Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled
The heavens, God thought on me His child,
Its circumstances every one
To the minutest; ay, God said
This head this hand should rest upon
Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun.”
Robert Browning.
The 24th of October brought the expected letter from Simon Pendexter to the master of Bradmond, and another from Marian to the mistress. Simon’s epistle was read first; but it proved to require both an English dictionary and a Latin lexicon3. Simon wrote of “circumstances,” (then a new and affected5 word), of the “culpable dexterity” of the rebels who had visited Bradmond, of their “inflammatory promulgation,” of the “celerity” of his own actions in reply, and of his “debarring from dilation6 the aforesaid ignis.” He left them in a cloud of words, of which Dr Thorpe understood about half, and Isoult much less. John, being a little wiser, was called upon for a translation. “Hang me if I know what the fellow is a-writing about!” testily8 cried Dr Thorpe. “Jack9, do thou put this foolery into decent English!”
“The enclosure men burnt your house, old friend,” said John. “Have there the English.”
“Plain enough at last, by my troth!” cried he.
A little more progress was made with Mr Pendexter’s missive, when Isoult interrupted it by exclaiming—
“Do tell me what he meaneth, Jack!”
“They set our house afire, dear heart, but he soon put it out,” translated John.
The letter concluded thus:—“With the which considerations, I do commit your Honour to the tuition of God. Inscribed11 at Bodmin, die Veneris, the fourth in the month of October. By the hand of your Honour’s most undemeritous and obeisant12 paedagogus, Simon Pendexter.”
“This companion is clean out of his wits!” exclaimed Dr Thorpe.
“Isoult, read thy little letter,” said John. “Metrusteth it shall be more clear than Simon’s, and, at all charges, ’tis shorter.”
“Unto Mistress Avery, At the Minories in London.”
“Mistress,—This shall be to advertise you (my lowly duties first remembered), that the fourteenth of July come unto Bradmond the ill men you wot of, and after casting mine husband and me forth13 of the house with little gentleness, did spread themselves thereabout, drinking up the wine in the cellar, and otherwise making great bruit15 and disorder16. And in the end they set fire thereto, and departed. God helping18 us, we shortly had the fire under, for it began to rain; but the whole house is ruinated, and a deal of mischief19 done. Mistress, all the hangings be burned or torn, and the furniture is but splinters; and the very walls so knocked about, and the garden all trampled20 and desolated21, that I am well assured, were you this minute on the ground you should not find conveniency to enter and abide22 for many a long day yet. And in good sooth, ’twill lack a mint of money spent thereon ere the house be meet for any, let be a gentleman and gentlewoman of your honourableness24. Mistress, they tare26 away all the shutters27, and tare up the planks28 of some of the floors: and they left not a latch29 nor an andiron whole in all the house. Mine husband hath writ7 to Mr Avery. From Bodmin, this fourth day of October. Mistress, I do beseech30 you of your gentleness to give my poor sister to know that I do fare well, and trust so doth she likewise.
“By the rude hand of her that is your servant, Marian Pendexter.”
“Rude hand!” said John. “Commend me to Marian Pendexter for the writing of a letter. ’Tis one-half so long as Simon’s, and tells us twice so much as he; and her round letters be as clear as print, while his be all quips and flourishes. Well, I account we shall needs abide hither for some time, Isoult; but methinks I must ride home, and see how matters stand; and if the garden be truly desolated as for roses and the like, well, the ground may as well be set with carrots and cabbages, that can be sold. And on my return hither, I must set me, as fast as I may, unto the making of pecunia, as Simon hath it, in my calling. Metrusteth the house shall not need to be pulled down and built up again; for that should take, methinks, some years to raise. Howbeit, ’tis no good looking forward too far.”
Dr Thorpe said, when he had sat for a time in silence, “Ah, well! the will of the Lord be done! I trow they shall scantly31 burn mine other house, in that city which hath foundations.”
“Mr Edward Underhill, the Hot Gospeller.”
Isoult Avery looked up and rose when John made this announcement, to the evident amusement of the person introduced.
