We might much desire to know what the bishop's sensations were in reading

this letter--to know whether it occurred to him that in this naïve

acknowledgment, the Oxford heresy hunters were themselves confessing to an

act of heresy; and that by the law of the church, which they were so eager

to administer, they were liable to the same death which they were so

zealous to secure for the poor vendors of Testaments. So indeed they really

were. Consulting the stars had been ruled from immemorial time to be

dealing with the devil; the penalty of it was the same as for witchcraft;

yet here was a reverend warden of a college considering it his duty to

write eagerly of a discovery obtained by these forbidden means, to his own

diocesan, begging him to communicate with the Cardinal of York and the

Bishop of London, that three of the highest church authorities in England

might become _participes criminis_, by acting on this diabolical

information.

Meanwhile, the commissary, not wholly relying on the astrologer, but

resolving prudently to make use of the more earthly resources which were at

his disposal, had sent information of Garret's escape to the corporations

of Dover, Rye, Winchester, Southampton, and Bristol, with descriptions of

the person of the fugitive; and this step was taken with so much

expedition, that before the end of the week no vessel was allowed to leave

either of those harbours without being strictly searched.

The natural method proved more effectual than the supernatural, though

again with the assistance of a singular accident. Garret had not gone to

London; unfortunately for himself, he had not gone to Wales as he had

intended. He left Oxford, as we saw, the evening of Saturday, February

21st. That night he reached a village called Corkthrop,[523] where he lay

concealed till Wednesday; and then, not in the astrologer's orange-tawny

dress, but in "a courtier's coat and buttoned cap," which he had by some

means contrived to procure, he set out again on his forlorn journey, making

for the nearest sea-port, Bristol, where the police were looking out to

receive him. His choice of Bristol was peculiarly unlucky. The "chapman" of

the town was the step-father of Cole, the Oxford proctor: to this person,

whose name was Master Wilkyns, the proctor had written a special letter, in

addition to the commissary's circular; and the family connection acting as

a spur to his natural activity, a coast guard had been set before Garret's

arrival, to watch for him down the Avon banks, and along the Channel shore

for fifteen miles. All the Friday night "the mayor, with the aldermen, and

twenty of the council, had kept privy watch," and searched suspicious

houses at Master Wilkyns's instance; the whole population were on the

alert, and when the next afternoon, a week after his escape, the poor

heretic, footsore and weary, dragged himself into the town, he found that

he had walked into the lion's mouth.[524] He quickly learnt this danger to

which he was exposed, and hurried off again with the best speed which he

could command; but it was too late. The chapman, alert and indefatigable,

had heard that a stranger had been seen in the street; the police were set

upon his track, and he was taken at Bedminster, a suburb on the opposite

bank of the Avon, and hurried before a magistrate, where he at once

acknowledged his identity.

With such happy success were the good chapman's efforts rewarded. Yet in

this world there is no light without shadow; no pleasure without its alloy.

In imagination, Master Wilkyns had thought of himself conducting the

prisoner in triumph into the streets of Oxford, the hero of the hour. The

sour formality of the law condemned him to ill-merited disappointment.

Garret had been taken beyond the liberties of the city; it was necessary,

therefore, to commit him to the county gaol, and he was sent to Ilchester.

"Master Wilkyns offered himself to be bound to the said justice in three

hundred pounds to discharge him of the said Garret, and to see him surely

to Master Proctor's of Oxford; yet could he not have him, for the justice

said that the order of the law would not so serve."[525] The fortunate

captor had therefore to content himself with the consciousness of his

exploit, and the favourable report of his conduct which was sent to the

bishops; and Garret went first to Ilchester, and thence was taken by

special writ, and surrendered to Wolsey.

Thus unkind had fortune shown herself to the chief criminal, guilty of the

unpardonable offence of selling Testaments at Oxford, and therefore hunted

down as a mad dog, and a common enemy of mankind. He escaped for the

present the heaviest consequences, for Wolsey persuaded him to abjure. A

few years later we shall again meet him, when he had recovered his better

nature, and would not abjure, and died as a brave man should die. In the

meantime we return to the university, where the authorities were busy

trampling out the remains of the conflagration.

Two days after his letter respecting the astrologer, the Warden of New

College wrote again to the Diocesan, with an account of his further

proceedings. He was an efficient inquisitor, and the secrets of the poor

undergraduates had been unravelled to the last thread. Some of "the

brethren" had confessed; all were in prison; and the doctor desired

instructions as to what should be done with them. It must be said for Dr.

London, that he was anxious that they should be treated leniently. Dalaber

described him as a roaring lion, and he was a bad man, and came at last to

a bad end. But it is pleasant to find that even he, a mere blustering

arrogant official, was not wholly without redeeming points of character;

and as little good will be said for him hereafter, the following passage in

his second letter may be placed to the credit side of his account. The tone

in which he wrote was at least humane, and must pass for more than an

expression of natural kindness, when it is remembered that he was

addressing a person with whom tenderness for heresy was a crime.

"These youths," he said, "have not been long conversant with Master Garret,

nor have greatly perused his mischievous books; and long before Master

Garret was taken, divers of them were weary of these works, and delivered

them to Dalaber. I am marvellous sorry for the young men. If they be openly

called upon, although they appear not greatly infect, yet they shall never

avoid slander, because my Lord's Grace did send for Master Garret to be

taken. I suppose his Grace will know of your good lordship everything.

Nothing shall be hid, I assure your good lordship, an every one of them

were my brother; and I do only make this moan for these youths, for surely

they be of the most towardly young men in Oxford; and as far as I do yet

perceive, not greatly infect, but much to blame for reading any part of

these works."[526]

Doctor London's intercession, if timid, was generous; he obviously wished

to suggest that the matter should be hushed up, and that the offending

parties should be dismissed with a reprimand. If the decision had rested

with Wolsey, it is likely that this view would have been readily acted

upon. But the Bishop of Lincoln was a person in whom the spirit of humanity

had been long exorcised by the spirit of an ecclesiastic. He was staggering

along the last years of a life against which his own register[527] bears

dreadful witness, and he would not burden his conscience with mercy to

heretics. He would not mar the completeness of his barbarous career. He

singled out three of the prisoners--Garret, Clark, and Ferrars[528]--and

especially entreated that they should be punished. "They be three perilous

men," he wrote to Wolsey, "and have been the occasion of the corruption of

youth. They have done much mischief, and for the love of God let them be

handled thereafter."[529]

Wolsey had Garret in his own keeping, and declined to surrender him.

Ferrars had been taken at the Black Friars, in London,[530] and making his

submission, was respited and escaped with abjuration. But Clark was at

Oxford, in the bishop's power, and the wicked old man was allowed to work

his will upon him. A bill of heresy was drawn, which the prisoner was

required to sign. He refused, and must have been sent to the stake, had he

not escaped by dying prematurely of the treatment which he had received in

prison.[531] His last words only are recorded. He was refused the

communion, not perhaps as a special act of cruelty, but because the laws of

the church would not allow the holy thing to be profaned by the touch of a

heretic. When he was told that it would not be suffered, he said "_crede et

manducâsti_"--"faith is the communion;" and so passed away; a very noble

person, so far as the surviving features of his character will let us

judge; one who, if his manhood had fulfilled the promise of his youth,

would have taken no common part in the Reformation.

The remaining brethren were then dispersed. Some were sent home to their

friends--others, Anthony Dalaber among them, were placed on their trial,

and being terrified at their position, recanted, and were sentenced to do

penance. Ferrars was brought to Oxford for the occasion, and we discern

indistinctly (for the mere fact is all which survives) a great fire at

Carfax; a crowd of spectators, and a procession of students marching up

High Street with fagots on their shoulders, the solemn beadles leading them

with gowns and maces. The ceremony was repeated to which Dr. Barnes had

been submitted at St. Paul's. They were taken three times round the fire,

throwing in each first their fagot, and then some one of the offending

books, in token that they repented and renounced their errors.

Thus was Oxford purged of heresy. The state of innocence which Dr. London

pathetically lamented[532] was restored, and the heads of houses had peace

till their rest was broken by a ruder storm.

In this single specimen we may see a complete image of Wolsey's

persecution, as with varying details it was carried out in every town and

village from the Tweed to the Land's End. I dwell on the stories of

individual suffering, not to colour the narrative, or to re-awaken feelings

of bitterness which may well rest now and sleep for ever; but because,

through the years in which it was struggling for recognition, the history

of Protestantism is the history of its martyrs. No rival theology, as I

have said, had as yet shaped itself into formulas. We have not to trace any

slow growing elaboration of opinion. Protestantism, before it became an

establishment, was a refusal to live any longer in a lie. It was a falling

back upon the undefined untheoretic rules of truth and piety which lay upon

the surface of the Bible, and a determination rather to die than to mock

with unreality any longer the Almighty Maker of the world. We do not look

in the dawning manifestations of such a spirit for subtleties of intellect.

