"Why, then I said, '_Bone Deus_, Man! _Bone Deus!_ will this Gear
never be left?' So then he sayth, 'Well then, Mrs. _Alice_, if it be
soe, 'tis mighty well, but, for my Part, I see no greate Reason why I
shoulde much joy in my gay House, or in Aniething belonging thereunto,
when, if I shoulde be but seven Years buried underground, and then
arise and come thither agayn, I shoulde not fail to find Some therein
that woulde bid me get out of Doors, and tell me 'twas none o' mine.
What Cause have I, then, to care soe greatlie for a House that woulde
soe soone forget its Master?'"
"And then, _Mother_? and then?"
"Soe then, Sweetheart, he sayth, 'Come tell me, Mrs. _Alice_, how
long do you think we might reckon on living to enjoy it?' Soe I say,
'Some twenty Years, forsooth.' 'In faith,' says he, 'had you said
some thousand Years, it had beene Somewhat; and yet he were a very
bad Merchant that woulde put himselfe in Danger to lose Eternity for
a thousand Years ... how much the rather if we are not sure to enjoy
it one Day to an End?' Soe then he puts me off with Questions, How
is _Will_? and _Daisy_? and _Rupert_? and this one? and t'other one?
and the Peacocks? and Rabbits? and have we elected a new King of the
Cob-loaf yet? and has _Tom_ found his Hoop? and is the Hasp of the
Buttery-hatch mended yet? and how goes the Court? and what was the
Text o' _Sunday_? and have I practised the Viol? and how are we off
for Money? and why can't he see _Meg_? Then he asks for this Book and
t'other Book, but I've forgot their Names, and he sayth he's kept
mighty short of Meat, though 'tis little he eats, but his Man _John a
Wood_ is gay an' hungry, and 'tis worth a World to see him at a salt
Herring. Then he gives me Counsell of this and that, and puts his Arm
about me and says, 'Come, let us pray;' but while he kept praying for
one and t'other, I kept a-counting of his gray Hairs; he'd none a Month
agone. And we're scarce off our Knees, when I'm fetched away; and I
say, 'When will you change your Note, and act like a wise Man?' and he
sayth, 'When? when?' looking very profound; 'why, ... when Gorse is
out of Blossom and Kissing out of Fashion.' Soe puts me forthe by the
Shoulders with a Laugh, calling after me, 'Remember me over and over
agayn to them alle, and let me see _Meg_.'"
... I feel as if a String were tied tight about my Heart. Methinketh
'twill burst if we goe on long soe.
_July 25th._
He hath writ us a few Lines with a Coal, ending with "_Sursum Corda_,
dear Children! up with your Hearts." The Bearer was dear _Bonvisi_.
_Aug. 16th._
The LORD begins to cut us short. We are now on very meagre Commons,
dear _Mother_ being obliged to pay fifteen Shillings a week for the
Board, poor as it is, of _Father_ and his Servant. She hath parted with
her Velvet Gown, embroidered overthwart, to my Lady _Sands'_ Woman. Her
Mantle edged with Coney went long ago.
But we lose not Heart; I think mine is becoming annealed in the
Furnace, and will not now break. I have writ somewhat after this
Fashion to him.... "What do you think, most dear _Father_, doth comfort
us at _Chelsea_, during this your Absence? Surelie, the Remembrance of
your Manner of Life among us, your holy Conversation, your wholesome
Counsells, your Examples of Virtue, of which there is Hope that they do
not onlie persevere with you, but that, by GOD'S Grace, they are much
increast."
I weary to see him.... Yes, we shall meet in Heaven, but how long
first, O LORD? how long?
_Aug 20th._
Now that I've come back, let me seek to think, to remember.... Sure,
my Head will clear by-and-by! Strange, that Feeling shoulde have the
Masterdom of Thought and Memory, in Matters it is most concerned to
retayn.
... I minded to put the Haircloth and Cord under my Farthingale, and
one or two of the smaller Books in my Pouch, as alsoe some Sweets
and Suckets such as he was used to love. _Will_ and _Bonvisi_ were
a-waiting for me; and deare _Bess_, putting forthe her Head from her
Chamber Door, cries piteously, "Tell him, dear _Meg_, tell him ...
'twas never soe sad to me to be sick ... and that I hope ... I pray ...
the Time may come ..." then falls back swooning into _Dancey's_ Arms,
whom I leave crying heartilie over her, and hasten below to receive the
confused Medley of Messages sent by every other Member of the House.