The Hot Gospeller’s age was thirty-seven; of his personal appearance we have no trustworthy account. It may safely be asserted that his feelings were strong, his affections warm, his partisanship33 fervent34, and his organ of humour decidedly developed. I picture him lithe35 and quick, with ready tongue and brilliant eyes; but perhaps I am as much mistaken as Isoult was concerning Alice Wikes. If the mania36 “de faire son portrait” which was so much the fashion in France in the reign37 of Louis the Fourteenth had pervaded38 England in the sixteenth century, we might have obtained much curious information which is now lost to us.
When all the members of our little group were gathered round the dinner-table,—which was not until eleven a.m., for the Averys dined unusually late that day—Dr Thorpe laid the subject which had been discussed before Mr Underhill, and requested his opinion on the matter. Could he find a man for the time?
“With whom take you part?” said Dr Thorpe.
“With both of you,” answered Mr Underhill. “I lean to Mistress Avery’s thought that there is no man for the time; but I do partly share your opinion, in that methinks there may be a woman.”
“What woman?” said Dr Thorpe. “My Lady Duchess of Suffolk, I ween. Nay41, Master; she is good enough as may be, but her money-bags are a sight scantier42 than when my Lord Duke was in life.”
“My Lady of Suffolk! not she, forsooth,” replied he. “Nay, good Doctor; mine hopes are anchored (under God) on none other than the King’s ‘sweet sister Temperance’—my young Lady Elizabeth’s Grace.”
“The Lady Elizabeth!” repeated Dr Thorpe, in a voice which intimated his meaning. “A child at her book and needle, Master Underhill!”
“She will not alway be so,” answered he. “Nor shall she be such long.”
“And afore her standeth another,” continued the doctor.
“Afore her standeth another,” repeated Mr Underhill. “Nor shall any man alive ever see me to do evil that good may come. But I scantly signified all you would make me to say. I did but point to my Lady Elizabeth’s power with the King, not to her being one to stand in her own power, which God long defend!”
Dr Thorpe shook his head in turn, but did not further explain himself.
“You have friends at Court,” said John to Mr Underhill. “Which of these ladies is commonly thought to stand best with the King her brother?”
“The Lady Elizabeth, by many a mile,” answered he. “And to go by what I hear from her tutor Mr Ascham, a fair and ready wit enough she hath. The Lady Frances (Note 1) her daughters, likewise, be great with the King, and are young damsels of right sweet nature and good learning, so far as their young age may show the same.”
“What say men of the King’s wedding?” quoth Dr Thorpe. “Is it yet the Queen of Scots?”
“The friends of my Lord Protector say ’tis a Princess of France; and his foes43 will have it that had he not fallen too soon, it should have been—the Lady Jane Seymour.”
“What, my Lord Protector his daughter?” inquired Isoult.
“She,” said Mr Underhill.
“That hath an ill look, an’ it were so,” remarked John, thoughtfully.
“‘Less like than Paul’s steeple to a dagger44 sheath,’” quoted Dr Thorpe, who was rather fond of proverbs.
“Go to, Jack! we are all for ourselves in this world,” responded Mr Underhill philosophically45. “As to like, it may be no more like than chalk to cheese, and yet be in every man’s mouth from Aldgate to the Barbican. My Lord Protector is neither better nor worse than other men. If you or I were in his shoes, we should do the like.”
“I trust not, friend,” said John, smiling.
“A rush for your trust!” laughed Mr Underhill. “I would not trust either of us.”
“But I would so!” said Isoult warmly. “Mr Underhill, you surely think not that if Jack were Lord Protector, he should strive and plot for the King to espouse46 our Kate?”
“Of course he would,” said Underhill coolly. “And so would you.”
“Never!” she cried.
“Well, I am sure I should. Think you I would not by my good will see my Nan a queen?” answered he.
“With a reasonable chance of Tower Hill?” suggested Avery. “You and I have seen queens come to that, Ned Underhill.”
“Well, there is better air at the Lime Hurst,” replied Underhill sententiously.
A long conference was held concerning the repairs at Bradmond. The resolution finally adopted was that John should ride home and ascertain47 what the state of affairs really was. Hitherto the family had been living on their rents, with little need for professional work on John’s part unless it pleased him. Slight repairs, however, would entail48 saving; and serious ones might keep them in London for years, until he had laid up sufficient money to defray them.
