Showing posts with label Strife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strife. Show all posts

Friday 21 October 2022

My Dear Walkley

 





EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO ARTHUR BINGHAM WALKLEY

My dear Walkley:

You once asked me why I did not write a Don Juan play. The levity with which you assumed this frightful responsibility has probably by this time enabled you to forget it; but the day of reckoning has arrived: here is your play! I say your play, because qui facit per alium facit per se. Its profits, like its labor, belong to me: its morals, its manners, its philosophy, its influence on the young, are for you to justify. You were of mature age when you made the suggestion; and you knew your man. It is hardly fifteen years since, as twin pioneers of the New Journalism of that time, we two, cradled in the same new sheets, made an epoch in the criticism of the theatre and the opera house by making it a pretext for a propaganda of our own views of life. So you cannot plead ignorance of the character of the force you set in motion. You meant me to epater le bourgeois; and if he protests, I hereby refer him to you as the accountable party.

I warn you that if you attempt to repudiate your responsibility, I shall suspect you of finding the play too decorous for your taste. The fifteen years have made me older and graver. In you I can detect no such becoming change. Your levities and audacities are like the loves and comforts prayed for by Desdemona: they increase, even as your days do grow. No mere pioneering journal dares meddle with them now: the stately Times itself is alone sufficiently above suspicion to act as your chaperone; and even the Times must sometimes thank its stars that new plays are not produced every day, since after each such event its gravity is compromised, its platitude turned to epigram, its portentousness to wit, its propriety to elegance, and even its decorum into naughtiness by criticisms which the traditions of the paper do not allow you to sign at the end, but which you take care to sign with the most extravagant flourishes between the lines. I am not sure that this is not a portent of Revolution. In eighteenth century France the end was at hand when men bought the Encyclopedia and found Diderot there. When I buy the Times and find you there, my prophetic ear catches a rattle of twentieth century tumbrils.

However, that is not my present anxiety. The question is, will you not be disappointed with a Don Juan play in which not one of that hero's mille e tre adventures is brought upon the stage? To propitiate you, let me explain myself. You will retort that I never do anything else: it is your favorite jibe at me that what I call drama is nothing but explanation. But you must not expect me to adopt your inexplicable, fantastic, petulant, fastidious ways: you must take me as I am, a reasonable, patient, consistent, apologetic, laborious person, with the temperament of a schoolmaster and the pursuits of a vestryman. No doubt that literary knack of mine which happens to amuse the British public distracts attention from my character; but the character is there none the less, solid as bricks. I have a conscience; and conscience is always anxiously explanatory. You, on the contrary, feel that a man who discusses his conscience is much like a woman who discusses her modesty. The only moral force you condescend to parade is the force of your wit: the only demand you make in public is the demand of your artistic temperament for symmetry, elegance, style, grace, refinement, and the cleanliness which comes next to godliness if not before it. But my conscience is the genuine pulpit article: it annoys me to see people comfortable when they ought to be uncomfortable; and I insist on making them think in order to bring them to conviction of sin. If you don't like my preaching you must lump it. I really cannot help it.

In the preface to my Plays for Puritans I explained the predicament of our contemporary English drama, forced to deal almost exclusively with cases of sexual attraction, and yet forbidden to exhibit the incidents of that attraction or even to discuss its nature. Your suggestion that I should write a Don Juan play was virtually a challenge to me to treat this subject myself dramatically. The challenge was difficult enough to be worth accepting, because, when you come to think of it, though we have plenty of dramas with heroes and heroines who are in love and must accordingly marry or perish at the end of the play, or about people whose relations with one another have been complicated by the marriage laws, not to mention the looser sort of plays which trade on the tradition that illicit love affairs are at once vicious and delightful, we have no modern English plays in which the natural attraction of the sexes for one another is made the mainspring of the action. That is why we insist on beauty in our performers, differing herein from the countries our friend William Archer holds up as examples of seriousness to our childish theatres. There the Juliets and Isoldes, the Romeos and Tristans, might be our mothers and fathers. Not so the English actress. The heroine she impersonates is not allowed to discuss the elemental relations of men and women: all her romantic twaddle about novelet-made love, all her purely legal dilemmas as to whether she was married or "betrayed," quite miss our hearts and worry our minds. To console ourselves we must just look at her. We do so; and her beauty feeds our starving emotions. Sometimes we grumble ungallantly at the lady because she does not act as well as she looks. But in a drama which, with all its preoccupation with sex, is really void of sexual interest, good looks are more desired than histrionic skill.

Let me press this point on you, since you are too clever to raise the fool's cry of paradox whenever I take hold of a stick by the right instead of the wrong end. Why are our occasional attempts to deal with the sex problem on the stage so repulsive and dreary that even those who are most determined that sex questions shall be held open and their discussion kept free, cannot pretend to relish these joyless attempts at social sanitation? Is it not because at bottom they are utterly sexless? What is the usual formula for such plays? A woman has, on some past occasion, been brought into conflict with the law which regulates the relations of the sexes. A man, by falling in love with her, or marrying her, is brought into conflict with the social convention which discountenances the woman. Now the conflicts of individuals with law and convention can be dramatized like all other human conflicts; but they are purely judicial; and the fact that we are much more curious about the suppressed relations between the man and the woman than about the relations between both and our courts of law and private juries of matrons, produces that sensation of evasion, of dissatisfaction, of fundamental irrelevance, of shallowness, of useless disagreeableness, of total failure to edify and partial failure to interest, which is as familiar to you in the theatres as it was to me when I, too, frequented those uncomfortable buildings, and found our popular playwrights in the mind to (as they thought) emulate Ibsen.

I take it that when you asked me for a Don Juan play you did not want that sort of thing. Nobody does: the successes such plays sometimes obtain are due to the incidental conventional melodrama with which the experienced popular author instinctively saves himself from failure. But what did you want? Owing to your unfortunate habit—you now, I hope, feel its inconvenience—of not explaining yourself, I have had to discover this for myself. First, then, I have had to ask myself, what is a Don Juan? Vulgarly, a libertine. But your dislike of vulgarity is pushed to the length of a defect (universality of character is impossible without a share of vulgarity); and even if you could acquire the taste, you would find yourself overfed from ordinary sources without troubling me. So I took it that you demanded a Don Juan in the philosophic sense.

Philosophically, Don Juan is a man who, though gifted enough to be exceptionally capable of distinguishing between good and evil, follows his own instincts without regard to the common statute, or canon law; and therefore, whilst gaining the ardent sympathy of our rebellious instincts (which are flattered by the brilliancies with which Don Juan associates them) finds himself in mortal conflict with existing institutions, and defends himself by fraud and farce as unscrupulously as a farmer defends his crops by the same means against vermin. The prototypic Don Juan, invented early in the XVI century by a Spanish monk, was presented, according to the ideas of that time, as the enemy of God, the approach of whose vengeance is felt throughout the drama, growing in menace from minute to minute. No anxiety is caused on Don Juan's account by any minor antagonist: he easily eludes the police, temporal and spiritual; and when an indignant father seeks private redress with the sword, Don Juan kills him without an effort. Not until the slain father returns from heaven as the agent of God, in the form of his own statue, does he prevail against his slayer and cast him into hell. The moral is a monkish one: repent and reform now; for to-morrow it may be too late. This is really the only point on which Don Juan is sceptical; for he is a devout believer in an ultimate hell, and risks damnation only because, as he is young, it seems so far off that repentance can be postponed until he has amused himself to his heart's content.

But the lesson intended by an author is hardly ever the lesson the world chooses to learn from his book. What attracts and impresses us in El Burlador de Sevilla is not the immediate urgency of repentance, but the heroism of daring to be the enemy of God. From Prometheus to my own Devil's Disciple, such enemies have always been popular. Don Juan became such a pet that the world could not bear his damnation. It reconciled him sentimentally to God in a second version, and clamored for his canonization for a whole century, thus treating him as English journalism has treated that comic foe of the gods, Punch. Moliere's Don Juan casts back to the original in point of impenitence; but in piety he falls off greatly. True, he also proposes to repent; but in what terms? "Oui, ma foi! il faut s'amender. Encore vingt ou trente ans de cette vie-ci, et puis nous songerons a nous." After Moliere comes the artist-enchanter, the master of masters, Mozart, who reveals the hero's spirit in magical harmonies, elfin tones, and elate darting rhythms as of summer lightning made audible. Here you have freedom in love and in morality mocking exquisitely at slavery to them, and interesting you, attracting you, tempting you, inexplicably forcing you to range the hero with his enemy the statue on a transcendant plane, leaving the prudish daughter and her priggish lover on a crockery shelf below to live piously ever after.

After these completed works Byron's fragment does not count for much philosophically. Our vagabond libertines are no more interesting from that point of view than the sailor who has a wife in every port, and Byron's hero is, after all, only a vagabond libertine. And he is dumb: he does not discuss himself with a Sganarelle-Leporello or with the fathers or brothers of his mistresses: he does not even, like Casanova, tell his own story. In fact he is not a true Don Juan at all; for he is no more an enemy of God than any romantic and adventurous young sower of wild oats. Had you and I been in his place at his age, who knows whether we might not have done as he did, unless indeed your fastidiousness had saved you from the empress Catherine. Byron was as little of a philosopher as Peter the Great: both were instances of that rare and useful, but unedifying variation, an energetic genius born without the prejudices or superstitions of his contemporaries. The resultant unscrupulous freedom of thought made Byron a greater poet than Wordsworth just as it made Peter a greater king than George III; but as it was, after all, only a negative qualification, it did not prevent Peter from being an appalling blackguard and an arrant poltroon, nor did it enable Byron to become a religious force like Shelley. Let us, then, leave Byron's Don Juan out of account. Mozart's is the last of the true Don Juans; for by the time he was of age, his cousin Faust had, in the hands of Goethe, taken his place and carried both his warfare and his reconciliation with the gods far beyond mere lovemaking into politics, high art, schemes for reclaiming new continents from the ocean, and recognition of an eternal womanly principle in the universe. Goethe's Faust and Mozart's Don Juan were the last words of the XVIII century on the subject; and by the time the polite critics of the XIX century, ignoring William Blake as superficially as the XVIII had ignored Hogarth or the XVII Bunyan, had got past the Dickens-Macaulay Dumas-Guizot stage and the Stendhal-Meredith-Turgenieff stage, and were confronted with philosophic fiction by such pens as Ibsen's and Tolstoy's, Don Juan had changed his sex and become Dona Juana, breaking out of the Doll's House and asserting herself as an individual instead of a mere item in a moral pageant.

Now it is all very well for you at the beginning of the XX century to ask me for a Don Juan play; but you will see from the foregoing survey that Don Juan is a full century out of date for you and for me; and if there are millions of less literate people who are still in the eighteenth century, have they not Moliere and Mozart, upon whose art no human hand can improve? You would laugh at me if at this time of day I dealt in duels and ghosts and "womanly" women. As to mere libertinism, you would be the first to remind me that the Festin de Pierre of Moliere is not a play for amorists, and that one bar of the voluptuous sentimentality of Gounod or Bizet would appear as a licentious stain on the score of Don Giovanni. Even the more abstract parts of the Don Juan play are dilapidated past use: for instance, Don Juan's supernatural antagonist hurled those who refuse to repent into lakes of burning brimstone, there to be tormented by devils with horns and tails. Of that antagonist, and of that conception of repentance, how much is left that could be used in a play by me dedicated to you? On the other hand, those forces of middle class public opinion which hardly existed for a Spanish nobleman in the days of the first Don Juan, are now triumphant everywhere. Civilized society is one huge bourgeoisie: no nobleman dares now shock his greengrocer. The women, "marchesane, principesse, cameriere, cittadine" and all, are become equally dangerous: the sex is aggressive, powerful: when women are wronged they do not group themselves pathetically to sing "Protegga il giusto cielo": they grasp formidable legal and social weapons, and retaliate. Political parties are wrecked and public careers undone by a single indiscretion. A man had better have all the statues in London to supper with him, ugly as they are, than be brought to the bar of the Nonconformist Conscience by Donna Elvira. Excommunication has become almost as serious a business as it was in the X century.

As a result, Man is no longer, like Don Juan, victor in the duel of sex. Whether he has ever really been may be doubted: at all events the enormous superiority of Woman's natural position in this matter is telling with greater and greater force. As to pulling the Nonconformist Conscience by the beard as Don Juan plucked the beard of the Commandant's statue in the convent of San Francisco, that is out of the question nowadays: prudence and good manners alike forbid it to a hero with any mind. Besides, it is Don Juan's own beard that is in danger of plucking. Far from relapsing into hypocrisy, as Sganarelle feared, he has unexpectedly discovered a moral in his immorality. The growing recognition of his new point of view is heaping responsibility on him. His former jests he has had to take as seriously as I have had to take some of the jests of Mr W. S. Gilbert. His scepticism, once his least tolerated quality, has now triumphed so completely that he can no longer assert himself by witty negations, and must, to save himself from cipherdom, find an affirmative position. His thousand and three affairs of gallantry, after becoming, at most, two immature intrigues leading to sordid and prolonged complications and humiliations, have been discarded altogether as unworthy of his philosophic dignity and compromising to his newly acknowledged position as the founder of a school. Instead of pretending to read Ovid he does actually read Schopenhaur and Nietzsche, studies Westermarck, and is concerned for the future of the race instead of for the freedom of his own instincts. Thus his profligacy and his dare-devil airs have gone the way of his sword and mandoline into the rag shop of anachronisms and superstitions. In fact, he is now more Hamlet than Don Juan; for though the lines put into the actor's mouth to indicate to the pit that Hamlet is a philosopher are for the most part mere harmonious platitude which, with a little debasement of the word-music, would be properer to Pecksniff, yet if you separate the real hero, inarticulate and unintelligible to himself except in flashes of inspiration, from the performer who has to talk at any cost through five acts; and if you also do what you must always do in Shakespear's tragedies: that is, dissect out the absurd sensational incidents and physical violences of the borrowed story from the genuine Shakespearian tissue, you will get a true Promethean foe of the gods, whose instinctive attitude towards women much resembles that to which Don Juan is now driven. From this point of view Hamlet was a developed Don Juan whom Shakespear palmed off as a reputable man just as he palmed poor Macbeth off as a murderer. To-day the palming off is no longer necessary (at least on your plane and mine) because Don Juanism is no longer misunderstood as mere Casanovism. Don Juan himself is almost ascetic in his desire to avoid that misunderstanding; and so my attempt to bring him up to date by launching him as a modern Englishman into a modern English environment has produced a figure superficially quite unlike the hero of Mozart.

And yet I have not the heart to disappoint you wholly of another glimpse of the Mozartian dissoluto punito and his antagonist the statue. I feel sure you would like to know more of that statue—to draw him out when he is off duty, so to speak. To gratify you, I have resorted to the trick of the strolling theatrical manager who advertizes the pantomime of Sinbad the Sailor with a stock of second-hand picture posters designed for Ali Baba. He simply thrusts a few oil jars into the valley of diamonds, and so fulfils the promise held out by the hoardings to the public eye. I have adapted this simple device to our occasion by thrusting into my perfectly modern three-act play a totally extraneous act in which my hero, enchanted by the air of the Sierra, has a dream in which his Mozartian ancestor appears and philosophizes at great length in a Shavio-Socratic dialogue with the lady, the statue, and the devil.

But this pleasantry is not the essence of the play. Over this essence I have no control. You propound a certain social substance, sexual attraction to wit, for dramatic distillation; and I distil it for you. I do not adulterate the product with aphrodisiacs nor dilute it with romance and water; for I am merely executing your commission, not producing a popular play for the market. You must therefore (unless, like most wise men, you read the play first and the preface afterwards) prepare yourself to face a trumpery story of modern London life, a life in which, as you know, the ordinary man's main business is to get means to keep up the position and habits of a gentleman, and the ordinary woman's business is to get married. In 9,999 cases out of 10,000, you can count on their doing nothing, whether noble or base, that conflicts with these ends; and that assurance is what you rely on as their religion, their morality, their principles, their patriotism, their reputation, their honor and so forth.

On the whole, this is a sensible and satisfactory foundation for society. Money means nourishment and marriage means children; and that men should put nourishment first and women children first is, broadly speaking, the law of Nature and not the dictate of personal ambition. The secret of the prosaic man's success, such as it is, is the simplicity with which he pursues these ends: the secret of the artistic man's failure, such as that is, is the versatility with which he strays in all directions after secondary ideals. The artist is either a poet or a scallawag: as poet, he cannot see, as the prosaic man does, that chivalry is at bottom only romantic suicide: as scallawag, he cannot see that it does not pay to spunge and beg and lie and brag and neglect his person. Therefore do not misunderstand my plain statement of the fundamental constitution of London society as an Irishman's reproach to your nation. From the day I first set foot on this foreign soil I knew the value of the prosaic qualities of which Irishmen teach Englishmen to be ashamed as well as I knew the vanity of the poetic qualities of which Englishmen teach Irishmen to be proud. For the Irishman instinctively disparages the quality which makes the Englishman dangerous to him; and the Englishman instinctively flatters the fault that makes the Irishman harmless and amusing to him. What is wrong with the prosaic Englishman is what is wrong with the prosaic men of all countries: stupidity. The vitality which places nourishment and children first, heaven and hell a somewhat remote second, and the health of society as an organic whole nowhere, may muddle successfully through the comparatively tribal stages of gregariousness; but in nineteenth century nations and twentieth century empires the determination of every man to be rich at all costs, and of every woman to be married at all costs, must, without a highly scientific social organization, produce a ruinous development of poverty, celibacy, prostitution, infant mortality, adult degeneracy, and everything that wise men most dread. In short, there is no future for men, however brimming with crude vitality, who are neither intelligent nor politically educated enough to be Socialists. So do not misunderstand me in the other direction either: if I appreciate the vital qualities of the Englishman as I appreciate the vital qualities of the bee, I do not guarantee the Englishman against being, like the bee (or the Canaanite) smoked out and unloaded of his honey by beings inferior to himself in simple acquisitiveness, combativeness, and fecundity, but superior to him in imagination and cunning.

The Don Juan play, however, is to deal with sexual attraction, and not with nutrition, and to deal with it in a society in which the serious business of sex is left by men to women, as the serious business of nutrition is left by women to men. That the men, to protect themselves against a too aggressive prosecution of the women's business, have set up a feeble romantic convention that the initiative in sex business must always come from the man, is true; but the pretence is so shallow that even in the theatre, that last sanctuary of unreality, it imposes only on the inexperienced. In Shakespear's plays the woman always takes the initiative. In his problem plays and his popular plays alike the love interest is the interest of seeing the woman hunt the man down. She may do it by blandishment, like Rosalind, or by stratagem, like Mariana; but in every case the relation between the woman and the man is the same: she is the pursuer and contriver, he the pursued and disposed of. When she is baffled, like Ophelia, she goes mad and commits suicide; and the man goes straight from her funeral to a fencing match. No doubt Nature, with very young creatures, may save the woman the trouble of scheming: Prospero knows that he has only to throw Ferdinand and Miranda together and they will mate like a pair of doves; and there is no need for Perdita to capture Florizel as the lady doctor in All's Well That Ends Well (an early Ibsenite heroine) captures Bertram. But the mature cases all illustrate the Shakespearian law. The one apparent exception, Petruchio, is not a real one: he is most carefully characterized as a purely commercial matrimonial adventurer. Once he is assured that Katharine has money, he undertakes to marry her before he has seen her. In real life we find not only Petruchios, but Mantalinis and Dobbins who pursue women with appeals to their pity or jealousy or vanity, or cling to them in a romantically infatuated way. Such effeminates do not count in the world scheme: even Bunsby dropping like a fascinated bird into the jaws of Mrs MacStinger is by comparison a true tragic object of pity and terror. I find in my own plays that Woman, projecting herself dramatically by my hands (a process over which I assure you I have no more real control than I have over my wife), behaves just as Woman did in the plays of Shakespear.