For mine owne Part, I was in such a tremulous Succussion as to be
scarce fitt to stand or goe; but Time and the Tide will noe Man bide,
and, once having taken Boat, the cool River Air allayed my fevered
Spiritts; onlie I coulde not for awhile get ridd of the Impression of
poor _Dancey_ crying over _Bess_ in her Deliquium.
I think none o' the three opened our Lips before we reached _Lambeth_,
save, in the _Reach_, _Will_ cried to the Steersman, "Look you run us
not aground," in a sharper Voyce than I e'er heard from him. After
passing the _Archbishop's_ Palace, whereon I gazed full ruefullie,
good _Bonvisi_ beganne to mention some Rhymes he had founde writ with
a Diamond on one of the Window-panes at _Crosby House_, and would know
were they _Father's_? and was't the Chamber _Father_ had used to sleep
in? I tolde him it was, but knew Nought of the Distich, though 'twas
like enow to be his. And thence he went on to this and that, how that
_Father's_ cheerfulle, funny Humour never forsook him, nor his brave
Heart never quelled; instancing his fearlesse Passage through the
Traitor's Gate, asking his Neighbours whether _his_ Gait were that of
a Traditor; and, on being sued by the Porter for his upper Garment,
giving him his _Cap_, which he sayd was uppermost. And other such Quips
and Passages, which I scarce noted nor smiled at, soe sorry was I of
Cheer.
[Illustration: "his fearlesse passage through the Traitor's Gate"]
At length we stayed rowing: _Will_ lifted me out, kissed me, heartened
me up; and, indeede, I was in better Heart then, having been quietlie
in Prayer a good While. After some few Forms, we were led through
sundrie Turns and Passages; and, or ever I was aware, I founde myself
quit of my Companions and in _Father's_ Arms.
We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but Strength
was given me in that Hour. As soone as I coulde, I lookt him in the
Face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning to note his hollow
Cheeks, when he sayd, "Why, _Meg_, you are getting freckled;" soe
that made us bothe laugh. He sayd, "You shoulde get some Freckle-water
of the Lady that sent me here; depend on it, she hath Washes and
Tinctures in Plenty; and after all, _Meg_, she'll come to the same End
at last, and be as the Lady all Bone and Skin, whose ghastlie Legend
used to scare thee soe when thou wert a Child. Don't tell that Story
to thy Children; 'twill hamper 'em with unsavoury Images of Death.
Tell them of heavenlie Hosts a-waiting to carry off good Men's Souls
in fire-bright Chariots, with Horses of the Sun, to a Land where they
shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy Turf
and among Myrtle Trees, and eat Fruits that shall heal while they
delight them, and drink the coldest of cold Water, fresh from the River
of Life, and have Space to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap,
and run, and, whichever Way they look, meet _Christ's_ Eyes smiling on
them. Sure, _Meg_, who would live, that coulde die? One mighte as lief
be an Angel shut up in a Nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the
sweet Spirit woulde be to have the Shell cracked! no matter by whom;
the King, or King's Mistress.... Let her dainty Foot but set him free,
he'd say, 'For this Release, much Thanks.' ... And how goes the Court,
_Meg_?"
"In Faith, _Father_, never better.... There is Nothing else there, I
hear, but Dancing and Disporting."
"Never better, Child, sayst thou? Alas, _Meg_, it pitieth me to
consider what Misery, poor Soul, she will shortlie come to. These
Dances of hers will prove such Dances that she will spurn our Heads
off like Footballs; but 'twill not be long ere her Head will dance the
like Dance. Mark you, _Meg_, a Man that restraineth not his Passions,
hath always Something cruel in his Nature, and if there be a Woman
toward, she is sure to suffer heaviest for it, first or last.... Seek
Scripture Precedent for't ... you'll find it as I say. Stony as Death,
cruel as the Grave. Those _Pharisees_ that were, to a Man, convicted of
Sin, yet haled a sinning Woman before the LORD, and woulde fain have
seene the Dogs lick up her Blood. When they lick up mine, deare _Meg_,
let not your Heart be troubled, even though they shoulde hale thee to
_London Bridge_, to see my Head stuck on a Pole. Think, most dear'st,
I shall then have more Reason to weep for thee than thou for me. But
there's noe weeping in Heaven; and bear in Mind, _Meg_, distinctlie,
that if they send me thither, 'twill be for obeying the Law of GOD
rather than of Men. And after alle, we live not in the bloody,
barbarous old Times of Crucifyings and Flayings, and immersing in
Cauldrons of boiling Oil. One Stroke, and the Affair's done. A clumsy
Chirurgeon would be longer extracting a Tooth. We have oft agreed
that the little Birds struck down by the Kite and Hawk suffer less
than if they were reserved to a naturall Death. There is one sensible
Difference, indeed, between us. In our Cases, Preparation is a-wanting."
