of the Inquisition. All these parties gave the same account of the time they were living in. But the Royalists and priests expected to set their heel on the neck of their enemies: the churchmen, aristocracy, and gentry, who preserved the spirit of the Reformation, looked for a season of humiliation and dread: while the Puritans were in a mood of enthusiasm, which raised them above fear, and turned much of their woe into triumph.
The first atrocity of that Assize was at Winchester: and Winchester did not endure the horror and pain so well as the towns farther west. From the Bishop in his palace to the old widow in the cottage—from the squire who heard the news while out in the stubbles with his gun to the children making mud-pies in the gutter—there was no one who could tolerate the news of the sentence on Lady Alice. The first sentence,—burning at the stake on the same day,—could not be executed on the Judge’s own authority, in defiance of all Winchester, lay and clerical. The second sentence,—beheading,—was sustained by the King with an obstinacy of cruelty which appalled his own tools. An act so excessively impolitic as the execution of the old dame, gave effectual consolation to Madam Lisle’s own friends. While the Winchester clergy would not pass beyond the cathedral precincts for days, lest they should see signs of the scaffold, or meet either friends or strangers; while Bishop Ken could not point out the justice of this retribution without being silenced by his own grief; while the High Sheriff of Dorset showed a frowning brow, and dropped harder sayings about the Stuarts than it was safe to utter while the King’s congenial Judge (Jeffreys) was in the neighbourhood,—Madam Lisle’s own communion, and her nearest friends, were thankful to God and joyful on her behalf. She had done what she could for the Lord’s people for many years,—by her hospitality, her purse, and her countenance; but now, she had done tenfold more than in all past years. Her story would be told to the King of France on his throne, and to the Prince of Orange in the hearing of his Protestant troops. The Pope would hear of it in the South of Europe, and the Swedes in the North:—the Vaudois in their Alpine valleys, and the Quakers in the woods of Sylvania. At home this aged martyr would, in the spirit, lead the deliverance of her own people. And, thank Heaven! it was done in all composure and peace of mind, so that she died as easily as she could in her own bed.
When little children cried, in natural horror, they were told to dry their eyes, for Lady Alice had not been at all unhappy.—No; she was not frightened. The cruel, angry judge had scared everybody else in court, but not her. She had become feeble and much aged in prison; and in court the fatigue, and the light, and the hum of numbers, and perhaps the very ranting of the judge, had made her drowsy; and she slept while her enemies were settling how long she should live. She had smiled when told their conclusion. At her years she had nothing to keep her here; and she could die more easily in this way, for having sheltered those two fugitives, than in any other way after having turned them out to be hunted in the Forest. Her old head was worth little now, she said, for age was encroaching on her mind; and the King was welcome to it, as he was so set upon having it. He was not so young, however, but that he should know that what we vehemently desire is not always good for us. That was his affair, however. Hers was to be thankful for a swift death, amidst the prayers of friends;—for she knew she had friends in Winchester. Never did venerable lady die more beloved,—more honoured,—more serene,—more secure of the white robe and the palm, the children and the poor were told: and therefore there was to be no mourning for Lady Alice.
This first martyrdom and its reception no doubt gave the tone to many more. The magistrates in one town after another were amazed and confounded at what they saw.
“How is it with the Battiscombes, Alford? Can you tell me?” asked Sir Henry Foley of the Mayor of Lyme. “Clear as the young man’s case is,—quite hopelessly detestable as his conduct has been, I cannot help”
“He was one of Monmouth’s aids and advisers, Sir Henry.”
“I know it. I was not going to extenuate his case. But I cannot help feeling for his father. I saw him,—I observed him closely the day of Monmouth’s landing; and I can testify that he gave him no encouragement, but the contrary.”
“Of course! No doubt of that,” replied the Mayor. “Such is the family policy in all such cases,—at least where there is land at risk,—or money when there may be penalties of fines.”
“You do not know that family, Alford; you mistake their character and conduct. Excuse me;—I must bear my testimony to them while this calamity is upon them.”
“I believe you may spare your good feelings, Sir Henry. That family is a fitting monument of John Hickes’s ministry. They are hardened beyond belief. If you pass their house this afternoon, at the very hour of the young man’s execution, you will see no closed shutters—you will find no locked gates: and if you should see any of them”
“God forbid!”
“Well: if it should so chance, you will see no sign of mourning in apparel, or of fasting, or any kind of humiliation.”
“It is not stubbornness,” Sir Henry observed. “I know that it was with the father’s consent that the young lady—(poor thing! the young man was a paragon of a lover, they say)—that the young lady went to the Judge this morning. She, and all of them, would leave nothing undone.”
“She had better have left that undone,” observed the Mayor. “I fear the story will get abroad. It is not good for authority that unseemly things should be said by the King’s Judges. I can go as far as most men in sustaining authority: but this Judge is too much for the most loyal of us. For once he might have refrained from a jest.”