“’Tis all in the day’s work,” he said lightly, to cheer his wife. “I must have a factor to see unto the place, and for that Simon Pendexter shall serve, if he affright not the poor tenants49 with his long words; and I myself must needs set to work hard. ’Twill do me good, dear heart; (for he saw Isoult look sad) I have hitherto been lazy, and only have played at working.”
So John left London on the first of November, along with a convoy50 of travellers bound for Exeter; charging Isoult to make acquaintance in his absence with Mrs Rose and Mrs Underhill, with the object of giving her something to do.
“And think not, sweet wife,” said he, “that we be all going a-begging, because of what I said touching51 money. I cast no doubt to make more than enough thereof in my calling to keep all us, and that comfortably; only if there lack much outlay52 at Bodmin, it shall need time to gather wherewith to pay it. Above all, I would not with my good will have any stint53 in mine hospitality, specially54 unto them that be of the household of faith. Leave us not turn Christ our Master out at the doors, at the least unless we need go there ourselves with Him.”
A week after John’s departure, Isoult put his advice into action, rather because he had given it, than with any real hope of dispelling55 the intense loneliness she felt. Robin56 went with her, and Kate, all riding upon Bayard, to West Ham, where they were directed to a small house near the church as the residence of the parson. For in those days parson had not lost its original honourable25 meaning, whereby the clergyman was spoken of as par17 excellence58 “the person” in the parish. The trio alighted, and Isoult rapped at the door. A girl of fifteen answered the knock.
She was tall for her age, but slenderly built. Her hair was of the fairest shade of golden—the pale gold of our old poets—and her eyes were brown. Not a bright, shining brown; this brown was deep and misty59, and its light was the light given back from a lake, not the light of a star. In her face there was no rose at all; it was pure and pale as a snowdrop; and her look, Isoult thought, was like the look of an angel. Her smile was embodied60 sweetness; her voice soft and low, clear as a silver bell. There are few such voices out of England, but the combination of fair hair with dark eyes is the Venetian style of beauty. Rare in any land, yet there are occasional instances in each. For such, in Italy, was Dante’s Beatrice; such, in Germany, was Louise of Stolberg, the wife of the last Stuart; and such, with ourselves, was “England’s Elizabeth.”
“Doth Mistress Rose here dwell, and may one have speech of her?” inquired Isoult of the vision before her.
“Will it please you to take the pain to come within?” answered the sweet voice. “I am Thekla Rose.”
Wondering at a name which she had never heard before, Isoult suffered Thekla to lead her into a small, pleasant parlour, where Mrs Rose sat spinning. She was a comely61, comfortable-looking woman of middle height, round-faced and rosy62, with fair hair like her daughter’s, but grey eyes. Isoult had forgotten her foreign origin till she heard her speak. Her English, however, was fluent and pleasant enough; and she told her visitors that she came from a town in Flanders, close to the German border.
“Where,” pursued Mrs Rose, “people are bred up in their common life to speak four tongues; which shall say, Flemish—that is the language of Flanders; and Spanish—the Spaniards do rule over us; and Low Dutch (German),—because we have much to do with the Low Dutch; and the better bred women also French. And I teach my Thekla all these tongues, saving the Flemish; for they speak not Flemish only in Flanders; it should do her not much good. But in all these four tongues have I kinsfolk; for my father was a true-born Fleming, and to him I alway spake Flemish; and my mother was a Spanish woman, and I spake Spanish with her; and my father’s brother was wedded63 unto a dame64 of Low Dutchland (for whom my daughter is named Thekla, which is a Low Dutch name); and his sister did marry a Frenchman. So you shall see I am akin14 to all this world!”
Mistress Rose entreated66 her guests to stay for four-hours, when she hoped Mr Rose would be at home; but Isoult was somewhat afraid of losing her way in the dark, and declined. So she called her maid, and bade her bring cakes and ale, and take Bayard to the shed where their nag67 was stabled, and give him a mess of oats; begging them at least to stay an hour or two. Then Robin came in, and talked to Thekla and Kate, while Isoult was occupied with Mrs Rose. Mr Rose they did not see; his wife said he was in his parish, visiting the people. So at two o’clock they departed, and reached home just as the dusk fell.
