Chapter Twenty Seven.
At the Bar.
The great hall of the Moot Hall in Colchester was filling rapidly. Every townsman, and every townswoman, wanted to hear the examination, and to know the fate of the prisoners—of whom there were so many that not many houses were left in Colchester where the owners had not some family connection or friend among them. Into the hall, robed in judicial ermine, filed the Royal Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, and Dr Chedsey, followed by Boswell, the scribe, Robert Maynard and Robert Brown the Sheriffs, several priests, and many magistrates and gentlemen of the surrounding country. Having opened the Court, they first summoned before them William Bongeor, the glazier, of Saint Michael’s parish, aged sixty, then Thomas Benold, the tallow-chandler, and thirdly, Robert Purcas. They asked Purcas “what he had to say touching the Sacrament.”
“When we receive the Sacrament,” he answered, “we receive bread in an holy use, that preacheth remembrance that Christ died for us.”
The three men were condemned to death: and then Agnes Silverside was brought to the bar. She was some time under examination, for she answered all the questions asked her so wisely and so firmly, that the Commissioners themselves were disconcerted. They took refuge, as such men usually did, in abuse, calling her ugly names, and asking “if she wished to burn her rotten old bones?”
Helen Ewring, the miller’s wife, followed: and both were condemned.
Then the last of the Moot Hall prisoners, Elizabeth Foulkes, was placed at the bar.
“Dost thou believe,” inquired Dr Chedsey, “that in the most holy Sacrament of the altar, the body and blood of Christ is really and substantially present?”
Elizabeth’s reply, in her quiet, clear voice, was audible in every part of the hall.
“I believe it to be a substantial lie, and a real lie.”
“Shame! shame!” cried one of the priests on the bench.
“Horrible blasphemy!” cried another.
“What is it, then, that there is before consecration?” asked Dr Chedsey.
“Bread.”
“Well said. And what is there after consecration?”
“Bread, still.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more,” said Elizabeth firmly. “The receiving of Christ lies not in the bread, but is heavenly and spiritual only.”
“What say you to confession?”
“I will use none, seeing no priest hath power to remit sin.”
“Will you go to mass?”
“I will not, for it is idolatry.”
“Will you submit to the authority of the Pope?”
Elizabeth’s answer was even stronger than before.
“I do utterly detest all such trumpery from the bottom of my heart!”
They asked her no more. Dr Chedsey, for the sixth and last time, assumed the black cap, and read the sentence of death.
“Thou shalt be taken from here to the place whence thou earnest, and thence to the place of execution, there to be burned in the fire till thou art dead.”
Never before had Chedsey’s voice been known to falter in pronouncing that sentence. He had spoken it to white-haired men, and delicate women, ay, even to little children; but this once, every spectator looked up in amazement at his tone, and saw the judge in tears. And then, turning to the prisoner, they saw her face “as it were the face of an angel.”
Before any one could recover from the sudden hush of awe which had fallen upon the Court, Elizabeth Foulkes knelt down, and carried her appeal from that unjust sentence to the higher bar of God Almighty.
“O Lord our Father!” she said, “I thank and praise and glorify Thee that I was ever born to see this day—this most blessed and happy day, when Thou hast accounted me worthy to suffer for the testimony of Christ. And, Lord, if it be Thy will, forgive them that thus have done against me, for they know not what they do.”
How many of us would be likely to thank God for allowing us to be martyrs? These were true martyrs who did so, men and women so full of the Holy Ghost that they counted not their lives dear unto them,—so upheld by God’s power that the shrinking of the flesh from that dreadful pain and horror was almost forgotten. We must always remember that it was not by their own strength, or their own goodness, but by the blood of the Lamb, that Christ’s martyrs have triumphed over Death and Satan.
Then Elizabeth rose from her knees, and turned towards the Bench. Like an inspired prophetess she spoke—this poor, simple, humble servant-girl of twenty years—astonishing all who heard her.
“Repent, all ye that sit there!” she cried earnestly, “and especially ye that brought me to this prison: above all thou, Robert Maynard, that art so careless of human life that thou wilt oft sit sleeping on the bench when a man is tried for his life. Repent, O ye halting Gospellers! and beware of blood-guiltiness, for that shall call for vengeance. Yea, if ye will not herein repent your wicked doings,”—and as Elizabeth spoke, she laid her hand upon the bar—“this very bar shall be witness against you in the Day of Judgment, that ye have this day shed innocent blood!”
Oh, how England needs such a prophetess now! and above all, those “halting Gospellers,” the men who talk sweetly about charity and toleration, and sit still, and will not come to the help of the Lord against the mighty! They sorely want reminding that Christ has said, “He that is not with us is against us.” It is a very poor excuse to say, “Oh, I am not doing any harm.” Are you doing any good? That is the question. If not, a wooden post is as good as you are. And are you satisfied to be no better than a wooden post?
What grand opportunities there are before boys and girls on the threshold of life! What are you going to do with your life? Remember, you have only one. And there are only two things you can do with it. You must give it to somebody—and it must be either God or Satan. All the lives that are not given to God fall into the hands of Satan. There are very few people who say to themselves deliberately, Now, I will not give my life to God. They only say, Oh, there’s plenty of time; I won’t do it just now; I want to enjoy myself. They don’t know that there is no happiness on earth like that of deciding for God. And so they go on day after day, not deciding either way, but just frittering their lives away bit by bit, until the last day comes, and the last bit of life, and then it is too late to decide. Would you like such a poor, mean, valueless thing as this to be the one life which is all you have? Would you not rather have a bright, rich, full life, with God Himself for your best friend on earth, and then a triumphal entry into the Golden City, and the singer’s harp, and the victor’s palm, and the prince’s crown, and the King’s “Well done, good and faithful servant?”
Do you say, Yes. I would choose that, but I do not know how? Well, then, tell the Lord that. Say to Him, “Lord, I want to be Thy friend and servant, and I do not know how.” Keep on saying it till He shows you how. He is sure to do it, for He cares about it much more than you do. Never fancy for one minute that God does not want you to go to Heaven, and that it will be hard work to persuade Him to let you in. He wants you to come more than you want it. He gave His own Son that you might come. “Greater love hath no man than this.”
Now, will you not come to Him—will you not say to Him, “Lord, here am I; take me”? Are you going to let the Lord Jesus feel that all the cruel suffering which He bore for you was in vain? He is ready to save you, if you will let Him; but He will not do it against your will. How shall it be?