Hereon, I minded me to slip off the Haircloth and Rope, and give the
same to him, along with the Books and Suckets, all which he hid away
privatelie, making merry at the last.
"'Twoulde tell well before the Council," quoth he, "that on searching
the Prison-cell of Sir _Thomas More_, there was founde, flagitiouslie
and mysteriouslie laid up ... a piece of Barley-sugar!"
Then we talked over sundrie Home-matters; and anon, having now both
of us attayned unto an equable and chastened Serenitie of Mind, which
needed not any false Shows of Mirth to hide the naturall Complexion of,
he sayth, "I believe, _Meg_, they that have put me here ween they have
done me a high Displeasure; but I assure thee on my Faith, mine owne
good Daughter, that if it had not beene for my Wife, and for you, my
dear good Children, I woulde faine have beene closed up, long ere this,
in as strait a Room, and straiter too."
Thereon, he shewed me how illegal was his Imprisonment, there being
noe Statute to authorize the Imposition of the Oath, and he delivered
himself, with some Displeasure, agaynst the King's ill Counsellors.
"And surelie, _Meg_," quoth he, "'tis pitie that anie Christian Prince
shoulde, by a flexible Council readie to follow his Affections, and by
a weak Clergy lacking Grace to stand constantly to the Truth as they
have learned it, be with Flattery so constantly abused. The Lotus Fruit
fabled by the Ancients, which made them that ate it lose all Relish
for the daylie Bread of their own Homes, was Flattery, _Meg_, as I
take it, and Nothing else. And what less was the Song of the Syrens,
agaynst which _Ulysses_ made his Sailors stop their Ears, and which
he, with all his Wisdom, coulde not listen to without struggling to be
unbound from the Mast? Even Praise, _Meg_, which, moderately given,
may animate and cheer forward the noblest Minds, yet too lavishly
bestowed, will decrease and palsy their Strength, e'en as an Over-dose
of the most generous and sprightlie Medicine may prove mortiferous. But
Flattery is noe Medicine, but a rank Poison, which hath slayn Kings,
yea, and mighty Kings; and they who love it, the LORD knoweth afar off;
knoweth distantlie, has no care to know intimatelie, for they are none
of his."
Thus we went on, from one Theme to another, till methinketh a
heavenlie Light seemed to shine alle about us, like as when the Angel
entered the Prison of _Peter_. I hung upon everie Word and Thought
that issued from his Lips, and drank them in as thirsty Land sucks
up the tender Rain.... Had the Angel of Death at that Hour come in
to fetch both of us away, I woulde not have sayd him nay, I was soe
passively, soe intenselie happy. At length, as Time wore on, and I
knew I shoulde soone be fetcht forthe, I coulde not but wish I had
the Clew to some secret Passage or Subterraneal, of the which there
were doubtless Plenty in the thick Walls, whereby we might steal off
together. _Father_ made Answer, "Wishes never filled a Sack. I make it
my Businesse, _Meg_, to wish as little as I can, except that I were
better and wiser. You fancy these four Walls lonesome; how oft, dost
thou suppose, I here receive _Plato_ and _Socrates_, and this and that
holy Saint and Martyr? My Gaolers can noe more keep them out than they
can exclude the Sunbeams. Thou knowest, JESUS stood among his Disciples
when the Doors were shut. I am not more lonely than St. _Anthony_
in his Cave, and I have a divine Light e'en here, whereby to con the
Lesson, 'GOD is Love.' The Futility of our Enemies' Efforts to make
us miserable was never more stronglie proven to me than when I was a
mere Boy in _Cardinall Morton's_ Service. Having unwittinglie angered
one of his Chaplains, a choleric and even malignant-spirited Man, he
did, of his owne Authoritie, shut me up for some Hours in a certayn
damp Vault, which, to a Lad afeard of Ghosts and devilish Apparitions,
would have beene fearsome enow. Howbeit, I there cast myself on the
Ground with my Back sett agaynst the Wall, and mine Arm behind my
Head, this Fashion ... and did then and there, by reason of a young
Heart, quiet Conscience, and quick Phansy, conjure up such a lively
Picture of the Queen o' the Fairies' Court, and alle the Sayings and
Doings therein, that never was I more sorry than when my Gaoler let me
goe free, and bade me rise up and be doing. In place, therefore, my
Daughter, of thinking of me in thy Night Watches as beating my Wings
agaynst my Cage Bars, trust that GOD comes to look in upon me without
Knocking or Bell-ringing. Often in Spiritt I am with you alle; in the
Chapel, in the Hall, in the Garden; now in the Hayfield, with my Head
on thy Lap, now on the River, with _Will_ and _Rupert_ at the Oar.