The next day Isoult rode to the Lime Hurst, to see Mrs Underhill. She found her a pleasant motherly woman, full of kindness and cordiality. As they sat and talked Mr Underhill came in, and joined the conversation; telling Isoult, among other matters, how he had once saved Lord Russell from drowning, the heir of the House of Bedford. The boy had been thrown into the Thames opposite his house, in a bitterly cold winter; and Underhill, springing in after him, rescued him, carried him to his own house, and nursed him back to life. Since that time the Earl of Bedford had been the attached friend of his child’s preserver. (Underhill’s Narrative68, Harl. Ms. 425, folio 87, b.)
When Isoult returned home, she found a letter from Annis Holland awaiting her. It contained an urgent invitation from the Duchess of Suffolk to visit her at her little villa69 at Kingston-on-Thames. Isoult hesitated to accept the invitation, but Dr Thorpe, who thought she looked pale and tired, over-ruled her, chiefly by saying that he was sure John would prefer her going; so she wrote to accept the offer, and started with Robin on the following Monday.
Skirting the City wall, they passed through Smithfield and Holborn, and turned away from Saint Giles into the Reading road, the precursor70 of Piccadilly. The roads were good for the time of year, and they reached Kingston before dark. The next morning Robin returned home, with strict charges to fetch Isoult in a week, and sooner should either of the children fall ill.
After Robin’s departure, Isoult waited on the Duchess, whom she found sitting in a cedar71 chamber72, the casement73 looking on the river and the terrace above it. As the friends sat and talked in came a small white dog, wagging its tail, but with very dirty paws.
“Get out, Doctor Gardiner!” cried her Grace, rising hastily, as the soiled paws endeavoured to jump upon her velvet74 dress. “I cannot abide such unclean paws. Go get you washed ere you come into my chamber!—Bertie!”
Mr Bertie came in from the antechamber at her Grace’s call; and smiling when he saw what she wanted, he lifted the dog and set it outside.
“Have Dr Gardiner washed, prithee!” said the Duchess. “I love a clean dog, but I cannot abide a foul75 one.”
“He is easier cleansed77 than his namesake,” she resumed, shaking her head. “If my Lord of Winchester win again into power, I count I shall come ill off. As thou wist, Isoult, I have a wit that doth at times outrun my discretion78; and when I was last in London, passing by the Tower, I did see Master Doctor Gardiner a-looking from, a little window. And ‘Good morrow, my Lord!’ quoth I, in more haste than wisdom; ‘’tis merry with the lambs, now the wolves be kept close!’ I count he will not forgive me therefor in sharp haste.”
Mr Bertie smiled and shook his head.
“Now, Bertie, leave thine head still!” said her Grace. “I know what thou wouldst say as well as if I had it set in print. I am all indiscreetness, and thou all prudence80. He that should bray81 our souls together in a mortar82 should make an excellent wit of both.”
“Your Grace is too flattering, methinks,” said Mr Bertie, still smiling.
“Am I so, verily?” answered she. “Isoult, what thinkest thou? ’Twas not I that gave the dog his name; it was Bertie here (who should be ’shamed of his deed, and is not so at all) and I did but take up the name after him. And this last summer what thinkest yon silly maid Lucrece did? (one of the Duchess’s waiting-women, a fictitious83 person). Why, she set to work and made a rochet in little, and set it on the dog’s back. Heardst thou ever the like? And there was he, a-running about the house with his rochet on him, and all trailing in the mire84. I know not whether Annis were wholly free of some knowledge thereof—nor Bertie neither. He said he knew not; I marvel85 whether he spake truth!”
“That did I, an’t like your Grace,” replied Mr Bertie, laughing. “I saw not the rochet, neither knew of it, afore yourself.”
“Well, I count I must e’en crede thee!” said she.
It struck Isoult that the Duchess and her gentleman usher86 were uncommonly87 good friends; rather more so than was usual at that time. She set it down to their mutual88 Lutheranism; but she might have found for it another and a more personal reason, which they had not yet thought proper to declare openly. The Duchess and Bertie were privately89 engaged, but they told no one till their marriage astonished the world.
Isoult reached home on the sixteenth of December; and on Twelfth Day, 1550, John returned from Cornwall. He brought word that the repairs needed were more extensive than any one had supposed from the Pendexter epistles. Part of the house required rebuilding; and he was determined90 not to begin before he could finish. The result was, that they would have to remain in London, probably, for five or six years more.