Intellect, as it ever does, followed in the wake of the higher virtues of

manly honesty and truthfulness. And the evidences which were to effect the

world's conversion were so cunningly arranged syllogistic demonstrations,

but once more those loftier evidences which lay in the calm endurance by

heroic men of the extremities of suffering, and which touched--not the mind

with conviction, but the heart with admiring reverence.

In the concluding years of his administration Wolsey was embarrassed with

the divorce. Difficulties were gathering round him, from the failure of his

hopes abroad and the wreck of his popularity at home; and the activity of

the persecution was something relaxed, as the guiding mind of the great

minister ceased to have leisure to attend to it. The bishops, however,

continued, each in his own diocese, to act with such vigour as they

possessed. Their courts were unceasingly occupied with vexatious suits,

commenced without reason, and conducted without justice. They summoned

arbitrarily as suspected offenders whoever had the misfortune to have

provoked their dislike; either compelling them to criminate themselves by

questions on the intricacies of theology,[533] or allowing sentence to be

passed against them on the evidence of abandoned persons, who would not

have been admissible as witnesses before the secular tribunals.[534]

It might have been thought that the clear perception which was shown by the

House of Commons of the injustice with which the trials for heresy were

conducted, the disregard, shameless and flagrant, of the provisions of the

statutes under which the bishops were enabled to proceed, might have led

them to reconsider the equity of persecution in itself; or, at least, to

remove from the office of judges persons who had shown themselves so

signally unfit to exercise that office. It would have been indecent,

however, if not impossible, to transfer to a civil tribunal the cognisance

of opinion; and, on the other hand, there was as yet among the upper

classes of the laity no kind of disposition to be lenient towards those who

were really unorthodox. The desire so far was only to check the reckless

and random accusations of persons whose offence was to have criticised, not

the doctrine but the moral conduct, of the church authorities. The

Protestants, although from the date of the meeting of the parliament and

Wolsey's fall their ultimate triumph was certain, gained nothing in its

immediate consequences. They suffered rather from the eagerness of the

political reformers to clear themselves from complicity with heterodoxy;

and the bishops were even taunted with the spiritual dissensions of the

realm as an evidence of their indolence and misconduct.[535] Language of

this kind boded ill for the "Christian Brethren;" and the choice of

Wolsey's successor for the office of chancellor soon confirmed their

apprehensions; Wolsey had chastised them with whips; Sir Thomas More would

chastise them with scorpions; and the philosopher of the _Utopia_, the

friend of Erasmus, whose life was of blameless beauty, whose genius was

cultivated to the highest attainable perfection, was to prove to the world

that the spirit of persecution is no peculiar attribute of the pedant, the

bigot, of the fanatic, but may co-exist with the fairest graces of the

human character. The lives of remarkable men usually illustrate some

emphatic truth. Sir Thomas More may be said to have lived to illustrate the

necessary tendencies of Romanism in an honest mind convinced of its truth;

to show that the test of sincerity in a man who professes to regard

orthodoxy as an essential of salvation, is not the readiness to endure

persecution, but the courage which will venture to inflict it.

The seals were delivered to the new chancellor in November, 1529. By his

oath on entering office he was bound to exert himself to the utmost for the

suppression of heretics:[536] he was bound, however, equally to obey the

conditions under which the law allowed them to be suppressed. Unfortunately

for his reputation as a judge, he permitted the hatred of "that kind of

men," which he did not conceal that he felt,[537] to obscure his conscience

on this important feature of his duty, and tempt him to imitate the worst

iniquities of the bishops. I do not intend in this place to relate the

stories of his cruelties in his house at Chelsea,[538] which he himself

partially denied, and which at least we may hope were exaggerated. Being

obliged to confine myself to specific instances, I choose rather those on

which the evidence is not open to question; and which prove against More,

not the zealous execution of a cruel law, for which we may not fairly hold

him responsible, but a disregard, in the highest degree censurable, of his

obligations as a judge.

The acts under which heretics were liable to punishment, were the 15th of

the 2nd of Henry IV., and the 1st of the 2nd of Henry V.

By the act of Henry IV., the bishops were bound to bring offenders to trial

in open court, within three months of their arrest, if there were no lawful

impediment. If conviction followed, they might imprison at their

discretion. Except under these conditions, they were not at liberty to

imprison.

By the act of Henry V., a heretic, if he was first indicted before a

secular judge, was to be delivered within ten days (or if possible, a

shorter period) to the bishop, "to be acquit or convict" by a jury in the

spiritual court, and to be dealt with accordingly.[539]

The secular judge might detain a heretic for ten days before delivering him

to the bishop. The bishop might detain him for three months before his

trial. Neither the secular judge nor the bishop had power to inflict

indefinite imprisonment at will while the trial was delayed; nor if on the

trial the bishop failed in securing a conviction, was he at liberty to

detain the accused person any longer on the same charge, because the result

was not satisfactory to himself. These provisions were not preposterously

lenient. Sir Thomas More should have found no difficulty in observing them

himself, and in securing the observance of them by the bishops, at least in

cases where he was himself responsible for the first committal. It is to be

feared that he forgot that he was a judge in his eagerness to be a

partisan, and permitted no punctilious legal scruples to interfere with the

more important object of ensuring punishment to heretics.

The first case which I shall mention is one in which the Bishop of London

was principally guilty; not, however, without More's countenance, and, if

Foxe is to be believed, his efficient support.

In December, 1529, the month succeeding his appointment as chancellor,

More, at the instance of the Bishop of London,[540] arrested a citizen of

London, Thomas Philips by name, on a charge of heresy.

The prisoner was surrendered in due form to his diocesan, and was brought

to trial on the 4th of February; a series of articles being alleged against

him by Foxford, the bishop's vicar-general. The articles were of the usual

kind. The prisoner was accused of having used unorthodox expressions on

transubstantiation, on purgatory, pilgrimages, and confession. It does not

appear whether any witnesses were produced. The vicar-general brought his

accusations on the ground of general rumour, and failed to maintain them.

Whether there were witnesses or not, neither the particular offences, nor

even the fact of the general rumour, could be proved to the satisfaction of

the jury. Philips himself encountered each separate charge with a specific

denial, declaring that he neither was, nor ever had been, other than

orthodox; and the result of the trial was, that no conviction could be

obtained. The prisoner "was found so clear from all manner of infamous

slanders and suspicions, that all the people before the said bishop,

shouting in judgment as with one voice, openly witnessed his good name and

fame, to the great reproof and shame of the said bishop, if he had not been

ashamed to be ashamed."[541] The case had broken down; the proceedings were

over, and by law the accused person was free. But the law, except when it

was on their own side, was of little importance to the church authorities.

As they had failed to prove Philips guilty of heresy, they called upon him

to confess his guilt by abjuring it; "as if," he says, "there were no

difference between a nocent and an innocent, between a guilty and a not

guilty."[542]

He refused resolutely, and was remanded to prison, in open violation of the

law. The bishop, in conjunction with Sir Thomas More,[543] sent for him

from time to time, submitting him to private examinations, which again were

illegal; and urged the required confession, in order, as Philips says, "to

save the bishop's credit."

The further they advanced, the more difficult it was to recede; and the

bishop at length, irritated at his failure, concluded the process with an

arbitrary sentence of excommunication. From this sentence, whether just or

unjust, there was then no appeal, except to the pope. The wretched man, in

virtue of it, was no longer under the protection of the law, and was

committed to the Tower, where he languished for three years, protesting,

but protesting fruitlessly, against the tyranny which had crushed him, and

clamouring for justice in the deaf ears of pedants who knew not what

justice meant.

If this had occurred at the beginning of the century, the prisoner would

have been left to die, as countless multitudes had already died, unheard,

uncared for, unthought of; the victim not of deliberate cruelty, but of

that frightfullest portent, folly armed with power. Happily the years of

his imprisonment had been years of swift revolution. The House of Commons

had become a tribunal where oppression would not any longer cry wholly

unheard; Philips appealed to it for protection, and recovered his

liberty.[544]

The weight of guilt in this instance presses essentially on Stokesley; yet

a portion of the blame must be borne also by the chancellor, who first

placed Philips in Stokesley's hands; who took part in the illegal private

examinations, and who could not have been ignorant of the prisoner's

ultimate fate. If, however, it be thought unjust to charge a good man's

memory with an offence in which his part was only secondary, the following

iniquity was wholly and exclusively his own. I relate the story without

comment in the address of the injured person to More's successor.[545]

"_To the Right Hon. the Lord Chancellor of England. (Sir T. Audeley) and

other of the King's Council._

"In most humble wise showeth unto your goodness your poor bedeman John

Field, how that the next morrow upon twelfth day,[546] in the twenty-first

year of our sovereign lord the King's Highness, Sir Thomas More, Knight,

then being Lord Chancellor of England, did send certain of his servants,

and caused your said bedeman, with certain others, to be brought to his

place at Chelsea, and there kept him (after what manner and fashion it were

now long to tell), by the space of eighteen days;[547] and then set him at

liberty, binding him to appear before him again the eighth day following in

the Star Chamber, which was Candlemas eve; at which day your said bedeman

appeared, and was then sent to the Fleet, where he continued until Palm

Sunday two years after [in violation of both the statutes], kept so close

the first quarter that his keeper only might visit him; and always after

closed up with those that were handled most straitly; often searched,

sometimes even at midnight; besides snares and traps laid to take him in.