And so your Don Juan has come to birth as a stage projection of the tragi-comic love chase of the man by the woman; and my Don Juan is the quarry instead of the huntsman. Yet he is a true Don Juan, with a sense of reality that disables convention, defying to the last the fate which finally overtakes him. The woman's need of him to enable her to carry on Nature's most urgent work, does not prevail against him until his resistance gathers her energy to a climax at which she dares to throw away her customary exploitations of the conventional affectionate and dutiful poses, and claim him by natural right for a purpose that far transcends their mortal personal purposes.

Among the friends to whom I have read this play in manuscript are some of our own sex who are shocked at the "unscrupulousness," meaning the total disregard of masculine fastidiousness, with which the woman pursues her purpose. It does not occur to them that if women were as fastidious as men, morally or physically, there would be an end of the race. Is there anything meaner then to throw necessary work upon other people and then disparage it as unworthy and indelicate. We laugh at the haughty American nation because it makes the negro clean its boots and then proves the moral and physical inferiority of the negro by the fact that he is a shoeblack; but we ourselves throw the whole drudgery of creation on one sex, and then imply that no female of any womanliness or delicacy would initiate any effort in that direction. There are no limits to male hypocrisy in this matter. No doubt there are moments when man's sexual immunities are made acutely humiliating to him. When the terrible moment of birth arrives, its supreme importance and its superhuman effort and peril, in which the father has no part, dwarf him into the meanest insignificance: he slinks out of the way of the humblest petticoat, happy if he be poor enough to be pushed out of the house to outface his ignominy by drunken rejoicings. But when the crisis is over he takes his revenge, swaggering as the breadwinner, and speaking of Woman's "sphere" with condescension, even with chivalry, as if the kitchen and the nursery were less important than the office in the city. When his swagger is exhausted he drivels into erotic poetry or sentimental uxoriousness; and the Tennysonian King Arthur posing as Guinevere becomes Don Quixote grovelling before Dulcinea. You must admit that here Nature beats Comedy out of the field: the wildest hominist or feminist farce is insipid after the most commonplace "slice of life." The pretence that women do not take the initiative is part of the farce. Why, the whole world is strewn with snares, traps, gins and pitfalls for the capture of men by women. Give women the vote, and in five years there will be a crushing tax on bachelors. Men, on the other hand, attach penalties to marriage, depriving women of property, of the franchise, of the free use of their limbs, of that ancient symbol of immortality, the right to make oneself at home in the house of God by taking off the hat, of everything that he can force Woman to dispense with without compelling himself to dispense with her. All in vain. Woman must marry because the race must perish without her travail: if the risk of death and the certainty of pain, danger and unutterable discomforts cannot deter her, slavery and swaddled ankles will not. And yet we assume that the force that carries women through all these perils and hardships, stops abashed before the primnesses of our behavior for young ladies. It is assumed that the woman must wait, motionless, until she is wooed. Nay, she often does wait motionless. That is how the spider waits for the fly. But the spider spins her web. And if the fly, like my hero, shows a strength that promises to extricate him, how swiftly does she abandon her pretence of passiveness, and openly fling coil after coil about him until he is secured for ever!

If the really impressive books and other art-works of the world were produced by ordinary men, they would express more fear of women's pursuit than love of their illusory beauty. But ordinary men cannot produce really impressive art-works. Those who can are men of genius: that is, men selected by Nature to carry on the work of building up an intellectual consciousness of her own instinctive purpose. Accordingly, we observe in the man of genius all the unscrupulousness and all the "self-sacrifice" (the two things are the same) of Woman. He will risk the stake and the cross; starve, when necessary, in a garret all his life; study women and live on their work and care as Darwin studied worms and lived upon sheep; work his nerves into rags without payment, a sublime altruist in his disregard of himself, an atrocious egotist in his disregard of others. Here Woman meets a purpose as impersonal, as irresistible as her own; and the clash is sometimes tragic. When it is complicated by the genius being a woman, then the game is one for a king of critics: your George Sand becomes a mother to gain experience for the novelist and to develop her, and gobbles up men of genius, Chopins, Mussets and the like, as mere hors d'oeuvres.

I state the extreme case, of course; but what is true of the great man who incarnates the philosophic consciousness of Life and the woman who incarnates its fecundity, is true in some degree of all geniuses and all women. Hence it is that the world's books get written, its pictures painted, its statues modelled, its symphonies composed, by people who are free of the otherwise universal dominion of the tyranny of sex. Which leads us to the conclusion, astonishing to the vulgar, that art, instead of being before all things the expression of the normal sexual situation, is really the only department in which sex is a superseded and secondary power, with its consciousness so confused and its purpose so perverted, that its ideas are mere fantasy to common men. Whether the artist becomes poet or philosopher, moralist or founder of a religion, his sexual doctrine is nothing but a barren special pleading for pleasure, excitement, and knowledge when he is young, and for contemplative tranquillity when he is old and satiated. Romance and Asceticism, Amorism and Puritanism are equally unreal in the great Philistine world. The world shown us in books, whether the books be confessed epics or professed gospels, or in codes, or in political orations, or in philosophic systems, is not the main world at all: it is only the self-consciousness of certain abnormal people who have the specific artistic talent and temperament. A serious matter this for you and me, because the man whose consciousness does not correspond to that of the majority is a madman; and the old habit of worshipping madmen is giving way to the new habit of locking them up. And since what we call education and culture is for the most part nothing but the substitution of reading for experience, of literature for life, of the obsolete fictitious for the contemporary real, education, as you no doubt observed at Oxford, destroys, by supplantation, every mind that is not strong enough to see through the imposture and to use the great Masters of Arts as what they really are and no more: that is, patentees of highly questionable methods of thinking, and manufacturers of highly questionable, and for the majority but half valid representations of life. The schoolboy who uses his Homer to throw at his fellow's head makes perhaps the safest and most rational use of him; and I observe with reassurance that you occasionally do the same, in your prime, with your Aristotle.

Fortunately for us, whose minds have been so overwhelmingly sophisticated by literature, what produces all these treatises and poems and scriptures of one sort or another is the struggle of Life to become divinely conscious of itself instead of blindly stumbling hither and thither in the line of least resistance. Hence there is a driving towards truth in all books on matters where the writer, though exceptionally gifted is normally constituted, and has no private axe to grind. Copernicus had no motive for misleading his fellowmen as to the place of the sun in the solar system: he looked for it as honestly as a shepherd seeks his path in a mist. But Copernicus would not have written love stories scientifically. When it comes to sex relations, the man of genius does not share the common man's danger of capture, nor the woman of genius the common woman's overwhelming specialization. And that is why our scriptures and other art works, when they deal with love, turn from honest attempts at science in physics to romantic nonsense, erotic ecstasy, or the stern asceticism of satiety ("the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom" said William Blake; for "you never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough").

There is a political aspect of this sex question which is too big for my comedy, and too momentous to be passed over without culpable frivolity. It is impossible to demonstrate that the initiative in sex transactions remains with Woman, and has been confirmed to her, so far, more and more by the suppression of rapine and discouragement of importunity, without being driven to very serious reflections on the fact that this initiative is politically the most important of all the initiatives, because our political experiment of democracy, the last refuge of cheap misgovernment, will ruin us if our citizens are ill bred.

When we two were born, this country was still dominated by a selected class bred by political marriages. The commercial class had not then completed the first twenty-five years of its new share of political power; and it was itself selected by money qualification, and bred, if not by political marriage, at least by a pretty rigorous class marriage. Aristocracy and plutocracy still furnish the figureheads of politics; but they are now dependent on the votes of the promiscuously bred masses. And this, if you please, at the very moment when the political problem, having suddenly ceased to mean a very limited and occasional interference, mostly by way of jobbing public appointments, in the mismanagement of a tight but parochial little island, with occasional meaningless prosecution of dynastic wars, has become the industrial reorganization of Britain, the construction of a practically international Commonwealth, and the partition of the whole of Africa and perhaps the whole of Asia by the civilized Powers. Can you believe that the people whose conceptions of society and conduct, whose power of attention and scope of interest, are measured by the British theatre as you know it to-day, can either handle this colossal task themselves, or understand and support the sort of mind and character that is (at least comparatively) capable of handling it? For remember: what our voters are in the pit and gallery they are also in the polling booth. We are all now under what Burke called "the hoofs of the swinish multitude." Burke's language gave great offence because the implied exceptions to its universal application made it a class insult; and it certainly was not for the pot to call the kettle black. The aristocracy he defended, in spite of the political marriages by which it tried to secure breeding for itself, had its mind undertrained by silly schoolmasters and governesses, its character corrupted by gratuitous luxury, its self-respect adulterated to complete spuriousness by flattery and flunkeyism. It is no better to-day and never will be any better: our very peasants have something morally hardier in them that culminates occasionally in a Bunyan, a Burns, or a Carlyle. But observe, this aristocracy, which was overpowered from 1832 to 1885 by the middle class, has come back to power by the votes of "the swinish multitude." Tom Paine has triumphed over Edmund Burke; and the swine are now courted electors. How many of their own class have these electors sent to parliament? Hardly a dozen out of 670, and these only under the persuasion of conspicuous personal qualifications and popular eloquence. The multitude thus pronounces judgment on its own units: it admits itself unfit to govern, and will vote only for a man morphologically and generically transfigured by palatial residence and equipage, by transcendent tailoring, by the glamor of aristocratic kinship. Well, we two know these transfigured persons, these college passmen, these well groomed monocular Algys and Bobbies, these cricketers to whom age brings golf instead of wisdom, these plutocratic products of "the nail and sarspan business as he got his money by." Do you know whether to laugh or cry at the notion that they, poor devils! will drive a team of continents as they drive a four-in-hand; turn a jostling anarchy of casual trade and speculation into an ordered productivity; and federate our colonies into a world-Power of the first magnitude? Give these people the most perfect political constitution and the soundest political program that benevolent omniscience can devise for them, and they will interpret it into mere fashionable folly or canting charity as infallibly as a savage converts the philosophical theology of a Scotch missionary into crude African idolatry.

I do not know whether you have any illusions left on the subject of education, progress, and so forth. I have none. Any pamphleteer can show the way to better things; but when there is no will there is no way. My nurse was fond of remarking that you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and the more I see of the efforts of our churches and universities and literary sages to raise the mass above its own level, the more convinced I am that my nurse was right. Progress can do nothing but make the most of us all as we are, and that most would clearly not be enough even if those who are already raised out of the lowest abysses would allow the others a chance. The bubble of Heredity has been pricked: the certainty that acquirements are negligible as elements in practical heredity has demolished the hopes of the educationists as well as the terrors of the degeneracy mongers; and we know now that there is no hereditary "governing class" any more than a hereditary hooliganism. We must either breed political capacity or be ruined by Democracy, which was forced on us by the failure of the older alternatives. Yet if Despotism failed only for want of a capable benevolent despot, what chance has Democracy, which requires a whole population of capable voters: that is, of political critics who, if they cannot govern in person for lack of spare energy or specific talent for administration, can at least recognize and appreciate capacity and benevolence in others, and so govern through capably benevolent representatives? Where are such voters to be found to-day? Nowhere. Promiscuous breeding has produced a weakness of character that is too timid to face the full stringency of a thoroughly competitive struggle for existence and too lazy and petty to organize the commonwealth co-operatively. Being cowards, we defeat natural selection under cover of philanthropy: being sluggards, we neglect artificial selection under cover of delicacy and morality.

Yet we must get an electorate of capable critics or collapse as Rome and Egypt collapsed. At this moment the Roman decadent phase of panem et circenses is being inaugurated under our eyes. Our newspapers and melodramas are blustering about our imperial destiny; but our eyes and hearts turn eagerly to the American millionaire. As his hand goes down to his pocket, our fingers go up to the brims of our hats by instinct. Our ideal prosperity is not the prosperity of the industrial north, but the prosperity of the Isle of Wight, of Folkestone and Ramsgate, of Nice and Monte Carlo. That is the only prosperity you see on the stage, where the workers are all footmen, parlourmaids, comic lodging-letters and fashionable professional men, whilst the heroes and heroines are miraculously provided with unlimited dividends, and eat gratuitously, like the knights in Don Quixote's books of chivalry.

The city papers prate of the competition of Bombay with Manchester and the like. The real competition is the competition of Regent Street with the Rue de Rivoli, of Brighton and the south coast with the Riviera, for the spending money of the American Trusts. What is all this growing love of pageantry, this effusive loyalty, this officious rising and uncovering at a wave from a flag or a blast from a brass band? Imperialism: Not a bit of it. Obsequiousness, servility, cupidity roused by the prevailing smell of money. When Mr Carnegie rattled his millions in his pockets all England became one rapacious cringe. Only, when Rhodes (who had probably been reading my Socialism for Millionaires) left word that no idler was to inherit his estate, the bent backs straightened mistrustfully for a moment. Could it be that the Diamond King was no gentleman after all? However, it was easy to ignore a rich man's solecism. The ungentlemanly clause was not mentioned again; and the backs soon bowed themselves back into their natural shape.

But I hear you asking me in alarm whether I have actually put all this tub thumping into a Don Juan comedy. I have not. I have only made my Don Juan a political pamphleteer, and given you his pamphlet in full by way of appendix. You will find it at the end of the book. I am sorry to say that it is a common practice with romancers to announce their hero as a man of extraordinary genius, and to leave his works entirely to the reader's imagination; so that at the end of the book you whisper to yourself ruefully that but for the author's solemn preliminary assurance you should hardly have given the gentleman credit for ordinary good sense. You cannot accuse me of this pitiable barrenness, this feeble evasion. I not only tell you that my hero wrote a revolutionists' handbook: I give you the handbook at full length for your edification if you care to read it. And in that handbook you will find the politics of the sex question as I conceive Don Juan's descendant to understand them. Not that I disclaim the fullest responsibility for his opinions and for those of all my characters, pleasant and unpleasant. They are all right from their several points of view; and their points of view are, for the dramatic moment, mine also. This may puzzle the people who believe that there is such a thing as an absolutely right point of view, usually their own. It may seem to them that nobody who doubts this can be in a state of grace. However that may be, it is certainly true that nobody who agrees with them can possibly be a dramatist, or indeed anything else that turns upon a knowledge of mankind. Hence it has been pointed out that Shakespear had no conscience. Neither have I, in that sense.

You may, however, remind me that this digression of mine into politics was preceded by a very convincing demonstration that the artist never catches the point of view of the common man on the question of sex, because he is not in the same predicament. I first prove that anything I write on the relation of the sexes is sure to be misleading; and then I proceed to write a Don Juan play. Well, if you insist on asking me why I behave in this absurd way, I can only reply that you asked me to, and that in any case my treatment of the subject may be valid for the artist, amusing to the amateur, and at least intelligible and therefore possibly suggestive to the Philistine. Every man who records his illusions is providing data for the genuinely scientific psychology which the world still waits for. I plank down my view of the existing relations of men to women in the most highly civilized society for what it is worth. It is a view like any other view and no more, neither true nor false, but, I hope, a way of looking at the subject which throws into the familiar order of cause and effect a sufficient body of fact and experience to be interesting to you, if not to the play-going public of London. I have certainly shown little consideration for that public in this enterprise; but I know that it has the friendliest disposition towards you and me as far as it has any consciousness of our existence, and quite understands that what I write for you must pass at a considerable height over its simple romantic head. It will take my books as read and my genius for granted, trusting me to put forth work of such quality as shall bear out its verdict. So we may disport ourselves on our own plane to the top of our bent; and if any gentleman points out that neither this epistle dedicatory nor the dream of Don Juan in the third act of the ensuing comedy is suitable for immediate production at a popular theatre we need not contradict him. Napoleon provided Talma with a pit of kings, with what effect on Talma's acting is not recorded. As for me, what I have always wanted is a pit of philosophers; and this is a play for such a pit.

I should make formal acknowledgment to the authors whom I have pillaged in the following pages if I could recollect them all. The theft of the brigand-poetaster from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is deliberate; and the metamorphosis of Leporello into Enry Straker, motor engineer and New Man, is an intentional dramatic sketch for the contemporary embryo of Mr H. G. Wells's anticipation of the efficient engineering class which will, he hopes, finally sweep the jabberers out of the way of civilization. Mr Barrio has also, whilst I am correcting my proofs, delighted London with a servant who knows more than his masters. The conception of Mendoza Limited I trace back to a certain West Indian colonial secretary, who, at a period when he and I and Mr Sidney Webb were sowing our political wild oats as a sort of Fabian Three Musketeers, without any prevision of the surprising respectability of the crop that followed, recommended Webb, the encyclopedic and inexhaustible, to form himself into a company for the benefit of the shareholders. Octavius I take over unaltered from Mozart; and I hereby authorize any actor who impersonates him, to sing "Dalla sua pace" (if he can) at any convenient moment during the representation. Ann was suggested to me by the fifteenth century Dutch morality called Everyman, which Mr William Poel has lately resuscitated so triumphantly. I trust he will work that vein further, and recognize that Elizabethan Renascence fustian is no more bearable after medieval poesy than Scribe after Ibsen. As I sat watching Everyman at the Charterhouse, I said to myself Why not Everywoman? Ann was the result: every woman is not Ann; but Ann is Everywoman.