You see me not about your Path, you won't see my disembodied Spiritt
beside you hereafter, but it may be close upon you once and agayn for
alle that: maybe, at Times when you have prayed with most Passion, or
suffered with most Patience, or performed my Hests with most Exactness,
or remembered my Care of you with most Affection. And now, good Speed,
good _Meg_, I hear the Key turn in the Door.... This Kiss for thy
Mother, this for _Bess_, this for _Cecil_, ... this and this for my
whole School. Keep dry Eyes and a hopefull Heart; and reflect that
Nought but unpardoned Sin shoulde make us weep for ever."
_September._
Seeing the Woodman fell a noble Tree, which, as it went to the Ground,
did uptear severall small Plants by the Roots, methoughte such woulde
be the Fall of dear _Father_, herein more sad than that of the Abbot
of _Sion_ and the _Charterhouse_ Monks, inasmuch as, being celibate,
they involve noe others in theire Ruin. Brave, holie Martyrs! how
cheerfully they went to theire Death. I'm glad to have seene how pious
Men may turn e'en an ignominious Sentence into a kind of Euthanasy.
Dear _Father_ bade me note how they bore themselves as Bridegrooms
going to theire Marriage, and converted what mighte have beene a Shock
to my surcharged Spiritts, into a Lesson of deepe and high Comfort.
One Thing hath grieved me sorelie. He mistooke Somewhat I sayd at
parting for an Implication of my Wish that he shoulde yield up his
Conscience. Oh no, dearest _Father_, that be far from me! It seems to
have cut him to the Heart, for he hath writ that "none of the terrible
Things that may befall him touch him soe nearlie as that his dearly
beloved Child, whose Opinion he soe much values, shoulde desire him to
overrule his Conscience." That be far from me, _Father_! I have writ
to explayn the Matter, but his Reproach, undeserved though it be, hath
troubled my Heart.
_November._
Parliament will meet to-morrow. 'Tis expected _Father_ and the good
Bishop of _Rochester_ will be attainted for Misprision of Treason
by the slavish Members thereof; and though not given hithertoe unto
much Heede of Omens and Bodements while our Hearts were light and our
Courage high, yet now the coming Evill seemeth foreshadowed unto alle
by I know not how many melancholick Presages, sent, for aught we know,
in Mercy. Now that the days are dark and short, and the Nights stormy,
we shun to linger much after Dusk in lone Chambers and Passages, and
what was sayd of the Enemies of _Israel_ may be nigh sayd of us, "that
a falling Leaf shall chase them." I'm sure "a going in the Tops of
the Mulberry Trees" on a blusterous Evening, is enow to draw us alle,
Men, Mothers, and Maids, together in an Heap.... We goe aboute the
House in Twos and Threes, and care not much to leave the Fireside.
Last _Sunday_ we had closed about the Hearth, and little _Bill_ was a
reading by the Fire-light how _Herodias'_ Daughter danced off the Head
of St. _John_ the _Baptist_, when down comes an emptie Swallow's Nest
tumbling adown the Chimnie, bringing with it enow of Soot, Smoke, and
Rubbish to half smother us alle; but the Dust was nothing to the Dismay
thereby occasioned, and I noted one or two of our bravest turn as pale
as Death. Then, the Rats have skirmished and gallopped behind the
Wainscoat more like a Troop of Horse than a Herd of such small Deer,
to the infinite Annoyance of _Mother_, who coulde not be more firmly
persuaded they were about to leave a falling House, if, like the scared
Priests in the Temple of _Jerusalem_, she had heard a Voyce utter, "Let
us depart hence." The round upper Half of the Cob-loaf rolled off the
Table this Morning; and _Rupert_, as he picked it up, gave a Kind of
Shudder, and muttered somewhat about a Head rolling from the Scaffold.