Betwixt Michaelmas and Allhalloween tide next after his coming to prison

there was taken from your bedeman a Greek vocabulary, price five shillings;

Saint Cyprian's works, with a book of the same Sir Thomas More's making,

named the _Supplication of Souls_. For what cause it was done he committeth

to the judgment of God, that seeth the souls of all persons. The said Palm

Sunday, which was also our Lady's day, towards night there came two

officers of the Fleet, named George Porter and John Butler, and took your

bedeman into a ward alone, and there, after long searching, found his purse

hanging at his girdle; which they took, and shook out the money to the sum

of ten shillings, which was sent him to buy such necessaries as he lacked,

and delivered him again his purse, well and truly keeping the money to

themselves, as they said for their fees; and forthwith carried him from the

Fleet (where he lost such poor bedding as he then had, and could never

since get it), and delivered him to the Marshalsea, under our gracious

sovereign's commandment and Sir Thomas More's. When the Sunday before the

Rogation week following, your bedeman fell sick; and the Whitsun Monday was

carried out on four men's backs, and delivered to his friends to be

recovered if it so pleased God. At which time the keeper took for your

bedeman's fees other ten shillings, when four shillings should have

sufficed if he had been delivered in good health.

"Within three weeks it pleased God to set your bedeman on his feet, so that

he might walk abroad. Whereof when Sir Thomas More heard (who went out of

his chancellorship about the time your bedeman was carried out of prison),

although he had neither word nor deed which he could ever truly lay to your

bedeman's charge, yet made he such means by the Bishops of Winchester and

London, as your bedeman heard say, to the Hon. Lord Thomas Duke of Norfolk,

that he gave new commandment to the keeper of the Marshalsea to attach

again your said bedeman; which thing was speedily done the Sunday three

weeks after his deliverance. And so he continued in prison again until

Saint Lawrence tide following; at which time money was given to the keeper,

and some things he took which were not given, and then was your bedeman

re-delivered through the king's goodness, under sureties bound in a certain

sum, that he should appear the first day of the next term following, and

then day by day until his dismission. And so hath your bedeman been at

liberty now twelve months waiting daily from term to term, and nothing laid

to his charge as before.

"Wherefore, the premises tenderly considered, and also your said bedeman's

great poverty, he most humbly beseecheth your goodness that he may now be

clearly discharged; and if books, money, or other things seem to be taken

or kept from him otherwise than justice would, eftsoons he beseecheth you

that ye will command it to be restored.

"As for his long imprisonment, with other griefs thereto appertaining, he

looketh not to have recompense of man; but committeth his whole cause to

God, to whom your bedeman shall daily pray, according as he is bound, that

ye may so order and govern the realm that it may be to the honour of God

and your heavenly and everlasting reward."

I do not find the result of this petition, but as it appeared that Henry

had interested himself in the story, it is likely to have been successful.

We can form but an imperfect judgment on the merits of the case, for we

have only the sufferer's _ex parte_ complaint, and More might probably have

been able to make some counter-statement. But the illegal imprisonment

cannot be explained away, and cannot be palliated; and when a judge permits

himself to commit an act of arbitrary tyranny, we argue from the known to

the unknown, and refuse reasonably to give him credit for equity where he

was so little careful of law.

Yet a few years of misery in a prison was but an insignificant misfortune

when compared with the fate under which so many other poor men were at this

time overwhelmed. Under Wolsey's chancellorship the stake had been

comparatively idle; he possessed a remarkable power of making recantation

easy; and there is, I believe, no instance in which an accused heretic was

brought under his immediate cognisance, where he failed to arrange some

terms by which submission was made possible. With Wolsey heresy was an

error--with More it was a crime. Soon after the seals changed hands the

Smithfield fires recommenced; and, the chancellor acting in concert with

them, the bishops resolved to obliterate, in these edifying spectacles, the

recollection of their general infirmities. The crime of the offenders

varied--sometimes it was a denial of the corporal presence, more often it

was a reflection too loud to be endured on the character and habits of the

clergy; but whatever it was, the alternative lay only between abjuration

humiliating as ingenuity could make it, or a dreadful death. The hearts of

many failed them in the trial, and of all the confessors those perhaps do

not deserve the least compassion whose weakness betrayed them, who sank and

died broken-hearted. Of these silent sufferers history knows nothing. A

few, unable to endure the misery of having, as they supposed, denied their

Saviour, returned to the danger from which they had fled, and washed out

their fall in martyrdom. Latimer has told us the story of his friend

Bilney--little Bilney, or Saint Bilney,[548] as he calls him, his companion

at Cambridge, to whom he owed his own conversion. Bilney, after escaping

through Wolsey's hands in 1527, was again cited in 1529 before the Bishop

of London. Three times he refused to recant. He was offered a fourth and

last chance. The temptation was too strong, and he fell. For two years he

was hopelessly miserable; at length his braver nature prevailed. There was

no pardon for a relapsed heretic, and if he was again in the bishop's hands

he knew well the fate which awaited him.

He told his friends, in language touchingly significant, that "he would go

up to Jerusalem;" and began to preach in the fields. The journey which he

had undertaken was not to be a long one. He was heard to say In a sermon,

that of his personal knowledge certain things which had been offered in

pilgrimage had been given to abandoned women. The priests, he affirmed,

"take away the offerings, and hang them about their women's necks; and

after that they take them off the women, if they please them not, and hang

them again upon the images."[549] This was Bilney's heresy, or formed the

ground of his arrest; he was orthodox on the mass, and also on the power of

the keys; but the secrets of the sacred order were not to be betrayed with

impunity. He was seized, and hurried before the Bishop of Norwich; and

being found heterodox on the papacy and the mediation of the saints by the

Bishop of Norwich he was sent to the stake.

Another instance of recovered courage, and of martyrdom consequent upon it,

is that of James Bainham, a barrister of the Middle Temple. This story is

noticeable from a very curious circumstance connected with it.

Bainham had challenged suspicion by marrying the widow of Simon Fish, the

author of the famous _Beggars' Petition_, who had died in 1528; and, soon

after his marriage, was challenged to give an account of his faith. He was

charged with denying transubstantiation, with questioning the value of the

confessional, and the power of the keys; and the absence of authoritative

Protestant dogma had left his mind free to expand to a yet larger belief.

He had ventured to assert, that "if a Turk, a Jew, or a Saracen do trust in

God and keep his law, he is a good Christian man,"[550]--a conception of

Christianity, a conception of Protestantism, which we but feebly dare to

whisper even at the present day. The proceedings against him commenced with

a demand that he should give up his books, and also the names of other

barristers with whom he was suspected to have held intercourse. He refused;

and in consequence his wife was imprisoned, and he himself was racked in

the Tower by order of Sir Thomas More. Enfeebled by suffering, he was then

brought before Stokesley, and terrified by the cold merciless eyes of his

judge, he gave way, not about his friends, but about himself: he abjured,

and was dismissed heartbroken. This was on the seventeenth of February. He

was only able to endure his wretchedness for a month. At the end of it, he

appeared at a secret meeting of the Christian Brothers, in "a warehouse in

Bow Lane," where he asked forgiveness of God and all the world for what he

had done; and then went out to take again upon his shoulders the heavy

burden of the cross.

The following Sunday, at the church of St. Augustine, he rose in his seat

with the fatal English Testament in his hand, and "declared openly, before

all the people, with weeping tears, that he had denied God," praying them

all to forgive him, and beware of his weakness; "for if I should not return

to the truth," he said, "this Word of God would damn me, body and soul, at

the day of judgment." And then he prayed "everybody rather to die than to

do as he did, for he would not feel such a hell again as he did feel for

all the world's good."[551]

Of course but one event was to be looked for; he knew it, and himself wrote

to the bishop, telling him what he had done. No mercy was possible: he

looked for none, and he found none.