That the author of Everyman was no mere artist, but an artist-philosopher, and that the artist-philosophers are the only sort of artists I take quite seriously, will be no news to you. Even Plato and Boswell, as the dramatists who invented Socrates and Dr Johnson, impress me more deeply than the romantic playwrights. Ever since, as a boy, I first breathed the air of the transcendental regions at a performance of Mozart's Zauberflote, I have been proof against the garish splendors and alcoholic excitements of the ordinary stage combinations of Tappertitian romance with the police intelligence. Bunyan, Blake, Hogarth and Turner (these four apart and above all the English Classics), Goethe, Shelley, Schopenhaur, Wagner, Ibsen, Morris, Tolstoy, and Nietzsche are among the writers whose peculiar sense of the world I recognize as more or less akin to my own. Mark the word peculiar. I read Dickens and Shakespear without shame or stint; but their pregnant observations and demonstrations of life are not co-ordinated into any philosophy or religion: on the contrary, Dickens's sentimental assumptions are violently contradicted by his observations; and Shakespear's pessimism is only his wounded humanity. Both have the specific genius of the fictionist and the common sympathies of human feeling and thought in pre-eminent degree. They are often saner and shrewder than the philosophers just as Sancho-Panza was often saner and shrewder than Don Quixote. They clear away vast masses of oppressive gravity by their sense of the ridiculous, which is at bottom a combination of sound moral judgment with lighthearted good humor. But they are concerned with the diversities of the world instead of with its unities: they are so irreligious that they exploit popular religion for professional purposes without delicacy or scruple (for example, Sydney Carton and the ghost in Hamlet!): they are anarchical, and cannot balance their exposures of Angelo and Dogberry, Sir Leicester Dedlock and Mr Tite Barnacle, with any portrait of a prophet or a worthy leader: they have no constructive ideas: they regard those who have them as dangerous fanatics: in all their fictions there is no leading thought or inspiration for which any man could conceivably risk the spoiling of his hat in a shower, much less his life. Both are alike forced to borrow motives for the more strenuous actions of their personages from the common stockpot of melodramatic plots; so that Hamlet has to be stimulated by the prejudices of a policeman and Macbeth by the cupidities of a bushranger. Dickens, without the excuse of having to manufacture motives for Hamlets and Macbeths, superfluously punt his crew down the stream of his monthly parts by mechanical devices which I leave you to describe, my own memory being quite baffled by the simplest question as to Monks in Oliver Twist, or the long lost parentage of Smike, or the relations between the Dorrit and Clennam families so inopportunely discovered by Monsieur Rigaud Blandois. The truth is, the world was to Shakespear a great "stage of fools" on which he was utterly bewildered. He could see no sort of sense in living at all; and Dickens saved himself from the despair of the dream in The Chimes by taking the world for granted and busying himself with its details. Neither of them could do anything with a serious positive character: they could place a human figure before you with perfect verisimilitude; but when the moment came for making it live and move, they found, unless it made them laugh, that they had a puppet on their hands, and had to invent some artificial external stimulus to make it work. This is what is the matter with Hamlet all through: he has no will except in his bursts of temper. Foolish Bardolaters make a virtue of this after their fashion: they declare that the play is the tragedy of irresolution; but all Shakespear's projections of the deepest humanity he knew have the same defect: their characters and manners are lifelike; but their actions are forced on them from without, and the external force is grotesquely inappropriate except when it is quite conventional, as in the case of Henry V. Falstaff is more vivid than any of these serious reflective characters, because he is self-acting: his motives are his own appetites and instincts and humors. Richard III, too, is delightful as the whimsical comedian who stops a funeral to make love to the corpse's widow; but when, in the next act, he is replaced by a stage villain who smothers babies and offs with people's heads, we are revolted at the imposture and repudiate the changeling. Faulconbridge, Coriolanus, Leontes are admirable descriptions of instinctive temperaments: indeed the play of Coriolanus is the greatest of Shakespear's comedies; but description is not philosophy; and comedy neither compromises the author nor reveals him. He must be judged by those characters into which he puts what he knows of himself, his Hamlets and Macbeths and Lears and Prosperos. If these characters are agonizing in a void about factitious melodramatic murders and revenges and the like, whilst the comic characters walk with their feet on solid ground, vivid and amusing, you know that the author has much to show and nothing to teach. The comparison between Falstaff and Prospero is like the comparison between Micawber and David Copperfield. At the end of the book you know Micawber, whereas you only know what has happened to David, and are not interested enough in him to wonder what his politics or religion might be if anything so stupendous as a religious or political idea, or a general idea of any sort, were to occur to him. He is tolerable as a child; but he never becomes a man, and might be left out of his own biography altogether but for his usefulness as a stage confidant, a Horatio or "Charles his friend" what they call on the stage a feeder.

Now you cannot say this of the works of the artist-philosophers. You cannot say it, for instance, of The Pilgrim's Progress. Put your Shakespearian hero and coward, Henry V and Pistol or Parolles, beside Mr Valiant and Mr Fearing, and you have a sudden revelation of the abyss that lies between the fashionable author who could see nothing in the world but personal aims and the tragedy of their disappointment or the comedy of their incongruity, and the field preacher who achieved virtue and courage by identifying himself with the purpose of the world as he understood it. The contrast is enormous: Bunyan's coward stirs your blood more than Shakespear's hero, who actually leaves you cold and secretly hostile. You suddenly see that Shakespear, with all his flashes and divinations, never understood virtue and courage, never conceived how any man who was not a fool could, like Bunyan's hero, look back from the brink of the river of death over the strife and labor of his pilgrimage, and say "yet do I not repent me"; or, with the panache of a millionaire, bequeath "my sword to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it." This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. And also the only real tragedy in life is the being used by personally minded men for purposes which you recognize to be base. All the rest is at worst mere misfortune or mortality: this alone is misery, slavery, hell on earth; and the revolt against it is the only force that offers a man's work to the poor artist, whom our personally minded rich people would so willingly employ as pandar, buffoon, beauty monger, sentimentalizer and the like.

It may seem a long step from Bunyan to Nietzsche; but the difference between their conclusions is purely formal. Bunyan's perception that righteousness is filthy rags, his scorn for Mr Legality in the village of Morality, his defiance of the Church as the supplanter of religion, his insistence on courage as the virtue of virtues, his estimate of the career of the conventionally respectable and sensible Worldly Wiseman as no better at bottom than the life and death of Mr Badman: all this, expressed by Bunyan in the terms of a tinker's theology, is what Nietzsche has expressed in terms of post-Darwinian, post-Schopenhaurian philosophy; Wagner in terms of polytheistic mythology; and Ibsen in terms of mid-XIX century Parisian dramaturgy. Nothing is new in these matters except their novelties: for instance, it is a novelty to call Justification by Faith "Wille," and Justification by Works "Vorstellung." The sole use of the novelty is that you and I buy and read Schopenhaur's treatise on Will and Representation when we should not dream of buying a set of sermons on Faith versus Works. At bottom the controversy is the same, and the dramatic results are the same. Bunyan makes no attempt to present his pilgrims as more sensible or better conducted than Mr Worldly Wiseman. Mr W. W.'s worst enemies, as Mr Embezzler, Mr Never-go-to-Church-on-Sunday, Mr Bad Form, Mr Murderer, Mr Burglar, Mr Co-respondent, Mr Blackmailer, Mr Cad, Mr Drunkard, Mr Labor Agitator and so forth, can read the Pilgrim's Progress without finding a word said against them; whereas the respectable people who snub them and put them in prison, such as Mr W.W. himself and his young friend Civility; Formalist and Hypocrisy; Wildhead, Inconsiderate, and Pragmatick (who were clearly young university men of good family and high feeding); that brisk lad Ignorance, Talkative, By-Ends of Fairspeech and his mother-in-law Lady Feigning, and other reputable gentlemen and citizens, catch it very severely. Even Little Faith, though he gets to heaven at last, is given to understand that it served him right to be mobbed by the brothers Faint Heart, Mistrust, and Guilt, all three recognized members of respectable society and veritable pillars of the law. The whole allegory is a consistent attack on morality and respectability, without a word that one can remember against vice and crime. Exactly what is complained of in Nietzsche and Ibsen, is it not? And also exactly what would be complained of in all the literature which is great enough and old enough to have attained canonical rank, officially or unofficially, were it not that books are admitted to the canon by a compact which confesses their greatness in consideration of abrogating their meaning; so that the reverend rector can agree with the prophet Micah as to his inspired style without being committed to any complicity in Micah's furiously Radical opinions. Why, even I, as I force myself; pen in hand, into recognition and civility, find all the force of my onslaught destroyed by a simple policy of non-resistance. In vain do I redouble the violence of the language in which I proclaim my heterodoxies. I rail at the theistic credulity of Voltaire, the amoristic superstition of Shelley, the revival of tribal soothsaying and idolatrous rites which Huxley called Science and mistook for an advance on the Pentateuch, no less than at the welter of ecclesiastical and professional humbug which saves the face of the stupid system of violence and robbery which we call Law and Industry. Even atheists reproach me with infidelity and anarchists with nihilism because I cannot endure their moral tirades. And yet, instead of exclaiming "Send this inconceivable Satanist to the stake," the respectable newspapers pith me by announcing "another book by this brilliant and thoughtful writer." And the ordinary citizen, knowing that an author who is well spoken of by a respectable newspaper must be all right, reads me, as he reads Micah, with undisturbed edification from his own point of view. It is narrated that in the eighteen-seventies an old lady, a very devout Methodist, moved from Colchester to a house in the neighborhood of the City Road, in London, where, mistaking the Hall of Science for a chapel, she sat at the feet of Charles Bradlaugh for many years, entranced by his eloquence, without questioning his orthodoxy or moulting a feather of her faith. I fear I small be defrauded of my just martyrdom in the same way.

However, I am digressing, as a man with a grievance always does. And after all, the main thing in determining the artistic quality of a book is not the opinions it propagates, but the fact that the writer has opinions. The old lady from Colchester was right to sun her simple soul in the energetic radiance of Bradlaugh's genuine beliefs and disbeliefs rather than in the chill of such mere painting of light and heat as elocution and convention can achieve. My contempt for belles lettres, and for amateurs who become the heroes of the fanciers of literary virtuosity, is not founded on any illusion of mind as to the permanence of those forms of thought (call them opinions) by which I strive to communicate my bent to my fellows. To younger men they are already outmoded; for though they have no more lost their logic than an eighteenth century pastel has lost its drawing or its color, yet, like the pastel, they grow indefinably shabby, and will grow shabbier until they cease to count at all, when my books will either perish, or, if the world is still poor enough to want them, will have to stand, with Bunyan's, by quite amorphous qualities of temper and energy. With this conviction I cannot be a bellettrist. No doubt I must recognize, as even the Ancient Mariner did, that I must tell my story entertainingly if I am to hold the wedding guest spellbound in spite of the siren sounds of the loud bassoon. But "for art's sake" alone I would not face the toil of writing a single sentence. I know that there are men who, having nothing to say and nothing to write, are nevertheless so in love with oratory and with literature that they keep desperately repeating as much as they can understand of what others have said or written aforetime. I know that the leisurely tricks which their want of conviction leaves them free to play with the diluted and misapprehended message supply them with a pleasant parlor game which they call style. I can pity their dotage and even sympathize with their fancy. But a true original style is never achieved for its own sake: a man may pay from a shilling to a guinea, according to his means, to see, hear, or read another man's act of genius; but he will not pay with his whole life and soul to become a mere virtuoso in literature, exhibiting an accomplishment which will not even make money for him, like fiddle playing. Effectiveness of assertion is the Alpha and Omega of style. He who has nothing to assert has no style and can have none: he who has something to assert will go as far in power of style as its momentousness and his conviction will carry him. Disprove his assertion after it is made, yet its style remains. Darwin has no more destroyed the style of Job nor of Handel than Martin Luther destroyed the style of Giotto. All the assertions get disproved sooner or later; and so we find the world full of a magnificent debris of artistic fossils, with the matter-of-fact credibility gone clean out of them, but the form still splendid. And that is why the old masters play the deuce with our mere susceptibles. Your Royal Academician thinks he can get the style of Giotto without Giotto's beliefs, and correct his perspective into the bargain. Your man of letters thinks he can get Bunyan's or Shakespear's style without Bunyan's conviction or Shakespear's apprehension, especially if he takes care not to split his infinitives. And so with your Doctors of Music, who, with their collections of discords duly prepared and resolved or retarded or anticipated in the manner of the great composers, think they can learn the art of Palestrina from Cherubim's treatise. All this academic art is far worse than the trade in sham antique furniture; for the man who sells me an oaken chest which he swears was made in the XIII century, though as a matter of fact he made it himself only yesterday, at least does not pretend that there are any modern ideas in it, whereas your academic copier of fossils offers them to you as the latest outpouring of the human spirit, and, worst of all, kidnaps young people as pupils and persuades them that his limitations are rules, his observances dexterities, his timidities good taste, and his emptinesses purities. And when he declares that art should not be didactic, all the people who have nothing to teach and all the people who don't want to learn agree with him emphatically.

I pride myself on not being one of these susceptible: If you study the electric light with which I supply you in that Bumbledonian public capacity of mine over which you make merry from time to time, you will find that your house contains a great quantity of highly susceptible copper wire which gorges itself with electricity and gives you no light whatever. But here and there occurs a scrap of intensely insusceptible, intensely resistant material; and that stubborn scrap grapples with the current and will not let it through until it has made itself useful to you as those two vital qualities of literature, light and heat. Now if I am to be no mere copper wire amateur but a luminous author, I must also be a most intensely refractory person, liable to go out and to go wrong at inconvenient moments, and with incendiary possibilities. These are the faults of my qualities; and I assure you that I sometimes dislike myself so much that when some irritable reviewer chances at that moment to pitch into me with zest, I feel unspeakably relieved and obliged. But I never dream of reforming, knowing that I must take myself as I am and get what work I can out of myself. All this you will understand; for there is community of material between us: we are both critics of life as well as of art; and you have perhaps said to yourself when I have passed your windows, "There, but for the grace of God, go I." An awful and chastening reflection, which shall be the closing cadence of this immoderately long letter from yours faithfully,

G. BERNARD SHAW. WOKING, 1903

Sunday 9 October 2022

The Life of Sir Thomas More.




THE MIRROVR 
OF VERTVE 
in Worldly Greatnes,

 OR 
THE LIFE OF SYR 
Thomas More Knight, 
sometime Lo. Chancellour  
of England.



  

AT PARIS. 
MDCXXVI.

T O 
T H E   R I G H T 
H O N O V R A B L E 
T H E   L A D Y 
E L I Z A B E T H 
C O V N T E S S E   O F 
B A M BV RY, &c.

RIGHT Honourable, It vvas my good happe not longe since, in a Friends House, to light vpon a briefe History of the Life, Arraignement, and Death of that Mirrour of all true Honour, and Vertue Syr Thomas More, vvho by his Wisdome, Learning, & San[c]tity, hath eternized his Name, Cou[n]trey, & Profession, throughout the Christian World, vvith immortall Glory, and Renovvne. 
    Finding, by perusall therof, the same replenished vvith inco[m]parable Treasures, of no lesse Worthy, and most Christia[n] Factes, then of Wise, & Religious Sentences, Apophthegmes, & Sayings; I deemed it not only an errour to permit so great a light to ly buried, as it vvere, vvithin the vvalls of one priuate Family: but also iudged it vvorthy the Presse, eue[n] of a golden Character (if it were to be had) to the end, the vvhole World might receaue comfort and profit by reading the same. 
    Hauing made this Resolution, a Difficultie presented it selfe to my Thoughts, vnder vvhose Shadovv, or Patronage I might best shelter the Worke: vnto vvch strife, Your L A D I S H I P , occuring to my cogitations, put an end, vvith the B E A M S of your VV O R T H , & H O N O V R; so dazeling my eyes, as I could discerne none other more Fit, or VVorthy to imbrace, & protect so Glorious and Memorable Examples. 
    Of vvhose G O O D N E S I am so confide[n]t, that vvithout further debate, I iudge, this Enterchange of Friendshippe may worthily be made betvveene the S A I N T and Y O U.  Y O U(Madame) shal Patronise his H O N O V R heere on Earth; and H E, shall become a Patrone, and intercessour for Y O U in heauen.

By him, that am your 
Ladiships profes-
sed Seruant. 

T.P.


T H E    P R E F AC E 
of the Authour.

FO R A S M VC H, as Syr Thomas More Knight, sometymes Lord Chancellour of England, a Man of singular Vertue, and of an vnspotted Conscience; & (as witnesseth Erasmus) more pure, and white then snowe: of so Angelicall a Wit (sayth he) that England neuer had the like before, nor euer shall againe: A Man (I say) vniuersally well studied, not only in the Lawes of our owne Realme (a study able to occupy the whole life of a man) but also in all other Scie[n]ces both Humane & Divine; was in his owne dayes (& much more deseruedly in these) esteemed worthy of perpetuall Memory: I William Roper his most vnworthy Sonne in law (by Marriage of his eldest Daughter) knowing no man liuing to this day, able to speake more of his life and Conuersation, then my selfe who was continually resident in his House for the space of sixteene yeares and more; haue at the request of diuers worthy friends, put downe in wryting, such thinges, touching the same, as I can at this present well cast to remembrance (hauing through my negligence, forgotten many other very notable passages thereof) to the euent that all should not vtterly perish to posterity. The which I haue heere performed, to my ability, in a playne and humble style; leauing the same as a fit subiect to a more skillfull, and exquisite Pen, when Tyme, and Occasion shall offer themselues, to dilate therof.


T H E

L I F E   O F

Syr Thomas More.

