'st not--No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night flowers Should wake from their rest, 'Tis the hour of all hours, When the lute murmurs best. But the flowers are half sleeping Till thy glance they see, And the hush'd lute is keeping Its music for thee: Yet thou com'st not--No, thou com'st not!

* * * * *

Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy? We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; Beside our usual fools' supply, We've lots of playthings too, for sages. For reasoners, here's a juggler's cup,

That fullest seems when nothing's in it; And nine pins set, like systems, up, To be knock'd down the following minute. Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make, For bards to wear in dog-day weather; Or bards the bells alone may take, And leave to wits the cap and feather, Tetotums we've for patriots got, Who court the mob with antics humble; Alike their short and dizzy lot, A glorious spin, and then--a tumble. Who'll buy? &c. &c.

Here misers may their bones inter In shrouds of neat post-obit paper; While, for their beirs, we've quicksilver, That, fast as heart can wish, will caper. For aldermen we've dials true, That tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new. That suit alike both saint and sinner. Who'll buy? &c. &c.

No time we've now to name our terms, But whatsoe'er the whims that seize you. This oldest of all mortal firms, Folly and Co., will try to please you. Or, should you wish a darker hue Of goods that we can recommend you, Why then--as we with lawyers do-- To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. Who'll buy? &c. &c.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY AT OXFORD.

At the commencement of Michaelmas term, that is, at the end of October, in the year 1810, I happened one day to sit next to a fresh man at dinner: it was his first appearance in hall. His figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table, where all were very young. He seemed thoughtful and absent. He ate little, and seemed to have no acquaintance with any one. I know not how it was that we fell into conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not possibly be occasion for any. We have often endeavoured in vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and especially by what transition it passed to a subject sufficiently remote from all the associations we were able to trace. The stranger had expressed an enthusiastic admiration for poetical and imaginative works of the German school. I dissented from his criticisms. He upheld the originality of the German writings. I asserted their want of nature. "What modern literature," said he, "will you compare to theirs?" I named the Italian. This roused all his impetuosity; and few, as I soon discovered, were more impetuous in argumentative conversation. So eager was our dispute, that when the servants came to clear the tables, we were not aware that we had been left alone. I remarked, that it was time to quit the hall, and I invited the stranger to finish the discussion at my rooms. He eagerly assented. He lost the thread of his discourse in the transit, and the whole of his enthusiasm in the cause of Germany; for as soon as he arrived at my rooms, and whilst I was lighting the candles, he said calmly, and to my great surprise, that he was not qualified to maintain such a discussion, for he was alike ignorant of Italian and German, and had only read the works of the Germans in translations, and but little of Italian poetry, even at second hand. For my part, I confessed, with an equal ingenuousness, that I knew nothing of German, and but little of Italian! that I had spoken only through others, and like him, had hitherto seen by the glimmering light of translations. It is upon such scanty data that young men reason; upon such slender materials do they build up their opinions. It may be urged, however, that if they did not discourse freely with each other upon insufficient information--for such alone can be acquired in the pleasant morning of life, and until they educate themselves--they would be constrained to observe a perpetual silence, and to forego the numerous advantages that flow from frequent and liberal discussion. I inquired of the vivacious stranger, as we sat over our wine and dessert, how long he had been at Oxford, how he liked it, &c.? He answered my questions with a certain impatience, and resuming the subject of our discussion, he remarked that "Whether the literature of Germany, or of Italy, be the most original, or in the purest and most accurate taste, is of little importance! for polite letters are but vain trifling; the study of languages, not only of the modern tongues, but of Latin and Greek also, is merely the study of words and phrases; of the names of things; it matters not how they are called; it is surely far better to investigate things themselves." I inquired, a little bewildered, how this was to be effected? He answered, "through the physical sciences, and especially through chemistry;" and raising his voice, his face flushing as he spoke, he discoursed with a degree of animation, that far outshone his zeal in defence of the Germans, of chemistry and chemical analysis. Concerning that science, then so popular, I had merely a scanty and vulgar knowledge, gathered from elementary books, and the ordinary experiments of popular lecturers. I listened, therefore, in silence to his eloquent disquisition, interposing a few brief questions only, and at long intervals, as to the extent of his own studies and manipulations. As I felt, in truth, but a slight interest in the subject of his conversation, I had leisure to examine, and I may add, to admire, the appearance of my very extraordinary guest. It was a sum of many contradictions. His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong. He was tall, but he stooped so much, that he seemed of a low stature. His clothes were expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day; but they were tumbled, rumpled, unbrushed. His gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion was delicate, and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. His features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small; yet the last _appeared_ of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxious thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough. In times when it was the mode to imitate stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity was very striking. His features were not symmetrical, (the mouth, perhaps, excepted,) yet was the effect of the whole extremely powerful. They breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, that I never met with in any other countenance. Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual; for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound religious veneration, that characterizes the best works, and chiefly the frescoes, (and into these they infused their whole souls,) of the great masters of Florence and of Rome. I recognised the very peculiar expression in these wonderful productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose countenance I had first observed it. I admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science, and his thirst for knowledge. I seemed to have found in him all those intellectual qualities which I had vainly expected to meet with in an University. But there was one physical blemish that threatened to neutralize all his excellence. "This is a fine, clever fellow!" I said to myself, "but I can never bear his society; I shall never be able to endure his voice; it would kill me. What a pity it is!" I am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of painful sounds--and the voice of the stranger was excruciating; it was intolerably shrill, harsh and discordant; of the most cruel intension--it was perpetual, and without any remission--it excoriated the ears. He continued to discourse of chemistry, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing before the fire, and sometimes pacing about the room; and when one of the innumerable clocks that speak in various notes during the day and the night at Oxford, proclaimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go to a lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that he expected to derive much pleasure and instruction from it. I am ashamed to own that the cruel voice made me hesitate for a moment; but it was impossible to omit so indispensable a civility--I invited him to return to tea; he gladly assented, promised that he would not be absent long, snatched his cap, hurried out of the room, and I heard his footsteps, as he ran through the silent quadrangle, and afterwards along the High-street. An hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared, and the tea was made, and I again heard the footsteps of one running quickly. My guest suddenly burst into the room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been disappointed in the lecture. Few persons attended; it was dull and languid, and he was resolved never to go to another. "I went away, indeed," he added, with an arch look and in a shrill whisper, coming close to me as he spoke--"I went away, indeed, before the lecture was finished. I stole away; for it was so stupid, and I was so cold, that my teeth chattered. The Professor saw me, and appeared to be displeased. I thought I could have got out without being perceived; but I struck my knee against a bench, and made a noise, and he looked at me. I am determined that he shall never see me again."