Worse than this was o' _Tuesday_ Night.... 'Twas Bed-time, and yet none
were liking to goe, when, o' suddain, we hearde a Screech that made
every Body's Heart thrill, followed by one or two hollow Groans. _Will_
snatches up the Lamp and runs forth, I close following, and alle the
others at our Heels; and after looking into sundrie deserted Cup-boards
and Corners, we descend the broad Stone Steps of the Cellars, half
way down which _Will_, stumbling over something he sees not, takes
a flying Leap to clear himself down to the Bottom, luckily without
extinguishing the Lamp. We find _Gillian_ on the Steps in a Swoon; on
bringing her to, she exclayms about a Ghost without a Head, wrapped
in a Winding-sheet, that confronted her and then sank to the Ground
as she entered the Vaults. We cast a fearfulle Look about, and descry
a tall white Sack of Flour, recently overturned by the Rats, which
clears up the Mystery, and procures _Gillian_ a little Jeering; but we
alle return to the Hall with fluttered Spiritts. Another Time I, going
up to the Nurserie in the Dark, on hearing Baby cry, am passed on the
Stairs by I know not what, breathing heavilie. I reache forthe my Arm,
but pass cleare through the spirituall Nature, whatever it is, yet
distinctlie feel my Cheek and Neck fanned by its Breath. I turn very
faint, and get Nurse to goe with me when I return, bearing a Light,
yet think it as well to say nought to distress the rest.
[Illustration: Gillian and the Flour Sacks.]
But worst of alle was last Night.... After I had beene in Bed awhile,
I minded me that deare _Will_ had not returned me _Father's_ Letter.
I awoke him, and asked if he had broughte it up Stairs; he sleepily
replied he had not, soe I hastily arose, threw on a Cloke, took a
Light, and entered the Gallery; when, half-way along it, between me and
the pale Moonshine, I was scared to behold a slender Figure alle in
white, with naked Feet and Arms extended. I stoode agaze, speechlesse,
and to my Terror made out the Features of _Bess_ ... her Eyes open, but
vacant; then saw _John Dancey_ softly stealing after her, and signing
to me with his Finger on his Lips. She passed without noting me, on to
_Father's_ Door, there knelt as if in Prayer, making a low sort of
Wail, while _Dancey_, with Tears running down his Cheeks, whispered,
"'Tis the third Time of her thus sleep-walking ... the Token of how
troubled a Mind!"
We disturbed her not, dreading that a suddain Waking might bring on
Madness; soe after making Moan awhile, she kisses the senseless Door,
rises up, moves towards her own Chamber, followed by _Dancey_ and me,
wrings her Hands a little, then lies down and graduallie falls into
what seems a dreamlesse Sleep, we watching her in Silence till she's
quiet, and then squeezing each other's Hands ere we part.
----_Will_ was wide awake when I got back; he sayd, "Why, _Meg_, how
long you have beene! coulde you not lighte on the Letter?" ... When I
tolde him what had hindered me by the Way, he turned his Face to the
Wall and wept.
_Midnight._
The wild Wind is abroad, and, methinketh, _nothing else_. Sure, how
it rages through our empty Courts! In such a Season, Men, Beasts, and
Fowls cower beneath the Shelter of their rocking Walls, yet almost fear
to trust them. LORD, I know that thou canst give the Tempest double
Force, but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have Mercy on the frail Dwelling
and the Ship at Sea.
Dear little _Bill_ hath ta'en a feverish Attack. I watch beside him
whilst his Nurse sleeps. Earlie in the Night his Mind wandered, and he
told me of a pretty pyebald Poney, noe bigger than a Bee, that had
golden Housings and Barley-sugar Eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon
kept starting up, crying, "Mammy dear!" and softlie murmured, "Oh!"
when he saw I was by. At length I gave him my Forefinger to hold, which
kept him ware of my Presence without speaking; but presentlie he stares
hard towards the Foot of the Bed, and says fearfullie, "_Mother_, why
hangs yon Hatchet in the Air, with its sharp Edge turned towards us?"