SYRThomas More was borne in London of worshipfull Parents. His Father was a Student of Lincolnes Inne, and brought him vp in the Latin-tongue, at S. AntonyesSchoole in London, who was very shortly after, by his Fathers procurement, receiued into the house of that Worthy, and Learned Prelate, Cardinal Morton; where though he was but younge in yeares, he would in the tyme of Christmas, suddainly steppe in amongst the Players, and there ex tempore, without any study of the Matter, or least stay, or stammering in his speach, make a part of his owne present wit, amongst them: which was more delightfull, and pleasing to the Nobles, & Gentlemen that vsed to be at Supper with the Cardinall, then all the premeditated parts of the Players.  
    This Cardinall tooke more delight in his wit, and towardnes, then he did of any other temporall Matter whatsoeuer; & would often say of him, vnto diuers of his familiar friends, who vsed dinner & supper with him: This Child here, wayting at the table, whosoeuer shall liue to see it, will proue a meruailous Man. 
    And for his better furtherance in learning, he placed him at Oxford; where when he was well instructed in the Greeke & Latyn tongues, he was then, for the Comon Lawes of the kingdome put to an Inne of Chancery, called New Inne; where in small tyme he profited so well, that he was from thence admitted into LincolnesInne, with very small allowance; continuing there his study, vntill he was made Barrister.  
    After this, to his high Commendations, he read for a good space, a publique Lecture of S. Augustine de Ciuitate Dei in the Church of S. Laurence in the Old Iewry in London, wherunto resorted one Doctor Corsin, an excellent Scholler, and a great Deuine, and all the chiefe learned in, and about the Citty of London. 
    Then was he made Reader of Fur[n]iuals Inne, where he remained for the space of aboue three yeares; and then he gaue himselfe wholy to deuotio[n] & prayer in the Charter-house at London, lyuing there Religiously foure yeares without vow; during which tyme he often resorted to the house of one M. Colt (a Gentleman in Essex) who vsed many tymes to inuite him thither.  
    This M. Colt had three daughters, whose honest and vertuous educations were the chiefe Motiues, that induced him to place his affection there: and albeit his mynde was most inclyned towards the second Sister, for that he thought her the fayrest, and best fauoured: yet when he considered, it would be both a great griefe, & some shame also to the eldest, to see her younger Sister preferred in Mariage before her, he out of a kind of pitty, then framed his affection towards the eldest, and shortly after maried her. After this he co[n]tinued his study of the Law at LincolnesInne vntill he was called to the bench, and had there read twise, which is as often, as ordinarily any Iudge of the Law readeth. He dwelt all this whyle at Bucklers-bury in London, where he had, by his wife three daughters, & one Sonne, all brought vp in vertue & learning, from their very infancy: for he would alwayes exhort them, to take Vertue and Learning for their meate, and Play for their sawce. 
    Before he had euer beene Reader in Court, he was in the later tyme of King Henry the seauenth made a Burgesse of the Parlament: In which, was by the King demaunded three fifteens for the Mariage of his eldest daughter vnto the King of Scots. At the debating wherof he alleadged such arguments & reaso[n]s agaynst the sayd demau[n]de, that the Kings expectation was vtterly ouerthrowne[.] 
    Whereupon one M. Tiler a Gentleman of the Kinges priuy Chamber, being their present, with all speed carried word to the King from Parlament-House, That a beardlesse boy, had disaponted his Graces purpose. Vpon which reporte the King conceiued great displeasure agaynst M. More, & would not rest satisfied, vntill vpon a pretended causelesse quarrell, his Father was committed to the Tower, and there kept prisoner vntil he had payd an hundred pounds, for a fine. 
    Shortly heerupon it happened, that M. More comming about a suite to D. Fox, Bishop of Winchester, one of the Kings priuy Councell; the Bishop called him a syde, and pretending great fauour towards him, promised him, That if he would be ruled by him he would not fayle to restore him agayne into the Kings fauor; meaning forsooth, as he afterwards coniectured, to make him confesse a fault agaynst the King, whereby his Highnes might with the better colour take occasion of displeasure agaynst him. As he came from the Bishop, by chance he met with one M. Whitford his familiar frie[n]d, then the Bishops Chaplaine, but afterwards a Monke of Syon; and amongst other talke M. More told him what the Bishop had sayd vnto him, desyring his opinion and aduise therein. Wherupon M. Whitford prayed him, for the passion of God, in no wise to follow the Bishops counsel: For my Lord my mayster (quoth he) to serue the Kings turne, will not sticke to agree to the death of his owne Father. So M. More returned no more to the Bishop: and had not the King soone after dyed, he was purposed to haue left the Realme, and gone to some other parts beyond the Seas, knowing that being in the Kings displeasure, he could not liue in England, without great daunger.  
    After this he was made one of the Vnder sheriffes of London, by which office, and his learning togeather, he hath been often heard to say, that he gained, with but griefe of conscience, not so litle as foure hundred pounds by the yeare: For that there was no matter of importance depending at that tyme in controuersy in any of the Kings Courts, concerning the lawes of the Realme, wherein he was not with one party in counsell.  
    For his wisdome and learning he was held in such honour and esteeme, that before he came to the seruice of King Henry the Eight, at the suite and instance of our English Merchants, he was, with the Kinges consent, twise sent Embassadour, about certayne businesse in co[n]trouersy betwixt them and the Mercha[n]ts of the Stilliard. Whose wise and discreete dealinges therein, to his high Commendatio[n]s, comming vnto the Kings eare, he called immediatlye vnto him Cardinall Wolsey, then Lord Chancellor, and willed him by all meanes to procure, & worke M. More into his seruice.  
    Whereupon the Cardinall according to the Kinges pleasure, earnestly laboured with him, & amongst many other his persuasio[n]s, he alleadged vnto him, how deere his seruice must needs be to the King, who could not out of Honour seeme to recompence him with lesse, then he should otherwise yearely loose therby. Yet was he loath to change his estate, and made such meanes to the King, by the Cardinall, that his Maiesty at that tyme, rested well satisfied. 
    Shortly after, there happened a great shippe of the Popes, to ariue at Southampton, which was claymed by the King as a forfayture. But the Popes Embassadour, by suite made vnto the King, obtayned, that he might for his Maister haue Councell learned in the Lawes of this Realme, and the matter in his owne prese[n]ce (being himselfe an excellent Ciuilian) to be openly hard and discussed in some publique place. At which tyme there was none, for our Lawes, found more fit to be of Councell with the Embassador, then M. More, who could reporte vnto him in Latyn, all the reasons and arguments on both sides alleadged.  
    Whereupon Councellors on both parties, in the presence of the Lord Chancellour, & other the Iudges of the Star-Chamber had audie[n]ce accordingly where M. More declared vnto the Embassadour the whole effect of all theyr opinions, and besides, in defence of his Clyent argued so learnedly himselfe, that thereby not only the Forfaiture aforesaid was agayne restored vnto his Holynesse, but also he himselfe amongst all the Audience, for his vpright and commendable demeanour, was so greatly renowned, that the King from hencforth by no meanes, or intreaty would be moued to forbeare his seruice any longer.  
    Now, at his first entry into the Kings seruice, his Maiesty made him Master of Requests, hauing the[n] no better place voyde, and within one moneth after he was knighted, & made of his priuy Councell. And so from tyme to tyme did the King still aduance him, to places of Honour; and he continued still in his fauour, and trusty seruice for more then twenty yeares. In which time the King vsed often, especially vpon Festiuall dayes (after he had done his owne Deuotion) to send for him into his owne Trauerse, and there in matters of Astronomy, Geometry, Diuinity, and such like Faculties (yea and often tymes of his temporall affayres) to sit and confer with him. Many tymes also in the night the King would haue him vp into his leades, there to consider with him the diuers scituations, courses, motions, & apparitions of the Stars, & Planets. And for that he was euer of a merry & pleasant disposition, it pleased the King and Queene very often to send for him, at tyme of dinner and supper, as also many other tymes, to come & recreate with them.  
    But when he perceyued the King to take so much delight in his company, & discourse, that he could not scarce once in a moneth get leaue to go home to his wife and children, nor that he could not be absent fro[m] court two dayes togeather, without sending for agayne, he disliking this restraint of his liberty, did thereupon begin, somewhat to dissemble his merry nature, retyring himselfe by litle and litle from his accustomed mirth, so that he was from thenceforth, sent for orderly by the King, at such tymes as was conuenient.  
    In this meane tyme dyed one M. Westo[n] Treasurer of the Exchequer, whose office after his decease, the King of his owne free gift, and offer, bestowed vpon Syr Thomas More. And in the fourteenth yeare of his Maiestyes raygne, there was a Parlement holden at Westmynster, wherof Syr Tho. More was chosen Speaker: being very vnwilling to take that office vpon him, made an oration (not now extant) to the Kings Maiesty, for his discharge thereof. Wherunto whe[n] the King would not consent, he spake vnto his Maiesty in this forme, as followeth.  
    Sith I perceyue (most vndoubted Soueraygne) that it sta[n]deth not with your high Pleasure to reforme this my Electio[n], and cause it to be changed, but haue by the mouth of the most Reuerend Father in God, your highnesse Chauncellour, therevnto giuen your Royall assent, and of your gracious benignity determined, far aboue that I am able to beare, to strengthen me, and repute me fit for this office, as chosen theru[n]to by your Co[m]mons; I am therfore now, and alwayes shalbe ready obediently to conforme my selfe to the accomplishment of your high Co[m]maundement, in most humble wise. Yet with your Graces fauour, before I further enter herinto, I make humble intercession vnto your Highnes, for two lowly Petitions: The one priuatly concerning my self, the other concerning your whole assembly of Commons in Parlament. For my selfe (Gracious Soueraygne) that if it shall happen me to mistake, in any thinge, on the behalfe of your Co[m]mo[n]s in your highnes prese[n]ce or for want of good vttera[n]ce in rehearsal of things, to preuert or impayre their prudent instructions; it may then like your aboundant grace, in the Eye of your accustomed Pitty, to pardo[n] my simplicity, giuing me leaue to repayre agayne vnto the Co[m]mon House, there to conferre anew with them, and take their more substantiall aduice, what thing, and in what wise, I shall on their behalfe vtter & speake before your Maiesty, to the intent thyr prudent aduises and affayres be not by my simplicity and folly hindred or impayred. Which thing, if it should happen vnto me (as it is not vnlikely) if your Gracious Benignity receiued not my ouersight therby, it could not but during my life be a perpetuall grudge and rauines vnto my hart. And this is my first petition vnto your royall Maiesty.  
    My other suite (most Excellent Prince) is, that forasmuch as there be of your Commons here assembled in Parlament, by your high commandement, a number, which after the accustomed manner, are appoynted by the common House, to treat and aduise of the common affayres apart, amongst themselues: And albeit (most Liege lord) that according to your most prudent aduice, by your Honorable Writs, euery where declared, there hath beene a diligence vsed in sending vp to your Highnes Court of Parlament, the most discreet persons out of euery quarter, esteemed most fit therto, whereby there is gathered, no doubt, a very substantiall Assembly of right wise and politique Persons: Yet (most vertuous Prince) sith amongst so many, euery man is not alike witted, or so well spoken, as other; and it often happeneth, that much folly is vttered, in a paynted speach; As likewise, many that are boysterous & rude in language, do yet giue right good substantiall Cou[n]sell; And moreouer in matters of greate Importance, the mynde happeneth to be so busied, that oftentymes a man studieth rather what to say, then how to speake, by reason whereof the wisest man, & best speaker in a whole Countrey, forthuneth sometymes (his mynd being feruent in the matter) to speake in such wise, as he would afterwardes wish, to haue beene otherwise spoken, and yet no worse will had he, when he spake it, then he hath, when he would so gladly chaunge it: Therefore (most gracious Soueraigne) considering that in your High Court of Parlament nothing is treated of, but matter of weight & importance, and which doth chiefly, & meerly concerne this your most flourishing Realme, and your owne Royall Estate, it would please your Royall Maiesty, out of your abou[n]dant Clemency and fauour, to giue to all your Co[m]mons here assembled, your most gracious licence, and pardon, freely, without feare of your high displeasure, euery ma[n] to discharge his Conscience, & boldly, in euery thing incident amongst vs, to declare his aduice. And whatsoeuer any man shall happen to say, that it may like your Royall Maiesty, of your inestimable Goodnes, to take all in good part, interpreting euery mans wordes (how vnwisely soeuer they be spoken) to proceed of good zeale towardes the profit of your Realme, & dignity of your Royall Person; the prosperous Estate & preseruatio[n] wherof (most dread Soueraigne) is the thing which all we your most hu[m]ble, & louing Subiects,according to the bou[n]den duty of our naturall Allegiance, most highly desire, and pray for.  
    At this Parlament Cardinall Wolsey fou[n]d himselfe much grieued with the Burgesses thereof, for that nothing was either spoken, or done in the Parlament house, but was immediatly blowne abroad in euery Alehouse and Tauerne. It fortuned also at this Parlament, that a very great Subsidie was demaunded, which the Cardinall fearing would not passe the Lower House, did therefore determine for the furtherance thereof, to be there personally present. Against whose comming, after lo[n]g debate there made, whether it were better to receaue him, but with a few of his Lords, or with his whole trayne: Maisters (quoth Syr Thomas More) for as much, as my Lord Cardinall (ye wot well) lately layd to our charge, the lightnes of our tongues, for thinges vttered out of this house, therfore in my mind it shall not be amisse to receiue him with all Pompe, with his Maces, his Pillars, his Pollaxes, his Crosses, his Hat, & the great Seale too, to the intent, that if he find the like fault with vs hereafter, we may be the bolder from our selues to lay the blame vpon himselfe, and those followers which his Grace bringeth hither with him. Wherevnto the whole House agreed, and receiued him accordingly.  
    After he was come and receaued in manner aforesayd, the whole house of Parlame[n]t sitting still in silence, and answearing nothing to what he demaunded, but rather contrary to his expectation, seemed not any way to inclyne to his Request, he said vnto them: Maisters, you haue here many wise & learned men amongst you, and sith I am sent hither from the Kinges owne Person, for the preseruation of your selues, and all the Realme, me thinkes you should giue me some some reasonable answere. Whereat euery man continuing silent; then began he to speake to one M. Warney,who making him no answere neither, he seuerally asked the same Question of diuers others that were accompted the wisest men of the house: To whome when none of them all would answere so much as a word, it being before agreed among them to answere only by theyr speaker: Maisters (quoth the Cardinall) vnlesse it be the custome of your howse, as of likelyhood it is, by the mouth of your speaker, whome you haue chosen for trusty and wise (as indeed he is) in such cases to vtter your mindes, without doubt heere is a meruailous obstinate silence, and thereupon he required answere of M. Speaker. Who first reuerently vpon his knees excusing the silence of the Howse, abashed at the presence of so Noble a Personage, able to amaze the wisest & best learned in a kingdome; & after by many probable arguments prouing that for them to make answere, was neither expedient nor agreable with the ancient Liberty of the House; in conclusio[n] for himselfe shewed, that although they had with all their voyces chosen and trusted him to speake, yet except euery one of the[m] could put into his owne head all their seuerall wittes, he alone in so weighty a matter, was far vnmeete to make his Grace answere.  
    Whereupon the Cardinall displeased with Syr Thomas More(who had not in this Parlament satisfied his desire) suddenly arose and departed. And after the Parlament was ended; at his House in the Gallery at White Hall in Westminster, he vttered vnto him his griefes, saying: I would to God M. More, you had been at Romewhen I first made you Speaker of the House. Your Grace not offended, I would I had beene there my Lord (quoth Syr Thomas.) And to wynd these quarrels out of the Cardinalls head he began to commend that Gallery, and said: I like this Gallery of your my Lord, much better the[n] your Gallery at Hampton-Court; wherewith he so wisely brake off the Cardinalls displeasant talke, as it seemed, knew not what more for the present to say vnto him.  
    But yet for a Reuenge of his displeasure, the Cardinall counselled the king to send Syr Thomas More Embassadour ouer into Spayne, commending vnto him his wisdome, learning, & fitnes for the voyage; and further told the King that the difficulty of the cause considered; there is none (quoth the Cardinall) so meete, or able to performe your Maiestyes seruice therin, as he. Which when the King had broken to Syr Thomas More, and that he had satisfied his Maiesty how vnfit a voyage it was for him, he nature of the countrey, and disposition of his complexion considered, that he should neuer be able, nor likely to do his Grace acceptable seruice there, knowing right well, that if his Maiesty sent him thither, he should send him to his Graue; yet shewing himselfe neuerthelesse ready, according to his duty, although it were with the losse of his life, to fulfill his Graces pleasure in that behalfe, the King well allowing of his answere said vnto him. It is not our meaning M. More, to do you the least hurt, but rather thy best good; we will therefore for this purpose deuise vpon some other, and imploy your seruice otherwise.  
    And indeed such entire affection did the King at that tyme beare vnto him, that he made him Chancellour of the Duchy of Lancaster, vpon the death of Syr Richard Wingfield, who had that Office before. And the king tooke so much pleasure in his company, that oftentymes his Maiesty would on the suddaine go vp to his howse at Chelsey, to be merry with him; whither on a tyme comming to dynner, he walked in Syr Thomas Mores garden by the space of an houre, and held his arme about Syr Thomas Moresnecke.  
    As soone as his Maiesty was gone, M. William Roper, a Gentleman of Grayes Inne, who had married Syr Thomas Moreseldest daughter said vnto him: Father, how happy a man are you, whome the King hath thus familiarly entertayned (for he neuer was seene to do the like vnto any man, except Cardinall Wolsey, with whome the King did often walke arme in arme:) I thanke our Lord God, Sonne Roper (quoth he) I find his Grace my very good Lord indeed. And I thinke he doth as singularly fauour me, as any subiect within this Realme; howbeit, Sonne Roper, I may tell thee, I haue no great cause to be proud thereof. But if my Head could wyn his Maiesty a Castle in France (for then there was warre with France) it should not fayle to goe.  
    Amongst many other his vertues he was of such Meekenes, that if he happened to enter into argument, or dispute with any learned man resorting to him from Oxford, Cambridge, or other place (as there did diuers, some for desyre of his acquainta[n]ce, some for the famous report of his wisdome and learning, and some about suites for the Vniuersityes) although very few were comparable vnto him as well witnesseth Erasmus:) & if in discourse, he so pressed the[m] that they cold not well hold agaynst him; the[n] least he should discourage the[m] (as one that sought not his owne Glory) he wold seeme conquered, & by some wise deuise, courteously breake off into some other matter, & giue ouer. Of whome for his wisdome and learning the king had such an opinion, that at such tymes as he attended his person, in his progresse either to Oxford, or Cam[bridge,] where he was receiued with very eloquent Orations, his Maiesty would alwayes assigne Syr Thomas More, as one prompt, and ready therein, to make Answere thereunto, ex tempore. 
    His custome also was, that whe[n]soeuer he came to any Vniuersity, eyther heere or beyond the Seas, not only to be present at Disputations and Readinges, but also to dispute very learnedly himselfe, to his high Commendations, and generall applause of all the assembly.  
    During the tyme of his Chau[n]cellorship for the Duchy of Lancaster, he was sent twice Embassador, ioyned in co[m]mission with Cardinall Wolsey, once vnto the Emperour Charles into Flanders, the other tyme vnto the French King at Paris. 