Yet perhaps he found what the wise authorities thought to be some act of

mercy. They could not grant him pardon in this world upon any terms; but

they would not kill him till they had made an effort for his soul. He was

taken to the Bishop of London's coal cellar at Fulham, the favourite

episcopal penance chamber, where he was ironed and put in the stocks; and

there was left for many days, in the chill March weather, to bethink

himself. This failing to work conviction, he was carried to Sir Thomas

More's house at Chelsea, where for two nights he was chained to a post and

whipped; thence, again, he was taken back to Fulham for another week of

torture; and finally to the Tower, for a further fortnight, again with

ineffectual whippings.

The demands of charity were thus satisfied. The pious bishop and the

learned chancellor had exhausted their means of conversion; they had

discharged their consciences; and the law was allowed to take its course.

The prisoner was brought to trial on the 20th of April, as a relapsed

heretic. Sentence followed; and on the last of the month the drama closed

in the usual manner at Smithfield. Before the fire was lighted Bainham made

a farewell address to the people, laying his death expressly to More, whom

he called his accuser and his judge.[552]

It is unfortunately impossible to learn the feelings with which these

dreadful scenes were witnessed by the people. There are stories which show

that, in some instances, familiarity had produced the usual effect; that

the martyrdom of saints was at times of no more moment to an English crowd

than the execution of ordinary felons--that it was a mere spectacle to the

idle, the hardened, and the curious. On the other hand, it is certain that

the behaviour of the sufferers was the argument which at last converted the

nation; and an effect which in the end was so powerful with the multitude,

must have been visible long before in the braver and better natures. The

increasing number of prosecutions in London shows, also, that the leaven

was spreading. There were five executions in Smithfield between 1529 and

1533, besides those in the provinces. The prisons were crowded with

offenders who had abjured and were undergoing sentence; and the list of

those who were "troubled" in various ways is so extensive, as to leave no

doubt of the sympathy which, in London at least, must have been felt by

many, very many, of the spectators of the martyrs' deaths. We are left, in

this important point, mainly to conjecture; and if we were better furnished

with evidence, the language of ordinary narrative would fail to convey any

real notion of perplexed and various emotions. We have glimpses, however,

into the inner world of men, here and there of strange interest; and we

must regret that they are so few.

A poor boy at Cambridge, John Randall, of Christ's College, a relation of

Foxe the martyrologist, destroyed himself in these years in religious

desperation; he was found in his study hanging by his girdle, before an

open Bible, with his dead arm and finger stretched pitifully towards a

passage on predestination.[553]

A story even more remarkable is connected with Bainham's execution. Among

the lay officials present at the stake, was "one Pavier," town clerk of

London. This Pavier was a Catholic fanatic, and as the flames were about to

be kindled he burst out into violent and abusive language. The fire blazed

up, and the dying sufferer, as the red flickering tongues licked the flesh

from off his bones, turned to him and said, "May God forgive thee, and shew

more mercy than thou, angry reviler, shewest to me." The scene was soon

over; the town clerk went home. A week after, one morning when his wife had

gone to mass, he sent all his servants out of his house on one pretext or

another, a single girl only being left, and he withdrew to a garret at the

top of the house, which he used as an oratory. A large crucifix was on the

wall, and the girl having some question to ask, went to the room, and found

him standing before it "bitterly weeping." He told her to take his sword,

which was rusty, and clean it. She went away, and left him; when she

returned, a little time after, he was hanging from a beam, dead. He was a

singular person. Edward Hall, the historian, knew him, and had heard him

say, that "if the king put forth the New Testament in English, he would not

live to bear it."[554] And yet he could not bear to see a heretic die. What

was it? Had the meaning of that awful figure hanging on the torturing cross

suddenly revealed itself? Had some inner voice asked him whether, in the

prayer for his persecutors with which Christ had parted out of life, there

might be some affinity with words which had lately sounded in his own ears?

God, into whose hands he threw himself, self-condemned in his wretchedness,

only knows the agony of that hour. Let the secret rest where it lies, and

let us be thankful for ourselves that we live in a changed world.

Thus, however, the struggle went forward; a forlorn hope of saints led the

way up the breach, and paved with their bodies a broad road into the new

era; and the nation the meanwhile was unconsciously waiting till the works

of the enemy were won, and they could walk safely in and take possession.

While men like Bilney and Bainham were teaching with words and writings,

there were stout English hearts labouring also on the practical side of the

same conflict, instilling the same lessons, and meeting for themselves the

same consequences. Speculative superstition was to be met with speculative

denial. Practical idolatry required a rougher method of disenchantment.

Every monastery, every parish church, had in those days its special relics,

its special images, its special something, to attract the interest of the

people. The reverence for the remains of noble and pious men, the dresses

which they had worn, or the bodies in which their spirits had lived, was in

itself a natural and pious emotion; but it had been petrified into a dogma;

and like every other imaginative feeling which is submitted to that bad

process, it had become a falsehood, a mere superstition, a substitute for

piety, not a stimulus to it, and a perpetual occasion of fraud. The people

brought offerings to the shrines where it was supposed that the relics were

of greatest potency. The clergy, to secure the offerings, invented the

relics, and invented the stories of the wonders which had been worked by

them. The greatest exposure of these things took place at the visitation of

the religious houses. In the meantime, Bishop Shaxton's unsavoury inventory

of what passed under the name of relics in the diocese of Salisbury, will

furnish an adequate notion of these objects of popular veneration. There

"be set forth and commended unto the ignorant people," he said, "as I

myself of certain which be already come to my hands, have perfect

knowledge, stinking boots, mucky combes, ragged rochettes, rotten girdles,

pyl'd purses, great bullocks' horns, locks of hair, and filthy rags,

gobbetts of wood, under the name of parcels of the holy cross, and such

pelfry beyond estimation."[555] Besides matters of this kind, there were

images of the Virgin or of the Saints; above all, roods or crucifixes, of

especial potency, the virtues of which had begun to grow uncertain,

however, to sceptical Protestants; and from doubt to denial, and from

denial to passionate hatred, there were but a few brief steps. The most

famous of the roods was that of Boxley in Kent, which used to smile and

bow, or frown and shake its head, as its worshippers were generous or

closehanded. The fortunes and misfortunes of this image I shall by and bye

have to relate. There was another, however, at Dovercourt, in Suffolk, of

scarcely inferior fame. This image was of such power that the door of the

church in which it stood was open at all hours to all comers, and no human

hand could close it. Dovercourt therefore became a place of great and

lucrative pilgrimage, much resorted to by the neighbours on all occasions

of difficulty.

Now it happened that within the circuit of a few miles there lived four

young men, to whom the virtues of the rood had become greatly questionable.

If it could work miracles, it must be capable, so they thought, of

protecting its own substance; and they agreed to apply a practical test

which would determine the extent of its abilities. Accordingly (about the

time of Bainham's first imprisonment), Robert King of Dedham, Robert

Debenham of Eastbergholt, Nicholas Marsh of Dedham, and Robert Gardiner of

Dedham, "their consciences being burdened to see the honour of Almighty God

so blasphemed by such an idol," started off "on a wondrous goodly night" in

February, with hard frost and a clear full moon, ten miles across the

wolds, to the church.

The door was open as the legend declared; but nothing daunted, they entered

bravely, and lifting down the "idol" from its shrine, with its coat and

shoes, and the store of tapers which were kept for the services, they

carried it on their shoulders for a quarter of a mile from the place where

it had stood, "without any resistance of the said idol." There setting it

on the ground, they struck a light, fastened the tapers to the body, and

with the help of them, sacrilegiously burnt the image down to a heap of

ashes; the old dry wood "blazing so brimly," that it lighted them a full

mile on their way home.[556]

For this night's performance, which, if the devil is the father of lies,

was a stroke of honest work against him and his family, the world rewarded

these men after the usual fashion. One of them, Robert Gardiner, escaped

the search which was made, and disappeared till better times; the remaining

three were swinging in chains six months later on the scene of their

exploit. Their fate was perhaps inevitable. Men who dare to be the first in

great movements are ever self-immolated victims. But I suppose that it was

better for them to be bleaching on their gibbets, than crawling at the feet

of a wooden rood, and believing it to be God.