Shortly after John’s return, a gentleman called to see him. His name was Roger Holland, and he was a merchant tailor in the City, but of gentle birth, and related to the Earl of Derby. Isoult wished to know if he could be any connection of her friend Annis. John thought not: but “thereby hung a tale.”
“This gentleman,” said John Avery, “was in his young years bound apprentice91 unto one Master Kempton, of the Blade Boy in Watling Street: and in this time he (being young and unwary) did fall into evil company, which caused him to game with them, and he all unskilfully lost unto them not only his own money, but (every groat) thirty pounds which his master had entrusted92 unto him to receive for him of them that ought it (owed it). Moreover, at this time was he a stubborn Papist, in which way he had been bred. So he, coming unto his master’s house all despairing, thought to make up his bundle, and escape away out of his master’s house, (which was a stern man) and take refuge over seas, in France or Flanders. But afore he did this indiscreet thing, he was avised (he made up his mind) to tell all unto a certain ancient and discreet79 maid that was servant in this his master’s family, by name Elizabeth Lake, which had aforetime showed him kindness. So he gat up betimes of the morrow, and having called unto her, he saith—‘Elizabeth, I would I had followed thy gentle persuadings and friendly rebukes93; which if I had done, I had never come to this shame and misery94 which I am now fallen into; for this night have I lost thirty pounds of my master’s money, which to pay him, and to make up mine accounts, I am not able. But this much I pray you, desire my mistress, that she would entreat65 my master to take this bill of my hand that I am this much indebted unto him; and if I be ever able, I will see him paid; desiring him that the matter may pass with silence, and that none of my kindred nor friends may ever understand this my lewd95 part; for if it should come unto my father’s ears, it would bring his grey hairs over-soon unto his grave.’
“And so would he have departed, like unto Sir Richard at the Lea, in the fair old ballad—
“‘Fare wel, frende, and have good daye—
It may noo better be.’
(From “A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode.”)
“But Elizabeth was as good unto him as ever Robin Hood96 unto the Knight97 of Lancashire; yea, and better, as shall be seen. ‘Stay,’ saith she, and away went she forth of the chamber. And afore he was well over his surprise thereat, back cometh she, and poured out of a purse before him on the table thirty pound in good red gold. This money she had by the death of a kinsman98 of hers, but then newly come unto her. Quoth she, ‘Roger, here is thus much money; I will let thee have it, and I will keep this bill. But since I do thus much for thee, to help thee, and to save thy honesty, thou shalt promise me to refuse all wild company, all swearing, and unseemly talk; and if ever I know thee to play one twelve-pence at either dice99 or cards, then will I show this thy bill unto my master. And furthermore, thou shalt promise me to resort every day to the lecture at All Hallows, and the sermon at Poules every Sunday, and to cast away all thy books of Papistry and vain ballads100, and get thee the Testament101 and Book of Service, and read the Scriptures102 with reverence103 and fear, calling unto God still for His grace to direct thee in His truth. And pray unto God fervently104, desiring Him to pardon thy former offences, and not to remember the sins of thy youth; and ever be afraid to break His laws, or offend His majesty105. Then shall God keep thee, and send thee thy heart’s desire.’
“So Mr Holland took her money, and kept his obligations unto her. And in the space of one half-year, so mightily106 wrought107 God’s Spirit with him, that of a great Papist he became as fervent a Gospeller; and going into Lancashire unto his father, he took with him divers108 good books, and there bestowed109 them, so that his father and others began to taste of the gospel, and to leave their idolatry and superstition110: and at last his father, seeing the good reformation wrought in this his son, gave him fifty pounds to begin the world withal, and sent him again to London, where he now driveth a fair trade.”
“And hath he met again with Mistress Lake,” said Isoult, “and restored unto her her thirty pounds?”
“That I cannot tell,” returned John.
A letter came before long from Mr Barry, written at Christmas, and informing his sister that matters were now settled and peaceable. Indeed, at Wynscote they had heard nothing of the rioters. But Potheridge had been surrounded, and in answer to the rebels’ summons to surrender, Mr Monke had sent them a dauntless message of defiance112: upon which they had replied with threats of terrible vengeance113, but had retired114, discomfited115 at the first trial of strength, and never came near the place more.