    About this tyme, it hapned that the Water-bayly of London, who had somtimes byn Syr Thomas Mores seruant, hearing certayne Merchants to speake somewhat lauishly agaynst his old Maister, was so displeased therat, that he came with all speed to Syr Thomas More, & told him what he had heard, & of whom. Syr (quoth he) if I were in such fauour and authority with my Prince, as you are, such men as these should not surely be suffered, so vncharitably & falsly to misreport & slaunder me. Wherfore I wish you to call the[m] befor you & punish them. Syr Thomas Moresmyling vpon him sayd: Why, M. Water-bayly, would you haue me punish them, by whom I receyue more benefit then by all you, that are my friends? Let them a Gods Name speake as lewdly of me as they list, and shoote neuer so many darts at me, what am I the worse? But if they should once hit me, then would it not indeed a little trouble me: Howbeit I trust by Gods helpe, there shall none of them all be able to touch me. Therefore I haue more cause, I assure thee M. Water-baily to pitty, then to be angry with them. Such fruitefull communication would he often tymes haue with his familiar Friends.  
    So on a tyme walking a lo[n]g the Thames syde at Chelsey, with his Sonne in law M. Roper, and discoursing of many things, amongst other speaches he sayd thus vnto him: Now I would to our Lord God, Sonne Roper, that three things were well established in Christendome, vpon co[n]dition that I were heer presently put into a sacke, & cast into the midst of the Thames. What great things be those Sir (quoth M. Roper) that moue you so to wish? Wouldest thou know Sonne Roper, quoth he? May it so please you Syr, with a very good will, sayd M. Roper. In fayth Sonne Roper, they be these: First, that where the most parte of Christian Princes are now at mortal warres, I would they were all at an vniuersall peace. The seco[n]d is, that where the Church is at this present, sore afflicted with Errors & Heresyes, that it were setled in a perfect vniformity of Religion. The third is, that where the Kings matter of his marriage is now come into question, I wish it were, to the glory of God, and quietnes of all parties, brought to a good conclusion. By which three things (as M. Roper supposed) he iudged, that there would be a great disturbance, through the most part of Christendome. 
    Thus did Syr Tho. More through the whole course of his life, by his actions make it appeare, that all his trauels and paynes, without thought of earthly co[m]modity either to himselfe or any of his, were only for the seruice of God, his King and the Common Wealth, wholy bestowed & imployed. And he was oftentymes, in his latter dayes heard to say, That he neuer asked of the King, for himselfe, the value of one Penny.  
    His dayly custome was, if he were at home, besides his priuate prayers with his wife, children, and family, often to retyre alone, and exercise himselfe in priuate and godly deuotions: as also euery night before he went to bed, he vsed to go to his chapell with his whole Family aforesaid, & there vpon his knees deuoutly to say, certayne Letanyes, Psalmes & Collects with them.  
    And because he was alwayes desyrous of priuate Exercise, & that he might the better withdraw himselfe from worldly co[m]pany, he built himselfe a lodging a good distance from his Mansion house, called the New Building, wherein he placed a Chapell, Library, and a Gallery to walke, spending many dayes in the weeke in Prayer, and Study togeather. And allwayes on the Friday, he did vsually continue there fro[m] Morning vntill Night, bestowing his tyme only in meditation, reading, and such godly Exercises.  
    And the more to stir vp & encourage his wife, and children, to the desyre of heaue[n]ly things, he would oftentymes vse these speaches vnto the[m]: It is no maistery for you, my Children, to go to heauen; for euery body giueth you good counsell, and likewise many shew you good Examples. You see Vertue rewarded, and Vice punished; so that you are caryed vp to heauen, euen by the chynne: But if you liue to the tyme, that no man will giue you good counsell, nor shew you good example; when you shall see Vertue punished, and Vice rewarded; if then you will stand fast & sticke firmely vnto God; vpon payne of my life, though you be but halfe good, yet God will allow you for wholy good.  
    If his wife, children, or any of his Howshould, had beene sicke, or troubled at any tyme with any infirmity, he would say vnto the[m]: We may not looke at our pleasure to go to Heauen in featherbeds; it is not the way: for our Blessed Lord himselfe went thither with great payne, and by many Tribulations; and hard was the path-way wherein he so walked: Nor may the Seruant, looke to be in better case, then his Maister.  
    And as he would in this manner alwayes perswade them to take their paines and sicknes patiently, so would he in like forme teach them to withstand the diuell, & his temptations valiantly, saying: Whosoeuer shall mark well the diuell and his temptatio[n]s, shall find him therein much like vnto an Ape. For as an Ape not well looked vnto, will be busy, and bold to do shrewd turnes, and being espied will suddenly leape backe, and aduenture no further: so the diuell finding a man idle, sloathfull, and without resistance, ready to receiue his temptations, waxeth so hardy, that he will not sticke to continue still with him, vntill he hath wrought him througly to his purpose. But on the contrary side, if he see a man with diligence perseuere to preuent, and withstand his temptations, he waxeth so weary, that in the end he vtterly forsaketh him. For as the diuell by disposition is a spirit of so high a Pride, that he cannot abide to be mocked; so is he of nature so Enuious, that he feareth to assault a vertuous man, least he should thereby not only catch a foule fall himselfe, but also minister vnto the man, more matter of merit.  
    Thus he euer delighted, not only to busy himself in vertuous exercises, but also to exhort his wife, children, and howshold to embrace, and follow the same. To whome for his notable vertues, God shewed, as it seemed, a miraculous and manifest token of his loue, and fauour towardes him, at such tyme, as his daughter Roperlay dangerously sicke of the sweating sicknes (as many others did that yeare) and continued in such extremity of that disease, that by no skill of Phisicke, or other art in such case, commonly vsed, (although she had diuers both expert and learned Phisitians continually attendant about her) she could be kept from sleeping, so that the Phisitians themselues vtterly despayred of her recouery, and quite gaue her ouer. Her Father Syr Tho. More, as one that most intierely loued and tendred her, being in great griefe and heauinesse, and seeing all humane helps to faile, determined to haue recourse to God by prayer for remedy. Whereupon going vp after his accustomed maner, into his aforesaid New Building, he there in his Chappell, vpon his knees with teares, most deuoutly besought Almighty God, that it would please his diuine Goodnes, vnto whome nothing was impossible, if it were his blessed will, to vouchsafe graciously to heare his humble petitio[n]. And suddenly it came into his mynd, that a Glister might be the only way to help her; of which when he had told the Phisitians, they all instantly agreed, that if there were any hope of remedy, that was the most likeliest; and meruayled much, that themselues had not before remembred the same. Then was it instantly ministred vnto her sleeping, & after a while she awaked, and contrary to all their expectations immediately began to recouer, & in short tyme was wholy restored vnto her former health. Whome, if it had pleased God to haue taken away, at that time, her Father sayd, that he would neuer after haue medled with worldly businesse. 
    Now whilst Syr Thomas More was Chau[n]cellour of the Duchy of Lancaster, the Sea of Rome chaunced to be voyd, by the death of Pope Leo the X. which was the cause of much trouble; for that Cardinall Wolsey a man of a very high and ambitious spirit, aspiring vnto that sea & dignity, was therein crost and preuented by the Emperour Charles the fifth, who had commended the Cardinall Adrian (sometyme his Schoole-maister) vnto the Conclaue of Cardinalls in Rome, at the tyme of election, & so highly praysed him for his Worth and Vertue, that he was thereupon chosen Pope. Who comming from Spayne (where he was then resident) to Rome,entred into the Citty towardes his Pallace barefooted with such humility, that all the people had him in very great Reuerence. 
    Vpon this & other like occasions, Card. Wolsey enraged with anger, studied all the wayes he could deuise to be reuenged of the Emperour, which as it was the beginning of a most lametable Tragedy, so some part thereof, not impertinent to my present purpose, I haue thought fit heere to insert.  
    The Cardinall, not ignorant of King Henries inconstant & mutable disposition, vsed all meanes to auert his Maiesty, from his wife Queene Katherine, the Emperours Aunt, well knowing he would easily inclyne to that motion vpon any sleight occasion. And so meaning to make the Kings flexible Nature, the instrument to bring about his vngodly purpose, he deuised to allure his Maiesty (who was already, contrary to the Cardinals mynd, and knowledge, fallen in loue with the Lady Anne Bullen) to affect the FrenchKings Sister. Which thing, because of the wars, and hatred that was there betweene the French King, and the Emperour (whome the Cardinall now mortally hated) he very earnestly indeauoured to procure. And for the better furthering this his purpose, he requested one Langland, Bishop of Lincolne, and Ghostly Father to K. Henry, to put a scruple into the K. head; that it was not lawfull for him to mary his Brothers wife, which thing the King (not sory to heare of) related first to Syr Thomas More, & required his counsell therein, and with all shewd him some places of Scripture which seemed somewhat to serue his purpose. Syr Thomas More perusing the said places, hereupon (as one that had neuer professed Diuinity) excused himselfe vnto his Maiesty, and said, he was farre vnfit to meddle with such affaires.  
    The King not satisfied with this answere, pressed and vrged him the more; which he perceauing said vnto his Maiesty: that forasmuch as such a busines required good aduise and deliberation, he besought his Highnes to giue him sufficient respit to co[n]sider aduisedly of the same. Wherwith the King well contented, replyed, That Tonstall Clark, Bishops of Durhan & Bath, with others learned of his priuy Cou[n]sell should also be dealers therin.  
    So Syr Thomas More departed, and conferred those places of Scripture with the Expositions of diuers of the ancient Fathers, and Doctours of the Church, and at his comming to Court & talking with the King of the aforesaid matter, he said: To be playne with your Grace, neither my Lord of Durham, nor my Lord of Bath,though I hold them to be both learned, vertuous, & holy Prelates, nor my selfe, with any other of your Counsell (being all your Maiesties owne seruants, & so greatly bound vnto you for your manifold enefits dayly bestowed vpon vs) be in my iudgment fit Counsellors for your Grace herein. But if your Maisty desyre to vnderstand the Truth, such Counsellors may be found, as neither for respect of worldly commodity, nor for feare of your Princely authority, will any way be drawne to deceiue you. And then he named vnto the King S. Hierome, S. Augustine and diuers others auncient Fathers & Doctors of the Church, both Greeke an[d] Latin; and further shewed his Maiesty, what authority he had gathered forth of them: of which although the King (as not fitting to his purpose) did not very well like; yet were they by Syr Thomas More so wisely alleaged, and so tempred with discretion, that the King at that tyme, tooke it in good part, and had oftentimes conference with him againe, about the same matter.  
    After this there were certayne questions propounded to the Kings Counsell whether in this case the King needed to haue any scruple at all: and if he had, what was the best way to free him of it? The greater part of the Counsell were of opinion, that there was good cause of scruple, and that for his Maiesties discharge therin, it was fit suite should be made vnto the Sea of Rome, where the King thought that by his liberality, he might with ease obtayne his purpose.  
    The[n] was there procured from Rome a commission for the tryall of this Mariage, wherein Cardinall Campegius, and Cardinal Wolsey were ioyned commissioners, who for the determination therof, sate at the Blacke-Fryers in London, where a Libell was put in, for the annulling of the said Matrimony, affirming the Mariage betweene the King and Queene to be vnlawfull. Then againe, for proofe therof to be lawfull, there was produced a dispensation, in which (after diuers disputations thereupo[n] holden) there appeared an imperfection; which notwithstanding by an other instrument, or brief found out vpon search, in the Treasury of Spayne, & sent ouer to the commissioners in Engla[n]d, was supplyed; & so should iudgme[n]t haue ben giuen by the Pope accordingly, had not the King vpon intelligence therof before the same Iudgment, appealed to a Generall Cou[n]cell. After whose Appellation, the Cardinalls sate no more vpon that businesse.  
    It happened, before the said matter of Mariage brought in Question, that M. Roper being one day in discourse with Syr Tho. More, did with a kind of ioy, congratulate with his said Father, for the happy Estate of the Realme that had so Catholique a Prince, as no Heretique durst shew his face, so vertuous and learned a Clergy, so graue and sound a Nobility, and so louing and obedient Subiects, all in one fayth agreeing togeather. Troth, it is so indeed, Sonne Roper (quoth he:) and then commended all degrees and estates of the same, far beyond M. Roper. And yet Sonne Roper(quoth he) I pray God, that some of vs (as high as we seeme to sit vpon the Mountaynes, treading Heretiques vnder our feete like Ants) liue not to see the day, when we gladly would wish to be in league and composition with those whom you call Heretiques, & to let them haue their Churches quietly to themselues, vpon co[n]dition, that they would be content to let vs haue ours, quietly to our selues. 
    Then M. Roper produced many reasons to the contrary & saw no cause why any should say so. Well, well, Sonne Roper (quoth he) I pray God some of vs liue not till that day, and said no more. To whome M. Roper replyed, By my troth Syr, this is desperatly spoken, seeming to be halfe angry with Syr Thomas More: who perceiuing the same, said merrily vnto him: Well, well, So[n]ne Roper, It shall not be then, since you will not haue it so. Thus was he of so excellent a temper, that those who liued, & were co[n]tinually co[n]uersant with him in his house, for the space of twenty yeares and vpwardes, could neuer perceiue him to be once moued, or to make the least shew of anger.  
    But to returne agayne where I left. After the supplying of the dispensation, sent vnto the commissioners into England, as is before rehearsed, the King taking the businesse to himselfe, as not then mynding to proceed any further in the matter, assigned the bishop of Durham and Syr Thomas More to go Embassadours to Cambray (a place neither Imperiall, nor French) to treat a Peace betweene the Emperour, the Fre[n]ch King, & himselfe; in the concluding wherof Syr Tho. More so worthily managed the busines, that he procured therby much more benefit for the Kingdome, then was at that tyme by the King and his Cou[n]sell thought possible could be co[m]passed. For whose good seruice in that Embassy, the King (when he after made him Lord Chauncellour) caused the Duke of Norfolke, to declare openly to the people, how much all England was bounden vnto him, as you shall see heerafter more at large.  
    Now vpon the co[m]ming home of the Bishop of Durham, and Syr Thomas More from Cambray aforsayd, the King began to renew agayne his old suite, and was very earnest in persuading Syr Thomas More to agree vnto the matter of his marriage, vsing all the wayes, and meanes he could deuise to draw him to his part, and as it was thought did the rather for that end soone after create him Lord Chauncellour of England. And the King said further vnto him, that although at his going to Cambray, he was in vtter despaire to obtaine dispensation thereof; yet now he had conceiued some good hope to co[m]passe the same; alleaging, that albeit his Marriage, as being agaynst the positiue Law of the Church, & the written Law of God, was holpen by the dispensation; yet is here another thing found out of late (quoth the King) wherby his Marriage appeareth so directly agaynst the law of Nature, that it can in no wise, by the Church be dispensable, as Doctor Stokesly(whome he had then preferred to the Bishopricke of London) can well instruct you, with whome, vpon this point, I would haue you to confer.  
    So they conferred togeather. But for all the Conference, Syr Thomas More could not be induced to change his opinion therein: Yet notwithstanding did the Bishop in his Report of him to the King affirme falsely, that he found Syr Thomas More, in the Kings cause, very forward, as being desirous to find some good matter, wherewith he might serue the Kings contentment, in that case.  
    Now, this Bishop Stokesley, hauing a litle before, byn by Cardinal Wolsey openly rebuked in the S[t]arre-chamber, & awarded to the Fleete, he not well brooking this contumelious vsage; and knowing that forasmuch as the Cardinall, for his backewardnes in pursuing the Kings diuorse, was falling out of his Highnes fauour; and that he had now espied a fit opportunity to reuenge his quarell agaynst him; at last preuayled so far, that the Cardinall was soone after displaced from his office of high Chancellorship, and the same was conferred vpon Syr Thomas More, hoping therby so to win him to his syde, that he would yield his consent for the matter of diuorse.  
    Then was Syr Thomas More betweene the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolke, brought through Westminster Hall, to his place in the Chancery, and the Duke of Norfolke in the audience of all the people there assembled, shewed, that he was from the King himselfe straitley charged by speciall commission, to publish there openly in the presence of them all, how much all England was beholding to Syr Thomas More, for his good seruice: and how worthily he deserued the highest roome in the Kingdome; and further how deere his Maiesty loued & trusted him; wherein (quoth the Duke) he hath great cause to reioyce, & prayse Almighty God. 
    Whereunto Syr Thomas More (amongst diuers other wise and learned speches) made answere and replyed, that allthough he had good cause to take comfort of his Highnes singular fauour towards him, to whome therefore he acknowledged himselfe most deeply bounden; yet neuerthelesse he must for his owne part needes confesse, that in all those things, by the Duks Grace here alleaged, he had done nothing, but what was his duty. And furthermore said, That he was very vnfit for that dignity, wherein (considering how wise and worthy a Prelate, had lately before taken so great a fall) he said he had no great cause to reioyce. And as they had before in the Kings behalfe, charged him to minister Iustice vprightly & indiffere[n]tly to the people, without corruption or affection: so did he likewise charge them agayne, that if they saw him, at any time to digresse, in the least thing, touching any part of his duty, in that honourable Office, euen as they would discharge their owne duty and fidelity to God and the King, they would not fayle to declare the same to his Maiesty; who otherwise, might haue iust cause to lay the whole fault vpon them, and to their charge.  
    Now, when he was Lord Chauncellour, on a tyme being at leasure (as seldome he was) a Sonne in law of his, who had marryed one of his daughters, spake merrily vnto him saying: When Cardinall Wolsey was Lord Chancellour, not onely diuers of his priuy Cha[m]ber, but such also as were but his very door-keepers got much proffit: and now sith I haue maryed one of your daughters, and giue my dayly attendance vpon you, I thinke I might of reason looke for somthing, but you spoyle all markets, Syr, because you be so redy your selfe to heare euery man, aswell poore as rich, & besides you keepe no doores shut agaynst them, which is to me no small hinderance and discourageme[n]t; whereas otherwise some for friendshippe, some for kyndred, but most for profit, would be glad to haue my furtherance to bring them to your presence. And now as the case stands, if I should take any thing of them, I know I should do them much wrong, for that they may do as much for themselues, as I am able to do for the[m]. Which thing though it be in you very commendable, yet to me your Sonne I find it nothing profitable.  
    You say well, Sonne (quoth Syr Thomas More) I do not mind like that you are so scrupulous of conscience, for there be many other wayes, whein I may both do you good, and pleasure your friend also; for sometyme may I by my word stand your friend insteed, and sometime I may by my letters help him or if he haue a cause depending before me, at your request I may heare him before another; or if his cause be not altogether of the best, yet may I moue the partyes to fall to some reasonable end, or compound by arbitrement: Howbeit this one thing, Sonne, I assure thee; on my Fayth, that if the parties will at my hands call for iustice, then if it were my Father that stood on the the one side, and the Diuell on the other side, his cause being good, the Diuell surely should haue right.  
    So offered he to his Sonne as much fauour as he thought he could in reason require. And that he would for no respect digresse neuer so litle fro[m] iustice, did plainely appeare by another of his Sonns in-law, one M. Giles Heron, who had a sorry suite depending before him in the Cha[n]cery, yet presuming much vpon his Fathers fauour, would in no wayes be perswaded by him to come to an indifferent compostio[n] with his aduersary; wherevpon in triall of the matter, Syr Thomas More pronounced sentence agaynst him.  
    He vsed euery afternoone to sit in his open Hall, to the end, that whosoeuer had any suit vnto him, they might the more boulder come to his presence, and there to open theyr Complayints before him. Also his manner was, to read euery Bill himselfe, before he would grant any Sub pÅ“na, and hauing read it, he would either set his hand vnto it, or else cancell it.  
