The white flakes were still falling, tossed to and fro by a brisk wind. It had been snowing all day. Streets, and fields, and lanes, and trees, and house-roofs, were covered with a beautiful white raiment.
It was not such a night, depend upon it, that one would willingly turn out to meet; and yet, if you had been at Coventry on that occasion, anywhere near the cottage of Widow Smith, — you could not miss the cottage, for it had a light burning in the window—you would have noticed fresh footprints in the snow—footprints that of course the falling snow rapidly buried, as if they betrayed secrets which ought not to be betrayed; but footprints which could not have escaped your attention. You would have perceived that some were very much larger than others, that they also came evidently from different parts, and you would have found out, that grown-up people and children, from different places in the neighborhood, had turned their steps that night towards the house of Widow Smith. If you had known all, you would have been very thankful that the snow―pure and white as innocence―hid those footprints almost as soon as they were made. If you had been there in time enough, you would have seen Hatches, the shoemaker, with his children, pass by; then Lansdale the hosier; then Archer, then Hawkins, then Bond, all shoemakers, and all with their little ones; and then, lastly, Wrigsham, the glover. Perhaps you would like to follow them, so come with me.
It is a good-sized room, and fairly furnished, and we find the little company, old and young, all cheerful and happy. They greet the Widow Smith―a godly woman, still young―with cordiality, and now one and now another stoops down to kiss the pretty face of little Joan, the widow’s only child. What have they all met there for? They have met to worship God; and now they pray; and now they sing―softly, sweetly, but the great God hears them and now they talk of the blessed promise that the Saviour Christ has left for our comfort, that when two or three are gathered together in His name, there will He be in the midst of them. They feel His presence―the All-seeing Unseen One is there―their Lord, their Saviour, their Friend. After a while they begin to talk to the children, and to put questions, to which the little ones reply. You listen to their pleasant voices as they together repeat, in English, the prayer that Christ taught us, and call upon the Mighty Being who made all things, as “Our Father which art in heaven.” Then one after another they repeat the Belief, are questioned about it, whether they know what is meant by God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost; and a pleasant thing it is to hear them answer so quietly and well. Then they repeat the commandments, the solemn words that Jehovah uttered on Mount Sinai, when there were lightnings and thundering’s, and the voice of a trumpet, and the mountain smoked, and the people arose and stood afar off. All this they do in English. Why, in what language should they speak? you ask. Latin, and even then with priestly leave. Why, you say, they could not understand Latin; to them It would be an unknown tongue. True, but the law of England had at that time ordained, had done so for many, many years afterward, that to pray in English, to repeat any religious service in English, to read an English Bible, was heresy, and that heresy was to be punished with DEATH.
So you perceive these good Christian people, who have been teaching their children these great truths, run the risk of being burnt alive. Let us hope that no other eye but that of our merciful Father has looked upon them. The hope is vain. There are new footprints in the snow outside. Somebody watched and listened.
Next morning there was a terrible report all over Coventry. Hatches, a shoemaker; Archer, Hawkins, and Bond, of the same trade; Wrigsham, the glover, and Lonsdale, the hosier, sere all arrested on the charge of having taught their children the Lord’s Prayer and Ten Commandments in English. They were sent to Maxtock Abbey, six miles distant, while their little ones were removed to the monastery-of the Gray Friars.
That night the house of the Widow Smith was entered by the officers of justice. The poor hapless woman was bound with strong cords, and separated from her weeping child, while little Joan was carried to the monastery, and placed with the children of the other offenders. Poor Joan―she was not more than nine years old―never closed her eyes that night, but wept, oh! so bitterly, and begged Friar Stafford to take her to her mother; but the priest only laughed at her tears. Friar Stafford was the warden of the monastery, and he examined the children as to what they had been taught by their parents, charging them, if they wished to avoid being burnt alive, never again to meddle with the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, or the Ten Commandments in English. He dwelt with a horrible fascination on the frightful death prepared for heretics; made the little children tremble and turn pale, as he spoke of the agonies of death by fire. But Joan only wept, and in her heart she prayed. When he questioned her, she gave no answer; when he threatened, she offered no appeal; when he lashed her in his brutal fury, she uttered not a cry, but she looked for help to Him who was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities.
Look at that group of children; their pinched and pensive faces, the tears upon their cheeks, their downcast eyes, their heaving bosoms, as the priest speaks―that priest who professes to belong to a church founded by St. Peter―St. Peter who was to “feed the lambs”; and let us be thankful that we live in better and happier times.
On Palm Sunday the “heretics” were brought to Coventry for trial. With pomp and splendor such as a king might boast of, the priests and abbots, and bishops came to Coventry. They met for something more than worship. When the service in the church was over, they entered on the trial of the heretics, and the sentence was passed―they were to be burnt alive next day!
All of them? No, not all. Happy little Joan! ―the Widow Smith was to be spared and set at liberty. Oh! what a happy meeting it was when, in the house of Simon Mourton, the bishop’s servant, Joan fell upon her mother’s neck, and kissed her, over, and over, and over again. One thing made them sorry; they remembered the poor condemned prisoners, their former friends; but they still hoped that they would be spared. So passed Palm Sunday, and so night came on.
In the evening, Simon Mourton, the bishop’s servant, offered to see the Widow Smith in safety to her house. He was a bad cunning man; his were the footprints in the snow that marked the unseen witness of the secret worship, and his dark eye glistened as he made the offer now to see the widow to her home. She agreed: but as he led her by the arm, he felt a scroll of paper within her sleeve. “Yea,” said he, “what have you here?” He took it from her, and found it was the Commandments, the Belief, and the Lord’s Prayer, written down in English. “Ah!” said he, “is it so? as good come now as another time.” He carried her back to the bishop; she was at once condemned; again poor little Joan was separated from her, to see her but once more in the flesh.
There were crowds of people in the little park near Coventry on the 4th of April, 1519. On that day the seven martyrs were burnt alive, for teaching the Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer in English to their children. There was a horrible refinement of cruelty sometimes practiced on these occasions—the relations, the husband, wife, child, were compelled to set fire to the wood which was to burn the objects they loved best on earth. Poor little Joan was dragged to the place of execution for this purpose. She saw her mother; shrieked wildly, fearfully, and swooned away; and they said that she was dead. But she was not dead; when she came to herself, the horrible scene was past, and her mother had entered into her rest.
Joan grew up to be a woman, clinging to her early faith, and looking hopefully to that time when she should meet her mother in heaven. ―The Teacher’s Offering.