Cranmer's recantation was received by the popish party with joy beyond expression. It was immediately printed and published; and their cruel work wanting now only its last finishing stroke, a warrant was expedited for his execution, as soon as possible: while he himself was yet kept ignorant of their purpose.

Some writers say, that the recantation was published unfairly; and a modern attempt has been made to invalidate that recantation, which the papists sent abroad^*.

But even on a supposition this had been the case, as, in some degree, it probably might, yet a very poor defence can be established, on this ground. Cranmer certainly subscribed his assent to the tenets of popery in general terms: and unless the zeal of his friends could rid his memory of that stain, it is of little consequence to say, he did not subscribe them in the detail. A much better apology may be grounded on the weakness of human nature. They, who look into themselves, must pity him; and wish to throw over him the skirts of that tender veil, with which the great Friend of mankind once skreened the infirmities of the well-intentioned: the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

But no apology could vindicate him to himself. In his own judgment, he was fully convicted. Instead of that joy, which gives serenity to the dying martyr; his breast was a devoted prey to contrition and woe. A rescued life afforded him no comfort. He had never till now felt the power of his enemies. Stung with remorse and horror at what he had done, he consumed his days, and nights in anguish. ‘ I have denied the faith: I have pierced myself through with many sarrows; ’ were the melancholy notes, which took possession of his mind; and rang in his ears a constant alarm. Then would recur, in a full tide of compunction, the aggravating thoughts—that he, who had been chiefly instrumental in bringing in the true faith, should be among those, who had deserted it—that he, who had been so long the leader of others, should now set them so dreadful an example—and that he, who had always been looked up to with respect, should at length be lost, and abandoned among the herd of apostates!

Overwhelmed with grief; and perplexity, whichever way he turned his eyes, he saw no ray of comfort left. To persevere in his recantation, was an insupportable thought: to retract it, was scarce possible. His paper was abroad in the world; and he himself was in the hands of men, who could easily prevent his publishing, or speaking, any thing counter to it; if they should suspect he had such an intention.

He had yet received no intimation of his death; tho it was now the 20th of March; and by the purport of the warrant, he was to be executed the next day.

That evening Dr. Cole, one of the heads of the popish party, came to him; and from the insidious, and ambiguous discourse of this person, he had the first intimation, tho yet no direct one, of what his enemies intended.

After Cole had left him, he spent the remaining part of the evening in drawing up a repentant speech, together with a full confession of his apostacy; resolving to take the best opportunity to speak or publish it; which he supposed indeed the stake would first give him. But, beyond his expectation, a better was afforded.

It was intended, that he should be carried immediately from prison to the stake; where a sermon was to be preached. But the morning of the appointed day being wet, and stormy, the ceremony was performed under cover.

About nine o'clock the lord Williams of Thame, attended by the magistrates of Oxford, received him at the prison-gate; and conveyed him to St. Mary's church; where he found a crouded audience waiting for him.—He was conducted to an elevated place, in public view, opposite to the pulpit.

He had scarce time to reflect a moment on the dreadful scene, which he saw preparing for him, when the vice-chancellor, and heads of houses, with a numerous train of doctors, and professors, entered the church. Among them was Dr. Cole, who paying his respects to the vice-chancellor, ascended the pulpit.

Cole was a man of abilities; and was considered, according to the mode of those times, as an elegant scholar. His discourse indeed seems to have been an excellent piece of oratory.

After a proper preface, he shewed the reasons, why it was thought necessary to put the unhappy person before them to death, notwithstanding his recantation. On this head he dwelt largely, and said full as much, as so bad a cause could be supposed to bear. Then turning to his audience, he very pathetically exhorted them to fear God, and tremble; taking occasion from the example before their eyes, to remind them of the instability of all human things; and of the great duty of holding fast their profession without wavering. This venerable man, said he, once a peer, a privy-counsellor, an archbishop, and the second person in the realm, renounced his faith, and is now fallen below the lowest.

He addressed himself last to the degraded primate himself. He condoled with him in his present calamitous circumstances; and exhorted him to support with fortitude his last worldly trial.

Cranmer's behaviour, during this discourse, cannot be better described, than in the words of a person present; who, tho a papist, seems to have been a very impartial spectator^*.