    Whensoeuer he passed throgh Westminster Hall, to his place in Chancery, by the Court of Kings Be[n]ch, if his Father (one of the iudges therof) had bin there set before he came, he would go into the same Court, & there most reuerently vpon his knees before the whole Assembly, aske his Father blessing. As likewise, if his Father and he chanced to meet at the Lecture in L Lincolnes Inne(as oftentymes they did) yet, notwithstanding his high place & Office, would he offer in Argument, the preheminence vnto his Father; nor would himselfe accept thereof, vntill his Father had refused it.  
    And for further declaration of his naturall affection, & loue towardes his Father, when he lay sicke vpon his death bed, he did not only (according to his duty) oftentymes come and visit him, with all manner of comfort, but also at his departure out of the world, he tooke him about the Necke, kissed, & imbraced him, commending his soule into mercyfull hands of Almighty God, and so departed.  
    Whilest he was Lord Chancellour, he graunted but few Iniunctions; yet were they by some of the Iudges of the Law misliked, which M. Roper vnderstanding, declared the same vnto Syr Thomas More, who answered, that they should haue litle cause to find fault with him therfore. Whereupon he caused one M. Crooke, chiefe of the six Clarkes to make a Docket conteyning the whole number and causes of all such Iniunctions, as either in his tyme had already passed, or at the present depended in any of the Kings Courts at Westminster before him; which done, he one day inuited all the Iudges to dinner with him in the Counsell Cha[m]ber at Westminster, and after dynner, when he had broken with them, what co[m]playnts he had heard of his Iniunctions, & moreouer had shewed them the number and causes of euery one in order, truly & playnely, they were all inforced to confesse, that themselues in like cases could haue done no otherwise. Then made he this offer vnto them, That if the Iudges of euery Court (vnto whome the reformation of the rigour of the Law, by reason of their Office most especially appertayned) would vpon reasonable considerations in their owne discretions (as he thought they were bound to do in conscience) mitigate, and reforme the rigour of the law themselues, there should from thenceforth be no more Iniunctions graunted out by him. Whereunto when they refused to condescend, then said he vnto them: For asmuch as your selues (my Lordes) force me to that necessity, of granting out Iniunctions, for reliefe of the peoples iniuries, you cannot hereafter any more iustly blame me.  
    After that, he spake priuatly to M. Roper saying: I perciue why they liked not to do so, for they see that they may by the verdict of the Iury, cast all quarrels vpon those whome they account their cheife defence; and therefore am I compelled, to abide the aduenture of all such Reports.  
    Now in the tyme of his Chancellourshippe, allthough he had but litle leasure to busy himselfe in the study of holy Scriptures and Controuersies in Religion, with other such like Exercises, being in a manner continually imployed about the affaires of the King and Kingdome; yet did he take many watchfull paines in setting forth diuers profitable workes, in the defence of Christian Religion, agaynst Heresies, that then were blowne abroad. In so much that the Bishops, to whose Pastorall care that Reformation chiefly belo[n]ged, seeing themselues, by his trauell (wherein by their owne confession, they were not any way able to compare with him) in great part discharged of their dutyes in that behalfe; & considering, that for all the Princes fauor, & his great Office he was no rich man, nor had in yearly reuenewes adua[n]ced himselfe as his worthynes deserued, therefore at a Conuocation, holden amongst themselues, and others of the Clergy, they agreed to recompence him with a summe of fiue thousand pounds, for the paynes taken in their behalfe.  
    To the payment whereof euery Bishop, Abbot, and others of the Clergy, according to the rates of their abiltyes, became liberall Contributaries; hoping that this their liberality would giue him good content. Wherevpon Bishop Tonstall of Durha[m], Bishop Clarke of Bath, & D. Voysey Bishop of Exceter repayred vnto Syr Tho. More, declaring how thankefully, to their discharge in Gods cause, they reckoned themselues vnto him; and albeit they could, not according to his deserts, so worthily requite his labours, & therefore must refer the same to Gods gracious goodnesse: yet for a small gratuity, in respect of his Estate so vnequall to his Worth, in the Name of their whole Conuocation, they presented vnto him the forsaid Summe, desiring him to accept of it in good part. But Syr Thomas More refusing this their tender, said vnto them: That, as it was no small comfort vnto him that so wise and learned men accepted of his weake labours, for which he neuer intended to receiue any other reward, but at the hands of God, to whome alone all the thankes therof were chiefly to be ascribed: So gaue he most humble thankes vnto all their Honours, for their so friendly and honourable consideration, and earnestly intreated them to returne euery man his money agayne.  
    Wherefore when after much pressing him to accept therof, & cold not preuaile, they besought him, that they might bestow it vpon his Wife, and Children. Not so my Lords (quoth he,) I had rather see it cast into the Thames, than either I, or any of myne should haue the value of one penny therof. For, my Lordes, though your offer indeed be very fayre and friendly, yet set I so much by my pleasure, & so litle by my profit, that I would not, in good fayth, for so much, and much more, to haue lost so many a good nights sleepe, as I spent vpon the same. And yet I would wish, for all that, vpon conditio[n] that Heresies were suppressed, that all my Bookes were burned & my labour lost. Thus departed they from him, and were driuen to returne euery man his owne money agayne.  
    This Lord Chancellour, although he was well knowne, both to God and the world to be a man of most eminent Vertue, though not so considered of euery man; yet for the auoyding of singularity would he appeare to the ey of the world no otherwise then other men, as well in his apparell, as behauiour. And albeit he appeared outwardly Honourable, like to one of his Dignity & Calling, yet inwardly did he esteme all such things for meere vanity: for next to his naked body he wore almost co[n]tinually a shirt of hayre; the wch a young Gentlewoman, named M.rs More, by chance on[e] day espying as he sat in his doublet & hose at dynner in the so[m]mer tyme, and seemed to smile therat, his daughter Roperperceiuing the same (being not ignorant of this his austerity) gaue him priuate notice therof, and he did presently amend the fault, seeming withall sorry, that she had seene it. He also wore another playne course shirt without ruffe or collar, vpon his shirt of hayre; And many tymes he likewise punished his body with whips, made of knotted cordes; the which thing was only knowne to his daughter Roper, who for her secrecy, aboue all the rest he especially trusted, for that as need required she did alwayes wash & mend his shirt of hayre, which he would not discouer vnto any other whatsoeuer.  
    Now, in this meane space, whilst he was Lord Cha[n]cellour of England, the King did one day greatly moue him, & desire him, well to weigh and consider of his great matter, concerning his diuorce. Syr Thomas More falling vpon his knees, most humbly besought his Maiesty to stand still his gratious Souerainge, as euer since his entry into his Royall Seruice, he had found him; and said, that there was nothing in the world more grieuous to his hart, then that he was not able with the losse of one of his lymbes, to find any thing for that matter, wherby he might with safe conscience serue his Maiesties turne. And that he had alwayes borne in mynd the most Godly wordes, that his Highnesse spake vnto him, at his first comming into his Royall seruice (the most vertuous Lesson, that euer Prince taught a Subiect) to wit, that he should first looke vnto God, & after God, vnto his King: as in good fayth (said he ) I haue most sincerely done, or els might your Grace accompt me a most vnworthy seruant.  
    To this the King replyed; that if he could not therein with his conscience serue him, he was well content to accept of his seruice otherwise, and vse the aduice of some others of his priuy Counsell, whose consciences would agree well inough therewith, nor would he neuerthelesse disco[n]tinue his gracious fauour towards him, nor trouble his conscience any further with that matter, for the tyme forward.  
    But Syr Thomas More perceiued by little and little, that the King fully determined to proceede in his Marriage with Queene Anne,when he, with the Bishopps and Nobles of the Higher House of Parlament, were for the furtherance of that matter, co[m]manded by the King to go vnto the Commons of the lower House, & shew vnto them, what the Vniuersities aswell of other parts beyond the seas, as of Oxford, and Cambridge had done in that behalfe, testifiying the same with their seales and subscriptions. All which things (at the Kinges request, not shewing of what mynd he was therein himselfe) he opened to the Lower House of Parliament.  
    Neverthelesse doubting greatly, lest further inconueniences might follow, into [which] (contrary to his conscience) by reason of his Office, he was likely to befall, he made humble suite to the Duke of Norfolke (his singular deare friend) to be a meanes vnto the King, that he might, with his Graces fauour, be discharged from his Office of Chancellourship; in which for certayne infirmityes of his body, he pretended himselfe not able any longer to serue.  
    This good Duke of Norfolke comming on a time to Chelsey to dyne with Syr Thomas More, found him in the Church, singing in the Quier, with a Surplisse on his backe: to whome (after Masse was done) as they went towardes his house, together arme in arme, the Duke said: Gods body, Gods body, my Lord Chauncellour, what turned Parish Clarke? You dishonor the King and his Office very much. Nay (quoth Syr Thomas More smyling vpon the Duke) your Grace may not thinke, that the king your maister and myne, wilbe offended with me for seruing God his Maister, or therby accompt his Seruice any way dishonoured.  
    Now, when the Duke (at the speciall intreaty and importunate suite of Syr Thomas More, had obtayned of the King, that he should be discharged of his Chancellorship, at a conuenient tyme appointed by the King, he repayred vnto the Court, to yield vp the great Seale, which his Maiesty receaued of him, with prayse, and thankes for his good seruice done to his person and the Realme in that Office. And he further sayd vnto him in a gracious manner, that if in any suite he should heerafter haue vnto him, that either concerned his Honour (for that word it pleased the King to vse vnto him,) or appertayned to his profit, he should euer find his Highnes, a very good, and gracious Lord. 
    After he had thus resigned the Office, and Dignity of the Chancellorship, and placed all his Gentlemen & Yomen with Bishops and Noble men, and his eight Watermen with the Lord Audley (who succeeded him in his Office) to whome also he gaue his great Barge; he then called al his children vnto him, & asked their aduises how he might now in the decay of his ability, which by the surrender of his Office was so impayred, that he could not, as he was wont, maintayne them to liue al together according to his desyre; wherat when he saw them all silent, & vnwilling in that case to shew their opinions vnto him: Why then will I (quoth he) shew vnto you my poore mynd.  
    I haue been brought vp, (said he) at Oxford, at an I[n]ne of Chancery, at Lincolnes Inne, and also in the Kings Courtes, and so forth, from the lowest degree to the highest; and yet I haue in yearly Reuenewes, left me at this present, little aboue a hundred poundes by the yeare. So that now, we must hereafter if we will liue together, be content to become Contributours to ech other; but by my counsell it shall not be best for vs, to fall to the lowest fare first. We will not therefore descend to Oxford fare, nor the fare of New Inne; but we will begin with Lincolnes Inne dyet, where many right Worshipfull of good yeares do liue full well; which if we find not our selues the first yeare able to mayntayne, then will we the next yeare go one steppe downe to New-Inne fare, wherewith, many an honest man is well contented. Then, if that exceed our abilityes, will we the next yeare after descend to Oxford fare, where many graue, learned, & ancient Doctours be continually resident; which if our powers be not able to mayntayne neyther, then may we yet with bagges and wallets go a begging togeather, hoping that for pitty some good people will giue vs their Charity, at their doore, to sing Salue Regina, and so still may we keepe company togeather, and be as merry as Beggars.  
    And whereas you haue heard before, that he was by the King, taken from a very good liuing, and aduanced to his Maiesties seruice, wherein he spent with paynfull cares and trauels, aswell beyond the Seas, as within the Kingdome, in a manner the whole substance of his life: yet with all the gayne that he got thereby (being neuer wastfull spender) he was scarce able, after the Resignation of his office of Chancellorship, for the maintaynance of himselfe, and such as necessarily belonged vnto him, sufficiently to find meate drinke, apparell, and other such neccessaryes; all the land which he euer purchased (which he had also, before he was Lord Chancellour) not amounting to aboue the value of Twenty markes a yeare. And after his debts payd, he had not ( his Chayne only excepted) in gold and siluer, left him the worth of one hundred pounds.  
    In the tyme of his Chancellorship, vpon the Sundayes and Holy daies, when Masse, or Eue[n]songe were ended, one of of his Gentlemen did vsually go to his Ladyes Pew in the Church, & say vnto her: Madame, my Lord is gone. The next Sunday after the surrender of his Office, & departure of his Gentlemen, he went vnto his Ladyes pew himselfe, and with his Cap in hand, he made her low Courtesy, saying vnto her; Madame, My Lord is gone. 
    In the tyme, before his troubles, he would talke with his Wife and Children of the ioyes of heauen, & the paynes of hell & of the liues of the Holy Martyrs, of their grieuous Martyrdomes, of their meruailous Patience, and of their sufferings & deathes, & that they died most willingly rather the[n] they would offe[n]d God: also what a happy & blessed thing it was for the loue of God to suffer losse of goods, imprisonment, losse of life, and landes. Moreouer he would further say vnto them, That vpon his Fayth, if he could but perceiue, that his wife & Children would encourage him to dye in a good cause, it would be such a comfort vnto him, that for very ioy therof he would run merrily to his death. By this discourse, and other such like, he gaue them feeling what troubles might afterwardes chance to happen vnto him, wherby he had so farre encouraged them before the tyme, that afterwardes when they happened vnto him indeed, they seemed a great deale the lesse.  
    Now after the Resignation of his Office, there came vnto him to Chelsey, M. Thomas Cromwell (then in the Kings his fauour) with a message from his Maiesty, about which when they had co[n]ferred together priuatly; M. Cromwell (quoth Syr Thomas More) you are now newly entred into the seruice of a most Royall, Wise, & liberall Prince, and if you follow my poore aduise, you shall in your Counsell-giuing, euer tell him what he ought to do, but neuer what he is able to do. So shall you shew your selfe a true and faythfull seruant, & a right worthy Cou[n]sellour: for if a Lyon knew his owne strength, it were hard for any man to rule him.  
    Within a short tyme after [t]his, there was a Commission graunted forth and directed to M. Cranmer (then Archbishop of Canterbury) to determyne the matter of the Mariage between the King, & Queene Katharine, at S. Albans. Where at last, it was fully determined and concluded, according to the Kings desire: and then began he to co[m]playne, that since he could haue no Iustice at the Popes handes, he would therfore from thenceforth separate himselfe from the Sea of Rome, and thereupon he presently maried the Lady Anne Bullen. 
    Which, when Syr Tho. More vnderstood, he sayd to M. Roper,God graunt, God graunt, Sonne Roper, that these matters within a while, be not confirmed by Oath.  
    About this tyme, Queene Anne was to passe through Londonfro[m] the Tower to Westminster, to her Coronation, & some few dayes before, Syr Thomas More receiued a letter fro[m] the Bishops of Durham, Bath Winchester requesting him, both to keep them company from the Tower to Westminster to the said Coronation, and withall to accept of Twenty Poundes, which by the Bearer thereof they had sent vnto him to buy him a gowne; which he thankfully receiued, but yet went not, staying still at home vntill the Coronation was past. At his next meeting with the said Bishops, he spake merrily vnto them, saying My Lordes, by the letter which you sent lately vnto me, you required of me two things, one wherof since I was well contented to graunt, therefore I thought I might be the boulder to deny you the other: and also, because I tooke you for no Beggars, and my selfe I know to be no rich man, I thought I might the rather accept of your liberality with the more honesty. But indeed your other Request put me in mynd of a certaine Emperour ( I haue now forgotten his name) that made a law, that whosoeuer co[m]mitted a certayne offe[n]ce (which I do not now neyther remember,) should suffer death, by being deuoured of wild beastes, except it were a Virgin that offended against the same, such reuerence did he beare vnto Virginity. Now, it so fell out, that the first who committed the offence, was indeed a Virgin, wherof the Emperour hearing, was much perplexed because for the example of others, he would fayne haue had that Law put in execution. Whereupon his Counsell had sate, and long debated the case, suddenly there arose vp one amongst the rest a good playne fellow, and said, Why make you so much ado about this businesse, my Lordes? The matter seemes to me but small, and easy to be decided: For let her first be deflowered, and then afterwardes she may be deuoured.  
    And so my Honourable good Lords, though your Lordships haue in the matter of marriage hitherto kept your selues pure Virgins, yet take yee good heed you keepe your Virginity still. For there be some, who first by procuring your Lordshipps to be present at the Coronation, will next be egging you on, to preach for the setting of it forth, and finally compell you to publish Bookes vnto all the world in defence therof. These are they that be desirous to defloure you, and then when they haue defloured you, they will not fayle, soone after to deuoure you. Now my Lordes, it lyeth not in my power, but that they may deuoure me; but God being still my good Lord, I will so prouide, that they shall neuer defloure me.  
    And had he not byn one indeed, who in all his actions, and most great affairs as well for the king as the realme during many years, was euer free fro[m] all corruption, by doing wrong, or taking bribes; it would without doubt in this so troublesome a tyme, of the Kings displeasure agaynst him, haue beene deeply layd to his charge, therby to haue found any the least hole in his coate. But he alwayes kept himselfe so cleare, euen of suspition of any such thing, that no man was once able therwith to blemish him; although the same was shrewdly many times attempted, specially in the case of one Parnell, against whome Syr Thomas More whilst he was Lord Chancellour, in the suite of one Vaugham (Parnelsaduer[s]ary) had passed a sentence or decree, by way of Iustice.  
    Whereupon Parnell made a most grieuous complaynt vnto the King, that Syr Thomas More had, for passing of the foresaid decree, taken from the said Vaughan, vnable for the Gowte to trauell abroad himselfe) by the handes of his wife, a fayre great gilded cup for a bribe. Vpo[n] this accusation Syr Thomas Morewas by the Kings appointment, called before the whole body of the Counseil, where this matter was heynously laid to his charge. He forthwith confessed, that for asmuch as that cup was lo[n]g after the passing of a foresaid decree, brought vnto him for a new yeares gift, he at the Gentlewoma[n]s importune pressing it vpon him, of courtesy refused not to receiue it.  
    Then the Earle of Wiltshire, Syr Thomas Bullen, Father to Queene Anne, a very great enemy to Syr Thomas More, and chiefe complayner of this busines agaynst him to the King, with much reioycing said vnto the Lords there present: Loe, did I not tell you, my Lordes, that you should find this matter true?  
    Whereupon when Syr Thomas More had stood silent a while, smyling vpon the Lord of Wiltshire, he at length earnestly desired their Lordships, that as they had courteously heard him tell the one part of his Tale, so they would be pleased to vouchsafe him the indifferent hearing of the other.  
    Then he further declared vnto their Honours, That albeit indeed, he had with much intreaty receyued the cup, yet immediatly thereupon he caused his Butler to fill it with wyne, and of that cup he dranke vnto her, and she pledged him. Then as freely as her husband had giuen it vnto him, euen so, freely gaue he the same backe agayne to her, to giue vnto her husband for his New-yeares gift, which at his request (though much agaynst her will) she receyued agayne; as herself and diuers others there present, were deposed before them. So was this great Mountayne, was turned presently into Molehill.  
    So likewise at another time, vpon a New yeares day, there came vnto Syr Thomas More one M.rs Croker a rich widdow, for whome with no small paynes, he had passed a Decree in the Chauncery, agaynst the Lord Arundell, to present him with a payre of gloues, and fourty pou[n]ds in Angells within them, for a New yeares gift. Of whom he thankefully receiuing the Gloues, but refusing the money, said vnto her: Mistresse, since it were agaynst good manners to refuse a Gentlewomans New-yeares gift, I am content to take your Gloues, but for your Money I vtterly refuse it; & much against her mynd, he restored her the Gold backe agayne.  