"What did the man talk about?

"About stones! about stones!" he answered, with a downcast look and in a melancholy tone, as if about to say something excessively profound. "About stones!--stones, stones, stones!--nothing but stones!--and so drily. It was wonderfully tiresome--and stones are not interesting things in themselves!"

_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

WAR SONG,

FOR THE ARMY TO BE SENT AGAINST THE EMPEROR OF CHINA.

Come, tie on your bonnet, your shawl, and your boa! Each proud virgin amazon, onward with me! Come, rouse for the fight, all ye maids who adore[25] The flavour of Twankay, Souchong, or Bohea!

Come, clatter the tea-cups, and brandish each spoon, Beat loudly the tea-tray, the kettle, and urn; No more for the lover or sweet honey-moon, But for Twankay and war let your soft bosoms burn!

Shall a petitcoat savage--the horrible bore-- Infringe on our rights, and deny us our tea? No, no! by the gown which my grandmother wore. We'll smother the wretch in a chest of Bohea!

Come, launch, by brave maidens, each tea-chest canoe, And spread out your large Canton crapes to the air; The kettle sings muster-call--hark! the cats mew! "Young Hyson"'s the word, the "delight of the fair!"

Great Twining a tea-wreath shall twine for us all-- The fairest of females looks far more divine at tea; If we conquer, we'll drink twenty cups; if we fall, Why--_"nec possum vivere cum te, nec sine te."_

Twenty cups! think of Johnson, when kind Mrs. Thrale Filled him fifty at least, and he wished they were bowls. With ardour like his, which among ye can fail? Come, Doctor, and kindle your thirst in our souls!

Then onward, brave maidens, push off from the coast, For such brogueless tyrants we care not a pin; But do not forget, my fair tea-drinking host, A stout Witney blanket to toss the wretch in!

Oh! the plunder of Pekin! what silks and what shawls! The Chinese, in spite of themselves, shall be free: For, we'll bombard the city with hot force-meat balls, And blow up their warriors with gunpowder tea!