* * * * *

These were the first Paladins of the Reformation; the knights who slew the

dragons and the enchanters, and made the earth habitable for common flesh

and blood. They were rarely, as we have said, men of great ability, still

more rarely men of "wealth and station;" but men rather of clear senses and

honest hearts. Tyndal was a remarkable person, and so Clark and Frith

promised to become; but the two last were cut off before they had found

scope to show themselves; and Tyndal remaining abroad, lay outside the

battle which was being fought in England, doing noble work, indeed, and

ending as the rest ended, with earning a martyr's crown; but taking no part

in the actual struggle except with his pen. As yet but two men of the

highest order of power were on the side of Protestantism--Latimer and

Cromwell. Of them we have already said something; but the time was now fast

coming when they were to step forward, pressed by circumstances which could

no longer dispense with them, into scenes of far wider activity; and the

present seems a fitting occasion to give some closer account of their

history. When the breach with the pope was made irreparable, and the papal

party at home had assumed an attitude of suspended insurrection, the

fortunes of the Protestants entered into a new phase. The persecution

ceased; and those who but lately were carrying fagots in the streets, or

hiding for their lives, passed at once by a sudden alternation into the

sunshine of political favour. The summer was but a brief one, followed soon

by returning winter; but Cromwell and Latimer had together caught the

moment as it went by; and before it was over, a work had been done in

England which, when it was accomplished once, was accomplished for ever.

The conservative party recovered their power, and abused it as before; but

the chains of the nation were broken, and no craft of kings or priests or

statesmen could weld the magic links again.

It is a pity that of two persons to whom England owes so deep a debt, we

can piece together such scanty biographies. I must attempt, however, to

give some outline of the little which is known.

The father of Latimer was a solid English yeoman, of Thurcaston, in

Leicestershire. "He had no lands of his own," but he rented a farm "of four

pounds by the year," on which "he tilled so much as kept half a dozen men;"

"he had walk for a hundred sheep, and meadow ground for thirty cows."[557]

The world prospered with him; he was able to save money for his son's

education and his daughters' portions; but he was freehanded and

hospitable; he kept open house for his poor neighbours; and he was a good

citizen, too, for "he did find the king a harness with himself and his

horse," ready to do battle for his country, if occasion called. His family

were brought up "in godliness and the fear of the Lord;" and in all points

the old Latimer seems to have been a worthy, sound, upright man, of the

true English mettle.

There were several children.[558] The Reformer was born about 1490, some

five years after the usurper Richard had been killed at Bosworth. Bosworth

being no great distance from Thurcaston, Latimer the father is likely to

have been present in the battle, on one side or the other--the right side

in those times it was no easy matter to choose--but he became a good

servant of the new government--and the little Hugh, when a boy of seven

years old, helped to buckle[559] on his armour for him, "when he went to

Blackheath field."[560] Being a soldier himself, the old gentleman was

careful to give his sons, whatever else he gave them, a sound soldier's

training. "He was diligent," says Latimer, "to teach me to shoot with the

bow: he taught me how to draw, how to lay my body in the bow--not to draw

with strength of arm, as other nations do, but with the strength of the

body. I had my bows bought me according to my age and strength; as I

increased in these, my bows were made bigger and bigger."[561] Under this

education, and in the wholesome atmosphere of the farmhouse, the boy

prospered well; and by and bye, showing signs of promise, he was sent to

school. When he was fourteen, the promises so far having been fulfilled,

his father transferred him to Cambridge.[562]

He was soon known at the university as a sober, hard-working student. At

nineteen, he was elected fellow of Clare Hall; at twenty, he took his

degree, and became a student in divinity, when he accepted quietly, like a

sensible man, the doctrines which he had been brought up to believe. At the

time when Henry VIII. was writing against Luther, Latimer was fleshing his

maiden sword in an attack upon Melancthon;[563] and he remained, he said,

till he was thirty, "in darkness and the shadow of death." About this time

he became acquainted with Bilney, whom he calls "the instrument whereby God

called him to knowledge." In Bilney, doubtless, he found a sound

instructor; but a careful reader of his sermons will see traces of a

teaching for which he was indebted to no human master. His deepest

knowledge was that which stole upon him unconsciously through the

experience of life and the world. His words are like the clear impression

of a seal; the account and the result of observations, taken first hand, on

the condition of the English men and women of his time, in all ranks and

classes, from the palace to the prison. He shows large acquaintance with

books; with the Bible, most of all; with patristic divinity and school

divinity; and history, sacred and profane: but if this had been all, he

would not have been the Latimer of the Reformation, and the Church of

England would not, perhaps, have been here to-day. Like the physician, to

whom a year of practical experience in a hospital teaches more than a life

of closest study, Latimer learnt the mental disorders of his age in the age

itself; and the secret of that art no other man, however good, however

wise, could have taught him. He was not an echo, but a voice; and he drew

his thoughts fresh from the fountain--from the facts of the era in which

God had placed him.

He became early famous as a preacher at Cambridge, from the first, "a

seditious fellow," as a noble lord called him in later life, highly

troublesome to unjust persons in authority. "None, except the stiff-necked

and uncircumcised, ever went away from his preaching, it was said, without

being affected with high detestation of sin, and moved to all godliness and

virtue."[564] And, in his audacious simplicity, he addressed himself always

to his individual hearers, giving his words a personal application, and

often addressing men by name. This habit brought him first into difficulty

in 1525. He was preaching before the university, when the Bishop of Ely

came into the church, being curious to hear him. He paused till the bishop

was seated; and when he recommenced, he changed his subject, and drew an

ideal picture of a prelate as a prelate ought to be; the features of which,

though he did not say so, were strikingly unlike those of his auditor. The

bishop complained to Wolsey, who sent for Latimer, and inquired what he had

said. Latimer repeated the substance of his sermon; and other conversation

then followed, which showed Wolsey very clearly the nature of the person

with whom he was speaking. No eye saw more rapidly than the cardinal's the

difference between a true man and an impostor; and he replied to the Bishop

of Ely's accusations by granting the offender a licence to preach in any

church in England. "If the Bishop of Ely cannot abide such doctrine as you

have here repeated," he said, "you shall preach it to his beard, let him

say what he will."[565]

Thus fortified, Latimer pursued his way, careless of the university

authorities, and probably defiant of them. He was still orthodox in points

of theoretic belief. His mind was practical rather than speculative, and he

was slow in arriving at conclusions which had no immediate bearing upon

action. No charge could be fastened upon him, definitely criminal; and he

was too strong to be crushed by that compendious tyranny which treated as

an act of heresy the exposure of imposture or delinquency.

On Wolsey's fall, however, he would have certainly been silenced: if he had

fallen into the hands of Sir Thomas More, he would have perhaps been

prematurely sacrificed. But, fortunately, he found a fresh protector in the

king. Henry heard of him, sent for him, and, with instinctive recognition

of his character, appointed him one of the royal chaplains. He now left

Cambridge and removed to Windsor, but only to treat his royal patron as

freely as he had treated the Cambridge doctors--not with any absence of

respect, for he was most respectful, but with that highest respect which

dares to speak unwelcome truth where the truth seems to be forgotten. He

was made chaplain in 1530--during the new persecution, for which Henry was

responsible by a more than tacit acquiescence. Latimer, with no authority

but his own conscience, and the strong certainty that he was on God's side,

threw himself between the spoilers and their prey, and wrote to the king,

protesting against the injustice which was crushing the truest men in his

dominions. The letter is too long to insert; the close of it may show how a

poor priest could dare to address the imperious Henry VIII.:

"I pray to God that your Grace may take heed of the worldly wisdom which is

foolishness before God; that you may do that [which] God commandeth, and

not that [which] seemeth good in your own sight, without the word of God;

that your Grace may be found acceptable in his sight, and one of the

members of his church; and according to the office that he hath called your

Grace unto, you may be found a faithful minister of his gifts, and not a

defender of his faith: for he will not have it defended by man or man's

power, but by his word only, by the which he hath evermore defended it, and

that by a way far above man's power or reason.

"Wherefore, gracious king, remember yourself; have pity upon your soul; and

think that the day is even at hand when you shall give account for your

office, and of the blood that hath been shed by your sword. In which day,

that your Grace may stand steadfastly, and not be ashamed, but be clear and

ready in your reckoning, and have (as they say), your _quietus est_ sealed

with the blood of our Saviour Christ, which only serveth at that day, is my

daily prayer to Him that suffered death for our sins, which also prayeth to

his Father for grace for us continually; to whom be all honour and praise

for ever. Amen. The Spirit of God preserve your Grace."[566]

These words, which conclude an address of almost unexampled grandeur, are

unfortunately of no interest to us, except as illustrating the character of

the priest who wrote them, and the king to whom they were written. The hand

of the persecutor was not stayed. The rack and the lash and the stake

continued to claim their victims. So far it was labour in vain. But the

letter remains, to speak for ever for the courage of Latimer; and to speak

something, too, for a prince that could respect the nobleness of the poor

yeoman's son, who dared in such a cause to write to him as a man to a man.

To have written at all in such a strain was as brave a step as was ever

deliberately ventured. Like most brave acts, it did not go unrewarded; for

Henry remained ever after, however widely divided from him in opinion, his

unshaken friend.