‘It is doleful, says he, to describe his behaviour; his sorrowful countenance; his heavy cheer; his face bedewed with tears; sometimes lifting up his eyes to heaven in hope; sometimes casting them down to the earth for shame. To be brief, he was an image of sorrow. The dolor of his heart burst out continually at his eyes in gushes of tears: yet he retained ever a quiet, and grave behaviour; which increased the pity in men's hearts, who unfeignedly loved him, hoping it had been his repentance for his transgressions.’

The preacher having concluded his sermon, turned round to the whole audience; and, with an air of great dignity, desired all, who were present, to join with him in silent prayers for the unhappy man before them.

A solemn stillness ensued. Every eye, and every hand were instantly lifted up to heaven.

Some minutes having been spent in this affecting manner, the degraded primate, who had fallen also on his knees, arose in all the dignity of sorrow; and thus addressed his audience.

‘I had myself intended to have desired your prayers. My desires have been anticipated; and I return you, all that a dying man can give, my sincerest thanks.—To your prayers for me, let me add my own.’

He then, with great fervour of devotion, broke out into this pathetic exclamation.

‘O Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner. I who have offended heaven, and earth more grievously, than tongue can express, whither shall I fly for succour?—On earth all refuge fails me. Towards heaven I am ashamed to lift my eyes.—What shall I then do? Shall I despair?—God forbid!—O good God! thou art merciful, and refusest none, who come unto Thee for succour. To Thee therefore I fly. Before Thee I humble myself.—My sins are great: have mercy upon me! O blessed Redeemer! who assumed not a mortal shape for small offences—who died not to atone for venial sins—Accept a penitent heart, tho stained with the foulest offences. Have mercy upon me, O God! whose property is always to have mercy. My sins are great: but Thy mercy is still greater.—O Lord, for Christ's sake, hear me—hear me most gracious God!’

While he thus prayed, the people spontaneously caught the fervour; and joined audibly with him. The whole scene was highly solemn, and affecting.

Having concluded his prayer, he rose from his knees; and taking a paper from his bosom, continued his speech to this effect.

‘It is now, my brethren, no time to dissemble. I stand upon the verge of life—a vast eternity is before me.—What my fears are, or what my hopes, it matters not here to unfold. For one action of my life at least I am accountable to the world—my late shameful subscription to opinions, which are wholly opposite to my real sentiments. Before this congregation I solemnly declare, that the fear of death alone induced me to this ignominious action—that it hath cost me many bitter tears—that in my heart I totally reject the pope, and doctrines of the church of Rome—and that’—

As he was continuing his speech, the whole assembly was in an uproar. Lord Williams gave the first impulse to the tumult; crying aloud, ‘Stop the audacious heretic.’ On which several priests and friars, rushing from different parts of the church, with great eagerness seized him; pulled him from his seat; dragged him into the street; and with much indecent precipitation, hurried him to the stake, which was already prepared, Executioners were on the spot, who securing him with a chain, piled the faggots in order round him.

As he stood thus, with all the horrid apparatus of death about him, amidst taunts, revilings, and execrations, he alone maintained a dispassionate behaviour. Having now discharged his conscience, his mind grew lighter; and he seemed to feel, even in these circumstances, an inward satisfaction, to which he had long been a stranger: His countenance was not fixed, as before, in abject: sorrow, on the ground; he looked round him with eyes full of sweetness, and benignity, as if at peace with all the world.

A torch being put to the pile, he was presently involved in a burst of smoke, and crackling flame: but on the side next the wind, he was distinctly seen, before the fire reached him, to thrust his right hand into it, and to hold it there with astonishing firmness; crying out, "This hand hath offended! This hand hath offended!"—When we see human nature struggling so nobly with such uncommon sufferings, it is a pleasing reflection, that, through the assistance of God, there is a firmness in the mind of man, which will support him under trials, in appearance beyond his strength.

His sufferings were soon over. The fire rising intensely around him, and a thick smoke involving him, it was supposed, he was presently dead. ‘His patience in his torment, (says the author of the letter I have just quoted) and his courage in dying, if it had been in testimony of the truth, as it was of falshood, I should worthily, have commended; and have matched it with the same of any father of ancient time. Surely his death grieved every one. Some pitied his body tormented by the fire; others pitied his soul, lost without redemption for ever. His friends sorrowed for love; his enemies for pity; and strangers through humanity.’

The story of his heart's remaining unconsumed in the midst of the fire, seems to be an instance of that credulous zeal, which we have often seen lighted at the flames of dying martyrs.