ON the hill above Hadleigh, Suffolk, we passed an obelisk in the middle of a barley-field, and, as our curiosity was excited, we asked the first person we met what it marked.
“That’s where Doctor Taylor was burned.”
Then the truth flashed upon us that we had just been giving away in the town below, the very gospel for which this good man had suffered. Our privilege had been bought with his blood. Tears came to the eyes of some of our little party, as we thought of the scene that had taken place upon that very spot three hundred years ago, and, while thanking God, we gave three cheers for Dr. Rowland Taylor. Beside the obelisk, which is of recent date, was a rude stone, with this quaint inscription: ―
1535. D. Tayler in defending that was good at this plas left his blode.
But who was Dr. Taylor, and why was he persecuted? He was a great friend of Cranmer, and minister of Hadleigh. One day, while in his study, the church-bells began ringing at an unusual hour, and going to see what it was, he found a little ecclesiastical conspiracy on foot; for a neighboring priest, surrounded by armed men, was preparing to perform mass in his church. He protested, but only to be thrust out at the point of the sword. Shortly afterward, he received a summons to appear before the Lord Chancellor, the Bishop of Winchester, for stopping the Queen’s proceedings, and had to start for London to answer for himself. His friends, knowing the danger, tried to dissuade him, especially a faithful servant, who offered to accompany him anywhere, that he might save his life. Dr. Taylor answered, that his counsel was carnal, and that he could not desert his flock while it was in such peril; willing him to remember, that Christ not only fed, but died for His flock. “This,” said he, “is the pattern which, by God’s grace, I am determined to follow.”
The bishop received him in no very bishop-like manner, calling him “knave, traitor, heretic, villain” and other charitable names, to which the doctor replied, “My lord, I am neither traitor nor heretic, but a true subject and a faithful Christian, and am come, according to your commandment, to know the cause of your lordship sending for me.”
The answer he received was a little more rough language, and then two years in the King’s Bench Prison; after which, in company with other good men, he was sentenced to death, chiefly under these three heads: ―
1. For refusing his assent to the doctrine of transubstantiation.
2. For affirming the Pope to be Antichrist.
3. For defending the marriage of priests.
For these three points he was taken to the Compter, in the Poultry, and there confined until he could be removed to Hadleigh to die. During this time, the amiable Bishop Bonner visited him with the rags of Rome. “I wish you would remember yourself, and turn to your holy mother church,” said he. Dr. Taylor neatly replied, “I wish you and your fellows would turn to Christ.” The bishop wanted him to put on the vestments he had brought, but the doctor stoutly said, “I will not.”
“Wilt thou not; I shall make thee ere I go.”
“You shall not, by the grace of God,’ said Taylor.
As he would not do it willingly, it was done for him against his will. Then, setting his hands to his sides he walked up and down, as if it were good sport, quaintly speaking “How say you, my lord, am I not a goodly fool? How say you, my masters; if I were in Cheapside, should I not have the boys to lane at these apish toys and trumpery?”
This so roused Bonner, that he was on the point of striking the saucy rector, but contented himself with a curse. “Though yet curse me, God doth bless me,” said Taylor. Then came the last supper with his wife who, through the kindness of his keeper, was allowed to see him, with his faithful servant. Next morning at two o’clock the journey to Hadleigh began. When the Sheriff of London and his men took him forth, it was so dark that his wife, who was waiting in the cold February air, against St. Botolph’s Church, could not see him; but the quick eye: of his adopted daughter, Elizabeth, detected him, and she cried out, “Mother! mother! here is my father led away!” The company stayed while they knelt together. “Farewell, my dear wife, be of good comfort, for I am quiet in my conscience. God shall stir up a father for my children.” He kissed his little family and passed on, “God be with thee, my dear Rowland,” ringing in his ears.
And this was the man who was burned on the brow of the hill. I think nothing ever made martyrdom more real to our own hearts than that truly consecrated spot, but I trust we are sufficiently interested to wish to know the end of Dr. Rowland Taylor’s journey.
Can you see the little crowd as they pass through the villages? The sheriff of the county leads the way; a few yeomen of the guard surround the captive; and hark! he is cheerfully talking to them of his hope.; and now, in earnest tones, he tells them of Jesus, the sinner’s Saviour, urging them to repent, until the hard-hearted men weep.
When two miles from Hadleigh, being asked how he did, “God be praised,” said he, “I was never better in all my life, since now I am almost home and in sight of my Father’s house.”
What is now the barley-field was, on the morning of February 9th, 1535, a wild common. Let us take our stand here. People are gathered from far and near, though as yet the beloved pastor has not arrived. Yonder they come, over the bridge, through the old town, the crowd thickening as they move along. Little children look in wonder at the man, who, with a hood over his head, passes by. The old people, who remember his charity and love, weep to see him thus return to their midst; while the baser sort jeer and ridicule the servant of God. They climb the hill, and now they halt, and tell the martyr he has reached the place of death.
“Thanked be God, I am even at home,” he cries.
Alighting from his horse, with both his hands he rends off the hood, revealing that his hair is knotted and clipped, as if to make sport for the rude ones among the multitude. Look at his long white beard. Now hark! As the people, who love their old pastor, gaze on him, they cry. “God save thee, good Dr. Taylor; Jesus Christ strengthen thee! The Holy Ghost comfort thee.”
Then the aged man gives away all that he has, boots and clothes, and standing in his shirt, cries with a loud voice, “Good people, I have taught you nothing but God’s holy word, and those lessons that I have taken out of God’s blessed book, the Holy Bible, and I am come hither this day to seal it with my blood.” But a stroke upon the head from a yeoman, named Holmes, reminds him that he is not allowed to speak.
This is no fancy picture, but a real incident which really took place upon this very spot. Can we realize it?
Look again! the godly, venerable saint kneels. The crowd form a ring around him: some laugh, some weep; a woman steps into the circle and kneels at his side. The yeomen try to thrust her away, threaten to trample upon her with their horses, but she kneels in sympathy with her dear shepherd until he rises. He walks towards the stake and kisses it. A pitch barrel is brought, into which he calmly steps, and standing erect against the burning post, is there chained.
“Pile the fagots,” cries the sheriff to a butcher standing by, but the man does not. He is threatened with imprisonment, but still he refuses. The devil can always find servants for his dirty work; soon several of the roughs cast the fagots around, one of them contriving to hurl one, so as to strike the martyr’s face, drawing blood. Turning patiently, he says, “Ah! friend, I have hurt enough, what need of this?”
The fire is kindled, and from the hill-top the smoke ascends, and with the smoke, the prayer, “Merciful Father of Heaven, for Jesus Christ my Saviour’s sake, receive my soul into Thy hands.” He stands perfectly still, as if unconscious of pain, until one of the yeomen steps forward, and with a halberd, finishes the cruel work.
And on that spot today we find a field of waving grain! Is it not typical of the handful of corn then sown upon its summit? Sown in tears, it is reaped today in joy over the whole land, and shall yield its increase forever.
“The mountain dews shall nourish
A seed in weakness sown;
Whose fruit shall spread and flourish,
And shake like Lebanon.”
W. L.