In 1531, the king gave him the living of West Kingston, in Wiltshire, where

for a time he now retired. Yet it was but a partial rest. He had a special

licence as a preacher from Cambridge, which continued to him (with the

king's express sanction)[567] the powers which he had received from Wolsey.

He might preach in any diocese to which he was invited; and the repose of a

country parish could not be long allowed in such stormy times to Latimer.

He had bad health, being troubled with headache, pleurisy, colic, stone;

his bodily constitution meeting feebly the demands which he was forced to

make upon it.[568] But he struggled on, travelling up and down to London,

to Kent, to Bristol, wherever opportunity called him; marked for

destruction by the bishops, if he was betrayed into an imprudent word, and

himself living in constant expectation of death.[569]

At length the Bishop of London believed that Latimer was in his power. He

had preached at St. Abb's, in the city, "at the request of a company of

merchants,"[570] in the beginning of the winter of 1531; and soon after his

return to his living, he was informed that he was to be cited before

Stokesley. His friends in the neighbourhood wrote to him, evidently in

great alarm, and more anxious that he might clear himself, than expecting

that he would be able to do so;[571] he himself, indeed, had almost made up

his mind that the end was coming.[572]

The citation was delayed for a few weeks. It was issued at last, on the

10th of January, 1531-2,[573] and was served by Sir Walter Hungerford, of

Farley.[574] The offences with which he was charged were certain "excesses

and irregularities" not specially defined; and the practice of the bishops

in such cases was not to confine the prosecution to the acts committed; but

to draw up a series of articles, on which it was presumed that the

orthodoxy of the accused person was open to suspicion, and to question him

separately upon each. Latimer was first examined by Stokesley; subsequently

at various times by the bishops collectively; and finally, when certain

formulas had been submitted to him, which he refused to sign, his case was

transferred to convocation. The convocation, as we know, were then in

difficulty with their premunire; they had consoled themselves in their

sorrow with burning the body of Tracy; and they would gladly have taken

further comfort by burning Latimer.[575] He was submitted to the closest

cross-questionings, in the hope that he would commit himself. They felt

that he was the most dangerous person to them in the kingdom, and they

laboured with unusual patience to ensure his conviction.[576] With a common

person they would have rapidly succeeded. But Latimer was in no haste to be

a martyr; he would be martyred patiently when the time was come for

martyrdom; but he felt that no one ought "to consent to die," as long as he

could honestly live;[577] and he baffled the episcopal inquisitors with

their own weapons. He has left a most curious account of one of his

interviews with them.

"I was once in examination," he says,[578] "before five or six bishops,

where I had much turmoiling. Every week, thrice, I came to examination, and

many snares and traps were laid to get something. Now, God knoweth, I was

ignorant of the law; but that God gave me answer and wisdom what I should

speak. It was God indeed, for else I had never escaped them. At the last, I

was brought forth to be examined into a chamber hanged with arras, where I

was before wont to be examined, but now, at this time, the chamber was

somewhat altered: for whereas before there was wont ever to be a fire in

the chimney,[579] now the fire was taken away, and an arras hanging hanged

over the chimney; and the table stood near the chimney's end, so that I

stood between the table and the chimney's end. There was among these

bishops that examined me one with whom I had been very familiar, and took

him for my great friend, an aged man, and he sate next the table end. Then,

among all other questions, he put forth one, a very subtle and crafty one,

and such one indeed as I could not think so great danger in. And when I

would make answer, 'I pray you, Master Latimer,' said he, 'speak out; I am

very thick of hearing, and here be many that sit far off.' I marvelled at

this, that I was bidden to speak out, and began to misdeem, and gave an ear

to the chimney; and, sir, there I heard a pen walking in the chimney,

behind the cloth. They had appointed one there to write all mine answers;

for they made sure work that I should not start from them: there was no

starting from them: God was my good Lord, and gave me answer; I could never

else have escaped it. The question was this: 'Master Latimer, do you not

think, on your conscience, that you have been suspected of heresy?'--a

subtle question--a very subtle question. There was no holding of peace

would serve. To hold my peace had been to grant myself faulty. To answer

was every way full of danger. But God, which hath always given rile answer,

helped me, or else I could never have escaped it. _Ostendite mihi numisma_

_censûs_. Shew me, said he, a penny of the tribute money. They laid snares

to destroy him, but he overturneth them in their own traps."[580]

The bishops, however, were not men who were nice in their adherence to the

laws; and it would have gone ill with Latimer, notwithstanding his

dialectic ability. He was excommunicated and imprisoned, and would soon

have fallen into worse extremities; but at the last moment he appealed to

the king, and the king, who knew his value, would not allow him to be

sacrificed. He had refused to subscribe the articles proposed to him.[581]

Henry intimated to the convocation that it was not his pleasure that the

matter should be pressed further; they were to content themselves with a

general submission, which should be made to the archbishop, without

exacting more special acknowledgments. This was the reward to Latimer for

his noble letter. He was absolved, and returned to his parish, though

snatched as a brand out of the fire.

Soon after, the tide turned, and the Reformation entered into a new phase.

Such is a brief sketch of the life of Hugh Latimer, to the time when it

blended with the broad stream of English history. With respect to the other

very great man whom the exigencies of the state called to power

simultaneously with him, our information is far less satisfactory. Though

our knowledge of Latimer's early story comes to us in fragments only, yet

there are certain marks in it by which the outline can be determined with

certainty. A cloud rests over the youth and early manhood of Thomas

Cromwell, through which, only at intervals, we catch glimpses of authentic

facts; and these few fragments of reality seem rather to belong to a

romance than to the actual life of a man.

Cromwell, the malleus monachorum, was of good English family, belonging to

the Cromwells of Lincolnshire. One of these, probably a younger brother,

moved up to London and conducted an ironfoundry, or other business of that

description, at Putney. He married a lady of respectable connections, of

whom we know only that she was sister of the wife of a gentleman in

Derbyshire, but whose name does not appear.[582] The old Cromwell dying

early, the widow was re-married to a cloth-merchant; and the child of the

first husband, who made himself so great a name in English story, met with

the reputed fortune of a stepson, and became a vagabond in the wide world.

The chart of his course wholly fails us. One day in later life he shook by

the hand an old bell-ringer at Sion House before a crowd of courtiers, and

told them that "this man's father had given him many a dinner in his

necessities." And a strange random account is given by Foxe of his having

joined a party in an expedition to Rome to obtain a renewal from the pope

of certain immunities and indulgences for the town of Boston; a story which

derives some kind of credibility from its connection with Lincolnshire, but

is full of incoherence and unlikelihood. Following still the popular

legend, we find him in the autumn of 1515 a ragged stripling at the door of

Frescobaldi's banking-house in Florence, begging for help. Frescobaldi had

an establishment in London,[583] with a large connection there; and seeing

an English face, and seemingly an honest one, he asked the boy who and what

he was. "I am, sir," quoth he, "of England, and my name is Thomas Cromwell;

my father is a poor man, and by occupation a cloth-shearer; I am strayed

from my country, and am now come into Italy with the camp of Frenchmen that

were overthrown at Garigliano, where I was page to a footman, carrying

after him his pike and burganet." Something in the boy's manner was said to

have attracted the banker's interest; he took him into his house, and after

keeping him there as long as he desired to stay, he gave him a horse and

sixteen ducats to help him home to England.[584] Foxe is the first English

authority for the story; and Foxe took it from Bandello, the novelist; but

it is confirmed by, or harmonises with, a sketch of Cromwell's early life

in a letter of Chappuys, the imperial ambassador, to Chancellor Granvelle.

"Master Cromwell," wrote Chappuys in 1535, "is the son of a poor

blacksmith, who lived in a small village four miles from London, and is

buried in a common grave in the parish churchyard. In his youth, for some

offence, he was imprisoned, and had to leave the country. He went to

Flanders, and thence to Rome and other places in Italy."[585]

Returning to England, he married the daughter of a woollen-dealer, and

became a partner in the business, where he amassed or inherited a

considerable fortune.[586] Circumstances afterwards brought him, while

still young, in contact with Wolsey, who discovered his merit, took him

into service, and in 1525, employed him in the most important work of

visiting and breaking up the small monasteries, which the pope had granted

for the foundation of the new colleges. He was engaged with this business

for two years, and was so efficient that he obtained an unpleasant

notoriety, and complaints of his conduct found their way to the king.

Nothing came of these complaints, however, and Cromwell remained with the

cardinal till his fall.[587]

It was then that the truly noble nature which was in him showed itself. He

accompanied his master through his dreary confinement at Esher,[588] doing

all that man could do to soften the outward wretchedness of it; and at the

meeting of parliament, in which he obtained a seat, he rendered him a still

more gallant service. The Lords had passed a bill of impeachment against

Wolsey, violent, vindictive, and malevolent. It was to be submitted to the

Commons, and Cromwell prepared to attempt an opposition. Cavendish has left

a most characteristic description of his leaving Esher at this trying time.

