ON a summer evening, about three-and-a-half centuries ago, two young men, one sixteen, the other a year or two older, walked together.
Business was over, and the shutters of the shops were closed. Tradesmen stood at their doors, faces looked out of lattice windows above, and apprentices played at single-stick in the street. While things were thus, the two young men—the younger named Mark Lorimer, the elder Edward Dawmer—were walking together. They were talking very earnestly, and did not seem to heed the boys at play; for their conversation had just turned upon a matter that was deeply stirring the minds of men in those days.
“I am sorry that it should be so,” the elder lad observed; “and sorry that our lot should be cast in such troublous times.”
“Would God,” returned Mark, “we knew when they would end!”
“I understand,” went on the other, “that there is to be another burning in Smithfield tomorrow, and that Queen Mary and her husband will be present.”
“God pity them!” said Mark; “may they find more mercy in the last judgment than they have meted out upon the earth.”
“Amen!”
“Why,” said Mark, and his face flushed crimson, “I heard, and know it for a truth, that they burnt a child not many days old in the flames with its mother; they drove another frantic, and then slew it for its mad words. They are crowding the streets with orphans, and offering up, in the fires that are daily kindled, the best and bravest of the land”—
“Hush, hush!” said Dawmer; “there are ears everywhere—be careful, for both our sakes.”
“I am not afraid,” Mark answered, with all a boy’s heroism. “I say again that these things ought not to be.”
“Yes, yes, that is all very well,” Dawmer returned; “but it is not a pleasant thing to be tied to a whipping-post, as more than a score of lads were, not many days ago, and lashed almost to death.”
“I would not deny the truth,” said Mark, “if the whips were scorpions, and the whipping-post the stake.”
“But supposing now,” Dawmer asked—oh! so slyly and so softly!— “they were to come to you and say, What do you think about the bread and wine in the Lord’s supper?”
“What do I think of it?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Bread and wine:”
“But after the prayers of the priest?”
“Bread and wine.”
“Why, don’t you know,” said Dawmer, “that it would be flat heresy to say so?”
“Why?”
“After the priest, it is bread and wine no longer.”
The young man laughed. “What is it, then?” he asked.
“The body, blood, soul, and divinity of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“That I deny,” said the young man, “and always will deny.”
“Well, you know it is better to be cautious,” said Dawmer. “Nobody can tell what may happen in these troublous times; better, I should think, try some cunning way of getting out of it!”
“What,” said Mark, smiling again, “frame some pet verse, like poor Princess Elizabeth, God save her!
Christ was the word that spake it;
He took the bread and brake it,
And what the Word did make it,
That I believe and take it.”
Thus talking, the young men passed on, crossed the stocks market, and shaped their course for London Bridge, where they parted.
Mark Lorimer lived with his father on this famous old bridge, for in those days it was covered with houses, and had the appearance of a regular street. It was evening, and the sun was setting when Mark reached home. In a small room, which overhung the river, sat his old father; he was watching the stream as it flowed rapidly onward, gurgling and struggling against the piles of the bridge, as it dashed wildly under the narrow arches. The old man turned his head as Mark entered, and clasped his hands. They sat and talked together about the troubles of the period, about the cruelty of Queen Mary, and the dread that was on all those who held the reformed faith. They talked of those whom they had known, with whom they had often worshipped, but who had suffered death by fire or sword for the faith they held so dear. They sat and talked together till the last rays of the sun had glided away, and the pale moon had arisen in the heavens, and cast its flood of mellow light on the picturesque old city. Then the old, man summoned his servant a godly woman, stricken in years; the cloth was spread, a frugal meal spread out, and they sat down to supper. The old man asked God’s blessing on their food, and as he ended there was a loud knock at the outer door. Margery withdrew to open it. A few moments more, and a tall, well-made man strode into the room. He lifted his cap as he did so with a courtly air, then, pointing to a paper which he held in his hand, said, “In Queen Mary’s name.”
They saw it all. The old man arose, but his tongue slave to the roof of his mouth; Margery wept aloud; but the young man was gone. The few moments which had elapsed between the knock and the entrance had been sufficient to apprize the old man of his son’s danger. The other knew and felt it, and at his sire’s command had concealed himself in one of those secret closets with which old houses then abounded.
“Sir,” said the officer, “I have come here commanded to arrest your son. Let him come forth.”
“Sir,” returned the old man, “my son is but a child, yet do your errand if you list.”
“Your son was seen to enter here—he is here now—surrender him at once!”
The old man refused. The officer called aloud to his men, who waited outside, and five or six stout fellows, in leathern jerkins and half armor, came at his command. They searched, but searched in vain; and when every effort proved fruitless, they turned fiercely on the old man, who watched their every movement.
“Old blood shall pay for young blood, if you conceal him longer,” said the officer. “As I live, you shall taste the rack for this!”
“Spare the green and take the ripe,” the old man answered, “and God be judge betwixt us!”
What needs it to repeat all that was said—how oaths were mingled with the holy name of Jesus, and how they roughly used the venerable man, and were about to test him, as they said, by holding his hand over A burning lamp. Just at that moment the secret door was opened, and the young man came forth.
He was thrown into prison that night, and the old man, with a heavy heart, was left in his home. The next day and the next he sought to see his son, but sought in vain; on the third he was told that he was condemned—that he who had betrayed him had borne witness against him—conclusive evidence, they said, of guilt. This fellow was but a lad himself, no other than Edward Dawmer—Judas that he was!—he had sold his friend for the blood-money, and had left him now to die.
So there was another high holiday. Crowds thronged the way again from Newgate to Smithfield; thousands gathered in that open space and city officers and soldiers kept guard about the stakes, which were ready for the victims. Six or seven were to die that day, and huge bundles of fagots were being brought together for the burning. At the hour fixed, the prisoners were brought through the street—four men, two women—and the lad Mark Lorimer. They were exhorted by the priests to repent, but remained true to the gospel; were fastened by strong chains and iron rings to the stakes the fagots piled about them, and at a given signal fired. So the black smoke curled up, and the fire leaped and danced, and some of the people wept. It was more than an hour before it was all over, and then the people went their way. So perished young Mark Lorimer—a victim to the persecution of Queen Mary’s reign.
If you had entered the old house on the bridge, and gone with Margery to the little room that overlooked the Thames, you would have seen the old man kneeling down. If you had touched him, you would have found him dead!