Darker grew the clouds, meanwhile, over the prisoner in the Tower. His enemies drew up twenty-nine articles against him, and, going to him in his captivity116, read them to him, and informed the world that he had humbly117 confessed them.
“Well,” said John Avery, “some of these be but matter for laughter. To wit, that the Duke did command multiplication118 (coining) and alcumistry, whereby the King’s coin was abated120. As though my Lord of Somerset should take upon him to abate119 the King’s coin!”
“Nay, better men than he have dealt with alcumistry,” answered Dr Thorpe. “The former charge moveth my laughter rather,—That my said Lord hath done things too much by himself: to wit, without the knowledge and sage111 avisement of these my Lords of the King’s Council. Is there so much as one of them that would not do the same an’ he had the chance?”
“Why,” said Avery, “he had the chance, and therein lieth his offence. They had not, and therein lieth their virtue121.”
From two poor innocent lambs cruelly pent up by the Protector, now that he was himself in durance, there came a great outcry for relief. These were the imprisoned122 prelates, Bonner and Gardiner. The latter said that “he had been in prison one year and a quarter and a month; and he lacked air to relieve his body, and books to relieve his mind, and good company (the only solace123 of this world), and lastly, a just cause why he should have come thither124 at all.” How well can the wolf counterfeit125 the lamb! Had none of his prisoners lacked air, and books? And had my Lord Bishop of Winchester been so careful to see to a just cause in the case of every man he sent to Tower or Fleet?
On the 27th of January the leaders of the Devon riots were hanged at Tyburn; the chief of whom was Humphrey Arundel. And on the 6th of February the Duke of Somerset was delivered from the Tower, and suffered to go home; but four days before a change had been made in the Council, the Earls of Arundel and Southampton being dismissed and ordered to keep their houses in London during the King’s pleasure.
Mrs Rose and Thekla came several times to visit Isoult, and she returned the compliment. And one day in February came Philippa Basset, who was about to go into Cheshire, to visit her sister, Lady Bridget Carden, with whom she passed nearly a year before Isoult saw her again. Lady Bridget really was not her sister at all, she being Lord Lisle’s daughter, and Philippa Lady Lisle’s; but they had been educated as sisters, and as sisters they loved. Not long afterwards, Sir Francis Jobson resigned his office at the Tower, and went home to his own estate of Monkwich, in Essex. His wife was the Lady Elizabeth, sister of Lady Bridget; and with her Philippa had lived ever since she came to London. When she came back, therefore, she was forced to look out for another home, for she did not wish to follow them into Essex: and she went to her own youngest brother, Mr James Basset, who had a house in London.
All this while the Reformation was quietly progressing. On the 19th of April, Bishop Ridley came to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, in communion-time, and received the sacrament, together with Dr May, the Dean, and Dr Barne; both the Dean and the Bishop took the consecrated126 bread in their hands, instead of holding out the tongue, for the priest to put the wafer upon it. And before the Bishop would come into the choir127, he commanded all the lights that were on the Lord’s Table to be put out. The Dean, who was a Lutheran, was well pleased at all this; but not so other men who were more kindly128 disposed towards Popery; and there was much murmuring and disputing.
At this time the Princess Mary was hanging between life and death at Kenninghall. We know now how all things had been changed had she died. But God could not spare her who was to be (however unwittingly or unwillingly) the purifier of His Church, to show which was the dross129, and which the gold.
Some turmoil130 was also made concerning Joan Boucher, an Anabaptist girl who had been condemned131 for heresy132, and was burned in Smithfield on the 2nd of May. The Papal party, ever ready to throw stones at the Protestants, cried that “the old burning days were come again,” and that Archbishop Cranmer was just as much a persecutor133 as Bishop Gardiner. They saw no difference between a solitary134 victim of the one (if Joan Boucher can be called so), and the other’s piles of martyrs135. Isoult, rather puzzled about the question, referred it to her husband—the manner in which she usually ended her perplexities.
“Dear heart,” said he, “there be so few that can keep the mean. When men take God’s sword in hand, is it any wonder that they handle it ill?”