A cheerless November evening was closing in with rain and storm. Wolsey was

broken down with sorrow and sickness; and had been unusually tried by

parting with his retinue, whom he had sent home, as unwilling to keep them

attached any longer to his fallen fortunes. When they were all gone, "My

lord," says Cavendish, "returned to his chamber, lamenting the departure of

his servants, making his moan unto Master Cromwell, who comforted him the

best he could, and desired my lord to give him leave to go to London, where

he would either make or mar before he came again, which was always his

common saying. Then after long communication with my lord in secret, he

departed, and took his horse and rode to London; at whose departing I was

by, whom he bade farewell, and said, ye shall hear shortly of me, and if I

speed well I will not fail to be here again within these two days."[589] He

did speed well. "After two days he came again with a much pleasanter

countenance, and meeting with me before he came to my lord, said unto me,

that he had adventured to put in his foot where he trusted shortly to be

better regarded or all were done." He had stopped the progress of the

impeachment in the Lower House, and was answering the articles one by one.

In the evening he rode down to Esher for instructions. In the morning he

was again at his place in Parliament; and he conducted the defence so

skilfully, that finally he threw out the bill, saved Wolsey, and himself

"grew into such estimation in every man's opinion, for his honest behaviour

in his master's cause, that he was esteemed the most faithfullest servant,

[and] was of all men greatly commended."[590]

Henry admired his chivalry, and perhaps his talent. The loss of Wolsey had

left him without any very able man, unless we may consider Sir Thomas More

such, upon his council, and he could not calculate on More for support in

his anti-Roman policy; he was glad, therefore, to avail himself of the

service of a man who had given so rare a proof of fidelity, and who had

been trained by the ablest statesman of the age.[591]

To Wolsey Cromwell could render no more service except as a friend, and his

warm friend he remained to the last. He became the king's secretary,

representing the government in the House of Commons, and was at once on the

high road to power. I cannot call him ambitious; an ambitious man would

scarcely have pursued so refined a policy, or have calculated on the

admiration which he gained by adhering to a fallen minister. He did not

seek greatness--greatness rather sought him as the man in England most fit

to bear it. His business was to prepare the measures which were to be

submitted to Parliament by the government. His influence, therefore, grew

necessarily with the rapidity with which events were ripening; and when the

conclusive step was taken, and the king was married, the virtual conduct of

the Reformation passed into his hands. His Protestant tendencies were

unknown as yet, perhaps, even to his own conscience; nor to the last could

he arrive at any certain speculative convictions. He was drawn towards the

Protestants as he rose into power by the integrity of his nature, which

compelled him to trust only those who were honest like himself.

APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VI

WILL OF THOMAS CROMWELL--1529.

In the name of God, Amen. The 12th day of July, in the year of our Lord God

MCCCCCXXIX., and in the 21st year of the reign of our Sovereign Lord, King

Henry VIII., I, Thomas Cromwell, of London, Gentleman, being whole in body

and in good and perfect memory, lauded be the Holy Trinity, make, ordain,

and declare this my present testament, containing my last will, in manner

as following:--First I bequeath my soul to the great God of heaven, my

Maker, Creator, and Redeemer, beseeching the most glorious Virgin and

blessed Lady Saint Mary the Virgin and Mother, with all the holy company of

heaven, to be mediators and intercessors for me to the Holy Trinity, so

that I may be able, when it shall please Almighty God to call me out of

this miserable world and transitory life, to inherit the kingdom of heaven

amongst the number of good Christian people; and whensoever I shall depart

this present life I bequeath my body to be buried where it shall please God

to ordain me to die, and to be ordered after the discretion of mine

executors undernamed. And for my goods which our Lord hath lent me in this

world, I will shall be ordered and disposed in manner and form as hereafter

shall ensue. First I give and bequeath unto my son Gregory Cromwell six

hundred threescore six pounds, thirteen shillings, and fourpence, of lawful

money of England, with the which six hundred threescore six pounds,

thirteen shillings, and fourpence, I will mine executors undernamed

immediately or as soon as they conveniently may after my decease, shall

purchase lands, tenements, and hereditaments to the clear yearly value of

£33 6s. 8d. by the year above all charges and reprises to the use of my

said son Gregory, for term of his life; and after the decease of the said

Gregory to the heirs male of his body lawfully to be begotten, and for lack

of heirs male of the body of the said Gregory, lawfully begotten, to the

heirs general of his body lawfully begotten. And for lack of such heirs to

the right heirs of me the said Thomas Cromwell, in fee. I will also that

immediately and as soon as the said lands, tenements, and hereditaments

shall be so purchased after my death as is aforesaid by mine executors,

that the yearly profits thereof shall be wholly spent and employed in and

about the education and finding honestly of my said son Gregory, in virtue,

good learning, and manners, until such time as he shall come to the full

age of 24 years. During which time I heartily desire and require my said

executors to be good unto my said you Gregory, and to see he do lose no

time, but to see him virtuously ordered and brought up according to my

trust.

Item. I give and bequeath to my said son Gregory, (when he shall come to

his full age of 24 years), two hundred pounds of lawful English money to

order them as our Lord shall give him grace and discretion, which £200 I

will shall be put in surety to the intent the same may come to his hands at

his said age of 24 years. Item. I give and bequeath to my said son Gregory

of such household stuff as God hath lent me, three of my best featherbeds

with their bolsters; and, the best pair of blankets of fustian, my best

coverlet of tapestry, and my quilt of yellow Turkey satin; one pair of my

best sheets, four pillows of down, with four pair of the best pillowberes,

four of my best table-cloths, four of my best towels, two dozen of my

finest napkins, and two dozen of my other napkins, two garnish of my best

vessel, three of my best brass pots, three of my best brass pans, two of my

best kettles, two of my best spits, my best joined bed of Flanders work,

with the best ---- and tester, and other the appurtenances thereto

belonging; my best press, carven of Flanders work, and my best cupboard,

carven of Flanders work, with also six joined stools of Flanders work, and

six of my best cushions. Item. I give and bequeath to my said son Gregory a

basin with an ewer parcel-gilt, my best salt gilt, my best cup gilt, three

of my best goblets; three other of my goblets parcel-gilt, twelve of my

best silver spoons, three of my best drinking ale-pots gilt; all the which

parcels of plate and household stuff I will shall be safely kept to the use

of my said you Gregory till he shall come to his said full age of 24. And

all the which plate, household stuff, napery, and all other the premises, I

will mine executors do put in safe keeping until my said son come to the

said years or age of 24. And if he die before the age of 24, then I will

all the said plate, vessel, and household stuff shall be sold by mine

executors. And the money thereof coming to be given and equally divided

amongst my poor kinsfolk, that is to say, amongst the children as well of

mine own sisters Elizabeth and Katherine, as of my late wife's sister Joan,

wife to John Williamson;[592] and if it happen that all the children of my

said sisters and sister-in-law do die before the partition be made, and

none of them be living, then I will that all the said plate, vessel, and

household stuff shall be sold and given to other my poor kinsfolk then

being in life, and other poor and indigent people, in deeds of charity for

my soul, my father and mother their souls, and all Christian souls.

[[593] Item. I give and bequeath to my daughter Anne an hundred marks of

lawful money of England when she shall come to her lawful age or happen to

be married, and £40 toward her finding until the time that she shall be of

lawful age or be married, which £40 I will shall be delivered to my friend

John Cook, one of the six Clerks of the King's Chancery, to the intent he

may order the same and cause the same to be employed in the best wise he

can devise about the virtuous education and bringing up of my said daughter

till she shall come to her lawful age or marriage. Then I will that the

said 100 marks, and so much of the said £40 as then shall be unspent and

unemployed at the day of the death of my said daughter Anne, I will it

shall remain to Gregory my son, if he then be in life; and if he be dead,

the same hundred marks, and also so much of the said £40 as then shall be

unspent, to be departed amongst my sisters' children, in manner and form

aforesaid. And if it happen my said sisters' children then to be all dead,

then I will the said 100 marks and so much of the said £40 as shall be

unspent, shall be divided amongst my kinsfolk, such as then, shall be in

life.] Item. I give and bequeath unto my sister Elizabeth Wellyfed £40,

three goblets without a cover, a mazer, and a nut. Item. I give and

bequeath to my nephew Richard Willyams [[594] servant with my Lord Marquess

Dorset, £66 13s. 4d.], £40 sterling, my [[594] fourth] best gown, doublet,

and jacket. Item. I give and bequeath to my nephew, Christopher Wellyfed

£40, [[594] £20] my fifth gown, doublet, and jacket. Item. I give and

bequeath to my nephew William Wellyfed the younger £20, [[594] £40]. Item.

