BY MRS. H. C. CONANT
IT was a small dark chamber in the Tower of London. Its very aspect was enough to freeze the blood. The cold gray walls of stone closed upon the inmate like a sepulcher. The heavy oaken door, with its massive bars and bolts, seemed the seal of bondage rather than the portal of hope. A high, narrow window towards the west admitted through most of the day an uncertain, cheerless light, which served only to reveal the desolate appearance of the interior. At this moment, however, an unusually brilliant sunset shot a rich amber gleam athwart the gloom, which fell like a glory around the head of the prisoner. It was a woman. She lay extended on a coarse bed, in an attitude of utter exhaustion and helplessness. Her face was of a deathly pallor, and the cold sweat stood in great beads upon her high, open brow, and drenched the hair which lay in wild matted masses around her neck and shoulders. Yet the pale countenance wore a, triumphant smile. A conqueror’s soul beamed forth in that radiant, upward glance. In that slender, broken form, beat a heart which had proved itself stronger than the love of life or the fear of death. It is Anne Askew just from the torture of the rack.
This beautiful, cultivated, and pious lady was one of the victims of the cruel persecution under Henry VIII. Belonging to an ancient and noble family, her early years were passed in the bosom of a happy and luxurious home. As was the fashion with the distinguished ladies of that time, her mind was trained by a severer discipline and a richer culture than is common in our day. Early in life she exchanged the parental abode for that of her husband. We know nothing of the first period of this union, nor of its duration; but we know that when her earnest, inquiring mind had seized the doctrines of the Reformation, and her warm heart had found satisfaction for all its restless cravings in the living gospel, her husband turned against her, and brutally drove her from his house.
Resuming her maiden name, she thenceforward devoted herself to the extension of that knowledge, for which, like the apostle, she had “counted all things as loss.” Many great ladies of the court secretly embraced her sentiments, and it was rumored that. the Queen herself had received heretical books from her. Catherine was well known to be favorable to the Reformation; but the admirable prudence of her conduct had, thus far, offered no handle to her enemies—eagle-eyed, and malignant, and powerful as they were. But an overt act of disobedience to the royal decree promised what they wished. This would have been an offense beyond pardon in the eyes of the passionate and despotic Henry. To convict Anne was the first step towards the downfall of, the Queen. She was seized and sent to prison.
But Anne Askew proved more than a match for the enemies. To the world’s eye her case was a fearfully forlorn one. A poor, weak, helpless woman, she stood alone against a host. But her feet were planted on the eternal rock of faith. Her faith was no mere creed, a speculative belief in abstract dogmas. It was a life in her soul: and, at this hour of need, proved itself the well-spring of a wisdom which her adversaries could not gainsay, of a strength which they could not subdue, of a joy which smiled with undisturbed serenity on the terrors of the prison, the torture, and the stake.
The Lord Chancellor of England visited her in prison, with the purpose of endeavoring to terrify her into a confession of her accomplices. Such were those called who had committed the crime of receiving religious books from her, and of contributing to her support in prison. Her calm and cautious answers afforded him no clue. Enraged by his disappointment, the dignified and manly Primate orders her to the rack. Think of it! A MAN, a wise and learned statesman, a high dignitary of the realm, ordering a weak and unresisting woman to the rack—and for what? For this, verily, that she could not believe the consecrated wafer and wine to be the literal body and blood of Christ, and that she would not betray those who held with her in the rejection of that Popish dogma.
Perhaps, in this happier age, some of my readers do not even know what is meant by the torture of the rack. Let us accompany Anne Askew to the question-chamber. See that heavy oaken frame furnished with wheels and pulleys. That is the rack. She is laid by the rough executioner on the floor directly under it. The depending cords are fastened tightly to her slender wrists and ankles. Now the hellish instrument begins its work. Slowly, slowly, the victim rises, till her body is on a level with the rack. Now is your time, Lord Primate; under these convincing arguments surely light will dawn upon her mind, especially as she well knows that these are but the prelude to others still more cogent. In vain. She is as blind and obstinate as ever. The noble examiner directs the officer in attendance to increase the torture. But the Lieutenant of the Tower, used as he is to scenes of legalized cruelty, cannot endure the sight. Perhaps he has a wife, a daughter, a sister, the thought of whom makes his heart weak. He remonstrates, he entreats, but without effect. He then endeavors, by his directions to the jailer, to mitigate the torture. Perceiving his aim, the Lord Chancellor, in a fit of fury, flings off his costly robe, seizes the lever with his own noble hands, and plies it with so fierce a will, that the bones of the poor sufferer start from their sockets. Will she confess now? No Though the frail flesh quivers with the sharp and rending agony, though the low moan, perchance the wild shriek, confess that mortal anguish, the strong heart is still true to its friends and its God.
Turn we for a moment to a scene of far different character. In a magnificent apartment in the palace of Westminster, we find Queen Catherine surrounded by all the pomp of royalty. Priceless jewels sparkle in her golden hair. The necklace that clasps her neck would buy a small kingdom. Her word is law to all around her. Still young and beautiful, every motion grace, every look expressive of dignity and sweetness, who can doubt that her empire is secured by love no less than by right! Does not this brilliant scene seem to mock the misery and horror of that which we have just left? Are we not ready to complain of the unequal distribution of the gifts of Providence?
“Judge not according to the outward appearance.” These two hearts, that in the dungeon and this in the palace, beat, in perfect unison. The same humble, living faith reigns in both. The same love to God and man, the same high, self-forgetting devotion to truth and duty. But Anne Askew is the happier of the two. The sword hangs by a hair over the regal head of Catherine. Cares, anxieties, fears, nestle under that velvet and ermined mantle. Traps and footfalls beset her steps. She knows that among her royal consort’s counselors are her own deadly, foes; that his capricious fondness may at any hour fasten on a new object, and make way for it by consigning her own head to the block. She fears, indeed, less for herself than for others near and dear to her, who would be involved in her ruin. At this hour her heart is distracted with apprehensions from which her noble kinswoman has been forever set free. True, she has the same refuge from which Anne has drawn help; and, were she called to the test, doubtless she would endure as worthily. But it is also true, that the martyr’s strength and the martyr’s joy come not but at the martyr-hour.
All efforts to induce her to recant or confess being found unavailing, Anne Askew was condemned to be burned alive. The stake had no more terrors than the rack for her constant spirit. One who saw her the day before her execution has recorded, that “she wore a smiling face, and her countenance was like that of an angel.” Her limbs being so dislocated that she could not walk, she was carried in a chair to the fatal spot. She was already fastened with her fellow-sufferers to the stake, when a message arrived from the Lord Chancellor: that their pardon was already drawn and signed, and would be given them upon the instant if they would recant. This last temptation was promptly rejected by them all. The flames were kindled, and soon Anne Askew had put off mortality and entered into the eternal joy!