I rise, move the Lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?" He sayth, "No,
not now," and closes his Eyes. After a good Space, during the which I
hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered Tone, most like unto soft,
sweet Music, "There's a pretty little Cherub there now, alle Head and
noe Body, with two little Wings aneath his Chin; but, for alle he's
soe pretty, he is just like dear _Gaffer_, and seems to know me ...
and he'll have a Body agayn too, I believe, by and by.... _Mother_,
_Mother_, tell _Hobbinol_ there's such a gentle Lamb in Heaven!" And
soe, slept.
_17th._
He's gone, my pretty...! slipt through my Fingers like a Bird! upfled
to his own native Skies; and yet, whenas I think on him, I cannot
choose but weepe.... Such a guilelesse little Lamb!... My Billy-bird!
his Mother's owne Heart!--They are alle wondrous kind to me....
_27th._
How strange that a little Child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much
Payn, when of such is the Kingdom of Heaven! But 'tis onlie transient,
whereas a Mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over
agayn. One Lesson it taughte us betimes, that a naturall Death is not,
necessarilie, the most easie. We must alle die.... As poor _Patteson_
was used to say, "The greatest King that ever was made, must bed at
last with Shovel and Spade," ... and I'd sooner have my _Billy's_ Baby
Deathbed than King _Harry's_, or _Nan Boleyn's_ either, however manie
Years they may yet carry Matters with a high Hand. Oh, you Ministers
of Evill, whoever ye be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a
Wall between my GOD and me.... I've Something within me grows stronger
and stronger, as Times grow more and more Evill; some woulde call it
Resolution, but methinketh 'tis Faith.
Meantime, _Father's_ Foes ... alack that anie can shew 'emselves such!
are aiming, by fayr Seemings of friendlie Conference, to draw from him
Admissions they can come at after noe other Fashion. The new _Solicitor
Generall_ hath gone to the Tower to deprive him of the few Books I have
taken him from Time to Time.... Ah, Master _Rich_, you must deprive him
of his Brains afore you can rob him of their Contents!... and, while
having 'em packt up, he falls into easie Dialogue with him, as thus,
... "Why now, sure, Mr. _More_, were there an Act of Parliament made
that all the Realm shoulde take me for King, you woulde take me for
such with the Rest."
"Aye, that would I, Sir," returns _Father_.
"Forsooth, then," pursues _Rich_, "we'll suppose another Act that
should make me the Pope. Woulde you not take me for Pope?"
"Or suppose another Case, Mr. _Rich_," returns _Father_, "that another
Act shoulde pass, that GOD shoulde not be GOD, would you say well and
good?"
"No, truly," returns the other hastily, "for no Parliament coulde make
such Act lawful."
"True, as you say," repeats _Father_, "they coulde not," ... soe eluded
the Net of the Fowler; but how miserable and unhandsome a Device to lay
wait for him thus!
... I stole forthe, ere 'twas Lighte, this damp chill Morning, to pray
beside the little Grave, but found dear _Daisy_ there before me. How
Christians love one another!
_Will's_ Loss is as heavie as mine, yet he bears with me tenderlie.
Yesternighte, he sayth to me half reproachfullie, "Am not I better unto
thee than ten Sons?"
_March, 1535._
Spring comes, that brings Rejuvenescence to the Land, and Joy to the
Heart, but it brings none to us, for where Hope dieth, Joy dieth. But
Patience, Soul; GOD'S yet in the Aumry!
_May 7._
_Father_ arraigned.
_July 1._
By Reason of _Will's_ minding to be present at the Triall, which,
for the Concourse of Spectators, demanded his earlie Attendance, he
committed the Care of me, with _Bess_, to _Dancey_, who got us Places
to see _Father_ on his Way from the _Tower_ to _Westminster Hall_.
We coulde not come at him for the Crowd, but clambered on a Bench to
gaze our very Hearts away after him as he went by, sallow, thin,
grey-haired, yet in Mien not a Whit cast down. Wrapt in a coarse
woollen Gown, and leaning on a Staff; which unwonted Support when
_Bess_ markt, she hid her Eyes on my Shoulder and wept sore, but soon
lookt up agayn, though her Eyes were soe blinded, I think she coulde
not see him. His Face was calm, but grave, as he came up, but just as
he passed he caughte the Eye of some one in the Crowd, and smiled in
his old, frank Way; then glanced up towards the Windows with the bright
Look he hath soe oft cast to me at my Casement, but saw us not. I
coulde not help crying "_Father_," but he heard me not; perchance 'twas
soe best.... I woulde not have had his Face cloud at the Sighte of poor
_Bessy's_ Tears.