    Another tyme also one M.rs Gresham hauing a cause depending before him in the Chauncery, sent him for a New years gift a fayre Gilded cup: The fashon whereof he very well liking, caused one of his owne cups (though not to his mynd of so good a fashon, yet much better in value) to be brought forth of his Chamber, which he willed the Messenger in recompence to redeliuer vnto his Mistresse, for with other condition he would in no wise receiue it.  
    Now when the King plainly saw, that he could not by any meanes wyn Syr Thomas More to his syde, he went about by terror, and threates to inforce him thereunto; the beginning wherof, was occasioned in this manner. There was a certayne Nunne dwelling in Canterbury, commonly called The holy Mayd of Kent, who for the exteriour shew of her Vertue, and Holinesse, grew into great esteeme amongst the common People first, and then amongst others and for that cause many Religious persons, many Doctors of Diuinity, and diuers others of very great accompt of the Lady vsed to resort vnto her. This holy woman affirmed, to haue had a Reuelation from heauen, to giue the King warning of his wicked life, and of the abuse of the Sword and Authority committed vnto him by God; and vnderstanding, the Bishop of Rochester, Doctor Fisher, to be a man of notable vertuous life & great learning, she repayred to Rochester, and there disclosed to him her sayd Reuelation, desiring his aduice and counsell therein; which the Bishop well perceiuing might stand with the lawes of God, and holy Church, aduised her (as she intended,[)] and had warning to do, to go vnto the King herselfe, and declare vnto him, all the circumstances therof. Whereupon she went, and told vnto his Maiesty her said Reuelation, and so returned home to Canterbury. 
    Within a short tyme after, this so said Holy Nunne, made a iorny to the Monastery of Sion situated vpo[n] the Thames, a litle aboue London, & by meanes of one M. Reynolds, a Father of the same house, visited the Religious therof. At which tyme it happened Syr Thomas More to be at Sion visiting some of his aquaintance there, & talking with the Nunne about some of her Reuelations, especially that which did concerne the Kings Supremacy and Marriage: which (he sayd) he might freely and safely do, without any daunger of the law, by reason the same was then neither established by Oath (as he himselfe had lo[n]g before prognosticated, neuerthelesse in all the discourse, and passages of speach which he had with the said Nunne (as it afterward appeared) he had carried himselfe so discreetly, that he rather deserued co[m]mendatio[n]s, the[n] blame.  
    At the Parlament following, there was a bill put vp for the attaynting of the forsaid Nunne of Canterbury, & of some other Monasticall persons, of High Treason: as also Bishop Fisher of Rochester, Syr Thomas More, and diuers others, of Misprision of Treason. With which the King verily thought Syr Thomas Morewould be so terrified, that it would inforce him to relent, & co[n]descend to his purpose; wherin, as it seemed, his Grace was much mistaken.  
    To this Bill, Syr Thomas More was suiter to be receiued personally to make answere for himselfe in his owne defence. But the King not liking that, assigned the Bishop of Canterbury, the Lord Cha[n]cellour, the Duke of Norfolke, and M. Cromwell at a day, and place appoynted, to call Syr Thomas More before them. At which tyme M. Roper thinking his Father had now fit opportunity, aduised him to labour these Lords for the help of his discharge, forth of the Parlament Bill, who answered M. Roper, that he would. 
    At his comming before the Lordes, according to theyr appoyntment, they intertayned him very friendly, and willed him to sit downe with them, which in no wise he would. The[n] began the Lord Chancellour to declare vnto him, how many wayes the King had shewed his loue and fauour towards him; how gladly he would haue had him continue in his Office; and how willing he would haue ben to haue heaped more Benefits vpon him; how he could aske no worldly Honour, or Profit at the Kings handes, that was likely to be denyed him; hoping by this declaration of the Kings fauours towards him, to induce him him to fauour his Highnes busines of the mariage. And lastly he requested his consent vnto no more, but what the Parlament, the Bishops, and Vniuersityes had allready admitted, and confirmed.  
    To this Syr Thomas More mildly made answere, saying; There is no man liuing, my Lordes that would with better will, do the thing that might be acceptable to the Kings Highnes then my selfe, who needes must co[n]fesse his manifold goodnesse, and bountifull benefits, most benignly bestowed vpon me: Howbeit I verily thought, that I should neuer haue heard more of this matter, considering, that from time to time, euen from the first beginning heerof I haue declared my mind playnly & truly to his Maiesty, which his Highnes euer seemed to me, like a most gracious Prince, very well to accept, neuer mynding (as he said) to molest me further therewith. Since which tyme I could neuer find further matter, that was able to moue me to any other change; which if I could, there is not a man in all the wor[l]d that would haue beene more glad therof, then my selfe.  
    Many thinges more, of like sort, were heere vttered on both sides: and in the end when they saw they could not by any manner of persuasion, remoue him from his former determination; then they began to touch him more neerely, telling him, that the Kinges Maiesty had giuen them in commandeme[n]t, if they could by no gentle meanes wyn him, to charge him in his Name with great Ingratitude, & that there was neuer found seruant to his Soueraigne so vngrateful, nor subiect to his Prince so trayterous as he: for that by his subtile & sinister sleights he had most vnnaturally vrged, & procured his Maiesty to set forth a Booke, Of the Assertion of the seauen Sacraments, and mayntaynance of the Popes Authority, and therby caused him, to his great dishonour throughout Christendome, to put a sword into the Popes handes, to fight agaynst himselfe.  
    Now when they had thus laid forth these, and all other such like terrours &, threates which they cold imagine agaynst him; My Lordes quoth he, these be but Bugbeares, only to affright Children, and not me. But to answere that, wherewith you do chiefly accuse me, I beleaue that the Kings Hignes, out of his Honour, will neuer lay any such thing to my charge, for there is no man in the world, that can in that poynt, say more in my excuse, then his Maiesty himselfe who knoweth right well, that I neuer was his procurer, or Counsellour therevnto, but after it was finished by his Highnes appoyntment, and consent of the makers therof, I only was made vse of, as a setter out, or a placer of some principall matters therein contayned; wherein, when I found the Popes Authority so highly aduanced, and with so strong Arguments mightily defended, I said vnto his Grace: I must put your Highnes in reme[m]brance of one thing, and that is this, The Pope as your Highnes well knoweth is a Prince as you are, & in league with all other Christian Princes, it may hereafter so fall out, that your Highnes and he may vary vpon some poynts of league, whereupon may grow breach of amity, yea and warrs betwixt you; I thinke it therefore best that, that place be amended, & his Authority more aduisedly touched. Nay (quoth the King) that shall it not, for we are so much bound to the Sea of Rome, that we cannot do to much honour thereunto. The[n] did I further put his Maiesty in remembrance of the Statute of Præmunire, wherby a great part of the Popes Prouisions, were pared away. To that his Maiesty answered, that what soeuer impediment were to the contrary, yet should his Authority be set forth to the vttermost: for (quoth he) we receiued fro[m] that Sea, this our Crowne Imperiall; of which thing vntill his Grace told me with his own mouth I neuer heard before. So that I trust when his Maiesty shalbe once truly informed of this, and call to remembrance my plaine and honest dealing therein, his Grace will neuer speake of it more, but rather quite cleare me thereof himselfe. Thus ended the Assembly for that tyme, & the Lords somwhat displeasantly departed.  
    Then tooke Syr Thomas More his boat homwards to his house at Chelsey, togeather with M. Roberts, and by the way was very pleasant. Which M. Roper seeing, was very glad therof, hoping that he had gotten himselfe discharged out of the Parlament bill. When he was landed, and come home to his house, they went into his Garden, and there walked togeather a good while. Now M. Roperbeing very desirous to know how he had sped, said: I trust Syr, all [is] well, because you are so merry. It is so indeed sonne Roper(quoth he) I thanke our Lord God. Are you then put out of the Parlament bill Syr (quoth M. Roper?) By my troth sonne Roper(quoth he,) I neuer remembred it. Neuer remembred it, Syr, (quoth M. Roper) a matter that toucheth your selfe so neere, & all vs for your sake. Truly, Syr, I am very sorry to heare it, for I verily hoped, when I saw you so merry, that all had ben well. Well, well Sonne Roper (quoth he) wilt thou know why I was so merry indeed? That would I gladly Syr, said M. Roper. In good Fayth, Sonne Roper, I reioyced that I had giuen the Deuill a foule fall, and that with these Lordes, I had gone so farre, as without great shame I could not go backe agayne. At which wordes M. Roper waxed sad, and then they went both in.  
    Now, vpon the report made by the Lord Chancellour, and the other Lords, to the King of their former discourse, and proceedings with Syr Thomas More, the King was so highly offeneded with him, that he playnly told them, he was fully purposed that the aforesaid Parlament-Bill shold proceed forth agaynst him. To whome the Lord Cha[n]cellour, and the rest of the Lordes said, they perceiued the vpper House so precisely bent to heare him spake for himselfe & to make answere in his owne defence, that if her were not put out of the bill, it would without fayle be reiected of all. But for all this, the King would needes haue his owne will therein, or else (quoth he) at the passing therof, I will my selfe be personally present. Then did the Lord Chancellour, and the rest (seeing him so vehemently bent therein) vpon their knees, beseech his Grace in most humble wise, to forbeare the same, considering, that if he should in his owne presence receiue an ouerthrow, it would not only encourage his Subiects euer after to contemne him; but also throughout all Christendome, redound to his great dishonour. Adding thereunto, that they doubted not in tyme, to find some other matter against him, which might serue his Maiesties purpose far better; for in this former busines, especially that of the Nunne, he is accompted (quoth they) so innocent and cleare, that he is iudged of most men, rather worthy of praise, then reprehension. Whereupon at length, through their earnest perswasions the King was contented to yield himselfe to their counsell.  
    On the Morrow after, M. Cromwell meeting with M. Roper in the Parlament house, willed him to tell his Father, that he was put out of the Parlament Bill; which newes M. Roper sent home immediatly to his wife, willing her to make the same knowne unto her Father. Whereof when he heard: In good fayth Megge (quoth he) Quod differtur, non aufertur. After this it happened that the Duke of Norfolke & Syr Tho. More met togeather, and falling into familiar talke, the Duke said unto him; By the Masse M. More, it is perilous striuing with Princes, & therefore I would wish you somewhat to inclyne to the Kings pleasure: For by Gods body, M. More, Indignatio Principis Mors est. Is that all my Lord, (quoth he?) Then in good Fayth, there is no more difference betweene your Grace and me, but that I may die to day, & you to morrow.  
    In this Parlament was a statute made for the Oath of Supremacy, and lawfulnes of the Kings Mariage; and within a while after all the Priests of Lo[n]don, and Westminster, & with them Syr Thomas More only, & no lay man besides, were cited to appeare at Lambeth, before the Bishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellour, and Secretary Cromwell, Commissioners, appoynted there to tender the Oath vnto them. 
    Vpon this strange citation Syr Tho. More, as his accustomed ma[n]ner euer was, alwayes before he entred into any busines of importance (as when he was first chosen of the Kings priuy Cou[n]cell, when he was sent Embassador, appoynted Speaker of the Parlament-House, created lord Chancellour, or when he tooke any weighty matter vpon him) prepared himselfe to Confession, heard Masse, and was housled, in the Morning, the selfe same day that he was to appeare before the Lordes at Lambeth. 
    And as he vsed often at other tymes of his departure from his wife and Children (whome he tenterly loued) to haue them bring him to his boate, & there to kisse them all, and bid them farewell; at this tyme he would not suffer any of them to follow him further than his gate, where with a heauy hart (as by his countenance appeared) he tooke his leaue of them, & with M. Roper and foure seruants entred into his boate, towardes Lambeth: wherein sitting still sadly for a while, at last he rounded M. Roper in the eare, & said: Sonne Roper, I thanke our Lord God, the field is won[n]e. What he ment by that, they did not well vnderstand, yet loath to seeme ignorant, M. Roper said; Syr, I am very glad thereof. And as they after coniectured, it was for that the loue he had to God, wrought in him so effectually, that it vtterly conquered all his carnall affections.  
    At his comming to Lambeth, he behaued himselfe so discreetly before the Commissioners, at the ministration of the forsaid Oath, (as may be seene at large in certayne Letters of his sent to M.rsRoper, extant in a printed volume of his works) as they had litle, or nothing to lay vnto his charge; yet durst they not, as it seemed, dismisse him, but com[m]itted him to the custody of the Abbot of Westminster for 4. or 5. dayes; during [which] tyme the King consulted with his Counsell, what order were best to be taken with him. And albeit in the beginning, it was resolued that he should vpo[n] his oath be discharged; yet did Queene Anne,through her importunate clamours, so farre preuaile with the King against him, that contrary to the Commissioners expectation, he was committed to the Tower.  
    Now, as he was conducted thitherward by water, wearing a chayne of gold about his Necke, M. Richard Cromwell, who had the charge of conueying him to prison, aduised him to send home his Chayne to his wife, or to some of his Childre[n]. Nay (quoth he) that will I not, for if I were taken in the field by myne enemy, I would he should fare somwhat the better for me. At his landing at the Tower gate, M. Lietenant was ready there to receiue him, where the Gentleman Porter demanded of him his vpper garme[n]t. Why heere it is (quoth he) & presently tooke off his Cap, and deliuered it vnto him, saying; I am very sorry M. Porter, that it is no better for you. Nay (quoth the Porter) I must haue your Gowne Syr. O I cry you mercy, good M. Porter, for now indeed I remember, that my Cappe is not my vpper garme[n]t, but only the thatch of my poore old Tenement.  
    So then was he by M. Lieutenant conueyed to his Lodging, where he called vnto him one Iohn Wood his owne seruant, appoynted there to attend him, who could neither write nor reade, and swore him before the Lieutenant, that if he should heare or see at any time, his Maister write, or speake any manner of thing agaynst the King, Councell, or State of the land, he should reueale it to the Lieutena[n]t, that the Lieutena[n]t might make the same knowne to the Counsell.  
    After he had remayned in the Tower about a moneth, his daughter Roper (hauing greatly desired to see her Father) made earnest suite, & got leaue to visit him: at whose co[m]ming (after the saying of the seauen Psalmes & Letanyes, which he was euer accustomed to say with her) before they fell into discourse of any other matter, among other speaches he said vnto her: I belieue Megge, that they who haue put me heere, thinke they haue done me a great displeasure: But I assure thee on my fayth (myne owne good daughter) if it had not ben for my wife & you my Children, whom I acco[m]pt the chiefe part of my charge, I would not haue failed long ere now, to haue inclosed my selfe in a straiter roome than this. But since I am come hither, without myne owne desert, I trust that God of his goodnes will disburden me of my care, and with his gracious help supply my want amongst you. And I find no cause (I thanke God Megge) to reckon my selfe in worse case heere, then in myne owne house. For me thinkes in this case, God maketh me euen a wanton, setting me vpon his knee, and dandling me. 
    Thus by his patient suffering, and cheerfull demeanour in all his tribulations and disasters, it plainly appeared, that nothing seemed painfull vnto him, but rather a profitable Exercise, for the good of his soule. Then whe[n] he had questioned a while with his daughter about his wife[,] Children, and houshold state in his absence, he asked her how Queene Anne did? Neuer better Father (quoth she.) Neuer better Megge (quoth he:) Alas, alas, it pittieth me to remember into what misery (poore Soule) she will shortly come.  
    After this, M. Lieutenant co[m]ming one [day to] his chamber to visit him, & recou[n]ting the many courtesies, and benefits that he had heertofore receiued at his hands, and therefore how much the more bound he was to entertayne him friendly, & make him good chere, which the case standing as it did, he could not (as he would) do, without the Kings displeasure & therfore hoped he would accept of his good will and of such poore cheere as he had. Maister Lieutenant (quoth Syr Thomas More) now verily I belieue, all you haue said to be true, for which I do most hartily thanke you. And assure your selfe, M[.] Lieutenant, when you see me mislike my cheere, then thrust me out of your doores, as a very vnthankefull Guest.  
    Now wheras the Oath aboue mentioned made to confirme the Kg. Supremacy & mariage, was co[m]prised in very few wordes, the Lord Chauncellour & Secretary Cromwell did of their owne heads, adde more words vnto it, to make it appeare of more force, and to sound better in the Kings eare: which Oath so amplified, they had caused to be ministred to Syr Thomas More, & to al others throghout the Kingdome. The which Syr Thomas Moreperceiuing said one day to his daughter Roper: I may tell thee Megge, they that committed me hither for refusing the Oath, not agreable to the Statute, are not by their own law able to iustify my impriso[n]ment. And surely Daughter, it is great pitty, that any Christia[n] Prince should, by so flexible a Counsell ready to follow his affections, & by so weake a Clergy wanting grace to stand constantly to their Religion, with flattery be so grossely abused. But at length the Lord Chancellour, & M. Secretary espying their owne ouersight in that behalfe, were glad afterwards to find a meanes that another Statute should be made for the confirmation of the sayd Oath so amplifyed, with theyr additions.  
    And wheras Syr Thomas More had made a conueyance for the disposing of his la[n]des, reseruing onely vnto himself, an estate for terme of life, and after his decease some part therof to his wife & children, & other some to his Sonne Ropers wife, for a ioynture, in consideration she was an Inheritresse in possessio[n] of more then a hundred pounds by the yeare: And likewise other some to M. Roper & his wife in recompence of their mariage money, with diuers remaynders ouer and besides: All which co[n]ueyances and assurances, being made and finished longe before any matter (wherof he was attaynted) could be made an offence: yet by Statute were they now al clearly auoyded, and all the lands that he had in such sort assured vpon his wife and children by the sayd co[n]ueya[n]ces (co[n]trary to order of the lawes) taken from them, and forfayted into the Kings handes, except only that portion which he had assured vpo[n] M. Roper & his wife, by reaso[n] that after the first conueya[n]ce, which was reserued to himselfe for the terme of his life, he had, vpon further consideration, within two dayes after, by another conueyance giuen the same immediatly to M. Roper and his wife, in present possession. So as the Statute had only auoyded the first conueyance, forfaiting no more vnto the King the[n] had byn passed therin; and the second conueyance passed to M. Roper and his wife ( being dated two daies after) falling without the compasse of the law, was adiudged good, and valide.  
    Syr Thomas More being now prisoner in the Tower, and one day looking forth at his window, saw a Father of Syon (named M. Reynolds) and three monkes of the Charterhouse, going out of the Tower to execution, for that they had refused the Oath of Supremacy: wherupo[n], he languishing [as] it were with desyre to beare them company sayd vnto his daughter Roper then present: Looke Megge, doest thou not see that these blessed Fathers be now going as cherefully to their deathes, as Bridegromes to their marriages? By which thou mayst see (myne owne dere daughter) what a great difference there is betweene such as haue spent all their dayes in a religiious, hard, and penitentiall life, and such as haue, in this world, like wretches (as thy poore Father heere hath done) consume all their tyme in pleasure and ease. For which God, out of his gracious Goodness wil no lo[n]ger suffer them to remayne heere in this vale of misery and iniquity, but wil speedily translate them he[n]ce into the fruitio[n] of his euerlasting Deity. Whereas thy sily Father, Megge, who like a most wicked caytiffe hath passed the whole course of his miserable life most sinfully, God thinking him not worthy to attayne so soone thereunto, leaueth here him in the world, to be further tryed, plunged [and] turmoyled in misery.  
    Within a whyle after, M. Secretary came to him from the King, and pretending much friendship towardes him said, that the Kings Highnes was his good and gracious Lord, not mynding any matter thenceforward, wherein he should haue cause of scruple to trouble his conscience. As soone as M. Secretary was departed to expresse what comforte he receiued of his speaches, he tooke a coale (for pen & inke then he had none) & wrote these lynes following.  