“But wouldst thou leave such ill fawtors unchastened, Jack?” exclaimed Dr Thorpe rather indignantly.
“That were scantly the mean, I take it,” quietly returned he.
Mr Underhill was just then busied in presenting before the Archbishop of Canterbury his parish priest, Mr Albutt, Vicar of Stepney, for his unseemly behaviour to the Lutheran clergy57 who came, by order of the King and the Archbishop, to preach in his church. For he disturbed the preachers in his church (writes Underhill), “causing bells to be rung when they were at the sermon, and sometimes began to sing in the choir before the sermon were half done, and sometimes would challenge (publicly dispute his doctrines) the preacher in the pulpit; for he was a strong stout136 Popish prelate. But the Archbishop was too full of lenity; a little he rebuked137 him, and bade him do no more so.”
“My Lord,” said Mr Underhill, “I think you are too gentle unto so stout a Papist.”
“Well,” said he, “we have no law to punish them by.”
“No law, my Lord!” cried Mr Underhill; “If I had your authority, I would be so bold as to un-vicar him, or minister some sharp punishment unto him and such other. If ever it come to their turn, they will show you no such favour.”
“Surely,” answered Mr Underhill in his manner, which was blunt and fearless, “God shall never con4 you thanks (owe you thanks) for this, but rather take the sword from such as will not use it upon his enemies.” (Note 2.)
Mr and Mrs Rose, Thekla, and Mr Underhill, dined at the sign of the Lamb one day in June. Unfortunately, their conversation turned upon the succession: and owing to the warmth of the weather, or of Mr Edward Underhill, it became rather exciting. Mr Rose was unexpectedly found to hold what that gentleman considered heretical political views: namely, that if the King should die childless, it would be competent to the Gospellers to endeavour to hinder the succession of the Princess Mary in favour of the Princess Elizabeth. This, Underhill hotly protested, would be doing evil that good might come.
“And,” said he, “if it come to that pass, I myself, though I would a thousand times rather have my Lady Elizabeth to reign, yet would I gird on my sword over my buff jerkin, and fight for the Lady Mary!”
Mr Rose shook his head, but did not speak.
“Right is right, Thomas Rose!” cried Underhill, somewhat hotly.
“Truth, friend,” answered he, “and wrong is wrong. But which were the right, and which were the wrong, of these two afore God, perchance you and I might differ.”
“Differ, forsooth!” cried Underhill again. “Be two and two come to make five? or is there no variance138 in your eyes betwixt watchet (pale blue) and brasil (red)? The matter is as plain to be seen as Westminster Abbey, if a man shut not his eyes.”
“I have known men do such things,” said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile.
“I thank you, my master!” responded Underhill. “So have I.”
“Now, Ned Underhill, leave wrangling,” said Avery. “We be none of us neither prophets nor apostles.”
“‘Brethren, be ye all of one mind,’” repeated Dr Thorpe.
“I am ready enough to be of one mind with Rose,” said Underhill, “an’ he will listen to reason.”
“That is,” answered John, smiling, “an’ he will come over to you, and look through your spectacles.”
“Man o’ life! we can’t be both right!” cried Underhill, striking his hand heavily on the table.
“You may be both wrong, Ned,” gently suggested John.
“Come, Rose!” said Underhill, cooling as suddenly as he had heated, and holding out his hand. “We are but a pair of fools to quarrel. I forgive you.”
“I knew not that I quarrelled with you, friend,” said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile; “and I have nothing to forgive.”
But he put his hand in Underhill’s readily enough.
“You are a better Christian139 than I, methinks,” muttered Underhill, somewhat ashamed. “But you know what a hot fellow I am.”
“We will both essay to be as good Christians140 as we can,” quietly answered Mr Rose; “and that is, as like Christ as we can. Methinks He scantly gave hot words to Peter, whether the Emperor Tiberius Caesar should have reigned141 or no.”
“Ah!” said John, gravely, “he that should think first how Christ should answer, should rarely indeed be found in hot words, and in evil, never.”
“Well,” replied Mr Underhill, “I am of complexion142 somewhat like Peter. I could strike off the ear of Malchus an’ I caught him laying hands on my Master (yea, I know not if I should stay at the ear); and it had been much had I kept that sword off the High Priest himself. Ay, though I had been hanged the hour after.”