... _Will_ tells me the Indictment was the longest ever hearde; on four
Counts. First, his Opinion on the King's Marriage. Second, his writing
sundrie Letters to the _Bishop of Rochester_, counselling him to hold
out. Third, refusing to acknowledge his Grace's Supremacy. Fourth, his
positive Deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the King of his
Dignity and Title.
When the reading of this was over, the _Lord Chancellor_ sayth, "Ye see
how grievouslie you have offended the King his Grace, but and yet he
is soe mercifulle, as that if ye will lay aside your Obstinacie, and
change your Opinion, we hope ye may yet obtayn Pardon."
_Father_ makes Answer ... and at Sounde of his deare Voyce alle Men
hold their Breaths; ... "Most noble Lords, I have great Cause to thank
your Honours for this your Courtesie ... but I pray ALMIGHTY GOD I may
continue in the Mind I'm in, through his Grace, until Death."
They coulde not make goode their Accusation agaynst him. 'Twas onlie
on the Last Count he could be made out a Traitor, and Proof of't had
they none; how coulde they have? He shoulde have beene acquitted out of
hand, 'steade of which, his bitter Enemy my _Lord Chancellor_ called
on him for his Defence. _Will_ sayth there was a generall Murmur or
Sigh ran through the Court. _Father_, however, answered the Bidding by
beginning to expresse his Hope that the Effect of long Imprisonment
mighte not have beene such upon his Mind and Body, as to impair his
Power of rightlie meeting alle the Charges agaynst him ... when,
turning faint with long standing, he staggered and loosed Hold of his
Staff, whereon he was accorded a Seat. 'Twas but a Moment's Weakness
of the Body, and he then proceeded frankly to avow his having always
opposed the _King's_ Marriage to his Grace himself, which he was soe
far from thinking High Treason, that he shoulde rather have deemed it
Treachery to have withholden his Opinion from his Sovereign King when
solicited by him for his Counsell. His Letters to the good _Bishop_
he proved to have been harmlesse. Touching his declining to give his
Opinion, when askt, concerning the Supremacy, he alleged there coulde
be noe Transgression in holding his Peace thereon, GOD only being
cognizant of our Thoughts.
"Nay," interposeth the _Attorney Generall_, "your Silence was the Token
of a malicious Mind."
"I had always understoode," answers _Father_, "that Silence stoode for
Consent. _Qui tacet, consentire videtur_;" which made Sundrie smile. On
the last Charge, he protested he had never spoken Word against the Law
unto anie Man.
The Jury are about to acquit him, when up starts the _Solicitor
Generall_, offers himself as Witness for the Crown, is sworn, and gives
Evidence of his Dialogue with _Father_ in the Tower, falselie adding,
like a Liar as he is, that on his saying "No Parliament coulde make
a Law that GOD shoulde not be GOD," _Father_ had rejoyned, "No more
coulde they make the King supreme Head of the Church."
I marvell the Ground opened not at his Feet. _Father_ brisklie made
Answer, "If I were a Man, my Lords, who regarded not an Oath, ye know
well I needed not stand now at this Bar. And if the Oath which you, Mr.
_Rich_, have just taken, be true, then I pray I may never see GOD in
the Face. In good Truth, Mr. _Rich_, I am more sorry for your Perjurie
than my Perill. You and I once dwelt long together in one Parish; your
manner of Life and Conversation from your Youth up were familiar to
me, and it paineth me to tell ye were ever held very light of your
Tongue, a great Dicer and Gamester, and not of anie commendable Fame
either there or in the _Temple_, the Inn to which ye have belonged.
Is it credible, therefore, to your Lordships, that the Secrets of my
Conscience touching the Oath, which I never woulde reveal, after the
Statute once made, either to the King's Grace himself, nor to anie of
you, my honourable Lords, I should have thus lightly blurted out in
private Parley with Mr. _Rich_?"
In short, the Villain made not goode his Poynt: ne'erthelesse, the
Issue of this black Day was aforehand fixed; my Lord _Audley_ was
primed with a virulent and venomous Speech; the Jury retired, and
presentlie returned with a Verdict of Guilty; for they knew what the
King's Grace woulde have 'em doe in that Case.