I give and bequeath to my niece Alice Wellyfed, to her marriage, £20. And

if it happen her to die before marriage, then I will that the said £20

shall remain to her brother Christopher. And if it happen him to die, the

same £20 to remain to Wm. Wellyfed the younger, his brother. And if it

happen them all to die before their lawful age or marriage, then I will

that all their parts shall remain to Gregory my son. And if it happen him

to die before them, then I will all the said parts shall remain [[594] to

Anne and Grace, my daughters] to Richard Willyams and Walter Willyams, my

nephews. And if it happen them to die, then I will that all the said parts

shall be distributed in deeds of charity for my soul, my father's and

mother's souls, and all Christian souls. Item. I give and bequeath to my

mother-in-law Mercy Prior, £40 of lawful English money, and her chamber,

with certain household stuff; that is to say, a featherbed, a bolster, two

pillows with their beres, six pair of sheets, a pair of blankets, a garnish

of vessel, two pots, two pans, two spits, with such other of my household

stuff as shall be thought meet for her by the discretion of mine executors,

and such as she will reasonably desire, not being bequeathed to other uses

in this my present testament and last will. Item. I give and bequeath to my

said mother-in-law a little salt of silver, a mazer, six silver spoons, and

a drinking-pot of silver. And also I charge mine executors to be good unto

her during her life. Item. I give and bequeath to my brother-in-law William

Wellyfed, £20, my third gown, jacket, and doublet. Item. I give and

bequeath to John Willyams my brother-in-law, 100 marks, a gown, a doublet,

a jacket, a featherbed, a bolster, six pair of sheets, two table-cloths,

two dozen napkins, two towels, two brass pots, two brass pans, a silver

pot, a nut parcel-gilt; and to Joan, his wife, £40. Item. I give and

bequeath to Joan Willyams, their daughter, to her marriage, £20, and to

every other of their children, £12 13s. 4d. Item. I bequeath to Walter

Willyams, my nephew, £20. item. I give and bequeath to Ralph Sadler, my

servant, 200 marks of lawful English money, my second gown, jacket, and

doublet, and all my books. Item. I give and bequeath to Hugh Whalley, my

servant, £6 13s. 4d. Item. I give and bequeath to Stephen Vaughan, sometime

my servant, 100 marks, a gown, jacket, and doublet. Item. I give and

bequeath to Page, my servant, otherwise called John De Fount, £6 13s. 4d.

[[594] Item. I give and bequeath to Elizabeth Gregory, sometime my servant,

£20, six pair of sheets, a featherbed, a pair of blankets, a coverlet, two

table-cloths, one dozen napkins, two brass pots, two pans, two spits.] And

also to Thomas Averey, my servant, £6 13s. 4d. [[594] Item. I give and

bequeath to John Cooke, one of the six Master Clerks of the Chancery, £10,

my second gown, doublet, and jacket. Item. I give and bequeath to Roger

More, servant of the King's bakehouse, £6 13s. 4d., three yards of satin;

and to Maudelyn, his wife, £3 6s. 8d.] Item. I give and bequeath to John

Horwood, £6 13s. 4d. [[594] Item. I give and bequeath to my little daughter

Grace 100 marks of lawful English money when she shall come to her lawful

age or marriage; and also £40 towards her exhibition and finding until such

time she shall be of lawful age or be married, which £40 I will shall be

delivered to my brother-in-law, John Willyams, to the intent he may order

and cause the same to be employed in and about the virtuous education and

bringing up of my said daughter, till she shall come to her lawful age of

marriage. And if it happen my said daughter to die before she come to her

lawful age or marriage, then I will that the said 100 marks, and so much of

the said £40 as shall then be unspent and unemployed about the finding of

my said daughter at the day of the death of my said daughter shall remain

and be delivered to Gregory my son, if he then shall happen to be in life;

and if he be dead, then the said 100 marks, and the said residue of the

said £40, to be evenly departed among my grown kinsfolk--that is to say, my

sisters' children aforesaid.] Item. That the rest of mine apparel before

not given or bequeathed in this my testament and last will shall be given

and equally departed amongst my servants after the order and discretion of

mine executors. Item. I will also that mine executors shall take the yearly

profits above the charges of my farm of Carberry, and all other things

contained in my said lease of Carberry, in the county of Middlesex, and

with the profits thereof shall yearly pay unto my brother-in-law William

(Wellyfed) and Elizabeth his wife, mine only sister, twenty pounds; give

and distribute for my soul quarterly 40 shillings during their lives and

the longer of them; and after the decease of the said William and

Elizabeth, the profits of the said farm over and above the yearly rent to

be kept to the use of my son Gregory till he be come to the age of 24

years. And at the years of 24 the said lease and farm of Carberry, I do

give and bequeath to my son Gregory, to have the same to him, his executors

and assigns. And if it fortune the said Gregory my son to die before, my

said brother-in-law and sister being dead, he shall come to the age of 24

years, then I will my said cousin Richard Willyams shall have the farm with

the appurtenances to him and to his executors and assigns; and if it happen

my said brother-in-law, my sister, my son Gregory, and my said cousin

Richard, to die before the accomplishment of this my will touching the said

farm, then I will mine executors shall sell the said farm, and the money

thereof coming to employ in deeds of charity, to pray for my soul and all

Christian souls. Item. I will mine executors shall conduct and hire a

priest, being an honest person of continent and good living, to sing for my

soul by the space of seven years next after my death, and to give him for

the same £6 13s. 4d. for his stipend. Item. I give and bequeath towards the

making of highways in this realm, where it shall be thought most necessary,

£20 to be disposed by the discretion of mine executors. Item. I give and

bequeath to every the five orders of Friars within the City of London, to

pray for my soul, 20 shillings. Item. I give and bequeath to 60 poor

maidens in marriage, £40, that is to say, 13s. 4d. to every of the said

poor maidens, to be given and distributed by the discretion of mine

executors. Item. I will that there shall be dealt and given after my

decease amongst poor people householders, to pray for my soul, £20, such as

by mine executors shall be thought most needful. Item. I give and bequeath

to the poor parishioners of the parish where God shall ordain me to have my

dwellingplace at the time of my death, £10, to be truly distributed amongst

them by the discretion of mine executors. Item. I give and bequeath to my

parish church for my tithes forgotten, 20 shillings. Item. To the poor

prisoners of Newgate, Ludgate, King's Bench, and Marshalsea, to be equally

distributed amongst them, £10. Willing, charging, and desiring mine

executors underwritten, that they shall see this my will performed in every

point according to my true meaning and intent as they will answer to God,

and discharge their consciences. The residue of all my goods, chattels, and

debts not bequeathed, my funeral and burial performed, which I will shall

be done without any earthly pomp, and my debts paid, I will shall be sold,

and the money thereof coming, to be distributed in works of charity and

pity, after the good discretion of mine executors undernamed. Whom I make

and ordain, Stephen Vaughan, Ralph Sadler, my servants, and John Willyams

my brother-in-law. Praying and desiring the same mine executors to be good

unto my son Gregory, and to all other my poor friends and kinsfolk and

servants aforenamed in this my testament. And of this my present testament

and last will I make Roger More mine overseer; unto whom and also to every

of the other mine executors I give and bequeath £6 13s. 4d. for their pains

to be taken in the execution of this my last will and testament, over and

above such legacies as herebefore I have bequeathed them in this same

testament and will. In witness whereof, to this my present testament and

last will I have set to my hand in every leaf contained in this book, the

day and year before limited.

THOMAS CROMWELL.

Item. I give and bequeath to William Brabazon, my servant, £20 8s., a gun,

a doublet, a jacket, and my second gelding.

It. to John Avery, Yeoman of the Bedchamber with the King's Highness, £6

13s. 4d., and a doublet of satin.

It. to Thurston, my cook. £6 13s. 4d.

It. to William Body, my servant, £6 13s. 4d.

It. to Peter Mewtas, my servant, £6 13s. 4d.

It. to Ric. Sleysh, my servant, £6 13s. 4d.

It. to George Wilkinson, my servant, £6 13s. 4d.

It. to my friend, Thomas Alvard. £10, and my best gelding.

It. to my friend, Thomas Rush, £10.

It. to my servant, John Hynde, my horsekeeper, £3 6s. 8d.

Item. I will that mine executors shall safely keep the patent of the manor

of Romney to the use of my son Gregory, and the money growing thereof, till

he shall come to his lawful age, to be yearly received to the use of my

said son, and the whole revenue thereof coming to be truly paid unto him at

such time as he shall come to the age of 24 years.