Eye-flattering Fortune, looke thou n'ere so fayre, 
Nor n'ere soe pleasantly, begin to smyle,  
As though thou wouldst my ruines all repayre;  
During my life thou shalt not me beguile. 
Trust I shall, God, to enter in a while  
Thy Heauen of Heauens, sure and vniforme.  
Euer after a calme, looke I for a storme. 
    Now Syr Thomas More, had continued almost six weekes in the Tower, before the Lady his wife could obteyne licence to visit him. Who at her first comming to him (like a good simple worldly woman) bluntly saluted him in this manner: What a good-eare M. More, I meruaile that you who haue ben alwayes hitherto taken for so wise a man, will now so play the foole to ly here in this close filthy prison, and be content to be thus shut vp amongst mice and rats, when you might be abroad at your liberty, with the fauour and good will both of the King and his Counsell, if you would but do as all the Bishops, & best learned of the Realme haue done? And since you haue at Chelsey a right fayre house, your Library, your Bookes, your Garden, your Orchard, & all other necessaryes ha[n]dsome about you; where also you might, in the co[m]pany of me your wife, Children and houshold be merry; I muse what a Gods Name you meane thus fo[n]dly to tarry here?  
    After he had a while quietly heard her, with a cheerefull cou[n]tenance he said vnto her. I pray thee good Mrs Alice tell me one thinge. What is that, quoth she? Is not this house as neere Heauen as myne owne? whereto after her accustomed homely fashion not liking such speaches she answered: Tille-valle, Tille-valle. How say you Mrs Alice, is it not so (quoth he?) Bone Deus, bone Deus, man, will your old Tricks neuer be left (quoth she againe?) Well then Mrs Alice, said he, if it be so, it is very well; for I see no great cause, why I should ioy much either in my gay house, or in any thing belonging thereunto, when as if I should but liue seauen yeares vnder ground, and then rise againe and come thither, I should not fayle to find some dwelling therein, that would bid me get out of doores, & tell me it were none of myne. What cause then haue I to loue such a house, as would so soone forget his old Maister? So as her perswasions moued him nothing at all.  
    Not lo[n]g after this there came vnto him, the Lord Chancellour, the Dukes of Norfolke, and Suffolke, with Maister Secretary, and diuers of the priuy Counsell, at two seuerall tymes, who vsed all possible policy to procure him either precisely to Co[n]fesse the Supremacy, or directly to deny it. Whereunto (as appeareth by the booke of his Examinations) they could neuer bring him, or iustly taxe him for the contrary.  
    Shortly heereupon, one M. Rich (created afterwardes Lord Rich) that then was newly made the Kings Sollocitour, Syr Richard Southwell, & one M. Palmer seruant to the Secretary; were sent vnto Syr Thomas More vnder colour of fetching his Bookes away from him. And whilst Syr Richard Southwell, and M. Palmer were busy in packing them vp, M. Rich pretending friendly discourse with him, amongst other things (of set purpose as it seemed) said thus vnto him: For as much as it is well knowne M. More, that you are a man both wise, and well learned, as well in the lawes of the Realme, as otherwise, I pray you therefore, let me in courtesy, and good will be so bold to put you this case. Admit there were Syr an Act of Parlament, that all the Kingdome should take me for King, would not you then M. More, take me for King? Yes, marry, (quoth Syr Thomas More) that would I. Then I put case further (quoth M. Rich: Admit there were an Act of Parlament, that all the Realme should take me for Pope, would you not then M. More take me for Pope? For answere (quoth Syr Thomas More) to your first case, the Parlament may well (M. Rich) meddle with the state of temporall Princes; but to make answere to your later case: Suppose the Parlament would make a law, that God should not be God: would you M. Rich, then say, that God were not God? No Syr (quoth he) that would I not. No more (quoth Syr Thomas More) as M. Richafter reported of him, could the Parlament make the King supreme head of the Church. And so M. Rich, with the rest departed.  
    Now vpon the only report of this speach of Syr Thomas Morewas indited of Treason, vpon the Statute, whereby it was made Treason to deny the King to be Supreme head of the Church: unto which Inditement, were put these heynous words, Maliciously, Traitrously, and Diabolically. Whereupon presently after he was brought fro[m] the Tower to answere the Inditement at the Kings Bench barre; & being there arraigned before the Iudges, he openly told the[m]; That he could be content to haue abiden the rigour of the law by this their inditement, but then he should be driuen to confesse falsely of himselfe the matter indeed, which was the denyall of the Kings Supremacy, and which he protested was most vntrue. Wherefore he pleaded therto not guilty, and so reserued vnto himselfe aduantage to be taken of the body of the matter, after verdict, to auoyd that Inditement. And moreouer he added; That if these only odious tearmes Maliciously, Trayterously, & Diabolically were left out of the Inditement, he saw nothing therin, wherwith iustly to charge him.  
    Then for proofe alleaged vnto the Iury, that Syr Thomas Morewas guilty of this Treason, M. Rich was called forth, to giue euidence vpon his Oath, as he did against him. To whome, hauing sworne, Syr Thomas More spake in this wise: If this Oath of yours be true M. Rich, then I pray God, that I may neuer see him in the face in his Kingdome; which I would not say, were it otherwise, to gayne the whole world. Then recounted he to the Court, the whole discourse, of all their Conference, and putting of Cases in the Tower, according to the Truth. And turning to M. Rich he said: In good fayth M. Rich, I am more sory for your Periury then for myne owne perill. And besides, you shall vnderstand, that neither I, nor any man else to my knowledge, euer tooke you to be a man of such credit, as to communicate vnto you any matter of importance; and (you well know) I haue ben acquainted with you no small while, and haue knowne you, & your Conuersation from your very youth; for we dwelled lo[n]g together in one Parish; where, as your selfe can tell best, (I am sory you compell me so to say) you were esteemed very light of your tongue, a great Dicer, and of no commendable Fame, or Name: Can it therefore seeme likely to your Lordships, that I would in so weighty a matter, so vnaduisedly ouershoote my self, as to trust M. Rich (a man reputed alwayes by me, and others for one of litle truth, as your Lordships haue heard) so farre, aboue my Soueraigne the King, or aboue any of his noble Counsellours, that I would vtter vnto him the secrets of my Conscience, touching the Kings Supremacy? The speciall poynt and only marke so long aymed at in all my actions? The thing which I neuer did, or euer wold offer to the Kings Maiesty himselfe? or to any of his Honourable Counsell, as it is not vnknowne vnto your Honours, who sundry tymes haue byn sent vnto me, into the Tower from his Highnes owne person, for no other purpose? Can this in your Iudgments, my Lords, seeme to stand with truth, in any likelihood? And yet if I had so laid indeed (my Lordes) as M. Rich hath falsly sworne, since it was spoken, as he sayth, in familiar talke, affirming nothing, and only in putting of cases, without other displeasant circumstances, it cannot iustly be taken to be spoken Maliciously, and where there is no Malice, there can be no Offence. 
    And besides this (my Lordes,) I can neuer thinke, that so many worthy Bishops, so many honourable Personages, and so many other worshipfull, wise and well learned men, as were assembled at the making of that Law in the Parlament, euer meant to haue any man punished by death, in whome there could be found no Malice:for if Malice be taken for Sinne generally, then there is no man that can excuse himselfe therof: Si Dixerimus, quód peccatum non habemus &c. And as for the terme Maliciously, it is not in this Statute to be taken for Materiall; as in like case you know the terme Forcible, is meant in Forcible Entry; by which Statute if a man enter patiently, and put not his Aduersary out forcibly, it is no offence: but if he put him out forcibly, by that Statute it is an Offence, and so shalbe punished by this terme forcible. 
    Moreouer (my Lords) the manifold goodnes of the Kings Highnes himselfe, who hath ben so many wayes my singular good Lord, & gracious soueraygne, who hath alwaies deerly affected me, and euen at my first coming vnto his Royal seruice, aduan[n]ced me to the dignity of his Honourable priuy Counsell, vouchsafing to admit me afterward to Offices of great credit and Honour, and lastly, to exalt me to that weighty roome of his Maiestyes high Chauncellour, (the like whereof he neuer did to any temporal man his subiect before) next to his owne Royal person the highest Office in this noble kingdome, so farre aboue my merit or desert, and this for the space of aboue twenty years togeather, shewing his continuall fauour towards me, vntill at myne owne poore suite (giuing me his gracious licence to bestow the litle residue of my life, in the seruice of God, for the good of my soule) it pleased his highnes of his especiall goodnes, to discharge and disburden me therof: now all this his highnes fauour (I say) thus bou[n]tifully extended, & so long continued towardes me considered, as it ought, in my mind is sufficient to co[n]vince this slaunderous surmise of M. Rich, so wrongfully sworne agaynst me.  
    When Syr Thomas More had thus spoken, M. Rich seing himselfe so disproued, and his credit so fouly disgraced, caused Sir Richard Southwell, M. Palmer (who were also present at the time of their Conference in his Chamber) to be sworne, what wordes had passed betwixt the[m]. Whereupon M. Palmer vpon his deposition said; That he was so busy, in putting vp Syr Thomas Mores Bookes into a sacke, that he tooke no heed of their speaches. Sir Richard Southwell likewise vpon his deposition said; That because he was only appoynted to looke vnto the conueya[n]ce of his Bookes, he gaue no great eare vnto what they sayd.  
    After this, many other reasons & arguments were alleadged by Syr Thomas More, in defence of his owne Innocency, & to the discredit of M. Rich, in the forsaid point; Notwithstanding all which, the Iury found him guilty, and immediatly vpon their verdict, the Lord Chauncellour (for that businesse there chiefe commissioner) beginning to prceed to Iudgment against him, Syr Tho. More said vnto him.  
    My Lord, when I my selfe was towardes the Law, the ma[n]ner in such cases was, to aske the Prisoner before sentence of Co[n]demnatio[n], why Iudgme[n]t should not be giue[n] agaynst him? Whervpon the Lord Cha[n]cellour staying the sentence (wherein he had partly begun to proceed) demaunded of him, What he was able to say for himselfe, to the contrary? Then Syr Tho. More, in this sort, most humbly made answere.  
    For asmuch as, my Lordes, (quoth he) this Iudgment is grounded vpon an Act of Parlament directly repugna[n]t to the lawes of God & his holy Church the supreme gouernement of which, or any part thereof, no temporall Prince may presume by any temporall law, to take vpon him, as rightfully belonging to the Sea of Rome: a spirituall preheminence conferred, and granted, by the mouth of our Sauiour himselfe, being personally present vpon the Earth, only vnto S. Peter the Apostle, and his lawfull Successors, Bishops of the same Sea by special prerogatiue; It is not therefore sufficient inough for one Christian Catholike man to charge, and conuince another Christian Catholike man, & say, that this Realme of England (being but a member, & a small part only of the Church of Christ) hath power and authority to make a particular law, disagreable to the generall law of Christs Vniuersall Catholique Church; no more then the Citty of London, being but one poore member in respect of the whole Kingdome, might make a law agaynst an Act of Parlament, to bind the whole Realme. And further he shewed, that it was co[n]trary both to the ancient Lawes, & Statutes of our owne Realme not the[n] repealled, as they might well see in Magna Carta; Quod Ecclesia libera sit, & habeat omnia iura integra, & libertates suas illæsas; and contrary likewise to that sacred Oath, which the Kings Highnes himselfe, and euery other Christian Prince of this realme with great Solemnity, hath euer taken at their Coronation. Alleaging moreouer, that no more might this Realme of England refuse obediance to the Sea of Rome, then that the child might refuse Obedience to his naturall Father: for as S. Paul sayth of the Corinthians, I haue regenerated you my Children in Christ; so might holy S. Gregory Pope of Rome, of whome (by S. Augustinehis messenger) we Englishmen first receiued the Christian fayth, truly say, You are my Children, because I haue giuen you euerlasting saluation (a farre, and better, & more noble Inheritance, then any carnall Father can leaue to his Children) & by regeneration made you my Children in Christ. 
    To this speach of Syr Thomas More the Lord Chancellor answered; That seeing all the Bishops, vniuersities, & best learned of the Realme, had to this Act of Parlament agreed, it was very greatly to be admired, that he alone, agaynst them all, would so stifly sticke, and argue so vehemently against it.  
    To this Syr Thomas More againe replyed, saying: If the nu[m]ber of Bishops and Vniuersities be so materiall, as your Lordship seemeth to take it; then I see little cause, my Lord, why that thing should make any change at all in my Co[n]science. For I nothing doubt (though not in this Realme, yet in Christendome round about, the nu[m]ber of learned men and Bishops to be farre greater, who will defend and maintayne the contrary; and therefore am I not bou[n]den to conforme my co[n]science to the Councell of one Kingdome, against the generall Cou[n]cell of Christendome.  
    Now, when Syr Thomas More for the auoyding of the Inditement had taken as many exceptions as he thought fit, the Lord Chancellour loath to haue the burden of that Iudgment wholy to depend vpon himselfe there openly asked the aduise of the Lord Fitz-Iames (then Lord chiefe Iustice of the Kings Bench and ioyned in commission with him) whether this Inditement were sufficient or no. Who, like a discreet man, answered: My Lordes, (quoth he) by S. Iulian (that was euer his oath) I must needs co[n]fesse, that if the Act of Parlament be not vnlawfull, then is not the Inditement in my conscience insufficient. Whereupon the Lord Chancellour said to the rest of the Commissioners; Loe my Lordes, you all heare what my Lord chiefe Iustice sayth, & so immediatly he gaue Iudgment. Which being done the commissioners, yet further offered him curteously, all fauourable audience, if he would speake: who answered; I haue no more to say my Lords, but that, like as the Blessed Apostle S. Paul (as we read in the Acts of the Apostles) was present, and consented to the death of S. Stephen, & kept their clothes that stoned him to death, and are now both holy Saintes in heauen; so I verily trust, and shall right hartily pray, that though your Lordships haue now heere in earth byn Iudges to my Condemnation, yet may we hereafter meete all togeather in euerlasting glory.  
    After his condemnation he departed from the Barre towardes the Tower agayne, led by Sir William Kingston (a tall strong and comely knight) Constable of the Tower, & his very deere frie[n]d, who whe[n] he had brought him a part of the way towardes the Tower, with a heauy heart, the teares running downe his cheekes, bad him farwell. The which Syr Thomas More seeing, comforted him with as good words as he could, saying: Good M. Kingston,trouble not your selfe, but be of good cheere, for I will pray for you, and my good Lady your wife that we may meete togeather in Heaue[n], where we shalbe merry for euer and euer. And a little after Syr William Kingstone meeting with M. Roper said: In good fayth M. Roper, I was ashamed of my selfe that at my departure from your Father, I found my selfe so feeble, and he so strong, that he was able to co[m]fort me, who should rather haue comforted him.  
    As Syr Tho. More came neere vnto the Tower, his Daughter Roper desirous to see her Father once more before his death, and to receaue his last blessing, gaue attendance about the Tower-wharfe, where he was to passe, & so soone as she saw him, hastning vnto him, without respect of care of herselfe, pressed in among the throng of the Guard, that with halbards went round about him, and there openly in the sight of all asking him blessing on her knees imbrac't him, tooke him about the necke, and kissed him. Who with a merry countenance, nothing at all deiected, gaue her his Fatherly blessing, with many Godly wordes of comfort, & the[n] departed.  
    So remayned he in the Tower more then eight dayes after his condemnation, from whence, the day before he suffered, he sent his shirt of hayre (not willing to haue it seene) to his said Daughter Roper, and a Letter written with a cole (printed in the aforesaid booke of his workes) expressing playnly the feruent desyre he had to suffer on the Morrow, in these wordes following: I comber you, good Margaret very much, but I wold be sorry if it should be any longer, then to Morrow; for to Morrow is S. Thomas of Canterbury his Eue, & therfore to Morrow long I to go to God; it were a day very meete, and conuenient for me. I neuer liked your manner better towardes me than when you last embraced me, and when daughterly loue, and deare charity, haue no leasure to looke towards wordly courtesy.  
    Vpon the Morrow, according as he wished, earely in the morning there came vnto him Syr Thomas Pope, his singular good friend, with a message from the King and Counsell, that he must before nine of the clocke, the same morning, suffer death, and he should forthwith prepare himself therto. M. Pope (quoth he) for your good tydings, I most hartily thanke you. I haue alwayes ben much bound to the Kings highnes, for the many benefits, and honours that he hath still from tyme to tyme most bountifully heaped vpon me; especially that it hath pleased his Maiesty, to put me here in this place, where I haue had conuenient tyme and leasure to remember my last End; and now most of all am I bound vnto his Grace, that I shall be shortly rid out of the miseries of this wretched life, & therfore will I not fayle to pray earnestly for his Grace, both heere & in the other world also.  
    The Kings pleasure is further (quoth Syr Thomas Pope) that at your execution you shall not vse many words. M. Pope (quoth he) you do well to giue me warning of the Kings pleasure, for otherwise I might haue offended his Maiesty agaynst my will. I had indeed purposed at that tyme, to haue spoken somwhat, but of no matter of offe[n]ce to his Grace; neuertheles what soeuer I intended, I am ready to conforme my selfe obediently to his commandement. And I beseech you, good M. Pope, be a means vnto his Maiesty that my daughter Margaret may be at my Buriall. The King is contented already (quoth Syr Thomas Pope) that your wife, children, and other of your Friends haue libery to be present therat. O how much am I bound vnto his grace (quoth Syr Thomas More) that vouchsafeth to haue so gracious a consideration of my poore Buriall. Whereupo[n] Syr Tho. Pope taking his leaue cold not forbeare weeping: which Syr Tho. More perceyuing, comforted him in this wise. Quiet your selfe good M. Pope, and be not discomforted, for I trust we shall one day se ech other in heaue[n], where we shal be sure to liue, and loue together in ioyfull blisse eternally.  
    Vpon Syr Thomas Popes departure, he changed himselfe into his best apparel, as one that had bin inuited to some sole[m]ne feast, which M. Lieutenant seing, aduised him to put it off, saying, that he that was to haue it, was but a Iauell. What M. Lieutena[n]t(quoth he) shall I accompt him a Iauell, that shall do me this day so singuler a benefit? Nay I assure you were it cloth of Gold, I would accompt it very well bestowed vpon him, as S. Cyprian did, who gaue to his Executioner, thirty peeces of Gold. Yet through the Lieutenants persuasions he altered his Apparell, and after the Exa[m]ple of the forsayd holy Martyr, he gaue that litle money he had left, to his Executioner, which was one Angell of Gold.  
    Then was he by M. Lieutena[n]t broght out of the Tower, & fro[m] thence led towards the place of Execution, vpon the Tower-hil, where going vp the Scaffold which was weake, & ready to fall, he said smilingly to M. Lieutena[n]t: I pray you, good M. Lieutena[n]t see me safe vp, & for my coming downe let me shift for my selfe. Then desired he all the people about him to pray for him, & to beare witnesse that he should now there suffer death in & for the fayth of the Holy Catholique Church. Which done he kneeled downe, and after his prayers sayd he turned to the Executioner, & with a chereful countenance spake thus merrily vnto him: Plucke vp thy spirits man, and be not afrayd to do thine Office: my necke is somwhat short, therefore take heed thou strikest not awry, for sauing of thine honesty: but if thou doest, vpon my word I wil not heerafter cast it in thy teeth. So, at one stroke of the Executioner, passed Syr Thomas More out of this world, to God, vpon the same day, which himselfe had most desired. 6. Iulij. 1535.  
    Soone after his death, intellige[n]ce therof came vnto the Emperour Charles the fifth, wherevpon he sent for Syr Thomas Eliot, then Embassadour there, & said vnto him: My Lord Embassadour, we vnderstand, that the King your Maister hath put his faythfull seruant, & graue Cou[n]sellour to death, Syr Thomas More. Whereunto Syr Thomas Eliot answered, that he had heard nothing thereof. Well (quoth the Emperour) it is too true, & this will I say, that if I had byn Maister of such a Seruant (of whose counsailes, and performance in State matters my selfe haue had these many yeares no small experience) I would rather haue lost the best Citty of my dominions the[n] such a worthy Counsellour. Which speach of the Emperour was afterward related by Syr Thomas Eliot vnto M. William Roper, & his wife, being with him at supper, in the presence of one M. Clement, M. Heywood, and their wiues.