“The cause seemeth to lack such men at times,” said John, thoughtfully, “and then the Lord raiseth them up. But we should not forget, Ned, that ‘they which take the sword shall perish with the sword.’”
“Well!” cried Underhill, “I care not if I do perish with the sword, if I may first mow143 down a score or twain of the enemies of the Gospel.”
“Such men commonly do so,” said Mr Rose aside to Isoult, by whom he sat.
“Do what?” broke in Underhill, who heard it.
“Do perish with the sword,” answered he firmly, looking him full in the face.
“Amen!” cried the other. “I am abundantly ready—only, pray you, let me have a good tilt144 with the old mumpsimuses first.” (Note 3.)
“I would I were a little more like you, Underhill,” said Mr Rose. “I could suffer, as methinks, and perchance fly, an’ I had the opportunity; but resist or defend me, that could I not.”
“Call me to resist and defend you,” answered Underhill. “It were right in my fashion.”
“You may not be within call,” said Mr Rose somewhat gloomily. “But God will be so.”
“Mr Rose,” said Isoult, “look you for a further persecution145, that you speak thus?”
Thekla’s eyes filled with tears.
“As Jack saith, Mrs Avery,” he answered, “I am neither prophet nor apostle. But methinks none of us is out of his place upon the watch-tower. There be black clouds in the sky—very black thunder-clouds. How know I whether they shall break or pass over? Only God knoweth; and He shall carry us all safe through them that have trusted ourselves to Him. That is a word full of signification—‘Some of you shall they cause to be put to death... Yet shall not an hair of your heads perish.’ Our Master may leave any of His servants to die or suffer; He will never allow so much as one of them to perish. O brethren! only let the thunder find us watching, praying always; and whether we escape or no, we are assured that we shall be ‘counted worthy32 to stand before the Son of Man.’ I would not like to ‘be ashamed before Him at His coming.’”
No one answered. All were too full of thought for words.
Note 1. The Lady Frances was the eldest146 daughter of Charles Duke of Suffolk by his fourth wife, the Princess Mary, and was therefore in the line of succession to the throne. Her daughters were the Ladies Jane, Katherine, and Mary Grey.
Note 2. Harl. Ms. 425, folio 93.—Underhill gives no date for this incident beyond saying “In King Edward’s time.”
Note 3. In the reign of Henry the Eighth, an old priest was found who for forty years had read the word sumpsimus in his breviary as mumpsimus. On being remonstrated147 with, he retorted that “He would not leave his old mumpsimus for their new sumpsimus.” This story was long popular with the Gospellers, who dubbed148 the Popish priests mumpsimuses.
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1
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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2
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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dilation
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| n.膨胀，扩张，扩大 | |
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7
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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9
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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10
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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12
obeisant
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| adj.obeisance的形容词形式 | |
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13
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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bruit
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| v.散布；n.（听诊时所听到的）杂音；吵闹 | |
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16
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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17
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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18
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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19
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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20
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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21
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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22
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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23
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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24
honourableness
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25
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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26
tare
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| n.皮重；v.量皮重 | |
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27
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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28
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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29
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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30
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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31
scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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32
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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33
Partisanship
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| n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
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34
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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35
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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36
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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38
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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40
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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41
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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42
scantier
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的比较级 ) | |
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43
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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44
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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45
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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46
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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47
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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48
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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49
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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50
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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51
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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52
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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53
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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54
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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55
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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56
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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57
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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58
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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59
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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60
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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61
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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62
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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63
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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65
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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66
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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68
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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69
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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70
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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71
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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72
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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73
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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74
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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75
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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76
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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77
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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79
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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80
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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81
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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82
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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83
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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84
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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85
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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86
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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87
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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88
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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89
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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90
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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91
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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92
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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95
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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96
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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97
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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98
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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99
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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100
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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101
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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102
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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103
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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104
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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105
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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106
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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107
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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108
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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109
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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111
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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112
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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113
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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114
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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115
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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116
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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118
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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119
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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121
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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122
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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124
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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125
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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126
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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127
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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128
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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129
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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130
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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131
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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132
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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133
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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134
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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135
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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137
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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139
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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140
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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141
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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142
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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143
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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144
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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146
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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147
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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